General Titus used the time bought by Lancelot's collapse to heal his wounds.
His flesh knitted slowly, painfully, imperfectly. The wound on his side, where his lungs had nearly fallen out, closed into a thick, raised scar. The skin was puckered, pulled, a permanent reminder of how close he had come to death.
It was not totally healed.
But it was enough.
He stretched his two hands forward, palms open, fingers spread. From each palm, a black rod emerged growing from his flesh like plants from soil, like weapons from his very soul. He grasped them, feeling their weight, their balance.
Then he threw one.
He pulled his arm back stretched it to its limit and launched the rod forward with great force. It sped through the air so fast that it repelled all the air around it, creating a vacuum in its wake. The sound followed a moment later a sonic boom that shook the battlefield.
BOOM!
Sir Percival was not focused on the fight.
His eyes those bleeding, strained eyes that had been pushed beyond their limits were fixed on Lancelot. On the collapsed knight. On the piece that had fallen.
But his mind was still sharp.
He saw the rod flying toward Galahad saw its trajectory, its speed, its deadly purpose. And in the instant before impact, he spoke.
"A vertical cut. Now."
Sir Galahad's concentration returned.
He had been watching Lancelot too had been distracted by the fallen knight, by the weight of what had happened. But Percival's voice cut through the fog, sharp and commanding.
He turned.
The Sword of David rose.
And he cut.
SHIIING!
The rod split in two cleanly, perfectly the halves spinning away to either side of him. They clattered against the sand, dissolving into nothing.
But that was just a distraction.
General Titus had not thrown the rod to hit Galahad. He had thrown it to move him. To shift his focus. To buy a moment.
He appeared in front of Galahad.
The second rod was already in his hand not thrown, but held. He used it like a baton, whipping it toward Galahad's head.
Galahad's instincts screamed.
He raised the Sword of David not to cut, but to block. The flat of the blade met the rod with a clang that echoed across the battlefield.
CLANG!
The impact shook his arms. His shoulders strained. His feet slid backward in the sand.
But he held.
Then Titus clenched his fist.
Not the hand holding the rod the other one. His free hand shot forward, aimed directly at Galahad's face.
CRACK!
The fist crashed into Galahad's nose.
Bone shattered. Blood exploded from his nostrils, spraying across his face, his armor, the sand. The force of the blow cracked places in his skull hairline fractures that spiderwebbed across the bone.
And then he flew.
His body launched backward, thrown by the force of the punch like a bird hit by a boulder. He tumbled across the sand, limbs flailing, until he came to a stop against a rock his head ringing, his vision blurred, his blood pouring.
Above them, Darlington watched with narrowed eyes.
"It seems he's going for the kill in this battle." His voice was quiet, analytical. "This time, he's not holding back."
He studied Titus's posture the way he held the remaining rod, the way his eyes tracked the fallen Galahad, the way his body coiled like a spring.
"But still... it's difficult to hide two things."
He ticked them off on his fingers.
"First his injury. It's still healing. I think that's coming from him expending a lot of mental energy. He's not as strong as he was at the beginning of this fight."
His eyes narrowed.
"Second his pride."
He watched Titus take a step toward Galahad then stop. The general's eyes swept across the battlefield, taking in the positions of the other knights.
"He could have killed Galahad there. But his pride made him feel like he could still play with them. Like he could still enjoy this."
Darlington shook his head.
"As long as he takes all of them down, he can then go to killing them." A small smile crossed his face. "I think he may be proven wrong this time."
Sir Kay jumped.
He had been waiting watching, calculating, preparing. The moment Galahad was thrown, the moment Titus's attention shifted, he moved.
His body launched toward the general, his sword raised, his eyes fixed.
Titus saw him coming.
He did not panic. Did not retreat. He simply adjusted. The rod in his hand extended not thrown, but held like a staff, its length increasing as he swung it.
It was a transition. He had gone from short-form combat fist, punch, brawling to long-form combat. The rod gave him range. Reach. Control.
He used it to widen the distance between himself and Kay.
The knight's sword clanged against the rod, deflected, useless. He could not get close. Could not penetrate.
Then Titus closed the gap.
He pulled the rod back shortening it, making it dense and lunged forward. The same attack he had used on Galahad. The same baton strike aimed at Kay's head.
But Sir Kay was a different type of fighter.
He let go of the rod.
His hands released the weapon not dropped, not thrown, but abandoned. In the same motion, he backflipped, his body spinning through the air, creating distance.
And when he landed, the bow was already in his hands.
Arrows flew.
One after another rapid, precise, relentless. They shot toward Titus like a flock of angry birds, each one aimed at a vital point, each one deadly.
Titus spun his rod.
It became a blur a shield of black steel that deflected every arrow. The shafts shattered against it, falling to the sand in pieces, useless.
But this was just a distraction.
Kay knew he could not kill Titus with arrows. Knew the general would deflect them, ignore them, survive them. He was not trying to hit.
He was trying to buy time.
The arrows ran out.
Kay's quiver was empty. His hand reached for another found nothing.
Titus sprinted.
He closed the distance in heartbeats, his rod raised, his eyes burning. He would end this. Would crush this knight. Would prove his superiority.
He got close.
And then
His leg stopped.
Not by choice. Something had caught himsomething tight, something unyielding. A rope, wrapped around his ankle, yanking him to a halt.
With the speed he had been moving, the sudden stop was devastating.
He fell.
His body crashed to the ground, the impact shaking his bones, jarring his skull. The rod flew from his grip, spinning away into the sand.
Sir Kay did not waste the opportunity.
He ran not toward Titus, but toward Lancelot. His feet pounded against the sand, his lungs burned, his heart raced.
He reached the fallen knight.
And he fired.
Not an arrow from his bow his quiver was empty. But he had one arrow left. A special one. A fire arrow.
His hand snatched it from his belt. He nocked it. He drew.
And he released.
The arrow shot into the sky trailing flame, trailing light, trailing hope. It burned bright against the grey, a beacon visible to everyone on the battlefield.
A signal.
Backup.
Tristan and Percival saw it.
They had been waiting watching, positioned, ready. The moment the arrow ignited, they moved.
Together.
They ran toward where Galahad lay toward the rock where he had fallen, toward the blood that still poured from his shattered nose and cracked skull.
Percival reached him first.
His hands grabbed Galahad's armor his shoulders, his chest, his limp form. He dragged him away from the danger zone, away from Titus, away from death.
Tristan covered him his sword raised, his eyes scanning for threats.
They reached a safe distance.
Galahad was alive. Broken. Bleeding. But alive.
General Titus pushed himself up from the ground.
His ankle ached where the rope had caught him. His pride ached where the knights had outsmarted him.
He looked at the battlefield at Kay standing over Lancelot, at Tristan and Percival dragging Galahad to safety, at the distance that had grown between them.
Two targets.
He was free to pursue either.
He looked at the knights. At the fallen. At the mess this battle had become.
And somewhere above them, Darlington smiled.
"Wow." His voice was soft, almost reverent. "Wow, wow, wow."
He watched the knights reposition, regroup, survive.
"Honestly, I would say it myself such a simplistic strategy." He shook his head in wonder. "But yet... so efficient."
Titus stood alone.
The knights stood together.
And the fire arrow burned in the sky.