Chapter Seventy-Nine: I Will Correct You!

The fierce wind howled as two figures, moving too swiftly for ordinary eyes to follow, clashed repeatedly, leaving fissures across the ground—webs of cracks spreading like spider silk. Each collision between them stirred violent storms, and Lancelot’s expression, once composed, had evolved into stern solemnity; upon closer inspection, a hint of bewilderment lingered in his gaze.

So strong… My King from another world is so strong!

Though he felt it might diminish Artoria to admit it, Lancelot could not deny that the Saber before him surpassed her in combat. It was not merely a difference in attributes, but in temperament and resolve. Artoria’s flawless kingly path was embodied most vividly in Saber—a blend of kindness and ruthless determination, steadfastness paired with decisiveness. Other than a faint trace of innocence, Saber and the Arthur King from Lancelot’s memories seemed two entirely different beings.

He himself had descended as a Berserker, and though the new Master had offset the loss of his mad enhancement, and his attributes surged upon drawing his Noble Phantasm, he remained outside the Saber class. This strongest class gave its bearer innate advantages, and even with superior technique, whenever Lancelot gained an edge, Saber would swiftly close the gap.

It was not hesitation born from facing someone he must atone to—it was iron fact.

In a flash, Lancelot shot forward, angling his magic sword behind him and thrusting toward Saber, then swung with brutal force. Saber’s skills, honed on countless battlefields, were formidable, yet to Lancelot’s eyes there were gaps; if this strike landed, Saber would be cleaved in two.

But his sword struck only air.

The dazzling blade, shining like sunlight on lake water, met a fierce collision with Saber’s holy sword, bound within a sheath of conceptual restraint. Whirling wind energy surged, forming a pure white storm that could engulf all. Unable to intercept Lancelot’s blow in time, Saber did not twist desperately to respond. Instead, he embraced his retreat, unleashing all his magical power and, with the Wind King’s Barrier, spun his body and sword together.

The blade, spinning at blinding speed, danced mercilessly. The holy sword in Saber’s hand released a gale whose shifting wind direction deflected Lancelot’s attack, and transformed the raging wind into a devastating tornado capable of tearing everything apart.

Once again it was like this. Lancelot reflected inwardly: under such constraints, he should not have been careless, yet faced with this, he could only leap backward.

“Are those who can release magical power all monsters? You’ve erupted several times already, and you’re hardly fatigued.”

This skill occupied a special place; those without it could still be strong, but those who possessed it would never be weak. It appeared to be nothing more than imbuing body and weapon with magical energy, yet in its simplicity lay profundity. The prerequisite for wielding this skill was monstrous physical ability—enough to withstand immense magical output.

When attributes differ, it serves as a technique and compensates for weaknesses. But when both sides are evenly matched, it becomes a decisive tactic to turn the tide.

Saber paused for not a moment, taking a deep breath. His heart, the core of magical power, pumped with searing energy, filling his body and quickly restoring his strength. With Irisviel as his Master, his fighting style had grown much more extravagant.

He gazed at Lancelot, eyes gleaming, and spoke steadily, “Sir Lancelot, you are truly formidable. In the past, I could have dueled you for a whole day. But now, shall we stop?”

Saber continued, calm as ever: “Your skill surpasses mine in blade-to-blade combat, but neither of us can force a result in short order. If we truly wish to decide victory, we must release the true names of our Noble Phantasms.”

“Though your Master has taken my own, it seems from the outcome there is no malice. Thus, I do not wish to fight you to the death at this moment.”

No malice?

Lancelot gave a bitter smile. His dealings with Roland were few, and he felt some gratitude, but he understood that Roland cared not for his or Saber’s life or death. His Master merely wished to witness the clash and its consequences.

To see transformation, to see resolve, to see death.

From that perspective, indeed, there was no malice. In a sense, Roland regarded himself and Saber equally, as if he calmly watched the meat simmer in his own pot.

“My King, though I find such honorable combat between knights exceedingly rare, and perhaps will never come again, I accept a temporary truce, for I too have questions I wish to ask you.”

Lancelot’s voice sounded in Saber’s ear.

“My dream is to die by your sword and receive the punishment I deserve. So, what is the wish that makes you feel regret?”

“I wish to save my homeland, to save Britain.”

Saber spoke with a sorrowful yet resolute voice, declaring his wish.

“……”

Even prepared as he was, the innocence of that wish still shook Lancelot.

“You mean… to deny the history that has continued to this day?”

“I do not wish to do so, but I must save my homeland. To prevent the bloody tragedy from repeating, to stop scenes like hell from occurring, I must act.”

Ah—such a righteous king, a perfect king, the most selfless and noble incarnation of royalty, the ideal monarch all knights aspired to serve, the one for whom Lancelot would willingly kneel and offer his life.

Even after a thousand years, even from another world, such purity still inspired reverence.

Though Lancelot doubted such ideals would yield the correct result, if it was King Arthur’s choice, he would gladly offer his sword.

Because only those who had not seen Britain struggling through death and hardship could fail to understand. The once thriving kingdom, under Arthur’s cold but correct decisions, and under the infamous rumor—“Arthur does not understand the hearts of men”—fell into ruin, suffocating all who witnessed it.

“If the king wishes to begin anew, perhaps that is not so bad…”

Lancelot’s fighting spirit faded, his blade lowered slightly. Rarely faced with such direct agreement, Saber was somewhat surprised and smiled warmly.

“Thank you, Sir Lancelot. If even you approve, then it cannot be wrong. The one who drew that sword truly should not have been me…”

“What did you say?”

Lancelot snapped his head up, a crimson gleam flashing in his eyes. Madness and murderous intent surged from him.

The king who drew the sword should not have been Arthur? What a joke!

Arthur had committed no wrong; the fault lay with sad knights like themselves.

“You dare… you dare to deny all that King Arthur has done!”

The madness which had faded now returned, flooding Lancelot’s body. Though its level was far lower than before, it was enough to show his frenzy.

Britain could begin anew, but the choice of King Arthur must never change.

History might be overturned, but the legend of King Arthur must never be allowed to vanish.

Even if the one who sought to deny this history was Arthur himself, he would never permit it!

As Saber stared in astonishment, Lancelot let out a ferocious roar and charged again.

“A king who does not understand the hearts of men—like you! I will correct you!”