King Of Battle Finale (Patreon)

Artoria Pendragon stood frozen on the asphalt with her sword still raised, her eyes still fixed on the space where Lancelot had faded with 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 with the gentleness of his touch, so out of place in the chaos of battle and 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 Pendragon stood frozen on the asphalt, 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 and the gentleness of his touch dug deeper into her mind due to it being so out of place in the chaos of battle, paired with the words he had tried to speak, the confession that had died on his lips.

He had come to Britain as a stranger in the way of a French-born noble orphan raised by the Lady of the Lake, carrying the air of arrogant at hearing rumors of a King of Knights that he had dismissed as pure nonsense as he had traveled to Britain expecting to find a pretender, a figure propped up by bards and courtiers, a king who could not possibly live up to the legends that preceded him.

Instead, he had found her on a battlefield.

He had seen a young boy, he had thought then, riding through a horde of invaders, a sword in hand, a banner of red and gold streaming behind as they carve through the enemy .

Magnificent. 

And Lancelot, the Knight of the Lake, had fallen for with the ideal of before he had ever spoken a single word.

The years that followed had been the greatest of his life. He had joined the Round Table, had earned his place as the strongest of Arthur's knights, had fought beside the king in a hundred battles, watched her lead with a wisdom that belied her years, had seen her sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of her kingdom, had witnessed the weight of the crown press down upon her shoulders like a physical burden.

And he had discovered her greatest secret, was one of the few who knew the truth: that the King of Knights was a woman. 

Guinevere’s existence however had been the one to complicate everything.

A wife to maintain the illusion of a stable royal family, a partner in the masquerade that kept Britain from fracturing under the weight of its own contradictions. She had married Artoria not knowing the truth, had willingly sacrificed her own life as a woman to preserve the ideal government that the king represented.

Lancelot had not meant to fall in love with her and thus it had happened like a tide creeping up a shore. 

He had seen the loneliness in Guinevere's eyes from the weight of the secret she carried of the isolation that came from being married to a king who could never truly be the husband she desired. 

They had found comfort in each other. They had found love.

And they had betrayed the one person who had trusted them most.

The affair had been exposed and Guinevere had been ordered to be executed. 

Lancelot had been given a choice: let her die, or save her and kill his fellow knights in the process.

He had chosen to save her.

He had killed his brothers and sisters in arms and had fled with Guinevere. He had brought shame upon the Round Table and dishonor upon himself.

And Artoria…

Artoria had forgiven him.

She had written a letter of pardon to him and Guinevere, giving them her blessings, she had understood Guinevere's sacrifice, had understood the impossibility of their situation, had refused to see their betrayal as a betrayal at all.

"She did not see this inescapably unrighteous action as a betrayal," the chronicles would later record. "Instead, she understood Guinevere's sacrifice."

Lancelot could not bear it.

If she had pardoned him for his political connections only but reprimanded him for his actions, disgusted by his lack of self control or care for his duty.

Her refusal to hate him, to punish him, to give him the condemnation he deserved was worse than any judgment. He had betrayed her, had shattered her kingdom, had brought ruin to everything she had built, and she had forgiven him. 

He could not atone for his sins if she refused to acknowledge them.

And now, in the chaos of the Fourth Holy Grail War, he had found her again.

He had charged at her with rage and madness, had tried to kill her with the fury of a man who could not forgive himself, had forced her to run him through with Excalibur and watched as the golden motes of his dissolution began to scatter on the wind.

He had touched her cheek with the gentleness of a man who had never stopped admiring her.

“I wanted to serve you,"* he had whispered. "I wanted to be worthy of you. But I—"

He could not finish and he would return with that unfinished business for millenia more.

Oh the irony.

And now he is gone.

Artoria lowered her sword as the golden motes of Lancelot's dissolution continued to scatter, catching the light like fragments of a shattered dream.

You did serve me, she thought, her eyes still fixed on the empty space where he had been. You served me better than any other. You were my greatest knight, my dearest friend, the one I trusted above all others.

And I could not save you.

"I should have told you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "I should have told you that I understood. That I never blamed you. That you were always—"

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

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 satisfy?"

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 Fianna can do."

He had come to a decision and was going to do something that would go against his Master’s intentions but not his wishes.

The sound of the soft crunch of boots on broken asphalt broke through her reverie, making Artoria's eyes snapped into focus in a flash with her grip tightening on Excalibur as she swiftly turned to face the newcomer.

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne stood at the edge of the ruined street with his twin spears held loosely at his sides and his expression unreadable. 

It only took her a moment to realise he had been watching her.

As for how long, she did not know but based on how she only noticed, just recently. But there was something in his gaze that held no pity but something that might have been understanding.

"Saber," he said, his voice calm and measured. "I would speak with you."

Artoria's eyes narrowed. 

He took a step forward, then stopped, making no move to close the distance between them. His posture was open, unthreatening.

" I would face you," he said, "in a battle that is worthy of that honor. Not a skirmish in the streets or a clash of Masters and treachery. A true duel without interference, without tricks in a battle of skill and courage, where the better warrior will emerge victorious."

Artoria stared at him. For a moment, she could not find the words to respond.

"You would challenge me," she said slowly, "to a duel? In the middle of a war where every Master is plotting betrayal and every Servant is fighting for their lives?"

"I would challenge you to a duel," Diarmuid replied.

He took another step forward, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I do not seek to trap you or destroy you through treachery. I am a knight, Saber. And I believe in honor."

Artoria's grip on Excalibur tightened. 

He spread his arms wide, a gesture of openness.

"I am Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, Knight of the Fianna. And I do not seek to win through treachery."

Artoria was silent for a long moment. Her mind raced, weighing the possibilities, calculating the risks.

On one level, following Diarmuid was folly. It was a trap, or it could be one and the war was too important to risk on the promise of a fair duel. She should strike him down now, while she had the chance,  raise Excalibur and unleash its power, destroying him and any threat he could represent.

But after everything, when she looked at Diarmuid and saw the sincerity in his eyes, the conviction in his stance, even the knowledge of their short interaction and lack of any warning from her own sense or Instincts could tell he was not lying or scheming.

He was offering her something she had not had in a long time: a chance to fight as a knight, not as a king.

So she stayed silent listened to the place

"Ryuudou Temple," she said. "You want me to meet you there?"

Diarmuid nodded. "The steps of the temple on open ground with no civilians and no interference with the natural phenomena granting us even ground, Just the two of us."

Artoria's eyes flickered to the ruined buildings around them, to the civilians who were still hiding in the shadows from them or the fires that still burned in the distance. She thought of the damage that would be done if she fought here, the lives that would be lost if she unleashed Excalibur in the middle of the city.

She thought of Lancelot…

"Very well," she said. "I will meet you at Ryuudou Temple."

Diarmuid bowed his head to her, something  she realized that had not been done centuries technically.

"I look forward to our battle, Saber. May the better warrior win."

He turned and walked away, his twin spears held loosely at his sides, his posture open and unguarded.

Artoria watched him go, her heart heavy with grief and hope in equal measure.

She had not been able to give Lancelot the peace he deserved and that she never blamed him, that she had always loved him as a knight and a friend.

But perhaps she could find some measure of peace in this. A true battle, fought with honor, between two warriors who respected each other.

It was something.

As Artoria moved, her armored boots barely touched the ground as she vaulted over debris, weaved through alleyways, and launched herself across rooftops so fast the wind howled in her ear with  the scent of smoke and blood that still clung behind her. 

With Diarmud, they moved through the city like twin comets before their paths converged on the mountain that rose above. 

Ryuudou Temple. 

Perhaps Lancelot's emanation was still whispering in her ear or the sincerity she had seen in him and her instincts not warning her so that the hope that this could be something more than just another slaughter was there. Even the logic that flowed into her mind gave her no reason to turn a less difficult way of cutting down her enemies, not discounting her own confidence in her ability to fight back. 

The temple steps rose before her, before Artoria slowed as she approached with a steady breath and her hand still gripping Excalibur. She could feel the spiritual weight of the temple pressing down on her, suppressing the Mystery that sustained her, dampening her power.

Diarmuid was already there, standing at the base of the steps, his twin spears held loosely at his sides. 

Hmm, it seemed to be doing the same for him.

A weight lifted off her chest as there was no treachery in his stance. Only respect.

Artoria stopped at the top of the steps, looking down at him. 

It was a classic positioning with the defender on the high ground and the challenger on the low.

"Are you ready, Saber?" Diarmuid asked.

Artoria did not answer with words but actions. She simply raised her sword.

There was a tense pause.

A single leaf drifted down from the trees above, caught by the wind, spiraling lazily between them. 

As it fell slowly, it as if the world itself was holding its breath until the leaf touched the ground.

And then they moved.

Artoria launched herself forward like a rocket with her Mana Burst propelling her down the steps like a golden comet that had Diarmuid meet her charge with a sweep of his crimson spear, blade glowing with the power to sever magic.

The clash was like a thunderclap that echoed across as Artoria's blade met Diarmuid's spear in a shower of sparks that lit up both combatants in a spectacular shower of lights from the close range fireworks.

In response, she pushed forward with draconic might, her strength so overwhelming, it forced him to give ground that he countered with a spin, bringing his yellow spear around in a blur of motion, aiming for her side to which she intercepted it with her blade, the impact sending more shockwaves through the air.

As the duel had truly begun in earnest, they fought up and down the steps in a blur of speed as Artoria's Mana Burst sent golden waves of power rippling across the temple grounds, shattering stone and uprooting the trees around them. Even the continuous change in the environment, Diarmuid's twin spears still whirled in a deadly dance with each strike aimed at a vital point only for each deflection a show of supernatural instinct.

Even with the temple's suppression of Mystery, even with the spiritual weight pressing down on her power, Artoria had the mana to spare.

Each strike was a hammer blow, each parry a shattering impact that allowed her to drive him back, step by step with her sword as a golden blur of destruction and even as Diarmuid lasted longer than any had a right to, he parried blows that would have killed any other and spears moved in perfect harmony.

But he could not match her power.

"You are magnificent," he said, his voice strained but genuine. 

Artoria did not answer, just simply pressed her attack, her sword slamming against his guard like a hammer against an anvil.

Then the end came quickly, too quickly.

Artoria's sword caught Diarmuid's red spear and then it was over with a burst of golden light. He staggered, his guard broken, and she drove her blade further through his chest to the point that the tip of Excalibur emerged from his back, blood blooming around the wound like a dark flower for Diarmuid to look down at the blade protruding from his chest. 

Then he looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers, a smile on his face.

"You were the best," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Among the greatest of warriors. I have faced many in my time, you... you were something special."

Artoria's jaw tightened.

His smile widened, though it was tinged with sadness. " I have no regrets."

"I enjoyed this," he said. "Every moment of it. The battle. The honor. The chance to fight someone who understood what it meant to be a knight."

He took a shuddering breath, his body beginning to fade into golden motes.

"Thank you, Saber. Thank you for giving me this."

Artoria stared at him as he faded into golden light, scattered by the wind, and he was gone to such that Artoria stood alone on the temple steps, her sword still raised. 

Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald watched the duel conclude from the perspective of his Servant until his Spirit Origin shattered and the separation of the soul and body begun.

The King of Knights had been a whirlwind of golden power and devastating force that carved through like a force of nature in the earlier engagement. But in this duel, she was different.

She was still powerful, overwhelmingly so if he were to be more vivid in description, but even he could see that her attitude had been replaced by something else, something colder and more precise. 

She was still using brute force with her overwhelming mana advantage to break through her opponent's defenses but the brutalism.

Kayneth's eyes narrowed as he re-watched the battle unfold through his magic circuits.

 Diarmuid was using his Knight's Strategy skill to its fullest potential, reading the flow of combat with an almost supernatural precision, inducing Saber to make mistakes that should have cost her the fight via creating openings, exploiting weaknesses, forcing her to commit to attacks that would do nothing.

But it was still not enough.

Saber was simply too much. For every mistake she made, it was corrected by sheer force of will and every opening she created was sealed by her uncanny luck so moments of vulnerability were erased.

Kayneth frowned even further when he reviewed everything.

Whatever the reason, the outcome was inevitable.

What a waste.

Kayneth reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the device that Bruce Wayne had given him. It was a sleek, compact grey brick.

He pressed what he was told was the activation button and waited until it hummed to life with a soft chime and a moment later, Bruce's voice crackled through the speaker, calm and measured as always.

"Lord El-Melloi. I assume the duel has concluded?"

Kayneth's jaw tightened. "It has. Lancer is dead."

There was a pause. "I see. And Saber?"

"Still standing. She will still be ready for the next engagement." Kayneth's tone was clipped and professional despite the frustration that churned beneath the surface. "The deal is struck on my end and I hope will continue doing business with each other.."

Kayneth, despite his pride, was a practical man.

"That is acceptable." There was a pause, and then Bruce's voice continued, slightly softer. "I understand this was not an easy decision, Lord El-Melloi. But I believe it was the right one."

Kayneth's lips curled into a sneer. "You believe it was the right one? You are not the one who just lost a Servant."

"No," Bruce agreed. "But I am the one who is risking it all from here on out."

Kayneth was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded to himself.

"Very well, Wayne. I will wait and see the fruits of your judgment. For now."

The connection ended and Kayneth pocketed the communicator and turned away.

The duel was over. The Knight of the Fianna had fallen.

The cave beneath Ryuudou Temple hummed with power from the leylines that Da Vinci had woven into and through her bounded field as she sat at the center of her workshop, her consciousness spread across the city like a spider's web, her eyes closed but her vision more acute than any mortal could imagine.

Leonardo da Vinci watched the battle with a mixture of professional admiration and detachment with dedication to notetaking.

Saber's A-ranked Magic Resistance made sure that direct magical attacks would be all but useless against her with the best bet being raw mana manipulation and expulsion that she could not output easily and as Da Vinci was currently busy manipulating the leylines, maintaining the bounded field that would protect the city from the collateral damage of the war and reduce the power of everyone else along with a myriad of other tasks, she could not afford to be distracted.

The duel was a fascinating study in contrasts. 

Saber was a dragon in human form and Lancer’s skill allowed him to read and direct the flow of battle with an almost supernatural precision.

But it was not enough. Saber's raw power was simply too great.

A small part of Da Vinci was dismayed by this. She had hoped that Lancer would wound Saber more severely, would create an opening that she could exploit when the time came… but it was not to be.

Da Vinci had known that the duel was part of Bruce's plan he made when opportunity struck. 

He had reasoned that Saber and Archer were the two most dangerous Servants in the war, and that the best way to deal with them was to have them weaken each other through an engagement after Saber defeated Lancer. That it might turn out better even if Saber defeated Lancer with no injuries so that when she faced Archer, even if she lost, that was when Da Vinci would strike.

It was a good plan. A sound plan.

But Da Vinci could not shake the feeling that she could do more.

She had been working on the bounded field for hours, weaving it into the leylines, creating a web of magical energy that would protect the city and enhance her own power  modeled after her workshop and the natural properties of Ryuudou Temple but amplified to cover the entire city.

With the field in place, Da Vinci would be able to strike at any Servant within its boundaries, their powers weakened, their defenses lowered and she would be able to channel the full force of the city's mana into devastating attacks, overwhelming even the strongest of opponents.

But the field was not yet complete with adjustments to be made, still calculations to be performed, still variables to be accounted for.

She pushed further, deeper, faster as her consciousness spread across the city, touching every leyline, every node of power, every source of mana. She was becoming one with the land itself, her will fused with the ancient energy that flowed beneath Fuyuki's streets.

And in that moment, that she knew she pushed too far when she felt something she had not expected.

She felt the Grail.

The Grail had been dormant for so long that Da Vinci had almost forgotten about its presence. But now, as her consciousness touched the leylines that fed into the ancient artifact, she felt it stir, the corruption that had been seeded by Angra Mainyu's taint was still present, still poisoning the once-holy vessel.

Da Vinci forced herself to pull back and retreat from the edge of the abyss. She had accomplished what she had set out to do. 

She allowed herself a small smile. 

Everything is going according to plan. T

Something that had been set in motion by the insects scurrying below.

He scoffed, his voice carrying across the wind like a blade.

He raised his hand, and the air around him shimmered with golden light.