Final battle of Camelot continued one more time (216) (Patreon)

Darkness. Pain. Despair. Madness. Fear.

And hate.

So much hate that you'd think he'd gone mad from it, no, that’s not entirely true, he had indeed gone mad from that hatred. But more than anything, his insanity was more directed from the fact that he didn't know what his hatred was directed at this moment.

At the squire, Gareth, whose head he had smashed like an overripe fruit? At Gawain, who had called for his execution when he learned of both his younger sister's death and Lancelot’s folly? Or was it supposed to be directed at Guinevere, who seemed so fragile, lonely, and suffering, needing a strong shoulder, and then a long conversation, and at the end a kiss and a romantic promise of everlasting love? Cementing his betrayal of his liege in perhaps the worst way possible.

After all, Mordred might have plunged his sword in the King’s chest, killing him, and Morgan might’ve plotted for it to happen. But it was him that had made it all possible in the first place.

So maybe he should’ve aimed it at himself, the one that had succumbed to the weakness of his heart, making all sorts of bargains with his own mind and conscience? Allowing him to take that final step in betraying his king.

‘He didn't do anything wrong, could you blame him—he didn't mean to do anything wrong after all…’

Or… perhaps, Arthur?

Of course not, certainly not Arthur. How could Lancelot hate his king, the very King Arthur under whose command Lancelot had become a knight, under whose command Lancelot had performed his legendary feats, and under whose command Lancelot had won glory. The same King Arthur whom Lancelot had always revered and protected, the king of all knights, whose honor, pride, and aspiring ideals led Lancelot through life.

Of course, the very same king whom Lancelot loved and revered, in whose honor he fought and to whom he remained loyal to, had sentenced him to a hell worse than death…

Doesn’t that make sense for him to hate…? No, of course not.

He felt no hatred for King Arthur, never in his life, and never after it. His only regret at the end of his life was that he had not been able to die beside Artoria on that very cursed hill, blade in hand, doing his duty to the king. Couldn't lay down his life in atonement for his sins and for the ideals of his king.

But then why did he feel so much hatred now?

At himself, at Gawain, at Gareth, at Guinevere, at the entire world. So much bile, black hatred, so much hatred that it seemed to Lancelot as if he were drowning in an impenetrable blackness. Its inky depths seeping into his eyes and ears, depriving him of the ability to experience the world as anything but impenetrable darkness and endless malice.

But Lancelot continued to hold Artoria's blade in his hand.

Excalibur. Its golden glow that cut through the darkness, that could bring him out of even that impenetrable evil. As long as he held on to Excalibur, this impenetrable darkness could not consume him completely.

Because Lancelot remained a loyal knight, never rebelling against his king, never wanting to hurt him, because Lancelot never felt hatred for King Arthur. In his final moments, Lancelot was consumed by his anger at everything, the world, himself, the woman he loved that he had betrayed everything for, his brothers in arms and his consistent henchman – but not Arthur.

In his last moments, that loyalty had been the only thread holding his mind together. Then, clinging to his king's favor, Lancelot was able to return, not at all the knight he had fallen into madness and anger and rage in the end – but still as Lancelot, a knight in King Arthur's service.

And so it would happen now, while the impenetrable hatred clung around him, consuming his mind, Lancelot clung to Artoria's blade, to Excalibur, the blade that had passed through the ages, waiting for the opportunity to return to its master.

That's right, Excalibur, lost when Artoria died on that cursed hill, when her loyal knight had shouldered the heavy burden of promising to return the blade to the Lady of the Lake, Vivian, and had failed to do so. Ever since, that blade had wandered through time and lands, wanting to return. The blade that Bedivere tried to return to its rightful place, to King Arthur.

The blade with which Lancelot could prove his loyalty.

That's right, even in the end, consumed by madness, Lancelot was still loyal to his king. He never held any hatred for his King, he was loyal, always loyal…

He had to prove it. Prove it any way he could. He had to – had to… Had to…

Had to get Excalibur back.

The blade was Arthur's. The blade that had wandered in Bedivere's hands across the world and beyond for hundreds of years. Had to retrieve the Excalibur that King Arthur had forgotten. Had to hold on to the only ray of light in this darkness. He had to prove his loyalty. Had to…

Put Excalibur back where it belonged… At any cost.

***

The impenetrable black, pitch-like liquid was pouring out of what seemed to be the sky itself, the funnel that opened in the sparse, cloudy blue sky was like the open mouth of a monster. A monster that vomited black liquid uncontrollably, streaming downward toward the powerful but defenseless figure of Lancelot below. Or perhaps the monster was salivating, allowing it to flow downward toward the world it sought to devour.

Jacques de Molay, the last Master of the Templar Order, was there a more fitting figure to appear here in the Holy Land, leading the crusaders who met the End of the World here?

Of course, being the last Master of the Templar Order, Jacques de Molay was not associated with the Crusades per se, but the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem, but that was simply splitting hairs. Their red cross on a white background was an icon of the Crusades as much as the Holy Land itself.

They were nine poor knights who had once assumed the responsibility of protecting the pilgrims of Jerusalem. Their Order of the Templar’s fame rose upward in a dizzying upsurge, transforming themselves from beggar militiamen to bankers, landlords, and merchants, as pilgrims as expected are always wary of carrying their riches with them. Their services allowed them to amass riches, riches that made kings grit their teeth in anger.

But, if that were all, their destruction would not be so complete. Soon, accusations of demon worship and witchcraft were leveled at their Order. Witchcraft, demon-worship, and the veneration of ‘Baphomet’, a demon, the Devil, or perhaps a pagan idol left over from other times in the possession of the ‘poor knights of Christ’. The execution order soon came after.

Were these accusations true? For all the possible, even probable, moral decay of the previously humble Order, who had found themselves so rich that they can even affect the fate of nations, does the truth matter?

The greedy kings, watching mere peasants hoarding wealth and influence? No one would come to their defense.

Being burned at the stake as their execution, arrested on a Friday, October thirteenth, Jacques de Molay was burned as a heretic, as a monster and a demon-worshiper, leaving behind him a legacy that tarnished the entire Templar Order.

And so, of course, when the Servant Jacques de Molay was born, the notoriety left on earth after their death returned to with black hatred. The legend, true or not, opened the gates to an evil far blacker than those greedy Kings could’ve ever imagined.

“Ia ia Shub-Niggurath!” The words, spoken with an almost religious fervor, made Jacques smile for the first time as she watched the inky blot of unstoppable malice pour out of the black breach that led far beyond the cosmos… Or what one might call malice to the human mind.

How could a God be angry with ants? How could horror beyond the cognizable be called evil? Something unimaginably greater than the simple concepts so understandable to humanity, terrifying precisely because there was no way to call it ‘evil’ or ‘good’ – rather, only something ‘other’. This blot had invaded the world as unnaturally as an infection infiltrates a bleeding wound.

And at the center of this breach of reality stood Lancelot, a mind devouring itself under the unimaginable flow of anger and hatred, clinging to the last vestiges of its loyalty and pride…  Inadvertently making things worse for itself.

“That's enough.” The voice of the first Hassan, quiet and ineffable, caused Mashu to look away from her mesmerized observation of the hideous scene before her. Shifting her gaze to the figure of the nameless Assassin, holding his mottled service weapon in his hands. A weapon that had served him for years, perhaps even centuries and had ended countless lives, one that might soon be pointed her way because of her allies’ action, before finding Jacques' gaze.

Jacques, who had previously held an extremely calm and detached demeanor, so much so that it was easy to forget her presence altogether, looked… Joyful. No, it was more accurate to say that her glittering gaze was like religious ecstasy, as if watching a miracle of the Lord being revealed. Her previously modest, almost church clothes had been replaced by an evening gown that ended well above her knees and hardly left much room for imagination. Her rather pale skin was darkening before her eyes, until it was almost a sickly dark color with a tint of purple.

The change didn’t end there, her eyes were changing to one with an iris of sickly yellow, and her pupil turned into one more suited to the feline persuasion. Right now, this starkly changed Jacques was scrutinizing the figure of Lancelot being consumed by the darkness as bony tentacles rising seemingly out of nowhere, a moment later into the semblance of a crown of claws and teeth around Jacques.

No matter how many people were asked in that instant, everyone would point out that this girl looked like the embodiment of what is evil on Earth. An opinion that the First Hassan, whose gaze could not be traced thanks to his skeletal form, but what beyond any doubt right now was being focused into the figure of Jacques, seemed to agree with.

The silence stretched on, before it was broken by Jacques, sounding much more different than she did before.

“Already?!” Jacques acted almost childishly indignant, momentarily losing the remnants of her silent calm demeanor before she paused for a moment, as if she just noticed Hassan's attention. At his words, anger flashed in Jacques' eyes, but as soon as Hassan gave a slight squeeze on the hilt of his blade, in a more than simple and understandable gesture, Jacques looked away and exhaled irritably.

"A Pagan!” Jacques said the word as if she was spitting them out, disgust written on her face

“Finally, I could bring the true God into this world, and your response that it is ‘enough’?! That's why I hate pagans who can't accept the true God into their souls!”

“Your ‘god’ has no place on Earth.” Hassan said as if it were a final verdict, the word god spoken as if it's a curse, but he did not engage in further argument with Jacques. Instead, after his final word, his full attention was taken by the wound torn in the fabric of the universe, giving Jacques the idea of the next steps to be taken.

Jacques, clearly unhappy with Hassan's decision, still did not push her luck; she knows full well what would happen if she decided to gainsay the First Hassan. Her face twisting in a gesture of mourning, adopting an expression of sadness after one last look of disdain and contempt aimed at the First Hassan’s way. If the Assassin noticed, he did not choose to comment.

Raising her hand upward, and with a gesture of concentration and great effort, she closed her hand, causing the pulsing vortex to shudder before beginning to shrink slowly, spewing an almost desperate last spurt of black liquid onto the world.

Gradually, the black wound in the fabric of creation slowly closed, however, the expelled black liquid did not disappear on its own. Instead, slowly continuing to spread out, the thick black viscous liquid spread over the ground. Before, shuddering, it began to rise upward in defiance of all laws of nature, stretching like sickening tentacles upward, intertwining before creating a pulsing heartbeat-like facade of bones, tentacles, mouths, hooves, and pure hatred.

Slowly, as if obeying their nightmarish instinct, the creatures began to move, that was the last thing Mashu could see. Averting her gaze from them, fearing that she couldn't bear to watch the Black Goat's offspring moving without damaging her mind, she instead glimpsed Lancelot, who continued to stand still, knee-deep in the flowing black slime.

This Lancelot, however, resembled more the one at the end of his life – the maddened knight, rather than the impeccable figure of a knight he was before.

The white armor that had glinted in the sun, now seemed to have been tainted by the black blot, losing its luster and color. His blade, Arondight, which previously looked like a sacred weapon that could compete with even Excalibur before, was now blackened and looked just like another piece of iron on his body. Even his helmet, which had previously had been open showing the world Lancelot’s handsome visage, was now completely covered in dark slime, hidden beneath a black, impenetrable helmet that slowly formed from around him.

And in the depths of the visor, which should be opened to allow the knight's eyes to see, now bloomed a bright, full of mad hatred, red light.

The only part of Lancelot that had not yet been desecrated was the Excalibur still glittering with golden-white light in his hands, which had taken its true form the moment Bedivere was stripped of his false arm.

‘Even for me, this is too much… To beat Lancelot? Totally! Killing him? I won't give it a second thought, either. But this…’ Galahad's voice, despite his obvious reluctance to show sympathy for his father, was now filled with, if reluctant, pity for him. The act made Mashu wonder for a moment whether there was still something like affection for his father in Galahad's mind and soul.

That distraction didn't last long, however, just long enough to hear what sounded like a strangled sob and a scream at the same time, the almost forceful growl of a wild beast,

"ARTHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUR!”

***

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings. Look at my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

There was not, is not, and will never be an equal to Ozymandias. As the great ruler of all countries, times, and peoples, for each of the kings that preceded him was needed by this world only to prepare the ground for his appearance. For every king that was one with him was needed only to exist under the Sun of Great Ozymandias. And for every king that was and will be after him was needed only to spread the fame of the Pharaoh of all Pharaohs!

For, as the great Ozymandias himself declared ; "From now on, every temple that was built, was built by me! Every god that was born is me! Every deed that was done, was done in my honor!"

To lesser minds, one could not call such a thing anything other than ‘arrogance’, excessive even by the standards of rulers. Or in more shaded realms, away from the King’s ears, madness. But Ozymandias was not a lesser mind, on declaring his position throughout the global cosmos Ozymandias knew the claim he was making and what the reckoning would be, should he fall.

And what the rewards would be when he ascended to the heavens.

That's right, there was no possibility that Ozymandias could not hold the title of king of all kings – and as he has declared, Ozymandias did not lose this battle.

The burden of proclaiming, and being the greatest of kings was heavy, but Ozymandias would not be satisfied with an easier task. Instead, he carried his crown with honor and proudly raised his head, challenging others to gainsay him – and his Noble Phantasm personified that fact.

Ramseum Tentiris – a temple so grand, a palace so majestic, and a fortress so impregnable that it simply could not exist in reality. However, that was exactly what it was – it was something that did not exist at all.

To be more precise, Ramseum Tentiris was every fortress, every palace, and every temple ever built by any king. For who was Ozymandias if not the king of all kings, and for whom were the temples, palaces, and fortresses of this world built, if not for himself? He had claimed it to be so, and the world had agreed with him.

Some of the greatest temples possessed magic that was threatening even in the Age of Gods. Some fortresses had become living monuments that still fascinated generations of military minds. And some palaces still inspired awe with their decadent opulence. But the king of all kings, Ozymandias the Great, did not wish to dwell on just having one of them – no, by right of the Pharaoh of Pharaohs, they all belonged to him at once.

An endless palace complex sprang up around Ozymandias, like a mirage taking shape, that spread out wide, upward and far away, engulfing the horizon as an endless monument to Ozymandias' greatness, more than the whole world could contain. The pressure of the marble columns and golden obelisks seemed to crack the very crust of the earth, which was not designed for such pressure. And a hundred thousand spells of different ages and nations simultaneously obeyed Ozymandias, unleashing their wrath upon Gawain.

Of course, Gawain was a mighty knight, there was no question about that fact, he is one of the most powerful that ever existed on this world, and, under the light of the Sun, he was stronger than ever. More importantly, three hours at dawn and three hours at dusk, Gawain was not vulnerable at all.

But even ‘invulnerability’ was little consolation in the face of millennia of accumulated magic, the power and majesty of all the kings that had come before and after Ozymandias.

The magic that slammed into his figure consumed Gawain's body entirely, before even what was left after being cut lengthwise by the next attack.

The Lamp of Dendera, an amusing artifact to many respected scholars of Egyptology, depicted in bas-relief and so often mistaken for a real lamp. To lovers of secret conspiracies, it was a symbol of the incredible sophistication of Egypt's ancient civilization. And to scholarly men a coincidence.

To Ozymandias the great, it is none of those.

Gathered behind Ozymandias' head like a nimbus, the clot of light shuddered several times, as if waking from sleep, before striking forward in a light-bearing stream, barreling through the magic in its path before consuming Gawain's body. The ancient power of Ra and the countless priests who revered the solar deity embodied in a single blow, crashing into the knight's body.

To any Servant, this would be 'excessive'. Only a tenth of the power of what was concentrated in the Noble Phantasm of Ozymandias was enough to leave not even dust from the opponent. For any other opponent – but not for Gawain.

Even with his 'invulnerability' and the bright midday Sun shining down on him from above, it would be difficult for Gawain to survive such an attack. But with the Goddess's almost inexhaustible reserves, on his own territory, near Camelot, where the Goddess was strongest – Gawain had a chance. More than a chance, he had confidence.

Of course, he couldn't just dismiss such an attack or shrug it off easily, the great king Ozymandias was called such not because the Throne of Heroes decided to play favorites, but because he was, just that. An existence that the Throne of Heroes could not categorize as anything else. But at the same time, Gawain's power made him ‘invulnerable’ not because the Throne of Heroes liked to extrapolate the abilities of heroes. He was simply that, invulnerable.

Perhaps, if there really was a Creator, he liked to use all those colorful descriptions and abilities, invulnerable, invincible, and the greatest, making one question what would happen should an immovable object meet an unstoppable force. But reality was not a thought experiment, and the result of such a collision was determined a few seconds later, during which Ozymandias' power continued to gnaw at Gawain before fading.

For the few seconds it took Ozymandias to prepare the next attack, an insignificant amount of time, which could rightfully be called simply ‘unfair’ compared to the capabilities of such a Noble Phantasm. And yet – an eternity in the battle of the Servants, Gawain lives.

However, the King of All Kings was not defenseless even at this moment. As soon as the light of Dendera's lamp stopped, a new wave of magic engulfed Gawain. Various attacks, beams, and projectiles reflected only a fraction of the abilities of Ozymandias' infinite palace.

The curses of ancient kings who did not want their palaces disturbed, and the anger of generations of priests who had given their lives in service to their gods, prevented Gawain's figure from even appearing after Ozymandias' attack. Every salvo of attack stopping for a few bare seconds allowed an observer to see Gawain’s mangled body, before the routine would begin again.

The pause was not because his attack was faltering or needing to recharge, in truth Ozymandias had no need for such a thing.

For his Palace extended almost infinitely into the distance, as if to replace the world, he was not lacking in any way for avenues and numbers of attack. It was almost quite literally endless.

No, it was more accurate to say that the world could not bear Ozymandias using his full might at once. No physical reality could withstand the presence of the embodied power of King Ozymandias. The world around and beyond Ozymandias' gaze had vanished, for the king of all kings and the knight who dared to stake a claim to a title that had not been bestowed upon him, ceased to exist. In the truest sense of the word.

Ozymandias' infinite palace swallowed up the world, leaving only as much as Ozymandias wanted for his reign, and the two incarnations of the Sun were cut off from Singularity altogether, as if the regal Ozymandias had given orders to the world itself – ‘do not disturb me until otherwise ordered’.

In his world, everything acted according to his order, all the magic of the world was under his command, and the battle continued until Ozymandias himself wished otherwise.

And yet, with forced, but rather unpleasant for himself, respect, Ozymandias had to admit that the effect of his attacks was somewhat less pronounced than he had hoped. Of course, Ozymandias had not expected that Gawain would die so easily and quickly from a single attack, albeit an attack that could even be called ‘serious’. But he had assumed that Gawain would at least have a sense of tact and lose at least one of his limbs as a result of Dendera's light.

However, that did not happen. And so Ozymandias… Was forced to attack once more.

Which, in and of itself, spoke volumes about how highly Ozymandias thought of Gawain.

***

Had Ainz been a lover of poetry, he would surely have described how gracefully the Goddess of Camelot moved, like a dance, her huge spear like an exotic and deadly prop…

But Ainz never had a taste for poetry, instead choosing to spend his life playing Online Games, and therefore that was how he viewed the battle, in terms familiar to him. Rather than admire the remarkable deadly grace with which the Goddess moved, he only followed her movements closely enough to note how she preferred to attack.

Swiftly, brutal, and other such similar words as she seeked to do as much damage to as many targets as possible with a single blow.

‘Really, she moved and acted more like a Berserker than anything else.’ Ainz noted absent-mindedly, before sending a spell at the Goddess of Camelot, more out of a sense of having to do ‘something’ like that than out of any necessity.

Ainz's mind tried to envision a plan to possibly stop the Goddess, but the spells Ainz had used before could not hold the Goddess for long. Without a doubt, the Goddess of Camelot was probably the strongest opponent Ainz had faced in the Singularities… Which wasn't too mind-blowing a discovery for Ainz – but it meant that he had some problem with easily disarming the Goddess and questioning her about her earlier words, about saving people and so on.

Medb, on the other hand, after creating dozens upon dozens of illusory soldiers and generally looked bored, looked rather melancholic in her reaction to the Goddess' attempts to get to Medb. In the end, whether it was ten or a hundred and ten billion illusions destroyed by the Goddess – it had no effect on Medb at all.

The soldiers that appeared at her will, unable to take a single step forward before being turned to dust melting in the wind, were easily replaced by new puppets. Under Medb's gaze, not even moving from her emerald throne, her facial expression more bored and disinterested than anything else, her soldiers kept the Goddess at bay. Though Medb continued to watch the Goddess’ struggle uselessly, there was no contempt in her gaze, as from watching a cockroach trying to get at her.

No irritation, or any other emotion at all other than simple boredom. With the same expression, Medb could watch falling rain drops, the ticking second hand of a clock, or paint drying on a wall.

The Goddess's expression, however, was also devoid of emotion as she turned Medb's warriors into splinters and dust with a detached methodicality. Each blow causes the air to shatter or cracks to grow beneath her feet from the inertia of the blows. From the outside, it might even have looked like she was a robot and given the bored expression on Medb's face, it might even look that this was a practice battle between two of its kind.

But that was the furthest thing from the truth. The Goddess was truly aiming to destroy Medb, and Medb was stopping her, giving Ainz as much time to act as he needed. However, Ainz couldn't say either that it would have been easy for Medb to deal with the Goddess.

Confuse her, weaken her, trap her, then kill her when she is exhausted? Most likely, but that would take time on Medb's part and a lot more involvement. Just defeat the Goddess with one incredibly powerful blow? No.

On the other hand, Medb's dolls, though only fit to crumble powerlessly to dust in a single movement of the Goddess's hand, still forced the Goddess to make that one movement. For Medb, such illusions cost nothing.

And even if it was hard to imagine that the Goddess' constant movements could tire her out – as long as the Goddess spent more energy on her actions than she recovered on her own, every second? It could be said that Medb was winning even without taking any action.

In other words, while the situation could by no means be called a winning situation, it couldn't be called a losing situation either, more of a stalemate if anything. Perhaps delaying the battle would make sense if the Goddess could count on the help of her Servants, but that was impossible. Her knights right now were busy fighting with an alliance of Servants assembled under Ainz.

It was far more likely that prolonging the battle was playing into Ainz's hands than Goddess'.

The Goddess could see that as well as anyone.

And so, after a moment, she backed away from her furious assault against Medb, whom she had never been able to reach even though she hadn't moved from her throne. With nary a pause, the Goddess lifted her spear aloft, which a moment later glowed with sunlight. Or at least, that was the association that seemed most appropriate.

Golden light shining through the curled steel. This light, however, could not be called sunlight, it did not have the warmth or shimmer that existed in Excalibur. No, the golden light of her spear seemed majestic, like the golden glow of armor, but by no means welcoming. Cold, aloof, like the gleam of golden idols, heartless to human pleas.

A monument to the tyrants of a bygone era.

Pointing this spear at Medb and Ainz at the same time, forming a straight line from herself to include them both, the Goddess spoke coldly, purely in terms of emotionlessness, but not without a sense of power.

“Rhongomyniad.”

A moment later, the force that struck in all directions instantly turned all the soldiers Medb had created into dust, bursting out in a wild whirlwind before turning into a pillar of golden radiance…

Forcing Ainz to focus his gaze intently on the spear.

Dozens of thoughts rushed through his mind at once before formulating one final, most important thought.

"That is definitely a World Class Item!"

In the past, Ainz had failed to obtain a World Class Item from Tesla, and at this moment, it was also unlikely that he would be able to carry the flying palace of Semiramis with him, but…

But to miss out on the very real World-Class Item finally appearing a third time before his eyes?!

Ainz's eyes lit up with a greed that was impossible to describe with mere words. And the Goddess should have been grateful that she was unable to see that emotion, as the world was blinded by Rhongomyniad’s glow.

Otherwise, she would have shuddered.