Before them stood a man who appeared youthful but whose melancholic eyes betrayed the weight of countless ages. His demeanor, calm yet laced with profound fatigue, seemed to speak of a lifetime of battles he wished he could forget.
The man's appearance could only be described as "strikingly handsome," but the weariness etched into his features lent him an air of solemnity. His pale white hair accentuated the impression of a soul burdened by exhaustion.
He wore a simple blue coat layered with a pure white cape, his tall, upright posture resembling that of a divine sword.
"Back to this world once again, am I?"
Tilting his head back, the man gazed into the endless expanse of space, exhaling softly. His tone carried the weight of resignation.
To avoid being found, to prevent his awakening, he had chosen to slumber in a place as remote as a satellite orbit.
Yet, here he was, drawn back into the waking world once more.
"Perhaps… this is what they call fate."
Unlike an abstract concept, the man understood that "fate" in this world was a tangible force. After all, he was a chosen hero, one handpicked by fate itself.
And yet, he hated this role—this destiny that had been forced upon him.
"My king… you've finally awakened."
Beside the Last King, Guinevere knelt on one knee, her expression a mixture of reverence and sorrow. Joining her was Lancelot, clad in full armor, who also knelt in silent respect.
Hearing their voices, Rama—the Last King—glanced at them dispassionately. A flash of resentment and killing intent briefly flickered in his gaze.
That momentary wave of murderous intent hit Guinevere like a physical blow, leaving her gasping as if an invisible hand had gripped her heart.
However, the aura of malice disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Guinevere's body, drenched in cold sweat, trembled slightly. A bitter smile formed on her lips.
She had been driven by her obsession for so long, but standing here now, she finally understood—the king she had placed her unwavering faith in never wished to awaken.
In the end, her 1,500 years of devotion… had been nothing more than her own wishful thinking.
Radiating an aura of desolation, the Last King finally spoke, his voice low and weary:
"Though I've grown to loathe this mission… since I've been summoned, I will swiftly exterminate the Campiones on this earth and return to slumber once more."
Guinevere opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but Artoria spoke before she could.
"You don't need to concern yourself with the Campiones."
The Last King's tired expression shifted as he turned his attention to Artoria.
"And you are…?"
From Artoria's presence, the Last King sensed something disturbingly familiar—something he detested.
The unmistakable aura of the Last King.
"You're exhausted, aren't you? Chained by destiny, repeating this tiresome cycle over and over," Artoria said.
The powerful magical energy emanating from her coalesced into a black wind, swirling around her form and causing her skirt armor to flutter. Her sharp, unyielding fighting spirit surged higher and higher, seemingly without limit.
"Then let me free you from this accursed fate."
As those words left Artoria's lips, a faint glimmer of light returned to the Last King's dull, lifeless eyes.
He narrowed his gaze, finally giving Artoria his full attention.
"I see… so you seek to replace me. To become the true Last King."
The Last King's tone was laced with a mixture of bitterness and admiration. "I don't know how you managed it—how you even deceived fate itself to obtain this 'qualification.' But if anyone could do such an impossible thing… I suppose it would be you."
He nodded in acknowledgment before his expression turned serious.
"However, there's one unavoidable condition… You must defeat me and take the divine blade of salvation granted to the true Last King by the gods."
"Of course," Artoria said bluntly, her golden eyes gleaming with a sharp edge. "I've been waiting for the chance to thoroughly pummel you. It's been a long time coming."
"How strange," the Last King murmured, his handsome features tinged with confusion. "This is our first meeting, yet your hatred toward me runs so deep. And yet… I can sense it too. There's an undeniable connection between us."
He cast aside his doubts, his gaze falling on the sword in Artoria's hand. Its radiance and craftsmanship immediately drew his attention.
"You wield a truly exceptional blade… but as it happens, so do I."
The Last King reached out and grasped the divine sword beside him. Its surface shimmered with holy light, and the overwhelming surge of magical energy it emitted made the very air around them tremble.
Despite being on a floating island in orbit, far from the earth's surface, the Last King's power eclipsed even the strongest gods—tenfold.
"Awaken, O divine blade of salvation," the Last King commanded, his voice firm and resolute. "Your slumber has ended. Show the world your true form and sharpen your edge, for your worthy adversary stands before you!"
As he spoke, the air of exhaustion and apathy surrounding him vanished, replaced by an unyielding sharpness that mirrored the blade in his hand.
The divine blade hummed and shone with an intense platinum light, banishing the surrounding darkness as if it were the sun itself.
"You've waited long enough," the Last King said, his piercing gaze locking onto Artoria. His eyes burned with a ferocity that could wound with a glance. "To face a warrior as pure as you, I cannot afford to falter."
"That's more like it," Artoria replied, her own battle spirit unshaken. "If you had stayed in that pitiful state, this fight wouldn't have been worth my time. Facing anything less than your best would be meaningless."
"I see… thank you for your understanding," the Last King said with a wry smile, his demeanor gentlemanly and composed.
Though his figure was lean and lacked the robust build of gods like Heracles or Susanoo, the aura he exuded was unmatched in its majesty.
Without warning, the divine blade's sharpness flared to new heights, its power splitting the space around them like fragile glass.
"Awaken! Sing! O invincible blade of steel, bring me victory!"
From the surface of the Earth, one might look up and see the night sky cleaved in two by a streak of silver light.
Amidst the cold, dark expanse of space, Artoria stood with a solemn expression. A sword mark marred her shoulder armor, the lingering blade energy radiating sharpness even now.
Opposite her, the Last King let out a hearty laugh.
"A beautiful strike!"
His cloak, too, bore a tear from Artoria's attack. Though her blade hadn't touched his body, he couldn't help but admire the brilliance of her strike.
"To meet an opponent who doesn't dodge but faces an attack head-on… such courage is truly unparalleled! That deserves my highest praise!"