Chapter Seventy-Five: Honored Father

“Lancelot?”
Irisviel turned her head to look at Saber. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of King Arthur could not fail to grasp the significance of that name.
For Saber, whose heart burned solely for the restoration of her kingdom, that name was the very spark that ignited her realm’s collapse. Yet, contrary to what Irisviel imagined, Saber’s eyes widened, her face displaying a peculiar expression that had never appeared since her arrival.
That face, always adorned with a smile as warm as sunlight, now bore only confusion and unease.
It was because of that name, and also because of Lancelot’s face.
A bead of sweat broke out on his brow, trailing down his pale face. Not even in yesterday’s monumental battle against Enkidu and Gilgamesh had he shown such a look.
Gone was the composure and confidence of a commander wielding authority on the battlefield; only bewilderment and surprise remained.
“Can such a thing truly exist?”
Saber’s voice was hoarse, as though denying a cold and bitter reality. “Is it possible that between myself and Sir Lancelot, one of us hails from a different world?”
“My king…” Seeing Saber comprehend so swiftly, Lancelot bowed his head deeply. “My king from another world, I, Lancelot, am deeply ashamed. Even in another world entirely, even when faced with you as a man, I have still committed words and deeds that should not have occurred…”
“There’s no need to dwell on it, Sir Lancelot. I have never blamed anyone,” Saber replied, raising her sword once more. “The only one at fault is myself.”
“Sir Lancelot, though I am not your king, I must still offer you some advice. If you fight for your dreams, then there’s no need to dwell on the past. So—draw your sword!”
Faced with such decisiveness, Lancelot was momentarily stunned, then let out a wry smile and his eyes regained their steady, lake-like calm.
This was not at all how he had pictured things. Unlike what he had imagined, compared to Artoria, the Saber before him—despite all she had endured—remained the perfect king, always able to judge matters calmly and face adversity with unwavering resolve.
Though their appearances were utterly different, the King of Knights was still, unmistakably, the King of Knights.
Could the king he had served have manifested in this way as well? If so, then he must ask—
What dreams did he pursue in seeking the Holy Grail? Was he dissatisfied with his own fate? He had to know; only then could he lighten the burden of his own guilt.
“How tedious. I’d rather see rivers of blood.”
Roland yawned. “When one of you two is finished, call for me. Until then, I’m off to see my beloved daughter.”

With Lancelot’s intervention, Roland reached Irisviel’s side with ease and took her hand.
Without even a token struggle, Irisviel seemed to accept her fate, closed her eyes, and sank into darkness with Roland.
“Irisviel!”
Though Saber knew Roland bore no murderous intent toward her Master, she could not simply stand by. Yet, just as history repeated itself, as Roland led Irisviel away, Lancelot sighed and stepped forward, becoming her shield, blocking Saber’s path.
“Don’t worry, Saber. If you truly wish to save your Master, then give it your all and slay Berserker. But I warn you, don’t underestimate him. Though he’s lost the madness enhancement and no longer holds the strongest class, once this man draws his blade, he is by no means easy prey.”
With a measured breath, Lancelot slowly drew his magical sword, its blade shining like moonlit lake water, both sides inscribed with elven runes.
In Kariya Matou’s hands, even unsheathing this sword would endanger his Master’s life, yet with Roland as his Master, Lancelot felt no such burden. The prana supply pouring from him was as boundless as the deepest sea.
“Arondight, the Unfading Light of the Lake.”
Saber’s face filled with nostalgia. She let go of all extraneous thoughts, focusing wholly on the battle ahead. Though things had changed, the holy sword in her hand, as if sensing its old companion, began to hum with excitement.
Lancelot let out a deep sigh and saluted Saber with a knight’s gesture.
Now that he had raised his sword against the King of Knights, he had only one way to show his respect: to fight with all his might!
“My king, be on your guard.”
Even as Old Saber’s face showed surprise, Lancelot—now free of madness but wielding his Noble Phantasm—rushed toward him with far greater speed than his own, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Razor-sharp gales struck Saber’s armor, making it ring with each blow.
And only then did the rest of Lancelot’s words drift over, slow and unhurried:
“I may sound arrogant, but among the Knights of the Round Table, in a one-on-one duel, I am quite formidable.”

—
“You even brought Caster with you. Are you so confident in Berserker? Saber is quite formidable.”
As they entered the gates of Einzbern Castle, Irisviel glanced at Caster, quietly trailing behind them, and spoke as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

“On paper, Saber is the most outstanding in this Holy Grail War. Unless Lancelot received the same advantages, his chances aren’t high. What’s more, now that Berserker has regained his sanity, the two of them are likely to see each other as substitutes,” Roland replied with a meaningful smile. “Therefore, a guilt-ridden Berserker fighting a King of Knights still lost in a dream—he’s likely to lose.”
“Then why? At this rate, your hard-won Berserker might be eliminated.”
“Isn’t that even better?”
Roland’s intentions were now laid bare. He smiled at Irisviel, like a beast baring its fangs at its prey.
“Is it possible that this is the situation I’ve been waiting for from the very start? Compared to a deranged King of Knights, a Sword Saint who guards the world is far easier to handle.”
Irisviel’s face turned ashen. Even though she had sequestered herself in the castle, she understood Roland’s implication.
She simply could not fathom Roland’s motives or intentions. She did not even know if his visit to see Illya hid some ulterior purpose.
But Roland paid her no heed. He walked to the corridor, and before he could act, the tall door slowly opened with a grating sound.
A small white head poked out, gazing at Irisviel in confusion, as if just waking from sleep, and greeted her with a soft, gentle voice.
“Mother, you’re back?”
Held by Roland’s hand, the once-troubled Irisviel’s expression instantly softened into her usual gentle smile at the sound of that voice. She took Roland’s arm of her own accord.
Though she had never ventured into the outside world, every mother is a born actress.
“Illya, come see—look who Mother has brought home?”
The little girl, an elf in snowy white, looked up in a daze, her cheeks quickly flushing with crimson.
With a burst of energy far beyond her years, Illya leapt into Roland’s arms, her voice dreamy and sweet:
“Father!”