Sir Galahad raised his sword.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. The battlefield the grey sky, the falling dust, the blood-soaked sand faded. The sounds of battle the crash of rods, the cries of the wounded, the thunder of General Titus's presence dimmed.
His mind and consciousness plummeted into itself.
He became free.
Free from the weight of the battle. Free from the fear of death. Free from the self that had carried him through centuries of war.
He began by relaxing his muscles.
His legs first the calves, the thighs, the hips. The tension that had held him upright, that had allowed him to dodge and strike and survive released. His legs became soft. Limp. Unconcerned.
Then his abdomen. The core that powered every swing, every block, every movement unwound. His stomach relaxed, his diaphragm loosened, his breath became shallow.
Then his arms. The muscles that held the Sword of David that had cut through shields, through armor, through space itself went slack. His shoulders dropped. His elbows bent. His wrists softened.
Then his head.
The last to go.
The muscles of his neck uncoiled. His jaw unclenched. The furrow in his brow smoothed. His face became blank not empty, not afraid, not anything.
Just still.
The feeling was like being thrown into a large ocean.
At first, there was resistance. The body fought to survive to kick, to paddle, to breathe. But slowly, all of that faded. Hope faded. Instinct faded. Bravery faded.
There was nothing.
Nothing at all.
Nothing is all before death, Galahad thought. His inner voice was calm, distant, as if coming from somewhere far away. A dead man has no regrets. He has no dreams. For he is not of the living.
He opened his eyes.
They were empty. Not cold. Not hard. Not anything. Just... empty.
"Never did I think," he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper, "that a sword technique like this I would use."
He looked at the Sword of David at the blade that had chosen him, that had trusted him, that had followed him through countless battles.
"My lord. My king." His voice was soft, almost tender. "You truly are a blessing to Camelot."
He raised the blade higher.
"As such, I shall make you proud." His eyes empty, still somehow held a flicker of something. Devotion. Love. "Soon, sire, I will be by your side. To end this battle."
Everything about him was dissolving.
In the hands of an artist, he became like a painting that was being erased from the canvas. Stroke by stroke. Color by color. Self by self.
In his head, a memory began to play.
A training ground. Not in Camelot somewhere else. Somewhere older. The stones were worn smooth by centuries of use. The air was thick with the scent of sea salt and history.
King Arthur stood before him, Excalibur in hand. Not the blazing, golden blade of Valhalla the real Excalibur, the one that had been pulled from the stone, the one that had chosen him.
"Two sword techniques," Arthur said, his voice carrying the weight of a king. "That is what I will pass down."
He raised Excalibur, its edge catching the light.
"The first the Sword of the Dragon. I've taught every knight in Camelot personally." A small smile crossed his face. "It has reached a level where it has become a foundational sword technique for all their attacks and moves to be built upon."
He lowered the blade.
"Though, out of everyone, the ones I see who have the greatest potential with that technique are Kay and Lamorak." He paused. "Lamorak more than Kay because of his blade. The Storm Cutter was made for the Dragon's path."
Galahad listened, saying nothing.
Arthur's expression grew serious.
"The second sword style..." He paused. "Is something not even I can use."
Galahad's eyes widened.
"This attack power is something that is still theoretical." Arthur's voice dropped. "It is called... Death's Sword."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
"It is a sword style that can only be used by a dead man. A sword style that carries no intent. It has no path." Arthur shook his head. "As such, even I don't understand this technique. I found it on one of my voyages."
He looked at Galahad.
"I don't know the creator. And even I have tried to perform it so many times." His voice grew heavy. "But I have failed. Over and over again. Almost leading to my death."
He touched Excalibur's hilt.
"Thankfully, I was saved by the blade."
He met Galahad's eyes.
"If anyone can perfectly perform this technique..." He smiled. "It should be you."
The memory dissolved.
And in Sir Galahad, there was nothing again.
No thought. No emotion. No self.
IN LESS THAN A SPLIT SECOND faster than the eye could follow, faster than the mind could process Sir Galahad, one of the twenty knights of the Round Table, achieved the state of death.
This was an impossible feat.
A thing that should not exist. A state that no living being should be able to reach. The boundary between life and death was supposed to be absolute uncrossable, unbreakable.
But Galahad had crossed it.
He stood before General Titus, the Sword of David raised, his eyes empty, his body still.
And he was dead.
General Titus watched.
He did not understand what was happening. Could not comprehend the transformation before his eyes. His mind trained by years of battle, honed by countless enemies, sharpened by survival struggled to process what he was seeing.
The man before him was alive.
His chest rose and fell. His eyes were open. His hand gripped a sword.
But there was no life in him.
Not in the way Titus understood life. Not in the way he had felt from every opponent he had ever faced. The knights before Lancelot, Percival, Tristan, Kay they had all radiated something. Will. Determination. Fear.
Galahad radiated nothing.
Titus felt a feeling he had not felt in a long time.
Not from Lancelot's malice. Not from Percival's desperation. Not from Tristan's adaptability.
This was different.
This was not killing intent.
This was not the purest form of malice.
This was simply...
Death.
He felt death.
And for the first time in years, General Titus felt something close to fear.
Galahad stood, empty and still.
The Sword of David gleamed.
And death waited.