Sir Galahad stood among the corpses and smiled.
He was one of the twenty knights of the Round Table not the strongest, not the most famous, but perhaps the most complete. His specialization was three-way combat, a rare discipline that few warriors ever mastered. He had trained for many years with three weapons, and he had mastered each one completely.
The sword.
The shield.
The spear.
Unlike other warriors who simply learned to fight with multiple weapons, Galahad had mastered each one individually. His spear was forged from the strongest metal in existence a total metal spear with no guard, no ornamentation, just pure function. His shield bore the crest of Camelot. And his sword
Darlington's eyes fixed on that blade.
"Seeing is different," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the void above. "Different from hearing it in stories. Different from watching it in anime."
He stared at Galahad's form at the way his muscles vibrated with barely contained power, at the way his posture alone commanded attention and respect. The knight's body was built beyond what any human body should be capable of. Every line, every curve, every fiber of him spoke of perfection.
His posture alone would make women fall in love with him, Darlington thought, and a small, absurd part of his mind compared Galahad to the models he'd seen in magazines back in his world. The ones with perfect jawlines and impossible physiques.
Galahad made them look like children playing dress-up.
But it wasn't Galahad's body that held Darlington's attention.
It was the sword.
"Could it be true?" Darlington leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Could the legend of the sword be real?"
He studied the blade its length, its curve, its glow. There was something almost alive about it. Something that pulsed with a light that wasn't quite physical.
"Does it hold a power within itself?" He tilted his head. "Or does the true power come from him?"
His mind began to race through every legend, every story, every myth he had ever consumed. The tales varied by region, by culture, by who was telling them. But one thing remained constant across all of them.
The Sword of David.
"The blade wielded by King David himself," Darlington whispered. "Throughout his reign over Israel. The blade that led him through war after war, victory after victory."
He recalled the myths associated with it the stories that had survived thousands of years, passed down through generations.
"It was said the blade was forged by David himself," Darlington continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "Forged with the pure righteousness present in his heart. Because of this, the blade gained three abilities. And it can only be held by those who are pure of heart."
He looked at Galahad at the knight who held the blade so casually, so naturally.
Pure of heart. The phrase echoed in his mind.
"One special thing about the blade," Darlington said slowly, "is that you can't choose it. It chooses you."
He thought about the stories he'd heard tales of warriors who had tried to claim the sword and failed, their hands burned by its holy light, their souls rejected by its righteousness.
"From the stories I've heard, it's almost as if the blade has a consciousness within it." Darlington's voice grew softer, more awed. "Perhaps the will of David's righteousness still lives inside the steel."
But even as he said it, a puzzle formed in his mind.
"If the will of David is in the blade..." He frowned. "Then why hasn't David appeared to take it? Technically, he exists here. In this world. In Valhalla."
He stared at the blade, his thoughts churning.
"So what is it? Just what is it?" He ran his fingers through his hair a nervous habit from his old life. "Could it be that he doesn't want to take it? Or perhaps he can't take it?"
Another possibility occurred to him.
"Or maybe he doesn't know where it is." He shook his head. "But speaking of that, he wouldn't really need it. If I were to calculate his strength..."
He thought about David the king, the warrior, the legend. The man who had slain Goliath with a single stone. The man who had united Israel. The man whose name was spoken with reverence across three major religions.
"The version of him that exists here would be in his prime," Darlington murmured. "So he would be notably stronger than the entire Knights of the Round Table combined. Even with Arthur."
The thought was staggering. Terrifying. Exciting.
Darlington leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Well," he said quietly, "as they say, we haven't seen the world yet."
He looked out across the battlefield at the chaos, the blood, the glory of it all.
"This war needs to be over. So that I may see the entirety of Valhalla." His smile hardened. "So that I may find my revenge against the gods."
Below, Galahad turned to Tristan.
"You should go to Percival," he said, his voice calm and measured. "We need to figure out what's going on with Lancelot. That darkness whatever it is it needs to be understood."
Tristan nodded, already turning to leave.
Galahad looked at the remaining Roman soldiers the twenty or so who still stood, still shook, still breathed.
"These leftover men are no problem," he said confidently. "A minute, and we should be through with them."
He glanced at his sword the Sword of David and smiled.
Then he laughed softly.
"Forget what I said." He shook his head. "You don't need to leave. It is a sin for me to underestimate my own strength."
Tristan paused, looking back.
Galahad's eyes gleamed with something ancient and absolute.
"I suppose this should be a show of display for you." He raised the sword, letting it catch the grey light. "The power we need to conquer Valhalla."
He stretched his arm out, sword pointing forward, and began to walk toward the enemy.
Not rush. Not charge. Walk.
As if he had all the time in the world. As if the twenty armed soldiers before him were nothing more than obstacles to be stepped over.
Darlington watched, utterly captivated.
"What should I take this as?" he murmured. "Sheer display of pride? Or sheer display of power?"
The Romans raised their weapons. They screamed their war cries. They charged.
Galahad kept walking.
in the space between confidence and combat, between the man and the legend. The Sword of David gleamed in his hand, and twenty soldiers rushed to meet their fate.
Darlington leaned forward, his eyes wide, his smile hungry.
Show me, he thought. Show me what that blade can do.