Darlington's voice cut through the mental link, sharp and focused.
"How are you doing, Lancelot?" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Is your physical condition allowing you to go all out?"
Lancelot's response came without hesitation.
"Yes. It seems like it." His mental voice was steady, certain. "I can go all out without thinking about pain or damage. If I fight based only on pure battle instinct..."
He paused.
"The moment I begin to think, I will start to receive damage."
Darlington's brow furrowed. "How's that possible? What do you mean by that?"
Lancelot's explanation came slowly, as if he were still understanding the ability himself.
"My ability the one I have now allows me to create an infinite distance between me and my enemy. Or between me and any object." His voice grew stronger. "No matter the speed of the object, it will never come in contact with me. But under the condition that I erase all thought from my mind and act only on instinct."
He paused.
"Like a wild animal." A note of something bitterness? wonder? colored his voice. "It's something I can do."
Darlington's mind raced, processing the implications.
Infinite distance. Condition of thoughtlessness. Instinct-only combat.
"Which means," he said slowly, "it will be a good card against him. But there's a high chance you could cause damage to your own comrades with that."
He shook his head.
"What a terrifying ability. But also dangerous."
Darlington's fingers drummed against his invisible platform.
"Alright then." His voice sharpened, taking on the tone of a commander. "Let's set another table."
He began to assign positions, his words rapid and precise.
"We will have three heavy hitters." He counted on his fingers. "It seems Sir Galahad has picked his position as a long-range attacker. You, Lancelot, will engage directly decisive blows. And those blows, made at certain conditions, will be made by Percival."
He paused, thinking.
"That leaves Tristan and Sir Kay."
His eyes swept across the battlefield below, tracking the positions of each knight.
"They will be supporting from long range. Their main goal is to act as defense for Sir Galahad and prevent any attacks that come toward any of you." His voice hardened. "And on a last stand, they will act as substitutes."
Lancelot's mental voice came through, colored with something that might have been admiration.
"That's diabolical of you, really." A pause. "Are gods really like this?"
Darlington smiled a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes.
"Yeah." His voice was soft. "Yes, that's right."
He straightened, his posture shifting.
"I am a god."
The words hung in the space between them, heavy with meaning.
"So first to start we need a huge smoke cloud. Something that can cover everywhere. Something that can buy us time to pass intel, to position ourselves, to breathe."
Lancelot turned to Tristan.
His voice was low, urgent.
"Let all the smoke out. Now."
Tristan's hands moved to his belt.
Two sacks small, each the size of a fist were strapped to his sides. He held them across his chest in a cross shape, one in each hand, his fingers wrapped around their leather bindings.
"Well then." His voice was calm, almost casual. "Welcome to the darkness."
He looked at the sacks, at the small black metal balls visible through their open tops.
"My darkness will cover everything."
He explained quickly, his words tumbling out.
"Inside these sacks are small black metal balls. When pressure is applied to them, they explode releasing a thick smoke that continues to multiply and fill everything in its path. It has a dissolving time of sixty seconds." His eyes gleamed. "Not even the wind can stop it."
He crushed the sacks with both palms.
CRUSH.
The sound was soft almost gentle but the effect was immediate.
BOOM. BOOM.
The small black metal balls detonated. Smoke erupted from Tristan's hands thick, dark, hungry. It poured outward like a living thing, spreading across the sand, climbing into the air, consuming everything in its path.
Tristan's voice rose above the chaos.
"LET THERE BE DARKNESS!"
The smoke filled everywhere.
It covered the bodies of the fallen. Covered the blood-soaked sand. Covered the knights and the general and the battlefield itself. It was thick so thick that Darlington, watching from above, could barely see through it.
And it blocked General Titus's vision completely.
The Roman commander stood in the center of the darkness, his head turning left and right, his eyes blind. His regeneration could heal wounds. His body could adapt to poison. His will could overcome fear.
But he could not see.
Darlington's voice cracked through the mental link.
"LANCELOT! NOW!"
His words were urgent, desperate.
"WE HAVE LESS THAN SIXTY SECONDS!"
The chapter ended there in the space between light and darkness, between the plan that had been laid and the execution that was about to begin.
The smoke spread.
The knights moved.
The countdown started.
Sixty seconds.
Fifty-nine.
Fifty-eight.