Ivan stood before the kneeling Arthur Pendragon, the Emperor of Britannia.
"From this moment on, Britannia belongs to Gevurah," Ivan declared.
Ivan's gaze, empty and dispassionate, barely acknowledged the royal family before him. To Ivan, they were no different from any other person in Britannia—whether a high-born noble or a common peasant, they all held the same value in his eyes.
"All shall convert to the Faith of Seraphiel," he continued, his pitch-black eyes locking onto Arthur.
Arthur's fists clenched tightly, his knuckles white with barely contained fury. The thought of worshipping the Fallen Goddess—Seraphiel—was an insult beyond measure, a direct affront to everything he stood for. But Ivan's cold, indifferent gaze showed no concern for the Emperor's anger.
'I wonder if he's holding back for the sake of his family?' Ivan thought, his eyes flickering briefly to the Queen and their four children. They were pale, their faces drained of all color, heads bowed under the crushing weight of Ivan's presence.
Family wasn't something unfamiliar to Ivan, even more the case with the memories of seven other people who had also some kind of family.
"Anyone who refuses to convert will be sentenced to death," Ivan stated.
The royals flinched at the pronouncement.
"Did you hear him, Emperor?" Mikhail's voice broke the silence as he sauntered forward, his eyes gleaming with malice. He leaned in, lowering his face to meet Arthur's blue eyes.
Arthur's body trembled violently.
Was it rage?
Humiliation?
A thirst for vengeance?
Perhaps it was all of these emotions, tangled together and surging within him. His breath came in ragged gasps, adrenaline flooding his veins. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Arthur surged to his feet. Mana erupted around him, a storm of energy that crackled and hissed, illuminating his form with a fierce, golden glow.
Arthur Pendragon—the strongest warrior in Britannia. The man who had unified warring kingdoms through sheer force of will, carving out an empire through blood and battle. He had stayed his hand thus far, held back by the presence of his family and their safety. But now, with Ivan standing right in front of him—the man responsible for the destruction of his city and the massacre of countless lives—Arthur's restraint shattered.
I will kill him!
Fueled by his fury, Arthur tapped into the depths of his rare and strong bloodline, the ancient power that had once enabled him to forge the Empire of Britannia. His strength surged to unimaginable levels, his body radiating an aura of power capable of wiping out entire armies.
Arthur's eyes blazed as he pulled back his fist, mana coalescing around it in a blazing golden corona. This was the might of a true Emperor, a warrior-king who had led countless battles and emerged victorious.
He was Britannia's last hope, and he would not let this moment slip away.
"Haaa!!!" With a thunderous roar, Arthur launched his fist toward Ivan's head, aiming to obliterate it with a single, decisive blow.
But just as Arthur's fist neared its target, mere inches from Ivan's skull, everything vanished—the searing golden glow, the tremendous force, and the promise of destruction. It all dissipated into nothingness, as if it had never existed. In the end, Arthur's clenched fist merely rested against Ivan's forehead, powerless and inert.
"Don't touch him—"
"Kamila."
Ivan's calm voice cut off before Kamila could strike, her hand raised to sever the Emperor's hand. Without a word, she lowered her hand.
Arthur's arm trembled uncontrollably, his strength failing him as he struggled against the overwhelming force that Ivan exuded.
"Kneel back," Ivan muttered.
Arthur's teeth ground together as he fought against the command, forcing his body to obey despite the shame and fury boiling within him. The gap between their powers was unthinkable, unbearable. It couldn't end like this. It wouldn't end like this.
This isn't over!
Arthur's thoughts blazed once more. If his fists alone couldn't close the gap, then he would rely on the greatest weapon in existence.
"EXCALIBUR!!!" Arthur's voice rang through the hall summoning the legendary sword with every ounce of his remaining strength and mana.
The Holy Sword Excalibur—the blade of legend.
The palace quaked, and the very air seemed to shatter as a deafening crack reverberated through the throne room. The stone walls split apart, and from the breach emerged a sword that gleamed with an otherworldly, golden radiance.
Arthur's fingers wrapped around the hilt, and in that instant, a profound connection surged between him and the weapon. The surge of power was immediate and overwhelming. Arthur could feel it coursing through him—strength magnified tenfold, the weight of Excalibur's legacy now fused with his own.
"You will never defeat Britannia!" Arthur's eyes blazed with a brilliant gold, and with a mighty swing of Excalibur, he unleashed the sword's fury in a single, devastating strike.
—BOOOOM!
The throne hall erupted in an explosion of blinding light and roaring sound. Ivan's figure vanished within the golden torrent, obscured by the sheer force of the attack. The ground beneath Ivan split violently, revealing a cavernous gap that plunged to the lower floors, and the walls of the palace buckled under the assault, shattering to rubble. Even the colossal doors behind Ivan were obliterated.
Arthur staggered, his vision blurring as he gasped for breath, his face ashen and slick with sweat. The attack had drained him completely, sapping every last reserve of his strength and mana. He coughed up blood, his body on the brink of collapse, but he cared only for one thing—whether or not Ivan had fallen.
As the blinding light gradually receded, revealing the aftermath of the attack, the members of the royal family stood frozen, their eyes wide with disbelief.
Ivan remained exactly where he had been, though now he hovered just above the shattered floor, suspended in the air. His expression was the same as before, while his four comrades stood at his side, unscathed and utterly unfazed.
"No… this can't be…" Arthur whispered, his voice tinged with horror as he stared at the scene before him. Excalibur was caught effortlessly between Ivan's fingers—pinched between his index and middle finger on one side, his thumb on the other, as though it were no more than a trivial trinket.
So this is Excalibur—the weapon supposed to kill me at the end of the novel.
Ivan mused, studying the blade. Despite his outward composure, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—an acknowledgment of the sword's true nature. Excalibur was no ordinary weapon; it was forged to slay beings far greater than mere mortals.
It held the potential to kill even him.
As this realization took root, a darkness crept into Ivan's heart, a deeper presence that threatened to awaken something buried deep within—something dangerous, volatile, and barely contained.
"Ivan."
Thankfully Ludmila was there.
Her pale fingers resting gently on Ivan's shoulder. The touch was calming and soothing. Ivan's rigid posture softened slightly.
Without her, he might have lost control completely, and the royals would have been nothing more than collateral damage destroying what he had planned. He didn't voice his gratitude, but instead, offered Ludmila a simple yet meaningful look. It was brief and subtle, but to Ludmila, it conveyed everything—more than words of thanks ever could.
Then Ivan turned his gaze back toward Arthur.
"..."
The moment Arthur met Ivan's eyes—those deep, unfeeling pools of pitch black—it felt as if he were staring into a void that mirrored his own broken spirit. It was the exact same look Ivan had given him moments ago, when his fiercest punch had been reduced to nothing, and again when he had been forced to kneel, humiliated and powerless. The weight of that gaze, so calm and so dismissive, shattered something deep within Arthur's soul.