Lancelot’s hands were filled with various weapons and tools—rails, pitchforks, scythes, clubs, stone pillars…
One look and it was clear Lancelot had come prepared, meticulously equipping himself for this rematch.
Meanwhile, Kaelar slowly turned the Caliburn’s razor-sharp blade, angling it back towards himself while pointing the hilt toward Lancelot. Holding the legendary sword by the hilt, which could easily slice through flesh, Kaelar said calmly, “This should be fair enough. Come on.”
The sword that symbolized Britain’s royal authority had long since transcended into a noble phantasm.
It could even unleash beams of light!
Such a stance was almost mockingly arrogant, an outright dismissal of his opponent’s abilities. Rage flooded Lancelot’s eyes, turning them bloodshot as he glared like a beast ready to devour its prey.
The suffocating aura of his madness was so intense it felt tangible. Magical power surged wildly around him, yet his eyes remained clear, his reason intact.
There was no doubt he could face down thousands alone—such was his overwhelming battle aura.
Artoria, however, only smiled as she watched. Even as Kaelar made such a bold move, she remained utterly confident.
After all, this was Kaelar—the man she revered above all, the saintly Kaelar!
“Lancelot, even if I fight you with my guard down, you’ll never defeat me.”
Watching Lancelot snarl like a cornered beast, Kaelar said calmly, “Because I am he who enlightens all; you should revere me like a god.”
“Lancelot, your lust for battle is too great. It still needs tempering.”
The irony was clear: though Lancelot was Ector’s brother, he was technically Kaelar’s uncle. In Eastern lands, Kaelar’s actions might be seen as pure rebellion.
But in Celtic lands, such behavior was perfectly natural. Celtic warriors disregarded seniority in favor of personal prowess; only strength and bravery commanded respect.
“Kaelar, you impudent whelp. Do you think I’m that easy to defeat?”
Lancelot’s fury burned ever hotter, yet his attacks were not sloppy with anger. Instead, he fought even harder, striking with greater force.
With both hands shrouded in dark, malevolent magic, he crafted two mighty noble phantasms. But Kaelar only continued to hold Caliburnbackward, offering no response.
Seeing this, Lancelot’s attacks grew even fiercer, pushing his body to its limits. He was sure no one could withstand such a blow directly—not even the Usurper King or Arthur could stand unscathed.
And so, his sword struck hard against Kaelar’s neck, only to fail even to scratch the luminous tattoos on his skin. Kaelar’s gaze remained steady as he remarked, “Is that all?”
“One of my Geasa: I, Kaelar, have sworn an oath of nonviolence. I will never kill.”
Geas: Cannot be harmed by weapons wielded with ill intent.
Lancelot’s strike, laden with rage and killing intent, could not wound Kaelar.
Through sheer force of will, Lancelot kept his weapon steady, though had he lost control, it might have flown off-target. But even at full strength, his efforts… were entirely futile.
“Have you finished? Then it’s my turn.” With a calm wave, Kaelar, still holding Caliburn in reverse, struck back. “I will stop violence through strength alone!”
The reversed Caliburn shattered every weapon Lancelot held. Luckily, he had already set aside Arondight, his sword of Lake-bound purity, as a backup. Otherwise, he’d have been back in Avalon seeking repairs.
Kaelar slowly sheathed Caliburn, saying with crisp finality, “As long as the true self within you pales against my brilliance, you’ll never defeat me, Lancelot!”
“So, tell me: What kind of will could even think to challenge mine?”
Kaelar had already resolved to bear the weight of all humanity—their love and hate, fear and reverence, all of it. He was willing to extend his teachings to anyone, unendingly.
Crack.
With a sharp sound, all the noble phantasms that Lancelot had created broke into fragments, the dark magic dissipating and each item returning to its original form.
“Kaelar… I’ve lost.”
Lancelot collapsed to the ground in dejection, spirit crushed. This single blow had shattered his core. How could someone be this strong?
But his mother had assured him his power could rival the Usurper King’s. How could he be so thoroughly defeated by a mere youth?
“Your Majesty, I won’t linger here as a disgrace. With Kaelar at your side, this battle’s outcome is clear. I’ll return to Avalon.”
Looking desolate, Lancelot picked up Arondight, intending to leave. Yet Artoria stepped forward to block his path. “Sir Lancelot, there’s no shame in not being Kaelar’s equal—no one is. He’s Britain’s saint, the one-man army who subdued seventy thousand Saxons.”
“Losing to him is no dishonor; it’s perfectly normal. You should wear it with pride.”
With a sly smile, Artoria spoke persuasively, “In fact, your defeat by Kaelar is a badge of honor you’ll carry for life.”
“Merlin and Sir Ector already told me everything. Before Kaelar and I arrived, it was you alone who defeated the Celt warriors and upheld King Uther’s authority and the sanctity of the Sword of Selection.”
“In other words, you’re the strongest Celt there is—besides Kaelar.”
“Your Majesty, so you’re saying…” Lancelot’s spirit lifted slightly, as he tentatively asked, “I am actually… powerful?”
“Indeed, Sir Lancelot.”
Kaelar set Caliburn beside Artoria’s throne, smiling as he added, “I fought Merlin once and shattered her weapon in three strikes, whereas it took me five to defeat you. Your skill is nearly at the peak of human achievement.”
Save for the few beings who transcended mortal boundaries, Lancelot was one of the rare prodigies—a true hero, his talent almost mythic.
Lancelot, grappling with his shattered self-confidence, had spent decades honing his craft only to be effortlessly subdued. Kaelar’s words came as a lifeline, and he clung to them as a last chance.
So he wasn’t weak—his opponent had simply been too strong!
“Stay with me, Sir Lancelot.” Artoria offered him the final push, a way back. “Soon we march against the false king Vortigern. I am in great need of Sir Lancelot’s strength.”
With their years of shared history, Kaelar and Artoria moved with unspoken synchronicity. Without a word, they played perfectly off one another, bewildering the knight of the lake who had spent his life isolated from human interaction.
Lancelot was moved to tears, overcome with a feeling of kinship. “Your Majesty, Lancelot is yours to command.”
A man in his forties was seamlessly outmaneuvered by two young strategists. It was undeniable proof of how effective Kaelar’s training had been. Artoria had mastered the art of statecraft through and through.
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