"You've got bad luck, meeting a Master like this."
Arthur's voice sounded behind Diarmuid.
How is it possible? A mere Caster surpassing a Lancer in agility?
With no time to think, Diarmuid spun around—only to see a twisted shadow.
The Shadow of the Dragon (Space).
This was a quest reward Arthur had earned by defeating a clone equal to his own strength. In other words, the potential of the skill [Dragon's Shadow (Space)] was, in some sense, equivalent to Arthur's own worth.
It allowed him to use shadows to transform shape, switch between offense and defense, and move through space.
So, even if his raw strength and agility were far inferior to Diarmuid's, Arthur could still elude his dynamic vision with bizarre, unpredictable movements.
And of course, there was more.
"If this is all you're capable of, then leave."
A strange black shadow wrapped around Arthur's right arm, instantly morphing into a ferocious claw.
Without warning, the monstrous claw—more terrifying than that of a dragon—swung down with brutal force.
Danger!
Diarmuid, guided by instinct, sensed the threat. He retreated at top speed and raised his shorter spear—the more flexible of his two Noble Phantasms—in defense. But he still underestimated the force behind the attack.
There was no sound. No debris. Nothing.
The Noble Phantasm Yellow Rose of Mortality (Gáe Buidhe) was sliced through like paper. No—more than that. It was as if it had no mass at all, shredded along with the ground by the Shadow Claw. The spear's fracture was unnaturally clean, like it had been forged to break in that exact place.
Even the torn cement beneath them had no gravel.
It was as if something had been... devoured.
"You—"
Arthur gave him no time to speak.
Diarmuid's dodge had been beautiful. He deserved praise for sensing danger so quickly and responding accordingly. But the dodge had created a fatal opening. Arthur's attacks weren't limited to just the Shadow Claw.
A moment later, whirlwinds surged in from every direction—low to the ground—blasting Diarmuid into the air and locking him in place mid-flight.
"Let this beam of starlight shine—for the prosperity of Britain, my will! Receive it now: Sword of Promised Victory (Excalibur)!"
Golden light gathered at Arthur's sides and then surged outward.
The inherent skill [Star Sword] activated.
The legendary Sword of the Stars had long since fused with King Arthur. Every movement of his body was now imbued with its brilliance.
So even if he wasn't a Saber-class, Arthur could still wield an A+-rank holy sword with ease.
A moment later, a red flash lit the air.
Golden light shot skyward.
Arthur smiled.
The first chess piece of the Holy Grail War had fallen.
Next—
Arthur turned, smiling faintly, to face the pair approaching from the far end of the battlefield.
"Welcome, Master of the Einzbern family. And... I've longed to meet you. At last—you, Princess Artoria."
Irisviel, still stunned by the brilliance of the holy sword, froze again.
The white-haired woman blinked in confusion, looking from Arthur to Saber, her expression caught somewhere between wonder and disbelief.
"Saber… is he your brother?"
"I don't remember ever having a brother. Don't be fooled, Eri." The blonde knight shook her head. "Who are you?"
"Huh? Wasn't that familiar over there watching the battle yours? Well, never mind. I'll say it again: I am King Arthur—Arthur Pendragon." Arthur remained calm as he added with a smile, "Hmm… Now that I see her up close, my sister really is the cuter one. I didn't think much of it before, but now I'm truly glad she gave up her knighthood."
Thinking fondly of his mage, Artoria, Arthur nodded in satisfaction.
He had to admit—even though Artoria wasn't a bad knight, her foundation was sound—regardless of how she changed, she was undeniably a rare beauty.
He used to believe that all Artoria's were more or less the same—whether knight or mage, there shouldn't be much difference.
But now, seeing them side by side, he could tell the difference more intuitively.
As a knight, Artoria was certainly beautiful. But her demeanor—serious, composed, and distant—created a sense of emotional separation.
As a magician, though? His silly little sister always wore a warm, sincere smile, like an ordinary young girl touched by Merlin's dreamy magic. Overall, she was incredibly lovable.
The contrast was striking.
Arthur suddenly looked at Artoria with an expression of regret.
What a pity. This child had grown up all wrong.
She could've become like Sister Morgan. But now… what a waste.
"Stop being ridiculous. You can't be—" Artoria glanced at Irisviel, who nodded in silent agreement, then stepped forward with a firm voice. "I am the true King Arthur. Artoria Pendragon!"
And with that, she became completely alert.
Before they had arrived, they had watched the battle through Irisviel's familiars. Lancer had been no weakling. Even without activating his Noble Phantasms, he was strong. If Artoria had faced him herself, she would have expected a drawn-out fight.
Yet this man—who called himself King Arthur and posed as a Caster—had defeated Lancer with overwhelming ease.
This man was powerful.
No... he was something else entirely.
The way he controlled the wind—more fluidly than a spirit's blessing—the bizarre spatial movement via shadows…
But above all, it was the Holy Sword of the Stars.
That light. That glow. It was unmistakable.
And yet… it shouldn't be possible.
She was King Arthur. Historically, only one person had ever wielded the Sword of the Stars—the very first King Arthur, mentioned only in Merlin's vague recollections. No one had seen him.
Unless...
Unless this wasn't about her.
Maybe... there had been another.
A thought lit up in Artoria's mind like a bulb.
"I know your true name," she said, pointing confidently at Arthur. "Your real identity is Richard the Lionheart!"
Yes, that had to be it!
If it were Richard I—now that would make sense.
Artoria remembered hearing of an English king who idolized her, who saw King Arthur as his greatest ancestor. But Artoria herself had no descendants. Even Mordred had been artificially created by Morgan, using her DNA.
So really—what kind of person confuses his ancestors?
Probably someone capable of anything.
Even taking a random flashy sword and insisting it was the Sword of the Stars—surely that sort of mistake would cause all kinds of confusion in history.
A sword like that would obviously be mistaken for the real thing.
Arthur: "…"
-End Chapter-
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