Chapter 66: The Knight Of The Sun
The battlefield was silent.
A vast expanse of white void, as if reality itself had paused to watch.
Across the distance stood two figures—one bathed in sunlight, the other wreathed in shadows.
Riya's crimson eyes narrowed.
Pure coldness could be seen from his eyes.
The emotions he once had, had already burned out, consumed in Rin's final light.
Now, only one purpose remained.
Fix the timeline.
And Go home.
That was the only truth that mattered.
Gawain stood tall across the field, his silver armor gleaming as the sun hung above him.
The weight of the knight's presence was like a wall—solid, imposing, unyielding.
But Riya didn't flinch.
He took a deep breath.
And started channelling.
"Suzuka Gozen." Riya whispered.
Warmth, ancient and sharp, stirred in his core.
Magic surged through his limbs, not like fire—but like swift wind weaving through steel.
A pure connection, forged by trust, lust and power.
The air shimmered.
Two blades appeared behind him—Daitouren and Shoutouren, floating in elegant arcs, their edges humming with magical energy.
He gripped the third sword—Kenmyouren—as it formed in his hand, a perfect fusion of elegance and lethality.
Riya exhaled once.
His stance shifted.
And then.
He moved.
The Blades clashed.
Daitouren arced wide from the left.
Shoutouren dove from above.
Kenmyouren slashed low, the edge glowing with speed and magical edge.
The first clash rang like a gong across the battlefield.
Galatine met Kenmyouren with a burst of sparks.
Riya twisted, letting the floating blades strike again—quick, precise.
Gawain stepped into the blows, armor grinding, weathering each strike with a knight's composure.
He blocked Shoutouren with his shoulder, parried Daitouren with a turn of his wrist, then forced Riya back with a heavy swing.
The impact cracked the ground beneath them.
Riya slid, adjusting mid-movement.
Gawain's strength was immense—but he was still pacing himself.
The sun hadn't reached its apex yet.
He feinted a rush—then snapped his fingers.
Daitouren and Shoutouren spun wide, carving arcs across the floor, dragging with them dust and debris.
The twin blades churned the battlefield like twin windmills, throwing dust into the air.
A haze formed between them and Gawain, obscuring the knight's vision.
Now was a chance.
Riya darted back.
He raised his hand high.
And Kenmyouren had flared with power, resonating with the twin swords.
His voice rose:
"O stories, begin weaving thy tale."
The floating swords aligned above him, forming the points of a triangle of crimson light.
"This is the famous Daitouren."
"Blanket the sky in tiles of color."
The artificial sky rippled.
Runes ignited in the heavens.
A sigil bloomed above like a lotus of fire.
"Skewer the swarm of evil in heavenly rain!"
"Monjuchiken Daishintou!"
And finally—his voice sharpened, slicing through the void:
"Love blast... Demonic Sun-Shower!!"
The sky opened.
Two hundred and fifty blades—each forged from pure magical light—rained down from the heavens.
They didn't fall wildly.
They hunted.
Each sword adjusted mid-flight, twisting toward Gawain's armor, his limbs, his blind spots.
The knight's outline was lit by steel.
The first wave struck.
Gawain slashed three away with Galatine.
Another seven he deflected with controlled turns of his shield and shoulders.
His armor hissed, magic clashing against enchantment.
He didn't yell.
He didn't falter.
He endured.
For now.
Twenty, thirty, fifty blades fell.
And still he stood.
But he could not do it any longer.
The endless downpour began to bite.
A few swords slipped past his defense—scraping armor, nicking flesh.
Sparks flew, and shallow wounds bloomed across his arms and shoulders.
His stance faltered, just slightly, under the growing weight of the assault.
But then—it happened.
The sun shifted.
It grew brighter—hotter.
It was noon.
Riya's eyes widened as he watched Gawain's power rise.
Gawain's figure burst into radiant gold.
His every motion surged with enhanced strength.
The boost had arrived.
The battlefield no longer belonged to Riya.
Galatine pulsed once—and with a mighty upward cleave, Gawain unleashed a wave of heat and light.
The remaining swords of the Demonic Sun-Shower were blasted aside in a roaring explosion of divine sunlight.
In a single blow, the storm was shattered.
Riya covered his eyes from the blastwave.
Daitouren and Shoutouren dimmed, spiraling protectively around him, but even they faltered.
Gawain stepped through the fading light, smoke trailing off his silver armor.
And then he charged.
Riya barely raised Kenmyouren in time to block.
The force behind Galatine's strike sent him sliding.
Gawain didn't pause.
Another strike.
And another.
Each heavier than the last.
The air shimmered with the weight of his blows.
Riya fought back.
He ducked, pivoted, let the floating swords clash with Gawain's blade—slashing from the sides while he stabbed forward.
But it wasn't enough.
The sunlight crushed all subtlety.
Suzuka's speed was useless against raw power.
Galatine slammed into Shoutouren—shattering it with a burst of light.
Daitouren tried to counter—but was cut down with a brutal upward slash, splintering into fragments mid-air.
Only Kenmyouren remained.
Riya panted, the edge of his last sword trembling.
Gawain advanced.
No words.
No mockery.
Just duty, respect and honor.
He swung.
Riya parried—just barely—sliding back.
His hands bled from the impact.
Another blow.
And another.
And another.
And another.
Kenmyouren cracked.
And before riya knew it.
The blade shattered in his hands.
Steel fragments scattered across the void.
Riya stood frozen, arms lowered.
He was disarmed.
Gawain stared down at him, haloed by the midday sun.
For the first time, Riya had lost a Servant's power in open combat.
That was not good...
The field was still trembling.
Sparks danced along the cracked tiles of the tower floor, remnants of a divine slaughter strewn across the ruin.
Where once three elegant blades had soared—dancing in a flurry of fire and beauty—now, there was only silence.
Riya stood amidst the wreckage.
Blood traced its way down his temple, cutting across his jawline and dripping from his chin in slow, rhythmic falls.
His breaths were ragged—inhales shallow, exhales shuddering.
His arms hung loose at his sides, too heavy to lift, his knees threatening collapse.
But he didn't fall.
He couldn't.
Across from him, Gawain raised his blade.
The silver armor-clad knight stepped forward with purpose, the sunlight reflecting from the bronze engravings across his arms and chest.
His shoulders were broad, posture unshaken.
Despite the battle's toll, his movements remained precise—like a ritual.
He lifted Excalibur Galatine to the sky, the blade catching the high sun and blooming with radiant heat.
There was no hesitation in his voice.
This sword is a replica of the sun.
Its flame shall cleanse all the impurity of this world.
"This sword is a replica of the sun."
"Its flame shall cleanse all the impurity of this world."
Riya's eyes flicked up, narrowing.
That chant—it wasn't finished, but the air itself trembled in anticipation.
Gawain's sun had not waned.
It was still noon.
The peak of his power.
There was no time.
Riya's fingers curled slowly into a bloodied fist.
The skin along his palm screamed in protest, cut and bruised.
He gritted his teeth as His mind surged inward, beyond the pain, beyond the chaos, into the quiet chambers of his soul.
One more connection.
He reached deeper.
And the Saint Graph answered.
A pulse of something holy burst outward from his core.
Jeanne d'Arc's presence flared to life inside him.
A brilliant wind whipped outward from his feet, spiraling up.
In his right hand, the white flag of the Maid of Orléans blazed into form with a sharp snap, its pole etched with gleaming silver lines.
Gawain brought Excalibur Galatine down.
"EXCALIBUR GALATINE!!"
The name tore from his throat like a war cry, echoing across the battlefield with terrifying clarity.
The sunfire ignited like a descending star—roaring gold, unrelenting, shaped like the wrath of heavens.
The beam tore through the air, carving molten gouges into the floor as it approached.
Riya didn't flinch.
He stepped once.
Drove the flagpole down.
It pierced stone with a deafening crack, anchoring itself as a radiant dome unfolded from the cloth.
Light spread outwards in concentric circles—pure, divine, unbreakable.
"O Lord, I beg of you..."
"Grant me the strength to protect those precious to me."
"Luminosité Eternelle!"
The clash was instantaneous.
The sun's fury met the sanctified barrier in a soundless explosion of light.
Heat rolled outward in waves, sweeping debris into the void.
The flag quivered under the pressure, its pole vibrating from the force.
Riya held it with both hands now, feet planted shoulder-width apart.
Every tendon in his arms screamed.
His body shook, driven back inch by inch across the burning floor.
But he did not let go.
The holy light bent, but did not shatter.
Galatine's beam seared against it, a ceaseless inferno.
Sparks licked along the edges of the barrier.
Stone melted in pools at Riya's heels.
His eyes remained dull.
Focused.
The light flared.
Smoke poured from his gloves as the divine energy threatened to consume flesh along with spirit.
The sun had not moved.
Still noon.
Still at full strength.
But time—
Time doesn't stand still.
Minutes passed.
Riya kept standing.
Then A flicker in the light—subtle, almost missed.
Then, a shadow crept across the battlefield.
The sun… had shifted.
Noon was over.
Galatine's golden inferno faltered.
Its roar grew ragged, sputtering at the edges.
The beam cracked and broke.
What had been unstoppable began to decay.
The solar flames dulled, shrunk—splitting like dying fireworks.
The blast flickered once… twice… and then collapsed into motes of ash.
Silence returned.
Jeanne's banner still stood.
So did Riya.
But only just.
He fell to one knee, flagpole shaking in his grip.
His breath rattled.
Smoke trailed from the edges of his coat.
One arm dangled uselessly at his side, twitching.
Still, he held the flag upright.
The light around it was dimmer now—but intact.
Across from him, Gawain was kneeling as well.
His armor bore cracks along its gold-plated surface, and his breaths came in heavy, broken gasps.
Excalibur Galatine hung limply in his fingers, the fire within its core now spent.
Neither moved.
However.
The duel was still far from being over.
The tides had shifted.
And Riya knew—
Jeanne's defense may have saved him.
But it wouldn't be enough to win.
Not yet.
...
The battlefield was scorched.
A silent wind swept through, born of magical fallout and fury.
Riya and Gawain knelt on opposite ends of the shattered platform, both bruised, both barely standing.
Gawain, noble as ever despite his exhaustion, pressed a hand to his knee and slowly began to rise.
The silver armor on his body cracked and dulled from the battle's toll, but his grip on his sword remained steady.
Across from him, Riya stayed still.
His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, but his eyes were blank.
Cold.
Focus.
He had to move forward.
He had to fix the timeline.
He had to go back home.
There was no time to waste.
No space for doubt.
And yet—
Gawain, voice calm, not cruel, said, "I thought you had a partner."
"I expected her to be here as well." A pause.
"Did something happen to her?"
Riya didn't look up.
Something happened.
A soundless, shattering crack through the core of his resolve.
To Riya, the words Gawain said cut deeper than any blade.
She.
Rin.
Riya didn't speak.
Couldn't.
His fingers clenched into fists at his knees.
He lowered his head, letting the curtain of ash hide his face.
Rin's smile came back first.
Then her voice, her touch, the warmth of her body.
And when she gave everything up for him — her Command Seals, her Servant, her life.
She died with a smile.
And he had to watch.
He never said goodbye.
Never told her that she mattered more to him then most.
That she was the only thing keeping him human.
And now she was gone...
The cold wall he had built around his grief began to collapse.
A dam shattered under its own weight.
Rage.
Guilt.
Grief.
Love.
The storm didn't rise — it detonated.
Riya's body jerked as red lightning exploded from beneath his skin.
A surge of mana erupted around him, melting the snow-like ash into rising plumes of steam.
The ground cracked beneath his feet.
The air howled.
Something ancient and furious answered his call.
The sigils on his chest — invisible to the eye, but etched into the weave of his soul — ignited.
Red lightning arced into the sky.
Mordred.
He didn't call her name.
He didn't need to.
His anger did that for him.
Riya stood, no longer staggering.
The crimson aura engulfed him completely, twisting and burning like a wildfire with no end.
His crimson eyes glowed with rage.
His fingers opened—and the weapon materialized in his palm with a hiss like a snarling beast.
Clarent.
No, not Clarent — not anymore.
This was Clarent, corrupted by hatred, grief, and defiance.
A bastard sword wrapped in blood-red light.
It didn't hum like Jeanne's holy flag.
It growled, a hungry, bitter thing — a Noble Phantasm that screamed at the world, "I will unleash my wrath."
Across the battlefield, Gawain's eyes widened, not in fear, but in solemn recognition.
"…Mordred."
He didn't say it with disgust.
Only understanding.
Far above, Leo narrowed his eyes.
He was still calm, always calm.
But even his composure had its limits.
He hadn't anticipated this—Riya possessing such a powerful and mysterious energy, so volatile and consuming that it felt unlike any previous Heroic Spirit he'd faced before.
This wasn't simple compatibility.
This was something else.
Leo knew he had to act.
Quickly.
This was no longer a battle of attrition — it was now a clash of final trump cards.
His hand moved with cold precision, peeling the glove from his fingers to reveal a burning red Command Seal.
His voice rang through the air like a judgment:
"Gawain."
"By this command spell."
"Release everything you have."
Magic pulsed down from the seal.
A flash of radiant gold enveloped the knight.
The command didn't heal his wounds.
It didn't erase his fatigue.
It simply forced him to use everything he had left.
And he did.
Teeth clenched, body shuddering with pain, Gawain took one last step forward.
He raised Excalibur Galatine high.
Riya gripped Clarent tighter, and the crimson lightning answered, crawling up the blade like veins made of hate.
Their eyes locked.
This was no longer a fight of honor or ideology.
This was wrath versus determination.
Gawain planted his feet.
Mana surged up through his heels, into his spine, and out into the holy sword in his grip.
His voice was not shouting — it was resonance.
A prayer turned weapon.
"Your will."
"My holy sword is the embodiment of the sun."
"Under the king's command, I will burn all on the surface to the ground."
"The blade of this holy sword is a copy of the sun itself—"
"Holy sword of the stars, swing once again—"
"Excalibur Galatine!!"
The sun ignited.
A blazing inferno swept out from his blade, a wall of absolute daylight consuming the battlefield.
But Riya did not back down.
He raised Clarent.
And started his own chant.
Mordred chant.
"O body, meet a glorious death for the prosperity of Camelot!"
"Feel the seething rage of this planet—"
"Clarent Blood Arthur!!!!!"
Red lightning surged from the ground, the sky, his body.
The crimson wave tore forward to meet the sun.
Red Light and fire collided.
The sun met the storm.
Gold and red, divine and defiant, burned into one another with enough force to warp the Moon Cell itself.
A quake ran through the simulated reality.
Cracks formed in the marble floor of the arena.
The sky flickered — not clouds, but system errors.
Fractures in the illusion.
At the center of it all: two swords locked in defiance of fate.
Gawain's Galatine — a sun forged in loyalty.
Riya's Clarent — a cursed heirloom reborn in rage.
For a moment, they held each other in balance.
A heartbeat of stillness.
But Riya was shaking.
Not from pain.
Not from exertion.
From everything he had locked away since Floor Six.
He had worn the mask of cold calculation, convinced himself that apathy was strength — that suppressing his grief would help him move forward.
But the weight never lessened.
The guilt never faded.
Rin's death.
Her final smile.
The way she paralyzed him so he wouldn't stop her.
And her death...
He had endured it in silence.
But now—
Now, with Mordred's fury coursing through his limbs and the battlefield burning around him—
He couldn't hold it in anymore.
The facade shattered.
All Riya could do is scream.
It wasn't a war cry.
It was grief, raw and unfiltered, forced through the throat of someone who had lost something important.
The red lightning intensified.
Clarent howled as it devoured the holy fire.
The edge of Gawain's sunlight flickered, dimmed.
The golden blaze cracked — not suddenly, but steadily, as though Riya's fury eroded its purity one layer at a time.
And then—
With a final, thunderous pulse—
Clarent Blood Arthur tore through Galatine.
Not the sword.
The power behind it.
A crimson arc cleaved the battlefield.
Gawain staggered.
The radiant core of his Noble Phantasm sputtered like a dying star.
The knight let out a choked gasp as the backlash hit him — divine energy burning his nerves from the inside.
However.
Clarent's crimson light faded slowly from Riya's hands, steam rising from his palms.
He had stopped Clarent Blood Arthur at the very last second.
He couldn't kill Gawain.
Because if he wanted Gawain as his Servant for the final battle…
He had to spare him.
Even as his heart roared for vengeance and release, Riya forced his will back into his body.
Gawain coughed, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of his mouth.
"…That… was not Mordred," he said quietly, looking up.
Riya didn't reply.
"You carry her wrath," Gawain went on.
"But it wasn't hers that struck me."
"It was yours."
Riya stepped forward slowly.
Clarent dragged through the dust behind him.
"I don't want your analysis," he muttered.
Riya said nothing more.
His eyes locked on Gawain.
The knight was still standing, barely — one knee buckling, his arms trembling from the force of the clash.
But even in exhaustion, he began to lift his sword again.
Slowly.
Determinedly.
As if his body were moving by loyalty alone.
Riya narrowed his eyes.
He knew the rules he and Leo made.
Gawain does not need to die — only be defeated.
And so, without hesitation, Riya unleashed one final surge of power.
A torrent of crimson lightning exploded from his body, a condensed, focused eruption of Mana Burst — raw, furious, precise.
The sword blast struck Gawain's blade head-on.
The silver sword flew from the knight's grip and spun across the field, embedding itself deep in the marble floor with a thunderous crack.
Gawain's breath hitched — and before he could even fully register what had happened, Riya was already there.
A blur of red light.
Clarent, still crackling with residual energy, halted just short of Gawain's throat.
The flat of the blade hummed, resting against his skin.
Silence fell.
The silver knight stared up, panting, eyes wide but not afraid.
He knew.
He had lost.
And Riya — hollow-eyed, unmoving — stood tall above him, his hair stirring in the still-charged air.
The battlefield around them was scorched and ruined — the floor cracked, the air thick with heat and static.
Ash and sparks drifted lazily through the void like snow.
Red lightning curled around Riya's frame, slowly fading.
Clarent remained at Gawain's throat.
No fanfare.
No announcement.
Only the truth, etched into the silence:
Riya had won.