Percival made it in time.
His body pushed beyond its limits, fueled by desperation and adrenaline launched across the sand. His arms wrapped around Sir Galahad's torso, and he yanked the pure knight away from the black rod that was still rising from Titus's palm.
They rolled backward.
The speed of Percival's intervention sent them tumbling across the battlefield a tangle of limbs and armor and desperation. Sand kicked up around them, clouding their vision, but Percival did not stop. Could not stop. He rolled until he was certain they were clear, until the distance between them and the general was safe.
But the rod had already moved.
It shot forward not at Galahad, not at Percival, but at Percival's leg. The black projectile was faster than anything they had seen, faster than thought, faster than fear.
Percival saw it coming.
He could not dodge it.
He tightened his face, bracing for the impact, for the damage, for the pain that was about to explode through his limb.
Then Lancelot dove.
His body cut through the air, Arondlight extended, the blood-red blade splitting the black rod in two just before it could pierce Percival's leg. The halves clattered to the ground, dissolving into nothing as they left Titus's body.
Lancelot landed beside his comrades, breathing hard.
"Back." His voice was sharp. "Now."
They moved Galahad, Percival, Tristan, Kay all of them retreating, creating distance, giving themselves room.
General Titus watched them go.
He did not pursue. Did not attack. He simply knelt there, his body broken, his ribs exposed, his lungs hanging from his chest. The wound Galahad had given him was catastrophic enough to kill any normal man a hundred times over.
But he was not a normal man.
He began to heal.
The flesh knitted together. The ribs retracted back into place. The lungs slipped back inside his chest, the wound closing over them like a mouth sealing shut.
It took longer this time. The damage was greater, and his mental energy was depleted. But the regeneration worked slowly, painfully, inevitably.
His body became whole again.
He looked at his hands at the palms where the rods had emerged and sighed.
"This is truly pathetic." His voice was quiet, almost inaudible. "Have I lost my touch?"
He flexed his fingers.
"I should be really ashamed of myself. Honestly." He shook his head slowly. "Have I lost my touch because I haven't been in battle?"
He looked at the knights across the battlefield at the distance they had created, at the fear in their stances.
"I mean, look at me. I could die here. Honestly, there's nothing that could stop me from dying."
His hands clenched into fists.
"But I can't die. I must not die." His voice hardened. "No I must not."
He pushed himself to his feet.
"To bring victory to Rome, I must love Caesar." His eyes burned. "My love for Caesar keeps me going. I cannot let that man the man that I love down."
He spread his arms wide.
"Because I love him... I will gain immeasurable strength. Immeasurable power. Immeasurable will."
General Titus opened his hands.
He made a motion like he was hugging the world around him his arms spread, his palms facing outward, his fingers stretched toward the grey sky.
And then
Darlington's voice cracked through the mental link, sharp and urgent.
"Lancelot! We need to clear the battlefield now!"
His mental voice was desperate.
"This battle is about to become large-scale! Tell everyone to move as far away from him as possible!"
Lancelot's voice rose.
"EVERYONE BACK! GET BACK! NOW!"
From every part of General Titus's body from every inch of his skin, from his fingertips to his scalp, from his chest to his back rods appeared.
They erupted from him like spines, like quills, like the defense of a creature that had been cornered. He became a porcupine a human shape covered in black, deadly spikes that gleamed in the grey light.
The rods covered a large portion of the battlefield. They extended outward, upward, everywhere a forest of black steel that grew from his flesh and reached toward the sky.
But it did not stop there.
General Titus's voice was calm.
"And now for a barrage of attacks." His eyes found the retreating knights. "You will never be able to fully dodge this."
He raised his arms.
"BODY RAIN."
The attack had a range of 360 degrees. It covered everything around him front, back, left, right, above, below. There was no safe direction. No cover. No escape.
It was an attack that would force everyone near him to move at inhuman speed or raise their defense to an impossible level just to survive.
The rods began to fire.
They shot from his body like bullets, like arrows, like rain hundreds of them, thousands, an infinite number. And as they fired, they regenerated. New rods grew from the wounds they left behind, and those rods fired too, and those rods regenerated, and those fired
It was endless.
A storm of black steel that filled the air, that covered the sky, that blocked out the light.
Lancelot let his guard down.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to check on his comrades to see if they were clear, to see if they had escaped the radius of the attack.
A large rod busted through the left side of his head.
CRACK!
The impact shattered his skull. Blood sprayed from the wound, dark and thick, painting the sand beneath him. His body staggered once, twice and then he dropped.
Arondlight fell from his grip.
It clattered to the ground beside him, the blood-red blade dimming as its master collapsed.
Everyone froze.
Sir Galahad's eyes went wide. His mouth opened. The Sword of David lowered in his hand, its holy light flickering.
"You bastard." The words came out choked, barely audible. "You bastard!"
His voice rose to a shout.
"LANCELOT!"
His hands trembled.
"You really think you can die?! When we have not settled anything?!"
Above them, Darlington's world ended.
His eyes those observer's eyes that had seen so much, that had cataloged so many deaths could not stay still. They darted left, right, everywhere, searching for something that would tell him this was not real. That this was an illusion. That his piece his only piece was not gone.
If he dies...
The thought was barely formed, barely conscious.
Then it's over.
His hands invisible, formless, but his reached out toward the battlefield, toward Lancelot's fallen body, toward the end of everything he had built.
There's no other way.
His vision blurred.
I'll be doomed.
He stared at Lancelot's body at the rod protruding from his skull, at the blood pooling beneath him, at the stillness of his chest.
And then
But Lancelot was not dead.
Lancelot's fingers twitched.
His chest rose.
He was alive.