Chapter Seventy-Four: Public Execution

“It's him again! Master, get back!”
Seeing Berserker’s determined, relentless manner and that inexplicable sense he gave off, Saber couldn’t help but feel a stir of vexation.
Without hesitation, he raised his invisible holy sword and slashed fiercely toward Berserker, his mind already deducing his opponent’s next move—would he sidestep and counter, or retreat first, seize a suitable weapon with that strange Noble Phantasm, and then engage in a contest of swordsmanship?
And then—

Berserker, violent and frenzied, as if repeating a well-worn ritual, stretched out both hands and, with a fluid motion, caught the invisible blade between his palms.
“He caught it—can he actually see it?”

This was Saber’s most reliable tactic. Although it only ranked at a modest C-level, thanks to the concealment of the Wind King’s Barrier, he always gained the upper hand in any initial clash, regardless of his opponent’s skill, by exploiting their uncertainty about his weapon’s reach.

But it failed here against Berserker.

Setting aside all those ludicrous theories, a fact that Saber had unconsciously ignored now stood exposed before him.

Berserker knew the length of his holy sword. He was familiar with his fighting style. He harbored a deep-seated obsession with Saber.

“Who are you, truly? If you still cherish your honor as a knight, declare yourself and face me!”

Upon witnessing this, Roland pressed his lips together, but even then, he couldn’t suppress the smile on his face.

Meanwhile, Caster, who had already been briefed on the situation, let out an involuntary sigh. Having learned of Berserker’s origins and the tangled enmity between him and Saber, she understood all too well how this would unfold.

What a mischievous Master, she grumbled inwardly, though she nonetheless obediently raised her staff. From its tip, a shimmering mist was born, coalescing into a tangible stream of light that struck Berserker.

The Berserker class was one without taboos. In theory, any servant could fill this role, but those with legends of madness or lost reason would find it easier to reach higher levels of Berserk, gaining increased power.

After seizing the contract with Lancelot, Roland realized that, despite his seeming inability to even speak due to madness, Lancelot’s Berserk rank was only C. He could still maintain the obsessions he held in life. That savage exterior was but an outward shell over his noble soul.

Thus, Roland conceived a bold idea.

Essentially, the Berserk state was a corrective measure, imposed through command spells, to compensate for the gap in attributes due to the Master’s quality, treating the Servant as a mere familiar.

Once the class vessel was forged and the Heroic Spirit descended as a Berserker, this condition was no longer strictly necessary. In that case, could one artificially remove this acquired madness?

Upon consulting Medea, she affirmed it could be done. However, unlike exploiting a loophole in the Grail system, this required a very specific kind of power.

Fortunately, she possessed just that.

It was the Noble Phantasm she had before becoming the Witch of Betrayal, a healing relic corresponding to the All-Purpose Breaker she wielded as Caster when she was still a pure-hearted Lily.

It could nullify all curses and magical harm—
—the Panacea of All Flaws.

The moment the stream of light touched him, the black mist that shrouded Berserker began to boil, then gradually dissipated, revealing ornate armor beneath.

Just as Roland expected, though the madness was dispelled, Berserker at last revealed his true form.

The shadowy, ominous exterior shattered completely, unveiling splendid armor that radiated dignity. Even under the pale moonlight, the armor’s luster gleamed, enhancing his imposing presence. The body that had hunched like a beast now stood straight, while the twisted, menacing face beneath the helmet transformed into a beauty that could stir the hearts of countless women.

Though history would later brand him a mad dog, in the past, he had been lauded and trusted as the foremost knight of the Round Table.

In any era, the name Lancelot was never one to be taken lightly.

Reason triumphed over madness, his mind gradually returning—this would be a moment of joy for any Heroic Spirit with a knight’s code.

But not now.

Even as the last wisps of darkness faded, that brilliant and sacred form was one he could never forget.

Even if the gender was now entirely different, the burden he witnessed borne beneath that holy sword was one he could never lay down.

There could be no mistake, no matter how different the appearance, even if from another world. This was unmistakably the king to whom he had sworn his loyalty.

But—why was he a man?

Lancelot felt as if he might split apart. If there were a hole in the ground, he would have gladly crawled into it.

If it had been the king as he knew her, he would have begged forgiveness, faced her in battle, and accepted execution without complaint.

But to do any of this before a male King Arthur—this spectacle was a blow to Lancelot’s pride, almost too much to bear.

What in the world did my counterpart do in that other world?

Though he had regained his reason, Lancelot had no desire to step from the mist, his last shred of dignity. But his mischievous Master prodded him with a voice full of mockery:

“Hurry up, Berserker. I give you leave—state your name. Your opponent is none other than the famed King Arthur. To fight him can only add to your glory.”

Glory? This public shaming will be the end of my honor, he thought, his face clouded with distress at his new, eccentric Master.

Yet Saber, oblivious, added fuel to the fire.

“Indeed. If you still dare to challenge me, then admit it—no matter which enemy I’ve faced in the past you may be, here and now, we are simply knights fighting for our Masters, for our goals!”

Even the Old Sword was startled when Caster attacked her own side. His intuition prickled as if he’d been struck by lightning, making him all the more curious about the enemy’s identity.

Hearing that dignified, familiar tone, Lancelot could not help but feel a pang of emotion. Knights fighting for their purpose…

Indeed, he had already died in history. Now, as a servant, he should cast aside his old allegiances, not as a Knight of the Round Table, but as Lancelot, to face him.

Just as he would face the true King of Knights—not with the madness of before, but openly, honorably.

“Hard as it is to admit, this is but the consequence of my own youthful pride.”

As the mist thinned, Berserker’s clear and resolute, yet complex voice rang through the forest.

“As you wish… Lancelot du Lac, First Knight of the Round Table of Britain, accepts your challenge!”