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Artoria Pendragon stood frozen on the asphalt with her sword still raised, her eyes still fixed on the space where Lancelot had faded. The golden motes of his dissolution hung in the air for a moment longer as a shimmering testament to the man who had once been the greatest of her knights, the one who had loved her and betrayed her and loved her still.

She could still feel the weight of his hand on her cheek. The gentleness of his touch, so out of place in the chaos of battle. The words he had tried to speak, the confession that had died on his lips.

"I wanted to serve you. I wanted to be worthy of you. But I—"

She had not answered him, had not told him that he was forgiven, had not given him the peace he had sought for centuries.

And now he was gone.

Artoria lowered Excalibur. 

Her body ached. 

Her soul ached. 

The battle was not over, but for a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of what she had lost.

And screamed in anguish.

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne,from the shadows of the high rise with his his eyes, however, not on the King of Knights but reminiscing.

Bruce Wayne moved through the wreckage with a precision that Diarmuid recognized immediately as not the measured caution of a civilian, nor the calculated stealth of an assassin but the economy of motion that came only from years, perhaps even decades, of dedicated martial training. 

Every step was deliberate and every shift of weight was purposeful. 

The man's posture was so perfectly aligned that it bordered on the superhuman, a testament to muscle memory honed to the point of instinct.

Diarmuid had seen such posture before in the warriors of the Fianna and even recently n the greatest knights of the Round Table. 

Generally, in the heroes who had walked the earth when the Age of Gods still lingered.

But those men had been legends and this man was mortal.

And yet, the way he moved, the way he breathed, spoke of a mastery that Diarmuid had not expected to find in the modern era. The man's chest rose and fell with a rhythm that was almost meditative, each breath synchronized with his movements that even though his shoulders were relaxed, but not slack; his arms hung loose, but ready; his gaze was alert, but not darting. 

Diarmuid's eyes narrowed. 

He knew what a true combatant looked like.

Bruce Wayne was a true combatant of this era.

The observation unsettled him. 

Diarmuid watched as Bruce approached his Master, Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald, and began to speak and he caught the words.

"Lord El-Melloi," Bruce said, his voice low and measured, "I trust your fiancée is safe to satisfaction?"

Kayneth stiffened at the reminder of Sola-Ui's near-death in the hotel explosion but he could not deny the (imagined) debt he owed when Bruce had saved her life. 

"She is... recovering," Kayneth said, his voice tight. "Though I fail to see how that is any concern of yours."

Bruce's expression did not change. "It's a concern because I need your help. And I believe you owe me a favor."

Kayneth's eyes narrowed. "You would call in a debt? Right now? In the middle of a war?"

"I would call in a debt to save all lives," Bruce replied. "Yours. Hers. The people of this city." He paused, letting the words sink in. "I have a plan. It will give Lancer the duel he desires and announces, a fair fight, one-on-one, against Saber. No interference. No collateral damage. No innocents caught in the crossfire."

Kayneth's lips curled. "A duel? You expect me to believe that my Lancer would agree to such a thing?"

"I would Master," Diarmuid said, stepping out of the shadows. His voice was respectful and calm, but there was a fire in his eyes that Kayneth had not seen before. "I would welcome it. A battle of honor, with no tricks, no treachery, no interference from Masters. A true contest of arms."

Kayneth's expression hardened. "You would risk your life for such a thing? You would throw away your chance at the Grail for the sake of a duel?"

"I would risk my life for the sake of honor," Diarmuid replied. "That is what I have always done. That is what I will always do."

Bruce turned to face Lancer, his gaze steady. "The duel will take place at the steps of Ryuudou Temple."

Kayneth's eyes flickered. "And if Lancer dies?"

Bruce's gaze did not waver. "Then I will see to it that your debts are repaid. Both the favor I earned by saving your fiancée's life and whatever debts you accrued to participate in this war. I will make sure that you emerge from this conflict with your honor intact, your position secure, and your future prospects unimpeded."

And then Sola-Ui spoke.

"Kayneth," she said, her voice soft but firm. "He saved my life. If he asks for this and Lancer is willing then we should listen."

Kayneth's jaw tightened. He looked at Sola-U then he looked at Wayne.

"Very well," he said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "We will agree to your terms."

Diarmuid watched the exchange with a mixture of relief and wariness as his Master had agreed to the duel. 

His desire for a battle of honor would be fulfilled.

And yet, there was something about Bruce Wayne that unsettled him, something that went beyond the man's martial prowess.

He approached Bruce after the negotiations had concluded, his voice low. "You are not what you appear to be."

Bruce's expression did not change. "I am exactly what I am."

Diarmuid studied him for a long moment then, slowly, he nodded.

"Very well, warrior," he said. "I will show you what a knight of the Fianna can do."