"Agh!"
The sound of steel cleaving through flesh echoed across the field.
How far had he walked? Elius kicked back the soldier lunging at him and, in the same fluid motion, took the man‘s head with a single stroke of his blade. From the moment he had stepped onto this God-forsaken battlefield, he had done nothing but fight, carving a path through the madness.
The surrounding soldiers watched him with eyes wide with terror. They hovered at the periphery, circling him like jackals, yet none dared to close the distance.
He was a ghoul in all but name. He knew he looked more like a walking corpse than a man, but it was the mountain of bodies stacked at his feet that truly kept them at bay. These were the remains of those who had thought him easy prey. To their eyes, he was a monster that refused to stay down.
To them, he was a revenant, a zombie that would not perish no matter how many wounds he sustained. In truth, he was not far from that state. The poison in the wound Morgan le Fay had inflicted acted like a weight upon his veins; the very blood in his body felt heavy, refusing to circulate.
One of his lungs had been punctured. Whether it was filled with blood or bile, every gasp for air felt as though he were drowning beneath the surface of a dark lake. He coughed, and the metallic tang of life-force sprayed from his lips.
By all the laws of nature, he should have been dead long ago. It was only the thrumming of his Dragon‘s Core—that primal engine of Mystery within his chest—that forced his broken limbs to move.
"Haah... Haah..."
His body felt as heavy as lead. He was no longer moving through physical strength; it was pure, unadulterated willpower that pushed him forward.
But he could not stop. He had to reach Artoria. He had to save her. He had lived his entire life for this single purpose.
Falling into a trance-like state of focus, he channeled a Prana Burst through his legs and threw himself back into the fray, reaping the lives of his enemies in a frenzy of twilight-colored steel.
The heavens finally broke. A torrential downpour began to fall from the blackened sky, washing the gore into the churning mud of the battlefield. As he crested a ridge, his foot slipped on the slick, blood-soaked earth.
"...Guh!"
Elius tumbled down the hillside, his form becoming a wretched mess of filth and crimson. Using Excalibur Twilight (item) as a makeshift cane, he forced himself to stand, his face contorting as a fresh wave of agony washed over him.
His prana was gone. The internal reinforcement he had used to stem his hemorrhaging finally failed, and the world began to spin in a sickening bout of vertigo.
Yet, he forced his legs to lock. He would not fall here. The objective was finally in sight.
He lifted his gaze. There, amidst the carnage, was Artoria. She was wielding the holy lance, Rhongomyniad, driving it through a rebel soldier with terrifying efficiency.
Pain... pain was merely a sensation. He told himself it was a lie, a flicker of humanity he could no longer afford. He cast the suffering aside.
He trudged forward. Instinct screamed that if he halted for even a second, he would never rise again. This step was everything.
Artoria noticed him. She began to move in his direction, and for a moment, Elius felt a surge of relief. She appeared uninjured. She was safe.
'Thank the gods, Artoria...' A faint, ghostly smile touched his lips. 'Good. Now, let us find a way out of this hell together.'
But something was wrong. Her posture was unnatural. She held her head low, her shoulders rigid.
In that moment, his honed survival instinct flared—not with the promise of safety, but with the chilling omen of impending doom.
As she came to a halt before him, Artoria slowly raised her head. Elius felt his breath catch in his throat.
Her eyes—those once-brilliant teal orbs—were consumed by darkness. They had turned a malevolent, hollow black, overflowing with a cursed magical energy that tainted the very air around her.
Before he could even voice a word of concern, Rhongomyniad surged forward. The lance of light became a streak of shadow as it plunged toward his chest.
The sound of the impact was sickening—a wet, heavy thud.
"...Cough...?"
Elius looked down. The holy lance had passed cleanly through his sternum, piercing his heart with surgical precision.
His strength evaporated instantly. His knees struck the mud with a dull thud. He retched, coughing up a torrent of blood that stained the ground between them.
Wrapped in disbelief, he forced his trembling head up to look at his King one last time.
The darkness in her eyes was receding, washing away like a receding tide. In that moment, he realized what had happened—it was a curse, a fleeting possession meant for this exact tragedy.
The corruption vanished, leaving her clear, vibrant eyes once more.
"...Eh? Eli...? What... what is this...?"
She looked down, her gaze following the length of the lance to her own hands, which were firmly gripping the weapon buried in his chest.
Artoria‘s hands began to shake violently. She let go of the shaft as if it were white-hot iron.
With no more strength to hold himself upright, Elius slumped forward. Artoria caught him, her eyes wide with a soul-crushing horror as she looked at the man dying in her arms.
"Elius...? No... what have I done...?"
"It‘s... alright..." Elius gasped, his voice a ragged whisper. "Not... your fault... *cough*.”
"I-I will heal you... I must find a magus, right now—"
He reached out, his hand trembling as he caught her frantic, blood-stained fingers, stopping her from trying to staunch the wound.
"...It‘s too late. I know my own body."
Artoria‘s composure shattered. Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head in desperate denial. "No, no! I will not allow it, Eli! Please... not this. Anything but this... Forgive me... Eli, please! It is all my fault! Stay with me!"
"...I‘m sorry."
He forced his heavy arm upward, his fingers grazing her cheek. He used his thumb to brush away the tears from her eyes, even as his own vision began to fail.
The edges of his sight were turning black. He realized that the clock had finally run out.
If he were to go... he wanted her to know. He wanted to leave this one truth behind. He forced his lips to move, shaping the words with the last of his breath.
"...I love you... I love you, Artoria..."
Her eyes went wide, frozen in shock.
"Forgive me... for waiting until the end... to say it..." he murmured, a self-deprecating ghost of a smile appearing. "I suppose I‘m quite... a pathetic man after all..."
His eyelids grew heavy. The world was slipping away into a cold, dark void. Just as his consciousness began to flicker out, he heard her voice—broken, but filled with a sudden, fierce clarity.
"...I love you too. I love you, and I always have, Eli!"
She said more, but his hearing had already failed him. He wanted to respond, to give her one last word of comfort, but he was already drifting.
It felt like sinking into a deep, silent ocean. The chill of death enveloped him, wrapping him in its final, icy embrace.
'I love you, Artoria.'
With that final thought, the darkness claimed him completely.
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