At dawn, when the first rays of sunlight pierced through the mist, the villagers had already awakened early. They stepped out from their simple stone-and-mud houses and began their day's labor.
The climate in this region was harsh. Within just two hours of the sun's rise, the heat had already become unbearable, its rays scorching down with the intensity of midday elsewhere. At the same time, the land was so barren that, no matter how hard the villagers worked, it was nearly impossible to harvest enough food to sustain their lives.
Just as the Hundred Faces had once lamented, food and water in these mountain villages were in critically short supply. Without a solution, it wouldn't be long before large numbers of villagers starved to death.
"Ah, how sorrowful… Look at their thin, withered bodies. Before long, they'll succumb to this cruel environment."
The red-haired Archer, who had come to this place, plucked his bowstring as if strumming a harp, releasing a few sorrowful notes.
"So, if I were to kill them all here, they wouldn't have to face such a cruel fate, would they?"
At the very moment his words fell, a farmer laboring in the field ahead suddenly lost his head and fell lifeless.
Soon, shrill screams rang out. Witnessing the villager's gruesome death, the others cried out in terror and fled the fields. Yet with just a few more strums of the bowstring, they too met the same end.
"…Honestly, even I'm starting to feel uncomfortable watching how indiscriminately you're slaughtering them."
Standing beside Tristan, Mordred rested the shining sword upon her shoulder, watching him mercilessly cut down the villagers with a hint of helplessness.
"Is that so? To be praised by you is quite the honor," Tristan replied with a gentle nod.
"No, wait, that wasn't praise at all!"
"Such things hardly matter." Tristan began walking. "Let's go straight to the village center and kill everyone here."
And so, bloodshed descended upon the village.
Before Mordred even had a chance to swing her sword, Tristan had already walked through the streets, plucking his strings as he went. One after another, villagers were shredded. His efficiency was so chilling that even Mordred clicked her tongue.
"Damn, this is boring. Are there only unarmed peasants here? Agravain clearly said some Servants should be stationed here to guard them. I thought I'd finally get to fight someone worthwhile."
She grumbled.
"Perhaps they went out hunting beasts nearby. With the village's limited food supply, the Servants may have needed to…" Tristan's voice suddenly cut off. His head snapped up, sharp eyes scanning the surroundings.
"…It's time to get serious. Looks like the enemy Servants have finally returned."
Even as he spoke, he jerked his head aside. An arrow whooshed past his cheek and slammed into the ground behind him, carving a crater several meters deep.
"It seems the opponent is quite the remarkable archer."
Murmuring, Tristan immediately turned to Mordred. "Mordred, it's your turn. I can't take this one alone. I'll cover you—go finish him off."
"What? Are you kidding me? You call yourself a Round Table knight blessed by the King, yet a single Archer shows up and you can't handle him? And now you want me to tag-team him with you? Have you no shame?"
"Spare me your cheap words. Whether he's just 'a single Archer' or not—why don't you test him yourself with your sword?" Tristan's tone was icy. "And hearing you talk about pride over removing obstacles for the King makes me want to kill you here and now. Mordred, are you truly worthy of the Round Table?"
"Shut it! I'm not like you," Mordred spat. "Listen up—I'll deal with that Archer myself. You stay out of it. A one-on-one fight is way more fun."
Without waiting for a reply, she charged toward the direction of the shot. In just a few strides, she was out of the village and bounding up the hillside.
"There you are! Hiding away, only shooting from afar—ugh!"
She blocked an arrow aimed at her tendons, sparks flying. Her temper flared. "Bastard! Aiming for my joints? Not bad. But you're dead!"
With a burst of crimson lightning, she lunged again, slashing at the hero who had just returned from his hunt—Arash. The two quickly locked into a fierce melee.
"Tch… Knights of the Round Table—and two of them, no less. That's a bit much," Arash muttered as he struggled to hold off Mordred's onslaught. "But… why were there no guards in the village? Where is everyone? I know Bavanzi went with the children this morning to explore… but Bedivere? He should've been inside…"
Before he could think further, another pillar of light tore through the mountainside, vaporizing a swath of rock.
"Damn it! Bastard, are you looking down on me?" Crackling with red lightning, Mordred roared as she barreled at him. "When you're dueling me—keep your eyes on me!"
"Ah, so it's the great hero Arash." Tristan spoke softly as he drew his bow. "I've heard reports of sightings before, but never managed to cut you down. To appear here of all places… how sorrowful."
Though Mordred had just forbidden him from interfering, Tristan nocked his bow nonetheless.
"He's troublesome. If left alone, he'll hinder our purge. Better to finish him quickly."
But before he could release a note, a silver arm slashed from behind. Tristan twisted and blocked with his bow, sparks flaring.
And then he saw the attacker's face.
"…As if in a dream. I never thought I'd meet you here as an enemy. How sorrowful, Bedivere."
"'Sorrowful'? No, what you've done is the true sorrow!" Bedivere snarled through clenched teeth, straining against Tristan's bow. "Why slaughter unarmed villagers? Has the Round Table sunk so low? Or is this the King's command?"
"Foolish," Tristan snapped back instantly. "Do you think knights of the Round Table never struck down innocents? Bedivere, you are gravely mistaken."
"In Britain, the merciful King did indeed urge us not to spread war to enemy commoners—but she never forbade it outright."
"You only ever saw her brilliance. You never understood her true terror." His voice grew sharp. "'The King does not understand the human heart.' How many times must I say it?"
"Silence!" Bedivere roared. His fury boiled over. With a burst of strength, he shoved Tristan back, then swung his silver arm behind him.
"Grant me your light, O Silver Arm! Devour my soul—dash forth, Silver Meteor!"
The words spilled quickly as his body surged forward, his silver arm trailing arcs of golden light.
But before he could fully unleash his Noble Phantasm, blood suddenly gushed from his lips. His stride faltered, his form collapsing mid-charge. Tristan merely stepped aside, and Bedivere stumbled, crashing to the ground.
"Pathetic. I don't know where you found that silver prosthetic, but the power clearly isn't yours. Forcing it only leads to this."
Watching him writhe, failing to stand, Tristan coldly raised his hand and plucked his bowstring once more.
"You must be one of the seven who struck the main gate before. No wonder Gawain's expression was so strange when he spoke of the attackers' identities. Ah… sorrowful indeed. To be forced to slay a comrade of the Round Table with my own hands…"
"…It almost makes me laugh."
He strummed, unleashing an invisible blade of air toward Bedivere's throat.
But just then, a blood-red arrow streaked across the sky and shattered it.
"Hm?"
Tristan frowned and turned. On the path leading from the village, a red-haired girl stood glaring at him with blazing eyes. Behind her huddled a group of terrified children.
"You bastard… how dare you? HOW DARE YOU?"
The villagers who had just yesterday thanked her with tears in their eyes, offering scraps of food as gifts, now lay in bloody heaps. Bavanzi's vision went scarlet.
That morning, the children had begged her to come find flowers with them, to lay at the graves of loved ones slain at the Holy City's gates. Unable to refuse, she had gone. But upon their return, they found the rest of the children's families slaughtered.
Gwenhwyfar's words echoed in her mind—his repeated warnings not to waste life, not to kill the innocent. She had never understood. But now, hearing the children sob behind her, she understood instantly.
"Oh, I remember you." Tristan tilted his head. "So you're one of them as well. Hah. I should've killed you earlier."
But then he smiled faintly. "No matter. Killing you now will suffice. But first… I should rid us of those brats behind you—"
Before he could finish, he suddenly leapt aside. The ground where he'd just stood exploded, shattered by another blood-red arrow.
"Well, well…" Tristan glanced at the ruined earth, then at the girl trembling with raging magic. His lips curved.
"…You're angry now, aren't you?"
"Round Table knight Tristan," Bavanzi said, her voice colder than steel, "today, you die here."