[The colossal stone fortress forged from bedrock loomed on the frontlines between the Kingdom of Camelot and the northern lands.]
[This was your second time arriving at this borderland adjoining the northern reaches of Britain. Unlike the first time, however, the one to greet you was not the heroic lord who had once stood against Vortigern's iron hammer, but a young man. He bore upon his back the heavy stone shield of Cardoc, introducing himself as Cardoc's son—Dagonet. You knew this name, for in later eras he would be counted among King Arthur's Round Table, not famed for valor but admitted as the 'jester' knight. Of course, in some later tales, Dagonet was not considered a true Knight of the Round Table at all, but merely Arthur's court fool.]
[Yet, seeing the way he carried the stone shield upon his back, you knew this youth was no weakling—his martial prowess approached that of his father.]
[According to Dagonet, his father had fallen on the frontlines just the day before. Now it was he who guarded the massive stone fortress—though it already stood on the verge of collapse.]
[From the highest point of the castle, one could see the Saxon hordes gathering ceaselessly from the north, and upon the lofty mountains a white dragon entrenched—its breath leaving behind vast scorched wastelands.]
[You and Morgan decided then and there to march to war—]
[With two thousand knights paving the road as a stairway, striking straight at the "Vile King," Vortigern.]
The rumble shook the plains as two thousand knights thundered forth from the great fortress, the rhythm of their charge resounding like thunder. Azure mana shimmered from every body, forming a sea-like brilliance. From afar, it was as though a vast ocean surged forward. The densely packed Saxons before them were cut down like grass before a raging storm.
Bedivere and Dagonet, two young knights, rode foremost, tearing open the enemy ranks with their charge.
The silver arm upon Bedivere's right swept wide, sword-wind forged from mana carving through the chests of Saxon warriors. Born one-armed, it was his teacher, the Grand Duke of Knights, Subotai, who had taught him the technique of mana release—refining his prana into a silver blade, forming a false "silver arm" where flesh was absent, swinging it as a weapon that unleashed devastating slashes.
Dagonet, too, raised the stone shield high, its surface bursting with blue sigils that deflected the hail of arrows.
The knights advanced in wedge formation, their steeds wreathed in radiant halos of mana, every hoofstep leaving glowing prints upon the earth.
The light of their swords resonated as one, forming a straight path of brilliance leading northward—stretching from the fortress of stone all the way toward the mountain where the dragon perched.
Knights at the flanks raised lances and shields to form a moving wall.
Every Saxon counterattack was beaten back; the knightly charge plowed through their ranks like a plow through straw mats.
For all their numbers, even under Vortigern's banner, the Saxons remained fractured—fighting as disparate tribes rather than as one host. In contrast, the Camelot knights fought in flawless unison, exploiting every gap, every weakness, their blades cutting the enemy forces apart like straw.
At that moment—
The white dragon upon the mountain opened its gaze, taking in the shifting tide below.
The Vile King, Vortigern, from atop the knights' carved road, beheld upon the fortress walls the figures of the youth and maiden who stood watching.
Then—
Still in his draconic form, Vortigern bared his fangs, his eyes blazing with rage.
"Once more we meet—Subotai Equinus!"
The dragon's roar thundered across the heavens, shaking the mountains, resounding like the earth itself in fury.
And as Lucan had foreseen, his wounds were not merely healed—he was stronger than ever.
This was natural.
Years of slumber.Years of silence.
As the Island Dragon of Britain, as the very will of the land rejecting the Celts, how could Vortigern simply surrender after one defeat? His nature was not that of a mere dragon among Phantasmal Species. As the very tendrils of nature, he possessed the ability to ceaselessly evolve, to grow ever stronger.
So long as the island endured—So long as Britain endured—He would never halt, never abandon his will to destroy Camelot and annihilate the Celts!
The skies darkened again, more deeply than before, the hue of the abyss spreading overhead as though to drag the firmament itself into the void.
Dragon's mana surged, spreading outward, once more corroding and assimilating the world.
Lucan and Morgan stood upon the fortress summit, their gazes meeting—then both moved at once.
Lucan strode forward—advancing along the knight-hewn road, mana surging upon him in brilliance, body-strengthening escalating in an instant.
"This time, I will not fall for your schemes, Subotai!"
Vortigern's colossal draconic body bellowed, spewing down torrents of azure flame. Stronger than before—flames that devoured, scorching reality itself, black fissures tearing open across space.
Yet Lucan strode onward, ignoring the encroaching white fire. Mana brilliance cascaded from him, weaving hundreds—thousands of spells at once.
Then—soft chanting rose behind him.
Morgan le Fay stood upon the fortress, raising her staff high.
"Water Mirror of Reversal!"
The incantation was swift, empowered by High-Speed Divine Words. In a single syllable, the shimmering water-mirror formed, standing before the dragonfire.
The white wyrm's golden pupils shrank—his flames absorbed.
And then—turned back upon him!
"The devouring water-mirror reversed."
This was a great spell Morgan had completed years ago—but one she had never shown Vortigern, not because she would not, but because she could not. Only as the Island's Ruler, borrowing the island's very mana, could she manifest it.
Now, as Island's Ruler, she tore away a fragment of the Island Dragon's authority itself!
"Then was then. Now—I will not merely watch, Vortigern the Vile!"
Her mystery had matured over years. Now she could stand against him on equal grounds.
Vortigern roared, smashing the mirror with his draconic hammer-claw. Blue fire burst forth, blooming into flowers—dreamlike gardens unfurled from the conflagration.
"Garden of Beautiful Dreams."
A perfected garden sorcery, modeled after Lucan's dark sorceries, rooting within the enemy and spawning endless illusions.
But this time—Vortigern was no longer the same. He compressed his form, his massive bulk shrinking, density and power concentrating—his body tougher, impenetrable, unyielding.
The island split beneath his claws, black fissures belching forth mana of the Age of Gods.
The skies inverted, the land fractured. The Vile King gathered divine fire in his chest—flames hot enough to incinerate thousands in an instant.
Last time, even Lucan had not withstood such fire.
This time—
Morgan released her staff, beginning a chant.
A name left her lips—one that widened the dragon's eyes in shock.
"—Rhongomyniad!"
Her staff blazed, transfigured into the holy radiance of a sacred lance.
The simulated release of the Anchor of the World itself—the true Holy Lance of the King of Knights.
It was no mere spell, but the simulated liberation of a Divine Construct!
As the pillar of light tore the skies apart, Vortigern realized—he was pinned, as before. Bound by the Holy Lance's power.
He could not flee.
The knights roared, their morale surging beneath the sacred light. The Saxons began to break.
Lucan strode to the mountain's base, facing the dragon.
Morgan's voice resounded:
"I am Morgan le Fay. Future King of Camelot, and the Savior Ash of today.
My warrior, Subotai—now, sever the dragon's head.
And open a new chapter for Camelot!"
The dragon leapt down, compressed into denser form, meeting Lucan head-on.
Lucan didn't care about anything else, He only knew that at this moment, he was... terrifyingly powerful!
Using infinite martial arts, he controlled a near-godlike body.
"Come—let us fight!"
Today.
With martial arts surpassing ages, he would slay the dragon, forging his arsenal into one.
…
Before the stone fortress, the king journeyed.He beheld the truth of Vortigern's fall.He bore witness to martial prowess beyond the ages.
—The Secret Histories of the Kings of Britain (Merlin's Account).