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.
Arthur was terrified.
Utterly and completely terrified.
The realization struck him with a force far greater than any blow—Ivan had never once considered him a threat, not even from the very beginning. Arthur had thrown everything he had, but to Ivan, it was as insignificant as a breeze.
Arthur spat blood, his strength failing him as he collapsed to his knees.
"Dear!"
"F–Father!!"
The Queen's anguished cry echoed through the throne hall, and one of his daughters rushed to his side, trying desperately to hold him up.
Ivan, meanwhile, continued to study Excalibur, his eyes tracing the runes etched along its blade—runes that shimmered with ancient power. The weapon was meant to be wielded only by those of the Pendragon bloodline or by those truly deemed worthy of its power.
"H–How…" One of the princes stammered, his voice trembling with disbelief. Ivan was holding Excalibur with such ease, a feat that defied everything they knew about the legendary sword. It was as if the blade had surrendered to him without question, acknowledging a supremacy that none of them could comprehend.
Ivan's mind, however, was already elsewhere.
'Destroying it would be safer for me. Mordred can wield it, after all,' he thought, recalling Arthur's illegitimate son, Mordred Pendragon, who was soon to join the Academy. Mordred was the protagonist of The Fallen Prince, a novel Ivan was all too familiar with.
'I never read the story to the end, but from what I understand, Mordred is destined to kill me with this sword.'
'So the conclusion is inevitable unless… I kill Mordred first?'
Ivan considered it.
He was more than capable of ending Mordred's life now, snuffing out the threat before it could fully materialize. But there was a complication. Mordred wasn't just destined to kill him; he was fated to bring monumental change to the world. Killing Mordred would be a direct defiance of fate itself—a fate that held more power than any single being, even someone as strong as Ivan.
As one of the strongest beings in the world, Ivan was aware that there were forces greater than himself—forces that governed the flow of destiny, the architects of fate who dictated the paths of all living beings.
'Until I can put my hands on those who manipulate fate, I'll let him live.'
Without his memories of his previous life on Earth, he might have already sought Mordred out and ended the boy's life, but now his perspective had shifted. He was thinking strategically, considering every consequence with a depth he hadn't before.
'Destroying the sword seems like the easier option.'
Between challenging fate and obliterating a single weapon, the choice was clear. Excalibur, with all its legendary might, was just a tool—a tool that could be broken. Fate, however, was an intangible force, far more elusive and infinitely more dangerous.
But Ivan wasn't in a rush. Time was still on his side, and for now, his focus was on Britannia.
"Now," Ivan spoke as he descended to the shattered floor, spreading his arms wide as he addressed the royal family below.
"Abandon your faith in the Saviour and embrace Seraphiel—the true and only Goddess."
A heavy silence followed. None of the royals moved, their faces hardened despite their terror. Ivan's pitch-black eyes swept over them, and even the proudest among them flinched under his gaze.
"They won't do it, Ivan," Mikhail said, stepping forward from behind the Emperor, his expression dark. Gripping the Emperor's blonde hair roughly, Mikhail yanked his head back, exposing his neck as he pressed a black knife to his throat. "Not as long as HE is alive."
"No! Please, leave him!" Guinevere cried out, her voice trembling as she desperately grasped at Mikhail's arm, trying in vain to pull him away. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her strength was no match for Mikhail's. The other four children stood paralyzed by fear, unable to tear their eyes away from the horrific scene unfolding before them.
"Ivan." Mikhail ignored the Empress's desperate pleas, his eyes fixed on Ivan, awaiting his command. A single nod from Ivan, and Mikhail would sever the Emperor's head without hesitation.
Ivan's gaze lingered on the Emperor's terrified face before slowly shifting to the rest of his family. His eyes eventually settled on a particular figure—a young woman in her late teens with long platinum-blonde hair and striking sapphire blue eyes. She was the First Princess of the Britannia Empire, Gwenyra Pendragon.
Noticing Ivan's attention, Dimitri moved swiftly, grabbing Gwenyra's hair and dragging her forward, indifferent to her struggles.
"NO! Let go of me!" Gwenyra screamed, thrashing wildly, to no avail.
"Gwenyra!" Guinevere's anguished cry filled the hall as she reached out for her eldest daughter. Before she could get close, Mikhail tightened his hold on her hair and violently tossed her backward, forcing her away.
Letting go of the Emperor, Mikhail let out a low chuckle. "That's my Ivan," he murmured approvingly.
Dimitri forced Gwenyra to her knees before Ivan, her head bowed in fear and submission. Tears streamed down her face, splashing onto the cold stone floor, mingling with the blood and debris.
"S–Sister…" The youngest princess whimpered, her voice barely audible as she gasped for air, overcome with terror. Her brothers remained rooted to the spot, their faces pale and expressions haunted.
Ivan extended his hand, and Kamila promptly placed another black knife into his palm, the dark metal gleaming ominously in the dim light.
"NO!!! Please, I beg you!" Guinevere cried out desperately. "We'll do anything you ask! We'll accept your faith—just don't harm her! Don't hurt my daughter!"
But Ivan remained indifferent.
Her pleas fell on deaf ears.
To him, this was necessary.
An example had to be made.
A demonstration of power, one that would quash any lingering thoughts of revenge among the royals.
And he had to kill her in front of them.
"Look at me," Ivan said looking down at Gwenyra.
But Gwenyra couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. She trembled violently, her entire body shivering under the oppressive weight of his presence. She felt suffocated.
"Hahh!"
Dimitri's grip tightened on Gwenyra's hair, yanking her backward with a brutal force that left her staggering. Her sapphire blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears, fixed on Ivan with fear. Each tear that fell seemed to etch her delicate features with sorrow, and yet, even in this moment of vulnerability, there was a quiet strength in her gaze.
Ivan, who had never been moved by such displays of emotion, felt an unfamiliar prick deep within his chest. It wasn't truly him—his heart had long since hardened against such feelings. But something, or rather 'someone' within him, stirred. He found himself kneeling on one knee before Gwenyra, his sudden action startling his four companions who watched with wide-eyed disbelief.
Ivan's presence had always been dominant. He was the kind of man who bent others to his will, never the one to kneel. Yet here he was, on one knee, his face showing an unsettling shift in demeanor. The silence that followed was heavy, laden with confusion and shock.
With a tender slowness, Ivan reached out, his fingers brushing against Gwenyra's tear-streaked cheek. She flinched under his touch, her body shivering at the coldness of his hand. Her eyes clenched shut, as if to shield herself bracing herself to die but…
"It would be a shame to kill such a beauty."