The Orphan Boy Who Pulled the Sacred Blade and Shattered an Empire

The Light of Truth

The mockery died instantly in the soldiers' throats. As Arthur's grip tightened, a brilliant, blinding white light erupted from the split boulder, casting long, sharp shadows across the damp canyon walls. The heavy stone cracked further, groaning under an immense spiritual force. With a smooth, effortless motion, Arthur pulled. The blade slid from its stony prison as if it were nothing more than water, gleaming with a celestial brilliance that made the seasoned warriors shield their eyes.

Arthur held the sword aloft, the ancient runes along the steel glowing with a pure, golden light. But as the illumination filled the canyon, Borin's face drained of color. He wasn't looking at the sword; he was staring at the intricate crest engraved on the guard—a crest of a dragon wrapping around a rising sun. It was the sigil of the lost royal house of Pendragon, a lineage thought to be completely extinct.

Borin’s gaze shifted to Arthur’s face. In the brilliant light, the boy's striking violet eyes and sharp jawline were unmistakable. A memory, dark and bloody, flashed in the commander's mind. Fifteen years ago, Borin had been ordered by the usurper king to eliminate the royal infant. He had claimed the deed was done, but now, the living proof stood right before him.

"It can't be," Borin whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of terror and rising fury. "I put that child to the sword myself. You are a ghost."

Realizing that his life and his master's throne were in immediate jeopardy, Borin drew his heavy broadsword. The desperate commander knew he had to bury this secret forever, right here in the canyon.

"He is a thief and a sorcerer!" Borin roared to his men. "Kill him! Cut him down where he stands!"

The soldiers hesitated, paralyzed by the sacred law of the blade, but Borin did not wait. He lunged forward, swinging his massive sword directly at the defenseless boy's neck.