"I don't regret it," Vivian said, her voice steady, yet tinged with something close to sorrow. "But I feel Arthur's pain. I can see what I did. And still… I don't regret it. Because if I hadn't shown my feelings, he would have never known."
She looked at Artoria, her expression unguarded, exposed in a way that was rare for someone like her. "I'm sorry, Artoria."
Artoria stood still, fists clenched at her sides. She was listening—truly listening—but every word Vivian spoke felt like another weight pressing against her chest.
Vivian had explained everything.
How she had pushed Arthur into that moment. How she had guilted him into accepting her feelings.
How Arthur had not rejected her, nor had he fully accepted her. But he had acknowledged her feelings. And that was why it had happened.
And to Artoria, that meant everything.
Arthur was not the kind of person to simply let things happen to him. If he had gone through with it, then one of two things had to be true—either he had feelings for Vivian, or something had been done to him.
But no matter what the truth was, the result was the same.
Arthur was punishing himself.
"Arthur is letting himself be harmed," Vivian continued, voice quieter now, as if admitting it hurt her. "He hates what he let happen… He should hate me for manipulating him. And yet, he doesn't. He only blames himself." She swallowed. "And it's killing him."
Artoria closed her eyes, inhaling sharply.
She should be furious. At Vivian. At Arthur. At the situation itself.
But anger wasn't what she felt.
Arthur needed her. That was what mattered.
So she turned abruptly on her heel.
"Where are you going?" Vivian asked, her voice laced with worry.
"To talk to Arthur," Artoria said simply.
And she left, her heart pounding with something far more powerful than anger.
Artoria strode down the grand halls of Camelot, her footsteps firm and unyielding.
Merlin, who had been lounging outside her chamber as if waiting for her—or perhaps simply being his usual self—perked up as he saw her approach. With a sigh, he quickly got to his feet and fell in step beside her.
"What—" he began, but Artoria's voice cut through before he could finish.
"Gather the Knights of the Round. We ride for Dumnonia."
Merlin blinked in surprise, momentarily thrown by the sheer authority in her tone. "Huh?" His steps faltered for a fraction of a second. "What do you mean? Is this about Arthur? If so, we should probably—"
"Merlin."
That single word stopped him cold.
There was no warmth in her voice, no room for argument. And then—her divinity flared.
A crushing weight descended over Camelot, pressing down on every soul within its walls. It was as though the air itself had thickened, filled with an undeniable presence. The knights, the servants, even the birds in the rafters of the great halls fell silent in reverence.
But the true force of it—the true weight of her power—was directed squarely at Merlin.
He tensed, his breath hitching as the overwhelming pressure bore down on him. It wasn't just her magic—it was her authority, her divinity as holder of Rhongomyniad, as the chosen king.
'Is this her full divinity?' Merlin thought, barely masking his astonishment. 'Either she's been holding back a great deal… or she's growing stronger.'
It was not impossible. Artoria had always been a singularity, a miracle in the form of a knight. But now, as she stood before him, clad not only in steel but in the undeniable weight of her own divine right—Merlin realized she was something on the level of a true Divine spirit.
He swallowed, nodding hastily. "Y-yes, Artoria."
And just like that, the pressure vanished.
Merlin inhaled deeply, as if breathing freely for the first time in minutes. His usual carefree demeanor returned, but there was a flicker of something more serious in his gaze. "But think for a moment," he said cautiously. "It could be the pregnancy clouding your judgment."
Artoria halted for a brief second.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, but when she spoke, her voice remained as steady as ever.
"I shall think about it," she said evenly. "Now go."
Merlin exhaled through his nose, knowing there was no more room for argument. With a slight nod, he turned on his heel, already calculating the logistics of summoning the knights on such short notice.
As he departed, Artoria resumed her march forward.
She had no time for doubt.
Artoria entered the war room, her presence commanding even before she spoke a word. The chamber was dimly lit by flickering torches mounted on the stone walls, their light casting long shadows over the large round table at its center. One by one, the knights arrived, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and concern.
Gawain was among the first, standing tall, his green eyes sharp with focus. Bedivere followed close behind, ever composed, his silver hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Tristan, face partially concealed beneath his hood, leaned against the stone wall in silence, while Agravain sat stiffly, awaiting orders with his usual unreadable expression.
As the last of the chosen knights took their seats, Artoria finally spoke.
"The reason I have summoned you is simple," she began, her voice steady, but the weight in her tone was unmistakable. "Our ally in Dumnonia requires our aid. Therefore, we shall answer their call."
The room remained silent for a brief moment. The knights knew that Artoria did not summon them for something as simple as a routine skirmish. If she was calling them personally, then the situation was graver than she let on.
"A few of you will accompany me to aid the one leading the rebellion in Dumnonia," she continued, scanning their faces. "The rest will remain here to ensure Camelot's stability in my absence."
At that, murmurs broke out amongst them. Gawain was the first to speak, his voice tinged with concern. "My king, if the rebellion is as dire as you imply, then should we not march with our full strength?"
Artoria shook her head. "No. Dumnonia is unstable. If we move with too many forces, it will be seen as an invasion rather than an act of aid. We must tread carefully."
Agravain narrowed his eyes. "And who, exactly, is leading this rebellion?"
Artoria hesitated for only a fraction of a second before answering. "Arthur."
The room went still.
Gawain's lips parted slightly in shock. Tristan's fingers tensed around the strings of his bow.
Artoria took a measured breath before continuing. "I will be selecting a small force to accompany me. Gawain, Bedivere, Tristan—prepare yourselves. We ride at first light."
Gawain nodded immediately, understanding the gravity of the situation. Bedivere, ever loyal, placed a fist over his heart in silent acknowledgment. Tristan simply exhaled, nodding once.
Artoria then turned to another figure standing near the back of the room.
"Lancelot."
The knight stood a little straighter at his name. His piercing eyes met hers, and in them, Artoria saw not only unwavering loyalty but the burden of a man who had lived with too many regrets.
"You will remain here in Camelot," she stated.
Lancelot's brow furrowed slightly. "My king, with all due respect—"
"I need someone I trust to maintain order in my absence," Artoria interrupted gently but firmly. "That person is you."
Lancelot stared at her for a long moment before exhaling. He wanted to argue—she could see it in the way his fingers twitched slightly, the way his jaw tensed—but he would not defy her command. Instead, he placed his fist over his chest and bowed his head.
"As you will it, my king."
Artoria gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of gratitude before turning back to the others.
"Make your final preparations," she ordered. "We ride at dawn."
And with that, the war council was dismissed.
—-
The people of Dumnonia, warriors and commoners alike, stood before Arthur, their faces hardened by suffering, yet their eyes alight with the desperate hope he had rekindled in them.
Tier stood among them, watching the man at the front of the assembled force. Arthur was different now. Not the same as before—not the shining beacon of Camelot, the king who once stood unmatched among men—but neither was he the broken husk she had met in the early days of the rebellion.
He was something in between.
There was a light in his eyes, faint but growing, like the first embers of a rekindled fire.
Arthur stepped forward, his presence alone commanding silence among the crowd. The people looked to him—not just as a leader, but as a man who bore the weight of their hopes on his shoulders.
He raised his sword, its edge catching the light of the rising sun. His voice rang out, strong and unwavering.
"This is the final battle!" His words carried through the air like the sound of steel clashing. "The final battle for the freedom of this country!"
Murmurs ran through the gathered soldiers, their grips tightening on their weapons, their chests rising with anticipation.
"For too long, this land has suffered under the rule of King Mark and Gwynn!" Arthur continued, his voice filled with conviction. "They sit upon their thrones, believing that the people exist to serve them! That they may rule as they please while you—we—suffer under their greed and cruelty!"
His gaze swept over the crowd, lingering on the men and women who had fought at his side, on those who had lost family, on those who had given everything for this cause.
"But I say no more."
A silence hung in the air, not of uncertainty, but of anticipation.
"This is your country! And today, you—the people of this kingdom—shall decide its fate!" Arthur's voice carried over them like a war drum, each word hammering into their souls. "We take the capital not for glory, not for vengeance, but to claim what is rightfully yours! We march not as conquerors, but as liberators! As the hands of justice that will tear the chains from this land!"
The murmurs rose into cheers, weapons lifted into the air as the passion in his voice ignited something deep within them.
"We have fought, we have bled, and we have endured! But today—today, you take back our home!" Arthur roared, his voice reaching even those standing furthest back. "So steel your hearts, ready your blades, and fight! Fight for your families! Fight for your future! Fight for Dumnonia!"
A deafening cheer erupted from the army, the air trembling with their voices, their fear replaced with purpose, their despair burned away by Arthur's words.
Tier exhaled, watching as Arthur turned to face the battlefield ahead.
Arthur sat atop his horse, his gaze steady, but there was something in his eyes—something that hadn't been there before. It wasn't just determination or battle-readiness. It was a quiet fire, rekindled from the embers of whatever had nearly consumed him before.
Arthur raised his sword, letting the blade catch the dim light of the overcast sky. Around him, his soldiers straightened, waiting for his command. The air was thick with anticipation.
His horse shifted beneath him, but Arthur did not falter. He turned his gaze toward the soldiers atop the capital walls, watching their movements, sensing their uncertainty.
"Today, we end this."
A chorus of voices erupted in response. Swords were raised. Shields were tightened.
Arthur lowered his sword, pointing toward the gates. "Charge!"
The ground trembled as the army surged forward, the thunder of hooves and the clash of steel filling the air.
The battle for Dumnonia had begun.
On the ramparts, soldiers scrambled into position, archers nocking their arrows, commanders barking orders. King Mark's forces had been expecting this, but expectation didn't make fear any less potent.
Within the castle, deep in the war room, King Mark stood over a map of the city, his jaw tight. Beside him, Gwynn watched the enemy forces approaching, her grip tightening on the pommel of her sword.
"They came faster than expected," Mark muttered. "Where is our reinforcement from the southern regions?"
"They won't arrive in time," Gwynn answered, her voice cold. "Arthur has forced our hand."
Mark clenched his fist. "Then we hold the capital. We have the walls, we have the numbers."
Gwynn glanced back at the battlefield, her sharp eyes narrowing.
"No," she said quietly. "Arthur Pendragon is not a man who fights battles he cannot win."
The moment the wall crumbled under the force of Ulquiorra's Lanza del Relámpago, a shockwave of dust and debris washed over the battlefield. Soldiers on both sides hesitated for only a heartbeat before Arthur's voice rang out above the chaos.
"We have our way in—forward!"
Arthur's steed surged forward, hooves pounding against the cracked stone as he led the charge. Arrows rained from above, but with a fluidity that seemed almost effortless, Arthur deflected each one, Excalibur Reid's golden brilliance flashing with every motion. His eyes remained locked ahead, focused not just on the path before him, but on the city—on victory.
Behind him, Apacci landed in the middle of a squadron of enemy knights, the ground beneath her cracking from the force. Before they could even react, she was already moving, a blur of raw power.
"You guys really thought a wall was gonna stop us?" she sneered, her grin sharp as she lunged forward.
One knight barely had time to raise his sword before she grabbed him by the chestplate and hurled him into his comrades like a battering ram.
Mila Rose, slicing through an enemy's defenses with precise strikes, scoffed. "A wild animal, as expected."
Apacci shot her a glare between dodging blows. "And you're still yappin' instead of fighting!"
Meanwhile, Ulquiorra moved with calculated detachment. He floated just above the battlefield, eyes cold and analytical, as if the bloodshed below was inconsequential. He only acted when necessary—one soldier charged at Arthur's exposed flank, and without a word, Ulquiorra raised his blade, firing a Bala that reduced the man to nothing.
Arthur didn't look back. He simply nodded in silent acknowledgment, trusting Ulquiorra to cover him as he and his forces plunged deeper into the capital.
Arthur's sword carved through the last of the castle guards, their armor crumpling as they collapsed. Behind him, Tier followed, her sword slick with blood as she scanned for more enemies. The battle had been swift, but it wasn't over yet.
The deeper they pushed, the heavier the air became. Something wrong pulsed through the castle, a thick wave of magical energy radiating from the throne room. It was too familiar, too much like last time. Arthur's jaw clenched.
"Not again."
"Clear the building," he ordered, his tone sharp. "Gwynn and Mark have to be here."
The knights split off, searching the halls, but Arthur ran straight toward the source of the magic, Tier on his heels. The moment they reached the doors, a surge of power hit them like a storm.
Arthur didn't hesitate. He kicked the doors open.
Inside, the scene chilled his blood.
King Mark and Gwynn stood in the center of the throne room, hands raised, a deep red light pulsing between them. Magic hummed through the air, ancient symbols burning into the stone beneath them.
Arthur moved—
And a blur of motion cut him off.
A blade swiped toward him, impossibly fast. He barely managed to block, Excalibur Reid ringing out as steel clashed. Sparks flew, and Arthur's feet skidded back against the stone.
His eyes locked onto his attacker.
Gwynn.
She was filthy, her armor scratched and dented, dark smudges across her face, and yet there was a gleam in her eyes—amusement.
"You're always in such a hurry," she teased, lips curling into a grin. "What's wrong, Sword Saint? Worried?"
Arthur exhaled sharply. She was fast. Not stronger than him, not a real threat—but irritating. She moved like a shadow, slipping past his guard before he could react, forcing him to defend when he should have been attacking.
Behind him, Tier leaped to engage—
But a massive spear intercepted her.
Tier barely dodged as the impact sent a shockwave through the room. A deep voice cut through the dust.
"Patience."
King Mark.
He stepped forward, his lance gleaming, every inch the warrior-king.
"This kingdom is mine, Sword Saint," Mark said, calm but unyielding. "And I will not let you take it."
Arthur barely spared him a glance. His focus remained on Gwynn, who was already moving again.
"Focus, Arthur," she purred, vanishing from his sight for half a second—
Then reappearing behind him.
Arthur turned, just in time to parry another strike.
Too fast. She wasn't overpowering him—she was annoying. Every time he went to counter, she was gone, slipping away like mist before his blade could reach her.
"Come on, Arthur," she mocked, effortlessly dodging another swing. "You've got all that power—use it."
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
She was playing with him.
His grip on Excalibur Reid tightened.
The next time she vanished, Arthur didn't swing wildly—he waited.
Then, the moment she reappeared—
He moved first.
Gwynn barely had time to react as Arthur closed the gap, faster than she expected. His blade lashed out, not for a kill, but to catch her mid-step.
She twisted—too late.
Arthur's blade scraped against her side, knocking her balance off.
For the first time, Gwynn's grin faltered.
Arthur stepped forward.
"You talk too much."
Gwynn huffed, rubbing her ribs where he had struck. But her smirk returned just as quickly.
"Maybe," she admitted, flicking her blade up again. "But you still haven't won."
Arthur didn't bother responding.
Arthur's muscles tensed as he lunged, Excalibur flashing toward Gwynn in a decisive arc—
But before his blade could strike, something massive tore through the air toward him.
King Mark's lance.
Arthur pivoted, instinct taking over as he slammed Excalibur Reid into the incoming weapon. The sheer force rattled his arms, sending a shockwave through the throne room. The lance clanged against the stone wall, embedding itself deep into the fortress.
Arthur had no time to recover.
Gwynn was already moving.
She didn't waste the opportunity Mark had given her, closing the gap in a blur of motion. Her sword lashed out, and Arthur barely managed to twist out of the way, her blade grazing the fabric of his armor. He leaped back, trying to reset his stance, but Gwynn was relentless.
Instead of pressing him further, she kicked off the embedded lance, perching on it for a split second like a phantom, her smirk never fading.
And then—
She vanished.
Arthur's stomach clenched as he realized where she was going.
"Tier, dodge!" he barked, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was too late.
Tier had just turned when Gwynn appeared in front of her, a blur of motion and steel.
Arthur's heart pounded as he watched Gwynn's blade connect.
Steel met steel in a shower of sparks.
Tier had managed—somehow—to react, raising her sword just in time to deflect Gwynn's strike. But the sheer speed behind the blow sent Tier staggering back, her boots scraping against the stone. Gwynn didn't give her a moment's breath. She pressed forward, forcing Tier onto the defensive, her blade whipping through the air in a flurry of impossibly fast slashes.
Arthur lunged forward to assist—
But Mark was there, stepping between them with a casual confidence that dared Arthur to try.
"I don't think so," Mark said evenly, rolling his shoulders as he pulled his lance from the wall. "You're fighting me, Saint."
Arthur grit his teeth. "She's not a real challenge for me, Mark. You know that."
Mark's golden eyes flicked toward where Gwynn was dancing around Tier, landing strike after strike, forcing the knight into a retreat.
"Perhaps," Mark admitted, spinning his lance once before setting it in a ready stance. "But that doesn't mean she's not dangerous."
Arthur didn't have time for this.
Gwynn wasn't stronger than him. Not even close. But her speed made her infuriating—a constant, untouchable presence, slipping past his guard, never meeting him in a fair exchange.
And worse, she was toying with Tier.
"Keep up, Tier!" Gwynn taunted, her footwork impossibly light as she weaved through Tier's swings. "You're moving like you've got weights on!"
Tier didn't respond, but Arthur could see the frustration in her movements.
She was being forced to react, always one step behind.
Arthur moved—
Mark's lance thrust toward him, forcing him back.
"I said," Mark exhaled, his voice level but firm, "you're fighting me."
Arthur's grip on Excalibur Reid tightened.
He glanced at Gwynn and Mark—and noticed it.
Subtle. Nearly imperceptible.
But it was there.
The way Gwynn didn't even look at Mark, trusting that he had her back. The way Mark never hesitated to cover her, their movements intertwined as if this wasn't a battle—but a dance.
It wasn't spoken.
But it was felt.
Arthur's expression hardened.
If he didn't end this now, Tier wouldn't last much longer.
And that—
Was unacceptable.
He turned back to Mark, exhaling slowly, his posture shifting.
"Fine," Arthur muttered, raising Excalibur Reid. His eyes sharpened, his presence shifted, and the air crackled around him.
"If you want to fight me," Arthur continued, stepping forward—faster than before, "then I'll stop holding back."
Mark's grip on his lance tightened, and for the first time—
His smile faded.
Arthur vanished.
The moment their weapons met, the castle fractured.
Stone beneath them splintered as the force of their clash sent a deafening shockwave through the air. The fortress walls groaned under the pressure, dust and debris cascading from the ceiling like a dying kingdom weeping for salvation.
And yet—neither relented.
Arthur and Mark met in a blur of steel, their movements too fast for the untrained eye to follow. Their weapons sang with each impact, the deadly harmony of a battle between two warriors who understood the weight of the battlefield.
Arthur swung—Excalibur Reid's blade shimmering with restrained power. Mark twisted, bringing his massive lance up to meet the strike. The sheer force sent cracks racing through the floor beneath them. But Mark didn't falter. He pushed, his superior strength forcing Arthur back half a step before twisting his body to deliver a crushing downward strike with the blunt end of his lance.
Arthur shifted, barely ducking under the attack as the weapon smashed into the ground, leaving a deep crater where he had just been.
He's strong.
Arthur had known this already, but feeling the raw force behind Mark's swings made it undeniable.
Mark wasn't faster than him. He wasn't more skilled.
But he was relentless.
Arthur stepped in, his sword a blur as he went for a precise slash aimed at Mark's shoulder. Mark caught it—not with his weapon, but with sheer brute force, one hand gripping Excalibur Reid's flat edge before shoving it aside. Arthur barely had time to react before Mark's knee drove into his stomach.
The impact sent him skidding backward, boots carving trenches into the stone.
Arthur's grip tightened on Excalibur Reid. He exhaled slowly.
Mark rolled his shoulders, gripping his lance with one hand, expression unreadable. "I'd almost forgotten how hard you are to kill."
Arthur gave him a look, wiping a bit of dust from his armor. "I'd say the same, but you're still alive because I haven't used the full power of my sword."
Mark huffed a short laugh, spinning his lance once before slamming the blunt end into the ground. "That so? Then let me make this clear—if you keep holding back, you're the one who's going to die."
Arthur didn't reply.
Instead, he moved.
A single step—
And then he was gone.
Mark barely had time to react before Arthur was on him, Excalibur Reid carving through the air like a golden flash of divine judgment. Mark brought his lance up to block—
Too slow.
Arthur's blade bit into his armor, sparks flying as he carved a deep gash along Mark's side. Blood splattered against the broken stone.
But Mark didn't stagger.
Instead—
He grinned.
With a savage growl, he lunged, twisting his body into a brutal horizontal strike that Arthur only just managed to block. The force sent him sliding back once more, his arms screaming under the strain.
The gap in Mark's armor didn't slow him. If anything, it only made his strikes faster, more unrelenting. He pressed forward with raw, overwhelming force, keeping Arthur on the defensive. Each attack sent tremors through the battlefield. Each swing came dangerously close to taking Arthur's head.
Arthur was faster. But Mark was a wall.
Still—Arthur wasn't losing.
He hadn't been pushed this hard in a long time, but he could see the difference. Mark was still standing because Arthur wasn't using Excalibur Reid full might. If he did, this fight would end in an instant.
But for some reason—
He didn't.
Maybe it was because Mark was one of the few warriors worthy of this battle. Maybe it was because Arthur respected him enough to fight him like this. Or maybe—
Maybe it was because Mark was fighting for something.
Arthur could see it.
The way his stance subtly shifted when his gaze flickered toward Gwynn, even in the heat of battle. The way he placed himself between Arthur and her, even when it wasn't the tactically correct move.
It was unspoken.
But it was there.
Arthur understood it.
And that—
Was why he wasn't going to hold back anymore.
Arthur exhaled. His grip on Excalibur Reid tightened. The golden light of the blade flared, the air around him trembling with power.
Mark's expression finally changed.
"…Finally," he muttered, leveling his lance.
Arthur's gaze hardened.
Arthur raised Excalibur Reid, its golden radiance flaring as he prepared to unleash the sword's might. The words left his lips—
"Ex—"
But then—
BOOM.
A pulse of raw magical energy erupted from the far side of the room, an invisible force slamming into everyone like a tidal wave. Arthur's breath caught as his body was thrown backward, his boots scraping against the stone floor in an attempt to stay upright.
The walls groaned. The ground fractured.
Dust and debris spiraled through the air, shrouding the battlefield in a thick haze.
Arthur barely had time to recover before he heard Tier's sharp intake of breath.
"I—I've never felt magical energy on this level before," she muttered, her usual composure cracking. "What is that?"
Arthur didn't answer.
He wasn't even listening.
His focus was fixed—not on the destruction, not on the tremors still rumbling through the castle, but on the figure standing at the center of it all.
The haze began to settle, revealing the silhouette of a woman bathed in the afterglow of that monstrous surge of power. Her stance was unshaken, as if the explosion had been nothing more than a casual exhalation of force.
Arthur's grip on Excalibur Reid tightened.
Even before her features became clear, he knew—
This is the one.
The true threat.
His heartbeat hammered in his chest, but not from fear. It was something colder. Sharper. A warrior's instinct screaming at him to pay attention.
The woman stepped forward, her presence effortlessly commanding the ruined battlefield. The magic around her still crackled in the air, thick and suffocating, warping the very atmosphere.
Arthur exhaled slowly, his gaze locked onto her.
This wasn't just power.
This was dominance.
This was a being that stood above everything else in this room.