All of a sudden, the endless torment seemed to fade.
Though the pain was still inhuman, the red‑hot spike driven into his brain felt as if it had shrunk by half, reducing the unspeakable hellish agony to something Guinevere could barely endure. Compared to before, he even felt a strange sense of relief.
At that moment, the face that had been twisted in pain suddenly relaxed. A deep exhaustion welled up from the depths of his soul. His body went limp, his hands that had been clutching his head lost strength, and he collapsed onto the heap of flesh beneath him.
The soulless mass of meat writhed, trying to swallow him whole, but each time the proliferating flesh touched the faint trace of mad flame on his body, it was instantly incinerated.
"Why…"
Guinevere murmured, confused as to why the torment had suddenly diminished—until he realized something was beside him.
Not a human presence. Rather, a towering, broad figure loomed at his back, supporting him, lowering strong arms to shield him, taking upon itself half of the anguish surging through his soul.
You are…
Through his haze, Guinevere leaned against that presence.
Time lost meaning. The burning torment of the mad flame stretched each second into a century. But then—suddenly—the pain from the depths of his soul went still.
Why? Had his soul grown accustomed to the flame? Had his senses been broken beyond repair? Or had his body finally been remade as a vessel for chaos fire, making the pain bearable?
The agony had not vanished completely, but halved again from what it was, until it was no worse than the pain of being consumed by ordinary fire. For Guinevere, this felt like blessed rain.
After all, mere flames scorching his flesh were nothing compared to when he had once unleashed heavenly fire. Now, it was endurable.
At last, he found the strength to open his eyes and sense the world again.
But as soon as he did, something felt off… as if the world before him was veiled beneath a filter—a film of seething, chaotic fire. Golden flames twisted in his vision, unquenchable.
Guinevere frowned, lowering his gaze to a pool of blood before him.
In its reflection, he saw himself—and the golden fire swirling in his left eye. In that eye, the flame flowed slowly, radiating an occasional aura of dread.
"…So the mad flame has lodged itself in my eye?"
He staggered back a step, only to collide with something solid as steel.
Startled, he turned—and there squatted a towering, black form. Its body was covered in scales like high‑tech metal, glowing faintly red. A long tail coiled at its side, and atop a slender neck, a sharp dragon's head gazed down at him.
"…Lancelot?"
Guinevere froze, recognizing the dragon who should have been soaring in the skies—the Realm Dragon. Yet in his eyes, it held no savagery. Instead, he felt a faint intimacy. And with it, a sense of an unseen bond linking them.
Focusing on it, he soon understood: this bond, forged without his knowing, connected him and the dragon.
His eyes lingered on its head, on the right eye burning with chaotic flame.
"…So it was you. You shared the flame with me, bore half the pain, helped me endure."
He sighed, gazing into the dragon's eyes, filled with complex emotion.
"Why would you go so far?"
He knew now what this bond was: a pact.
A shared soul. Shared pain. Shared life. Shared fate.
Which meant that once Guinevere defeated Cernunnos, once his reason to fight was gone, the effect of Returning to the Sun would claim his life—and with it, Albion, the Flame Calamity, would perish too.
The dragon only answered with a low growl.
Through their link, Guinevere understood: the growl meant nothing at all. The dragon lacked true intellect; it could not comprehend his words. It merely sensed his intent to communicate and replied with meaningless sound.
Understanding this, Guinevere stood silent for a few seconds, then gave a twisted smile, half bitter, half helpless.
"…So be it. Since you've come this far, I can't refuse you anymore."
He reached out, stroking the sharp scales on its head. The dragon lowered its head into his palm, shifting slightly so he could pet it.
In truth, touching the dragon's armor surprised him. The scales, though looking like cold, unyielding metal, were slightly pliant. Warmth radiated through them, as if from an inner furnace. The texture was unexpectedly pleasant.
He soon withdrew his hand, patting its head lightly.
"Enough. Since it's come to this, let us fight together."
He stepped back, placing a hand on the dragon's serpentine neck, then leapt up onto its back, seating himself between neck and wings.
They were not feathered wings, but more like the jet‑like thrusters of a machine, with vents at their ends.
"Alright."
Settled on its back, he patted the long neck.
"Let's fly, Lancelot… no."
He shook his head, correcting himself.
"Melusine. Let's soar together to the end."
Though it could not understand his words, the intent flowed through their pact. The dragon lifted its head high, loosing a piercing cry. From the thruster‑like vents, torrents of magic roared, launching it skyward.
In the blink of an eye, the dragon broke the sound barrier with Guinevere astride.
Had he not possessed the physical might of a top‑tier Heroic Spirit, his spine would have snapped from the acceleration. But with such strength, to ride a dragon was nothing short of exhilarating.
Racing through the sky, winds shrieking past his ears, the endless sea of clouds surging below—though his life was nearing its end, Guinevere's heart surged with fierce elation.
That elation grew wilder in the roaring wind. He burst into laughter.
"Ha ha ha! So this is what it feels like! No wonder becoming a dragon knight is the dream of so many heroes!"
"Glorious! Exhilarating!"
"To ride you into death—it would not be in vain!"
Lowering his gaze, he looked again upon Cernunnos.
Deprived of the dragon's bombardment, the flames no longer contained it fully. Its ruined body had regrown, now nearly two‑thirds restored.
But from the sky, its massive body seemed almost small.
"Hah. From up here, it doesn't look so invincible after all… Then let's begin."
He chuckled, then his expression hardened. He raised the Knight Sword of Caria. Warped by the mad flames, it was scarcely recognizable as a sword.
"This will be our final strike."
The endless pain surged again from his soul, drowning his senses. At the same time, golden fire flared upon the blade.
"In this moment, I load my life into the chamber."
The dragon, too, turned downward toward Cernunnos. Its chest split open like a machine, revealing a spear‑like weapon within, brimming with violent magic.
"Brahma's Hundred Beasts, descend upon me."
With his chant, the frenzied flames of chaos surged higher upon his sword, spreading until they engulfed both man and dragon.
"Demonfall into the Abyss, Salvation Unsheathes the Blade."
The seething fire burned even space itself, expanding outward, stripping away the right to exist. Air dissolved into vacuum, currents howling around them, crowning them as kings of the sky.
At last, his chant reached its end.
"For the one I love, I offer my life."
Lifting the sword high, Guinevere roared:
"No—the Mad Flame, UNSHEATHED!"
And so the golden meteor of flame, with the might to annihilate all, plunged down from the heavens toward Cernunnos, tearing sky and storm as if the heavens themselves had fallen.