Within the swirling chaos of the Dream Dimension, reality was a fluid concept. Colors that had no names bled into one another, landscapes rose and fell like sleeping breaths, and the very laws of physics were little more than polite suggestions.
It was into this madness that Galahad, Kay, and Ector plunged.
The transition was jarring. One moment, they stood on the holy-scorched battlefield; the next, they were adrift in a sea of subconscious terror. The ground beneath their feet was soft and yielding, like stepping on a memory. The air tasted of forgotten fears and the coppery scent of old nightmares.
"Stay close," Galahad commanded, his voice a steady anchor in the psychic storm. His aura, a beacon of heavenly light, pushed back against the encroaching madness, creating a small bubble of stability in the chaos. "His power is absolute here. He is the lord of this realm, and he will use it against us."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Kay said, his usual sarcastic bite slightly muted by the sheer wrongness of their surroundings. He gripped the hilt of his sword, the familiar steel a small comfort. "Big scary demon. Big scary home ground. Let's just find him and poke him with a sharp stick until he stops moving. I'm getting a headache."
Ector said nothing. His face was a grim mask of determination, his eyes scanning their impossible surroundings for any sign of their foe. He had seen firsthand the price of underestimating the forces of darkness. He would not make that mistake again.
Suddenly, the ground beneath them shifted, rising up to form a twisted parody of Camelot's throne room. The walls dripped with a viscous, shadowy substance, and the figures of the Round Table were carved from what looked like solidified despair.
On the throne sat a grinning, shadowy figure.
"Welcome, knights of Camelot," Nightmare's voice echoed, seeming to come from every direction at once. "I do hope you'll find my home... accommodating."
"Nightmare!" Galahad roared, raising his sword. "Your reign of terror ends today!"
The demon lord laughed, a sound like shattering glass. "Such bravado. Such... predictability. You think your holy light can overcome me here? In this place, I am the fear that gives your light meaning. I am the darkness that makes your hope shine so brightly."
He waved a hand, and the shadowy figures of the knights came to life, their eyes glowing with a malevolent green light. They moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, their weapons dripping with a corrosive darkness.
Each of the nightmare knights was a cruel, twisted reflection of the real knights, their worst sides, nightmares given form. Even if they were only cheap copies, their power was undeniable.
"Let's see how you fare against your own demons, shall we?" Nightmare sneered, leaning back on his throne of shadows.
"Focus on the real one!" Galahad commanded, charging forward, his holy aura flaring brightly. "These are nothing but illusions!"
But as he swung his sword, the shadowy version of himself met his blow with a force that was anything but illusory. The clash of their blades sent a shockwave of power through the nightmare throne room, the very ground trembling beneath their feet.
Meanwhile, Kay found himself facing a twisted version of Mordred, her armor blackened and cracked, her eyes burning with a hatred that was almost palpable. "Always second best, weren't you, brother?" the nightmare Mordred taunted, her voice a venomous hiss. "Always living in the shadow of the great king."
Kay gritted his teeth, parrying a vicious strike from the nightmare Mordred's sword. "You're just a cheap imitation," he shot back, his anger rising. "You don't know a thing about me."
"Oh, but I do," the nightmare Mordred laughed, her attacks coming faster and more furious. "I know the jealousy that eats away at you. The resentment that you hide behind your sarcasm. The deep-seated fear that you'll never be as good as him."
Kay's sword clashed against the nightmare Mordred's, the impact sending a jolt of pain up his arm. He could feel the demon's words digging at him, unearthing insecurities he thought he had buried long ago.
Ector, on the other hand, faced a haunting vision of Arthuria, a cruel tyrant, the worst possible version of her, the version where all his lessons had turned wrong, where all his failures were made manifest. She stood before him, her eyes cold and devoid of any warmth, her sword held at the ready.
"You were a failure as a father," the nightmare Arthuria said, her voice a chilling echo of the past. "You raised me to be a king, but you forgot to teach me how to be human. You let me sacrifice everything, and you did nothing to stop it."
Ector flinched, the words hitting him like a physical blow. He had carried that guilt for centuries, the weight of his perceived failure a constant burden on his soul. To hear it voiced by this monstrous parody of the child he had raised was almost more than he could bear.
He charged forward, his sword raised, a battle cry tearing from his throat. But the nightmare Arthuria was ready, her movements fluid and precise. She met his charge with a grace that was both beautiful and terrifying, her sword finding an opening in Ector's defense.
He stumbled back, a gash on his arm, the pain a sharp, stinging reminder of his vulnerability.
"Don't listen to him!" Galahad's voice boomed, cutting through the chaos. "He's feeding on your fears! Don't let him win!"
Ector's lips curled upwards just slightly as he heard Galahad's words. Because while he was indeed right, it wasn't so simple to deal with. It was never easy to face the darkness within your own heart, much less when that darkness was given form and steel.
That was the true terror of the Dream Dimension, the true terror of Nightmare. He wasn't a demon of raw power, not one like Satannish, who would clash and tear you apart.
No, this was a battle for your soul.
"Such a brave little knight," the demon lord mocked, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "But even the bravest of souls can be broken."
"Let's test that theory, shall we?" Kay shot back, a renewed fire in his eyes. He was not going to let this monster win, not without a fight. He was Kay, the first knight of the Round Table, the king's brother, and he would not be defeated by a cheap imitation.
He pushed forward, his movements a blur of steel, each of the Nightmare Mordred's attacks being met and parried, but the demon was relentless. Her sword was a whirlwind of darkness, her strikes lightning-fast and imprecise.
Kay's armor was beginning to show signs of wear. A dent here, a scratch there. But he was also wearing the demon down, her attacks growing slower, more desperate.
"Come on!" he taunted. "Is that all you've got? I've faced squirelings who hit harder than you!"
The twisted Mordred disengaged, then suddenly let out a laugh, not the laugh of Mordred, but something wrong, truly twisted and inhuman, and suddenly, the laugh multiplied. First once, then twice, and again, and again.
Suddenly, Kay found himself facing down a small army of Mordreds. "Oh, I got a lot more, but I wonder? Can you handle it?" They all said as one. Each one was a perfect copy of the other, their eyes burning with the same malevolent green light, their swords held at the ready.
"Shit," Kay said under his breath.
"You got this, Kay," Ector said, as he parried another attack from the nightmare version of his own child. He was starting to find his footing, his movements becoming more confident, more sure. He was a veteran of countless battles, and he was not about to be defeated by a nightmare, no matter how real it seemed.
"Easy for you to say," Kay shot back, "You're only fighting one of them."
"It's not about the number of enemies," Galahad said, his holy aura flaring brighter, "It's about the strength of your spirit. Don't let him break you. Remember why you are here. Remember your oath. Remember your king."
Galahad's words were as noble as always, and as annoying as always, always pretending that just having faith would solve all problems. If mere faith could solve all problems, then the great rebellion wouldn't have happened at all.
Kay remembered the many times Mordred and he had talked about this, just idle chatter, Mordred venting his frustrations to him whenever Arthuria was too busy to listen.
Kay often shared her thoughts, never liking the way Galahad acted like he was better than everyone, how, despite the mess Galahad had caused back then, he still dared to lecture everyone.
And now, he dared do it again, he felt a flash of annoyance rush through him. And Mordred, the nightmare demons taking the form of his fellow knight, saw it. They all grinned at him.
"You see? He doesn't get it, does he?" they said in unison. "He never did. Always so pure, so righteous. So... annoying."
"Shut up," Kay growled, his grip on his sword tightening.
"Or what?" the nightmare Mordreds taunted. "You will beat us? Kill us? You couldn't even beat one of us, what will you do against us all?" they laughed, a chorus of mocking laughter that seemed to echo in the very depths of Kay's soul.
He knew that they were right. He was a good knight, a strong knight, but he was not Galahad, not Mordred, not Lancelot, he didn't have the raw power to deal with a situation like this.
He was Kay, the king's brother, the first knight, and while he was strong, he wasn't that strong.
He was a human.
He had his limits.
He had his fears.
He had his doubts.
And right now, all of that was staring him down, mocking him. Kay was a Knight of the Round Table; he was noble, he was loyal, but he was also brash, he had a temper, and now that was fully shown.
"Hey, you might be a copy of Mordred, but you're an annoying one at that, let me tell you," Kay said, mocking the demons in turn, "But, you aren't Mordred, you are still just a copy, so... let's see how well a copy you are, try to copy this!"
He had had enough of this song and dance, of letting cheap copies yell at him, so he called up his power. "By the vow of the eternal flame, I burn away all that stands against justice! Ignis Aeternum – Flames of the Eternal Keeper!" He unleashed his Noble Phantasm.
Fires manifested, not normal fires, not even magical flames, but an eternal flame, one that spoke of protection, of support. A fire that would burn away threats and illuminate the dark. A wave of golden fire washed over the army of Mordreds; no matter how mighty, no matter how powerful, no matter how perfect the copies, they lacked something.
Something important.
They lacked weight, the weight of legend, the very foundation of their nature as heroic spirits. They were nightmares, given form by a demon lord, and for all their power, they were hollow.