Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

Lancelot had been mentally preparing to be smacked in the face with a shield the moment he laid eyes on his son.

After all, back in Britain, every time they met, Galahad would glare at him, punch him, and storm off without a word. Lancelot had long suspected his son was stuck in a permanent rebellious phase.

Well, that's just a father-son thing, right? Clashing personalities? Happens to the best of us…

No.

Bullshit.

It wasn't a personality issue at all.

It was because his son was a man.

Look at his daughter now—this fierce, glowering girl standing in front of him with that exact same "You disappoint me" glare. And yet…

She was so.

Damn.

Cute.

Even when she rolled her eyes at him, Lancelot's heart nearly burst from paternal pride.

Yes, that's right. Imagine it. His daughter, frowning at him, glaring, even smacking him with a shield—it was all adorable!

From this moment on, Lancelot declared himself his daughter's number-one fan. Her strongest believer. Her most devoted follower.

Fight her? Compete with her?

No way.

He'd rather hug her, pet her on the head, and tell her she could do no wrong.

But… the Lion King was watching. And as a knight who had sworn an oath, Lancelot still had to raise his sword.

Even if it shattered his soul.

Even if his beloved daughter was the one he had to face.

He gritted his teeth and lifted his blade toward the girl before him.

The old Round Table was gone. This was a new world. One on the verge of collapse. The Lion King's vision was absolute—and he had vowed to follow it.

So, Lancelot offered up his sword.

Mash took a slow, deep breath.

She didn't know why, but facing this knight made her angrier than facing Tristan.

Maybe it was the conflicted look in his eyes. Maybe it was the way he seemed to hesitate even as he raised his blade.

Either way—her shield thrummed with magic, and she hurled it like a dart straight at Lancelot.

A red-hilted knight's sword appeared at her hip, the armor on her body gleaming with renewed brilliance. She unsheathed the blade mid-charge and slashed toward him.

The thrown shield smashed into Lancelot like a meteor, and if not for his incredible reflexes and martial mastery, he would've gone airborne like Tristan had before. Even still, the force sent him staggering.

Mash didn't stop. She pivoted mid-air and kicked upward, her armored heel connecting squarely with Lancelot's jaw.

This time, the stoic knight did go flying.

Lancelot had seen civilians hunted down before. Sacred selections gone wrong. Innocents killed in the name of the King's will.

He had watched, endured, justified.

But now—now that it was his daughter attacking him with righteous fury—

He felt it.

The shame.

The rage.

The betrayal of everything the Round Table once stood for.

"Lancelot! Stop it! Are you really King Arthur's most beloved knight in your current state?!"

Mash's voice cut through him like a blade.

She didn't wait for an answer. She snatched her shield from the ground and slammed it forward again, dragging Lancelot across the stone until his armor carved a deep groove behind him.

Then, she withdrew her knight's sword, dashed forward, grabbed him by the ankles, and swung him like a flailing ragdoll. With one final heave, she launched him like a volleyball.

Thwack!

Right into the nearest wall.

And through the pain—bone-deep, pride-shattering pain—Lancelot felt something else.

Joy.

His daughter's martial prowess was truly remarkable!

Even under the Lion King's blessing, he could still feel every blow down to his lungs and liver.

He adjusted his stance mid-air, flipped upright, and landed gracefully—barely.

He staggered a little, clutched his chest dramatically, and looked at her.

There she was.

Marching toward him, shield in hand, armor gleaming, expression pure judgment.

Each step on the cobblestones rang like a gong in his guilty heart.

"It seems talking won't reach you, so…" Mash's voice rang clear, resolute.

"Sir Lancelot! It's time for a sermon! With this shield! Bet your strength and your pride! Redeem the name of the Knights of the Round Table! If you still bear the title of Arthur's beloved knight—then take it like a man!!"

Her shield came flying again.

Lancelot tried to intercept it with his sword—but just before they collided, the magic in her shield dispersed. His reflexes created an opening, a wide swing in his form.

In that exact instant, Mash appeared beside him.

Her shield, newly re-formed, slammed into his face like a punch from God wearing brass knuckles.

"If you doubt the King, then speak up! If the King is wrong, challenge him! Have you forgotten what it means to be a knight?!" Mash shouted, eyes burning. "You were the one who swore to protect everyone—not just the throne!"

Another slam. Another shield strike.

"Even if that ideal is naïve—even if it's impossible—you were the one who said we should cling to it anyway!"

A slap to the other cheek followed.

Mash stepped forward, her blade at Lancelot's neck.

"A knight protects the people. That is your pride, your code. How dare you call yourself a knight—and worse, a father—acting like this?!"

She didn't stab him.

Instead, she sheathed her sword—

—and kicked him right between the legs.

Thunk.

Lancelot flew backward, groaning, and slammed into the wall behind him.

Mash crossed her arms and exhaled deeply.

"Are you awake now, Sir Lancelot?"

At that moment, the mighty knight was kneeling in the rubble, mouth twitching, eyes glazed.

His face was covered in handprints.

His body had been used as a bludgeoning tool, a projectile, and a practice dummy.

He had taken it all.

And the worst part?

He felt…

He felt…

Grateful.

Yes, he deserved that.

He deserved every bash of that shield.

But… did his daughter have to enjoy it so much?!

He winced, hand drifting to his bruised… honor.

Still trembling, Lancelot slowly rose to his feet.

His legs wobbled.

But he forced them straight.

Because in front of his daughter—he refused to look weak.

"…You're right," he muttered hoarsely. "I was wrong… but now that I've been thoroughly baptized by your shield… I see clearly again."

Then he whispered, more to himself than anyone else:

"I'm sorry, Lion King. I… I rebelled for my daughter."

-End Chapter-

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