Artoria walked alongside Merlin, her pace steady but her thoughts anything but. The air was cool, the faint scent of rain lingering from an earlier drizzle. Yet, despite the crisp night, she felt a weight pressing down on her chest.
"You saw what exactly?" Merlin asked, glancing at her with his usual mix of curiosity and mischief, though he clearly sensed her tension.
Artoria's fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of her sleeve. "I saw Arthur," she said, her voice quieter than usual. "He was on his knees… crying. He said he was sorry. And—" She hesitated. "He was referring to me."
Merlin tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. "Do you think it's really necessary to check on him based on that alone?"
Artoria stopped walking. Her eyes, sharp as ever, narrowed at him. "Merlin."
It was just a name, but the weight behind it made the Magus of Flowers instinctively raise his hands in surrender.
"Alright, alright, I get it, I get it," he said, stepping aside in mock retreat. He had no interest in facing her wrath—he had made that mistake before.
Satisfied, Artoria resumed walking, but her brows remained furrowed.
Merlin, ever the trickster, took that as his cue to pry a little deeper. "What about the other vision?" he asked, his voice light, but his eyes observant. "The one you've been avoiding mentioning."
Artoria's steps faltered, just for a moment. Then, with practiced discipline, she kept moving. "I saw…" She hesitated again, but then forced herself to say it. "A woman. She was holding him."
Merlin's interest visibly piqued. "Oh?"
"She had white hair and golden eyes," Artoria continued. "And she was… strong."
The way she said that last word made Merlin pause. It wasn't just an observation—it was something more. Something he couldn't quite define, but it meant something to her.
Merlin tapped his chin. "Stronger than you?"
For the first time, Artoria didn't answer immediately. She simply stood there, her silence heavier than any words could have been.
Merlin, for once, didn't joke. He simply watched as they reached her chamber door, where she finally exhaled.
Without looking at him, she murmured, "I don't know."
Artoria stepped inside her chambers, her mind still lingering on the conversation with Merlin. However, before Merlin could walk away, he caught a glimpse of someone already inside the room. His usually playful demeanor vanished as his instincts kicked in. Without hesitation, he grabbed Artoria's arm, halting her in her tracks.
She turned to him, her brows furrowing. "What?"
Merlin didn't answer immediately. Instead, he subtly gestured toward the woman standing by the window, her figure illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight. She was beautiful, ethereal in a way few mortals could ever hope to be. Yet, there was an unmistakable sorrow in her posture, the kind that made even someone like Merlin tread carefully.
Artoria followed his gaze and frowned. "Vivian?"
Merlin leaned in, lowering his voice. "Why is Vivian all the way here in Camelot instead of the Inner Sea? What did you do?" His tone was conspiratorial, as if expecting her to confess some grand transgression.
Artoria shot him a sharp look. "I don't know," she said firmly. "And why do you automatically assume it's my fault?"
Merlin smirked, but it was subdued, lacking his usual mischief. "Because trouble follows you like a lost puppy."
She huffed, brushing his hand off and striding forward.
Vivian, the Lady of the Lake, remained still, gazing out at Camelot's vast lands beyond the window. Her golden eyes, usually filled with wisdom and quiet strength, now held a deep, unprecedented sadness.
"Vivian," Artoria greeted cautiously. "This is a rather unexpected surprise… has something happened?"
Slowly, Vivian turned to face her, her movements graceful yet burdened. Her gaze locked onto Artoria's, and for the first time in a long while, she looked… lost.
"Artoria," she said softly. "Can we talk alone?"
The weight in her voice sent a faint shiver down Artoria's spine.
She nodded. "Of course." Then, without looking back, she ordered, "Get out, Merlin."
Merlin, who had been inching forward in hopes of eavesdropping, immediately straightened up, feigning innocence. "So cruel, Artoria. Whatever happened to appreciating wise counsel?"
Artoria crossed her arms. "You're neither wise nor helpful right now."
Merlin sighed dramatically before nodding in resignation. "Fine, fine. I know when I'm not wanted." He gave Vivian one last glance—one filled with silent curiosity—before slumping his shoulders and retreating out the door.
As soon as he was gone, the air in the room grew heavier. Artoria took a careful step forward. "Vivian?"
The Lady of the Lake took a slow, measured breath, her golden eyes dim with sorrow.
"I'm sorry," Vivian whispered.
Artoria's brows furrowed at the unexpected apology. Then, she noticed it—tears sliding down Vivian's cheeks, glistening like drops of moonlight against her pale skin.
"I'm sorry, Artoria," she repeated, her voice fragile yet burdened with an unspoken weight.
Artoria stiffened.
Those words—those exact words—were the same ones she had heard in her vision. The ones Arthur had spoken as he knelt, grief-stricken and broken.
Her hands clenched at her sides. "What happened?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.
—
two guards stood at the front gates of the Gwynn stronghold. The flickering torches mounted on the stone walls cast long shadows across the dirt path leading toward the fortress.
One of the guards—a burly man with a scruffy beard and a dented helmet—narrowed his eyes at the distant figures approaching. "Hey, what is that?" he muttered, gripping the hilt of his sword.
His companion, younger and far less observant, followed his gaze. "Are you talking about those two people getting closer?" he asked, squinting.
The older guard scowled. "What else do you think I'm talking about, dumbass?"
The younger one scoffed. "I don't know, could've been anything. Maybe a wild animal, a lost traveler—"
"Shut up. Did the captain say we were expecting visitors?"
The younger guard hesitated. "Uuhhh… don't think so. And they're coming really fast…" His casual tone shifted into unease as he noticed the speed at which the figures approached.
Before either of them could react, a blade rose into the air, its steel catching the moonlight.
A brilliant golden-blue radiance erupted from the weapon, its blinding glow swallowing the night. A rush of wind followed—fierce, howling—before the explosion of power crashed into them like a tidal wave.
The guards barely had time to scream before the force sent them hurtling backward, their armor searing hot from the impact. The gates groaned under the pressure before shattering, sending shards of wood and metal flying into the air.
As the dust settled, only two figures remained standing amidst the destruction.
A man clad in battle-worn armor, his golden hair flowing in the night breeze, stood tall—his sword still glowing with residual light. His piercing eyes flickered with cold resolve.
Beside him, a woman with flowing blonde hair and a commanding presence surveyed the remains of the entrance. Her green eyes were sharp, assessing the damage with practiced efficiency.
"You were too loud," Tier Harribel remarked, her voice calm yet pointed.
Arthur Pendragon lowered his sword, his expression unchanging. "They saw us. It didn't matter."
She studied him for a moment before exhaling softly. "You could have dealt with them more quietly."
Arthur, unfazed, turned toward the stronghold's now-exposed interior. "There's no need for subtlety. We're already here."
Harribel sighed but didn't argue. Instead, she stepped forward, her presence just as intimidating as his, her silent agreement evident.
From the fortress beyond the shattered gates, alarm bells rang. Soldiers scrambled, shouts rising into the air.
Arthur moved.
With a burst of golden-blue energy, mana surged through his body, propelling him forward in a flash of motion. His armored boots barely touched the ground as he closed the distance between himself and the scrambling soldiers.
Tier followed seamlessly, her own surge of mana manifesting in a rush of water that propelled her forward. Droplets trailed in her wake before dispersing into the air like mist.
Arthur's blade lashed out first, its trajectory impossibly precise. A soldier barely managed to raise his weapon in time—steel clashing against steel in a desperate bid for survival. But Arthur did not relent. His second strike came the moment their blades met, the shift in momentum almost imperceptible to an untrained eye. The soldier's defense shattered instantly, his sword split in two, and before he could react, Arthur's third and final stroke pierced through his armor. The body slumped to the ground before the soldier even realized he had lost.
Right behind him, Tier moved like flowing water. Her blade carved a smooth, effortless arc through the air, crashing into the nearest guard's weapon. The impact alone was enough to send cracks through the steel before it splintered entirely. The man staggered back, staring in shock at the remains of his sword before Tier struck once more, the force of her swing sending him flying backward into a wall.
More soldiers rushed in, their shouts echoing through the stronghold as Arthur and Tier stood in the center of the chaos.
"Any regrets following me?" Arthur asked, never breaking his stride as he weaved between the attackers. His sword moved like an extension of himself—perfect angles, flawless execution, no wasted movements. One soldier attempted to flank him, but Arthur stepped forward, tilting his blade slightly, and in a single motion, severed the man's spear in half before driving his weapon clean through his chest.
Tier exhaled sharply as she spun in the air, a vortex of water forming around her as she swept her blade outward. A torrent of condensed water pressure erupted forward, slicing through armor as though it were paper. "None," she replied simply, landing effortlessly beside Arthur.
He almost smirked. Almost. "Good."
Another wave of enemies closed in.
Arthur stepped in first. He parried a sword strike from the left, countered with an upward slash, turned mid-motion to deflect an incoming spear, and then twisted his wrist to redirect his sword downward, slashing diagonally in a perfect sequence. His technique was as refined as it was ruthless—no wasted effort, no hesitation.
Tier, in contrast, was fluid yet just as deadly. She moved like the tide, overwhelming and inevitable. Her blade was an extension of the water itself, each strike flowing into the next as if part of an unending current. She dodged a halberd strike with minimal movement, letting water gather at her feet before propelling herself upward in a sharp burst. From above, she unleashed a downward slash, a spiraling column of water crashing into her opponent and sending him sprawling across the stone floor.
For a moment, amidst the battle, their gazes met.
Arthur noted how easily she adapted—how effortlessly she fought at his side as if they had done this for years. Her precision, her strength, her unwavering resolve—it was dangerous how well they moved together.
Tier, in turn, observed him. He fought like an ideal—like a man who had honed himself to absolute perfection. His technique was beyond human, refined to a level that surpassed mere skill.
Neither spoke of it. There was no need.
Another group of soldiers rushed in. Arthur exhaled, gripping Excalibur Reid tighter. "Shall we?"
Tier lifted her sword, the edges of her green eyes gleaming. "Try to keep up."
Arthur surged forward, his magical energy exploding outward in a violent burst, propelling him like a living missile into the battlefield. The air crackled around him, shimmering with the raw force of his mana, but his focus remained singular.
He caught the blur of arrows cutting through the air, their lethal points aimed directly at him. Yet, he didn't slow, didn't dodge, didn't even acknowledge them beyond a passing glance. The first arrow struck his shoulder—bouncing off as if it had hit solid steel. Another hit his thigh, harmlessly deflected by his armor. Several more rained upon him, some scraping against his skin, leaving no marks. And then—
Pain. A single arrow bit into his side, piercing through his armor and lodging deep into his flesh. Arthur's eyes flickered slightly at the sensation.
So, there's at least one among them who can reach me.
His gaze instantly locked onto the source—a man in the shadows, a bow still drawn taut, eyes wide with the realization that he had wounded the Invincible Sword Saint.
Arthur moved.
The archer's pupils shrank as the golden-haired warrior closed the distance between them at an inhuman speed. Panicked, the archer released another arrow, then another, each shot aimed precisely at Arthur's vitals. But Arthur didn't stop. He didn't parry. He didn't deflect. He didn't even slow down.
He let them strike.
One sliced across his cheek, another buried itself in his shoulder, but Arthur paid them no mind. His sword hand never wavered, his steps never faltered.
From the side, Tier's green eyes narrowed.
She cut down a soldier with a single, fluid stroke, water trailing from her blade like a liquid extension of her will. Another enemy rushed her—she didn't even turn as a sphere of pressurized water formed in her palm and shot outward, sending the man crashing against the wall with a sickening crack.
And yet, she wasn't focused on her opponents.
Her attention was on him.
Arthur was never careless. His technique was refined beyond perfection. He could end fights without sustaining a single scratch, without wasting a single motion. And yet—he was choosing to take every hit, letting himself be wounded when he could have effortlessly avoided every attack.
A knot formed in her chest.
Why?
Before she could move, another arrow flew toward him—this one aimed directly at his eye.
Tier didn't think.
She was between them in an instant, her blade a blur as she deflected the projectile with ease. Arthur didn't even look at her, his gaze still locked onto his prey.
"Aye, hold on there!"
A massive figure dropped in front of Arthur, a mountain of a man wielding a mace that looked heavy enough to crush solid stone.
The warrior swung, the force of the strike splitting the air apart as it descended toward Arthur like a falling meteor.
Arthur didn't move.
"Move."
The word was delivered coldly, almost lazily, as if he were already dismissing the man's existence.
At the last second, he simply stepped aside—so effortlessly, so smoothly, that it seemed as though he had foreseen the attack hours in advance. The mace slammed into the ground, embedding itself deep into the stone with a deafening crash. Before the brute could react, Arthur's foot pressed against the weapon's handle, forcing it deeper, trapping its wielder in place.
One fluid motion.
Excalibur Reid sang through the air, and a headless body crumpled to the ground.
Arthur barely acknowledged the kill. His instincts flared, and without thinking, his hand shot up—fingers closing around an arrow just inches from his face.
That was instinct. Not intention.
Tier's fingers tightened around her blade.
She had seen enough.
Arthur exhaled, blood dripping from his wounds, and turned his gaze back toward his original target. The archer—his face pale with horror.
Arthur dashed forward.
And this time, Tier moved.
Arthur moved like a relentless storm, cutting through the battlefield with unwavering purpose. His every strike was precise, every movement fluid and deadly. His golden sword, shimmering with raw magical energy, cleaved through the ranks of soldiers with an ease that should have been terrifying—but to Arthur, it was simply necessity.
Some arrows and blades found their marks on his body—arrows along his arms, arrows embedding into his side, shallow cuts tearing through his armor. But he didn't react. Didn't wince. Didn't even acknowledge the pain.
He just kept moving.
Tier, dancing through the battlefield with her own deadly grace, saw it all.
She had fought beside warriors—had seen reckless fighters, overconfident fools who threw their lives away in battle. But Arthur was not reckless. He was not a fool. He was becoming a king, a knight whose swordsmanship should have made him untouchable.
And yet, he was letting himself be struck.
Her jaw tightened as she wove through the battlefield, her water cutting through soldiers with merciless precision. A wave of high-pressure water burst forth from her hand, sending a line of enemies flying. But her focus remained split—half on the battle, half on him.
Arthur reached the archer.
The man had tried to retreat, firing another desperate shot, but it didn't matter. Arthur didn't stop. The arrow pierced his shoulder—he didn't block it. He didn't slow.
His sword lashed out.
The archer barely had time to scream before Excalibur Reid cleaved through his chest.
Arthur turned before the body had even hit the ground.
Another soldier charged him from behind, sword raised high. Arthur didn't look back. He just kept moving. The blade cut into his side, but it may as well have been meaningless.
He twisted, his golden blade flashing in a merciless arc. The soldier's body crumpled before he could even realize what had happened.
Tier's teeth clenched.
Arthur wasn't fighting like a warrior. He was fighting like a man who didn't care if he died.
Her patience snapped.
She moved—faster than the wind, faster than thought.
Just as another soldier aimed to strike at Arthur's exposed back, Tier was suddenly there, her blade intercepting the attack with a sharp clash. A geyser of water burst outward, sending the attacker flying.
Arthur blinked, as if noticing her for the first time.
His eyes—cold, distant—focused on her for a fraction of a second before turning away.
She grabbed his wrist before he could take another step.
"You're not invincible," she said, voice low, controlled.
Arthur didn't pull away. Didn't react.
"I don't need to be," he answered simply.
Tier's grip tightened. "That's not an answer."
Arthur exhaled. "The battle isn't over."
"No," she agreed, releasing his wrist—but only to step forward, close enough that he had to acknowledge her presence. "But if you keep fighting like this, you'll bleed out before you even realize it."
For a moment, something flickered in his gaze. A hint of recognition. A shadow of something unspoken.
Then, he turned away.
Another wave of soldiers rushed toward them.
Arthur moved.
Tier cursed under her breath and moved with him.
If he refused to defend himself, then she would do it for him.
And that's what she did.
Arthur was the omnipotent, inevitable blade, cutting through the stronghold of Gwynn without hesitation or restraint. And Tier was the shield—the silent defense that ensured that the blade never faltered, never wavered, even as it refused to protect itself.
The battle had ended in blood and silence. Now, Arthur sat amid the remnants of his own destruction, his piercing blue eyes scanning the corpse-littered stronghold with an unreadable expression. The golden glow of his sword had faded, leaving only the quiet hum of power resting in his hands.
Tier stood before him, medical supplies in hand.
Arthur sat in the center of the ruined stronghold, his golden armor stained with blood—some his own, most not. The bodies of fallen enemies surrounded him, their lifeless gazes staring at nothing. The air was thick with the stench of iron and the echoes of a battle that had long since ended.
Tier stood before him, hands gripping a set of bandages and healing supplies. The fight was over, but the battle within Arthur—whatever it was—still raged on.
"Lift up your arms," she said.
Arthur complied without argument, the weight of exhaustion in his movements. Tier knelt before him, carefully undoing the clasps of his armor. She worked slowly, trying not to irritate the wounds he had let himself take.
As she peeled away his upper tunic, her breath caught.
Deep slashes marred his skin—wounds that should have crippled a normal man. Arrows had embedded themselves deep, their shafts broken from sheer force, yet as she watched, she could see the wounds closing. The bleeding had already slowed. Some had healed completely, leaving only faint, fresh marks.
Tier had seen fast regeneration before, had even witnessed it in her own kind. But this wasn't normal. It wasn't just his body healing—it was him. The way he carried himself, the way he disregarded his own pain. The way he sat there, blank-eyed, as if he didn't even notice the injuries at all.
She said nothing at first, simply working in silence. One by one, she removed the arrows that hadn't fallen out on their own. She cleaned the wounds, applied ointment, and wrapped the bandages—more out of habit than necessity.
But she couldn't hold her tongue forever.
"Why?"
Arthur didn't react.
"Why are you doing this to yourself?"
Still, nothing. His expression was empty, distant.
Tier clenched her teeth.
"What happened, Arthur?"
"I already told you." His voice was quiet, hollow. "It's none of your concern."
Tier's hands froze mid-motion. Slowly, she placed the roll of bandages down beside her, letting out a shaky breath.
"No. No—Arthur." Her voice wavered, but it didn't falter. She moved closer, kneeling directly in front of him. "Look at what you're doing to yourself."
His gaze remained distant.
"You're letting yourself get hurt." Her voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding into her words. "On purpose."
Arthur finally turned his head, meeting her eyes. But there was no reaction. No anger, no sorrow, no frustration—just that same cold detachment.
"It's nothing," he said.
Tier shook her head, her hands balling into fists.
"It's not nothing!" she snapped. "I've fought beside you long enough to know what you're capable of. You don't have to take these injuries. You shouldn't be taking them." Her voice grew softer. "So why?"
Arthur remained silent.
Tier exhaled sharply. "Is it—" she hesitated, voice suddenly unsteady. "Is it guilt?"
His fingers twitched. Barely. But she caught it.
Her heart clenched.
She knew it. She knew that look. She had seen it before.
"Arthur," she whispered, "are you punishing yourself?"
His gaze dropped, just for a moment. But that was enough.
Tier reached for him before she even realized what she was doing.
Her fingers brushed against his cheek—light, hesitant. Not a warrior's touch. Not a soldier's.
His breath hitched.
For a brief moment, something cracked in that carefully constructed mask. A flicker of emotion—so brief, so fragile, that she almost missed it.
"Arthur," she said, softer now, pleading, "I don't know what weight you're carrying. I don't know what you've done or what you think you've done. But this—" she motioned to his wounds, to his tattered form "—this isn't how you atone."
His eyes met hers once more, and this time, they weren't empty.
They were tired.
So tired.
She swallowed hard. "You're not alone."
Arthur's hand lifted—slow, uncertain. He hesitated for the briefest of moments before lightly resting it over hers, where it still cupped his face.
The touch barely lasted a second.
Then, he pulled away.
His mask slipped back into place, and when he spoke, his voice was as cold as ever.
"The stronghold is secure," he said, as if the conversation had never happened. "We should regroup with the others."
Tier didn't argue. She simply stared at him, something unreadable in her eyes.
Then, slowly, she stood.
Arthur followed suit, gathering his armor, his sword. Preparing for the next battle.
But as they walked side by side through the corpse-littered stronghold, Tier knew one thing for certain—
She wasn't going to let this go.
Not for his sake.
Not for the sake of the people he led.
But because, deep down, beneath all that coldness, all that distance—
Arthur wanted to be saved.