Arthur fired the attack at Mordred.
It was an attack the size of a small sun blazing, absolute, inescapable. The light alone was enough to blind, the heat enough to melt stone, the force enough to shatter mountains. If this attack reached Mordred, not only would he be destroyed, but inevitably this would be his end.
Mordred drew his sword.
"Moon Sword Art Three: Still Water."
The technique took inspiration from still water the unmoving water, the water of pure toxin, where anything that enters it dies. His blade moved not against the sun, but around it. Enclosing it within his reach. Containing it. Holding it.
And then he disintegrated the attack.
The sun vanished not with an explosion, not with a bang, but with a soft, almost gentle dissolution. It faded like mist, like dream, like nothing.
But as Mordred fell, he coughed a large amount of blood.
"Damn it." His voice was strained, ragged. "I'm almost near my limit."
He wiped his mouth.
"I haven't used this many Moon Sword attacks... not ever."
He regained a sense of awareness as he was momentarily distracted. If he fell now, he would land into the lava below. He immediately twisted his body and crashed his head into a boulder, using the impact to stop his descent.
Then he felt it.
A force pulling everything apart around him.
It felt cool. And dangerous.
This was a highly dense wind so powerful that it pulled everything, almost pulling him out. His vision was blurry, but as he looked, he saw wind everywhere. So dense. The wind was so powerful that he could not hold himself to the ground anymore.
But there was no need to hold himself down.
The ground was gone.
A wind so strong it ripped out large chunks of the earth and crushed them. A wind so strong it tore down mountains, scattering their remains across the sky. Mordred felt great pain all over his body as the wind lashed at him.
This, he thought, is the work of that bastard Lamorak.
If I had known, I would have killed him. He grimaced. Damn my actions.
He steadied himself.
But all this... nothing is out of sight. Everything is still flowing like the strings of fate predicted.
And if they were right... at this moment, he should be here.
He turned his head to the left, bracing himself for the attack.
General Titus appeared by his side.
His black blade stabbed into Mordred's lungs piercing through flesh, through bone, through organ. The pain was immediate, blazing, white-hot. Blood sprayed from the wound, mixing with the wind, painting the air red.
Mordred's voice was calm despite the agony.
"Oh, oh." He looked at the general at the bald head, the cold eyes, the absolute certainty in his expression. "What's the meaning of this, general? Caesar won't be happy to hear that I am dead, you know."
General Titus held the sword steady. Both of them were in the air now, suspended by the great storm, tumbling through the chaos.
"It is for Caesar that I will kill you now." His voice was cold, final. "You who have no loyalty. You are a threat. A threat beyond anything."
His eyes narrowed.
"Your goal is too unclear for you to survive this."
Mordred smiled.
"Well." His voice was light despite the blade in his lung. "Today, I tell you... the both of us will survive this ordeal."
He met Titus's eyes.
"And we will stand shoulder to shoulder as comrades."
General Titus's face filled with disgust.
"Not today." His voice hardened. "It will never happen."
Mordred heard a scream.
It was the voice of Kiroto piercing through the wind, through the chaos, through the distance.
"MY LORD!" Her voice cracked with desperation. "WE WILL SOON BE OUT OF HERE! BEAR WITH ME!"
Lamorak turned to Galahad.
"It's time." His voice was calm despite the strain of maintaining the storm. "Now I'll increase the output more and more. Increase the density."
He raised Storm Cutter.
"I need you to use that ability. Make infinite cuts alongside my wind." He looked at Galahad. "Let every one of your cuts follow the path of my wind."
Galahad nodded.
He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. And then he began to copy the technique of Lamorak making infinite cuts, each one following the wind, becoming the wind, merging with the wind.
Everyone on the battlefield saw it.
A glow from every corner golden, silver, white alongside the wind. The glow then started to open as if it were one with the wind. It was infinite cuts, continuing to multiply as Galahad made more and more.
Galahad spoke.
"I should have a bit of pride." His voice was quiet. "Since you named your technique the Finger of the Storm God..."
He smiled.
"Then I have no choice." He raised his sword. "I'll name mine... the Scabbard of the Slasher."
Lamorak smiled.
"That's a good name."
Galahad nodded.
"It seems when everything is separated..." He looked at Lamorak. "...we will be a duo."
Lamorak's smile widened.
"Well, as a duo..." He raised his blade higher. "...let's make Camelot proud."
Below, in the chaos of the storm, the survivors grouped together.
Gareth grabbed hold of an unconscious Lancelot, wrapping his arms around the transformed knight, holding him close against the wind. His voice was strained.
"Why did I get the unconscious one?"
Tristan gripped Percival their bodies pressed together, anchoring each other against the storm.
Leodegrance held onto Sir Kay the old knight's stumps wrapped around the weakened warrior, his teeth gritted against the pain.
Each grouped as a duo.
And Sir Tor still unconscious, still bound spun alone within the storm, his body tumbling, his fate uncertain.
Near the very top of the storm, below Lamorak and Galahad, Arthur slowly started to regain his consciousness.
His eyes still blazing, still golden flickered. Awareness returned to them, faint but present.
He smiled.
And he spoke, in a faint whisper.
"My sight now... really isn't that bad."
He looked at the storm around him at the wind, at the chaos, at the survivors struggling below.
"There is hope for a tree that is cut down. For it will grow again... stronger than ever before."
He paused.
"Who knows when I'll gain consciousness again? But I know..." His voice hardened. "...the next time Camelot is together... Valhalla will be ours."
Lamorak shouted.
"GALAHAD! WIDEN IT!"
The cuts widened splitting the air, tearing the fabric of reality, opening rifts in space. The rifts glowed with an otherworldly light, pulling at everything around them, dragging the survivors toward safety.
Arthur fell unconscious once more.
His body slumped. His light dimmed. The sun that had been blazing was now a dying ember.
And then the light became hotter. Brighter.
Another attack was being formed.
This time, Arthur became the attack. His body transformed into a large sun not a clone, not a projection, but the sun itself. He was going to wipe out the entire battlefield.
Galahad shouted.
"NOW, LAMORAK! PUSH EVERYONE!"
Lamorak raised Storm Cutter to the sky.
"FINGER OF THE STORM GOD!"
He created a storm so powerful that it could not even be seen it was as dark as darkness, as absolute as nothing. The storm swallowed the light, consumed the heat, protected the survivors.
And then the sun shone.
Arthur made his attack.
The entire battlefield was erased.
But it was an empty battlefield.
Only the dead were impacted the corpses of Romans and Camelot soldiers alike vaporized, turned to ash, turned to nothing. The living those who had survived the battle, who had fought and bled and refused to die were gone.
Camelot and Rome had escaped.
The storm had carried them through the rifts, through the cuts, through the space between spaces. They were scattered across Valhalla to new lands, new battles, new challenges.
Everyone alive lived once more.
Darlington saw all of this.
His eyes those observer's eyes that had watched the entire battle, that had cataloged every death, every victory, every defeat were fixed on the empty battlefield below.
"Such destructive power." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "Arthur... you truly are something else."
He calculated the size of the attack.
"The size of a continent." He shook his head. "That was the size of the attack Arthur made."
He smiled.
"Well, at least..."
He looked at the scattered survivors at the flickers of life that were already beginning to move, to adapt, to survive.
"...Lancelot lived. After all, he's the only one that matters among all."
He paused.
"In Valhalla..." He thought of Hyacinth of the comic store, of the stupid conversations, of the wisdom hidden behind fake glasses. "What did Hyacinth call this type of thing again?"
He smiled.
"Yeah." His voice was soft. "A new adventure. A new arc."
He looked at the grey sky at the nothing that watched him, at the gods who thought they had won.
"It's entertaining."
His smile faded.
"I can't wait..." His eyes hardened. "...to kill all those gods."
Valhalla stretched on.
And the war was far from over.