Sir Galahad stretched his sword forward and walked toward the enemy.
Not a single ounce of energy was wasted in his movement. Not a single unnecessary twitch or adjustment. He moved like water flowing downhill inevitable, graceful, absolute.
The Roman soldiers watched him approach, their weapons raised, their hearts pounding. Twenty men against one. Twenty trained killers against a single knight.
And yet.
And yet none of them moved to attack first.
Because something in Galahad's posture, in his presence, told them that attacking would be useless. That resistance would be futile. That death was walking toward them, and all they could do was wait for it to arrive.
Galahad walked forward with a showing of pure pride and a display of absolute confidence.
Then he disappeared.
Not in a blur of speed. Not in a flash of light. Just gone. Present one moment, absent the next.
Three Roman heads fell from their bodies.
They hit the ground with wet thuds, their eyes still blinking, their mouths still open, their brains not yet realizing they were dead. The bodies stood for a moment longer, fountains of blood spraying from severed necks, before they too collapsed.
Galahad stood among them, his sword already moving.
He threw it.
Not with supernatural force. Not with impossible speed. The blade flew through the air at what could only be described as the speed of an average human throw something any soldier could have dodged, could have blocked, could have survived.
One of the Romans raised his hand to block.
The blade cut through.
Through his hand. Through his arm. Through his head. The sword passed through flesh and bone like they were air, like they were nothing, and embedded itself in the ground behind him.
The soldier stood frozen for a moment, a look of confusion on his face. Then his body parted hand separating from wrist, arm separating from torso, head separating from neck and he fell apart in pieces.
Darlington's eyes widened.
"That's " He leaned forward, his breath catching. "That's one of its abilities."
He had read about it. Heard about it. Imagined it. But seeing it was something else entirely.
"Cut."
The word escaped his lips like a prayer.
"The blade has the ability to cut through any material. Whether enhanced by magic, forged from the strongest metal, or protected by divine blessing the blade's cutting power is superior. Nothing can stand in its way."
He watched as Galahad walked calmly to the corpse, pulled the sword from the ground, and turned to face the remaining soldiers.
Nothing had stood in its way.
Nothing could.
Galahad raised the sword the Sword of David, ancient and holy and absolute and looked at the Romans who remained. Seventeen of them now, their faces pale, their weapons shaking, their souls trembling.
"All who wish for a painless death," he said, his voice calm and clear as a bell, "come forward. Let my sword free you from your pain and suffering."
To a normal person with a normal mind, his words made no sense whatsoever. Why would anyone willingly walk toward their own execution? Why would anyone choose death?
And yet.
And yet his words made every sense possible.
Because this was the Sword of David's second ability.
Many called it different things throughout history. Some called it Hope the promise of release from endless suffering. Some called it Oblivion the peace of non-existence. Some called it Freedom. Some called it Conviction.
But its true name, its real name, was something else entirely.
Liberation.
The blade did not just cut flesh. It cut through the soul. And in doing so, it offered something that no other weapon could offer: an end.
The nature of that liberation was defined by the one who held the blade. And Galahad pure of heart, righteous of purpose had defined it simply.
Death.
Not torture. Not suffering. Not endless battle in Valhalla. Just... peace. Clean, quick, merciful death.
The Roman soldiers looked at the blade, and something changed in them.
A feeling rose up warm and soft and welcome. It crept into their hearts like sunlight through clouds, like water in a desert, like salvation.
They had been fighting for centuries. Dying and reforming and dying again. Serving Caesar's will without question, without end, without hope. They had forgotten what it felt like to rest. To stop. To be done.
The blade offered that.
One soldier stepped forward.
Then another. Then another.
They lined up before Galahad, their weapons dropped, their armor suddenly too heavy, their eyes fixed on the gleaming sword. One by one, they knelt before him—not in fear, not in submission, but in worship.
They worshipped the promise he offered.
They worshipped the end.
Galahad looked at them at the line of kneeling soldiers, heads bowed, necks exposed and nodded once.
Then he began.
The first knelt before him. Galahad raised the sword. Brought it down.
SHINK.
The head fell. The body crumpled. No pain. No suffering. Just release.
The second. SHINK.
The third. SHINK.
The fourth. SHINK.
One after another, he cut off their heads. Each stroke was clean, precise, merciful. The sword passed through flesh and bone like water, and each soldier died without a sound, without a struggle, without fear.
Because they had chosen this.
They had chosen death.
The heads piled up around him a grotesque crown of severed humanity. The bodies lay where they fell, blood soaking into the sand, limbs twitching in their final moments.
When it was done, when the last soldier had knelt and received his liberation, Galahad stood among the carnage and looked at his blade.
Seventeen heads. Seventeen bodies. Seventeen souls released from endless servitude.
"Such is liberation," he said quietly, his voice carrying in the sudden silence. "Such is beauty."
He turned the sword in his hand, watching the light play across its surface.
"Such is vanity."
He looked at the bodies at the blood, at the death, at the peace on their faces.
"And such is death."
Above them, invisible and watching, Darlington clapped.
Not sarcastically. Not mockingly. Genuinely, sincerely, appreciatively.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound echoed in the void around him, heard by no one but himself.
"Wonderful," he breathed. "Wonderful. This is wonderful."
He looked at Galahad, at the blade, at the carnage that had been delivered not with rage but with mercy.
"I wonder," he said softly, "if this were a novel or an anime... honestly, there would be lots of fans."
He smiled a genuine smile, free of malice or manipulation.
"Lots and lots of fans."
Galahad stood among the bodies, his work done, his purpose clear. And above him, a false god watched and learned and planned.
The war was far from over.
But for these soldiers, at least, it was.