Darlington stared at the aftermath of the battle and felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Shock.
And beneath it, something else. Something warmer.
Inspiration.
His mind that brilliant, calculating, hungry mind began to dissect everything he had just witnessed. Every movement. Every technique. Every choice that had led to this moment.
"One had the ability to move his body beyond anything humanly possible," Darlington murmured, his eyes fixed on the space where Zeraled had ceased to exist. "To make attacks that were precise and deadly. Simultaneous. Overwhelming."
He replayed the fight in his mind every stab, every dodge, every moment.
"He is basically what you would call a perfect weapon." Darlington's voice grew more animated as the analysis took hold. "Using his body like a weapon his hands functioned as blades for long-range attacks and also for short-range combat. They served as defense too, since his lower limbs weren't as strong as his upper body. Those were mainly for movement fast maneuvering, skillfully outmaneuvering his opponent."
He paused, a strange smile crossing his face.
"If he had been born in a modern world, with a body like that and skill like that..." He laughed softly. "Legendary boxers would have been forced into retirement. All of them."
He shook his head in wonder.
"Interesting. Really, really interesting."
His eyes narrowed, the analytical part of his mind taking over completely.
"This natural talent can be replicated. It's truly possible." He looked toward the black orb that held Lancelot. "If Lancelot were to gain something similar to this this fighting style, this approach it would become a massive advantage for him in battle."
He thought about Lancelot's current fighting style. Skilled, yes. Deadly, certainly. But rigid. Bound by the traditions of Camelot, by the expectations of knighthood, by the rules of combat.
"Because, I would say..." Darlington smiled. "Lancelot is like an ever-molding clay."
His attention shifted to Percival.
The knight knelt in the blood-soaked sand, his hands covering his eyes. His body was broken the sword still in his chest, ribs shattered, internal bleeding, more wounds than Darlington could count. But he was moving.
Slowly. Painfully. Determinedly.
His eyesight was returning.
Not fully. Not clearly. But returning. Percival uncovered his eyes and blinked at the world, and what he saw was... strange.
Everything was like water. Colors mixed together the red of blood blending with the grey of sand, the silver of armor merging with the black of the orb. It was as if someone had taken the world and dissolved it, leaving only impressions and suggestions of form.
Yet Percival moved.
He adapted.
Even with his damaged vision even with the world a swirling mess of color and confusion he was able to decipher his surroundings. A bit. Enough. He saw the black orb where Lancelot was trapped, a darker patch in the already-darkened world.
He began to make his way toward it.
His mind ached. Not just his eyes his mind. An unbearable pain throbbed behind his temples, a migraine beyond any he had ever experienced. The technique had cost him. Was still costing him. Would keep costing him.
But he continued.
Step by step. Breath by breath. Movement by movement.
"Lancelot!" His voice was rough, damaged, barely audible. "What has happened to you? What's going on?"
He stumbled, caught himself, kept going.
"It can't end like this! We've already lost two! We've already lost Gawain! We've already lost" His voice cracked. "You need to be safe. You need to survive!"
He reached the orb.
It loomed before him, massive and dark, absorbing light like a wound in reality. Percival couldn't see it clearly his damaged eyes showed him only a deeper darkness, a void within the void. But he knew it was there. He could feel it.
He drew his weapon.
The spear still in two parts, still sharp, still his. He gripped one piece tightly, ignoring the pain in his hands, his arms, his everything.
Then he lunged.
Horizontal stab!
The blade struck the orb.
Or rather, it should have struck the orb. Percival felt the motion the extension of his arm, the thrust of the spear, the impact that should have followed.
But there was nothing.
No resistance. No sound. No evidence that his attack had landed at all. It was as if he had stabbed empty air. As if the orb wasn't there.
He stumbled forward, off-balance, confused.
"What" He blinked his ruined eyes. "What just happened?"
He couldn't see it. Couldn't understand it. His vision, damaged as it was, couldn't perceive what had occurred. To him, it was simply... nothing.
But Darlington saw.
From his vantage point above, invisible to all, Darlington watched Percival's attack and understood.
"The concept of decimal numbers," he breathed.
He leaned forward, his eyes wide.
"When Percival attacked with his blade, the closer he got to the orb the further he got away from it." He shook his head in wonder. "It wasn't a repelling force pushing him back. It was something else entirely."
He thought about how to explain it. How to frame it.
"It's simply that the orb exists at an impossible distance. A distance he can't cover." Darlington's voice grew softer, more awed. "Like traveling to the end of the universe. No more than that."
He stared at the orb, at its perfect, lightless surface.
"It's an imaginary distance. No matter how fast one is, no matter how determined, no matter how desperate that distance can't be crossed. It doesn't exist in physical space. It exists in... somewhere else."
He thought about Lancelot, trapped inside.
About what this power meant. About what it could do.
"I wonder," Darlington murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Can Lancelot use such an ability when he's free from this? Can he create imaginary distances? Can he make himself unreachable?"
Below, Percival stumbled back from the orb, his ruined face a mask of confusion and despair. He didn't understand what had happened. Couldn't understand. His weapon had failed him. His technique had failed him. Everything had failed him.
And somewhere inside the darkness, Lancelot dreamed of things no mortal should dream.
Darlington watched it all the blind knight, the impossible orb, the sleeping monster within and felt something he hadn't felt since the park.
Hope.
Not for himself. Not for escape. Not for any of the things he'd been chasing.
Hope for the weapon he was forging. Hope for the god he was becoming. Hope for the moment when Lancelot would emerge from that darkness and see the world with new eyes.
My eyes.
And somewhere above it all, a false god smiled and waited.