Kaelar's words had barely left his lips when those among the Anglo-Saxons still in possession of their senses looked upon him with horror. He stood there, impossibly close, yet as though an immortal, far beyond their reach.
The rest, however, maddened by fear, erupted into a chaotic frenzy, desperate to escape with their lives. Soldiers began storming the nobles' tents, attacking officers who barely had a moment to defend themselves before they were bound up by their own men. And some, ignorant or arrogant, took to yelling, using their noble blood as a mark of superiority to try commanding the soldiers.
These fools tried to mimic Kaelar's commanding tone, thinking that if Kaelar alone could sway thirty thousand Anglo-Saxons, surely they too could hold command over a mere few hundred with similar words.
But they overlooked one crucial fact: grand words from one with true power are commands, while such talk from those without strength is mere howling. True authority is grounded in true ability, built upon a solid understanding of one's own power.
Kaelar had once quelled seventy thousand by his strength alone. Now, against only thirty thousand, and with fifty thousand of his own men at his back, he posed them no threat but rather offered the opportunity for survival.
Yet that chance would only come once. As Kaelar had told Artoria, "Life may be taken in order to preserve it. The bonds of hatred may be cut, though not the men who hold them."
If anyone stood unbending, blocking the path of righteousness, then Kaelar would simply watch on, silently grieving yet allowing the natural course to unfold.
Even though witnessing death pained him deeply, Kaelar had long resigned himself to the suffering of this path.
"The greatest souls endure the fiercest torments, rising above their pain. It is from the forge of suffering that true greatness, even a superhuman, is born."
Kaelar's eyes, full of compassion, reflected this boundless love for humanity.
I have surpassed this era's limitations, therefore I must lead it.
He had accepted this duty — not to follow the time but to guide it. And as one capable of love that encompassed all, he had chosen to shoulder the suffering that came with that love. Even the darkest of men, unredeemable to others, Kaelar regarded as "humans who could yet be taught." Though he could bear the pain of their deaths if justice demanded it, Kaelar would mourn each loss, sparing all those whose hearts could soften.
"To bear suffering is the duty of the saint," he whispered.
As he watched the Anglo-Saxon forces descend into chaos, his gaze held both calm and sorrow, reflecting the hurt of every life passing before him.
Every single life is worth the same.
Certain nobles, obstinate in their allegiance to Vortigern or perhaps fearing Kaelar's uncompromising gaze, refused to surrender. Their plans to sway the soldiers — who could still save themselves by surrendering — into dying by their side were foolhardy, and Kaelar did not pity them.
This, too, was fate.
Kaelar's mercy was for the truly repentant; those clinging to resistance would find no shelter within it. Once, Kaelar might have intervened to end the fighting, but now he merely watched, for he had come to accept the nature of humanity.
To love humanity, one must accept all of it.
The Anglo-Saxon soldiers' thoughts remained unclear, but the nobles' intentions were obvious. Where soldiers saw Kaelar's promise of life as salvation, the nobles saw his terms — bare survival, stripped of wealth and title — as unbearable.
A life spared was a small comfort for those used to lands and wealth. Kaelar's mercy seemed nothing short of punishment to them.
"Enough! Stop this bloodshed!"
With that command, Kaelar spoke once more, his voice thundering with authority.
"Give the order: the army will advance. Those who refuse to lay down their weapons within ten minutes…" he paused, anger simmering beneath his calm, "I permit you to treat them as enemies."
"Now, all of you, surrender your weapons. Do not say I did not warn you."
Kaelar's words rang out like a temple bell at dawn, jolting all back to their senses — even the Celts found themselves entranced by the scene unfolding before them.
Though Kaelar had accepted the suffering inherent to his path, that did not mean he would merely observe, untouched, like some distant god. He would do everything within his power to save lives.
The Celtic knights surged forward, crossing the short distance in mere seconds, their ranks an unstoppable wave. The Anglo-Saxon soldiers paled, some dropping their weapons as their courage faltered. To confront a disciplined cavalry head-on was madness — every soldier knew that.
Yet the Celts, respectful of Kaelar's words, refrained from attacking. Instead, like wolves, they surrounded the Anglo-Saxons, prepared to kill only if forced. Within minutes, most soldiers surrendered, throwing down their arms, leaving the remaining defiant nobles to be bound and brought before Kaelar.
"Confine them in Derin Prison. Now, advance! To Vortigern's stronghold. We will bear witness as the Red Dragon slays the White."
Meanwhile, at Vortigern's fortress — a city as ominous as it was ancient, constructed with brutal grandeur, like the lair of a dragon — Artoria, Gawain, and Lancelot arrived.
But before they could proceed, a figure emerged, unexpected yet not entirely surprising.
The Faerie Queen, Morgan.
No one knew why Morgan appeared before them. Gawain, as always, greeted her with respect, calling her "Mother," but Morgan's gaze remained fixed on Artoria, ignoring him entirely.
Lancelot, uncertain at first, inclined his head with a casual "Hey there, Morgan!"
Yet Morgan disregarded him too, her eyes locked upon Artoria.
"My dear sister," she began icily, "your elder sister has yet to properly congratulate you… on usurping the throne that should have been mine."
Morgan's words, charged with hostility, set Gawain on edge. He braced himself, conflicted; if his mother and aunt were to fight, whose side would he take?
It was mid-morning, and Gawain, now blessed with threefold power until noon, was the unrivaled knight of legend in these hours. Some strange element in his creation, perhaps something of Morgan's own making, rendered him a force of nature during these sacred times.
"Elder sister, was there something you wished to tell me?" Artoria's composure was unbroken, her tone cool and dignified.
Morgan ignored Gawain's inner conflict and Artoria's feigned politeness, stating instead, "You may have taken my throne, sister, but do you even understand what my essence is?"
Seeing Artoria's confusion, Morgan continued, "I am the chosen sovereign of Britain, born of Gaia's decree, destined to challenge the dragon — a bridge between gods and men, like Gilgamesh."
"My duty is to close the age of gods and herald the age of man. This is the weight of the crown."
But as the Faerie Queen, Morgan was bound to favor faeries over humans, caught between two destinies with none who shared her struggle.
"I have long fought for the throne, because it is my fate. You have claimed it, but the fate still remains."
"Without me, even with all three of you, you cannot kill Vortigern, for it is my destiny to end the age of gods," she explained.
Kaelar, knowing little of such metaphysical matters, hadn't foreseen this. But as Artoria set out to face the impossible alone, Morgan could not help but reveal the truth.
Britain has but two types of rulers: those for the throne, and those for the man upon it.
Artoria took a deep breath. "Sister, what exactly do you wish to say?"
"I mean this," said Morgan, "I do not hate you, but I cannot endure betrayal."
Morgan's voice held a solemnity that was rare, "I fear no challenge, regardless of who stands before me… In short, I shall acknowledge your right as Faerie Queen and grant you the destiny of killing Vortigern."
"But if you fail, then know you betray me."
"If you lack the will or power, I, Morgan, swear to raze your kingdom!"
"Agree, and take your oath: you will bring peace to Britain, where faeries and humans shall live as equals. No one shall trample upon another."
Morgan had not fought for the throne out of personal ambition but as one born of Gaia's will, fulfilling a duty that bound her just as Gilgamesh had once been bound.
Artoria answered without hesitation, "I accept, sister. Every life is precious, whether faerie or human."
Morgan's tension eased, and she smiled a little. "Ah, dear sister, may I ask you something else — why do you always compete with me?"
"Compete?" Artoria chuckled, "What do you mean?"
But she understood immediately.
It was Kaelar. It could only be Kaelar.
To Morgan, the only rival to the throne was the man who held Artoria's heart.
And to Artoria, the same was true.
Laughing softly, Artoria replied, "Oh, sister, Kaelar may have once been your disciple, but he's long since outgrown that. His path is his own now."
Morgan snorted, "You're merely his student, little sister. You've graduated as well, have you not?"
"Much talk and little purpose, sister," Artoria quipped. "Just watch. This destiny is mine to fulfill."
Morgan shook her head. "Enjoy it while you can, dear sister. Whether it is the throne or Kaelar… do not count your victories too soon."
As destiny would have it, Morgan's words would later prove prophetic.
With a snap of her fingers, Morgan conjured a blade forged by faerie hands, wrapped in a veil of wind that concealed it from view. Artoria alone saw it for what it was — a glorious sword and scabbard.
This was Excalibur, The Sword of Promised Victory. The unseeable barrier surrounding it was Avalon, its sheath, shielding her from all harm.
Morgan remarked, "The sheath of a guardian is far more precious than a sword of destruction."
"Yes, sister," Artoria agreed, holding the sword in her grasp. The scabbard, Avalon, melded into her, protecting her from mortal harm.
"With this sword," Morgan said, "I entrust to you the full weight of the crown and Britain's right to rule, my destiny as well… You alone may now slay Vortigern."
And with a sly smile, she added, "Oh, one last thing. Lose the sword, and fortune abandons you. Lose the sheath, and all is lost."
"And beware, sister. Merlin's schemes are not for the faint-hearted."
As Artoria accepted Excalibur from Morgan's hand, the final mantle of Britain's ruler and faerie queen fell upon her. Now, no fate could impede her confrontation with Vortigern.
Morgan transformed into a raven and vanished.
She had, after all, Kaelar to find.
After Morgan's departure, Artoria turned to Gawain and Lancelot.
"Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, with this blade in hand and both of you by my side, Vortigern will soon be no more. Let us remove this final obstacle to a unified Britain!"
Artoria observed her two knights' reactions closely and, at last, breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed Morgan's soundproofing spell had indeed worked.
When Morgan had quietly cast that spell, she hadn't just wanted to keep Gawain and Lancelot in the dark about the rivalry between the sisters for the throne; she also intended to hide the fact that they were vying over something else—someone else.
After all, both sisters were a bit thin-skinned and could hardly tolerate the mortifying thought of their personal competition being overheard by their subordinates. Yet Morgan had mischievously failed to mention this barrier to Artoria, savoring her sister's tension over whether or not her comrades had caught wind of it. Even so, Artoria, well aware of her sister's nature, had guessed Morgan would be even more mortified by such a public embarrassment and had shown no sign of hesitation or concern.
Both of them, it seemed, knew each other's pride all too well.
Artoria secured both Caliburn and Excalibur at her waist, the blades glinting against the deep folds of her cape as she strode confidently into Vortigern's stronghold.
Though not a mage, Vortigern was a dragon; the moment he sensed another dragon stepping into his territory, he opened his gray slit-pupil eyes. His massive, imposing figure rose from the throne, holding a staff, with a black, feathered cloak draped over his shoulders.
"Heh… timid little one, is that your idea of a dragon of Britain?"
Artoria heard his sneering voice long before she saw him. "So you're called King Arthur, are you? How ridiculous. How quaint. So, little girl, do you only dare to enter your uncle's throne room with these bodyguards at your side?"
"Vortigern, your words are meaningless today!" Artoria replied, her expression cold and unmoved. "You are nothing more than a usurper, a pathetic white dragon, and today marks your end!"
Vortigern merely laughed, undeterred. "Such bravado, child. Those who wished to kill me could have filled this castle, yet I am still here, the ruler of Britain!"
Artoria met his gaze, unyielding. "Your good fortune has run out, for now I am here."
With that, she drew both Caliburn and Excalibur, wielding the near-invisible weapon as her true offense. Caliburn, with its well-honed edge, was a symbol of authority, while Excalibur served as the ultimate force, cloaked by the Wind King Barrier to make it indiscernible.
Had Artoria been alone, she might have relied on the sword alone to defeat Vortigern. Yet, as a ruler and strategist, she was not about to take unnecessary risks. The original plan held—Gawain would lead the first wave with his threefold strength, Lancelot and Artoria supporting him from either side.
At noon, Gawain's strength, boosted by the Threefold Sunlight, would reach its peak, and he would take the lead in the assault. As his power waned, Lancelot would step in, each knight opening opportunities for Artoria to land a final, decisive blow.
Only Artoria herself, however, as the true Red Dragon of Britain, could strike the final blow, for the prophecy ordained that only she, standing in Morgan's place as the chosen successor, could slay Vortigern.
In the world of the Moon, where powers like divine protection and fate-aligned interventions reign supreme, none could defy the laws of providence.
"Excalibur Galantine!"
Gawain promptly unleashed his Noble Phantasm. A blinding ray, like a miniature sun, blazed from the heavens, resembling a radiant celestial sphere rather than a narrow beam.
But as Gawain's sunlit attack descended with the force to raze a city, Vortigern sneered. "Not bad, child—enough force to destroy a city. You're stronger than most, I'll give you that."
His eyes gleamed with mockery as he extended his staff. "But tell me, little knight, do you think such a light could possibly destroy the entirety of Britain?"
"Britain's Wrath, to me!"
Britain's Body: EX
For Vortigern, to stand upon the soil of Britain was to become one with the earth itself, a physical manifestation of Britain's primal force. Protected by the divine energy of the gods and empowered by a wellspring of mana, his form was unbreakable.
Vortigern raised his staff, invoking his unique ability as the "White Dragon of Shadowed Light" to consume all light around him. Even the sunbeam from Gawain's blade began to vanish, devoured by the dragon's power.
No one could match him in daylight, not even the mighty Gawain. For Vortigern's power as the White Dragon was an inherent counter to Gawain's. Without his solar blessing, Gawain's strength would wane rapidly, rendering him unfit to continue the fight.
Yet one light still remained.
The Sword of Promised Victory shone with an ethereal radiance, piercing the shadowed skies. By its starlit glow, Lancelot entered Blood Madness mode and released his own Noble Phantasm, the Unbroken Lake's Radiance, striking at Vortigern's neck. This precise strike surpassed even Gawain's sunbeam in destructive force, knocking the dragon back.
Vortigern, taken aback, looked at Lancelot with genuine surprise. This knight was far more formidable than he had anticipated.
"So, you're no ordinary fairy-born knight." Vortigern felt his skin yield just slightly to Lancelot's attack—a feat that few could claim, even among the highest-tier enemies of Britain.
If Lancelot could land a clean blow on him, then decapitation was a real possibility.
This discovery rattled Vortigern's earlier confidence. Power that could breach his EX-rank Britain's Body was no trivial threat, and he quickly dropped his air of superiority.
With a sudden movement, Vortigern hurled his staff at an unprecedented speed, breaking the sound barrier and hurtling toward Lancelot. The knight barely managed to raise his blade to block, but even so, he was thrown backward with enough force to make the ground tremble.
"Such strength… you are indeed Britain's Wrath," Gawain observed in awe. "Truly, only you can defeat this White Dragon, my king."
While Vortigern no longer possessed his staff, he did not need it. As the White Dragon, his body and strength were his ultimate weapons.
Gathering his mana into a single strike, he lashed out toward Artoria, knowing that if this blow connected, it would cripple her strength.
But Artoria, her confidence undiminished, held her ground. Matching his force with her own raw might, she layered her strike with A-rank strength and the A+++ mana of her Wind King Iron Hammer, throwing his blow back with a mighty clash.
"My, you're a persistent one," she remarked, eyes locked with her foe's.
For Vortigern, however, the endless exertion was beginning to take its toll. Despite his vast mana stores, he could not keep pace with the combined assault of three formidable opponents, each of whom had time to rest between attacks. The depth of his reserves was waning.
And just then, Lancelot's voice echoed across the battlefield: "Shatter all chains—Unbroken Lake!"
This time, Lancelot turned the mana of his Lake's Radiance inward, transforming it into a devastating finishing move.
He moved close, his blade barely grazing the air at Vortigern's neck, ensuring all of the unleashed mana would meet its target.
In a singular flash, he gouged into the dragon's defenses and dealt a blow strong enough to cause Vortigern to stagger, temporarily stunned and blinded.
With a voice of fate, Artoria raised her blade high as the Sword of Promised Victory shimmered with an unparalleled brilliance.
"EXCALIBUR!" she roared, and with that one final strike, Vortigern's form dissolved to ash.
And as the dust settled, he looked one last time at his adversary, murmuring, "So, this… is defeat."
The White Dragon's shadow was no more, his legacy erased from the history of Britain.
As the victory resounded across the field, Artoria raised her voice over the crowds, her tone imbued with the power of a king.
"From this day forth, Camelot shall be known as the Kingdom of Great Britain. I am Arthur Pendragon, King of Great Britain!"
And her people, her knights, and her allies raised a chant that echoed through the kingdom.
"King Arthur! King Arthur!"
The triumph was complete, a clear and resounding proclamation of their king's authority. Artoria, the Red Dragon of Britain, had triumphed over the White Dragon, bringing new hope to Britain's people.
The vision of her strength, her resolve, and her victory left even Kaelar smiling with pride. From my apprentice to the crown… truly, you have grown, Lily.
As she descended from her triumph, the nobles and soldiers alike awaited her first orders, to shape the future of Britain.
"Then it's settled," she declared. "Spread my decree across Britain: from this day forth, every slave shall be freed. Let no one ever again suffer such chains, for life is precious and all should learn to cherish it."
That evening, as they prepared to return, Artoria reclined on Vortigern's throne, exhaling with contentment. "That went smoother than I expected. We'll take a short time to regroup and fortify the captured lands, and soon, we'll be the uncontested rulers of Britain."
But Kaelar, lost in thought, didn't seem to share her lightness.
Turning to him, she offered a smile of understanding, leaning forward. "Kay, this isn't your fault. You have done all you can, and I don't doubt the goodness of your teaching for a moment."
Kaelar managed a slight smile, sighing as he murmured, "But how can we keep the fire of ideals alive once we're gone?"
As night fell, Artoria wrapped an arm around him, grounding him in her presence.
"You always said that there is no one beyond redemption. And here we are, together. I don't believe you've reached the end of your path, Kay. As long as you continue, the road will stretch out before you."
He met her eyes, finally assured. "Indeed, Lily… as long as we press on, the path will continue."
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