Beryl soon found himself backed into a corner. What had already been a handful—dealing with the fairy knight Tristan—was now compounded by his own interference with Artoria and her companions. Although Oberon was hampered by poison, that only served to enrage both Artoria and Gareth all the more.
Even the looming threat of the Hand of Calamity had been entirely sidelined; Artoria and Gareth still struck at it occasionally to slow its regeneration, but most of their attacks were now directed at Beryl—after all, he was drawing far too much ire.
At this moment, Beryl was in a sorry state, bruised and bloodied: Tristan's mimicry of the "Fairy String" strike had completely severed the stump of his already injured arm, Artoria's magic pillar had charred half his torso, and even Gareth's great lance had crushed several of his ribs…
That he still lived was thanks in part to the relentless physical conditioning he'd imposed on himself back when he served as an assassin—and in part to his own knowledge of alchemy.
Even so, if he didn't think of something soon, Beryl knew he'd die right here. But he was by no means the sort to simply give up.
"Hey, hey, hey! You two little savior trainees over there—surely you don't want our moth-boy friend to die of poison, do you?"
With his remaining arm he withdrew a vial from his chest pouch and held it aloft, shouting out:
"This here is the antidote! Swap me just a moment of cover against that blazing Miss Spodumene, and it's yours!"
"Enough," Artoria cut in coldly, having seen through his lie with her fairy‐vision. "After all this, you still think some fake antidote will fool us?"
"Oh my, so perceptive! Do you happen to have a skill like 'Lie Detection'?" Beryl crooned—until Tristan's next attack nearly clipped his head, and he ducked away in a hurry. While dodging, he produced another vial and pleaded toward Artoria:
"This one's for real, I swear! Use it to buy me some time against that… difficult young lady over there!"
"Hmph. Another fake, I bet. Who do you think you're fooling now?" Gareth snorted in anger.
"No—that one really is genuine." Artoria paused, then said thoughtfully.
"Really? Well, do we actually want to block the fairy knight like he says?" Gareth blurted.
"No matter—once he's dead, the antidote is still ours." Artoria replied.
"What the—? That doesn't sound very… heroic, for saviors, does it? Last I checked, the Chaldea girl didn't talk like that!" Beryl howled.
"Chaldea? Never heard of her. What's she got to do with us?" Artoria shrugged.
"Hmph! Good choice, commoner," Tristan chimed in with delight.
"Okay, enough talk—how about this?" Beryl then hurled the 'antidote' forcefully in one direction.
"!" Artoria's eyes widened. "Gareth, catch it!"
Before she even yelled, Gareth dashed forward. The moment their attention was fully captured by the flying vial, Beryl slipped another potion from his pouch and smashed it at his feet.
"Stop him!" Tristan cried, firing a few magic arrows that punctured Beryl's body—but it was too late. The bottle shattered and released a thick, impenetrable fog that choked the air and concealed magic‐sensing in its depths, engulfing not only Beryl and his immediate surroundings but even Artoria and Tristan in the distance.
Fortunately, the mist was non-toxic—merely irritating enough to make one cough—and it masked Beryl's escape, allowing him to slip into the adjoining Norich district and vanish amid its twisting streets. Tristan attempted to pursue but soon had to give up after only two steps.
"Damn you, you bastard!" Tristan cursed, stamping her foot.
With the vial finally in Oberon's hands, Artoria and Gareth turned back to subdue the Hand of Calamity, keeping watch over Tristan as they did so.
"Oh, and you two—still staring this way. Any objections, commoners?" Tristan called out, her voice laced with annoyance.
Gareth glanced at Artoria, then quietly returned to fighting the Hand of Calamity without a word.
"I say, since that pest is gone, aren't you coming to help?" Artoria suddenly asked Tristan.
"Huh? But this was your accomplishment…" Tristan stammered, covering her mouth as if she'd almost let something slip. "Not—what I meant was, how dare you speak to me that way? Do you know who I am?"
"Of course I do—you're Queen Morgan's daughter, Fairy Knight Tristan, heir to the throne of Fairyland, right?" Artoria replied without hesitation.
"Oh, splendid—you do know. In that case—" Tristan began, until Artoria cut in:
"—you should be all the more obliged to defend your people and territory, shouldn't you?"
"Ah, yes, yes…" Tristan found herself unconsciously yielding to Artoria's pressure. Then, recovering her composure, she added, "Though you're but commoners, you've some nerve. Fine—I'll take your advice and help."
"That one never tires of talking, does she?" Gareth whispered to Artoria.
"Ignore her; she doesn't seem too bright. At least she's helping now," Artoria murmured.
"Hey! You two whispering back there—I can hear you!" Tristan snapped, anger flashing in her voice. Gareth and Artoria pretended nothing was happening.
Though they'd lost precious time, with Tristan's addition they soon regained the upper hand over the Hand of Calamity. Together, they finally crushed its remnants.
[After a grueling battle, you and Fairy Knight Tristan have defeated this calamity.]
[You've completed a crucial subjugation mission; your simulation rating has increased, raising your chances of higher-grade rewards at settlement.]
"Hooray! I can't believe we actually won!" Gareth leapt up first, cheering exuberantly as the dark silhouette disintegrated into dust.
"Indeed—a rare and glorious victory, especially since we suffered no casualties and protected Norich from destruction as in the legend. Truly remarkable! You deserve our applause." Oberon clapped wearily but with genuine warmth.
"Oberon? Are you fully recovered?!" Gareth cried, and even Artoria's lips curved into a relieved smile—until she saw Guinevere still unconscious at her side, and the smile vanished.
While Gareth basked in triumph, Artoria knelt beside Guinevere, pouring healing magic into her battered body. The more she healed, the more tears welled in her eyes.
"This battle cost Guinevere greatly. We can't stay in celebration—we must first heal her wounds," Oberon cleared his throat. "But before that, there's one more matter."
He turned his gaze back to Tristan.
"Fairy Knight Tristan, thank you for your aid in this battle. Thanks to you, our victory was safe and sound. We are deeply grateful."
"Hmph, no need to thank me. Though it's my first time joining forces, I can't complain. As a commoner's perspective, you did fine—credit where it's due." Tristan's tone was as haughty as ever, but Oberon's smile remained unshaken.
"I'm surprised. I thought, as heir to the throne, you'd be hostile toward the Chosen One. Perhaps I was narrow-minded. May I understand that you support us?" Oberon asked carefully.
"Support you? Support this impostor? Laughable—don't be mistaken." Tristan sneered.
"This was merely a diversion, and kept my lands safe. I have no intention of killing you now—consider that mercy. But I do commend you for knowing who I am."
"This one's insufferable… can I insult her?" Gareth whispered to Artoria.
"Shh—she can hear you," Artoria put a finger to her lips.
Tristan, catching their exchange, shifted her gaze back to Oberon.
"Oh, but you're right—you should be grateful. Since I've protected my people, it's only fair they offer tribute."
"Hmm…" Oberon's voice lengthened ever so slightly, though his expression stayed calm. "What tribute do you request?"
"My demands are modest. Considering you're just lowly non-elf commoners, I won't ask for moondust or anything you can't produce. Just bring me that man over there as tribute."
She pointed to Guinevere lying nearby.
"He seems… interesting enough to keep me entertained."
"Enough! Don't get cocky—" Artoria's temper flared at Tristan's words.
"Hey, hey—Artoria, calm down! We don't need to make an enemy of her now. We've just been through a major battle; none of us are at our best, and we can't defeat her." Oberon urgently signaled to Artoria, but she ignored him.
"So you'd steal my man? Fine—come at me. Let's see if you can hold your own!" Artoria challenged, brandishing her staff.
"…We're doomed." Oberon buried his face in his hands, already picturing his team's annihilation by Fairy Knight Tristan.
Yet, Tristan's response stunned him:
"Very well. I won't take advantage of you now. Recover for a few days, then return for a proper duel to decide the fate of this man."
She offered Artoria a slight nod.
"I look forward to it, Chosen One."
Then she strode away.
"…Is she really Fairy Knight Tristan? The one who built a national killing arena in her realm? The infamous Tristan of Britain? Have we made a mistake?" Oberon scratched his head in bewilderment.
Even more bewildered was Guinevere herself. After blacking out on the battlefield, she'd only just regained consciousness to read this message:
[Fairy Knight Tristan will duel the Chosen One Artoria today to decide your fate.]
"Huh? What's going on?" Guinevere gasped.
"How many versions did I miss?"