The clean-up operation was swift and efficient.
The Veiled Hand agents, a team of highly trained professionals and local law enforcement, moved with a practiced, synchronized grace. They secured the perimeter, cordoning off the area with a professional air.
They tended to the traumatized pilgrims, their words gentle, their touch soothing, their presence a calming balm on frayed nerves.
They collected the bodies of the fallen, their movements respectful, their faces grim. They knew that these people, these cultists, were victims as much as they were perpetrators. They had been led astray, their minds twisted, their souls corrupted by a charismatic, malevolent force.
Such cases were rare, even if Albion was the capital of magic, a place where magic could be used openly; most still had a healthy respect for it and tried to ensure anyone using magic was properly registered.
Yet mistakes happened; there were always those too eager, too curious to remember to be cautious.
And when that happened, all it took was someone like Alistair, someone charismatic enough to lead an innocent fan group onto the path of damnation.
Rhea, meanwhile, approached Lancelot, her expression a mix of professional detachment and genuine concern. "You alright?" she asked, her voice low, her eyes scanning the area for any potential threats.
Lancelot nodded heavily. "Yes, I just wish I could have saved them; they didn't deserve to be turned into such monsters," he lamented, a heavy sigh escaping him.
"Few are, but if there is nothing more to be done here, I believe I should return to my original mission," he continued, changing the subject.
Rhea didn't push him; she just gave a small nod. "Yes, Alistair's death is a heavy blow to the local demonic forces, and with their little group gone, your job here is done. Still, the rest of the realm needs you."
Lancelot looked up at the Tor, the ancient hill silhouetted against the darkening sky. "It is a shame such a holy place was defiled by such filth."
"Life is like that," Rhea said. "But at least now it can go back to being a place of peace."
"Let's hope so," Lancelot said, a grimace on his face.
"Well, that is it for Glastonbury; I have already prepared your travel arrangements to your next destination, York."
Lancelot gave a final, weary nod. "Then I shall take my leave."
"Be safe, Sir Knight," Rhea said, genuine respect in her tone.
"You too, my lady," Lancelot replied, before turning and walking away, disappearing into the evening.
------
York.
A city steeped in history.
A city that had seen the rise and fall of empires, the clash of armies, the ebb and flow of human endeavor.
Its ancient walls, a testament to its turbulent past, stood as a silent guardian, a reminder of the struggles and triumphs of those who had come before.
Its narrow, cobbled streets, winding and twisting like a labyrinth, whispered tales of a bygone era, of knights and kings, of merchants and artisans.
Lancelot once more found himself in one of the Veiled Hand's safehouses, and again, one of the Veiled Hand's elite, one of the former members of the Red Room, was there to assist him as she oversaw all operations in this area.
"I must admit, I understand why so many of the others want to get into bed with you. I mean, with a face like this? It's almost a shame to cover it up." She said as she applied a new layer of makeup.
Lancelot didn't know what to say in response to that. He was flattered, but given she was treating his face like a canvas, he felt it better to shut up for now.
Whether or not that was the right choice, he didn't know, but soon enough, she finished her work and stepped back to admire it in the mirror as Lancelot also took the chance to inspect the finished project that was his face.
"It's truly amazing what you can do; not only does it look so realistic, but it's also durable. Even after a week with showers, it doesn't fade at all; even to the touch, it feels perfectly normal," he said in amazement. The Black Widows were truly masters of their craft; he had little doubt the spy masters of other nations would love to get their hands on their secrets.
"It's an art form," she said with a proud smile.
Lancelot could only agree. After all, he had seen the kind of makeup these women used before, and it was a far cry from the kind he saw in the movies with Chloe. The level of technology and skill that had gone into it was something else.
Once he was satisfied with the disguise, Lancelot began to review the information about the situation in York.
The city, like so many others, had undergone a transformation in the wake of Arthuria's rise. It remained a bastion of culture and learning, a hub of commerce and industry, but it also fully embraced the return of knights and nobles.
Making full use of its ancient history to build up a secondary tourist economy. All its public servants, from law enforcement to street sweepers, changed out their uniforms for something more fitting for a Renaissance faire.
It was for this reason that the Veiled Hand had set up a trap here.
They had spread rumors of a powerful artifact, an ancient relic from the time of Camelot, hidden somewhere within the city's labyrinthine streets. A lure, designed to attract the kind of attention they were looking for.
A lure for the forces of darkness.
"I trust you have a good reason for this," Lancelot said, looking up from the tablet, his expression thoughtful. "Baiting the enemy is a risky strategy. It requires a great deal of precision, a perfect understanding of your adversary's motivations and methods."
"Which is why I'm here," the Widow replied, her tone confident, her posture exuding an air of quiet authority. "We've been tracking this particular cell for a while now. They're a small, but highly organized group. They call themselves the 'Shadow of the Spear'."
Lancelot's brow furrowed. "The Spear? You mean the... Holy Lance?"
The Widow nodded. "The very same. They are quite the fans of Her Highness, Arthuria's Rhongomyniad, and they believe there must be an evil version of it, and we spread a few rumors saying it is hidden underneath York Minster. So of course, they took the bait."
Lancelot's fingers tightened around the tablet. The thought of a dark reflection of his king's divine lance, a weapon of unimaginable power, falling into the hands of these fanatics, was a chilling one.
"Then we must act with haste," he said, his voice a low, serious rumble. "Where are they now?"
"They're gathering," the Widow said, pulling up a live feed on the tablet. "We have them under surveillance. They're holed up in a warehouse down by the river. They're planning to make their move tonight."
Lancelot studied the feed, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The warehouse, a dilapidated, rust-stained structure, stood alone, isolated, a perfect base of operations for a clandestine group.
"They are well-equipped," he noted, observing the armed guards patrolling the perimeter, their movements professional, their demeanor alert.
"Yes," the Widow agreed. "They're not the usual motley crew of misguided fools we've been dealing with. These are serious players. Ex-military, mercenaries, people with the skills and the mindset to cause real trouble."
Lancelot's expression hardened. This was not a battle of ideals, of faith against fanaticism. This was someone who wanted power, the same kind that had allowed his king to reclaim her nation.
And Lancelot knew that these people would do far worse with such power. Thankfully, he knew there was no such thing as a dark Rhongomyniad, so there was no threat of them getting their hands on something like that.
But even then, this group of people clearly had the ability and motive to cause trouble even without something like that.
So despite the risks of baiting them like this, he understood the reason; it was better to string them along until they were ready to move against them, then destroy any hope, rather than risk them doing something desperate out of despair.
He didn't like this kind of warfare, but it was the smart choice.
-----
As night fell, the city of York was bathed in a soft, golden glow. The ancient streets, now lined with modern shops and cafes, bustled with life, the sounds of laughter and conversation mingling with the gentle clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages.
Lancelot, disguised once more, moved through the crowds, his presence a whisper in the sea of faces. He was a shadow, a phantom, a hunter on the prowl.
His destination: the warehouse by the river.
He arrived at the scene under the cover of darkness, his movements silent, his senses on high alert. The warehouse, a skeletal silhouette against the moonlit sky, was quiet, but he could feel the tension in the air, a palpable sense of anticipation.
He scaled a nearby wall, his agility and strength a testament to his knightly training. He landed on the roof of an adjacent building, a vantage point that offered a clear view of the warehouse and its surroundings.
He waited.
His patience was a shield, his focus a weapon. He watched, he listened, he analyzed.
Then, they came.
A convoy of black vans, their headlights off, slid through the streets like phantoms.
Yet they didn't get far before a prearranged block in traffic forced the entire convoy to grind to a halt.
Right in the perfect spot for an ambush.
The Veiled Hand was incredibly professional, and just as ruthless.
When they acted, they acted with both overwhelming force and masterful strategy.
Dozens of Enforcement Knights stepped out of the shadows, their armor gleaming under the illumination of the car lights, surrounding the convoy.
"By order of the crown, surrender!" a loudspeaker blared.
The response was immediate and brutal.
The back doors of the vans burst open, and a hail of gunfire erupted, the sharp cracks of automatic weapons shattering the night's stillness.
But to the Enforcement Knights summoned by Sir Agravain's Noble Phantasm, bullets were no different from petals in the wind.
Lancelot joined in, moving like a shadow and knocking out one man after another.
The whole operation only lasted a few minutes before he had managed to secure most of them alive. He hadn't even needed to draw his sword.
It was an overwhelming victory.
"Good job," the Widow said in his ear. "A few of my sisters and I are planning to throw a party, and you are the guest of honor."
Lancelot let out a weary sigh. "I would be delighted, but..."
"Now, now, don't be so quick to reject," she said, interrupting him. "Two of them are big fans of yours, and sisters, wanting to entrust their first time to a real gentleman."
Lancelot, despite his better judgment, couldn't turn down two ladies in need.
(End of chapter)
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