The wind howled as two figures, too fast for the eyes of ordinary men, carved deep scars into the earth with every clash. The ground beneath them cracked and splintered, spiderweb fractures spreading outward in all directions.
Each collision unleashed a storm of force, violent enough to uproot trees and churn the air. Lancelot's expression, which had begun as calm and serious, gradually shifted to something more solemn. And if one looked closely, there was even a trace of surprise in his eyes.
So strong…
My king from another world is truly strong!
Though such a thought might seem like a slight against Artoria, from Lancelot's own perspective, the Saber standing before him was far more formidable in battle.
It wasn't just a matter of raw attributes, but of mentality as well. This Saber bore the perfect qualities of kingship, qualities that Artoria, in her prime, only partially embodied.
Cruelty hidden within kindness. Decisiveness behind perseverance. Beyond a faint trace of innocence, everything about this Saber differed from the King Arthur engraved in Lancelot's memory.
He had descended into this world as a Berserker. The loss of his berserker enhancement had been offset after changing Masters, and while his stats would soar if he fully unleashed his Noble Phantasm, in the end, he was no Saber.
That innate advantage, the "Saber class correction" could never be taken from this opponent. Because of that alone, Lancelot now stood as an equal at best. Even though his exquisite swordsmanship allowed him to keep the upper hand for a time, Saber was closing the gap with frightening speed.
Not because Lancelot wavered in his will to atone for his sins, but because it was an undeniable fact.
As steel screamed against steel, Lancelot lunged like a bolt of lightning. Tilting the magic sword slightly back, he thrust it forward toward Saber, then used the momentum to deliver a brutal downward slash.
Saber's battlefield-honed skills were exceptional, but in Lancelot's eyes, there was still a flaw. If this strike landed, Saber would be cleaved in two.
Yet his blade never reached its mark.
The shimmering edge, dazzling as a rippling lake, collided with the holy sword its brilliance sealed within a conceptual scabbard. Majestic wind magic burst forth, spiraling and entwining into a storm of pure white that threatened to engulf everything.
Unable to fully parry Lancelot's strike, Saber did not twist away from the fatal blow. Instead, maintaining the flow of his retreat, he released all his magic power in an instant. The Wind King's barrier flared violently, and together with his body and blade, Saber spun like a tempest.
The sword danced in merciless arcs, whipping out roaring gusts of wind. The holy blade in Saber's grip bent the very air, redirecting the current into a raging tornado that consumed everything in its path.
Once again, Lancelot was forced to retreat. Though he told himself to be cautious under such constrained circumstances, he had no choice but to leap back.
"Are all those who can release mana burst such monsters? They unleash explosion after explosion, yet they're not even winded."
That skill, Mana Burst, held an extraordinary position. One could be strong without it, but those who possessed it could never be weak.
It seemed a simple technique: flooding the body and weapon with magic power. But simplicity, taken to its peak, became overwhelming. To wield it without tearing oneself apart required a body monstrously strong in the first place.
Against a gap in raw stats, Mana Burst was a compensatory tactic. But when the attributes of both sides were nearly equal, it became the ultimate deciding factor.
"Haa—"
Saber exhaled deeply, not pausing for even a moment. His heart, the core of his magical furnace pounded, pumping torrents of magic through his body, restoring his strength at lightning speed. Ever since Irisviel had become his Master, his fighting style had grown more extravagant, more daring.
Looking at Lancelot with clear, unwavering eyes, Saber spoke calmly:
"Sir Lancelot, you are truly formidable. Once, I could have fought you for an entire day without rest… but now shall we end this?"
"Though your mastery surpasses mine in close combat, we cannot settle this in a short span. If we truly wish to decide a victor, we must reveal our True Names… and unleash our Noble Phantasms."
"Your Master has abducted mine, but judging from what I know, he likely bears no ill intent. Thus, I have no desire for a battle to the death at this moment."
No ill intent?
Lancelot gave a bitter smile. His contact with Roland had been limited, yet he felt some measure of gratitude toward the man. But he also understood this much: Roland cared nothing for his life or Saber's. His Master merely wished to witness what would unfold from their clash.
To see change. To see enlightenment. To see death and entertainment.
From that perspective, Roland truly bore no malice. In a sense, he treated them equally.....
....like meat destined to rot in the same pot.
"My lord," Lancelot said, his voice heavy yet solemn, "though fair and honorable duels such as this are rarer than miracles, I am willing to accept a temporary truce. But before that, I have one question."
Saber inclined his head slightly. "Speak."
"My wish… is to die by your hand. To receive the punishment I deserve." Lancelot's voice trembled with a fervent devotion. "So tell me, what is your wish? What desire could be so unbearable that it brought you here?"
"I want to save my homeland," Saber answered, her voice tinged with sorrow yet firm with resolve. "To save Britain."
"…"
Even prepared as he was, Lancelot still reeled at that naive declaration.
"You would… deny the history that has endured from past to present?"
"I take no joy in it. But I must save my homeland. To prevent that blood-soaked tragedy from happening again… to keep that hell from returning… I must."
Ah… the rightful king. The perfect king. The selfless monarch who bore every burden, the shining ideal of knighthood the king they worshiped, the sovereign for whom they would gladly lay down their lives.
Centuries had passed. This was a king from another world. Yet that nobility still commanded reverence.
Lancelot did not believe such an ideal could lead to a proper outcome. But if this was the choice of King Arthur, then he would gladly offer up his blade once more.
For no one who had not witnessed Britain's agony could ever truly understand.
The despair of watching the once-glorious kingdom wither away, destroyed by Arthur's cruel but necessary judgment, and by the venomous whisper:
"King Arthur never understood human nature."
"If the king wishes to do it again," Lancelot murmured, "perhaps that would not be so bad…"
His fighting spirit ebbed, his blade drooping slightly. Saber, surprised by such candid approval, smiled softly a warm, almost human smile.
"Thank you, Sir Lancelot. If even you agree… then I am not mistaken. Perhaps it should never have been I who drew the sword…"
"…What did you just say?"
Lancelot's head snapped up. His pupils burned scarlet. Madness and murderous intent erupted from his body like a storm.
Not Arthur… not the rightful king…?
No. Impossible!
King Arthur had done no wrong. It was we, the pathetic knights who had failed him.
"How dare you… HOW DARE YOU DENY EVERYTHING KING ARTHUR ACHIEVED!"
The frenzy that had faded now roared back with tenfold fury. Though the strength he regained was far from his peak, it was enough to drown him in madness.
Britain could be rebuilt, but King Arthur's choice could never be overturned.
History could be rewritten, but the legend of the King must never vanish.
Even if someone tried to deny that history of King Arthur, he himself would never allow it!
In Saber's startled gaze, Lancelot let out a blood-chilling roar and charged forward, his sword howling with murderous wrath.
"A KING LIKE YOU, WHO DOESN'T UNDERSTAND HUMAN NATURE, I WILL SHOW IT TO YOU!!!!!"
"ARTHUR!!!!!!"