"Who are you!!"
Mordred's furious voice rang out. This was a battle between her and her father, their private time alone! How dare someone come and disturb them!! It was already this late; why, under these circumstances, would someone still stand between them?!
"Your uncle! Is that any way to speak to an elder?"
Aslan opened the cockpit and was met with Mordred's angry question, so he naturally didn't reply with a good temper. However, after hearing Aslan's words, Mordred was stunned for a moment. This young man, who looked so much like her father, what did he call himself? Uncle? Not maternal uncle? Nothing to do with her mother? Her father's brother?
He called himself her uncle. Did that mean this person acknowledged the blood relationship between her and her father?
But why!! Why was her own father so unwilling to acknowledge her?! If it weren't for the wrong time and place, Mordred truly wanted to throw herself into her uncle's arms and complain properly about her great father.
Aslan withdrew his gaze and placed it back on Artoria, his expression somewhat complicated. At this moment, Artoria's heart was also in turmoil. She should have guessed long ago that every meeting with Aslan signified that her life was entering its next stage, or that some great change was about to occur.
The first time she met Aslan was when she drew the Sword of Selection.
The second time she met Aslan was when she ended her travels and prepared to ascend the throne.
The third time she met Aslan was during the campaign against the demonic dragon Vortigern, when the island was unified.
And the fourth time she met Aslan was not during her expedition to Rome, but after she had already conquered it.
Looking at her current state, it was truly a lamentable sight.
"Artoria... is it really necessary to go this far? This is the first time I've asked you such a question, and it will be the last. You have already done so well. You could just go to Avalon like this... now that things have come to this, it can't be changed..."
Artoria gave Aslan a smile. This smile held a hint of desolation and a hint of exhaustion. Just as Aslan had said, everything had already reached this point. How could either of them stop now?
"Move aside, Aslan. We've already come this far. We have no reason to stop..."
At this moment, neither Artoria nor Mordred was willing to stop here. Having come this far, unless they died, there was no way to put a period on this grudge.
Alaya, dressed in black, once again appeared, visible only to Aslan.
[I told you, you cannot change their choice. Letting them settle their grudges here is also for their own good.]
Aslan bit his lip and finally sighed. "I understand. If this is your choice... then I respect it. Let me be the final witness to your battle."
The Supreme Masterpiece slowly stood up, then quickly retreated, once again leaving the stage to this "father and son."
Perhaps because Aslan had prevented their hasty clash and had simultaneously given them both a moment to calm down and prepare to fight again, the ensuing collision between the two would be even more magnificent and thrilling. If, in the original course of events, one would be pierced by a spear and the other would have their skull cracked by a sword in a rushed exchange, then this time, it would be a genuine battle between two knights.
Artoria, holding her holy spear, was the first to charge. Mordred, having removed her helmet, dashed forward with her demonic sword. The holy spear and the demonic sword clashed. Crimson lightning and pure magical energy intertwined. This was the last of their magical energy reserves. At the same time, the fierce sound of their clash was extremely clear across the entire battlefield.
On the outskirts of this battle, only Bedivere remained of the Round Table Knights. At this moment, Bedivere climbed up from the mountain of corpses and sea of blood, stumbling with every step as he walked towards the sound of the clashing. His green cloak was already half-dyed red with blood, and his silver armor bore numerous marks from the fighting.
"Arthur!!"
The demonic sword in Mordred's hand flashed with lightning, and her body was engulfed in it. This time, she no longer cared for any knightly swordsmanship. She also understood that her stamina had reached its limit. This was her final charge.
Artoria gripped the holy spear in her hand and charged forward. This thrust had no deviation. Mordred had no intention of dodging. The tip of the spear directly pierced her armor and penetrated her body.
Mordred's action was something Artoria had not expected at all. At least in their previous battles, this child before her had always fought with strict adherence to knightly sword techniques. Mordred, in turn, grabbed onto the spear that Artoria wanted to retract. A smile appeared on her face as her demonic sword fell, also cutting through the silvery-white armor on Artoria's body.
"How was that? I bet I surprised you, hahaha... cough cough... Don't look at me with that same old gaze. When it comes to surprises, I, Mordred, am definitely at the top of the Round Table! Do you regret not passing the throne to me now? Father..."
With that, the demonic sword in Mordred's hand fell to the ground. Saying those words had taken the last of her strength.
Artoria knelt on the ground—or rather, on a pile of corpses. When it was all over, she looked around her again, a sense of loss filling her eyes. Before she inherited the throne, she already knew Britain's fate. She gave up being a woman to become a male king, sealed her heart and lost her human emotions, and accumulated countless souls under her sword for the survival of her kingdom. All of this was to allow her kingdom to continue for as long as possible, so that even if the kingdom was destroyed, the people of Britain could merge with other countries or nations and continue on. However, when all her efforts and sacrifices came to naught, when the reality that Britain was brutally destroyed in a civil war and its people were nearly all dead was laid before her, she simply could not accept such an ending.
Alaya also arrived before Artoria at this moment, extending her hand to her.
On a distant beach, the sword in Kay's hand suddenly fell to the ground. He touched the corner of his eye; tears had begun to flow without him realizing. Lancelot, who had been rushing to provide support, full of apology for Gawain, suddenly stopped in his tracks. A certain place in his heart seemed to have become empty.
The legend of King Arthur would end here.