"Hey, Saber, looks like the fight's settled, right?"
Amid the shattered ruins, a one-armed figure leaned on a golden sword, bloodstained and battered, perched atop something soft. He even questioned the "cushion" beneath him.
"…"
No reply came.
A closer look revealed the "cushion" was no chair but a petite figure in silver armor, golden hair adorned with her signature ahoge. Undoubtedly, it was the once-sharp, unyielding King of Knights.
Now, her edge was dulled, thoroughly beaten down by Roy. After a merciless barrage of kicks, her head bled, bones broken by A-rank strength. Having unleashed her Noble Phantasm, draining much of her mana, she could barely fight back.
The duel was decided.
"Oh, so this is the Excalibur? Feels no different from an ordinary holy sword. Is it the seals?"
Nearby, Scáthach picked up the Sword of Promised Victory, kicked over by Roy, and toyed with it, flourishing the blade gracefully.
It felt good, but she couldn't sense the immense power within, capable of felling planetary foes.
Examining it, she noticed the dozen Round Table seals and understood.
Only King Arthur could unleash its true might. To others, it was merely a sharp blade, unable to tap its full potential.
A pity…
Scáthach sighed, not coveting its power but regretting she couldn't feel it.
Weapons could elevate a hero, but for her, they weren't essential.
Her martial prowess was unmatched, reaching human limits. Her crimson spears weren't divine or planetary artifacts—just crafted from sea demon bones, given to any disciple who passed her trials. Yet, many demigod heroes wielding divine weapons fell to her in the Land of Shadows, their trophies tossed carelessly in her chambers.
With plain spears, she could slay gods. She trusted her honed skills over weapons or blessings—only what she forged would never betray her.
Didn't this scene prove it?
Looking at the pitiful King Arthur, defeated not by carelessness but by psychological and mental assault, Scáthach showed rare sympathy.
With Artoria's skill and the Excalibur, beating Roy should've been easy.
His phase angels were a modern miracle, his golden sword, Avalon within, and dual buffs from her and Merlin stacked to the max.
So what?
He was still human—killable, mortal.
His opponent? Britain's red dragon, the legendary King Arthur, the renowned King of Knights.
Even with Avalon, pain suppression, and dual buffs matching her stats on paper, paper wasn't reality.
His Merlin-mimicked swordsmanship couldn't compare to Artoria's. Her loss came from Roy's mind games and Merlin's illusions disrupting her focus, letting him seize the chance. If it were Scáthach, she'd end the fight first, then question—after beating him half-dead.
So how did it come to this?
Scáthach saw clearly.
Saber's heart was in chaos.
Chaos in heart led to chaos in spirit, then steps. Provoked, she unleashed her Noble Phantasm, draining mana, while Roy, with Avalon and Holy Grail mana, feared no exhaustion, seizing victory.
From the start, Roy hid his cards, scheming. He didn't fight fair, laying out his trump cards for a true clash, but methodically broke her—mind, mana, body.
"…"
On the rooftop, Scáthach blinked, clapping for her Master.
Their fight wasn't spectacular, lacking finesse—just attack, defend, repeat.
But…
She was satisfied, witnessing a miracle: Roy, a human, defeating a mythic hero.
From near-certain death—where she was ready to intervene—to Artoria's breakdown and one-sided thrashing, he turned the tide.
His performance aside, the miracle deserved applause.
As for using external aid and schemes violating combat's spirit…
Scáthach scoffed. Humans against Servants? Any means were justified.
Seeking fairness in an unequal fight was true folly.
Watching Roy, ignoring his severed arm, sitting on Saber and declaring victory, Scáthach smiled.
She could guess his mood.
Relief at surviving, joy at creating a miracle. He was thrilled.
Some rejoiced, others despaired.
As for Saber, tearfully broken…
Scáthach sensed her utter exhaustion.
Trampled by war, mercilessly beaten from face to stomach, her heart pierced by cutting words, even her trusted ally, Merlin, stood against her, denying her wishes…
Scáthach saw it: this fight was Roy's calculated execution and torment of Artoria.
Heroic Swordmaster duel?
A meticulously planned trap, spinning her in circles—hardly a swordmaster's way.
Normally, as a warrior queen, she'd inwardly criticize such tactics despite understanding them.
Now?
He was her Master—brilliantly done.
Scáthach leapt from the rooftop, landing beside Roy, picking up his severed arm and reattaching it. Switching to her Caster spirit origin, she tapped her rarely used staff, freezing the wound with ice and healing it with runes.
"Thanks, Scáthach."
Feeling his arm whole again, escaping a one-armed fate, Roy smiled brightly, nodding in gratitude.
"No need, Master."
Scáthach nodded back, then leaned down to Artoria, who'd turned away to hide her tears, teasing playfully, "Silent, huh? Our mighty King Arthur shedding little pearls~"
"…"
Artoria pursed her lips, refusing to engage this annoying pair.
Roy, Scáthach—she seemed cursed with them.
"Let's end this."
With Scáthach here, Roy wasn't worried about Artoria retaliating.
He'd told Scáthach not to interfere in their fight, but that was during combat. Now, with victory decided, if Artoria tried a dishonorable sneak attack, Scáthach would spear her head without mercy, even if Merlin intervened.
But Artoria, though furious, didn't stoop to deceit.
She'd lost to Roy, a mere human—an undeniable fact.
On the battlefield, losing her sword sealed her defeat.
For a knight, losing their weapon meant death, leaving them at the enemy's mercy.
As Scáthach approached, Roy took her hand, standing from Artoria's body, dusting his clothes with his good arm, flashing a sunny smile and a thumbs-up.
"Victory!"
"I saw, Master. Well done. If you honed your martial skills alongside magecraft, you'd be even better."
Scáthach nodded, smiling, offering advice. "How about it, Master? Want to train under me? I haven't taken disciples in ages, but you could be my first in this era."
"Disciple? If I trained under you, would I call you Scáthach or Shishou?"
"…Shishou? Nice ring to it. So, you're in?"
Scáthach's eyes lit up, intrigued.
"Nope, pass."
Roy shook his head frankly. "I'm a magus, alchemist, scholar—not a warrior. This knightly duel with Saber only solidified that. I'm better suited to a magus's fight, so I'll respectfully decline."
"Tch, fine… you could've been a magic-martial dual master."
Seeing his firm refusal, Scáthach sighed, not pressing further.
She turned to Artoria, now standing, curious about her next move.
Would she break down crying or keep resisting?
Scáthach was eager to see.
Though unyielding, Artoria wasn't so fragile as to crumble from defeat.
Her dragon heart and factor had healed much of her injuries, restoring stamina, but it was too late.
Roy had stepped back, pulling his staff from the ground. His severed arm, under runes and Avalon, healed at an unnatural pace.
"No pain, but this looks gruesome. Without Avalon, this arm would be gone."
Shaking his head at his mangled but healing arm, Roy used Raphael's healing magic to speed recovery.
No answers, no weapon, facing a grinning Scáthach and rapidly healing Roy, Artoria knew further fighting was futile. She stood silently, reflecting, her mind echoing with Roy's words.
For the first time since the fight began, she seriously considered his questions.
What was the outcome she wanted, the one she could accept?
What was a quiet death? What was peaceful?
'Whew… looks like it worked…'
Seeing Artoria's expression, Roy sighed in relief, knowing he'd succeeded.
Scáthach, ready for round two, raised an eyebrow, surprised.
She hadn't expected a beating and mental assault to actually wake the stubborn Artoria.
"Well, fight's over, venting's done. Feeling better? Ready to talk calmly, Artoria?"
Smiling at her change, Roy twirled his golden sword, taking the Sword of Promised Victory from Scáthach and tossing both holy swords before Artoria.
"What's this? Pitying me?"
Frowning at the familiar swords, Artoria's voice rose, confused by his actions.
"No, just returning what's yours."
Roy shook his head. "Both holy swords are yours—one for the original you, one for the current you."
"One of Merlin's tasks was to return this reforged golden sword, hoping you'd see the Lily Knight's shadow in it."
"…"
As his words settled, Roy sat on the ground, watching the pensive Artoria.
With Avalon, the intense fight had drained him mentally. He just wanted to rest.
"Since the fight's done and we've vented, as the victor, I get to make demands, right?"
"…"
Artoria gazed silently at the swords, not answering.
"No words? I'll take that as agreement. Let's sit and talk."
Roy sat, smiling at her.
…
"Let's talk, revisit our topic."
In the desolate ruins, seeing the golden sword and Sword of Promised Victory before her, Artoria hesitated.
Her gaze fell on the golden blade, reflecting her battered state.
Bloodied, disheveled, despite her dragon factor healing her face, dried blood, messy hair, dirt-covered body, and warped armor stripped her of any King of Knights dignity.
Staring at her reflection, her eyes grew distant, faintly seeing her past self in the golden blade.
Back then, she wore no royal cloak or silver armor, bore no responsibilities—just a pure, innocent girl dreaming of helping others and upholding chivalry, not Artoria Pendragon, King Arthur, but merely Lily.
And now?
Blood and dirt marked her struggle in the mire.
Weary eyes replaced innocence, her heart clouded by regret and anger, her body scarred, her soul buried with Camelot's flames.
When had she become this?
She pondered, quickly finding the answer.
Perhaps when Caliburn broke, her path began to stray…
Or when she gripped the Sword of Promised Victory, chasing victories, sinking deeper…
Lost in thought, facing her past, Artoria felt fear, unsure how to confront that Lily Knight.
She'd abandoned innocence and purity, letting kingship overshadow her, striving to be a great king, only to end like this.
Finn's words at the banquet echoed in her mind.
"King of Knights, I can't judge your kingly path, but I feel you're more a guardian knight than a ruling king."
A guardian knight…
Recalling this, she remembered her original intent—to become a knight. Without Uther's blood or the red dragon's legacy, she'd have pursued that path.
She was never suited to be king.
Even now, she hadn't found her answers to Roy's questions.
What was a peaceful death?
What outcome could she accept?
She'd never find it alone.
***
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