Capítulo 22: 22. Weeks of Avalon
As the elevator doors closed, Arthur watched Geralt and Vesemir disappear into the depths of Avalon. He couldn't keep a smile from his face, a sense of disbelief lingering in the air.
"Wow… that was the Butcher of Blaviken himself," he murmured, still processing it. He glanced around, as though expecting someone to share in his awe. "Avalon, did I look… well, maybe a little too excited there?"
Avalon's voice appeared in his mind with a playful tone. "Excited? Oh, you mean like a fan seeing his idol? I'd say yes. You were quite the picture."
Arthur rolled his eyes, chuckling with a mock laugh. "Ha-ha. Very funny." He leaned against the desk, smiling despite himself. "But, seriously—seeing Geralt and Vesemir here, right in front of me… it's something else. I've read about their exploits, heard legends, but seeing it in person… there's just a different feeling to it."
"Who knew you were a Witcher fan?" Avalon teased. "Anything else you want to admit while we're at it?"
Arthur laughed, shaking his head. "Alright, alright. Since we're talking about idols, I have this wild idea—what if we threw a music show one day? Imagine, guests from different worlds interacting, sharing songs and stories." His face lit up at the thought. "It'd be like an inter-world celebration."
Avalon's voice grew thoughtful. "Interesting idea, Arthur. But for you to bring such a crowd together… you'd need to leave Avalon to invite them."
Arthur blinked, the realization dawning on him. In all the time he'd spent managing Avalon, wrapped up in its mysteries, he hadn't once thought about leaving. Not that he hadn't wanted to, but the excitement, the endless discoveries within Avalon itself… he'd been so focused on the realm inside that the outside world had almost become an afterthought.
"I haven't… I haven't actually stepped outside Avalon since I got here," he said slowly, the weight of it sinking in. He straightened, feeling the thrill of possibility begin to spark in his chest. "It's time, isn't it? Time to explore the connected worlds."
Avalon's response was warm, as though the place itself approved of this new path. "I think so too. After all, every adventure needs its start somewhere."
As Arthur considered his new course, a sudden notification flashed in his line of sight, drawing his attention. It displayed his current magical skills and their levels, almost as if Avalon was gently nudging him to prepare before he set out:
Magical Skills:
Basic Charms {HP} – Advanced [Low]
Basic Transfiguration {HP} – Intermediate
Basic Potion {HP} – Beginner
Basic Herbology {HP} – Beginner
Arthur let out a quiet hum, studying the list. He'd made some progress, but there was still a long way to go. Before he could face the wonders—or dangers—of other worlds, he'd need to be ready.
"Well," he said, smirking as he glanced up, "looks like I've got some training to finish first. Can't go exploring half-prepared, can I?"
Avalon's tone grew encouraging. "Not if you want to impress Geralt and Vesemir, that's for sure."
Arthur laughed, a newfound determination filling him. "Alright, then. First, training. Then… a world of possibilities."
Meanwhile…
The Martial Training Hall echoed with the ringing clash of weapons, each strike accompanied by the sharp exhalations of three legendary warriors. Guan Yu, Miyamoto Musashi, and Hua Mulan moved through the vast chamber with a practiced precision that spoke to centuries of training and experience.
Guan Yu, the Saint of War, held his massive crescent-bladed polearm—the Green Dragon Crescent Blade—with steady, disciplined grace. His movements were broad and sweeping, his strikes powerful, demanding a respectful distance from his opponents. His every step was measured, like a general positioning his forces on a battlefield.
Across from him, Miyamoto Musashi held his dual swords—the katana in his right hand, the wakizashi in his left—with unmatched calm. Each strike was delivered with meticulous precision, his body shifting effortlessly between offense and defense. He watched the others with sharp eyes, every movement a silent lesson in restraint and mastery.
Hua Mulan, the Warrior of Honor, was a striking contrast. Her swift, fluid movements were like a dance, her single slender sword flowing through arcs and spirals, slipping past both Guan Yu's sweeping strikes and Musashi's precise attacks. Her form was nimble and evasive, her posture low, as if moving through a battlefield with unseen enemies on all sides.
They circled each other, testing strikes, observing, and measuring.
As Musashi deflected a powerful blow from Guan Yu, he gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. "Your form is strong and unyielding," he observed, his voice calm. "Like the mountains of your homeland. But your reach… it leaves you open, just here."
He struck toward Guan Yu's side, though the general was quick to counter, shifting his polearm with astonishing speed to block. Guan Yu chuckled, his deep voice carrying an edge of amusement. "And you—your movements are precise but conservative. You fight as one man, yet hold two swords." He nodded toward Musashi's stance. "A lesson in balance, perhaps?"
Mulan swept in from behind, her blade catching both their attentions as she launched a rapid sequence of attacks, fluid and relentless. "You both fight well," she noted with a hint of admiration in her voice. "But relying on strength alone—or precision alone—limits your adaptability." She pivoted gracefully, her blade slipping between their defenses as if weaving threads. "A warrior must be as swift as the wind, yet solid as the earth."
Guan Yu grinned, his eyes narrowing with approval. "And that is the philosophy of Baiying, then? To embody both strength and grace?"
"Not entirely," Mulan replied, sidestepping his counterstrike with ease. "Baiying was a place of resilience. We trained not only to fight but to bear the weight of those who couldn't fight. Strength of will—strength of heart. That was what mattered."
Musashi's gaze lingered on her for a moment, impressed. "An admirable goal," he said, offering a respectful nod. He turned his attention back to Guan Yu, his grip adjusting subtly on his blades. "Kenseikai, on the other hand, was a place of solitude. One did not train to fight others, but to confront the emptiness within. The Void, as we call it."
Guan Yu considered this, deflecting a rapid strike from Musashi with a smooth twist of his polearm. "Tianyuan held a different purpose. It was a place of balance—strength and wisdom, a code of honor above all else. To guard the innocent, to stand as the first line of defense."
Mulan chuckled, her sword moving in a rapid dance around them, drawing their focus. "Our sanctuaries reflected our philosophies, it seems," she observed. "But it's clear we've all grown weaker with the passing of time."
Guan Yu gave a hearty laugh, sidestepping an attack with surprising nimbleness. "Weakness, yes. Though Avalon seems to be restoring us slowly. I sense my strength building the longer I'm here." He blocked a rapid flurry from Mulan, countering with a strong, sweeping arc.
Musashi parried Guan Yu's strike and stepped back, glancing around the room with a calculating look. "It's as if Avalon breathes life into us with every change it undergoes. The more it grows, the stronger we become."
They shared a nod of understanding, and the battle continued, each attack fiercer, each counter more precise. Strikes that might have toppled armies, disarmed lesser warriors, and brought opponents to their knees were traded in calculated succession.
Sweat glistened on their brows, yet their expressions were bright with the thrill of the challenge. This was more than a fight—it was a meeting of souls, an exchange of philosophies through the language of battle.
As they clashed, the room filled with the energy of their purpose, their shared understanding that Avalon—this mystical, ever-evolving sanctuary—had bound them together, and, in doing so, was giving them back the strength they'd once wielded.
"Perhaps," Mulan said, as her sword met Musashi's with a ringing strike, "Avalon is not simply a place to fight, but a place to remember who we are—and who we once were."
"Then let us continue," Guan Yu said, gripping his polearm tightly, his eyes glinting with renewed vigor. "We still have much to learn about each other."
And as they launched into another exchange of strikes, the Martial Hall pulsed with the rhythm of their battle—a testament to Avalon's power, and a reminder of the legends that had come together in its halls.
...
In the Arcane Training Room, Taliesin leaned back on his bench, watching Geralt with an amused glint in his eye. He strummed a few light notes on his harp, letting the room's magical energy resonate around them. "Well then, lad," he said, his voice carrying a playful challenge. "Let's see this signature sign of yours—the famed Witcher magic."
Geralt held up his hand, focusing, and conjured a quick burst of the Aard sign. A wave of force rippled through the air, powerful yet contained, just enough to ruffle Taliesin's hair and disrupt the room's ambient energy without damaging anything. Taliesin raised an eyebrow, impressed.
"Not bad," he remarked, giving an approving nod. "Strong and efficient. But let me tell you something—just as my music is a conduit for magic, so too can your signs be a doorway." He strummed his harp again, casting a shimmering barrier around himself that pulsed in rhythm with his playing. "Your signs are like seeds. With the right guidance, they could grow, branch out, and open new paths of magic."
Geralt's gaze sharpened, intrigued by the idea. "You're saying my signs could be… expanded? Taken further?"
Taliesin smiled, his fingers lightly touching the strings. "Precisely. You already know the language; now it's time to expand the vocabulary. Magic's possibilities are endless, even for those of us bound to simpler spells. You could work your way from the raw power of Aard to other forces—perhaps even enchantments or healing spells."
In another corner of the room, Vesemir was bent over a workstation, carefully grinding herbs and inspecting vials of various colors. Hecate stood beside him, guiding him through the alchemical reagents she knew well enough, though she herself admitted she wasn't Kaer Morhen's best substitute. Yet Vesemir's steady hands and years of alchemical experience gave her confidence.
"You've got a way of teaching," she commented, watching as Vesemir added the powdered ingredient into the flask, his movements precise and instinctive. "I can see you've spent time with apprentices."
"Quite a few," Vesemir replied with a low chuckle. "Takes patience and steady hands to teach young Witchers. And, well, no shortage of potions to help them survive their training."
They worked in comfortable silence, each learning from the other. Hecate showed Vesemir a new formula for a stamina tonic, and in turn, Vesemir shared his method for concocting a toxin-neutralizing elixir. Though neither had expected much from the partnership, they found themselves drawn in, spurred on by the prospect of returning to Kaer Morhen with new knowledge.
...
Days passed swiftly in Avalon, time moving as fluidly as the magic within its walls. By the second day, Geralt and Vesemir both felt the pull to return to their world, duty calling them back to their work. Yet, the allure of Avalon's knowledge was too tempting. They decided to extend their stay, immersing themselves in the study of magic and alchemy. They wanted more than personal growth—they wanted to bring something back to Kaer Morhen, something that could benefit other Witchers.
In this time, Arthur had been working tirelessly on his own skills. His progress showed in his stats, which had steadily climbed:
Current Level: 13
Current Magical Skills:
Basic Charms {HP} – Advanced [Mid]
Basic Transfiguration {HP} – Advanced [Low]
Basic Potion {HP} – Intermediate
Basic Herbology {HP} – Intermediate
Basic Astronomy {HP} – Beginner
Arthur allowed himself a satisfied smile. A week had passed, and with each day, he felt his grasp on magic grow steadier. His own bad dreams had started to fade, replaced by the strength of his accomplishments. He was finally making Avalon feel like home.
Meanwhile, deep within the Martial Hall, an epic battle was nearing its climax. Guan Yu, Musashi, and Hua Mulan had fought tirelessly for seven days, their skills and strategies matching one another in near-perfect balance. Every strike, every counter was a lesson, a nod to the warrior spirit they each respected in the other.
They had come to understand each other not just through words, but through the language of battle. Each warrior's style was a reflection of their philosophy and the sanctuary they had once called home. They shared the same thought as they fought on, a recognition of how Avalon seemed to renew them. The more Avalon grew, the more strength returned to them, piece by piece.
Mulan, dodging one of Guan Yu's wide sweeps, allowed herself a brief laugh. "You know," she said between breaths, "I don't think any of us realized how far we had weakened. This battle has gone on far longer than I expected."
Musashi nodded, deflecting a strike from Guan Yu and countering with a quick, precise slash toward Mulan. "Perhaps it's Avalon itself," he remarked, a faint smile on his face. "It seems the more it grows, the more we return to our former selves."
Guan Yu chuckled, spinning his polearm as he blocked another attack. "Then let's give it one last test of strength," he said, his voice carrying both pride and exhaustion. "We'll see who stands at the end."
They each knew this was the final bout, and a sense of camaraderie grew alongside the challenge. Their faces were marked with bruises, and their limbs moved with visible fatigue, yet there was a spark in their eyes—a fire that refused to dim.
They took a moment, standing a short distance from each other, each acknowledging the strength of their opponents with a small nod. Then, with one final burst of energy, they each launched their strikes, attacking with everything they had.
The three blades clashed in a final, explosive strike that shook the very foundation of the Martial Hall. Energy rippled outward, sending a shockwave through the room as their weapons met with a force neither one had unleashed in centuries. The room filled with dust and light as the impact reverberated, sending them all tumbling back.
And as the dust began to settle, a silence fell over the Martial Hall. Only one would emerge as the last standing, ready to claim the title of Avalon's Martial Hall manager.
…
Harry took a deep breath, staring out across the vast, sunlit Quidditch pitch. Against all odds and against his own expectations, Professor McGonagall had recommended him as Gryffindor's new Seeker. The thought still felt unreal, but here he was, surrounded by the Gryffindor team, about to start his first official practice.
Mounting his broom, he kicked off the ground, feeling the rush of wind as he rose into the air, a thrill surging through him. His Nimbus 2000 moved under him like it was a part of his own body, as if it anticipated his every thought. He wove between the players and practice hoops with surprising ease, his heart racing with excitement.
As he maneuvered, his mind drifted to his stay at Avalon, the enchanted place that had felt like a dream and yet had been so very real. The memories were vivid—every hallway in Avalon had seemed to breathe with magic, and every corner held a new mystery. And then there was Arthur Pendragon, the mysterious concierge who had been his guide and friend during his brief stay. Arthur had helped him navigate that strange place, taught him things about magic that even Hogwarts hadn't revealed. Harry found himself wondering if Avalon still stood, its guests as varied and peculiar as he'd seen, with Arthur tending to them all.
Suddenly, a shout broke through his thoughts. "Harry! Look out!"
Before he could react, something whizzed by his head—a Bludger, no less—and he only just managed to jerk his broom out of its path, the powerful ball shooting past him with a force that sent a shiver down his spine.
"Stay sharp, Potter!" Fred Weasley yelled, grinning at him as he swung his bat with enthusiasm. "Can't have our new Seeker daydreaming when a Bludger's around!"
Harry flushed, sheepishly waving back at Fred. "Right! Sorry, just… got a bit distracted!"
He shook himself, focusing again on the practice. The team circled around him as they ran through formations, each player locked in and serious. Harry let himself fall into the rhythm of the drills, his instincts sharp and precise, feeling a sense of calm determination settle over him.
As he glided high above the pitch, he thought back to Avalon one last time. He would probably never see it again—after all, it was a place beyond the reach of most wizards and witches. But whatever happened, he knew he would always be grateful to Avalon, and to Arthur Pendragon. They had shown him a world of magic that went beyond spells and wands, a world where possibility stretched as far as one dared to look.
Harry gripped his broom tighter, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a flicker of gold out of the corner of his eye—the Snitch. In that moment, all thoughts of Avalon faded, his focus entirely on the tiny golden ball. With a determined grin, he shot forward, chasing the Snitch with all the speed he could muster, every fiber of his being alive with the thrill of the chase.
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