Chapter Eighty: The Rampaging Doppelganger

In an instant, Lancelot surged forward, closing the distance to Saber. Saber only felt a terrifying force assail him, and caught off guard, even his strength was useless in that moment—he staggered backward.

Yet Lancelot showed not a trace of hesitation. The demonic sword in his hand swept swiftly toward Saber’s throat.

The air was cleaved as though it were solid, a roaring, crescent-shaped slash tearing forward. Before it even touched him, a line of blood appeared on Saber’s neck from the pressure alone, proof that this attack was far from a mere show.

Saber’s azure eyes were still clouded with confusion, unable to grasp why events had taken such a sudden turn. But there was no time to ponder. He sprang back, leaning his upper body, weaving through the howling sword light by the narrowest margin.

The silver armor covering his body rang out under the strain, while the gleaming blade passed within a hair’s breadth of his nose.

Barely dodging that strike, Saber twisted in the brief interval, flipping the sacred sword in his hand and swinging it at Lancelot.

A thunderous crash erupted.

Lancelot’s chest felt as if it had been struck by a massive hammer. The magical energy imbued in Saber’s blade burst forth, whirling around it like a tempest, driving Lancelot back once more.

“Why, Lancelot! Can you not understand my wish? That feeling of struggling desperately to make things right, yet being unable to change anything, forced to watch fate’s judgment descend—you, of all people, should be able to understand!”

The knight who had been so friendly just moments before turned murderous upon hearing how Saber’s wish might be granted. Such a rejection, akin to betrayal, left Saber utterly at a loss.

“All tragedy began with me! Only if Arthur is replaced can Britain be saved—that is the ideal I have fought for!”

“Is that so?” Lancelot’s pale violet eyes reflected Saber’s anxious face, his tone growing ever colder.

“Then drown in your ideals.”

Without a hint of uncertainty, Lancelot raised his greatsword high and brought it down upon Saber.

Saber skillfully blocked the blow with his sacred sword, then shoved Lancelot back with a sudden burst of force.

The indestructible Sword of the Lake and the Sword of Salvation, forged in the Sea of Stars, ground against each other, unleashing a cacophony of shrieks and a shower of blinding sparks.

“Why can’t you understand!” Amid the ferocious battle, Saber’s true emotions broke through. Though the man before him was not the Lancelot he once knew, Saber still roared out his heart.

“I was never fit to be king. I wielded my sword to protect others, yet in the end I achieved nothing! Now, all I have left is strength, but it isn’t everything—I must realize justice! To save Britain, even if I myself stand in the way, I must not falter!”

Gritting his teeth, Saber’s swings grew ever faster, leaving vivid afterimages in the air.

The cold wind filled Lancelot’s lungs, but could not quell the fire in his eyes.

“How could anyone understand that?” he spat.

Stubborn and naïve—he had made no mistakes, had sacrificed so many desires, shouldered the kingdom’s burdens, yet even in death he denied himself, continuing to sacrifice. Lancelot could not accept it.

Just seeing the shadow of that young girl in Arthur’s bearing made the searing madness threaten to consume him.

He had to set things right.

As the sacred blades clashed once more, Lancelot seized an opening, cutting through the wind swirling around Saber’s sword, aiming for his opponent’s wrist.

Sure enough, Saber shifted tactics instantly, twisting the hilt and stabbing toward his own chest.

But Lancelot had no intention of retreating—he had had enough. While Saber pressed the attack, he left himself open, and this was the moment Lancelot had been waiting for.

The mirror-like blade in his hand began to overload, the dormant magic within it surging forth. A deep blue radiance, like lakewater, enveloped the sword.

Saber’s pupils contracted—he knew Lancelot had unleashed the true name of his Noble Phantasm. But there was no way to retreat; Saber poured all his magical energy into a single thrust, aiming for Lancelot’s spiritual core.

“Such ideals are meaningless! If you can’t even understand that, then farewell, my king!”

But Lancelot showed no fear. From the moment he saw King Arthur, his own wish had been resolved, so death was merely the beginning of another atonement.

Saber could not possibly escape this strike.

Yet, true to the one he had served, even now his king did not abandon hope.

“I cannot fail here! If I do not do this, I can never make amends to you!”

The azure sword light crashed down upon Saber. In that world-stilling moment, all the noise around Lancelot seemed to fade into silence.

To make amends to me?

Was that truly the reason he fought? In their clash of life and death, Saber’s resolve shone with perfect clarity.

What he longed to protect was not his own era, but the people who had given everything beneath that kingdom.

Saber believed he had failed in his duty, had not protected them; this foolish man was not wielding his sword to deny himself, but to restore all that had been lost.

Lancelot’s heart wavered. He no longer knew what to do, but his body moved before thought, unconsciously redirecting his strike.

The blade fell, but it did not cleave Saber. Yet the sacred sword, shrouded in air, did not stop.

Silence shattered. Lancelot heard another sound.

The blade drove deeply into his own body; the sacred sword, slick with blood, pierced through his back and impaled his spiritual core.

In the final moments of his life, Lancelot looked at Saber’s ashen face and smiled.

“What a headache you are—even in another world, my king, you always seem to lose your way… Next time you raise your sword, remember why you fight.”

Lancelot’s figure dissolved into spirit particles, but for the first time, he smiled.

“If you still choose to walk this path, then call upon me. If that is truly your decision, no matter who the enemy, I will offer you my sword.”

“Lancelot?” Saber, barely emerging from the shock of what had just occurred, felt his instincts screaming a warning.

The newcomer made no effort to hide his presence. As golden spirit particles gathered, the King of Heroes stood tall atop a tree, gazing down with an appreciative look at the bewildered Saber and the vanishing Berserker.

“I only came because I sensed an old friend’s trace, and stumbled upon such an amusing spectacle. That mad dog aside, it’s a rare sight to see even the wielder of the Sacred Sword playing the clown,” Gilgamesh said with a wicked grin. “What’s with that lifeless expression? If you can entertain this king, then even a farce deserves a brilliant smile. Otherwise, what awaits is not reward, but merciless punishment.”

Saber glanced at the Archer, remaining silent.

Receiving no response, Archer’s words began to sound rather self-indulgent. He narrowed his golden eyes, and ripples of gold shimmered in the air as treasures slowly emerged.

Yet Saber merely tightened his grip on his sword, holding his silence. Suddenly, he lifted his head to peer into the distant woods.

“So you ignore me, Sacred Sword Bearer? Are you so eager to meet your end?”

“He’s looking there because his contract has changed.”

From the shadows beneath the tree, Roland stepped out lightly, raising the Command Seal that extended from his hand to his arm.

“Since Berserker is dead, as compensation, I am now Saber’s Master.”

Roland gave a cold smile, turning to Gilgamesh. “Perfect timing—since you’ve come to me, if you don’t mind, why don’t you go ahead and die?”

This was not the arrogance of a holy man gone mad, but the consequence of something else.

Behind him, the Killer Queen slowly appeared, her powerful and elegant form already covered with cracks scorched by fire, as if she might shatter completely at any moment. Ribbon-like symbols wrapped around her, edges of her flaming skirt armor breaking and reforming in an endless cycle. On her cat-eared, skull-like visage, there was now a hint of solemn sanctity.

After a long slumber, the Killer Queen had finally shed her former traits and was marked entirely by Roland’s presence.

Her appearance was not the result of Roland’s will, but a sign of a new power awakening—like a man with a hammer who sees everything as a nail, eager to strike.

In short, his stand, the Killer Queen,

had gone berserk.