Mordred's mind began to recall the past.
He was sixteen years old, standing on a podium. A wooden sword rested in his grip light, balanced, familiar. Around him, dozens of contestants filled the tournament field, their faces hard with determination, their bodies coiled with tension. Beyond them, thousands of spectators packed the stands, their voices a dull roar of anticipation.
This was the Stone Warrior Tournament. The greatest competition of young warriors in all of Britain. And Mordred, son of Arthur, intended to win.
He smiled.
Then he jumped.
His body launched from the podium soaring over the heads of the contestants, over the barriers, over the crowd. It was like the sight of a god descending into the world. He landed in the center of the field, his wooden sword already swinging.
CRACK!
The first strike broke the ribs of two men. They crumpled, gasping, their weapons falling from useless hands. His fist shot out a single punch and sent a third man flying across the field.
This was a man whose strength was true.
Mordred held a man by his neck, lifting him off the ground like a ragdoll, and threw him into the others. Bodies tumbled. Voices shouted. Chaos erupted.
With his speed, he made a kick a single kick that formed a gale of wind, pushing dozens of opponents away from him. They fell like leaves, like wheat, like nothing.
His face held no emotion.
Bors watched from afar.
He stood in the royal box, surrounded by the other knights of the Round Table Galahad, Kay, Bedivere, all of them. Their eyes were fixed on the young prince, on the destruction he was wreaking.
What a monster that kid is, Bors thought, his inner voice filled with something between awe and pride. Even though he's a monster... I'm proud of him.
He watched Mordred disarm three opponents with a single motion.
At this age... I don't even think King Arthur was this strong.
He shook his head.
And yet you have surpassed your father at this age. This is more than pure talent. His eyes narrowed. It's as if you were born with the body of a fighting warrior.
He smirked.
From birth.
He looked at the young prince at the power that flowed through him, at the future that stretched before him.
"I wish to be alive," he said quietly, "to see the change that you will bring to this world."
He paused.
"Son of Arthur."
Four warriors wearing armor rushed to ambush Mordred.
They came from four directions front, back, left, right their blades raised, their intent clear. They had planned this. Practiced this. They were the tournament's best, and they intended to take down the prince together.
Mordred did not move.
He stretched out his hand.
His fingers impaled the armor of the first warrior tearing through the metal like it was paper, like it was nothing. He tore the bare metal with his bare hand, ripping it from the man's chest.
His kick smashed the head of the second.
CRACK!
The third and fourth tried to flee.
Mordred grabbed one by the leg.
He started swinging him around and around, like a ball attached to a chain, like a weapon. The man screamed, his body whistling through the air.
"Oh yeah." Mordred's voice was calm, almost bored. "This is good."
He smiled.
"You will be my weapon from now on." He swung harder. "My personal wrecking ball."
He rushed forward, using the man as a battering ram smashing into the opponents in front of him, taking down four men in an instant. Bodies flew. Bones broke. The crowd roared.
Then he raised the man up.
Spinning him.
Faster and faster.
The gale of wind that formed pushed dozens more opponents away from him, clearing a space in the center of the field.
Mordred threw the man away.
He bent down and picked up a sword from the ground a real sword, steel and leather, sharp. He unsheathed it, letting the blade catch the light.
"I will now finish this," he said quietly, "with the sword."
He raised the blade.
"I call this move... The One Above Clouds."
He took an unbalanced stance feet planted, body leaning, sword extended.
He slid his feet multiple times on the floor a dancing motion, graceful, controlled. Dust rose around him, swirling in the air.
Then he stepped forward.
He was so fast that none of the opponents around him could see him. He was a blur, a ghost, a memory.
In one circular slash, he brought down every opponent that was around him.
Bodies fell. Weapons clattered. Blood sprayed.
Some of them died.
Mordred stood in the middle of the opponents he had defeated surrounded by the fallen, by the proof of his victory. His chest rose and fell. His face was still empty.
A round of applause began to echo all around him.
It started small a few hands, a few voices then grew, swelling, thundering, until the entire stadium was shaking with the sound.
The one hosting the tournament stepped forward.
Sir Galahad.
His voice carried across the field.
"AND THE WINNER... OF THE STONE WARRIOR TOURNAMENT... IS MORDRED, SON OF ARTHUR! "
The crowd exploded.
Everyone was there.
All the knights of the Round Table sitting in the royal box, their faces filled with pride, with hope, with certainty.
They all agreed on one thing.
The next king of Camelot will not be the sun.
But he will be stronger than the sun.
Mordred did not care.
He was not interested in the praise that came from anyone. Not interested in the applause, the adoration, the future they were building for him.
He turned his head to the side.
He expected the king to be seated there in the center of the royal box, on the throne that had been carried from the castle for this occasion. His father. The man he wanted to impress.
The throne was empty.
Mordred's heart tightened.
He left, a thought passed through his mind. Was it that boring?
Galahad's voice boomed across the stadium.
"Now, he shall be given the gift for his victory... by the knight Lancelot!"
Lancelot stood opposite the throne of Arthur, holding in his hands a huge wrap a gift, a prize, a recognition of the prince's achievement. He began to walk down the steps toward the field.
The prince of Camelot turned his back on everything.
He walked out of the tournament stage.
His face was filled with dread.
The remaining love, respect, and hope he had left in his heart that remaining anchor that had kept him tethered to Camelot, to his father, to the dream of a future together was now on the verge of breaking.
This was the beginning of the darkness that ate him.
The darkness that made Mordred what he was now.
Mordred's mind returned to the present.
The battle began.
He sprinted toward Arthur, focusing all his strength into his fist. His muscles coiled. His body launched. He punched.
Arthur did not move.
He stood there, blazing, still, and the blow was blocked not by his body, not by his sword, but by the thin surrounding him. An aura. A shell. The force that Mordred produced was enough to rip through the body of a well-trained warrior before they could even react.
Against Arthur, it was nothing.
Arthur stabbed Excalibur into the ground.
BOOM!
Mordred was blown away hurtling into the sky, his body tumbling, his vision spinning. For a brief second, his eyes looked above.
A large, dark storm was forming.
It almost dragged him into it the winds pulling, the clouds churning, the power of Lamorak's magic reaching down from the heavens. Mordred bit down on his jaw and launched himself back to the ground.
He approached the ground, stopped, and landed on a boulder nearby.
Then he realized.
I've been kicked out of the zone.
Arthur's attack had done it. The force, the light, the presence of the sun had shattered his detachment, pulled him back into the world of senses and pain.
And not only that.
Lava surrounded him.
When Arthur made that attack, it was so strong that it drew natural lava from deep within the earth up to the surface. Rivers of molten rock flowed around him, hissing, burning, containing him.
At his back, he saw the knight Tor tied up and unconscious, lying on a smaller boulder.
Before he could react, Arthur appeared in front of him.
Mordred blinked.
I can see, he thought, surprised. I'm not blind.
Arthur's knee slammed into his face.
CRACK!
Mordred flew soaring across the battlefield, his body spinning, his gear ripping away from his flesh. The force was so great that it tore off his armor, his clothes, everything. He became naked exposed to the air, to the heat, to the sun.
Burns appeared around his body because of the speed.
He smashed into mountain after mountain each impact cracking stone, breaking rock, leaving craters in the ancient peaks. His body bounced, rolled, finally stopped.
But that was not the end.
He raised his head.
He got up.
And he screamed to the top of his voice.
"FATHER!!!!!!"
His voice echoed across the battlefield raw, primal, aching.
"I HAVE COME FOR YOUR HEAD!"
He stepped forward.
He positioned his sword in a stabbing stance blade extended, body coiled, eyes fixed.
"Moon Sword Art One..."
His voice was calm. Focused.
"...The Slaying Ship."
In a blink, he blitzed.
His body became not a blur but simply non-existent. He was faster than sight, faster than thought, faster than anything that had ever moved on this battlefield.
Arthur reacted.
The king raised Excalibur not to strike, but to block. The blades met.
CRAAAAAAAAASH!
The impact of the attack was so great that it caused a strong wave pushing everything away. Rocks flew. Lava splashed. Bodies of the fallen tumbled. The wave reached every single inch of the battlefield.
It even clashed with the storm above.
Lamorak and Galahad, high in the sky, felt it.
Their storm halted the winds stuttering, the clouds parting, the cocoon of air around them shaking.
"Damn it." Lamorak's voice was strained. "Hold on, Gareth!"
The storm was being blown away.
He turned to Galahad.
"These two..." He shook his head. "I never thought of the day they would fight in battle."
He coughed blood spraying from his lips.
"It's like a world-ending event." He laughed a short, bitter sound. "Hahaha."
He wiped his mouth.
"Just like it was before." His voice hardened. "But I will fulfil this mission."
He raised Storm Cutter.
"The storm will prevail today." His eyes burned. "There will be no winner of this battle."
Arthur blocked the attack.
Then he raised his sword up and made a horizontal cut.
A large light came from it not gold, not white, but something beyond color. Anything it touched was simply disintegrated. No remains. No ashes. Nothing.
The power was absolute.
Mordred blocked it.
"Moon Sword Art Two..."
His blade moved not in a straight line, but in a wave.
"...The Wave of the Sea."
It was an attack that could only be executed at point-blank range designed to deflect the enemy's strike rather than meet it. Mordred pushed the light away, redirected it toward the mountain-filled area nearby.
The attack reached the mountains.
They disappeared.
Not crumbled. Not exploded. Simply... ceased. As if they had never existed.
Mordred jumped high into the sky.
"Moon Sword "
Before he could attack, Arthur appeared in front of him.
That was when he looked into Arthur's eyes.
And he saw the sun.
Not the light. Not the heat. Something deeper. Something that had been sleeping in his father's soul since the day he pulled the sword from the stone. It was vast, infinite, empty.
Arthur was no longer conscious.
This, Mordred realized, is the reason I am not dead.
If Arthur were fighting me while conscious... I would have been dead within the first second.
Arthur grabbed his hands together.
His fingers interlaced. His arms raised. His body coiled.
And he threw Mordred straight to the ground.
CRASH!
Mordred's body slammed into the earth bouncing, rolling, fetching up against a boulder. His sword slipped from his grip.
Arthur raised Excalibur above his head.
Using the holy sword, he created a clone of the sun.
The size of the attack was as large as four mountains merged together its surface churning with fire that was not fire, light that was not light, power that was absolute.
He fired it at Mordred.
Mordred saw it coming.
He grabbed his sword.
He raised it.
And he executed a sword technique mid-air, his body still prone, his arm still trembling.
"Moon Sword Art Three..."
He spoke the name.
"...Still Water."
The sun fell.
Mordred's blade glowed.
And the storm waited