Lancelot stared at Barata with a calm, almost detached expression.
Barata snarled, his eyes glowing with primal fury. "Oh, no reaction? You a tough customer, huh? But without that sword, you wouldn't be much of anything."
Lancelot's hand moved in a slow, fluid motion. "Then here, you can have it."
With that, he tossed his sword toward Barata. The blade spun end-over-end and embedded itself into the ground with a solid thunk.
Barata grinned, sprinting forward and yanking the sword free. "You fool!"
He swung with full force at Lancelot but Lancelot stepped on the blade mid-swing, halting the attack. Then, with a swift turn, he roundhouse kicked Barata across the jaw. The werewolf let go of the sword and staggered back, blood spraying from his mouth.
Barata recovered quickly, rage boiling over. He charged, unleashing a rapid flurry of clawed strikes but Lancelot weaved and ducked effortlessly through the storm of attacks. Slash after slash, all missed their mark. Sweat began dripping from Barata's face as fatigue overtook him. Finally, panting, he dropped to one knee.
Lancelot stepped forward and placed a foot on Barata's head, pressing down slowly.
"That's more like it," Lancelot said, his voice low and controlled. "Right where you belong."
Giggles broke out, first from Merlin, then laughter from Franciele, Crystal, and even Jack, who lay wounded on the ground. Barata, bloodied and humiliated, felt the sting of their mockery more deeply than the pain in his limbs.
(How the hell is he this strong? How dare he make a fool out of me?) Barata seethed internally. Fine. If I can't beat him… I'll hurt what he loves.
He dropped onto all fours, his claws scraping the earth, and darted past Lancelot.
"Where the hell are you going?!" Lancelot whipped around, Barata was racing straight toward Merlin.
"MERLIN!" Lancelot's voice cracked with panic. I won't make it in time…
Barata grinned as he approached her. "You idiot. You were too busy showing off to protect your precious witch."
Merlin's eyes widened in terror.
Then suddenly, snap! Barata jerked to a stop.
"What the...?!" He looked back.
Jack, still flat on the ground, had grabbed Barata's ankle. "Let… go of me!" Barata roared, delivering a brutal kick that sent Jack skidding across the dirt.
But it was enough.
Lancelot caught up, grabbed Barata's tail mid-sprint, and hurled him across the clearing like a ragdoll.
He looked back at Merlin, her face pale with fear and something inside him snapped.
He turned to Barata, fury erupting in his gaze. The werewolf barely had time to get to his feet before Lancelot slammed a kick into his chest. Then came the assault, punches, kicks, knees, rall landing with bone-crushing precision. Ribs shattered, fangs flew from Barata's mouth, blood sprayed in arcs. A final low kick cracked Barata's leg, sending him to the ground screaming.
Lancelot mounted him, fists raining down without mercy. Barata's face became a ruin of torn flesh and broken bone. His howls turned to whimpers. He raised his arms to beg for mercy.
Lancelot stopped.
He stood up, breathing hard, and walked to retrieve his sword.
Barata, wheezing, tried to crawl away. But Lancelot followed. Slowly. Patiently. Like a predator savoring the end.
He stepped on Barata's back, pinning him. Barata sobbed, helpless. Lancelot knelt, grabbed him by the hair, and slid his blade under the werewolf's throat.
He leaned down.
"You're nothing but a bitch," Lancelot whispered.
Then, with a grim, deliberate pull, he sawed Barata's head clean off.
Blood fountained from the stump. Lancelot rose, lifted the severed head, and tossed it into a nearby trash bucket without a second glance.
He turned to Merlin and smiled.
Merlin smiled faintly back… and then collapsed.
"Merlin!" Lancelot sprinted over, kneeling beside her. "Damn it… she's lost too much blood." He looked around in desperation. "I only had one potion…"
Franciele rushed over, hands glowing purple. "It's okay, kiddo. I've got her."
"Thank you, Granny. I can't lose her…" Lancelot said, his voice cracking as he held Merlin's hand tightly.
Franciele smiled gently as she worked. (You've got a good man, granddaughter.)
"There. She's stable now. But… it doesn't look like she'll wake up for a while."
Lancelot exhaled in relief, wiping sweat from his brow. "Whoa. Her wounds are completely gone. No scars at all…"
He looked to Jessica in the distance, unconscious and scarred. "Can you help my sister too?"
Franciele sighed sadly. "Sorry, Lancelot. My healing magic only works this well on myself or my descendants. With others, I can't always even close a wound."
Lancelot nodded solemnly. "It's okay. I just didn't want her to carry those scars…"
Franciele studied his worried face and his trembling hands as he clutched Merlin's. (Aww… he really is a cutie.)
The battlefield had gone quiet. The blood still stained the earth. But the storm had passed.
And Lancelot, tattooed, scarred, hardened by training and pain, had returned not only as a warrior… but as a protector.