Tristan fought alone.
Around him, the Roman soldiers pressed from every direction a sea of steel and shadow that showed no end, no weakness, no mercy. They came at him in waves, each one replaced by two more, their numbers seemingly infinite.
But Tristan was not afraid.
He adapted.
A soldier with spear and shield attacked from behind Tristan's neck bent to the opposite side, the spear grazing past his ear instead of piercing his skull. In the same motion, his hand snapped out, grabbing the spear shaft. He pulled hard disarming the soldier in a single motion.
Before the man could react, Tristan spun the spear. Its blunt end crashed into the soldier's eye socket with a wet crunch. The man screamed, hands flying to his ruined face.
Tristan pulled the spear back and threw it.
Forward. At the enemy in front of him.
The soldier didn't have time to dodge. The spear punched through his chest, throwing him backward into his comrades.
Five arrows whistled through the air.
Tristan's eyes tracked them all five, simultaneously. He still held the spear he'd taken. He bent low, spinning it in a wide, circular arc. The wooden shaft caught the arrows one after another, embedding them in the wood like pins in a cushion.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
All five. Trapped.
He didn't pause.
His free hand went to his belt, pulling a short sword and a long sword in a single fluid motion. He dove into the nearest cluster of enemies, blades extended.
The short sword found a face. Stabbed through the eye through both eyes, the blade emerging from the back of the skull. The soldier went limp instantly.
Another soldier moved to flank him. Tristan pulled the blades from the first man's face and grabbed the corpse, using it as a shield. The enemy's sword thudded into dead flesh instead of living.
Tristan shoved the corpse forward, into its killer.
Then he backflipped once, twice, three times as spears rained down where he'd been standing. They embedded in the ground in a neat line, missing him by inches.
The Roman soldiers were relentless. They didn't stop. Didn't slow. Didn't feel.
Tristan landed in a crouch, breathing hard, his eyes scanning the endless horde.
So this is what fuels you for battle, he thought. It must be something greater than your own existence.
He watched them advance their movements mechanical, their faces blank, their souls empty.
There's no way a man can reach this level by himself alone.
He understood now.
If I had to guess, your soul is no longer yours. Talk about blind betrayal.
The Romans weren't fighting for themselves. They weren't fighting for glory, or honor, or even survival. They were fighting for Rome. For Caesar. For a will that wasn't their own.
More than that, he continued, dodging another attack, you are no longer your own will. You carry on the will of your king. Hence why you don't fear death.
He stabbed one in the chest clean, precise, final. As the man fell, Tristan grabbed his vest, ripping it off the corpse. He spun it, using it to blind another soldier, and in the same motion deflected an arrow that had been aimed at his heart.
Well. He allowed himself a small smile. I commend you.
He landed, blades ready.
As such, I shall respond in equal terms.
He looked at the horde at the thousands of soldiers who would never stop, never yield, never feel.
For I don't just carry on the will of my king, Arthur Pendragon.
He moved.
I carry on the will of Camelot.
His fist connected with a soldier's face a full-force punch that shattered bone and sent the man flying into his comrades. Before they could react, Tristan's hand closed around another's throat. He lifted him—one-handed and threw him across the battlefield like a ragdoll.
And this will is to stay alive. No matter what.
He landed, blades crossed, eyes burning.
No matter what.
Above them, Darlington watched.
His frustration at the Lancelot situation hadn't faded, but his mind that brilliant, analytical, hungry mind had found something else to occupy it.
Tristan.
"He's no ordinary knight," Darlington murmured, watching the hunter move through the Roman horde. "It's almost as if everything is balanced. Combat. Blocking. Attacking. Using the enemy's attacks against them."
He leaned forward, fascinated.
"He's different from Lancelot. Different from Percival. Different even from Arthur." His eyes tracked Tristan's fluid movements. "He's like a river. Continuously flowing. Nothing stops him."
A Roman soldier lunged. Tristan flowed around the attack, his counter striking before the soldier even realized he'd missed.
"When it reaches a block, it overcomes that block by surpassing it or breaking through it entirely."
Darlington smiled a genuine smile, not the twisted grin of before.
"This is quite educative, isn't it?"
He watched Tristan fight, cataloging every movement, every technique, every choice. Knowledge to be stored. Knowledge to be used.
Then his attention shifted.
Across the battlefield, Percival and Zeraled stood facing each other.
They were distant from each other maybe thirty feet, maybe forty. Between them lay the evidence of their battle: blood, broken weapons, a severed ear, shattered bone.
Both were smiling.
Not the smile of warriors who had found worthy opponents. Not the smile of men enjoying combat. Something else. Something deeper.
They had pushed each other to places neither had ever been. Had broken through limits they hadn't known existed. Had grown in ways that couldn't be undone.
And now
They started walking toward each other.
Slowly. Deliberately. Each step measured, intentional, final.
Darlington watched them, and for a moment just a moment he forgot about Lancelot. Forgot about the orb. Forgot about his plans and manipulations and desperate need for control.
"What would you call this moment in fiction?" he asked the empty air.
No one answered.
He smiled anyway.
"Peak," he said softly. "The final showdown between them."
Percival and Zeraled continued walking.
The chapter ended there in the space between steps, between breaths, between lives. Behind them, Tristan fought on. Behind them all, the black orb pulsed.
And somewhere inside it, Lancelot dreamed of darkness and light and everything in between.