The next morning, Arthur was gone.
Artoria stood before the gathered Knights of the Round Table, her usual composure intact, though those who knew her well—Kay, Gawain, Lancelot—could see the subtle weight pressing upon her shoulders.
"Arthur has chosen to take a leave from his duties," she declared, her voice firm yet carrying an undercurrent of something softer. "For the time being, he will not be among us."
The words settled over the knights like a solemn veil. There was no need for explanation—Arthur was their fellow knight, and if he had taken his leave, then it was for reasons beyond questioning. Yet, those who truly understood Artoria could see the quiet sorrow in her posture, the way her fingers twitched ever so slightly as if resisting the instinct to reach for something that was no longer there.
She turned on her heel, dismissing them with a nod, and returned to the weight of her own crown. Even without Arthur beside her, Camelot did not stop. She had a duty to uphold, a kingdom to protect.
Yet, beneath it all, a part of her still ached for the presence that had left her side.
—--------------
It took Arthur a day and a half to reach the borders of Dumnonia. He rode without rest, the weight of his purpose keeping him steady even as exhaustion threatened to creep in.
As he entered the first village, the sight that greeted him was one of despair. The air was thick with the scent of sickness and unwashed bodies. Fields lay barren, crops failing under the strain of famine. The elderly worked alongside children, their thin, malnourished bodies moving sluggishly under the weight of their labor.
Arthur's frown deepened as he guided his horse further into the settlement. These were not the lands of a prosperous kingdom. This was suffering—unchecked, ignored, and festering.
A sudden shout snapped him from his thoughts.
"You little bastard!"
Arthur turned in time to see a child darting through the narrow streets, clutching a small bundle of food. An older man, red-faced with rage, stormed after him.
The child nearly crashed into Arthur's horse, but before he could bolt again, Arthur dismounted in a single fluid motion. With practiced ease, he caught the boy by the collar, stopping him mid-flight.
The boy struggled weakly in his grip, thin arms flailing in desperation. Arthur tightened his hold, not enough to harm, but enough to still him.
The older man approached, panting from exertion. "Good job stopping him! I'll take it from here," he said, reaching for the boy.
Arthur did not move.
"No need," he stated, his voice even yet carrying an edge of quiet authority. His gaze flicked down to the child. "Give back what you stole."
The boy clenched his fists, his face twisting with a mixture of defiance and fear. But Arthur did not waver, his presence alone demanding obedience—not from cruelty, but from something deeper.
Slowly, the child's fingers uncurled, revealing a small piece of stale bread. Arthur took it, eyeing the hardened crust before glancing around at the village once more.
He had seen hunger before. He had seen desperation.
But this?
This was a land that had been abandoned by its ruler.
His grip on the child loosened, and his gaze hardened.
Dumnonia needed more than a new king. It needed salvation.
Arthur placed the child down gently, his grip easing as he met the boy's wary gaze. The child's ribs were visible beneath his tattered tunic, his sunken cheeks telling a tale of hunger no words could express.
"You want food, right?" Arthur's voice was calm, steady, yet it carried weight—an undeniable presence that commanded attention without force.
He turned, reaching into the leather pouch strapped to his horse. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out a handful of silver coins, pressing them into the boy's trembling hands.
"Take this. Use it to feed your family."
The boy's eyes widened in disbelief, fingers tightening around the cool metal as if afraid it might vanish.
Arthur then turned to the man and extended the stolen bread back to him. "And as for this—no harm done. You're all just trying to survive."
The words should have been reassuring. They should have eased the tension.
Instead, the man scoffed.
"You must be one of the nobles from the capital!" he spat, voice laced with venom.
Arthur remained still, but he felt the shift immediately.
The village had turned its eyes on him.
Whispers spread like wildfire, harsh and bitter.
"What have you come to take from us now?" the man shouted.
"Another tax?" someone else muttered.
"You've already taken everything!" an elderly woman's voice rang out, trembling with grief. "Our sons, our food, our lives—do you think we have anything left to give?"
Arthur felt the weight of their resentment, the years of suffering twisted into rage. He had seen it before—too many times. Desperate people were not cruel by nature, but desperation made monsters of men.
Then, someone muttered:
"Call Harribel. Tell her one of the warlords' knights is here."
That got his attention.
Arthur's posture did not shift—he remained composed, unmoving, as if unshaken by the growing hostility. But his mind moved quickly.
Harribel. A name he did not recognize.
Yet, it was enough to tell him something crucial: Dumnonia was not just suffering. It had already fallen into the hands of warlords.
Slowly, deliberately, Arthur took a step forward.
"Look at me." His voice, calm yet impossibly firm, cut through the murmur of the crowd. "Do I look like a knight serving some warlord?"
The villagers hesitated. Even the man who had first confronted him faltered, his eyes narrowing in suspicion rather than certainty.
Arthur exhaled, letting his presence fill the space between them. His regal bearing was undeniable—the way he carried himself, the confidence in his stance. He was no ordinary noble. He was something else entirely.
"I am Arthur," he declared. "And I have come not to take from you—but to save you."
Silence fell.
The name alone carried weight. Even here, where faith had crumbled, where rulers were names cursed rather than praised—Arthur's name was not one easily dismissed.
Yet, suspicion lingered.
The elderly woman stepped forward, her face lined with sorrow. "And why should we believe you?" she whispered. "We have been lied to before."
Arthur did not hesitate.
"Because I have nothing to gain from your suffering," he said simply. "And everything to lose if I do nothing."
It was not a plea. It was not an attempt to manipulate them. It was the truth.
"Another boy looking for falsities," the man scoffed, shaking his head. "He'll die like the rest."
Before Arthur could respond, another voice cut through the murmurs.
"Miss Tier Harribel is here."
The crowd parted like a wave splitting against rock, and Arthur finally saw her.
Tier Harribel was striking, but not in the way of nobles adorned in silk and gold. Hers was a beauty carved by hardship—tall, toned, and imposing, her body bore the unmistakable marks of countless battles. Scars lined her skin, silent testaments to struggles endured, her once-pristine tan complexion now marred by dirt and dried wounds that had not fully healed. Her green eyes, once filled with the fire of unyielding defiance, now held a shadow of exhaustion, a quiet wariness cultivated by constant survival.
Her hair, wild and unkempt, framed her face in tangled strands, a casualty of days spent wading through hardship. The sword she carried—an extension of her will—showed signs of wear, its edge dulled, its handle wrapped in frayed cloth. Her clothing, stitched together from scraps, was practical but tattered, a dark-colored cloak draped over her shoulders as a meager shield against the elements.
This was no warlord's enforcer.
This was a warrior—one forged by necessity.
She stopped before him, her expression unreadable.
"So, you are another one of the warlords' knights?" Her voice was calm, yet edged with the kind of restrained hostility only born from experience.
"No." Arthur's response was immediate, firm.
Her sharp green eyes scrutinized him. "Then who are you, and why have you come?"
Arthur met her gaze, unwavering. "I am Arthur, the Sword Saint of Camelot."
The title sent a ripple through the crowd. Whispers filled the air.
"The Sword Saint of Camelot?"
"Isn't that the knight who always stands beside the King of Britain?"
"I heard he was the strongest of the Round Table."
"He must have been sent from Britain to take over."
The murmurs grew, thick with apprehension, but Arthur did not waver. He let the weight of his name settle over them before speaking again.
"I am not here to take," he said evenly. "I am here to right what has been wronged."
Harribel studied him for a moment, as if measuring his words. She did not flinch at his presence, nor did she let the murmurs sway her judgment. Instead, she crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly.
"Words are easy," she said. "I've heard them before—from men who promised salvation and delivered ruin."
Arthur did not look away. "Then judge me by my actions, not my words."
A flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps—passed through her eyes. She exhaled, glancing at the weary faces surrounding them.
"And what do you intend to do, Sword Saint?" Her voice was quieter now, less accusation, more challenge.
Arthur gestured toward the villagers. "Your people suffer, not just from hunger and illness, but from despair. They believe no one will save them." He looked back at her. "I intend to prove them wrong."
For the first time, Harribel's expression shifted—not to trust, but to consideration. A long pause stretched between them, the tension thick, until finally, she turned away.
"If you truly mean what you say," she said over her shoulder, "then follow me."
Arthur nodded, stepping forward. The crowd watched, uncertain yet unable to look away.
On the outskirts of the village, the land was quiet, save for the distant murmurs of desperate voices and the rustling of the trees swaying under the cold wind. Tier Harribel led Arthur toward a small, unassuming cabin nestled within the thick foliage. Its exterior was worn, the wood slightly warped from years of exposure, but it was sturdy—a sanctuary built from necessity, not comfort.
As she opened the door, Arthur followed her inside, his steps light against the creaking wooden floor. At first glance, the cabin was nothing remarkable, sparsely furnished with only the bare essentials. But then Tier moved toward a hidden latch in the floor, lifting it to reveal a concealed entrance. Without hesitation, she descended into the darkness, and Arthur followed.
The basement, to his surprise, was larger than the cabin itself. A cool, damp air lingered, but the space was well-maintained. Dim candlelight illuminated a group of individuals scattered throughout the room—three women and one pale man, all of whom turned to face them the moment they entered.
Tier's voice carried through the space, calm and unwavering. "These are my Fraccións."
Before Arthur could speak, one of the women crossed her arms, scrutinizing him with clear distrust. She had short, black hair and striking heterochromatic eyes—one blue, the other gold. Her posture was defensive, her tone sharp.
"So, who's this guy?" she said, eyes flickering to Tier before settling back on Arthur. "Don't tell me we're adding more men to the group—especially one like him."
She jabbed a thumb toward the pale man standing near the wall, his presence almost unsettling in its stillness. His complexion was ghostly, his features sharp, and his green eyes held an eerie emptiness. Unlike the others, he had remained silent, observing rather than engaging.
"Apacci," another woman interjected before things could escalate.
This one had a deeper, almost melodious voice, her brown eyes level with her companion's. Her long brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her strong, tanned features. Unlike Apacci, she seemed more willing to hear Tier out, though her wariness was evident.
Arthur took the moment of quiet to step forward, his presence commanding yet non-threatening. His golden hair caught the candlelight, and his steel-green eyes held neither arrogance nor intimidation—only certainty.
"I am Arthur, the Sword Saint of Camelot," he introduced himself, his voice steady.
Another woman, one with long, wavy pale-green hair and sharp yellow eyes, studied him with an unreadable expression. She had an air of quiet intelligence, the kind that made Arthur keenly aware that every word he spoke was being measured.
The pale man, still leaning against the wall, finally spoke, his tone devoid of emotion. "A knight of Britain." It wasn't a question—it was an assessment.
Arthur turned his gaze toward him. "Yes."
Silence followed, thick with tension.
Apacci scoffed, shaking her head. "Great. A knight. Another so-called 'protector' who's probably no different from the bastards who burned down villages in the name of their 'cause.'"
Arthur didn't react with anger. Instead, he looked at her—not as an opponent, but as someone who had clearly suffered. "You don't trust me," he said plainly. "I understand that."
Apacci's expression faltered slightly, as if his lack of defensiveness had caught her off guard.
Mila Rose, the woman with brown hair, narrowed her eyes. "Then why are you here?"
Arthur exhaled, his gaze briefly flickering toward Tier before returning to the group. "Because what's happening here is wrong. I may not have lived through your struggles, but I have seen enough suffering to know when people need help."
Sun-Sun, the green-haired woman, tilted her head slightly. "And you believe you can provide it?" Her voice was soft, but there was something sharp beneath the surface—a quiet challenge.
Arthur met her gaze. "Yes."
The room fell into silence once more.
Tier, who had remained quiet until now, finally spoke. "I brought him here because I believe he can help." Her words carried weight, and despite their skepticism, none of her Fraccións immediately refuted her.
"I'm unsure of the political standing of Dumnonia," Arthur admitted, his steel-green eyes locking onto Tier's. "But why are the people being treated so poorly?"
For a moment, Tier simply studied him, her sharp green eyes searching for something in his expression. Then, as if coming to a decision, she exhaled quietly and sat down, resting an elbow against her knee.
"So," she murmured, "you are at least somewhat serious about this."
Arthur took a seat across from her, his posture relaxed but attentive. He had learned that a knight's greatest weapon wasn't always his sword—it was his ability to listen.
Tier's gaze flickered to her Fraccións before returning to Arthur. "Dumnonia was once one of the strongest kingdoms in the west," she began. "A land that could have rivaled Camelot in time."
Sun-Sun, the green-haired woman, leaned against the wall, her expression unreadable. "That was before the warlords tore it apart."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Warlords?"
Tier nodded. "When the last king of Dumnonia died, his sons fought over the throne. It weakened the kingdom, left it vulnerable. By the time the dust settled, there was no true ruler left—only opportunists. The strongest among them seized control of the land piece by piece. But they don't govern. They take."
Mila Rose crossed her arms. "Taxes. Labor. Lives. Everything's just a resource to them."
Apacci scoffed, bitter. "And the ones who refuse? They get an example made out of them."
Arthur's hands clenched into fists. He had seen this pattern before. Without leadership, without a guiding force, greed always found a way to thrive. He thought of Camelot—how easily the realm could have fallen into the same chaos without a strong foundation.
Tier's voice was measured, but the weight behind her words was unmistakable. "The warlords hold their territories with force. Mercenaries, rogue knights, former soldiers who lost their purpose. And the people?" She glanced toward the ceiling, as if picturing the village above. "They survive however they can. Even if it means turning on each other."
Arthur's frown deepened. "That's why that boy was stealing bread."
"Because he had no choice," Sun-Sun murmured.
A heavy silence followed.
Arthur let out a slow breath. "If the warlords hold all the power, then why hasn't anyone risen against them?"
Ulquiorra, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was devoid of warmth, emotionless yet piercing. "Because the people fear them more than they believe in change."
Arthur turned to him, waiting for him to continue.
The pale man's green eyes held something cold—something that had long since given up on the idea of salvation. "Hope does not feed the starving. Hope does not stop the blade at your throat. And hope does not change the mind of a tyrant."
Arthur felt Tier's gaze on him as she said, "We are the remnants of those who still refuse to bow."
Arthur met her eyes, and for the first time, he saw past the hardened exterior. Beneath the scars, the exhaustion, the weight of leadership, there was something else.
A flicker of something she had not allowed herself to embrace in a long time.
Belief.
His lips curled into the faintest of smiles. "Then perhaps it is time to remind the people that hope is not just a dream."
A small, almost imperceptible shift crossed Tier's features—not quite a smile, but something close.
"You say that," she murmured, "but hope alone won't win this war."
Arthur chuckled lightly. "No, it won't." His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, not as a threat, but as a promise. "But it's a good place to start."