Guinevere's execution was set for the following day. Given the gravity of her treasonous adultery, such a verdict was the only natural conclusion for the Queen of a nation.
However, I, possessing knowledge of the original history, found myself unsettled. In the legends I knew, did Artoria not offer Lancelot and Guinevere at least one chance at forgiveness?
Yet, the Artoria of this world showed no such mercy. As if such a concept were beneath her, she had decreed the sentence of death without a moment's hesitation.
Lancelot's ultimate fate remained undecided for the moment. Nonetheless, considering he had slain Sir Agravain, it was highly probable that he, too, would face the headsman's axe.
In the original annals, Lancelot was known to break free during the execution to slaughter Sirs Gareth and Gaheris before fleeing. To prevent this tragedy, I ensured his confinement was reinforced beyond measure.
I personally oversaw the fitting of his restraints: steel manacles, heavy shackles, and an outer layer of enchanted chains—a triple-lock of binding—before throwing him into the deepest cell. I doubted even the Knight of the Lake could easily escape such iron resolve.
Meanwhile, King Leodegrance, having learned of his daughter's disgrace, bowed his head in a desperate plea, begging only that her body be preserved so that he might give her a proper burial.
It was a request Artoria could not ignore; one does not lightly dismiss the humble supplication of a fellow sovereign. Thus, it was decided that Guinevere would meet her end by the rope—hanging—rather than the flame or the blade.
The Round Table was unanimous in this decision, and I found no reason to disagree. King Leodegrance had been one of Artoria's staunchest allies even before she was fully recognized as King; showing him this small kindness was only proper.
As for what I was doing now? There was no need to ask. It was, of course, work. The reason I was back at my desk barely a day after the incident was quite simple.
Merlin, who had been conscripted by Artoria to handle my duties, had come to me in tears after a single day. She wailed and clung to me, swearing that she could not endure another moment of administrative hell.
Looking at Merlin's face—pale and hollowed as if she were on the verge of death by overwork—I was forced to drag myself out of bed. It was the first time I had ever seen the Magus of Flowers so genuinely pathetic.
The sight of her vanishing with a muttered, "I have burned white..." in that iconic pose of hers was a shock to the system.
Naturally, Artoria's teeth ground together when she saw me back at my desk. "To think that Sir Merlin would..." she muttered under her breath. It seemed Merlin's days were numbered.
But presently, I felt as though my own days were ending. The cause? Death by overwork, inevitably. With Agravain's passing, the immense mountain of logistics he had once managed had been dumped unceremoniously onto my shoulders.
Workload increased. Rest hours deleted. Truly, this was the ultimate ambush: a paperwork bombardment. And the sender? It was Lancelot.
That bastard Lancelot...!! No, stay calm. Breathe. I am certain her Majesty will eventually... *click*... relieve him of his head.
Had I known things would end this way, I would have taken the time to learn the finer points of interrogation from Agravain before he fell.
Nevertheless, rage proved to be an excellent fuel for productivity. After a day of relentless administrative slaughter, I stood and stretched my aching limbs.
The time for Guinevere's execution was drawing near. I could not miss the end of the woman whose actions had contributed to this paper-thin hell.
Finishing the final document, I stood and donned my plate armor.
Protocol dictated that a Knight of the Round Table must appear in full panoply for such formal occasions. It was a tedious necessity.
While armor is a knight's greatest comfort on the battlefield, it is nothing but a cumbersome weight in any other setting. Regardless, I buckled my sword to my hip and departed my office, heading toward the gardens where the gallows stood.
However, as I approached the path to the garden, a group of maids came rushing toward me in a state of sheer panic.
Most were paralyzed by terror, but when I saw several among them clutching bleeding sword wounds, my eyes widened.
Seeing me, their expressions shifted to frantic relief. I stepped forward to meet them.
"What is the meaning of this? I am Elius of the Round Table. Speak—what has happened?"
"Sir Elius! Thank the heavens... A knight in black... he is slaughtering everyone in the garden!"
"We... we barely escaped his blade!"
A black knight... Could it be? Has that bastard Lancelot broken free? Having assessed the crisis, I nodded firmly.
"...I understand. I shall handle this. Take the wounded to the infirmary and flee this area at once."
"Thank you, milord!"
Once the servants were clear, I flooded my limbs with Prana and sprinted toward the garden. As I drew closer, the signs of carnage became undeniable: blood stained the masonry, and the bodies of servants and handmaids littered the path.
The wounds were precise, the cuts clean. This was the work of a knight—and a masterfully skilled one at that.
There was only one man in this city capable of such a desperate, murderous feat.
And there he was. In the center of the garden, Lancelot was driving his blade through the midsection of Sir Gaheris.
He seemed consumed by madness, his very armor and helm stained a dull, abyssal black. It was a complete fall from grace.
Behind Gaheris, the unarmed Sir Gareth lay wounded and trembling.
As Lancelot twisted his blade and yanked it free, Gaheris slumped to the ground, lifeless. Gareth's voice rang out, shaking with disbelief.
"S-Sir Lancelot... please, wake up... This isn't who you are... please...!"
Her pleas fell on deaf ears. Lancelot raised Arondight, now slick with the blood of his brothers-in-arms, high above his head.
The sword descended. I unsheathed my blade in a blur of motion, catching the strike before it could reach Gareth.
"That is enough, Lancelot."
I parried the blow with a violent shuck and followed up with a horizontal sweep. Lancelot leapt back to evade, letting out a hollow, gutteral howl as he glared at me.
"Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"You have truly fallen. Just how far into the depths do you intend to sink, Lancelot?"
At my words, the red glow behind his visor intensified. He lunged at me. Though possessed by madness, his swordsmanship remained terrifyingly sharp and disciplined—a storm of steel intended to rend me asunder.
I swung Excalibur Twilight, parrying every incoming strike with calculated precision.
Finding a rhythm in the chaos, I immediately transitioned from a parry into a lightning-fast thrust aimed at his face. He reacted, but not quickly enough.
A portion of his black visor shattered and fell away. Through the crack, I caught a glimpse of his bloodshot, insanity-driven eyes.
Lancelot let out a maddened roar of recognition.
"Eliussssssssssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!"
Simultaneously, his sword began to pulse with an ominous, suffocating light. A True Name Release. The madman intended to unleash his Noble Phantasm within the very heart of Camelot.
I could have dodged, but if I did, the citizens of the capital would be caught in the wake of that devastating light. I would not allow it.
I closed the distance instantly. Lancelot leveled his blade, the magical energy fully charged.
"Arondight... Overload!!"
"Not on my watch!"
CLANG!
In the fraction of a second before the blast, I struck his blade upward. The light of the Lake erupted from the sword just as it pointed toward the heavens.
The indomitable radiance cut through the sky above Camelot, cleaving the clouds in a perfectly straight line that stretched across the horizon.
It was a breathtaking sight—the legendary "Sky-Cleaver." But I had no time for awe.
Lancelot was left wide open by the recoil of his failed strike. This was for everything. I would take from him what he held most dear.
This was the ultimate retribution. Receive it well, Lancelot!!
Channeling a massive surge of Prana Burst into my leg, I delivered a crushing kick. The target? Squarely between his legs.
THUD! CRACK!
"—!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Kh-krrgh... gurgh..."
Thump.
The result was immediate and devastating. Accompanied by the unmistakable sound of something fragile shattering, Lancelot collapsed in a heap, clutching himself.
Even with his body numbed by madness, the sheer magnitude of the agony was so great that he couldn't even manage a scream. He simply sputtered and foamed at the mouth before slipping into unconsciousness.
Gareth stood there, her jaw dropped in stunned silence. I scratched my cheek awkwardly with my index finger.
"Was that... perhaps a bit much?"
Silence was my only answer.
========================
The website for reading paid chapters is available on my Patreon. The number of chapters on Patreon: 35
Link: patreon.com/UltraMagnus_T