Her presence was unsettling—not just for her sheer power, but for the unnatural stillness in the way she moved, as if she were something beyond human comprehension.
Her long silver-white hair cascaded down her back, untouched by the chaos around her, while the ornate headpiece she wore resembled layered wings or feathers, giving her an almost celestial presence. Despite her regal air, the dark, starry markings that trailed down her arms and lower body gave her an ominous, eldritch quality—an entity that did not belong to this world.
But it was her eyes, hidden beneath the futuristic mask that covered her forehead and nose, that unnerved Arthur the most. They were unreadable. Hollow. Uncaring.
Then she spoke.
"You have done well," she said, her voice smooth, almost detached. "The Foreign God recognizes your efforts. That is why we shall continue the preparations for them."
Her words carried weight, and Arthur's stomach twisted with an immediate, instinctual feeling of dread.
She stepped forward, her movement eerily graceful.
"Of course," Gwynn replied with a smirk, bowing deeply. "It was our pleasure."
Arthur's jaw clenched.
Tier, standing just behind him, did not hesitate. The moment Gwynn lowered her head, Tier moved—her blade aimed to sever the woman where she stood.
But the masked woman did not turn.
She did not even look at Tier.
She merely lifted a single pale hand in her direction.
And ice erupted.
A jagged pillar of pure frost speared into Tier from the side, the impact hurling her through the wall of the castle.
The force of the attack was devastating—Arthur could hear the crash of stone, the splintering of wood as Tier's body was sent flying, disappearing beyond the ruins.
Arthur's pulse spiked. His eyes widened—for only a fraction of a second—before narrowing with focused rage.
In a burst of golden magical energy, he was in front of the woman in an instant.
He brought Excalibur Reid down, a strike powerful enough to sunder mountains—
Clang.
His world froze for a moment.
She had caught it.
With her bare hand.
Arthur's breath hitched, his mind racing. Impossible.
The glow of Excalibur Reid pulsed, its golden radiance burning like a sun—but she did not falter.
Instead, frost began to creep from her fingers, wrapping around the blade like an unrelenting parasite.
Then he felt it.
The bitter cold climbing up his sword—spreading to his fingers, then his wrist, then his arm—inching closer, threatening to freeze him solid.
His instincts screamed at him.
Now.
"Excalibur Reid!"
The sacred heat of the golden blade flared to life, and in an instant—
CRACK!
The ice shattered.
The woman leaped back, landing effortlessly, her posture unchanged. But for the first time, Arthur saw it—
The slightest shift in her stance.
She had not expected that.
Arthur barely had time to brace himself before a massive wave of ice slammed into him like a falling glacier. He barely managed to bring up Excalibur Reid in time, but the sheer force behind the attack sent him skidding back, his boots carving deep trenches into the ruined stone floor. The bitter cold gnawed at his skin, seeping through his armor like a living thing, and despite the golden radiance of his blade, it did little to stave off the freezing pain creeping up his limbs.
"That was the radiance of a star."
The woman's voice was calm. Detached.
Arthur barely had time to recover before she moved—not with brute force, not with overwhelming speed, but with an effortless inevitability that made his instincts scream.
A flick of her wrist.
A surge of frost erupted beneath his feet.
Arthur lunged backward, attempting to call on the Prana Burst (Wind) to propel himself away—
Too late.
The ice was too potent.
The air itself was thick with magic, making it feel as though even the very wind had been suppressed, held hostage under the weight of her presence.
Arthur swung his sword, golden flames erupting from its edge, carving a crescent arc of heat toward her.
She didn't even move.
Instead, the air froze mid-motion, and his attack—his very fire—was snuffed out as if it had never existed.
"Sadly," she continued, stepping forward with the grace of a goddess untouched by battle, "you seem to be incapable of using its full capabilities. How disappointing."
Arthur's breath was sharp, mist forming in the air as he gritted his teeth. He could feel it—the difference between them.
It was like facing an abyss.
She was not fighting with power alone. This was something else entirely.
He surged forward, bringing Excalibur Reid down in a powerful diagonal arc. The golden light of his blade sang as it cut through the air—
She caught it again.
With one hand.
This time, she didn't just stop the blow—she twisted her grip, effortlessly redirecting Arthur's entire momentum, his body lurching forward from his own attack.
Her knee came up.
The impact drove all the air from Arthur's lungs.
His vision blurred, his body screaming in pain as he was hurled back, crashing into the crumbling wall behind him. The stone shattered beneath his weight, dust and rubble raining down around him as he gasped for air.
Arthur barely had a second to recover before she was already upon him.
A spike of ice erupted from her palm, aiming straight for his heart—
"Excalibur Reid!"
A blast of golden energy erupted from his blade, forcing her back just before the ice could pierce him. The heat from his sword melted the frost encasing his arms, allowing him to push himself back onto his feet.
His breathing was ragged.
His body ached.
But he couldn't afford to stop.
This is the only thing keeping me in this fight…
The only reason he could keep going was because of Excalibur Reid's constant activation, the sacred energy preventing him from succumbing to the ever-encroaching frost that threatened to freeze him where he stood.
And yet—she still looked untouched.
Not a single wound. Not a single mark on her body.
He might as well have been swinging at a ghost.
She tilted her head slightly, as if considering him in a new light. Then, for the first time, she spoke with something resembling amusement—or maybe just curiosity.
"You're persistent. I'll grant you that."
Arthur steadied himself, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth.
"And who are you supposed to be?" he asked, voice strained yet unwavering.
The woman slowly raised her hand, letting the remaining frost in the air swirl around her fingertips like obedient phantoms.
"I am the Priestess of the Foreign God," she declared.
A sudden pressure filled the room, the weight of her presence crushing against Arthur's already exhausted body.
"The one of the Void."
Arthur's grip on his sword tightened, golden light flickering along its edge.
She took a slow step forward.
Arthur inhaled deeply.
Even now, with his body screaming, his magic circuits burning, and the overwhelming realization that he stood before something far beyond human understanding—
He would not kneel.
His eyes, locked onto hers, burned with defiance.
And for the briefest of moments—
Her lips curved.
Not into a smirk. Not into mockery.
But something else.
Something almost intrigued.
—-
Artoria's frown deepened as she and her knights approached the outskirts of the capital. They had ridden hard, covering leagues in pursuit of the growing rumors—whispers of battle at the heart of the kingdom.
She and her companions—Gawain, Tristan, and Bedivere—had passed through a village not long ago, where fearful murmurs had spoken of unrest within the capital walls. It had been enough to spur them forward at a relentless pace.
Now, from their vantage point just beyond the city's fortifications, they could see the truth for themselves.
The gates stood barred, guarded by weary men clad in armor bearing the kingdom's sigil. Beyond them, the capital's streets writhed with movement, silhouettes clashing in combat. The sound of steel meeting steel carried across the air, a grim confirmation that the city was already under siege.
Artoria slowed her horse as they neared the gate, her companions following suit. Their presence did not go unnoticed.
The guards standing watch stiffened at their approach, hands gripping weapons, eyes narrowing in suspicion. The tension in the air was palpable, their wariness not surprising—strangers arriving at a time like this could just as easily be enemies as they could be allies.
One of the men, his armor dirtied from combat, stepped forward. "Who goes there?" he called, voice rough and laced with fatigue.
Artoria remained composed, her gaze steady as she regarded them.
"We are knights of the Round Table, we represent Britain's help" she declared. "We have come in response to the battle within the capital."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances. Some looked relieved at the sight of reinforcements, while others remained tense. The exhaustion in their eyes spoke volumes—they had been fighting for their lives, and even now, victory was uncertain.
"Reinforcements… that's good," one of them muttered, though his voice carried a note of doubt. "Arthur is of Britain. They must truly be here to help."
Before any further discussion could take place, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed against the stone. A soldier, armor dented and cloak torn from battle, sprinted toward them, barely pausing to catch his breath.
"Orders from the front!" he gasped. "We're being told to fall back—Arthur is fighting her!"
The urgency in his tone struck like a hammer.
"Who?" Artoria demanded, her eyes sharp.
"A woman in white," the soldier panted, shaking his head as if still struggling to believe what he had witnessed. "She already defeated Miss Tier. Ulquiorra is rushing in from the other side of the kingdom to assist, but Arthur's battle has moved deep into the city's core. Her presence alone is… overwhelming."
A chill settled over the gathered knights.
Artoria, Gawain, Tristan, and Bedivere stiffened at the words.
"What do you mean, overwhelming?" Bedivere asked cautiously.
The soldier swallowed hard. "We were winning before she appeared. The tide was turning in our favor, but then—" His voice wavered. "In an instant, it all changed. The streets froze over. Entire squadrons stopped moving—not dead, just… lifeless. Trapped. Encased in ice, but without a single wound upon them."
His hands clenched into fists. "Arthur is doing everything he can to hold her back—to keep her from slaughtering the rest of us—but he's losing."
Silence fell over them like a crushing weight.
Tristan's usual somber expression darkened further. "So even Arthur… is being pushed back," he murmured, as if testing the truth of the words.
Gawain, ever the bold knight, scowled. "Then what are we waiting for?" His grip on the reins tightened. "If Arthur is still fighting, we ride to him. Now."
Before Artoria could respond, the world around them was momentarily swallowed by a blinding explosion of gold and blue light.
The heavens themselves seemed to part as a massive column of pure radiance erupted from the heart of the city, surging skyward like the dawn of a new sun. The shockwave that followed sent a powerful gust of wind in all directions, rattling armor and forcing horses to rear in panic.
Artoria's heart clenched at the sight.
That light—there was no mistaking it.
Excalibur Reid.
Arthur had unleashed it.
And yet, even from this distance, Artoria could sense it wasn't enough.
Her hands curled into fists. Arthur—her Arthur—was being pushed to his limit.
Without another moment's hesitation, she yanked the reins of her steed.
"Gawain, Tristan, Bedivere!" she called, voice ringing with authority.
The three knights reacted instantly, snapping out of their momentary stupor.
"With me!"
She spurred her horse forward, breaking into a full gallop toward the golden beacon piercing the sky.
Gawain followed immediately, jaw clenched with determination.
Tristan let out a breath before gripping his bow and urging his horse into motion.
Bedivere, silent but resolute, rode at Artoria's side.
The battle was still raging.
And Arthur needed them.
Now.
—
Arthur coughed up blood, his breath ragged as he struggled to remain standing. His body was battered, his limbs heavy, and even Excalibur Reid—an impossible weapon of legend—felt like it weighed twice as much in his grip. The sword's golden radiance burned bright, the heat of its power crashing down upon the ice shield before him, causing it to crack and tremble under the overwhelming force.
Yet, the woman beneath the shield barely reacted.
The weight of Excalibur Reid's holy light pressed down upon her, its searing might meant to incinerate all that stood in its path. And yet, she stood tall, unshaken, her gaze impassive. Then, with a flick of her wrist, a thin shard of ice shot forward, striking Arthur's hand.
The force jolted his grip, sending his sword arm upward. In that instant, his defenses broke.
Before he could react, she was there.
Moving faster than sight, her form blurred as she closed the distance, her hand pressing against his chest with unnatural gentleness.
"You're being sealed," she murmured, her voice laced with intrigue. "You are… weakened—by something, or perhaps someone." Her fingers pressed lightly against him, and ice began to spread from where she touched, crawling over his armor, slithering across his skin.
"At full power… the Foreign God would have enjoyed your existence," she mused, as though appraising a fine sculpture, her lips curving into something akin to amusement.
Arthur's vision wavered, his limbs stiffening as the cold wrapped around him like shackles. His body—his very soul—felt as though it was being claimed.
And then, suddenly—she moved.
The priestess leaped away with shocking urgency, the ice around Arthur shattering in an instant.
A golden blast, no larger than a human, tore past his line of sight. The sheer force of it obliterated everything in its path. Buildings disintegrated, the very air howled under its destructive force, and where it struck, a trail of annihilation remained.
Arthur's breath hitched as he turned toward the source.
Standing there, bathed in golden light, was Artoria.
For a moment, there was only silence between them.
Her glowing green gaze landed on him, piercing through the battlefield's chaos, and a small, soft smile graced her lips—brief, fleeting, yet undeniably real.
"Artoria?" Arthur breathed, disbelief coloring his tone.
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Hello, Arthur. It's been a while."
Her voice was calm, as if this was not a battlefield soaked in blood and ice, as if she had not just nearly erased something from existence. But there was something in her tone—a quiet warmth, distant yet lingering.
And then, her eyes shifted.
The priestess stood across from them, her pale expression unreadable, her gaze lingering on the golden-haired woman before her.
"A god?" the priestess murmured, tilting her head in curiosity. "I did not think any still touched the first layer of this world, let alone one of such potency."
Artoria said nothing, her gaze cold, analytical.
The priestess let out a breath, her fingers twitching slightly, as if testing the air itself. "That attack… you aimed to kill me outright."
"You dodged," Artoria stated, her tone devoid of praise. "I suppose that was… impressive."
The priestess's lips quirked upward at the faintest of angles. "Flattery?"
"No."
Artoria took a step forward, Excalibur materializing at her side in a pulse of magical energy. The air shook around her, her presence pressing down on the battlefield like a storm given form.
"You will not dodge my next attack."
The priestess stiffened.
She felt it—something looming.
Before another word could be exchanged, she moved, her instincts guiding her. With a flick of her hand, a massive wall of ice erupted between them—thicker, reinforced, layered with divine enchantments.
And yet, even as it formed, she knew it would not be enough.
Artoria raised Excalibur, her grip steady. The moment her blade moved, the very air seemed to split apart. A pulse of pure salvation coiled around the weapon.
With a single swing, she brought her blade down.
The ice wall shattered as if it were nothing. Not merely broken—annihilated, its very essence erased from existence. A gash tore into the battlefield where the ice once stood, carving deep into the stone and earth below.
The priestess had already moved, reappearing to Artoria's side, her fingers glowing with runic light.
A barrage of spears made of ice formed in an instant, striking out at Artoria with unrelenting force. Each lance carried an unnatural cold—something that did not merely freeze, but sought to halt existence itself.
Artoria did not move.
Artoria barely paused.
The spears of ice rained toward her with terrifying precision, each infused with an unnatural cold that threatened to freeze even space itself. But she did not waver.
With fluid grace, she raised Excalibur, the blade moving faster than the eye could follow. The moment the spears came within reach, they were shattered, obliterated into glittering motes of light before they could touch her.
And then she was gone.
To the untrained eye, she might have seemed to vanish, but in truth, she moved faster than even the wind could whisper. In the span of a heartbeat, she reappeared before the priestess, her blade descending in a brilliant arc.
The priestess's eyes flickered with awareness.
She barely had time to react, conjuring a thin barrier of ice over her skin—a divine reinforcement meant to absorb the worst of the impact. At the same time, she raised her other hand, a blast of raw magical ice erupting forth.
The attack should have forced a retreat. It should have pushed Artoria back, even if only for a second.
But Artoria did not retreat.
Instead, she shifted her attack mid-swing, adjusting her blade with impossible precision. Excalibur split through the ice magic, parting it as though it were no more than mist.
The priestess's breath hitched.
She moved—faster than before, twisting to retreat—but it was too late.
Artoria's blade struck, and the impact sent the priestess hurtling backward. She crashed into the earth, skidding across the battlefield, ice forming instinctively around her body to absorb the force. The very land trembled from the impact, a deep crater forming where she landed.
Arthur, still struggling to remain upright, could do little more than watch.
"…We should move," Gawain murmured beside him, his gaze steady even as he watched the battle unfold. "At this point, we would only get in the way."
Tristan and Bedivere exchanged silent glances before nodding in agreement.
Arthur exhaled sharply, the ache in his body making itself known once again. He had already pushed himself too far. His injuries were severe, his strength fading. And yet—
"…There's someone else."
Gawain frowned.
Arthur pushed through the pain, his voice strained but firm. "Find a woman named Tier Harribel. She was struck down by that priestess, and I haven't seen her since."
Gawain hesitated for only a moment before giving a sharp nod. "Very well."
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the battlefield.
Arthur's gaze returned to the fight before him.
Artoria stood in the distance, her figure outlined by golden light, her blade steady at her side. The priestess, though wounded, was already rising, a cold mist swirling around her like a living force.
The sound of displaced air marked their arrival.
Faye and Ulquiorra landed beside Arthur, Tristan, and Bedivere, their presence only adding to the tension in the air. The battle between Artoria and the Priestess raged on in the distance, but for a brief moment, all eyes turned to the newcomers.
"What's going on?" Ulquiorra asked, his voice calm, almost indifferent as his gaze flickered over the battlefield.
Bedivere immediately shifted, stepping slightly in front of Arthur, his grip tightening on his sword. "Who are you?" he asked warily.
Ulquiorra's teal eyes settled on him, impassive. "I could ask you the same question."
The air between them thickened, but Faye quickly stepped forward, her sharp eyes moving to Arthur. "Guys, this isn't the time for this." She took another step, her expression softening. "Arthur, are you okay?"
Arthur visibly tensed. It was subtle—barely noticeable—but Faye caught it. He flinched, as if some instinct buried deep within him warned against her presence. His hesitation lasted only a moment before he spoke.
"I'm fine." His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it. Something restrained.
Ulquiorra's gaze flickered between them before turning back toward the battle. "Who are those two?"
"The one in gold is the King of Britain," Faye answered, arms crossed. "Though I don't know who the other woman is… she's powerful. Extremely powerful. I'd say they're about equal in power."
Ulquiorra remained silent for a moment, analyzing the scene before nodding slightly.
A new voice entered the conversation.
"I couldn't agree more, Morgan."
The group turned, and from seemingly nowhere, a man with white hair and lavender eyes materialized. A knowing smile rested on his lips, but his gaze was sharp, assessing.
Merlin.
The reaction was immediate.
The knights of Britain tensed the moment they heard the name Morgan, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. The weight of past battles, past betrayals, hung heavy in the air.
Merlin, ever the enigma, merely waved them off with a lighthearted gesture. "Now, now, I'd appreciate it if you didn't start swinging your swords at me." His expression darkened, the weight of the situation sobering his usual playfulness. "Right now, sadly, she's not our biggest problem."
Faye—or rather, Morgan—turned toward the battle, her form subtly shifting as she dropped her disguise. The transformation was seamless; only her clothing remained unchanged in Arthur's view.
"Correct." Her voice was even, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. "That woman holds an aspect not of this world. Though she stands there, fighting, it is as though she is not truly present." Her piercing gaze never left the battlefield. "A paradox. A being that exists and does not exist simultaneously. A threat greater than that of Britain."
Merlin exhaled, nodding. "Sadly, that is the case." His usual mirth was absent. "I'm unsure if Artoria can even win."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
And then, golden light erupted.
It did not simply illuminate the battlefield—it overwhelmed it. The very fabric of the world seemed to tremble beneath its radiance.
Morgan's eyes narrowed. "The Tower of the End."
Merlin's lips parted slightly. "Rhongomyniad."
Across the battlefield, Artoria stood, spear in hand, its golden light coiling around her like the breath of the world itself. The Priestess had already reacted, raising a massive wall of ice that surged forward in a devastating wave, the sheer force of it capable of burying entire cities.
But Artoria did not flinch.
Her grip on Rhongomyniad tightened, her green eyes glowing with divine intensity.
"Light, may you be released from the ends of the world."
The world itself seemed to answer her. The air trembled, the very concept of distance warping in the presence of the Divine Construct.
"Split the heavens and tether the earth."
The spear hummed, resonating with something beyond mortal comprehension.
"Anchor of the storm!"
The ice storm came crashing forward—an avalanche of unnatural cold, raw and merciless.
Artoria raised Rhongomyniad.
"Rhongomyniad!"
The golden light shattered through the ice.
The very laws of the world bent in response to the weapon's will. The moment the two forces met, the battlefield was consumed in a storm of light and frost, the sheer impact splitting the land itself.
And through it all, Artoria advanced.
The world cracked under the force of Rhongomyniad's release, the golden light rending through the frozen storm. The clash sent waves of energy rippling across the battlefield, splitting the land beneath them as raw divine power met the unfathomable cold of an otherworldly force.
Yet, through the cascading ice and shattered fragments of magic, the Priestess stood unshaken.
A sharp inhale, a single motion of her hand, and the very air froze. The scattered shards of ice around her ceased their chaotic flight, suspending midair before reversing course, converging in a violent whirlwind.
Artoria charged—silver armor gleaming in the fractured light, muscles coiling with strength beyond mortal means. She covered the distance in an instant, sword raised high, a blow that would cleave the heavens in two.
The Priestess did not retreat.
She raised her arm, the very fabric of her being warping as ice crept along her skin, transforming into an ethereal barrier of glacial purity. Excalibur met it with the force of a celestial storm, the impact sending tremors through the ground. For an instant, the world seemed to pause.
Then the force unleashed.
The barrier cracked, splintered, but held. Ice erupted beneath Artoria's feet in retaliation, jagged pillars forming instantly, seeking to impale and entrap her.
Artoria shattered them with a swing of her sword.
Frost and fire clashed—two forces that could annihilate lesser beings with a mere thought. Yet neither gained the upper hand.
Power met power.
The Priestess flicked her wrist, and dozens—no, hundreds—of spears of ice formed in the sky, each infused with divine force, their tips glowing with a light that rejected the world itself.
With a wave of her hand, they rained down.
Artoria didn't falter. She moved, not dodging but charging straight through. Excalibur became a blur, slashing and deflecting each frozen lance in a dance of perfect precision. Every step forward brought her closer to her foe.
Then she was there.
Faster than the Priestess could react, Artoria's fist struck first—a raw display of sheer physicality. The impact sent the Priestess reeling, her body crashing through the battlefield, carving a frozen trench in the earth.
Morgan watched from the distance, her eyes flickering away from the battle for a moment—toward Arthur.
He stood motionless.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his breathing measured yet shaken. His blue eyes, usually burning with resolve, were fixed on the battle before him, but there was something else beneath his expression.
Powerlessness.
Helplessness.
Morgan tilted her head slightly. Of course.
Arthur was watching a battle, one completely out of his reach, Arthur's breath came in ragged bursts, his vision swimming from exhaustion and blood loss. The distant clash of steel against ice rang out like a death knell, shaking the ruins around him. Artoria's form, wreathed in golden radiance, flickered between the flurries of frozen death the priestess hurled at her. Their battle was beyond mortal comprehension—light and ice clashing in a symphony of destruction.
And he was standing there, useless.
He clenched his fists, ignoring the sting of his wounds.
How had it come to this?
Once, they had stood as equals. He and Artoria—two individual, bound by fate, their strengths mirroring one another's. He had never doubted that if one of them fell, the other would rise to meet the challenge.
But now, she was fighting his battle.
His grip tightened around Excalibur Reid's hilt as his knuckles turned white. Artoria was carrying their child inside her, yet she was the one standing at the frontlines, wielding her blade against an enemy far beyond mortal means. She fought without hesitation, her movements precise and merciless. Every strike carried the weight of absolute authority, forcing the priestess to retreat, her conjured ice shattering beneath Artoria's onslaught.
Arthur should have been beside her. Not standing in the shadows, watching.
Morgan's gaze lingered on him for just a moment longer before turning back toward the battlefield.
The Priestess had already recovered.
She stood once more, her form shimmering as a frost-laden mist coiled around her. Her violet eyes, cold as a frozen abyss, met Artoria's without hesitation.
A soft, almost imperceptible smile crossed her lips.
Then the battlefield froze over completely.
Artoria exhaled, gripping her blade tighter.
"I would suggest aiding her," Merlin mused, arms crossed as he watched the battle unfold with a rare grimace. "But in truth, I doubt we would even be capable of making a difference. Our power is completely eclipsed here."
His words were casual, but there was an unmistakable weight behind them. The clash between Artoria and the Priestess was beyond the scope of even the greatest magi. The sheer force of their battle had warped the land itself, golden radiance and absolute frost rewriting the battlefield in their wake.
Merlin sighed, turning his gaze to Morgan, expecting some snide remark or even a cold dismissal.
Instead, she was silent.
For a moment, he was caught off guard. Morgan wasn't watching the fight anymore. Instead, she was kneeling beside Arthur, her focus entirely on him. Her lips moved in quiet conversation, her tone low enough that even Merlin couldn't hear.
For once, she was ignoring him completely.
Merlin tilted his head, curiosity piqued, but he did not intervene. Instead, he simply observed.
"Do you wish to help, Arthur?"
Morgan's voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the chaotic sounds of battle with precision.
Arthur didn't respond immediately. His fingers dug into his palms, shoulders tensed, his entire body stiff as he kept his gaze locked on the battle he had no place in.
Finally, his voice came—cold, distant.
"Of course I do," he murmured. "But that want is something I cannot actualize, Morgan."
Morgan did not waver at his tone, nor at the way his words carried the weight of self-loathing. She had heard it before.
Instead, she offered a quiet nod, accepting the truth within his words—without agreeing to them.
"That is good," she murmured, brushing her fingertips over her knee absentmindedly. Then, after a pause, her voice took on a strange softness.
"I see why you wanted Artoria over me."
Arthur tensed, but Morgan continued, her tone smooth, almost thoughtful.
"Look at her." Her gaze flickered to the battlefield, where Artoria and the Priestess clashed once more, their divine radiance illuminating the frozen wasteland. "An actual goddess. Even better than a Great Mother."
Arthur's brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line.
His tone was harder now.
"Is that all you have to say?"
Morgan turned back to him, her lavender eyes searching his face—not with mockery, not with cruelty, but with understanding.
"You hate yourself," she murmured.
Arthur stilled.
"You think you are worthless, a lesser of her, a failure in comparison to something divine," she continued, voice steady. "And perhaps… you even hate me, as well."
Arthur did not deny it.
Morgan smiled, though there was no humor in it.
"But despite all of that," she said softly, "you still matter."
Arthur exhaled sharply, an almost scoffing breath, but Morgan did not falter.
"You are weaker than you should be," she admitted, tilting her head slightly. "The strength Vivian and Merlin sealed away is still lost to you. Even now, you are only a fraction of what you once were."
Arthur glanced at her, but Morgan's gaze never wavered.
"You are not lesser than Artoria," she continued, her voice firm, unwavering. "And you are certainly not nothing."
Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but no words came.
Because in that moment, he could not refute her.
A bitter realization crawled into his chest.
Had this been why his body felt so heavy? Why his strength had dulled?
Had he already accepted his own powerlessness?
No.
Something else was wrong.
From the moment this battle began, he had felt it—an absence. His strength felt distant, like something just out of reach, something slipping through his grasp no matter how desperately he tried to seize it. It wasn't just a matter of skill or experience. Something was missing. Something vital.
His fingers clenched at his sides, his breath slow, measured. He had been watching her fight, watching Artoria move like an extension of the world itself—her sword, a beacon of pure, unbroken radiance, a weapon that sang with the will of the planet.
And as he watched, something in him twisted—not with jealousy, not with despair, but with recognition.
This was not the strength of someone who had simply outpaced him.
This was the strength of someone who had never forgotten.
"You see it now, don't you?"
Arthur barely registered Morgan's voice until she was kneeling beside him, her presence sharp yet familiar. The battlefield raged on, but in that moment, her words cut deeper than any sword.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his mind into stillness. When had he lost sight of it?
When had he started viewing himself as separate from the world—as though he were merely a man wielding a sword, rather than something more?
He had been chosen.
Not just by Excalibur Reid.
By the world itself.
The will of Gaia had never abandoned him.
He had abandoned it.
And yet, it had waited for him.
"I see." His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was immeasurable.
Morgan watched him closely, her expression unreadable. "Then say it."
Arthur turned to her, brows furrowing. "Say what?"
Morgan's gaze did not waver. "That you matter."
Arthur inhaled sharply.
His instinct was to deny it, to turn away from the words that felt foreign in his throat. But Morgan did not press him—she only waited, her presence steady, unwavering, as though she had always known he would struggle with this.
She was patient. For once in her life, she was patient with him.
He looked down at his hands, at the fingers that had once grasped the hilt of a sword that could change the course of history, at the strength he had buried beneath years of doubt.
He was not lesser than Artoria.
He was not nothing.
"…I matter," he whispered.
Morgan's lips curled—not quite a smile, but something softer, something real.
"And?" she prompted, her voice softer now.
Arthur exhaled. His chest still ached, but the weight pressing down on him had begun to shift.
"…And I am still needed."
Morgan tilted her head, studying him with something he could not quite name. Then, with a small, knowing nod, she simply said—
"Yes."
It was not praise. It was not empty comfort.
It was simply the truth.
And for the first time in a long, long time—Arthur could feel the world responding to him once more.
"The world itself will still love you, even if you have momentarily forgotten its love," Morgan's voice was quiet, but each word carried weight as she gently touched one of Arthur's slowly closing wounds. "Just as Vivian will love you... just as I will continue to, even if I don't like the feeling."
Arthur's breath hitched, a knot forming in his throat. Her touch was light, but it seemed to anchor him, her words cutting through the layers of confusion and guilt that had been weighing on him. Morgan, ever so difficult, always so distant, was here, right now, in this moment, pulling him from the abyss.
"If Artoria dies now, my will cannot continue," Morgan stated, her voice steady and filled with a quiet intensity. She leaned closer, her presence a quiet pressure on his chest. "So you must understand yourself."
Arthur's heart thundered, her words reverberating in his mind. Understand myself. What did that even mean? He had been chasing a shadow of himself for so long, buried under layers of doubt and fear. But now, with her words echoing in his ears, the chains that bound his thoughts began to loosen.
The realization was a slow, heavy thing. His mind had been clouded, but Morgan's words, like a delicate yet firm hand, had slowly pried apart the veil.
The moment it settled into his heart, the world around him seemed to stir.
A deep, ancient pulse of energy thrummed beneath his feet, stirring the very air around him. He could feel the earth shifting, alive, as if it too had been waiting for him to return. It was a connection that had never truly broken, merely hidden beneath the dust of time. The will of Gaia, the strength of the land—it was still with him.
He was still part of it.
His body, which had once been battered and worn, ignited with a sudden surge of power. The golden light around him flared into being, flickering like wildfire, before solidifying into a steady, unshakable brilliance. His wounds, once deep and ragged, began to heal—not through magic, not through some mechanical process—but because the world itself recognized him once more.
He wasn't separate from it. He had always been tied to it.
The weight of Excalibur Reid shifted in his grasp. The sword that had once felt alien, like it belonged to another, suddenly felt right. It wasn't heavier. It wasn't lighter. It was simply his.
It was a weapon that called to him, not because of who he had been, but because of who he was, and always had been—a king, a protector, a part of the world itself.
Arthur exhaled, and as he did, the entire battlefield seemed to tremble.
A pulse of energy surged outward from him, a raw force that rippled through the air. It wasn't just power; it was the world responding to its king. The knights around him staggered, the sheer magnitude of his presence causing them to falter.
Gawain, who had been preparing to charge forward, stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide with shock. Bedivere's breath caught in his throat, his usually composed face filled with awe. Tristan, typically calm and measured, could only stare, his expression blank with disbelief.
Even Artoria, in the midst of her own battle, flickered her gaze toward him, her emerald eyes widening for just a fraction of a second. There was no mistaking it. She felt the shift too.
The priestess of the Foreign God, who had been locked in a fierce struggle with Artoria, suddenly froze. The tension in the air grew thick. She turned, slowly, her eyes meeting Arthur's.
Arthur stood tall, his once broken body now whole, the pulse of the world around him thrumming with his very existence. His gaze locked onto the priestess, unwavering, as his presence filled the space between them.
The world had always been his to wield, and now, he remembered that.
His voice broke the heavy silence, low but steady.
"I never hated you, Morgan," he said, the words raw but true. There was no malice, no bitterness in them. Just truth.
Morgan's eyes softened just a fraction, the walls she had built around herself seemingly momentarily slipping. The fire in her gaze dimmed slightly, but only for an instant. She tilted her head slightly, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips.