Artoria frowned. It had been a long time since she had exerted herself this much—perhaps not since she had fought Vortigern. The weight of her armor pressed heavier against her body than it should have. The heat of battle burned against her skin, yet there was a chill in her limbs that even the rush of adrenaline could not shake.
She blocked another attack, Excalibur cutting through the air with practiced precision, yet the force of impact rattled her bones more than it should have. A tremor ran through her arm, fleeting but undeniable.
Her balance, once flawless, felt just a fraction off. The way her feet planted into the earth, the way her breath hitched slightly after every exertion—it was wrong. Different.
It wasn't just exhaustion from battle.
There was something deeper within her, something that pulled at her, drained her, even as she forced herself to fight through it. A quiet, invisible weight pressing down on her body, as though her very existence demanded more from her than it had before.
She exhaled, willing her muscles to obey, but there was no denying it—her stamina was waning. She had noticed it before, the way she tired more quickly than she should have, the way her energy did not replenish as swiftly as it once did. She had forced herself to ignore it.
Yet here, on the battlefield, where every moment of weakness was an opening for the enemy, she could not afford to deny the truth.
The Foreign God's priestess sent another jagged spear of ice toward her. Artoria moved to intercept it, but the shift in her footing was just a second too slow.
For the first time in ages, the attack struck past her guard.
A sharp pain bloomed across her side as ice scraped against her armor, cutting through to her skin. Not a mortal wound, but a mistake she should not have made. She swallowed down the grimace threatening to cross her face, gripping Excalibur tighter to steady herself.
The battlefield blurred for just a moment—not from pain, not from fear, but from the fatigue that had been steadily creeping upon her, little by little. She steadied her breathing, forcing herself to remain upright, to stay composed.
To fight.
Yet even as she willed herself forward, she felt the eyes of those who knew her best.
Morgan, standing near Arthur, watched her with an expression that was far too perceptive for Artoria's liking. The way her gaze lingered—not in the way one assessed an enemy, but the way one recognized something off in a person they knew all too well.
Gawain, mid-motion, hesitated as if considering whether he should move to her side. His loyalty, his instincts—he could sense something was wrong.
Even Bedivere, ever observant, cast a fleeting glance toward her, though he did not waver from his own battle.
And Arthur—
The pulse of energy that surged from him crashed over the battlefield like a tidal wave.
It was warm. Familiar.
The moment it reached her, she felt something in herself respond.
Artoria turned, breath caught in her throat, as she beheld him.
Arthur stood, his form bathed in golden light—not magic, not magecraft, but something older, something greater. His presence did not just command attention—it demanded recognition. The world itself seemed to pull toward him, as if finally embracing something it had long been missing.
And in that moment, as his gaze met hers, something within Artoria steadied.
Her exhaustion did not vanish, nor did the strange weight pulling at her body—but she no longer felt as though she bore it alone.
Arthur exhaled, slow and steady. His green eyes, once clouded with doubt, now burned with certainty.
And for the first time in this battle, Artoria felt the faintest flicker of relief.
The Priestess of the Foreign God stared at Arthur, her eyes wide, her mind racing to process what she had just witnessed.
"That level of power… it's on the level of the Foreign God… that's way beyond the expected parameters." She murmured under her breath, barely able to contain the unease slipping into her usually composed tone.
A flash of gold—he was beside her in an instant.
"Sorry for leaving you alone for so long, love," Arthur said, his voice low, steady.
Artoria exhaled, her grip on Excalibur loosening just slightly. The battle had taken its toll—she had fought without pause, her body weighed down by something more than just exhaustion. Yet, hearing his voice, feeling his presence beside her… the strain became just a bit more bearable.
She lifted her gaze to meet his and offered him a tired but genuine smile.
"I'm tired…" Her words carried more than just physical fatigue; they were a quiet admission, a moment of vulnerability she rarely allowed herself. But she knew Arthur would understand what she truly meant. "Do you think you can win?"
Arthur didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
A simple word. No grand declaration, no boasting—just certainty.
And that certainty was enough.
Artoria nodded slightly, breathing heavily. The edges of her vision blurred for a moment, the weight pressing down on her growing heavier. Before she could steady herself, she felt a firm grip on her arm.
Morgan.
Artoria barely had time to react before she was pulled away from the battlefield, the sudden shift forcing her to lean against Morgan's frame.
"Morgan," Artoria growled, irritation flaring despite her weakened state.
Morgan, in contrast, merely smirked.
"Don't complain, little King," she said, her tone laced with amusement.
Artoria's glare sharpened, but Morgan met it with unwavering confidence.
"I am getting you out of here, am I not?" she added, her voice softer this time, though the smugness never left.
With that, she landed back near the others, Artoria still leaning against her. The moment her feet touched the ground, Gawain arrived, carrying an injured but visibly healing Tier Harribel.
"I found her, Arthu—" Gawain cut himself off as his sharp eyes took in the scene before him. His expression hardened the moment he saw Artoria, uncharacteristically weak, resting against Morgan.
His gaze flickered to Morgan, and his jaw tightened.
"Morgan," he said, voice clipped, restrained, though the tension beneath it was unmistakable.
Morgan barely gave him a glance, brushing off whatever silent grudge lingered between them.
"It's not the time for whatever you feel toward me, Gawain," she said smoothly, adjusting her grip on Artoria as if to emphasize the point. "Your little King requires your aid."
Gawain hesitated, his pride warring with duty. But it was never truly a contest. His shoulders squared, his focus shifting entirely to Artoria.
Before he could act, another presence approached.
Ulquiorra.
"I'll take Harribel off your hands," the Arrancar stated, his voice calm, almost dispassionate, as he reached toward her.
But before he could so much as touch her, a blur of movement shot between them.
"Get the hell out of here, you pale bastard!"
Apacci.
She shoved Ulquiorra back, baring her fangs as she positioned herself in front of Tier, her stance low and aggressive. The moment she did, Mila Rose and Sung Sun appeared beside her, forming a protective wall around their fallen leader.
Ulquiorra remained unfazed, his gaze drifting over them as if assessing whether this interference was even worth acknowledging.
But the three of them didn't back down.
"Well, this is a tense group," Merlin noted, his tone light yet teasing as his violet eyes flicked between Artoria, Morgan, and the knights who had come with her.
The air between them was thick with unspoken history. Though the battle had momentarily forced cooperation, centuries of bitterness and unresolved emotions still loomed over them.
Artoria exhaled, exhaustion weighing on her, but her gaze remained firm as she turned to Morgan. There was no hesitation when she spoke.
"Morgan, after all of this—me, you, Vivian, and Arthur will talk."
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Morgan's expression remained unreadable as she stared down at Artoria, her sharp green eyes assessing the younger woman's face with cool indifference. The silence stretched—long enough for Gawain, Tristan, and Bedivere to exchange glances, their surprise evident.
Then, slowly, Morgan nodded.
"Very well," she said simply.
That single agreement—so effortless, yet so unexpected—drew varying reactions from those who witnessed it.
Gawain stiffened, his jaw tightening, his blue eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind Morgan's compliance. Tristan blinked, momentarily caught off guard, his ever-present melancholic air faltering in the wake of his genuine surprise. Even Bedivere, ever composed, allowed a quiet chuckle to escape him, a small but noticeable shift in his demeanor.
Merlin, ever the opportunist, took the opportunity to break the tension.
"See? Everything's coming together! Also, let me be there. Trust me—I'm a fantastic therapist," he said with a confident thumbs-up.
The response from the two sisters was immediate.
"No."
Their synchronized rejection was swift, absolute, and devoid of hesitation.
Merlin gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as if wounded. "Oh, why?" he whined, his usual dramatics fully on display.
Tristan, watching the scene unfold, let out a sigh and placed a sympathetic hand on Merlin's shoulder. "It seems that when it comes to you, Merlin, all the women forget their grudges and instead unite against you," he mused, his voice laced with his usual melancholy. "Truly, you are the greatest therapist."
Gawain, still tense from the prior exchange, merely gave Tristan a bland stare before returning his scrutiny to Morgan and Artoria. Meanwhile, Bedivere chuckled at Merlin's expense, the tension in the air momentarily lifted by the interaction.
Morgan, on the other hand, merely rolled her eyes before turning her gaze back to Artoria. The moment of humor did not erase the weight of what was to come, nor did it soften the history between them. But it was there—acknowledgment, if nothing else.
"Prepare, because this will not go like our previous battle."
Arthur's voice was steady, unwavering. There was no arrogance, no bravado—only certainty.
The Priestess of the Foreign God narrowed her eyes. The last time they fought, she had managed to keep up, her divine authority making her untouchable to most. But this time…
She braced herself, hands raising as prana surged around her in an invisible wave of pressure. The air vibrated with divine force. If he was coming, she would be ready.
Then—
Blood.
Thin crimson lines carved across her skin.
Her arms, her legs, her stomach—everywhere. The sensation barely registered before pain flared through her body.
What…?
She staggered back, confusion flashing in her golden eyes. The battlefield had remained still—there was no clash, no impact, nothing to indicate an attack. Yet, she was bleeding.
"Huh?"
She coughed, blood dribbling from her lips as she dropped to her knees. The realization struck her like a hammer—she hadn't even seen him move.
Arthur stood before her, calm, Excalibur Reid at his side.
"You seem confused." His voice was devoid of malice, merely stating a fact. "That was my Prana Burst. I simply used more mana than before. You couldn't see me move."
It was the truth, and that terrified her.
But she was not finished.
Gritting her teeth, she reached deep into her connection with the Foreign God. Divine energy surged through her veins, burning away the wounds as her body forced itself to heal. Gold ice wrapped around her like divine chains, restoring what had been lost in mere moments.
She would not be humiliated.
Power crackled around her. The air warped, space distorting under the sheer force of her authority. Blackened sigils formed in the sky above, their presence warping reality itself.
She moved.
The distance between them disappeared in an instant. A blade of ice energy erupted from her hand, slashing toward his neck with divine force. The attack should have severed him in two, should have carved through even his legendary armor—
Arthur leaned slightly to the side.
The attack missed.
She didn't have time to react before he moved.
A streak of silver. A single arc of light.
Pain exploded in her chest as Excalibur Reid's edge tore into her, sending her crashing backward. The ground cratered beneath her from the sheer impact, rubble scattering as she gasped for breath.
She barely managed to roll aside before his sword came down again. The ground where she had been lying vanished, obliterated by the force of his strike. The shockwave alone sent her tumbling across the battlefield.
He's too fast!
She forced herself to her feet, hand raised as an enormous golden magic circle formed above her. It pulsed with raw divine energy, the weight of a god's will manifesting into a single devastating spell.
Arthur did not hesitate.
He vanished—no, he moved. A simple step forward carried him across the entire battlefield. He was in front of her before she could even process it.
A gauntleted fist drove into her stomach.
Her vision blurred.
The impact sent her reeling, the divine energy she had been gathering dispersing instantly. She barely managed to form a barrier before Excalibur Reid's edge came at her again, but it was futile.
The golden light of her shield shattered like glass.
More cuts. More blood.
She coughed violently, her body screaming in protest. No matter how much she healed, no matter how much divine energy she poured into herself, he was faster. Stronger.
Arthur was overwhelming her completely.
Her thoughts were frantic now.
This isn't normal. This isn't human. he's something else.
"You're hesitating," Arthur observed, watching her struggle to stand. "I expected more."
His tone wasn't mocking. It was simply… disappointed.
She gritted her teeth, fury surging through her.
"You underestimate the will of the Void," she hissed. "Even if you strike me down, the Foreign God will descend. You are merely delaying the inevitable."
Arthur stared at her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable.
Then, in an instant, he was upon her again.
She barely caught the next attack, golden sparks flying as she summoned a blade of her own to parry Excalibur Reid. The force behind the blow nearly shattered her arm.
He struck again.
And again.
Each attack was faster than the last, his movements seamless, perfect—like a blade honed beyond mortal limits.
She was losing ground.
Desperate, she called upon more power, divine glyphs appearing around her. A dozen lances of light shot toward Arthur from every direction, the magic laced with void energy meant to unravel existence itself.
Arthur didn't stop moving.
He weaved between them effortlessly, Excalibur Reid flashing as he cut through the magic itself.
The Priestess barely had time to register his movement before—
A blade rested against her throat.
She froze.
Arthur stood behind her now, his expression cold, unyielding.
"The reason I haven't killed you yet is simple," he said. "I want to know who the Foreign God is."
The Priestess trembled, her mind racing. This… this is the power of a King?
She swallowed, her lips curling into a bitter smile even as she coughed up more blood.
"I thought I already told you," she rasped. "The Foreign God is of the Void. It shall descend upon this world and take it, shaping it into its own image."
Arthur frowned slightly. His grip on Excalibur Reid remained firm, the golden blade steady against her skin.
Then, he let out a slow breath.
"That was absolutely useless."
His blade moved—
And at that moment, the air ripped apart.
A violent pulse of divine energy exploded from the Priestess's body, warping the space around her. The sigils in the sky above burned brighter, distorting like a fractured mirror.
Arthur's blade cut through her—
But her body faded before the strike could land.
A rush of void energy consumed her form, pulling her into the tear in reality. The battlefield trembled as the rift collapsed in on itself, sealing away any trace of her presence.
Silence.
Arthur remained still for a moment, his gaze lingering on the spot where she had vanished. Then, he slowly lowered Excalibur Reid.
"Tch." He exhaled through his nose, his frown deepening.
She had escaped.
As he stepped forward, his footsteps felt heavier than usual, his mind preoccupied with the Priestess's escape.
"Good job, Arthur! Now, we should celebrate the great victory of Dumnonia!"
Merlin's voice rang out, lighthearted as ever, but Arthur barely acknowledged him. His gaze had already locked onto Ulquiorra.
"Search the entire city," Arthur commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "If there are any of our forces left inside, tell them to continue the search. Mark and Gwynn haven't been seen since that Priestess attacked."
Ulquiorra simply nodded before vanishing, his form dissipating into a blur of sonido.
Arthur barely had time to let that order settle before he turned to Mila-Rose.
"Mila, bring the rest of our forces. Tier needs them."
She frowned at that, her jaw tightening as if she wanted to protest. Arthur knew why—her loyalty to Harribel was absolute. She didn't want to leave, not while her leader was still injured.
But after a moment of hesitation, she nodded, disappearing in a flash of movement.
Arthur's attention then shifted to Sung-Sun, the one tending to Harribel's wounds.
"How bad are her injuries?" he asked, the concern in his voice undeniable.
Sung-Sun's eyes flickered toward him, her expression unreadable beneath her mask. "Her left side was injured, but I'm uncertain how severe it was. Most of the damage is already healing."
Arthur let out a quiet breath of relief. "Good."
For the first time since the battle ended, he allowed a small smile to cross his lips.
Then, he turned.
Standing nearby, watching him, was Artoria—flanked by Tristan, Bedivere, and Gawain. Beside them, Morgan observed the scene in silence, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
Artoria smiled softly as their eyes met.
Despite the exhaustion lining her features, despite the tension that still clung to the air, she smiled.
Arthur felt something in his chest loosen.
Before he could think, before he could stop himself—
He closed the distance between them and pulled her into an embrace.
A quiet gasp escaped her lips, but she did not resist. Her hands pressed lightly against his back, and for a brief moment, everything else faded—the battlefield, the weight of command, even the lingering uncertainty of the Priestess's escape.
There was only her warmth, steady and grounding.
Tristan, standing nearby, arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Bedivere shifted slightly, looking away out of respect, while Gawain gave the barest hint of a knowing smirk.
Morgan, however, scoffed.
"You're lucky I didn't record that," she muttered dryly, arms crossed over her chest.
Arthur ignored her. He did not let go just yet.
Artoria's voice was quiet when she finally spoke, the words just for him.
"You fought well."
Arthur chuckled softly. "So did you."
She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. Her expression was gentle, but her emerald eyes held a quiet intensity. "You were worried."
It wasn't a question.
Arthur hesitated, but only for a moment.
"Yes."
Her fingers curled slightly against his armor before she gave a small nod.
"I knew you would win," she said simply.
Arthur let out a slow breath before finally releasing her.
His hand lingered at her waist for just a second longer than necessary before he stepped back, his expression once more returning to that of a King.
Morgan rolled her eyes. "Well, now that we've had our touching moment, perhaps we should focus on the fact that the Priestess escaped."
Arthur's jaw clenched.
"…I know."
Artoria's expression darkened slightly at that. "She won't stop."
"No," Arthur agreed. "But neither will we."
Silence stretched between them before Merlin—who had been oddly quiet—finally clapped his hands together.
"Well, if we're done with the brooding and the heartwarming reunions, how about we prepare for the next battle? Because something tells me our little Priestess isn't going to take that defeat lightly."