"I am no king, but I follow the King's path,
I will destroy all that I must to bring the King peace!
Clarent Blood Arthur!" Mordred yelled, unleashing the full power of her Noble Phantasm.
A massive beam of energy erupted from the blade, a torrent of pure destruction that seemed to consume everything in its path. It slammed into the vortex of fire, the two forces colliding with a blinding flash of light and a shockwave that sent demons and knights alike flying.
Lionel didn't miss the opportunity to finish off the demon; he took a deep breath as he gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands.
Slowly, he pulled the sword back, tip towards the fel beast, and held it in the inside right stance.
"Exhale."
For a moment, he relaxed before he summoned up all his strength. His arm, his legs, his entire body screamed as he put all he had into a single, perfect strike.
"Sir Lionel of Clarence," he announced himself to the demon, a knightly tradition that even demons like him were forced to learn and respect. "I am a knight of the Round Table! I am the brother of Sir Bors! I am the nephew of King Lot! And I am a knight of the great King of Knights!"
He didn't give the demon the chance to respond, not that the demon had the chance to. "My sword is a gift from my king, a tool of justice that shall cut down all evil! This is my oath! This is my strike! Oath of the Morning Star!"
He lunged, his body a blur of motion, the sword held at the ready, the very air around him seeming to crackle with power.
His own Noble Phantasm wasn't as powerful as Mordred's; his wasn't a massive Anti-Army one, but what it lacked in scale, it made up for in sharpness.
The sword, a simple, well-made blade, seemed to glow with a faint, silvery light, the power of a sworn oath, a promise made in the light of a new dawn.
And with that, he lunged, and in a single, perfect strike, he cut off the demon's head.
The headless body of the demon lord stood for a moment, a monument to its own hubris, before it collapsed, a heap of molten rock and shattered pride.
The battlefield fell silent for a moment, a stunned silence that was as deafening as the roar of battle had been. The demons, who had been fighting with a mindless ferocity, now seemed to falter, their movements becoming less coordinated, their attacks less ferocious. The death of their leader had sent a ripple of confusion and fear through their ranks.
Mordred stood over the fallen demon, her chest heaving, her armor smoking, a wide, triumphant grin on her face. "And stay down," she said, a look of satisfaction on her face.
Lionel, however, was already looking towards the portal leading to Satannish's realm, a grim determination on his face. He knew that the death of Thog would not go unnoticed. He knew that Satannish himself would now have to act.
He only hoped that he and Mordred would be able to handle it and not disappoint their King.
-----
D'Spayre watched the duel between the knights and Thog from the corner of his eyes; he hardly had to pay his full attention to the three ants currently fighting against him. Yes, they were harder to crush than he had expected, but they were nothing more than that.
So he still paid attention to the overall situation, after all, there was still that king up there, someone who had managed to throw Nightmare back.
And while D'Spayre was sure something like that wouldn't happen to him, he still didn't lower his guard. After all, he was certain that Nightmare only suffered a loss because he was taken off guard, and he, the Lord of Despair, wouldn't make the same mistake.
"Interesting," he whispered as he saw the two knights unleash their ultimate attacks.
"Fool!" Gawain shouted. "Getting distracted in a fight? A novice mistake!" he said, taking advantage of D'Spayre's focus being elsewhere.
Excalibur Galatine once more cleaved through the darkness, the power of the sun, the power of hope, a power that was anathema to him.
D'Spayre turned back to face them, a look of annoyance on his face. He had not expected the knights to be so persistent, so... annoying. He had hoped to break them, to corrupt them, to turn them against each other. But they were proving to be more resilient than he had anticipated.
But he wasn't like Thog; he was a true Dimensional Lord, and while he struggled to easily crush these insects, they also couldn't harm him.
He raised a hand, and the wave of solar energy slammed into an unseen barrier, a shield of pure despair that seemed to absorb the light, the very essence of the attack.
The light flickered, then died, the sun's power extinguished by the overwhelming force of despair.
"You see, little knight," D'Spayre said, a cruel smile on his face. "Your hope is a fleeting illusion, a candle in the wind. I am the storm that will extinguish it."
Gawain grunted, the force of the demon's counterattack sending him stumbling back, the light of the sun around him flickering.
But he didn't fall. He didn't break.
He just stood there, a grim determination on his face, the light of the sun still shining brightly around him, a beacon of hope in the darkness.
"You can try, demon," he said, his voice a low growl. "But you will find that the sun is not so easily extinguished."
Tristan's song also changed, the melody growing more defiant, more hopeful, a beacon of light in the darkness. It was a song of courage, of defiance, of the unbreakable spirit of humanity.
D'Spayre let out a dark, cruel laugh, the sound spreading across the battlefield, filled with his dark essence. The laugh broke the demons out of their stupor after Thog's fall, and once more, they threw themselves into the fight with a desperate vigor.
"I see, I understand what you are now, the power you wield." He chuckled. "Legends, the power of human belief, this is your secret." He was endlessly pleased with himself for finally figuring out what was happening.
In some ways, he found them similar to himself and Nightmare; they turned human belief and emotions into power.
Just in a different way, one he hadn't yet fully understood.
He looked at them with a newfound curiosity, as if they were a fascinating new species of insect he had just discovered.
"You are an anomaly, a glitch in the matrix of existence," the demon said, a hint of scientific curiosity in his voice. "You should not exist. You defy the very laws of nature, the very fabric of reality."
He raised a hand, and the very air around them seemed to thicken, the light from Gawain's sun seeming to struggle to push back against the encroaching darkness.
"But you do exist," the demon continued, a cruel smile on his face. "And I find that... fascinating. I must study you, understand you, dissect you, and learn the secrets of your power."
He gestured towards Tristan, and a phantom figure appeared before him, a ghost from his past. It was Iseult, the love of his life, her face a mask of sorrow and accusation.
"Tristan," she said, her voice a chilling echo of the past. "You left me. You abandoned me for your king, for your duty. And for what? For a kingdom that is no more? For a king who is dead? Your love was a fleeting illusion, a brief, fragile connection that was inevitably broken by the cruel hand of fate. You are a knight without a king, a man without a home, a soul adrift in a sea of grief."
"See?" D'Spayre said. "Even though you aren't real, you still have a past, memories, despair to be pulled out, so very fascinating." He couldn't help but wonder whether or not it was possible to make more of these strange beings.
And if it was possible, could he feed on them?
If he could, couldn't he make his own food and feed endlessly? Thereby growing stronger with no limit?
Once the thought entered his mind, it was impossible to get out. He was, after all, a demon of hunger and greed as much as he was a demon of despair. To have a limitless food source? How could he not be tempted by such a thing?
Tristan flinched, but he didn't let the demon stop him, didn't let him mess with his heart. With a sad sigh, he sent an arrow of mana through the apparition. "Let the dead stay dead," he said sadly. "You can bring up our past all you want, but it won't affect our future," he said calmly.
As D'Spayre watched Tristan's arrow disperse the phantom of Iseult, a flicker of genuine confusion crossed his face. This was not the reaction he was used to. Mortals, especially those with as much regret as Sir Tristan, were supposed to crumble. They were supposed to be puppets, their strings pulled by the memory of past sorrows.
But this knight… he had acknowledged the pain, accepted its presence, and then acted as if it were nothing more than an inconvenient ghost.
Still, he didn't dwell on it much; this was, after all, hardly the first time he had met someone who could overcome their inner darkness like this.
No, he remained far more interested in trying to figure out their secrets. He had to find out if he could replicate them.
"Brave words, knight," D'Spayre said, his voice losing some of its sibilant cruelty and taking on a more analytical, almost scholarly tone. "You dismiss the past so easily. But the past is not a ghost. It is the foundation upon which the present is built. And your foundation, like all of humanity's, is riddled with cracks."
He turned his attention back to Gawain, who was bathed in a golden light, the power of the sun a defiant beacon. "And you, Sir Sun. Your power is magnificent. It is a beacon of hope in the darkness. But it is a borrowed power, is it not? A gift from your king. What happens when that gift is withdrawn? When the sun sets on your borrowed strength, what will you be left with? Just a man. A fragile, mortal man who will one day turn to dust."
Gawain held Galatine high, the blade humming with solar energy. "A knight's strength comes from his oath, not just from any blessing! My strength is my own, forged in the fires of my own will, and tempered by the loyalty in my heart!"
"Will? Loyalty?" D'Spayre mused, as if tasting the words. "Such quaint concepts. So easily shattered. Your loyalty is to a king who is no longer a king, but a goddess. A being beyond your comprehension. Your will is to protect a world that will inevitably end. Everything you fight for is temporary, fleeting. In the end, it all turns to despair. It all turns to me."
Lamorak, who had been watching the exchange with a growing sense of impatience, finally stepped forward. "You talk too much, demon," he said, his voice a low growl. "You use words like a coward uses a shield. Let's see how well you fare when your words are met with steel."
He charged, not with a reckless battle cry, but with a silent, deadly purpose. His movements were fluid and economical, each step a part of a larger, more intricate dance. He was not just a knight; he was a master swordsman, a warrior who had honed his skills in countless battles, a veteran of a war that had never truly ended.
D'Spayre watched him approach, a look of detached interest on his face. He didn't move, didn't raise a shield, didn't even flinch. He simply stood there, a statue of sorrow, a monument to the futility of all things.
(End of chapter)
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