Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

Lancelot was still leaning against the wall, catching his breath, when he heard it.

"If that's the case… then I'll stop my lecture for today—Father."

Boom!

It was as if her shield had grown sentient, flown back into her hand, and slammed into his chest with full force.

The emotional impact of that word—"father"—struck him harder than any of Mash's previous shield strikes. If not for the divine protection of the Lion King still lingering on his body, he was fairly certain his heart would've literally exploded.

He staggered, hand on chest, pupils dilated, face pale.

His daughter... called him father!

It wasn't a glare. It wasn't a sneer. It wasn't a rebuke.

It was affection.

It was forgiveness.

It was… the dream of every disgraced dad finally come true!

Even after ascending to the Throne of Heroes and being summoned into the world again, more than a thousand years after his death, Lancelot had never expected he'd discover such a thing:

His daughter… was this cute?!

When he returned to the Throne, he would immediately split the giant poster of King Arthur he kept in his private chamber in half and reserve the other half for his daughter's portrait. From today onward, he, Lancelot du Lac, had no son. Only this beautiful, fierce, perfect daughter!

Sure, she'd pummeled him into the wall, bruised every inch of his body, and ensured he would never—ever—have a second child…

But still!

She was the cutest in the world!

If she liked animals, he would cosplay as every single one—from cat to tiger, from ant to blue whale. If she wanted a unicorn, he'd glue a horn to his forehead and gallop through Camelot in a tutu.

Unfortunately, just as Lancelot was basking in his newfound paternal awakening, a familiar voice sneered coldly from behind.

"Lancelot. Once again… you've betrayed the King."

Agravain.

He stood tall, stern as ever, flanked by an army of grim-faced Orthodox Knights, their armor reinforced by the Holy Grail itself. Barbed plating, jagged weapons, unnatural enhancements—their entire presence screamed of fanaticism and engineered rage.

Thanks to Agravain's secret alchemy and twisted command over ritual magic, each knight was like a third-rate berserker: not terribly impressive alone, but in great numbers?

A nightmare.

"I always knew knights like you couldn't be trusted. Once a traitor, always a traitor! This time, Lancelot, I'll execute you in front of the King herself! Knights—advance!"

With that, the ground shook as the Orthodox Knights charged, weapons raised high, murderous intent flooding the air.

But Lancelot didn't move.

Instead, he stepped forward, placing himself in front of Mash—battered and barely upright, but eyes burning with resolve.

The message was clear:

If you want to touch my daughter…You'll have to go through me.

Mash blinked. Her expression softened, then tightened with gratitude. She gave him a quick nod—

—then raised her shield and charged straight for Agravain.

There was rage in her heart.

As Galahad's memories seeped further into her mind, Mash could no longer remain calm.

These knights… these so-called Round Table loyalists… had allowed the Lion King to become a despot.

And Agravain—Agravain, the King's iron-fisted secretary, her loyal political enforcer—he was the worst of them all.

Some scholars claimed Agravain was the cause of the Round Table's decline. Others insisted that after his death, the entire kingdom began to crumble—that without him, Arthur's reign could never have held together. Even Merlin himself had once admitted: "The kingdom's ugly side was Agravain's burden."

In another timeline, if Agravain had still been alive when Mordred rebelled, she might never have gotten within five meters of Camelot's gates—because Agravain would have dragged her into the dungeon and tortured her until the rebellion broke from within.

But now, he stood as a servant of the goddess, upholding a twisted version of justice.

Mash's shield burned with righteous fury.

"How dare you call yourselves knights… and forget what it means to serve a true king!"

Her shield smashed through the first wave of Orthodox Knights like a bowling ball through glass figurines.

Meanwhile, Tristan had finally shaken Mash off and redirected his attention to the cowering civilians.

He licked his lips, raised his bow, and prepared to bathe in innocent blood.

But just as he took aim—

"I'm terribly sorry, but I can't let you kill a single one of them."

The soft voice was followed by a sharp flash of light.

Leonardo da Vinci stepped between Tristan and the refugees, staff in hand, eyes narrowed with calm determination.

The civilians froze.

They had thought they were doomed.

They had resigned themselves to death.

But then…

They were saved.

They bowed to Da Vinci in gratitude, tears in their eyes, and fled behind the retreating line of resistance fighters.

But before they could get far, the sky darkened.

And then—

It brightened again.

But not with hope.

With heat.

With blazing radiance.

With the arrival of a man known only as…

The Sun.

Sir Gawain.

His footsteps rang like hammers.

The Holy Sword of the Sun burned in his hand.

His face was calm, unreadable, as he looked down at the fleeing civilians.

"I'm afraid… none of you will be leaving today."

But just as he raised his blade—

BOOM!!

A concentrated ray of magic came crashing down from the heavens and knocked Gawain backward several steps. Smoke curled off his armor.

He narrowed his eyes.

"…No."

Not him.

Anyone but him.

That hated voice rang out—arrogant, carefree, unbearably flamboyant.

"What are you talking about, my dear nephew? I am here to save these people…"

A swirl of red, a gleam of gold, and a fluttering cape appeared on the battlefield.

"In the name of the Paladin!"

-End Chapter-

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