"Yes, my King, several years ago, another Heretic God claiming to be Arthur appeared," Lancelot replied respectfully to Artoria's question. "However… that one was little more than a counterfeit, so fractured in self-awareness that it was easily defeated by the Campiones."
The strength of a Heretic God did not solely depend on their prominence in mythology or the breadth of their following; it hinged on the solidity of their self-concept.
A god's power was directly proportional to the strength of their conviction.
For a Heretic God whose self was muddled and confused, like that false Arthur, weakness was inevitable. They could easily be considered the weakest of all Heretic Gods.
Lancelot paused, his gaze lingering on Artoria's unchanging expression. Then, summoning his courage, he posed another question.
"My King… may I ask? The immense power that swept across Britain and impacted the entire world not long ago… was it yours?"
"Hm? That?" Artoria tilted her head slightly, then answered casually, "That happened when I first descended. I might've let my power slip out a little."
"I see… Thank you for enlightening us, my King."
Upon hearing this, Guinevere's golden eyes dimmed with disappointment.
Lancelot's question stemmed from Guinevere's initial conviction that the overwhelming energy they had sensed heralded the arrival of the Last King.
Overcome with joy at the prospect of her King's return, Guinevere had rushed toward the source of the power without hesitation.
But by the time she arrived, the presence had already vanished, leaving behind only a scarred and ravaged battlefield.
For days, Guinevere had been searching, only to discover that the being she had so longed for was not her King after all.
Her shattered hopes now weighed heavy as despair.
Artoria's sharp gaze shifted between Lancelot and Guinevere, studying them intently.
"You truly are 'Lancelot' and 'Guinevere'… but you're far removed from the ones I once knew."
Her eyes gleamed with a sudden thought, and she spoke with a faint smile.
"What do you think? Would you follow me, Lancelot, Guinevere?"
Guinevere's head snapped up in shock, her expression a swirl of confusion and conflict, especially when she heard her name spoken in that familiar tone.
Though Lancelot's face was hidden beneath his helmet, Artoria could sense that he, too, was deeply unsettled.
A heavy silence stretched between them.
"…Forgive me, my King."
Lancelot's voice, muffled by his helm, carried the weight of his sorrow.
"Is that so? I see."
Artoria's response was calm, her tone devoid of surprise, though her eyes lowered slightly.
---
Guinevere and Lancelot weren't the same as the figures she remembered.
Long ago, they had lived different lives, but the distortions of myth had rewritten their identities.
The names and memories of their past selves had been lost, replaced by the singular belief that they were servants of the Last King, destined to awaken him.
Their loyalty to Artoria was etched into their very divinity, for she was the true King Arthur, recognized by the world and fate itself.
Guinevere's rejection was not unexpected—her myth included betrayal, after all.
But Lancelot… Lancelot was different. In legend, his loyalty to Arthur never wavered, even after his affair with Guinevere. He had returned to Camelot as a penitent, offering himself for judgment.
Now, influenced by that same myth, his refusal must have been agonizing for him.
Artoria understood his reasons—Lancelot and Guinevere still had a duty to fulfill: awakening the Last King.
For that reason, she let them go.
They would not stand against her. And besides, Artoria herself wished to awaken the Last King, Rama.
From what she knew, Rama had grown weary of his role long ago. He had remained dormant because he no longer wished to fight.
Artoria wanted to face him—not just to prevent this world's destruction, but also to grant Rama the release he so clearly sought.
To do so, she would need Lancelot and Guinevere to awaken him.
Of course, Artoria wasn't about to tell them where Rama slumbered. In her current state, she had no chance of defeating him.
She needed time to grow stronger—time to slay more [Steel] gods and perhaps even eliminate a few Campiones. Reducing their numbers would weaken Rama, tipping the scales in her favor.
But that was a task for the future.
For now…
"After all this fighting, I'm starving."
She pressed a hand to her stomach, her brows furrowing in mock severity.
"Hunger is the true enemy! Once I've checked on Liliana's safety, it's time to feast!"
Her golden eyes blazed with determination.
"This time, I'll challenge myself to five hundred giant burgers!"
---
The sky was dark and overcast, a steady drizzle pattering against the windows.
A handsome man stood by the glass, his gloved hand pressed against its surface as he gazed at the rain-soaked world outside.
Dressed in a tailored black suit with a coat that nearly swept the floor, he exuded an air of meticulous elegance. Yet a faint shadow of worry clouded his otherwise refined demeanor.
A voice, melodic yet tinged with playful reproach, broke the silence.
"Breaking into a lady's residence without permission… How ungentlemanly of you. Or could it be that the Heretic God you recently faced struck such a blow to your pride that you've devolved from god-slayer to common thief, Alexander?"
The voice came from the doorway, where a young woman stood.
She appeared just over twenty, her platinum-blonde hair cascading naturally down her back. Her pale, flawless complexion and delicate, doll-like features gave her an ethereal beauty that appealed to both Eastern and Western ideals.
Anyone who overheard her addressing the man as Alexander would likely be terrified out of their wits.
Alexander Gascoigne, known as the "Black Prince," the "Jet-Black Nobleman," and the "Lightning Duke," was a Campione—a god-slayer.
In 1998, at just sixteen years old, he had slain Remiel, one of the seven archangels from the Book of Enoch, and seized his authority.
Campiones were disasters in human form, capable of leveling nations with ease. To most, they were terrifying beings, revered as devil kings.
Yet this young woman, Princess Alice Louise of Navarre, addressed Alexander without a trace of fear.
Alice, famed as Europe's most powerful witch, was as brilliant as she was beautiful. At the age of sixteen, she had been appointed Chair of the Sage Council, her intellect commanding the respect of even the most obstinate scholars.
Her boldness in addressing Alexander came from her deep understanding of him.
Though he was a Campione, Alexander prided himself on his rationality, seeing himself as superior to other god-slayers in that regard. His battles were driven more by strategy and intellect than brute force.
And Alice was the only person to have ever outwitted him.
For someone as proud as Alexander, defeating Alice in a battle of wits was a matter of honor. Until that day came, her safety was assured—even if her sharp tongue occasionally tested his patience.
Besides, for now, the two were allies.
Their shared goal? The newly arrived Heretic Goddess who had already slain three [Steel] hero gods and one Campione.
---
...
Huh. You really stuck it out all the way to the end.
Didn't think you had the patience. Guess I was wrong.
WiseTL's the one who actually made all this come together. I'm just here putting a bow on it… or, well, shoving it in a backpack and calling it a day. Same thing.
If you had fun, you know what to do:
👉 [patreon.com/WiseTL]
Heads up—Patreon's 50% off for all tiers during May. So if you were on the fence? Now's the time.
And if you're the social type, there's a Discord too. Pretty decent spot to hang out—no battles required.
👉 [discord.gg/wisetl]
Alright. That's enough standing around. Go on—before you make it weird.
—Leaf