The dim light of the basement flickered against the stone walls as Arthur, Tier, Sun-Sun, Mila Rose, Apacci, and Ulquiorra gathered around a worn wooden table, a makeshift map of Dumnonia spread before them. The air was thick with tension, but beneath it, something more potent brewed—determination.
Arthur's gaze swept over the map, his green eyes sharp, calculating. "The most strategic choice is Gwynn the Black Falcon, then?" His voice was calm, but the weight of his words settled heavily in the room. "He's one of the main forces driving the instability in Dumnonia. If we wish to give the people hope, we must show them absolute defeat."
Mila Rose frowned, arms crossed over her chest. "You make it sound simple. Gwynn commands an army. You really think six of us can take down a warlord with thousands of men?"
Apacci scoffed, leaning back in her chair. "Yeah, no offense, but that's insane." She gestured to Arthur with a smirk. "Unless you've got some secret army stashed away somewhere, I don't see how we don't end up dead."
Arthur didn't flinch. His emerald eyes, cool and unwavering, met Apacci's with an intensity that silenced any further doubt.
"You underestimate the Sword Saint of Camelot."
A pause settled over the group.
Tier, who had been quiet until now, studied Arthur carefully. He had not spoken out of arrogance—his words were a simple statement of fact. That alone made them all the more powerful.
Ulquiorra, standing with his arms folded, finally spoke. "You are not wrong to assume that a direct assault is unwise." His cold green eyes flicked toward Arthur. "But if you intend to stand against Gwynn, what advantage do you have?"
Arthur exhaled slowly, resting a hand on the table. "Skill, precision, and fear."
Apacci gave him a deadpan stare. "Fear? You think they'll be scared of you?"
Arthur's lips twitched in amusement. "Not of me. Of what I'll do."
Sun-Sun tilted her head. "Elaborate."
Arthur leaned forward slightly, voice steady, measured. "A warlord rules through dominance. Through the belief that he cannot be challenged. Gwynn's men follow him because they fear him more than anything else. If we break that illusion—if we take him apart methodically—his army won't fight to the death for him. They'll scatter."
Mila Rose's brow furrowed. "You're saying we don't have to fight thousands of men. Just the ones too stubborn to run?"
Arthur nodded. "Precisely. We won't charge in like a reckless force—we'll strike like ghosts. We'll remove his key commanders, eliminate his strongest fighters, and make it clear that standing against us is a death sentence."
Ulquiorra's expression remained unreadable, but there was the faintest glint of intrigue in his gaze. "A war of attrition."
Arthur met his gaze. "A war of inevitability."
Silence stretched between them.
Tier, who had been observing carefully, finally leaned back, her green eyes never leaving Arthur's. "And you believe we can do this?"
Arthur held her gaze, unshaken. "Do you?"
The unspoken challenge lingered between them.
Tier had spent years surviving in a land where power dictated everything. She had seen men claim to be warriors, claim to be saviors, only to be swallowed by the reality of war. But Arthur was different. He didn't boast. He didn't grandstand.
He simply knew.
Her lips curved ever so slightly—not quite a smile, but something close. "We'll see, won't we?"
Arthur's lips mirrored hers. "We will."
A subtle shift passed between them—an understanding, an acknowledgment. Not just as allies, but as something more.
A trust yet to be tested.
A connection yet to be defined.
Mila Rose exhaled sharply. "Alright, fine. If we're doing this, let's at least make sure we don't end up like the last idiots who thought they could take down a warlord."
Apacci rolled her eyes but smirked. "Yeah, yeah, let's hear this 'genius' plan of yours, Camelot."
Arthur turned his focus back to the map. "First, we start with fear."
"Though I don't favor this type of battle," he began, his emerald eyes scanning the faces before him, "we must make them fear something greater than their warlord. We must create a boogeyman—a force so terrifying that even speaking of it makes their blood run cold."
Apacci crossed her arms, brow raised. "You're serious? You want to make up some kind of ghost story to scare them off?"
Arthur didn't flinch. "Not a ghost story. A certainty. Something they know exists. Something inevitable." He leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. "Fear controls people just as much as power does. Gwynn uses it to maintain order within his ranks, to ensure his men never question him. But if we introduce something they fear more than their master—if we make them believe they are already dead men the moment they stand against us—then their loyalty will crumble."
Mila Rose tapped her fingers against the wooden surface, considering his words. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that? Making a warlord's men scared isn't as easy as whispering spooky stories in the dark."
Arthur exhaled, his gaze distant yet sharp. "We will give them whispers in the dark. Whispers of an unseen force. A vengeful specter that strikes without warning, that cannot be fought or reasoned with. We strike from the shadows, leaving no survivors to tell the tale. The ones who do live… they'll spread the rumors for us."
A cold silence settled over the room.
Sun-Sun, usually the quietest, tilted her head, her unreadable eyes locking onto Arthur's. "Fear is a powerful weapon," she murmured. "But if wielded poorly, it turns on its master."
Arthur's gaze flickered to hers. "That's why we control the narrative. We decide how the legend spreads, and we ensure it never turns into something beyond our grasp."
Apacci leaned against the table, staring at him. "You sound like you've done this before."
Arthur's expression didn't change. "Wars aren't only won on the battlefield."
That simple statement sent an uneasy ripple through the group.
Ulquiorra, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was quiet, yet there was something chillingly final in his words. "You wish to create an illusion so strong that reality bends to it." His green eyes, sharp as cut emeralds, studied Arthur with something bordering on intrigue. "This is not the mind of a knight. This is the mind of a king."
Arthur met his gaze but said nothing.
Tier had been watching him throughout the exchange, her green eyes reflecting a quiet storm of thoughts. There was something about him—something beyond the title of Sword Saint of Camelot. A man who wielded not just a sword, but an understanding of the mind. Of war itself.
And yet, despite the calculated nature of his plan, there was no bloodlust in his tone. No cruelty. Only necessity.
She leaned back, arms crossed, the flickering candlelight catching on the faint scars scattered across her skin. "And who do you propose becomes this boogeyman?"
Arthur didn't hesitate. "Me."
The reaction was immediate.
Apacci clicked her tongue. "Of course it's you. Do you just like being the center of every legend?"
Mila Rose shook her head. "You really think that's going to work?"
Sun-Sun narrowed her eyes. "You don't fear what you understand. The people already know you're human, Arthur. A warrior, yes, but not an unknown horror."
Arthur smirked, a glint of something unreadable in his gaze. "That's where you're wrong."
He straightened, his voice taking on a low, almost eerie quality. "The warlords and their men know of me, but they don't know me. I've fought battles, yes, but only against those who were prepared for me. If I become something beyond a warrior—something inhuman in their eyes—then their perception of me changes. They stop seeing a knight, and they start seeing something else."
His eyes flickered toward Tier, lingering for just a second too long before he continued.
"Dumnonia is already full of superstitions, isn't it?" His voice was smooth, persuasive. "The people whisper about ghosts in the forests, curses in the mountains. If we give them something real to attach their fear to, the legend will spread on its own."
Tier finally spoke, her voice measured. "You'd have to be relentless. You'd have to become the thing they fear in the night."
Arthur met her gaze, something unreadable passing between them. "Would you stand in my way if I did?"
A slow silence stretched between them. A challenge unspoken.
Tier held his gaze for a moment longer before exhaling through her nose. "No," she admitted, almost reluctantly. "But I'd be watching."
Arthur's smirk returned, a little softer this time. "I'd expect nothing less."
Mila Rose groaned. "Are you two flirting in the middle of a war council?"
Tier shot her a pointed look, but Arthur chuckled, stepping back slightly. "Focus, then. We need to decide our first strike."
Apacci cracked her knuckles. "Well, if we're making you a legend, let's make it a good one."
The planning resumed, but Tier found herself watching Arthur out of the corner of her eye.
A knight who fought with shadows.
A man who understood fear.
And yet, despite it all… someone she couldn't quite bring herself to look away from.
—--
The sun had long abandoned the sky, leaving the world to the mercy of the moon's pale, indifferent gaze. A thin layer of mist clung to the ground, curling around the wooden watchtowers and crude fortifications of the encampment. A torch flickered by the entrance, illuminating two guards who stood idly, their conversation lazy, careless.
"Man, we should just raid that village already," one of them grumbled, shifting his weight against his spear. "I don't know why Lord Gwynn is holding off. We could kill them all and take what should already be ours."
The other, younger and with far less conviction in his voice, simply shrugged. "I don't know. I think just waiting here is pretty chill. It's not like we—"
The whisper of a blade cutting through air was the last sound he heard. His words ended in a wet, choking gasp as a sword cut clean through his throat, his body collapsing against the crude wooden gate.
The first guard barely had time to turn, let alone scream, before the cold steel of a second blade buried itself between his ribs, puncturing his heart with precision. His body crumpled, spasming, before stilling entirely.
The cloaked figure standing over the corpses barely spared them a glance. The bodies bled into the dirt, warm life pooling at his feet, and yet he felt… nothing.
Arthur stepped over them, his draconic green eyes flickering like embers in the darkness. His cloak barely fluttered as he moved, gliding like a shadow through the encampment. He was not here for honor. He was not here for mercy.
He was here to kill.
The first tent he entered housed four men, half-asleep, their weapons leaning against the far wall. They never reached them.
Arthur cut through the first two before they even stirred, the third barely managing to let out a strangled yelp before his throat was opened. The fourth woke fully, his eyes wide with terror as he scrambled back, hands raised.
"Wait—please, I—"
Arthur's sword silenced him. A clean, final thrust to the heart. The man convulsed once before going still, eyes frozen in fear, mouth open as if his plea might still reach someone beyond death.
Arthur withdrew his blade, watching as the body slumped forward. The sword dripped, crimson staining his gloves. His heart remained steady. His breathing unchanged.
There was no guilt.
No shame.
He had told himself that this was for her.
For Artoria. For the child she carried.
But standing here, amidst the quiet horror of his own making, he understood the truth.
That was a lie.
He had slaughtered them not for love, nor for duty, nor even for necessity. He had done it because it was simply what needed to be done. Because it was efficient. Because it was easy.
And he felt nothing.
A flicker of movement at the corner of his vision—another soldier stirring from a tent. Arthur didn't hesitate. His sword cut through the fabric of the tent and the man's chest in one fluid motion. A gurgled gasp, a twitch, then stillness.
Arthur pulled his blade free, his expression impassive. His hands worked mechanically, methodically. Strike. Withdraw. Move.
A knight was meant to uphold honor.
He had abandoned him maybe even before this night.
A knight was meant to fight with justice.
But justice was slow. And Arthur had no use for slow things.
A knight was meant to feel.
Arthur realized, as he stepped over yet another corpse, that he did not.
He should have felt horror at the ease with which he cut them down. He should have heard the echoes of Vivian's lessons, the ones that had once defined his path as a knight of Camelot. But he felt no weight upon his soul.
Even when he had driven his sword into defenseless men—men who had surrendered, men who had pleaded—he had not hesitated.
Because he had been waiting.
Waiting for the guilt. Waiting for the shame.
It never came.
The last of the camp fell without so much as an alarm. The moon, still cold and bright, bore silent witness to the massacre.
Arthur stood alone in the carnage, blood pooling around his boots, breath steady, sword glinting in the dim light. His green eyes reflected nothing but the corpses around him.
This was not the path of a knight.
But it was the path of a man who would win.
And if winning meant becoming a boogeyman, a shadow that instilled fear in the hearts of those who sought to harm his, then he would not hesitate.
Even if it meant discarding the last remnants of the honor he once held.
Because, in the end, honor had never been enough.
Arthur green eyes stared down at the last soldier who was stricken with fear all he could see was a cloaked man holding a invisible weapon and those draconic green eyes the soldier before Arthur seemed to be in hysteria Arthur turned away and left leaving a single survivor
The air was thick with the scent of blood, though the campfire did little to reveal the massacre left behind in the shadows of the night. The others were waiting in the dim glow, their expressions varying as Arthur strode into the gathering, silent as a phantom.
Tier Harribel was the first to speak. "How did it go?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately. He stepped forward, unfastening his bloodstained cloak and tossing it onto a nearby rock with an impassive nod. "I did it."
Apacci snorted, her arms crossed as she leaned back against a tree. "Wouldn't expect a knight to toss their honor aside so fast," she mused, a smirk tugging at her lips. There was no malice in her tone—just the casual irreverence she always carried. "Guess the whole chivalry thing only lasts 'til it gets in the way, huh?"
Arthur didn't respond. He simply met her gaze with an unreadable expression before shifting his attention elsewhere.
Tier's golden eyes lingered on his face, her gaze searching. Unlike Apacci, she wasn't looking for amusement—she was looking for something deeper, something that should have been there. But there was nothing. No flicker of regret, no weight of remorse.
Arthur had done something that should have shaken him.
And yet, he stood there, unaffected.
"We should proceed with our next move," Ulquiorra stated, his voice calm, indifferent. "Lingering on unnecessary thoughts will not change what has already transpired."
"I agree," Tier murmured, though her gaze remained on Arthur a second longer before turning toward the group.
Arthur exhaled, the sound soft but deliberate. "What we should do is simple," he began. "We strike in the daylight as a unified force. We make it seem as though Gwynn is under siege from every direction, forcing him to spread his defenses thin. If we gain support from those under his rule, he will feel surrounded. Isolated. The pressure will make him desperate. And when a leader panics…" He allowed the implication to hang in the air.
"They make mistakes," Tier finished, nodding slightly.
Mila Rose frowned. "But won't that leave you with no time to recover? You're saying you'll handle the night assaults on your own?"
"I don't necessarily need rest." Arthur's voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "But not exactly. I'll only need to appear for the important battles alongside you. My main assault will be focused on striking in the dark."
Tier's gaze flickered. "Alone?"
He nodded.
A pause. The fire crackled between them, its warmth starkly contrasting the cold pragmatism in his tone.
For a moment, there was no battle strategy, no war looming on the horizon—just her voice, laced with something softer. Something concerned.
"You can't carry this all on your own," she murmured. "Even if you say you don't need rest."
Arthur met her gaze. There was something unreadable in her expression—not quite warmth, not quite disapproval, but something between the two.
"I'll be fine," he said. It wasn't a reassurance. Just a fact.
Tier held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded, though the tension in her shoulders didn't fully fade.
Apacci rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "Oh sure, Mr. 'I don't need rest.' No way that's gonna bite you in the ass later."
Arthur ignored her, already turning toward the map they had laid out on the ground. His hands hovered over the rough outline of their battlefield, tracing the movements in his mind.
There was no honor in what he had done tonight.
And yet, no matter how much he tried to tell himself it was for Artoria, for their child—he knew the truth.
He had done it because it was necessary.
Because it was efficient.
Because, in the end, honor had no place in a war like this.
The crude map of Dumnonia was spread before them, drawn into the dirt with a sharp stone. Scattered across its surface were markings—X's for enemy encampments, lines to represent roads and rivers, and crude circles for settlements either under Gwynn's control or yet to fall.
Arthur's finger hovered over one particular mark, pressing into the earth with quiet finality.
"This camp here." His voice was even, unwavering. "One of Gwynn's largest strongholds in the region. It's where we strike next."
Tier's green eyes studied the map, her expression composed. "It's well-defended," she noted. "He's stationed more men there than anywhere else. A direct assault would be difficult, even for us."
"A direct assault is the only way," Arthur countered. "No deception. No subterfuge. We go in, and we crush them. Completely."
Ulquiorra, standing slightly apart from the others, observed the discussion with his usual unreadable expression. "A show of force." His tone was flat, but there was an unmistakable note of understanding. "You intend to make a statement."
Arthur nodded. "Gwynn thrives on fear. His men fight because they believe in his strength. We must shatter that belief." His green eyes flickered with something sharp, something cold. "When we take this camp, we won't just win a battle—we will break his men's morale. They will see that no fortification, no number of soldiers, can stand against us."
Mila Rose frowned. "That's assuming they don't just dig in and fight harder."
"They won't," Arthur said without hesitation. "Not when they see what they're up against."
Apacci scoffed. "Oh yeah? And what exactly are they up against?"
Arthur's gaze swept over them, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. "The Sword Saint of Camelot," he said simply.
There was a beat of silence. Then Apacci smirked. "Tch. Cocky bastard." But there was no mockery in her voice.
Tier, arms crossed, regarded him carefully. "You're proposing that we strike directly at the heart of their strength. No misdirection. No dividing their forces. Just overwhelming power."
"Yes."
A slow exhale. She understood what he was doing. A brutal, decisive display of strength—it wasn't just about military tactics. It was psychological. Crush them here, and the rest will break apart on their own.
She met his gaze, something quiet passing between them.
"…Fine," she said at last. "Then we commit. No hesitation."
Arthur nodded.
Ulquiorra tilted his head slightly. "The enemy numbers will be substantial. Do you believe you alone can shoulder their response?"
"I don't need to," Arthur replied. "I just need to make them believe I can."
The others exchanged glances. There was no doubt that Arthur was powerful—his strength had already been proven in the night raids, in the way he had cut through Gwynn's men like a phantom of war.
But this was different. This was a declaration.
Tier turned back to the map, gaze sharp. "Then we don't delay. We strike tomorrow."
Arthur's fingers tightened briefly at his side.
Tomorrow, they would unleash a storm.
—
The morning air was crisp, the scent of damp earth mingling with the faint smoke from dying embers of village fires. People had gathered in the square, uncertain and wary, their faces marked by hardship and quiet suffering. Farmers, blacksmiths, hunters—none of them soldiers, but all of them victims of the cruel rule of men like Gwynn and King Mark.
Arthur stood before them, the rising sun cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the unwavering determination in his emerald eyes. Beside him, Tier Harribel stood silent and steady, her green gaze sweeping across the crowd with quiet scrutiny. Her Fracción—Apacci, Mila Rose, and Sun-Sun—stood behind her, while Ulquiorra remained slightly apart, his unreadable expression betraying nothing.
Arthur took a deep breath. Then, he spoke.
"You have all suffered," he began, his voice carrying through the still morning air. "Your homes threatened. Your families stolen from you. Your land ruled by tyrants who see you as nothing more than cattle to be bled dry."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Some faces darkened with anger; others lowered their heads in quiet despair.
Arthur's gaze sharpened.
"You tell yourselves that you are helpless. That men like Gwynn and King Mark cannot be opposed. That you must endure because resistance means death." He paused, letting his words sink in. "But tell me, what life do you have now? You work, you scrape by, and in the end, they take everything from you regardless. Your labor, your dignity, your very lives. You are already dying—just slowly enough for them to use you before you fall."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy.
Arthur's fingers curled slightly at his side. "And so I ask you," he continued, his voice quieter but no less powerful, "will you wait for them to take the last of what you have? Or will you fight for your own future?"
A hesitant murmur rippled through the gathered villagers. Some looked at each other, uncertain. Others clenched their fists.
Arthur took a step forward. "I have seen what true strength is," he said. "And it is not measured in the number of warriors you command or the steel in your hands. Strength is the will to stand when others would kneel. The courage to say, no more."
His green eyes burned with conviction. "And that is why men like Gwynn will fall. Because they are cowards who hide behind their power, never believing that those they trample could ever rise against them. They think you are weak."
Arthur's voice rose.
"Prove them wrong."
A few voices murmured in agreement. Then more. A wave of tension and suppressed anger swept through the villagers, the weight of years of suffering pressing against the spark of something new—something dangerous.
Hope.
Tier studied Arthur's face as he spoke, her expression unreadable. There was no hesitation in his words, no doubt in his bearing. He stood before these people not as a king, not as a ruler demanding obedience, but as a man who would fight beside them.
She had seen many men who sought war, but Arthur did not crave battle for the sake of conquest or vengeance. He fought because he believed.
And belief could change the course of history.
"Arthur is right," Tier finally spoke, her calm, even voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Men like Gwynn take and take, but they are not invincible. He has power because you allow him to have it. Strip that belief away, and he is nothing."
She turned her gaze toward the crowd. "You are not alone. If you stand, we will stand with you."
That was the final push. The villagers stirred, fists clenched, jaws set. A murmur of agreement swelled into something louder—something like resolve.
Arthur exhaled slowly. This was the first step.
Ulquiorra observed the scene, his emerald eyes unreadable. He did not comment, but there was a faint sense of acknowledgment in his silence.
Apacci scoffed, crossing her arms. "Tch. Guess we're leading an army now."
Mila Rose grinned slightly. "Could be worse. At least we get to hit something."
Sun-Sun merely hummed, her sleeve covering her mouth.
Tier Harribel's green gaze lingered on Arthur for a moment before shifting toward the horizon. The weight of their next battle loomed over them like a gathering storm, yet there was an odd sense of clarity in the moment—a calm before the inevitable violence.
Footsteps disrupted the stillness, light and measured. Someone approached.
"Arthur."
The voice was smooth, familiar, carrying a hint of amusement beneath the formality. Arthur turned, his emerald eyes widening ever so slightly.
"Faye."
She stood before him with an easy smile, pale blonde hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders, clad in the robes of a traveling magus. Her presence was unexpected, but not unwelcome—though the circumstances of their meeting were far from ideal.
"It's been quite a while," she mused, tilting her head slightly. "I must say, I never imagined I'd run into you leading a rebellion in a foreign land. I wasn't aware that the knights of Britain had taken to starting civil wars."
Arthur allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "I could say the same for you. But I couldn't ignore this injustice."
Faye's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second before she nodded. "Well, I am a traveling magus. I suppose it was mere coincidence that we met."
There was something unreadable in her tone—detached, as if testing the waters of their reunion. Arthur, perceptive as always, took note but chose not to press.
"Do you intend to join us?" he asked.
Faye brought a gloved hand to her chin, feigning deep thought. "Well… if Sir Arthur is here, I can hardly let him run off into battle alone, now can I? No choice but to come along."
Tier's gaze flickered toward her, assessing. "He's not alone."
Apacci snorted, crossing her arms. "Yeah, we're stuck with this dumbass."
For the briefest moment, Faye's blue eyes darkened, her expression shifting into something hollow—void of emotion, void of interest. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced once more by that practiced, pleasant smile. She glanced at Arthur again, dismissing the others as if they were inconsequential.
"I meant from Britain," she clarified.
Arthur merely nodded. "I suppose not."
There was no need to dwell on it further. They had much to do, and time was precious.
"We should get going," he said, turning toward the road ahead.
Tier cast one last glance at Faye before following. There was something about the woman—something hidden beneath that effortless charm. But for now, she set it aside.
The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the earth was deafening, a relentless drumbeat heralding the storm that was about to descend upon Gwynn's forces. Arthur rode at the forefront, golden hair catching the wind. His expression was unreadable, a cold mask of focus, yet there was a quiet intensity to his gaze—one that promised devastation.
Behind him, Tier Harribel and her Fracción followed closely, moving with the unshaken composure of men who had long since accepted the nature of battle. Ulquiorra remained silent as ever, his emerald gaze scanning the battlefield with impassive calculation. And Faye, despite her easy smiles from before, now watched Arthur carefully, as if attempting to read the depths of his thoughts.
Then, the enemy came into view.
Gwynn's camp sprawled before them, its soldiers hastily scrambling into formation. The alarm had been raised, and their ranks moved with frantic urgency. They expected a battle, a test of tactics and numbers. They did not expect him.
Arthur did not slow.
He did not hesitate.
Instead, as the first lines of spearmen steadied themselves, the Sword Saint of Camelot raised his blade.
A rush of magical energy surged through the air, an overwhelming pressure that seemed to weigh down on the battlefield itself. The moment was silent, suspended in eerie anticipation—until Arthur swung his sword.
A flash of steel. A blinding arc of light.
The ground split.
A sheer force, invisible yet undeniable, carved through the enemy ranks, sundering armor, flesh, and steel alike. The first row of soldiers was erased before they could even register their own deaths. The second row crumbled under the shockwave, bodies flung like ragdolls as the force rippled outward.
It was not just skill. It was absolute power.
Gwynn's soldiers faltered. Fear crept into their ranks. Their formation broke—not because of numbers or strategy, but because they had come face-to-face with something beyond mortal comprehension.
Arthur moved like a storm given human form, his sword cleaving through men and steel alike with inhuman precision. There was no wasted movement, no unnecessary flourish—only devastating efficiency.
And yet, for all the slaughter, his expression did not change.
Tier watched from a short distance away, green eyes narrowing slightly. She had fought beside him, had seen his strength firsthand. But there was something different in the way he fought now.
This wasn't just battle.
This was a statement.
Faye, still mounted, exhaled softly. "So this is what you've become, Arthur."
He did not answer.
He did not slow.
The Sword Saint of Camelot continued forward, cutting a path of pure, overwhelming destruction. And for the first time, Dumnonia bore witness to the terror of his name.