The black smoke covered everything.
It hung in the air like a living curtain, thick and impenetrable, blocking General Titus's vision completely. He stood in the center of the darkness, his head turning slowly left and right, his eyes useless now searching for something they could not find.
He did not panic.
He thought.
These fools. His internal voice was calm, almost amused. I know what you're planning. You all have the attack power and defense potency to pose a threat to me. But it's all disorganized.
He replayed the battle in his mind the coordinated strikes, the rescue, the precision of their movements.
Your strategies have been superb. But not tightly packed.
His thoughts settled on a single figure.
That one.
He reconstructed Lancelot's face in his mind the transformed knight, the blood-red blade, the presence that had not been affected by his killing intent.
He's the brain behind all this. But previously, the information we collected did not state anything like that.
A flicker of something respect? irritation? crossed his mind.
I guess even these barbarian Britains have the capability to hide their trump cards.
He shifted his stance, preparing.
Which means I need to put twenty percent no, more than that. I need to put half of my focus against him. Once I take him down, the rest will follow.
His eyes scanned the darkness, still seeing nothing.
They might be strong. But anything strong and uncoordinated will eventually fall into ruin.
He waited.
He did not attack. Did not waste energy striking blindly into the smoke. He knew it would be futile a waste of strength that he might need later.
Three seconds remaining.
He counted in his head.
Two.
One.
Lancelot and Percival launched out of the black smoke.
They came from different angles Lancelot low, his blade extended; Percival high, his body coiled for a strike. Their movements were synchronized, perfect, the product of centuries of fighting alongside each other.
General Titus saw them.
His body reacted. His eyes tracked their trajectories. His mind calculated the angles of their attacks.
And his foot moved.
On the ground beside him lay a shield one of the black cloaks' weapons, dropped by its owner before death. Titus stepped on its sharp edge, using his weight to bounce it upward. The shield spun into his hand, its metal surface catching the grey light.
He raised it.
To block Lancelot.
SHING!
Arondlight pierced through the shield like it was butter. The blade passed through metal, through air, through the space where Titus's chest had been a moment before.
But Titus was already moving.
He dropped the shield useless now, split in two and his hand shot upward. An uppercut. Aimed at Lancelot's jaw.
Then Percival dropped.
From above. Full force. All of his muscle power concentrated into a single stomp, aimed at Titus's face.
CRACK!
His heel smashed into Titus's nose.
Bone shattered. Blood sprayed. The general's head snapped back but he did not fall. Did not stumble.
He changed the whole game.
His face relaxed every muscle in it going loose, limp, ready. His mouth opened wide, hungry. He wanted to catch Percival's leg. Wanted to use his bite force the crushing power of his jaw to destroy it.
If successful, he would get rid of Percival's mobility.
Permanent.
Before his teeth could close, a rope snapped taut around Percival's waist.
Tristan.
He yanked.
Percival's body flew backward, pulled from the danger zone, his leg sliding out of Titus's reach just as the general's jaws clamped shut on empty air.
The click of his teeth echoed across the battlefield.
Titus straightened, his shattered nose already healing, his eyes already searching.
But Lancelot was already there.
The space between them the distance that had been created by Percival's attack and Tristan's rescue closed. Lancelot's voice was low, almost conversational.
"Hey." His blade rose. "Taste this."
His eyes darkened.
"A new attack of mine."
Lancelot manifested his killing intent.
But it was not just killing intent. It was malice the same darkness that had consumed him, that had reborn him, that still lived in the depths of his transformed heart. He poured it into Arondlight. Let it fill the blade until the blood-red steel seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.
And then in one stab he launched it.
"LAKE."
The attack came with two separate sides.
The first was physical. The blade shot forward, aimed at Titus's chest, at his heart, at his life. It was fast faster than anything Lancelot had thrown before. It was sharp sharp enough to cut through shield, through armor, through flesh.
The second was something else.
Illusion.
But it was not an illusion. Not truly. Because everything that affected one in that world that other world would affect them in reality.
General Titus was dragged into the illusionary world.
He stood on a lake.
Blood.
The liquid beneath his feet was not water it was thick, dark, copper-scented. It stretched to every horizon, endless and still, reflecting a sky that had no color.
And beneath the surface, something moved.
A dragon.
It rose from the depths slowly at first, then faster. Its scales were black as midnight, its eyes were red as fire. Its mouth opened, wide enough to swallow a man whole, and it rose toward Titus.
Toward the shore of the blood lake.
Toward him.
Titus looked at the dragon at the death rushing toward him and smiled.
"Well, well, well." His voice was calm, almost pleased. "I wonder what you would call this type of attack."
He spread his arms, welcoming.
"Wanting to devour me whole? Is that it?"
Above the battlefield, invisible and watching, Darlington saw everything.
The illusionary world. The blood lake. The dragon rising from its depths.
He could see it something the others, apart from Lancelot and General Titus, could not perceive. His eyes his observer's eyes—pierced through the veil of reality and gazed into the world Lancelot had created.
His breath caught.
What is this? The thought was half wonder, half fear. What has he become?
Titus stood on a lake of blood.
And death rose to meet him.