By the time Artoria arrived at the battlefield, the outcome of the battle had already been determined.
Melqart's towering figure had vanished entirely. Though his overwhelming divine presence lingered in the air, there was no doubt—he had returned to the realm of myth.
Verethragna hovered in midair, his tattered cloak scorched black, with crimson arcs of lightning crackling intermittently across his body. His chest was drenched in blood, the deep sword wound exposing bone beneath.
In his current state, if he were lying on the street, most would mistake him for a beggar.
The world had changed: a new Campione had appeared on this land. As the pseudo-Last King, Artoria herself had grown significantly stronger. Consequently, Mordred, as her subordinate god, also gained strength at the same moment.
After Melqart was gravely injured, Mordred unleashed her full power. She drove the wounded Melqart from the battlefield and ultimately defeated Verethragna.
"So this… is what defeat feels like?"
Verethragna murmured weakly to himself, his tone a mix of confusion and a strange sense of relief.
"Haha… hahahaha! You who call yourself Mordred—a god so fierce and valorous in battle! Magnificent!"
"No tricks! No luck! This was simply a difference in strength. I can think of no defeat more satisfying!"
"Very well! I'll accept this loss with joy!"
Nearby, Mordred leaned on her sword for support, catching her breath. When she saw Artoria approaching, her face lit up with a radiant smile.
"Father! Look, look! I won! I didn't let you down!"
Mordred was far from unscathed after her battles with Melqart and Verethragna.
Her armor was badly damaged, parts of it melted into molten red iron that clung to her body. Fractured sections revealed charred flesh beneath.
Artoria had endured far worse injuries in her past and knew Mordred had, too.
But seeing it firsthand stirred a pang of pain in her chest.
"Mm… I saw."
Artoria raised her hand and gently ruffled Mordred's messy hair.
"You did well, Mordred… better than I expected."
"Hehehe… it's nothing, really…"
Mordred giggled bashfully, her cheeks reddening. She tried to scratch the back of her head but stumbled and fell into Artoria's arms.
Given that Mordred had only recently attained godlike power, and her first opponents were two god-king-class [Steel] deities, a moment of weakness was understandable.
From where he lay, his body wrapped in crackling lightning, Verethragna struggled to lift his head. His left eye was swollen shut, leaving him with only one functional eye to watch Artoria and Mordred. He stared at them for a long while before a look of realization crossed his face.
"I see now… No wonder she suddenly grew stronger during our fight. It's because of you, isn't it? The Last King… or is it because a new Campione has arisen on this land?"
Verethragna's gaze was vast and profound, like an endless ocean of stars. Within his eyes, countless lights, symbols of wisdom, flickered and intertwined.
As a god of wisdom, Verethragna was known for using his intellect to turn the tide of battle. His eyes could discern the path to victory.
One of his incarnations, the Warrior with the Golden Sword, granted him unparalleled insight into the essence of other gods. With enough understanding, he could sever their divinity using his golden sword, stripping them of their powers.
Throughout the battle, Verethragna had been trying to analyze Mordred's divine essence.
With Melqart eliminated, if Verethragna could sever Mordred's divinity, he might have reclaimed victory.
Knowing her true name should have made analyzing her divinity a simple matter.
But reality proved otherwise—his efforts were met with an insurmountable resistance.
The complexity of this world's mythology played a role. A single god could exist in multiple myths under various aspects. Verethragna himself was known as Bahram in Zoroastrianism, Vahagn in Armenian lore, Heracles in Greek mythology, Indra in India, and Artagnes elsewhere, all of which added layers of complexity to his own divinity.
Verethragna assumed Mordred was similar—that she wasn't solely "Mordred," but carried aspects of other deities, making it impossible for him to use his golden sword to sever her essence.
Even as the battle raged, he hadn't stopped trying to unravel her mystery.
But having used his White Horse incarnation to defeat Melqart, Verethragna had expended a significant amount of energy. Though Mordred was injured by the White Horse, some unknown force had bolstered her strength.
The result was clear: Verethragna lost.
He had already been weakened, especially after losing his Boar incarnation before the battle even began. Despite exhausting every weapon in his arsenal, he was defeated.
There was no treachery, no ambush, no betrayal.
This was the ending he had always hoped for—a pure, unblemished defeat.
"Well, go on. Deliver the final blow… It's the victor's right."
Supporting Mordred with one arm, Artoria glanced at the gravely wounded Verethragna before turning her eyes to Mordred.
Still slightly flushed, Mordred steadied herself by placing a hand on Artoria's chest and pushed herself upright.
"Father… you go ahead."
Artoria blinked in surprise.
"But… he's your opponent. You defeated him."
"Father, don't you need to slay gods to grow stronger?" Mordred replied. "Isn't that why you've been seeking gods to hunt, so you can defeat that impostor? This guy should qualify, right?"
"…He does qualify, but—"
"No buts," Mordred said with a grin. "I don't mind at all. Just promise me, Father—you'll give that fake a good thrashing when the time comes."
Seeing Mordred's resolve, Artoria could no longer refuse. She turned to Verethragna.
"And you, Persian War God? Are you content to let someone else deliver the final blow?"
Verethragna's expression was carefree as he smiled faintly.
"A victor's decision is absolute. There's no shame in it. If the one who defeated me chooses to cede the right, then as the loser, I have no objections. No regrets, either… So this is what it feels like to lose. It's… refreshing, in its own way."
He chuckled softly, his tone growing nostalgic.
"When I was victorious, I was far more brutal. I crushed my opponents' spines, tore out their sinews, their brains, their hair… I trampled their blood and flesh into the earth alongside the mud. Compared to that, this is merciful."
Verethragna's words carried no resentment, and Artoria saw no trace of bitterness in his demeanor.
It would be unreasonable to decline any further.
With that, she gripped her sword.
As the blade descended, Verethragna felt a twinge of regret.
His battle with Mordred had been perfect—without flaw, without complaint.
And yet, the greedy war god within him longed for more.
He wanted to face the woman before him.
To fight her with everything he had.
To pour every ounce of strength, intellect, and courage into the clash…
And then, to die by her hand.
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