"That man's voice was exactly the same as the father in my memories."
After speaking, Gawain immediately looked at Agravain, seeing him frown deeply, as if pondering something.
"How strong was that man?" Agravain suddenly asked.
"His physical strength and agility were not remarkable, but his martial skills were exceptional—so exceptional that they compensated for his lack of natural ability," Gawain recalled slowly.
"He exchanged dozens of blows with me. In the end, I sensed that he possessed a terrifyingly powerful Noble Phantasm. To prevent him from endangering Camelot's defenses, I chose to abandon my pursuit."
"Oh?" Agravain shot Gawain a glance. "If that's the case, why didn't you say so earlier?"
"I didn't want to excuse my failure. Regardless of the obstacles, failing to preside over the Holy Sword ceremony is still my fault," Gawain sighed. "If the King deems such negligence deserving of death, I will gladly accept it."
"Foolish nonsense," Agravain scolded coldly after a brief pause. "Do you think that counts as loyalty to the King? Camelot needs every capable knight now. If you die over such an illusory sin, leaving the King with one less fighter, that would be your greatest failure."
"Perhaps you're right," Gawain admitted without argument, letting out another sigh. "But… little brother, if the Gareth I encountered truly came from another world, then… could it be possible that the stranger I fought was actually—"
"Do you even know what you're saying?" Agravain cut him off. "You think that stranger could be… our father from another world?"
"It isn't entirely impossible," Gawain replied.
"Don't be ridiculous," Agravain snapped. "With Father's accomplishments, he could never become a Heroic Spirit. You said yourself that man was formidable. Do you think our father could have lasted more than a few rounds against you as you are now?"
"…Maybe," Gawain murmured. "When Father died, I was far from being a competent knight."
"Listen. I know you respect him, but you need to remove your rose-colored filter," Agravain said coolly. "Father was an excellent ruler of his domain, yes. But as a warrior? Pathetic. That's why he died on the battlefield competing with King Arthur.
"You mean the man who told us before the battle that 'winning or losing doesn't matter,' and then got skewered by King Pellinore the very next day?" Agravain sneered.
"King Pellinore fought Arthur for dozens of rounds before barely winning by one strike. But when he met our father in battle, he killed him with a single thrust. If that's not proof of Father's weakness, I don't know what is."
Gawain was left speechless.
"And honestly, I'm not even sure Lot was truly our father," Agravain continued. "Morgan… that cruel, promiscuous woman. Both she and Lot had blue eyes, yet apart from Mordred, who's a half-sibling, the four of us have black or brown eyes. I've heard two blue-eyed parents can't have a black-eyed child. So who knows who our real father was?"
"…Sigh."
Gawain wanted to say more, but after hearing Agravain's words, his mood deflated, and he lost the desire to continue.
Perhaps Agravain wasn't as heartless as he seemed—he did care for his siblings in his own way—but he was always this infuriating.
"I'll return to my manor now and submit to house arrest. Take care of yourself."
With that, Gawain turned and left the royal court.
After he left, Agravain stood with arms crossed, his fingers lightly tapping his armoured arm as he pondered.
"A stranger from another world… with a voice like Father's? Seems yet another source of instability has appeared. I must prepare a countermeasure."
---
Meanwhile, none of what happened in the Holy City was known to Guinevere and the others. At that very moment, she was traveling with the Chaldean group, escorting refugees.
Thanks to Chaldea having more manpower than in the original timeline—Guinevere, Bavanzi, Gareth, and Mash all contributing Servant-level combat strength—they had acted swiftly. As a result, the casualties among the refugees were relatively low, with more than half surviving the massacre.
Though mourning their dead, the refugees were grateful to Guinevere and her companions. Yet unease lingered—why had these outsiders helped them? They were of a different race and could not be fully trusted, yet their strength was essential. Fear of being abandoned gnawed at them.
At this point, Bedivere, who had regained consciousness midway, spoke with the refugees and reached a simple agreement: the Chaldean group would escort them through the perilous wilderness to the mountain tribes, and in exchange, the refugees would help prove they were not spies from the Holy City, but allies.
"I've explained the terms I made with the refugees… I'm sorry. Did I act too much on my own? Perhaps your next destination wasn't even the mountains. Did I cause trouble?" Bedivere said apologetically afterward.
"No, not at all. In fact, you've given us a much-needed direction," Mash smiled warmly. "And we owe you our lives. Without your intervention, facing Gawain with his Noble Phantasm fully unleashed… we might have lost comrades."
"I only did what I should have done," Bedivere replied with a shake of his head.
"But you're a Knight of the Round Table, are you not?" Da Vinci asked. "Why side with us? Is it because you cannot bear to see your former comrades and the Lion King commit such atrocities?"
"You misunderstand, Miss Da Vinci," Bedivere said softly. "I wasn't summoned alongside Gawain and the others. I appeared here by chance and, upon hearing the tales of the Holy City, sought to enter Camelot to see… but I witnessed such horrors."
Lowering his head, he added sadly, "I don't know why Gawain did this, nor why the King commands such cruelty. They were once knights of pure honor. But if they have erred, then as their former companion, I must correct their mistake."
After a quick exchange of information, Chaldea welcomed Bedivere as a new ally.
During this time, Guinevere noticed Bavanzi had disappeared. Leaving the group, she soon found her surrounded by children—boys and girls alike, none of them even reaching Guinevere's waist.
"The red-haired sister is amazing! She knocked all those knights off the walls in an instant!"
"Are you an archer, sister? Where's your bow and arrows?" the boys asked eagerly.
"She's so pretty! I've never seen anyone so pretty before!"
"Is that jewel on your headpiece real? It's so shiny and beautiful!" the girls gushed.
Regardless of what they said, Guinevere could tell Bavanzi was on the verge of fainting—clearly unaccustomed to dealing with noisy children.
When she spotted Guinevere approaching, relief washed over her. She hurried to his side, and the children, whispering things like "Her boyfriend's here—don't bother her!" quickly scattered.
Yet Guinevere noticed they still sneaked glances their way. Among them was the boy named Lucid—whose mother Guinevere had saved earlier—watching with deep gratitude.
"Honestly… where is Artoria? Does she deal with this every day? I can't handle it. She needs to come back and take my place…" Bavanzi muttered, utterly drained.
Guinevere chuckled. "Artoria feels just as awkward with gratitude. It's something you get used to over time."
"No interest. Spending my life with noisy kids? Not happening," Bavanzi shot back immediately. "This is irritating and pointless. Artoria can have it. I want no part of it."
Still, Guinevere noticed her eyes lingering on the children. A trace of tsundere—hidden beneath her proud exterior. Cute, in its way.
Before he could tease her, shouts came from the refugee line: "Knights! Knights from the Holy City!"
"Why are they here? Are they coming to hunt us down?"
Guinevere and Bavanzi exchanged a glance—and rushed toward the commotion.