Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

"Get out of the way! Get out of the way! Get out of the way!! Everyone, get out of the way! I'll tear anyone who stands before me to pieces so everyone can watch!!"

Mordred brandished her magic sword, thunder crackling with each swing. Compared to the frenzy when she last unleashed her Noble Phantasm, she now fought with a calm restraint. Reckless use would break the magical restraints suppressing her power—and that would mean annihilation on a nuclear scale. She didn't want to blow herself up before confronting the goddess who had taken her father's body.

Still, judging by the current chaos, a final, devastating explosion seemed almost inevitable.

But if she exploded too early, failing to accomplish her goal? That would be a bitter disappointment. When the Throne of Heroes read this memory later, it would curse her—and might even seek the goddess directly, furious at such failure.

Better to stay intact—at least until that meeting.

Charging forward, Mordred smashed through the Knights of Honour, now grotesquely transformed—taller, stronger, like living statues. Agriven had recalled them all and reinforced their forms, blocking her path with a seemingly endless wall of armored bodies.

With brutal efficiency, Mordred seized one Knight by the throat, hoisted him like a bowling ball, and hurled him into his comrades. One by one, they crashed down.

When one grabbed at her ankle, she swung her sword hard—no hesitation.

They're just puppets. None will stop me from reaching the impostor who pretends to be my father.

Behind her, Morgan watched with a satisfied nod.

Her daughter—though disinherited—still possessed the King's appetite for battle and destruction. Even shackled as she was, Mordred devoured enemies like a force of nature.

Morgan knew well the burdens of leadership. If Mordred's consciousness hadn't yet returned, she'd have her working the fields, growing vegetables!

"How many blessings did that Agravain heap onto these puppets?" Mordred muttered. "They're getting thicker-skinned the more I hit them."

"If you want to show yourself, fine. Clear the path."

Morgan lifted her palms toward the blocking Knights of Honour. Slowly, she clenched her fists, as if squeezing invisible hearts.

One by one, the Knights faltered, then collapsed—swallowed by writhing black flames.

Mordred couldn't suppress a curl of her lips.

If only I'd learned some magic… things would be so much easier.

Nearby, Tristan's condition deteriorated rapidly.

Though still human, Bedivere wielded the knight sword blessed by Aslan, and with Gareth's relentless support, Tristan was nearing the end of his strength.

"Sir Tristan! This shot is for the civilians you killed and to make you see reason. I will never call you Sir Tristan again!"

Gareth's shield blocked Tristan's arrow as he prepared to fire.

He had no time to activate his own treasure.

Bloodthirsty and dark-eyed, this Tristan was no knight.

"Worse than the frivolous playboy he used to be," Gareth growled. "Is that who you want to be? No! Kill the enemy! I am a wolf! My spear is the fang of death! Go—[Violent Wolf Girl]!"

His spear, a treasure forged from legendary lance techniques, cut through knights with brutal grace. Gareth had defeated many famed warriors with it, earning the title "Violent Wolf."

Shot after shot, the specially designed knight's gun pierced Tristan's limbs, and the last bullet finally struck his chest.

Time froze.

Gareth gritted his teeth—killing a former comrade was no easy matter.

Tristan lowered his head, his red hair hiding the grotesque features beneath his reversed protection.

Bedivere fought off surrounding Upright Knights and approached the pair.

"Sir Tristan, though pessimistic, you were the one knight who fought with me as an equal—attack, defense, every tactic… I mourn your passing deeply."

He clenched his fists, breathing deeply.

Even among the Knights of the Round Table, not all were friends; fractured bonds contributed to their downfall.

Bedivere and Tristan were close.

"Hey… Sir Tristan," Bedivere said softly, "is the sail you see white this time?"

Golden spots shimmered on Tristan's body, his spiritual energy fading.

Hearing this, Tristan smiled and raised his head.

At the final moment, the reversed protection finally failed.

"Though this world is full of sorrow, there is finally some happiness… Go… into the city's heart. The one on the throne awaits your awakening…"

Gareth sheathed his spear.

Before them, Tristan vanished without a trace.

Only Agravain remained, standing resolute.

-End Chapter-

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