Elsewhere, Sir Dagonet stood in the middle of what had once been a roadside service station.
The place had been abandoned in a hurry.
Cars remained scattered across the parking area, several with their doors still open. Food and personal belongings lay forgotten inside the building, left behind when the evacuation order had come.
Now, the empty station had been transformed into a trap.
Not an impressive one to look at.
There were no towering magical illusions, no false armies stretching to the horizon, and no thousand phantom knights waiting for the enemy.
Dagonet had tried such things before.
They had worked.
Once.
The Sentinels had been confused for several precious minutes, long enough for Tony Stark to introduce foreign data into their network and slow their central intelligence.
Then they learned.
The next group of Sentinels that encountered one of Dagonet's illusions did not attempt to sort through it. They simply withdrew, redirected themselves toward another target, and informed the rest of their network that the area was unreliable.
It had been a victory of sorts.
Edinburgh had been spared that day.
But the Sentinels had simply attacked elsewhere.
Dagonet had learned from that failure.
Now, he no longer tried to convince the machines that an army stood where none existed.
That was too large a lie.
Instead, he gave them small, believable ones.
A damaged evacuation vehicle traveling along an exposed road.
The heat signature of several wounded mutants hiding inside an abandoned building.
A distress signal transmitted over an unsecured frequency.
Small pieces of information, each one carefully prepared using technology supplied by Stark and Reed, then wrapped in Dagonet's magic until even the Sentinels struggled to distinguish them from reality.
The machines had learned to doubt miracles.
They had not learned to ignore easy prey.
Three Sentinels descended from the clouds, their attention fixed upon the service station.
Dagonet watched them approach through a pair of modern field glasses.
He disliked the things.
Not because they were ineffective, but because they reminded him that his eyes were no longer good enough for the kind of war he was fighting.
"Three incoming," he reported.
A tired voice answered through his earpiece.
"Confirmed. The new cloaking mesh is holding."
Dagonet glanced toward the supposedly empty parking area.
Beneath the illusion lay two portable Stark cannons, one of Reed's energy projectors, and sixteen soldiers who had spent the last four days traveling alongside him.
Four days.
Seven engagements.
Barely six hours of sleep between them.
Dagonet could no longer remember where they had started.
A fishing village, perhaps.
Or a mutant settlement farther north.
Every battle blurred into the next.
They arrived, drew the Sentinels away from civilians, destroyed what they could, and then left before another group adapted to their methods.
There was never time to celebrate.
Another report always arrived.
Another town.
Another road.
Another group of people who would die if they were too slow.
The Sentinels reached the edge of the station.
Dagonet waited.
Their red eyes moved across the buildings, scanning the false signs of frightened mutants hiding within.
One Sentinel raised its arm.
"Now."
The illusion vanished.
The Stark cannons fired first.
Two concentrated beams struck the nearest Sentinel in the chest, burning through armor already weakened by weeks of improved ammunition and accumulated battlefield data.
Reed's projector followed, releasing a burst of vibrational energy that tore open the damaged metal.
Soldiers rose from beneath the cloaking mesh and opened fire with enchanted rounds manufactured in Albion.
The Sentinel collapsed.
The second reacted immediately.
A pulse erupted from its body, scrambling the electronic targeting systems of the weapons around it.
The Stark cannons fell silent.
Reed's projector flickered as it rebooted.
The soldiers continued firing manually.
Though they were backed up by the heavier weapons mere moments later; when the smartest people in the world designed weapons of war, the quality was just that good.
The attack quickly resumed at full force, which indeed caused this to be a victory, one without any casualties, but the third Sentinel did not engage.
Once it realized this was a trap, it launched itself back into the air.
"Damn," Dagonet muttered.
The machine had understood the trap.
Worse, it had undoubtedly transmitted everything it had seen to the rest of its kind.
This tactic was finished.
They would need another before the next engagement.
The Sentinel turned away from the service station and accelerated toward the west.
Toward the evacuation route.
"Stop it!" someone shouted.
Sir Dagonet was reluctant to give chase; he could easily catch up and cut it down with his sword.
He knew that, but so did the Sentinel.
And the machines were by no means foolish; they had long since learned the risks of giving chase and leaving equipment and mortal soldiers behind.
Without a knight to protect them, they quickly became targets.
Still, he figured it likely wouldn't be too big of a risk right now.
Yet just before he pushed off the ground, a silver flash cut across the sky, severing the fleeing Sentinel into two pieces that fell helplessly to the ground.
Dagonet froze for a moment because he recognized that flash and the person who had just unleashed it.
"Sir Bedivere!" he exclaimed, much to the shock of the mortals behind him.
"What?"
"Did he say!?"
"It's Sir Bedivere!"
They all exclaimed in shock and excitement.
Because Sir Bedivere had been missing for a long while now, and everyone had long since been informed about the truth behind their King's absence.
So if Sir Bedivere had returned, didn't that mean...?
For the first time in what felt like weeks, Sir Dagonet cracked a small smile. "It looks like it, perhaps; this fool may soon take a long-needed intermission."
-----
Farther inland, Captain America crouched behind the remains of an overturned transport.
The vehicle had once carried replacement weapons toward the northern defenses.
Now, its burning hull provided cover for Steve and what remained of his team.
They had not stayed in Plymouth.
They had left the city the moment the Sentinels there were destroyed, traveling wherever the defensive lines were weakest.
Plymouth.
Brighton.
Small towns whose names Steve had never known before arriving in Albion.
Roads, bridges, evacuation centers, and hastily fortified villages.
They fought until the Sentinels were destroyed or driven away.
Then they moved.
The team had changed over those weeks.
Not in purpose.
But in how they fought.
Scott no longer fired blindly at Sentinel armor. A small Stark-built attachment upon his visor tracked structural weaknesses identified by the Illuminati, showing him precisely where his optic blasts would cause the greatest disruption.
Jean wore several thin silver bands around her wrists, each engraved with Albion's runes. They could not increase her telekinesis, but they helped stabilize her mind when the Sentinels attempted to interfere with her powers.
Bobby carried compact devices that released clouds of purified water into the air, giving him material to freeze even in dry conditions.
Ororo no longer wasted her strength summoning storms large enough to cover an entire city. She created smaller, sharper changes instead—sudden downdrafts, concentrated lightning, and walls of rain that appeared exactly where they were needed.
They had become better.
Faster.
More efficient.
But they were tired.
Scott's uniform was torn in several places, and dark circles sat beneath his eyes.
Jean had suffered a headache for three days without relief.
Bobby's movements had become slower, his jokes fewer.
Even Ororo's posture had begun to bend beneath exhaustion.
Steve himself could barely feel his left arm.
None of them had truly rested since Plymouth.
There had always been someone else who needed them.
"Two approaching from the north!" Scott called.
Steve looked over the ruined transport.
The Sentinels were different from the ones they had first faced.
Additional armor covered the weak points Stark had identified.
Their sensors were spread across several redundant systems rather than concentrated within the head.
One carried an external device designed to generate a localized anti-mutant field, while the other remained outside its range and provided covering fire.
They had learned teamwork.
That worried Steve more than any new weapon.
"Scott, hit the one in front! Keep it turned away from Jean!"
Scott rose and fired.
The red beam struck the lead Sentinel's shoulder, forcing it sideways but causing little real damage.
Jean seized the second machine with her telekinesis.
It resisted immediately, engines roaring as it fought against her grip.
Ororo sent a bolt of lightning through its damaged propulsion system.
Bobby froze the joints in its legs.
Weeks earlier, that combination might have brought it down.
Now, vents opened across the Sentinel's body, expelling heated air that shattered the ice before it could take hold.
The machine broke free of Jean's grasp.
A wave from the anti-mutant device struck the team.
Scott's beam vanished.
The ice around Bobby's hands crumbled into water.
The clouds Ororo had gathered began breaking apart.
Jean gasped and dropped to one knee.
Steve charged.
He could not destroy the Sentinel, but he could buy them time.
His shield struck its knee.
The machine barely moved.
One metal hand closed around Steve's body and lifted him from the ground.
His ribs screamed beneath the pressure.
"Captain!"
Jean tried to reach him with her power, but the anti-mutant field smothered it before it could form.
The Sentinel raised its other arm.
Its palm began glowing.
Steve brought his shield between himself and the weapon.
He knew it would not be enough.
A great silver shield slammed into the Sentinel's arm.
Metal folded beneath the impact.
The machine released Steve and staggered back.
He hit the ground hard, rolled, and looked up.
A white-armored knight stood between him and the Sentinel.
Sir Galahad held his shield before him, its surface untouched by the blast that had been meant for Steve.
"You appear to require assistance," Galahad said.
Steve dragged himself upright.
"Had it handled."
"I am certain."
The Sentinel attacked again.
Galahad met it directly.
His shield stopped the machine's fist without giving so much as an inch.
Steve moved beside him and drove his own shield into the damaged elbow.
The joint broke.
Scott's optic beam returned as the anti-mutant generator flickered, striking the Sentinel squarely in the chest.
Jean tore the device from its back.
Ororo called down lightning.
Bobby froze the exposed machinery.
The Sentinel collapsed.
The second machine turned to flee.
It had already learned what Galahad's arrival meant.
Yet Galahad wasn't a merciful knight, at least not one given to needless mercy, and certainly not toward a mere machine, something incapable of seeking forgiveness because it understood no guilt.
So, before it even had a chance to move, Galahad disappeared from where he stood and unleashed a clean, decisive cut with his sword.
He certainly felt the resistance; the sword failed to cleanly cut through the powerful metal of the enemy, but that didn't mean the Sentinel survived.
It merely meant that it was crudely torn in two, as if cut by a dull blade that caused the metal to distort and break violently.
The fight was over in moments. Galahad moved as if teleporting, and while the advanced systems of the Sentinels were able to detect his movements, being able to see him didn't make it easy to dodge.
No sooner had Steve stood back up, ready to fight again, than the fight was already over, and all that was left were the broken remains of the enemies and a handsome knight with a great shield.
Steve looked toward Galahad.
"How long have you been back?"
"Not long."
"And Arthuria?"
Galahad's expression remained calm, but pride entered his voice.
"The King has returned to Camelot."
The words traveled through the defenders faster than any formal announcement.
Soldiers repeated them.
Mutants passed them across their communications.
Enforcement Knights relayed them along the new defensive lines.
The King had returned.
Steve looked around at the exhausted team that had followed him across Albion for seven weeks.
For the first time since Plymouth, he allowed himself to believe they could stop moving.
Not forever.
Perhaps not even for long.
But long enough to breathe.
-----
At the coast, the few Enforcement Knights remained, their arrows filling the sky, trying to stop the Sentinels from moving past them, but there were simply too few of them and too many places the Sentinels could attack from.
Yet suddenly, all around Albion's coasts, golden portals appeared, and new Enforcement Knights stepped out and instantly took up arms, aiding their fellow knights in defending the realm.
The added numbers quickly reduced the cases of Sentinels breaking through, sharply reducing the number of new attacks across Albion for a while.
Chapter 378
As my knights quickly left and, with Wong and his portals' help, dispatched the Enforcement Knights, I too stood up from my throne.
Since everyone was busy, I walked alone, slowly making my way up the stairs of the great tower of my castle, the highest point not just in Camelot, but in all of Albion.
One step at a time, I ascended beyond the roofs of my people, beyond the highest trees and towers, and soon enough, I stepped out onto the open platform that rested at the top.
Up here, there was not a cloud in sight; I was both above the clouds and under them. From here, I decided whether there were clouds or not.
I was, after all, the Lord of Storms.
And a mighty storm was brewing in my chest, but I forced it down, not allowing it to manifest in the world, instead focusing my thoughts on the world below.
From here, I could see all of Albion laid out before me.
My eyes, enhanced by divinity, were able to take it all in.
I could see the smoke rising from burning towns in the distance.
I could see the columns of evacuees stretching down every major road, a river of desperate humanity flowing away from the coast.
I could see the flashes of light where my knights were now fighting, each flash a small, hard-won victory in a war that had already cost so much.
I could see it all.
The entire country was a battlefield.
I had spent my life fighting for this land; I had fought many different battles, but this was still different.
Those wars, those battles, had been for land and for people; a lord didn't kill unless forced to, because the reason he fought at all was for the people living on the land he was conquering.
Land itself was good and all, but no matter how rich it was in resources, how fertile the soil, without people to farm it, without people to mine it, it had very little true value.
Few lords could stop their armies from raiding villages, but I had never allowed such things; where my army went, there was never any of that suffering.
It was because of that that I so easily won the hearts of the people, because not only was I a knight, I demanded my entire army fight with the honor and nobility of knights.
The Sentinels, however, were beyond horrible; they cared not for land, not for people. They didn't want conquest; they sought only slaughter.
And perhaps worst of all, they didn't even take pleasure in it.
I had fought my fair share of villains who took pleasure in death and suffering; it was wrong, but it was... human.
But Sentinels were truly inhuman, unfeeling machines, though they were good at mimicking human behavior.
As I stood there, watching them, I saw something unexpected: teamwork.
There was a world of difference between coordination and teamwork; it might not seem like it, but there was.
A team could unleash far greater power than the sum of its parts, whereas coordination was just allowing each part to unleash its full power.
Teamwork required far more. It required a connection, a bond that went beyond just knowing one another, beyond even trust.
Teamwork required belief.
Could a robot believe?
I remembered Merlin; he often spoke about how experience was the best teacher, and difficulties the best whetstone.
Was this what I was seeing here? The struggle of the Sentinels forcing the AI to improve so much that it was evolving? Going from mere code into something with a soul?
It was ridiculous, an idea that I would have scoffed at before; but after this battle in Hell, I no longer dared to scoff at ridiculous ideas.
Because they might just be right.
Even so, even if this was some form of evolution, some miracle that granted a machine a soul, it didn't matter.
It was my people they were slaughtering.
And I would not allow that.
As I stood up there, watching my lands, my people, suffering, I made a decision.
This fight had gone on long enough.
-----
I raised my right hand and reached deep inside. I felt my heart pulse, like a slumbering dragon awakening, and winds picked up my hair and cloak, whirling around me.
All at once, the sun dimmed; it didn't set, nor did clouds cover it. Instead, it seemed to dim because another brilliant light filled the skies, a noble and sacred light.
With a pulse of my dragon core, my mana flooded me; my divine ether called forth this natural phenomenon. A god made her presence known, and the world itself responded.
From my raised hand, light flowed endlessly as my fingers slowly closed around the hilt of my divine lance.
"It is time to awaken, my spear."
A flash of golden light erupted as the tip of my lance revealed itself. It was like no other lance, no other spear, because it was no mere spear, no mere weapon.
Interwoven bands of light, formed of pure divine ether, covered it, starting from the tip and growing outward toward my hand, hiding the true appearance of this pillar of the world.
With the appearance of my lance, my divinity was fully unleashed; the shadow that was still human was bathed in divine light and hidden away, rendering what remained of me pure god, the Goddess Rhongomyniad.
Human emotion slowly drained from my face, leaving me to appear rather indifferent to the suffering of my people.
But that wasn't the truth, far from it.
Anyone who knew anything about gods, such as the Greek ones, understood one thing: gods could be petty and vindictive. They might appear uncaring, but they always cared about their pride.
And to attack my lands, to harm my people, was an insult of the highest order; it was an attack on my pride.
To them, it might have been a logical decision.
To me?
It was a slap in the face.
And for that, they would all pay.
I raised Rhongomyniad, the great spear that connected the planet to its reverse side, a weapon that could fully unleash divine power even in a world without divinity.
It wasn't a weapon designed to fight a single enemy; it was one that could change the very nature of the world, and its power could be adjusted, from merely destroying a nation to destroying the entire world.
I wouldn't do anything that extreme, but even a small fraction of its power was more than enough to deal with this war.
This weapon held many mysteries, but its most basic ability was a simple one.
It fired light.
The mightiest lance on the planet fired light at its enemies.
A simple but effective attack.
It could be fired like a beam, or as a wide-area explosion; or many smaller beams could be unleashed.
I could adjust its power, but the effect was still the same.
Light.
As I held my lance, I connected to my kingdom, the people, the very land itself, and saw all the enemies through it.
"Light, be released from the ends of the world!
Beyond the skies, upon the far side of the earth,
awaken, O wedge of light that stands at the boundary of creation!
Split the heavens! Tether the earth! Bind and silence the raging storm!
O anchor that fastens the world, shine forth from the furthest horizon—
Rhongomyniad!"
-----
From the heart of Albion, from the great tower of Camelot, a new sun appeared, as terrible as it was magnificent.
It shone brightly, as if trying to outcompete the faraway star of the solar system.
Then, it unraveled; it seemed to explode into thousands of fragments.
Except there was no grand explosion, no loud sound or shockwave, only light, stretching out far and wide, shooting across the sky like thousands of shooting stars.
These beams of light, each one the size of a great tree, traveled across the entire nation.
They crossed the length and breadth of Albion in a single, silent, glorious instant.
Down below, a Sentinel raised its arm to strike a downed mutant.
It never completed the motion.
A beam of light descended from the heavens and struck it, and the colossal metal construct vanished without a trace. There was no explosion. No debris. Not even a lingering speck of dust.
Its existence was simply... erased.
Another Sentinel charged across the countryside, chasing a convoy of civilians. Its processors were tracking every person, every vehicle, calculating the optimal path of destruction.
Then, a pillar of light fell upon it.
It, too, ceased to be.
The beauty of the display was matched only by the unrivaled power contained within.
The people of Albion all raised their eyes to the sky; they had seen this light before, once when Arthuria herself conquered this land, turning England, Scotland, and Wales into Albion.
Another time was when aliens rained down from a wound in the sky.
And now again, they understood the devastating power contained within that brilliant light.
And more importantly, they understood what its appearance meant today.
Now, even those who hadn't yet heard about the appearance of the missing Knights of the Round Table on the front lines understood one truth.
They all understood that their King was back.
Arthuria Pendragon, the Once and Future King, the Goddess Rhongomyniad, had returned to her home, and she was angry.
Yet to the people, this anger was a balm to their souls, as they knew this anger wasn't directed toward them; it was for them.
Their suffering had caused this anger, and this anger would avenge them.
Countless people fell to their knees and wept. Not out of fear, but out of relief, out of sheer, unadulterated joy.
For weeks, they had lived in fear, their homes destroyed, their loved ones lost, their future uncertain. They had fought, they had fled, they had survived.
They had waited, waited day and night for this to happen, and now, it finally had.
Those who remained standing began to turn back, retracing the roads along which they had fled.
No order had been given. No announcement had declared the land safe.
None was needed.
Their King had returned. Their god had raised her Lance over Albion.
What more could they possibly fear?