Camelot.
The largest and most fortified city ever built—home to hundreds of thousands of people—located at the heart of Great Britain…
It had grand and pristine walls that stood tall, encircling the entire city, protecting it from invaders, and with heavily fortified gates positioned at the four cardinal directions, people from all across the continent could come and go as they pleased, under the vigilant watch of the Knights of Camelot.
But now, the city that was once open to all who wished to visit—
"Fire──!"
—was under siege.
Balls of flame formed atop the city walls and launched into the distance.
Explosions echoed as the fireballs struck the earth, followed by the anguished cries of Demonic Beasts writhing on the ashen ground, trying to extinguish the flames consuming their bodies.
Back atop the walls, the man who gave the command wore a grave expression as he watched more Demonic Beasts surge forward. He was about to give another order when a voice suddenly called from behind.
"Commander!"
The commander turned to face the young knight who had shouted. The youth's face was ragged, and his armor was battered beyond recognition. The commander opened his mouth to speak—but the knight beat him to it.
"The North, East, and West Gates have fallen! The Demons have broken through!"
The commander's face went pale. He closed his eyes slowly, his grip tightening around his sword as he frantically considered their next course of action.
If all other gates had fallen, remaining here to defend the wall would be a futile effort. He knew that.
Yet still—
"Mages! Fire at my command!"
—he would stay and fight until his dying breath.
He turned once more toward the valley below, now teeming with Demonic Beasts, and gave the order:
"Fire──!"
Flaming projectiles burst forth again from the walls, striking the advancing horde. Many of the beasts were reduced to ashes on impact; others caught fire and screamed as the flames licked at their skin.
The mages did not stop. They continued casting whatever spells they could, felling hundreds of demons. But as time wore on, their mana waned, their strength fading.
The commander saw this and wracked his brain for a solution—until suddenly, the Demons stopped. Like hounds called back by their master, every single one ceased its advance at the same moment.
And then… silence.
The abrupt stillness unnerved the commander and all the soldiers atop the wall. They stood frozen, eyes fixed on the horde below.
Then, they noticed the sky darkening.
One by one, they looked up—and stepped back in fear.
Above them flew thousands—no, millions—of bats, blotting out the sun and casting the city into darkness. The commander didn't know how they'd gone unnoticed, but one thing was clear:
No one was leaving this battle alive.
————————————————
Ruins.
That was the only word she could use to describe what was left of Camelot.
As the woman scanned her surroundings, she couldn't help but smile in sheer glee. At last, she realized—
"I've won."
She said it to herself, continuing forward—toward Camelot's castle, her legion of Demonic Beasts trailing behind.
Camelot's Castle.
Once hailed as mankind's greatest architectural feat, now lay in shambles.
Its pristine white walls were shattered. The knights who once patrolled its grounds lay dead, their blood pooling beneath them. The once-lively corridors now stood as silent as the ocean's depths…
Footsteps echoed through the halls as a beautiful woman in a flowing purple dress walked gracefully forward. Her eyes glowed menacingly as she made her way to her destination—
The Throne Room.
After several minutes, she arrived at its entrance.
She didn't move to open it. The doors creaked open on their own—an invitation.
She entered with pride, chin held high, hands folded behind her. She took one slow step—
"Eck…!"
—and a sword pierced her chest.
Blood poured from her mouth as she stared, unflinching, into the clear blue eyes of the man who had struck her.
"Hello, Arthur. Still brutish as ever, I see," she said with a seductive smile, brushing his bloodied cheek with her cold, lifeless hand.
"Morgana…!"
Enraged, Arthur shouted, eyes bloodshot, as he pushed the blade deeper into her heart. Morgana only smiled, however—and with a flick of her hand, Arthur was forcefully hurled backward, landing exactly on his shattered throne.
Morgana then placed a hand over her wound and channeled Mana into it, healing herself completely.
And now that the nuisance was out of the way, she could finally take her time and observe the Throne Room….
It was a disaster.
Blood coated the walls. The floor was littered with corpses of armored knights. Hollow husks of mages stood stiff, dried and dusty, and at the room's center laid a headless body—clad in shimmering white armor—still clutching to its rapier.
"Lancelot," Morgana muttered as she approached her favorite puppet's corpse, and with an indifferent expression, she placed a hand on his back and whispered,
"Burn."
A spark ignited, the spark then erupted into frenzied flame, quickly consuming Lancelot's remains—leaving nothing but ashes…
She then turned her gaze to a corner of the room—there, the decapitated body of the woman who had birthed her laid…
Guinevere.
Morgana's face hardened as memories of her mother's unmatched cruelty surfaced. But she shook her head, quickly dismissing those thoughts.
It didn't matter anymore…
Guinevere was already dead.
Killed by her own husband.
And speaking of husband—
Morgana quickly raised a barrier, absorbing the full brunt of Arthur's sudden attack.
BOOM──!
A small explosion rang out as the two forces clashed, pushing Morgana back a few steps behind. She then smiled, grasped the blade of Arthur's sword—Excalibur—and whispered:
"Today is the day you die, you shriveled old King."
She then leapt back, creating a wide distance between them, and behind her, dozens of blood-red portals opened.
Hordes of Demonic Beasts poured from the portals, rushing towards Arthur…
He swung Excalibur with fury, mustering whatever strength he had left, cutting down all those who approached—but with his injuries from before leaving him weakened, it was only a matter of time till the old King fell…
Arthur slashed, cut, and thrusted his blade, dismembering any and all Demons that reached him, leaving piles of corpses around where he stood.
But even then, even after fighting with all the strength he had left, It didn't take long before the horde finally overwhelmed him…
"Goodbye, father."
….and King Arthur Pendragon, the Sacred Ruler of Camelot, the exalted wielder of Excalibur, lost his life…