The second wave of Sentinels emerged from the sea; these didn't walk onto the sandy beaches. They merely used the cover of the water to get close without meeting resistance.
Once they were close enough, they shot out of the water like torpedoes.
Though, unlike torpedoes, they had far greater maneuverability. They broke the surface and began making evasive maneuvers; they fired at the Enforcement Knights, and they did everything they could not to end up like the first wave.
The Enforcement Knights did their best, their hands pulling back the strings of their bows, and arrows of pure magical energy once more filled the air.
Yet, despite the arrows still hitting their targets, or at least most of them, the Sentinels weren't going to throw this attack away just because they still needed more data.
They already had a picture of the enemy's numbers, and so they sent far more Sentinels this time, using sheer numbers to overwhelm the Enforcement Knights.
As missiles, plasma, and other weapons rained down onto the thin line of knights, quite a few did suffer minor damage, though nothing they couldn't withstand thanks to their powerful resistance to non-magecraft attacks.
The same, however, couldn't be said for the ground they stood on.
Explosions tore up the ground and deprived the Enforcement Knights of their footing, causing the second volley of arrows to be smaller than the first.
This caused their aim to be off, allowing some of the remaining Sentinels to dodge out of the way or deploy other defensive measures.
They were learning, and they were learning fast. As expected, the second wave was far harder to deal with than the first.
Still, the rate of fire the Enforcement Knights managed to achieve allowed them to clear the sky before the Sentinels got out of their range, causing fragments of them to rain over the land rather than just the sea this time.
A clear improvement for the Sentinels.
A confirmation that their tactic was working, and that only slight improvements would finally allow them to break through, all after two minor sacrifices.
-----
The Illuminati, still within the castle, looked at the screens with renewed worry.
"We have a problem," Tony stated as he looked over the data the sensors had collected. "Those machines are adapting a lot faster than we thought they would. They've already figured out that you guys are vulnerable to the disruption of your footing."
Indeed, while the Enforcement Knights were strong, they were not invincible, and the Sentinels' goal was never to destroy them.
The Sentinels knew well that the Enforcement Knights were much like themselves, mere constructs, machines made of magic rather than technology.
There was no purpose in destroying them.
They merely needed to get past them, as that would allow them access to the greatest mutant population in the world.
"Then there is no time to waste," Magneto said with a firm nod. "The Brotherhood and I are heading out; we will help hold the line."
And without another word, he left.
He would not wait to be told what to do. He knew the stakes, and he knew what he had to do.
Everyone also knew that this wasn't the time to sit here and watch their enemy make their moves; it would only be a matter of time before the enemy reached population centers.
And before that happened, they had to be there, ready to defend the people of Albion.
They knew they owed Arthuria that much; she was off fighting not just for her own people, but for the future of all of Earth, and if they stood by, allowing her people to suffer while she was gone?
How could they face her then? How could they claim to be heroes then?
So they too left, each of them heading out to their own tasks.
Doom had already left for an unknown destination, wanting to make sure he could take a look at this whole demonic situation; the rest were headed out to battle.
-----
The third wave was far bigger than the two before, and it wasn't alone; this time, it wasn't merely one location that was attacked, but dozens all along the coastal regions of Albion, from the north of Scotland to the southern beaches of Cornwall.
Clearly, the Sentinels had learned enough now and were ready to field a proper attack. However, the coast was still not undefended.
While there weren't enough Enforcement Knights to cover every inch, their range still allowed them to attack from afar, so no single point was undefended.
Yet the Sentinels already knew how to deal with the Enforcement Knights. They rained down death from above, though this time, they didn't target the knights themselves, but the ground they stood on.
As a result, the knights were unable to continue their attack, the wave of magical arrows ended, and the Sentinels flew by overhead.
Their speed was impressive for their size, and even as they moved, they continued to deploy defensive measures; dozens were shot down, but for each handful of Sentinels destroyed, one or two slipped by.
These few were, however, more than enough.
As they flew over the land, they ignored all but a few targets; they had learned their lesson: to go for the largest concentrations of mutants, while the rest of the human population was also targeted.
It was a brutal but effective strategy, one they had used to great effect all around the world.
But this was Albion, and this land had defenders that most of the world didn't have.
The very moment the few Sentinels that had broken through reached their first target, the town of Truro in Cornwall, they found a sword waiting for them.
Lancelot had decided against staying in a larger city and instead decided to guard the first place likely to be attacked, and he had been rewarded for his thinking. He had seen the Sentinels breaking through the line and had moved to intercept them.
They were, after all, a bit too close to a certain lady for comfort, and the thought of her getting hurt spurred him to move faster than ever before.
For a moment, it seemed that Lancelot was about to be overwhelmed; the Sentinels, a dozen strong, turned their attention to him, their weapons raised, their red eyes glowing with a cold, calculated hate.
He was a single knight, a lone warrior against a tide of steel.
But he was Lancelot.
The Knight of the Lake.
The wielder of Arondight.
He raised his blade, the legendary sword humming with a power that seemed to resonate with the very soul of Albion. Its blade, forged in the Otherworld and blessed by the Lady of the Lake, was a conduit of pure, unadulterated light.
And in that light, the Sentinels hesitated.
Their sensors, their logic, their programming, screamed at them that this was an anomaly, a threat beyond their comprehension.
They fired anyway.
A hail of plasma, a storm of kinetic force, a torrent of energy that could melt steel, shatter concrete, and vaporize flesh.
And this attack wasn't some scattered, thoughtless assault; every weapon used, every shot taken, was backed by countless calculations.
They perfectly sealed off any route of escape for Lancelot, using their shared network to ensure that no matter how he might try to dodge, at least some of their attacks would land.
It was a perfect attack, an inescapable net of death, a test of skill that they had calculated would overwhelm even the most powerful metahumans they had fought so far.
Lancelot didn't even try to dodge.
He just stood his ground, a bastion of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.
He raised Arondight, its blade glowing with a fierce white light, a shield of pure, incandescent energy.
The plasma struck, the kinetic force slammed into him, and the energy washed over him.
The ground around him exploded, the air itself seemed to ignite, a maelstrom of destruction that should have torn him apart, atom by atom.
But when the dust settled, Lancelot hadn't been struck down; instead, he had moved, flashing at impossible speeds. The Sentinels, being advanced machines designed to deal with all mutants, even those with speed mutations, were able to track him.
Just because he was fast didn't mean they couldn't see him.
But even if they knew where he was, even if they could track his movements, that didn't mean they could stop him.
"A single stroke," Lancelot's voice broke through the sound of battle, calm and unfazed, "is all it takes."
He moved, a blur of motion, a streak of silver and light.
He didn't charge, he didn't roar, he just moved, a predator closing in for the kill.
The Sentinels, their processors working at a speed that defied human comprehension, tracked him, calculated his trajectory, and predicted his every move.
They were ready. They were prepared. They were waiting for him to make the final move.
But they were not prepared for what happened next.
Lancelot didn't strike at their armor, at their joints, or at their weak points. He didn't try to dismantle them, to disable them, to destroy them piece by piece.
He struck at their core.
He plunged Arondight into the chest of the nearest Sentinel, the blade sinking into the metal as if it were water.
There was no explosion, no shower of sparks, no cinematic display of destruction.
There was only a simple, quiet, and utterly devastating act of violence.
The Sentinel's core, the very heart of its being, the source of its power, its consciousness, its soul, was shattered.
The red light in its eyes flickered and died. Its massive body slumped, its systems shutting down, its life force extinguished.
Lancelot was not a man to delight in slaughter; he fought with focus and precision. He didn't pause to gloat; he knew what was important, and he didn't hesitate in combat.
Even before the first machine hit the ground, Lancelot was already moving toward the second, and then the third, each one falling with a single, perfect strike.
A dance of death. A symphony of destruction. A masterclass in the art of war.
The Sentinels, for all their advanced technology, their adaptive programming, and their sheer numbers, were helpless.
They simply couldn't match the power, the skill, and the sheer lethality that was Lancelot.
Yet that didn't mean they weren't a threat.
Because the moment Lancelot appeared, long before he swung his sword even once, all Sentinels in the entire world already knew his exact position.
And all other Sentinels instantly marked the town of Truro as a place to avoid; they weren't here to fight the Knights of the Round Table. There was little point in it.
Especially after they had determined from the fight how difficult such a battle would be. Lancelot was a monster of a knight, and they knew a fight with him would cost them dearly; they might even lose.
So they simply marked him, recorded the battle, and decided to send a larger force to overwhelm him later.
This battle was merely the start; they had to prioritize their targets, and Lancelot, as powerful as he was, was but one man.
And for the Sentinels, a single person was irrelevant.
For them, the same held true for Magneto, who appeared near the coastal town of Blackpool, where a dozen Sentinels had broken through the coastal defenses.
He stood there, a solitary figure against a metallic sky, his red and purple armor a stark contrast to the grey, overcast day.
The Sentinels turned their attention to him, their red eyes glowing with a cold, calculated intensity.
"You dare to bring your war to my home?" Magneto's voice boomed, a wave of pure, unadulterated fury that seemed to shake the very foundations of the town.
"You dare to threaten my people?"
He raised his hands, and the world seemed to bend to his will.
(End of chapter)
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