"Brother, there is something I feel I must tell you."
Just as Gawain began, Agravain interrupted sharply:
"Do not call me brother. We are still within the Royal Court. Address me by my title—call me Assistant, Sir Gawain." Then, coldly, he added,
"Besides, even when we were alive, you hardly ever called me that. With your nature, you surely aren't trying to play the family card just to lighten your punishment, are you?"
…Stunned by Agravain's words, Gawain sighed. "Of course not. It is only because I encountered someone—no, two people—who concern me deeply, and I wish to consult you…"
"But before that, since Sir Gawain has committed an offense, should we not first determine his punishment?" A voice interrupted. Both Gawain and Agravain turned toward the source and saw that, at some point, the great doors of the Royal Court had opened and a red-haired knight had stepped inside.
"Ah… I am truly saddened. That Sir Gawain would commit such an error—it is so unlike him. Truly heartbreaking."
"Ha. Could it be he spared them again? After all, Sir Sun Knight is ever so gentle." Another voice sounded from the other side of the hall. Only now did Gawain notice—there were others already present.
It was Mordred, the Rebel Knight. He had no idea when she had arrived, but she had been here all along.
"This is hardly gentleness, Mordred," Tristan interjected coolly. "This is disrespect. The holy selection is the king's command; to fail in it is a capital offense even for a Knight of the Round."
He turned back to Agravain.
"There is no need to wait for the king's judgment. Shall I carry out Sir Gawain's punishment myself?"
"Wait, isn't that too much? Punishment is one thing, but do we really need to behead him?" Mordred frowned.
"That is precisely why I say, Mordred, that you do not understand the king at all," Tristan replied, still with eyes closed. "Would you have the king personally sever the head of a Knight of the Round? Such a sight would be… apocalyptic."
Turning to Gawain, he added,
"I am very sad. Truly sad. But for the king, I must end the life of a friend with my own hands. You understand, don't you, Gawain?"
Feeling Tristan's very real killing intent, Gawain realized he was not jesting. This memory brought him back to the moment he had first been summoned to this singularity, when the king had laid out her full plan for the Holy Selection. She had given each knight a day to choose: remain loyal and assist her, or reject her plan for the sake of chivalry and conscience.
That day, while walking in the wilderness, Gawain had found Tristan sitting on a cliff, lost in thought. Tristan had spoken then—perhaps to Gawain, perhaps to himself:
"I can understand—the king's choice is correct.
With human order incinerated and the world collapsing, we have no other option.
But still, I cannot bear it—cannot bear to see the Knights of the Round turn on one another.
So I will seek the king, to grant me relief from this pain.
Gawain, when next we meet, I may no longer be the man you knew… but something else entirely."
At the time, Gawain had not understood.
Not until he learned of the blessing the Lion King had bestowed upon Tristan: "Reversal."
This blessing inverted everything about him—what he once feared, he feared no longer; what he once held dear, he abandoned completely.
Thus, the sentimental and deeply emotional Tristan ceased to exist. What remained was a cold, merciless executioner who obeyed only the king.
Gawain's thoughts broke off as he saw Tristan draw the demonic bow Failnaught. Gawain sighed softly and nodded.
"Indeed. Before the throne, my blessing would be nullified. Since I erred, you may take my head."
"No. Wait. Put the bow away, Sir Tristan."
Agravain suddenly interjected. "It is difficult to imagine Sir Gawain being repelled by mere refugees. He must have faced an unforeseen situation. Depending on the details, his punishment might be lessened."
He turned to Gawain.
"Well? The attackers at the gate—they were not mere refugees, were they?"
"No… nothing worth reporting," Gawain shook his head. "Just a few unknown Servants who slipped into the Holy Selection. Hardly a threat. I merely faltered and failed to fulfill my duty. I will accept punishment."
"Stop taking all the blame yourself, Gawain. Do you truly wish to die?" Agravain said coldly. "How many Servants? Speak clearly."
"Seven," Gawain admitted. "They were weak—unremarkable. I could have destroyed them all."
"I see. Then the situation is clear," Agravain said, turning to Tristan and Mordred. "If seven Servants were involved, it is no wonder Sir Gawain failed to annihilate all the refugees. His punishment should be lighter."
"Hah? Really?" Mordred drawled. "Seven doesn't sound like that many. And Gawain himself said he should have been able to kill them all. Agravain, are you covering for him?"
"Indeed," Tristan nodded. "Yet I find it hard to imagine the 'Iron Agravain' covering for anyone. He is the coldest of us all."
"Fools," Agravain said coldly. "Gawain is crucial to our forces. Our plan is not yet complete. Would you truly execute him for failing to singlehandedly crush seven Servants? Our strength already barely surpasses that of the Mountain People and Egypt. We cannot afford such waste."
Just then, a calm voice rang out from the depths of the throne room.
"So noisy. Is this a war council for the desert campaign, Agravain?"
At that voice, every knight froze before kneeling as one toward the figure emerging from the shadows—a ruler clad in pure white, face hidden by a lion mask.
"To summon you at this late hour shames us, my king," Agravain said first. "O Lion King, your reign tolerates no blemish. Please regard this disturbance as but an error to be corrected."
"There is no need for flattery, Agravain. I have merely come to hear my knight's report."
The Lion King looked upon them, then fixed her gaze on Gawain.
"What has transpired, Gawain? Speak fully."
"Forgive my insolence," Gawain bowed. "I executed the Holy Selection as commanded, finding three worthy candidates. Two are under our protection. But while retrieving the third, I was obstructed by foreign intruders.
Through my failure, the third candidate and many refugees were taken, and many Purification Knights slain. I alone am at fault. My life is yours to judge, my king."
"I see. Then raise your head, Gawain. Your knees, however, may remain."
The Lion King lifted her hand, magic surging around her fingers—until Agravain suddenly spoke:
"My king, allow me to add—Sir Gawain faced not one but seven Servants. I, too, failed to foresee such odds and provide him sufficient support. If you must punish him, punish me as well."
"Ah, is that so?"
The Lion King lowered her hand, dispersing the gathered magic. She shook her head toward Gawain.
"Why conceal such a fact? With seven Servants opposing you, incompetence cannot be blamed."
"Shame on me, my king," Gawain said, still bowing. "But they were no strong foes. Their power was beneath mine, blessed as I am. I misjudged. The fault is mine. Please punish me."
"I see." The Lion King nodded lightly.
"Then you shall be confined to your quarters for three days. Agravain, for the next selection, station greater forces at the city gate."
"To be treated so kindly… I am unworthy," Gawain said. But before he could offer further self-reproach, Agravain cut him off:
"The king is wise and generous. I shall see her command fulfilled."
"Then this council is concluded," the Lion King said. "Mordred, who allowed you in the city at night? Return to your lands."
"Fine, fine. I'm going back to the wilds. Leave the defenses to me, Father!"
She sounded happy—even being dismissed seemed to please her, so long as she could speak with her king.
As her figure vanished, Agravain hesitated, but refrained from speaking on her behalf. The king had already been lenient with Gawain.
"The refugees matter no more," the Lion King said. "They will face only extinction.
What remains is to await our battle with the Sun King. When the Knight of the Lake returns triumphant, the decisive clash shall begin. Until then, wait."
With that, she withdrew into the depths of the court.
Soon, only Agravain and Gawain remained. Agravain turned to him.
"Now, brother, tell me what you meant to say earlier."
"Hm?" Gawain blinked. "But you just…"
"That was formal business. This is private. But if you prefer titles, so be it."
"No… Brother is fine."
Gawain softened. In life, he had not noticed—but now, long after death, he could see it.
"Then, what is it?" Agravain pressed. "I hope it is no trivial matter."
"Among those who opposed me were several foreigners calling themselves Chaldeans," Gawain said. "They may be the 'foreign stars' foretold to bring misfortune."
The prophecy had appeared recently in the Holy City:
"When foreign stars shine, the white alliance shall crack.
The king's light shall be shrouded. The tower of divine mandate shall crumble."
Brief, but ominous. Agravain had been searching for these "foreign stars" since.
"Yet perhaps they are not the true foreign stars," Gawain continued. "I met two others. One was Gareth."
"Impossible. Have you lost your senses?" Agravain said coldly.
"She died by your hand in our battle with Richard. And she supported the king. If alive, why join Chaldea against us?"
"That is the issue," Gawain replied. "The Gareth I met was not our sister, but one from another world—one with different history."
"Another singularity… another history…" Agravain murmured. "Then the foreign stars may indeed be them."
"But there is one more," Gawain said. "A man who said to me… 'You cannot win.' I did not understand."
Agravain fell silent. "Those were the last words spoken before that man faced King Arthur in battle."
"Yes. And more—his voice was the same as… our father's."