Lancelot's hand began to shake.
His fingers those fingers that had gripped Arondlight through countless battles, through transformation, through death itself trembled against the black rod that protruded from his skull. Blood poured from the wound in thick, dark streams, painting his face, his armor, the sand beneath him.
Then his second eye blinked.
It was a small thing a tiny movement, almost imperceptible. But Darlington, watching from above with every ounce of his attention focused on the fallen knight, caught it. His eyes those observer's eyes that missed nothing locked onto that blink.
His chest relaxed.
Just slightly. Just enough.
He's alive. The thought was a prayer, a hope. He's still alive.
But Darlington's mind that brilliant, overclocked engine of calculation did not stop. Could not stop. Even as relief flooded through him, the analysis continued.
This doesn't mean he can't die. He watched Lancelot's trembling hand, the blood still pouring, the wound still open. I'm not aware if Lancelot has any healing factor that will help him recover from that damage.
His eyes traced the path of the rod through the left side of the skull, through the brain, through everything that made a man think.
Plus, this isn't some surface-level damage. The rod went through a part of his face. Through his head.
He pressed his palms against his temples.
If this is the case if he even survives he won't be able to function at full capacity. Not anymore. Not ever.
Lancelot's hand closed around the rod.
His fingers wrapped around the black steel the same material that had pierced his skull, that had shattered his brain, that had brought him to the edge of death. He gripped it.
And he began to pull.
Slowly.
The rod slid out of his head not cleanly, not easily, but grinding. The sound was wet, terrible. Flesh ripped. Bone cracked. Parts of his brain actual pieces of his brain came out with the rod, clinging to its surface like dark, wet jelly.
He had no option but to acknowledge the pain.
It was immense.
Worse than anything he had ever felt. Worse than the transformation. Worse than the malice that had consumed him. Worse than death.
His scream tore from his throat.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
It was worse than that of a woman put to labor. Worse than the cries of the dying on any battlefield he had ever known. This was the pain of a man who had been tormented by demons a sound that came from somewhere beyond the physical, from the very depths of his soul.
The scream echoed across the battlefield.
No one moved.
It was as if the world had paused as if everything had stopped to witness this moment. The knights stood frozen, their weapons lowered, their eyes fixed on Lancelot's suffering form. Sir Galahad's jaw was slack. Sir Tristan's breath was caught. Sir Percival's bleeding eyes were wide. Sir Kay's hands trembled.
Even General Titus stopped.
His Body Rain attack that endless barrage of black rods ceased. The rods stopped firing. The storm ended. He used the time to heal, his flesh knitting together, his strength slowly returning.
But his eyes never left Lancelot.
None of them could look away.
There was a driving force in their souls something primal, something ancient that compelled them to witness this. To witness the true soul of a man.
It could not be explained in words.
It was not entertaining. Not in the least. There was no joy in watching a warrior pull a rod from his own skull, in hearing his screams echo across the battlefield, in seeing his blood paint the sand.
But it stirred something in their hearts.
Something that could only be summarized by a single word.
Undying will.
The will of a man who refused to die. Who refused to yield. Who would pull a rod from his own brain and keep fighting.
The rod came free.
SHLIIIIK!
It slid out of Lancelot's head with a final, wet release, and he threw it aside. It clattered across the sand, black and dripping, leaving a trail of blood and brain matter in its wake.
The hole in his head the wound was still open. Still bleeding. Blood poured from it in great gushes, running down his face, his neck, his chest. He began to stutter not from fear, but from damage. The rod had taken parts of his brain with it. Parts that controlled speech. Parts that controlled thought.
"K-k-k-k..." He tried to speak. Tried to form words. "K-k-k-keep... f-f-f-f..."
He could not finish.
But he did not need to.
His message was clear.
Above them, Darlington watched.
He could not help but be amazed. And also surprised at the same time, in the same breath, with the same heart.
He had never seen anyone not in his previous world, not in this world, not in any story or legend or myth that had taken that level of damage and still lived.
The rod had gone through his skull. Through his brain. It had destroyed tissue, ripped through neurons, shattered everything that made a man think.
And yet Lancelot was standing.
Not just living. Not just surviving.
Taking action.
His hand reached down. His fingers closed around Arondlight's hilt. The blood-red blade rose from the sand, its color pulsing as if responding to its master's will.
He raised it.
Pointed it at General Titus.
And stood.
Lancelot stood, broken and bleeding.
And the battle continued.