If there was anyone in all of Great Britain who would unconditionally believe in Guinevere, it wasn't the King of Knights, nor was it Lancelot. It was Tristan, whose fate had been irrevocably altered by Guinevere.
When he heard the Dead Apostle's shout from afar and saw Guinevere trapped in this moral dilemma, the fire in his heart burned no less fiercely than her own.
"Listen! Remember all that Her Highness has done for you! Because of the wedding, she reduced your taxes. During the snowstorm, she personally led relief efforts across half of Great Britain, risking her own life to save as many as possible.
Do you know how much the subsidized seeds you received this year would cost in the Northlands or some Vassal Territories?
A Dead Apostle claimed to be connected to Her Highness, and you actually believed it? Is it because Her Highness revealed that the Church was behind this night's tragedy?
Consider this, everyone: what has the Church ever given you? And what has Her Highness provided?"
Death deterred any who dared to step forward, especially since Tristan had his own motives. His earlier strike with the unleashed Demonic Bow had instantly annihilated the Church Knights.
If Guinevere said the Church was responsible, then the Church was responsible.
Since these Church Knights and the mob had attacked Guinevere, they deserved to die.
Only he and the knights under Guinevere's command still called her "Your Highness," cared solely for her well-being, and pledged unwavering loyalty to her.
Meanwhile, at the cathedral entrance, Guinevere bit her lower lip fiercely.
She cared deeply for the King of Knights, and slaughtering the populace herself would tarnish her righteousness. Yet she couldn't bring herself to flee.
Just as she was about to draw her sword, Tristan arrived, taking the blame for the slaughter upon himself. His words plunged the surviving populace into deep thought.
"The Church... the Church gave us our faith!"
"And then what?"
Death resonated with the strumming of his strings, beheading those who couldn't discern Tristan's fury. As blood splattered, the remaining dissenters immediately fell silent.
In an instant, the path cleared. Tristan ordered the Berserker Knight Order to charge ahead, clearing the way to Guinevere.
As he led his squadron to her side, he dismounted before Guinevere, kneeling on one knee. His crimson hair was stained with blood, his faerie-like beauty striking even in this grim moment.
"Your Highness," he said, "I, Tristan, have betrayed your trust. While you were hunting river ogres outside the city, I failed to detect the Church's movements, leading to tonight's tragedy.
Your Highness, I alone bear the full responsibility for this night's disaster!"
Tristan continued to shoulder the blame. If Guinevere had been dim-witted, she could have seized this opportunity to shirk her own responsibility. But she was no fool. How could she possibly cast the blame onto the one who had taken the people's hatred upon himself for her sake?
"Sir Tristan, what do you mean by 'full responsibility'? Your fault is no different from mine—both of us failed to exercise proper vigilance. The true culprit of tonight's carnage is undoubtedly the Church."
Taking a deep breath, Guinevere's mind raced as she pieced together the day's events.
*This morning, when Lia led her troops into battle, the Archbishop was still blessing them under the sunlight during the oath-taking ceremony.
But just now, when I entered the Cathedral, I found Dead Apostle ash clinging to his bloodstained robes.
Did his transformation occur this afternoon, after the Agents entered the city?*
Guinevere pondered, her gaze sweeping over the crowd's varied expressions—confusion, hatred, resentment... yet most still refused to believe the Church was to blame.
"Dis, take your men into the Cathedral now. Go beneath the statue of God and collect all of the Archbishop's remains."
With a snap of her fingers, Guinevere summoned a bird to perch on her shoulder—the Barthomeloi Family Head's Familiar, which had been shadowing her and maintaining communication.
"Ask the Mage who was monitoring the Cathedral after we left the city how many people entered and whether they consumed anything."
"Your Majesty, I have already inquired on your behalf. After we left the city, the Archbishop, under the guise of sharing Holy Communion, invited Camelot's most devout believers to an additional service.
My son has completed a thorough search of the Cathedral's kitchens, the remaining Holy Communion, the Archbishop's residence, the basements, and other locations.
The catalyst you requested has been found by my son.
Your Majesty, if you wish, you may send someone to follow my Familiar. It will guide your envoy to the residences of the most devout believers. Among them, some survivors—either humans or Ghouls—should remain and provide corroborating evidence for your accusations."
The Archbishop's transformation occurred in the afternoon. Since then, he should have been unable to leave the Cathedral or venture into sunlight.
Given the Church Knights' genuine grief and apparent ignorance, the Archbishop must still be within the Cathedral, personally bestowing upon those who drank the river water...
...the catalyst Lady Morgan mentioned—the catalyst essential to triggering the Blood Poison in the river.
Just as Guinevere was fretting over the lack of personnel to send, an even more violent earth tremor shook the city, originating from the direction of the city gates.
The Knight Academy, excluding the graduates who had departed with the King of Knights, still housed over two thousand students of various grades, along with the ordinary soldiers who had followed Guinevere during the snow disaster.
After the snow disaster, Guinevere had promised them "castles in the air"—reserve student status, permission to stay and train at the academy, and priority admission to the following year's exams.
Now, under Morgan and Lancelot's leadership, these nearly four thousand individuals were organized into units based on their grade and class, equipped with the Knight Academy's ample supply of armor and weapons, and marched into Camelot City as an infantry legion.
Living Corpses and Ghouls were the primary monsters ravaging Camelot City. While stronger than ordinary humans, they were far weaker than formal Knights.
However, their superiority over ordinary humans only applied to those who were unarmed. Against these fully armed, Knight-trained, and legion-trained ordinary soldiers, they stood no chance.
With courage and proper execution of their training, not a single Living Corpse or Ghoul could harm them.
Thanks to Lancelot's organizational skills, he had already begun systematically clearing each district, without needing further orders from Guinevere.
"Your Highness, we have secured all suspicious items within the Cathedral and confined all nuns and monks within its walls. What are your orders?"
"Tristan, you will personally guard this location. Dis, lead the rest of our comrades to follow the movements of the bird on my shoulder and bring all Communion Living Corpses and survivors to the Royal Palace."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
"Wait! What about you, Your Highness?"
"I'm going to join Lady Morgan and Lancelot to quell the chaos in the city as quickly as possible. Tristan, you were previously in command of the Kingdom Knights. Select a squad to stay and assist you; the rest will revert to my command."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
Fate, when struggled against alone, often ensnares the individual in a labyrinth of complexities from which there seems no escape.
But fate, when resisted by a multitude of living beings entangled within its web, finds that web torn apart with a probability far exceeding that of a single individual's struggle.
If not for altering Tristan's destiny long ago, Guinevere's sword-swinging defiance against her believers this night would have made it impossible to suppress the festering corruption within their hearts.
Between her and the King of Knights, a chasm leading to ruin would inevitably form.
However, her childhood invitation to Tristan had altered this course, averting the disastrous conclusion.