Chapter 466: [466] Clashing Blades, Bewildered Hearts

Spears pierced the air, swords summoned thunder—storms collided, crimson lightning bloomed, and dazzling brilliance scattered across the battlefield.

Not far away, a bloody dusk and a burning sun replaced the night as Siegfried and Karna unleashed their martial prowess without restraint. Clouds gathered and dispersed along the horizon, stars dimmed and fell, leaving only a scarred and desolate sky like the wounded earth below.

And now, wind and thunder had returned to the battlefield. Under the twilight glow, spear and sword clashed, their sparks illuminating not only the Prince of the Netherlands and the Hero of Charity but also another mounted king charging forth with her lance raised, crashing against the rebellious knight clad in a horned helmet, her blade stained crimson with hatred.

"Arthur—!"

A frenzied cry traversed a thousand years and a thousand miles, yet the emotions it carried effortlessly dragged one back to the hills of Camlann.

The blood and dusk were just as they had been then—more vivid than any hue a painter could mix on their palette. The battlefield, the corpses, the shattered banners—none had changed over the centuries. Even the combatants themselves, bound by unseen fate, reunited and threw themselves once more into a life-or-death struggle.

Mordred had imagined countless times the moment she would meet King Arthur again. Yet when she truly stood before her father, the sheer intensity of her emotions left her mind blank.

This was not like in Sighișoara, where the farce of mother-daughter recognition had torn open old wounds, leading Mordred to stage a pitiful spectacle. This time, it was the Black Assassin who rode forth, removing her cloak to declare to the knight torn between admiration and self-loathing—

Yes, I am King Arthur. I have come.

And so, the memories of their acquaintance—walking together through ancient streets, choosing outfits, reminiscing about the past—all faded away. Fleeting joy could not outweigh the hatred the knight had nurtured all this time. Mordred and Artoria, like mortal enemies yet also like kin bound by unspoken understanding, exchanged no further words once their identities were laid bare.

There was only one thing left to do—draw their blades!

With a roar, carrying the same fervor that had burned for a thousand years, Mordred swung Clarent, unleashing a storm of relentless strikes. Meanwhile, Artoria—her form now unbound, her stature taller—wielded the Holy Lance with calm precision, effortlessly parrying Mordred’s onslaught.

From childhood, Mordred had been raised by Morgan le Fay as a royal heir. Her horsemanship, her swordsmanship, her military strategy (even her appetite) had all been modeled after the legendary King of Knights.

But the sword does not lie. Mordred’s blade was proof that she had stepped out of King Arthur’s shadow, carving her own mark—however infamous—into the legend of the King of Knights.

—Morgan had taught her everything, yet withheld the one thing a child needs most: love. And so, this young sprout grew wild under excessive sunlight and rain, shaping itself into an untamed, rebellious soul.

Such traits were also reflected in Mordred’s swordsmanship. The way she wielded her longsword was so unrestrained and bold, completely devoid of Artoria’s discipline and precision. Yet this seemingly formless swordplay had managed to knock away King Arthur’s blade in their final battle, personally severing the red silk curtain that marked the legend’s end.

It was as if declaring that even the most flawless monarch could still be brought to failure.

...

But this was a story carved upon the hill of Camlann.

The stage, the characters, the props, the setting—everything remained unchanged from a thousand years ago. Only the plot—the battle between Mordred and Artoria—had diverged completely from history from the very beginning.

Perhaps Artoria had undergone some changes during this time, but unfortunately, this father and son (or rather, mother and daughter) pair were both fiercely competitive, especially since their last encounter had ended on the sword-strewn hill of Camlann in mutual destruction. Even if they tacitly avoided mentioning it, they would surely be itching to settle the score.

Thus there were no probing strikes, no exchanges of words. The moment they clashed, both gave their all, refusing to relent until victory was achieved.

Crimson lightning scattered the gale, while the storm drowned out the thunder. The battlefield trembled as the rebel advanced under a blood-red sunset, while the monarch charged forth with her holy spear to end this calamity.

First exchange—evenly matched.

Third exchange—the king’s sword roared.

Fifth exchange—the holy spear struck with deadly precision.

Seventh exchange—the spear overwhelmed the sword, the swordsman forced back by overwhelming strength, while the spearman pressed forward relentlessly.

Yes, within mere minutes, Mordred had been completely outmatched. Despite her "B+" rank in Strength, her brief burst of power had been steadily weathered by Artoria, replaced instead by increasingly majestic, increasingly unstoppable spear thrusts.

"Impossible! This can’t be!"

The king’s sword swung down, yet Artoria didn’t even need to parry—with a single glance she spotted Mordred’s opening. A casual swing of her armored gauntlet struck the blade aside, followed by the whistling wind as the holy spear breached the danger zone to stab directly at Mordred’s helmet!

Zzzzt!

The Noble Phantasm gifted by her mother shattered once more, revealing Mordred’s face—strikingly similar to Artoria’s own—twisted in shock that refused to fade. For any knight, having their sword casually batted aside was the gravest of insults!

But what Mordred found truly unbelievable was that her Instinct had remained unchanged throughout—not inactive, but rather pegged at the very threshold of ’death’ without relief!

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how desperately she sought openings in her father’s defenses, her Instinct remained paralyzed—just like herself, trapped like a caged beast beneath Artoria’s holy spear!

"Why are you so strong? Why? Why! I’ve already caught up to you! I should be able to surpass you by now!"

How could Mordred, summoned back to the present with her consciousness revived, not have spent countless sleepless nights analyzing that life-ending final battle?

Having learned from her failures and grown stronger, how could she possibly be defeated so easily by her father once more?!

This meant she had never surpassed her father—everything she had done, both in the past and present, was nothing but a colossal joke!

Her emotions surged like raging waves, and Mordred’s swordsmanship descended into utter chaos. She resorted to brute force, hacking wildly, but against Artoria, who had already adapted to this "reckless monkey’s style," it only worsened her predicament.

Perhaps unwilling to watch Mordred spiral further into madness, or perhaps having resolved her own inner turmoil and gained new insights from their time together, Artoria—who had remained silent until now—finally spoke. Her voice was not devoid of emotion but carried a calm, almost comforting tone:

"Because I have already walked away from Camlann... while you remain trapped there forever."

Mordred failed to notice the nuance in Artoria’s tone. Gasping for breath, her crimson eyes fixed on the blurred figure before her, blood from a grazed forehead trickled down, obscuring her vision. Yet she paid it no mind, her focus locked onto the blinding, lethally radiant Holy Lance.

A distant sound seemed to echo—too faint to discern—but accompanying it was the slightest hesitation in the lance’s movement, like a discordant note in a sonata or a cracked horseshoe mid-charge. Mordred’s instincts seized upon it instantly.

An opening!

The moment she sensed it, the Knight of Treachery roared into action, her blade slashing upward in a diagonal arc. Caught off guard by Mordred’s sudden assault, Artoria hastily raised her lance to block. But at close quarters, the sword’s advantage over the spear was undeniable. With a flash of steel, Mordred’s blade struck the lance’s shaft, the violent tremor forcing Artoria to release her grip. The uncontrolled momentum sent the Holy Lance spiraling skyward, tracing a perfect arc before embedding itself into the ground some distance away.

Though unsure why her father had faltered, Mordred wasted no time exploiting this lone opportunity. Retracting her sword, she gathered her strength—pouring everything she had into a single, devastating downward strike aimed at Artoria:

"Die, King Arthur!"

The taste of victory flooded Mordred’s throat like poisoned wine, coursing through her veins and igniting a feverish euphoria—until a golden radiance erupted from the Lion King’s hand, effortlessly parrying Mordred’s full-force blow and shattering her delusions in an instant.

"Ah... ah...!"

Staring helplessly at the sword now gleaming in Artoria’s grasp—Excalibur, its blade etched with the undying light of victory—Mordred could only choke out a hollow groan. The crushing void of defeat loosened her grip, and as Artoria swung her sword, Mordred’s weapon—drenched in hatred and blood—clattered to the ground like the fragments of her broken resolve.

"As I said earlier... you died at Camlann. Your growth was buried with the sunset that day."

Learning from past experiences, Artoria now placed her holy sword directly against Mordred’s neck to prevent any sudden outbursts of biting. "But I’m different. After the battles of that time ended, I went to Avalon and spent a thousand years there... During these thousand years, even if just by tiny increments, I surpassed my past self every single day."

Watching Mordred’s ashen expression, Artoria pursed her lips, her left hand lifting slightly before falling again.

Perhaps during their lifetimes, Mordred’s abilities had reached the same heights as hers, even surpassing her original self in certain aspects (such as Battle Continuation). But the moment Mordred was pierced by the holy spear, lost her life, and ascended as a Heroic Spirit, everything about her was frozen in the Throne of Heroes.

No matter how many years passed, no matter which era she existed in, her peak would forever remain that final moment when she mortally wounded King Arthur—never to change again, unless human perception could be altered or an opportunity beyond legend arose.

But Artoria was different. After resolving her inner conflicts during the Fourth Holy Grail War, she didn’t choose death. She was still alive, still growing, still filled with infinite possibilities.

Merlin’s teachings had only prepared her for kingship over a span of ten-odd years, yet her swordsmanship had already become invincible. King Arthur’s battlefield prowess was hailed as "a masterpiece meticulously painted by the god of war." And in the gardens of Avalon, freed from political affairs and trivial matters, Artoria devoted herself entirely to honing her skills—after investing a hundredfold, a thousandfold more time, how terrifying must her achievements have become?

"In terms of sheer pressure, she far surpasses all enemies I’ve faced before, comparable to Karna—no, perhaps even more dangerous."

This was Sakatsuki’s evaluation after crossing blades with the current Artoria.

As the wind and thunder subsided and the sunset hues of dusk gradually faded, the adult-form Artoria looked down at Mordred from her superior position and suddenly fell silent.

What exactly had she rushed over here so excitedly to do...?

She’d chased her down, fought her, and even won. The next step would be... to kill Mordred and send her back to the Throne of Heroes?

No, no—Sakatsuki had mentioned wanting to recruit Mordred, to have her join the Blue Faction...

"Kill me."

"...Huh?" Artoria blinked rapidly, but her bewildered expression went unnoticed by Mordred, who was currently drowning in post-defeat despair and sorrow.

Having challenged her father again with such joy, only to suffer an overwhelmingly crushing defeat.

She’d said everything she could, yet her father’s eyes still didn’t see her. Her sword, her spear—never once had they wavered in the face of Mordred’s hatred.

Mordred couldn’t help recalling that fleeting glimpse in Sighișoara. Thinking back now, that girl embraced by the saint, the one who called her "mother"—she must have been truly, truly happy, right?

Now that she thought about it... she was so envious. Envious that the child could be held by someone who shared her father’s face, envious of how gently Jeanne d’Arc treated her.

Though she knew it was impossible, she desperately wished her father would treat her that way too. If that could happen... even death would be worth it.

But this was impossible. Between her and her father, between Mordred and Artoria—henceforth, there could only be battle and hatred.

Since I have failed, then let it all end here... And if, if fate still binds us, may we meet again in the summons of the future, to cross blades once more, Father.

This is the closest I can come to you now.

"Just like at Camlann, strike me down without mercy, Father. This is my final plea—go on, pick up that holy spear and run me through. I promise I won’t move, I’ll stand right here waiting for you."

Hatred, sorrow, despair... all these emotions drained from Mordred’s being. The beautiful rebel knight closed her eyes, quietly awaiting death’s embrace.

’I’m sorry, Master, but there’s no helping it now, is there? Besides, we’ve only known each other for a few days. Please forget me—forget this disloyal knight of yours, my dear Master...’

In the pitch-black silence, someone seemed to gently caress her cheek, clumsily smoothing her perpetually unkempt golden hair. But when Mordred opened her eyes, she was stunned to find the space before her utterly empty—even the holy spear she’d knocked away had vanished along with its owner.

Only the wind, unchanging through the ages, still carried that same tender touch as before.

"Father...?"