Chapter 532: [532] The Spiral of Fate

For the charitable hero Karna, his entire life could be summarized in three simple principles:

Do what you can within your capabilities.

Give as much as possible when asked.

And solemnly accept all consequences that follow.

Contrary to his resplendent armor and radiant spear, Karna lived a life of such simplicity.

—No, perhaps not entirely.

At times, Karna would recall something that defied his experiences thus far—a single hero in this world who ceaselessly unsettled his heart.

His name was Arjuna—a man adorned with epithets like "The Radiant Crown," "The Victorious," and "The Prosperous One," beloved by all.

The man who, as the price for receiving his armor and spear, had taken everything from Karna.

Was the emotion Karna harbored toward Arjuna envy? Or was it something else entirely?

Karna never found the answer before his death, for he had never felt envy toward any being. This emotion that constantly disturbed his heart defied any concrete definition.

...At the beginning of this Holy Grail War, he had once been granted a fleeting chance to understand it.

Black Saber—there was something in him that resembled Arjuna. Only later, upon learning his true name, did Karna realize.

Siegfried, the tragic hero who inherited royal blood, attaining wealth, glory, and everything else—yet unlike Arjuna, his end was one of utter misery: assassinated, meeting a pitiful demise. Without even the chance to wield his dragon-slaying sword, he was struck down at his only vulnerable point, his invincible body rendered mortal.

To Karna, every Heroic Spirit participating in this Holy Grail War was a rare existence. As allies, they were comrades to be aided; as enemies, they were formidable opponents. In this sense, Karna could be said to understand Heroic Spirits better than anyone.

Yet, among them, only Black Saber truly intrigued him. Though their exchanges were few, when blades had crossed hundreds, thousands of times, certain truths became evident.

A man so similar to Arjuna, yet one who ceaselessly yearned for something.

A man who harbored no regrets over his unjust death, yet sought something new.

And—unquestionably, in the eyes of all, a true hero.

That very man desired a rematch with Karna, viewing him as an enemy who must be defeated. For a warrior, this was the highest honor—and also a source of joy.

That battle, that promise—how exhilarating it had been. Though Karna also cherished human warmth and heartfelt conversations, those were distant from "selfish desire." There was no personal craving, no thrill that set his blood aflame.

Yet this existed on the battlefield. Upon reflection, for Karna, joy could only be found in battle. Those fleeting moments where he could pour his entire being into the tip of his spear, unleashing his "true self" without reservation.

The sparks of clashing blades were like twinkling stars to Karna. A worthy opponent who effortlessly countered his strikes while pushing him to his limits—though it might sound presumptuous, it was enough to make him think, My entire existence was meant for this singular moment of exhilaration.

The instant they distanced themselves, the jewel of the Dragon-Slaying Demon Sword gleamed, sending a shiver akin to delight down Karna’s spine.

"Balmung—Phantasmal Greatsword, Sky-Shattering Demon Surge!"

"Brahmastra—Cover the Earth!"

The blazing sun and the twilight clashed once more, mingling like liquors poured into the same glass. Against the backdrop of the heavens, the boundless dusk and scorching flames blended into an indescribably intoxicating concoction—one that would drive even the most seasoned bar patrons wild—before being recklessly splashed across the azure sky.

Amidst this unconsciously crafted spectacle, the two heroes roared with abandon. One was the son of the sun god, who had forsaken defense yet became all the more dangerous; the other was the steadfast, unshakable Dragon Slayer. Spear and sword crossed, the sparks between them leaving their minds blank. In this moment alone, they cast aside the Holy Grail War and their roles as Servants.

There was only the purest contest between heroes!

————

The Cursed Spear of the End blazed, summoning a storm. Its overwhelming force struck like a crimson dragon’s charge, sending the fully armored knight hurtling backward.

"Guh—!" Her visor cracked and shattered from blocking an invisible blow, revealing the defiant face of a girl beneath. She glared up at the awe-inspiring King of the Wild Hunt, mounted upon his skeletal steed, her eyes brimming with frustration.

The Knight of Treachery, Mordred. The "Clarent Blood Arthur" she had usurped was originally a sword meant only for the king, rejecting all but its rightful wielder. Yet Mordred seized it by force, boldly declaring, "It’s not the sword that chooses the king—it’s the king who chooses the sword!"

Because of this, its sharpness paled slightly compared to when the king wielded it. But the sword’s true worth was never in its destructive power—its true function was "amplification," enhancing the king’s radiance and bestowing blessings upon their battles.

With this weapon, Mordred’s Mana Burst skill was amplified several times over, allowing for tremendous leaps and movement—turning her into a comet, a human bullet that scorned all pretense and shattered everything in her path.

Yet even with this level of impact and destructive force, she was still halted by the overwhelming tempest that swept from the ends of the world. It was as if she wasn’t fighting an enemy, but nature itself—the wrath of the world.

"Is this you after abandoning restraint, Father..." Wiping the blood from her lips, Mordred stood up shakily, raising her sword. Yet the thunder of hooves roared as Artoria Alter, expressionless and wielding her lance, rode past the wide-eyed girl on her steed, leaving only an indifferent figure in her wake.

"You are no match for me." Stating the cold truth, the blackened King of Knights turned her gaze to another battlefield where Sakatsuki was effortlessly toying with Achilles. Yet her instincts warned her—the Greek demigod was gathering power for a fatal strike. Though it might not kill Sakatsuki, she deemed it best to eliminate the threat regardless.

Agravain snorted as if understanding, carrying his king into a gallop. But the next moment, arrows rained down like a storm, tearing through the tempest. Artoria swung her holy lance without a sound, summoning a surge of wind that effortlessly negated Atalanta’s Noble Phantasm.

"Absurd... Is this the last king who stood watch until the end of the Age of Gods?" Sensing the monarch’s gaze, Atalanta tensed atop a distant palace roof, murmuring to herself before nimbly vanishing from Artoria’s sight just as the furious gale closed in.

"...Threat temporarily neutralized." Confirming Atalanta’s retreat, Artoria Alter chose not to pursue, instead advancing toward Sakatsuki’s location. Against such an overwhelming disparity in rank, even if seven top-tier Servants united, they could scarcely overcome Artoria Alter—let alone the anchor of the planet in her grasp.

Yet someone thought otherwise—had always thought otherwise.

Crimson lightning erupted, a passionate hue splitting the leaden clouds and piercing the dense storm, breaking through to the blackened king’s back like a taunting signal before dissipating slowly.

Thus, Artoria Alter turned, her eyes meeting the crimson lightning forged from boundless hatred—the defiant knight stubbornly carving out her space within the tempest.

"—Sir Mordred."

"Don’t you dare look away, King Arthur!" The radiant sword of kingship pointed at the very ruler she was meant to obey, bursting with unparalleled brilliance in the hands of the knight who mirrored her face. "Loathe me, punish me if you must—but keep your eyes on me! Call my name a cursed, grating shadow, let hatred twist your face, scream all you want—but never look away from me!"

The skeletal steed slowly turned, pawing the ground restlessly toward the petite yet ferocious knight, only held back by its master’s reins—until the girl who stood as her enemy shouted her final words:

"Acknowledge my existence, King Arthur! I am Mordred—the cursed child born of Morgan le Fay, the knight of rebellion who will destroy everything you are!"

At this moment, she was not at Camlann, and the king named ’Arthur’ had nothing left behind her. Mordred was not the first target she sought to vanquish, yet even so, the holy sword dyed in darkness had already appeared in her grasp. Seated upon her steed, the Storm King, wielding a sword in one hand and a spear in the other, was a majestic sight, standing ready for battle.

"——You’ve spoken words that cannot be ignored, Sir Mordred. Since this is a duel you’ve initiated against a king, you must be prepared for whatever tragic outcome awaits, correct?"

"...Hmph, spare me the talk!"

An inexplicable excitement surged through her bones. Though her father’s gaze was icy enough to freeze her marrow, it set Mordred ablaze with exhilaration. Roaring like a lion, she charged forward, relentlessly swinging her crimson lightning-clad sword:

"Come! Your enemy is me alone, King Arthur! I won’t allow you to ignore my existence again!"

Though her tone was fierce, and her words brimmed with hatred to any listener, deep in Mordred’s heart lay a tenderness no one else could perceive.

If the one fighting her was herself, then even if she died, perhaps her father wouldn’t grieve too deeply.

No one knew how she had managed to calm herself amidst the volcanic fury and murderous intent that erupted when she saw Sakatsuki use a Command Spell to forcibly alter her father’s existence.

Moreover, this was not the father she had wanted. The woman before her was the embodiment of kingship, the amalgamation of everything that nation and era had forced upon her father—a sinful incarnation bearing only the title of ’King.’

She was also the reason why her father had been forced to stand alone on high, with everyone thoughtlessly piling their dreams, hopes, and wishes upon her without understanding.

And it was precisely because Mordred harbored hatred for this, because she wanted to correct it, that she had chosen the path of rebellion and ruin.

So that was it. Now, after gaining and losing everything, the girl finally realized the truth—

What she loathed was neither her father’s smile nor her actions and reasons. All of it had been her own misunderstanding.

...It seems I misunderstood my own dream. In the end, what I truly wanted was to heal my father’s loneliness. I just wanted to pick up everything she had cast aside to become King.

The hazy thought was but a fleeting moment, yet the instant their blades clashed, Mordred couldn’t help but scream the words she had suppressed in her heart for so long:

"Give me back the father I loved most—!"

With a thunderous explosion, the jet-black sword of victory soared into the sky, spreading its wings like a bird in flight, vanishing beyond the stars.