General Titus watched Lancelot stand broken, bleeding, yet unyielding and felt something he had not felt in centuries.
Wonder.
His hands pressed against his chest, pushing his lungs back into place, sealing the wound that Galahad had carved into him. The flesh knitted slowly, the regeneration straining against the limits of his depleted mental energy. But it worked. It always worked.
"What an amazing sight." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "I really want to know..."
He looked at Lancelot at the knight who had pulled a rod from his own skull, who had screamed and bled and refused to die.
"What drives you? Beyond the will you have?"
He took a breath, his chest finally whole.
"Humans are always creatures who yearn to survive. But this is beyond yearning. It's almost as if it's a supernatural force that's driving you."
He straightened, his eyes fixed on Lancelot.
"Tell me, Lancelot..." His voice dropped. "As I love Caesar..."
He took another breath, savoring the name.
"Do you love your king? Arthur Pendragon?"
The look on the faces of everyone around changed.
Sir Galahad's face was the most striking. His features twisted not with confusion, not with curiosity, but with anger. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on the Sword of David hardened until his knuckles went white.
He stuttered the word.
"Love?"
The word came out like poison.
"Whether he loves his king Arthur..."
His voice shook not with fear, but with rage.
"If a man were to truly love his king, he would not take that kind of action." His eyes bored into Lancelot's transformed face. "A liar. A traitor. Who lives under the flag of Camelot."
His voice dropped.
"But still... though a liar, he is loyal to the king in some ways." He shook his head slowly. "I really don't understand that bastard."
The others listened.
Sir Tristan's eyes moved between Galahad and Lancelot, his mind processing this new information. He had known there was tension—had felt it in the way Galahad had stopped Lancelot earlier, in the blade at his throat, in the killing intent that had filled the air between them.
But he had not known the depth of it.
Sir Percival's bleeding eyes still strained, still pushed beyond their limits studied Lancelot's face. The transformation. The malice. The change. He had seen his friend fall, had seen him reborn, had seen him pull a rod from his own skull.
But he had not known what lay beneath.
And above them all, Darlington watched.
His mind that brilliant, hungry engine absorbed every word. Every expression. Every flicker of emotion.
So there's history here, he thought. Deep history. Betrayal. Something that happened before Valhalla, before death, before any of this.
He smiled.
Once this fight is over, I need to dig into this. I need to gain understanding into this person into Lancelot, into his past, into the cracks in his armor.
His eyes narrowed.
Once I know everything about him, inside and out...
His smile widened.
Only then can I fully control him. No strings attached. No plan failures.
He leaned back, satisfied.
All will be perfect.
Lancelot's body changed.
The wound on his head the gaping hole where the rod had pierced, where parts of his brain had been ripped away began to shift. The flesh around it twitched. The blood that had been pouring slowed.
And then regeneration.
The missing part of his head began to form back. Slowly at first a thin layer of tissue, a film of new skin. Then faster. Accelerating. The bone reformed. The muscle rewound. The brain that impossible organ rebuilt itself, neuron by neuron, connection by connection.
Lancelot screamed.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The pain was worse than when he had pulled the rod out. Worse than the initial impact. Worse than anything he had ever experienced. His body was remaking itself, and every second of that remaking was agony.
He dropped Arondlight.
The blade fell from his grip, clattering to the sand, its blood-red glow flickering as its master's consciousness wavered. He held his head with both hands, his fingers digging into his scalp, his nails tearing at his skin.
The regeneration continued.
The glow returned to Arondlight stronger now, pulsing with an aura that connected to Lancelot's transformed body. His entire form began to glow red the same crimson as the blade, the same color as the malice that had consumed him.
His brain fully regenerated.
His skull sealed.
His flesh smoothed over, unmarked, as if the wound had never existed.
And then the glow faded.
Lancelot collapsed.
His body hit the sand with a soft thud, his limbs sprawled, his chest heaving. He was alive. He had survived. But he could not move. Could not fight. Could not even lift his head.
Arondlight like metal drawn to a magnet slid across the sand. Its blade scraped against the ground, leaving a trail in the blood-soaked earth, until it came to rest against Lancelot's arm. His hand instinctively closed around the hilt a reflex, a habit, a promise.
He held the blade in his arms.
His eyes were open, but they saw nothing.
His breath was steady, but his body was still.
Darlington watched from above, his expression unreadable.
Yes. The thought was quiet, almost solemn. At this point, Lancelot has survived.
He looked at the fallen knight at the piece he had cultivated, the weapon he had forged.
But it's clear that he is currently no longer fit to continue the battle.
His eyes moved to the other knights to Galahad, to Tristan, to Percival, to Kay. They were still standing. Still capable. But the plan the careful plan he had constructed had relied on Lancelot.
My puppet has survived, he thought. Buying me more time.
He looked at General Titus at the Roman who had healed his wounds, who had stopped his attack, who had watched Lancelot's regeneration with something like respect.
But this was only a success for us...
His jaw tightened.
...as it was, at the same time, a dent.
He replayed the plan in his mind the three heavy hitters, the long-range support, the coordinated strikes that were supposed to bring Titus down.
The plan cooked up by me can no longer work.
He looked at Lancelot's collapsed form.
A particular piece in the game has been decommissioned.
His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"This is the first victory for General Titus."
He watched the general still standing, still smiling, still healing.
"He has taken his first step toward victory."
Lancelot lay in the sand, Arondlight in his arms, his body broken.
And the battle continued without him.