"...How did you figure it out?"
Guinevere finally spoke after two seconds of silence.
Mordred had hit the mark—he was planning to stay behind… because he simply didn't have the courage to leave.
No one knew whether the gate would remain open after he exited. And once he stepped through, that shadow would surely chase him into the real world—until one of them died, until that so-called battle of wind and water came to an end.
But Guinevere had no idea how to deal with it. Even the Scarlet Lord in the real world couldn't do a thing against it.
The range of the anti-hope field was simply too vast. If it were the Scarlet Lord in her most despair-ridden state, after losing Bavanzi and wishing only for death, perhaps she would qualify as a "despairing soul." But the current her? No way.
Letting that kind of thing into reality… that would spell the true end of human history.
No matter that it was merely his own shadow—at the end of the day, it was still a remnant of the Old Ones. Ordinary people didn't even need to see it. Just sensing its presence would drive them mad.
And as someone bearing the name of "Savior," wielding the Holy Sword—Guinevere simply couldn't allow that.
So yes, he had never intended to leave.
He planned to have Artoria send everyone else back first—and then, when she let her guard down, he'd kick her through the gate… and stay behind to face the shadow in a final battle.
But what he never expected was that the one who saw through his plan… was Mordred, that seemingly reckless and straightforward knight.
"Because that's what the protagonists in knight stories always do."
And yet, when Guinevere asked how she knew, Mordred gave him an utterly unexpected answer.
"…What?"
He blinked, confused.
"You know," Mordred went on, "when they run into an enemy they can't beat, the protagonist always tricks everyone else into leaving first, then stays behind to cover the retreat. I've read plenty of knight stories where they do just that. So I figured… you must be planning the same thing."
"…I see."
A bitter smile crept across Guinevere's lips, and he shook his head, momentarily at a loss for words.
In a way, Mordred's reasoning was completely off… but she had still landed on the correct conclusion.
"But I'm nothing like the protagonists in those stories."
Watching the monstrous shadow surge toward them like a tidal wave, Guinevere estimated it'd still take a bit to reach them, and couldn't help but mutter.
"You are, though. Totally like them."
To his surprise, Mordred looked him over seriously before replying, "Look at you right now—even with your armor all cracked, you're still glowing. And you're holding a Holy Sword just like Father's. All those knight stories were based on my father's legend, right? So of course you look the part."
"And besides, just like the heroes in those stories I used to admire, you're brave, righteous, unafraid of hardship, and always thinking of your comrades."
But then she paused—and gave him a good-natured scowl.
"Except you're not honest. Always lying to me. I won't even bring up the fake name you used for so long, but back when we first met, you even had the guts to say I'd become a great king someday… I can't believe you said that with a straight face."
"Cough, cough…" Guinevere scratched the back of his head and awkwardly turned away.
"But don't worry," Mordred added, her tone suddenly softer, "no matter how dangerous it gets, the protagonist always pulls through in the end… at least in all the stories I've read. There's always a miracle at the crucial moment."
"…I'm not feeling any miracles right now," Guinevere muttered—but then, something about what she'd just said struck him as off. He turned toward her suddenly, eyes wide in realization.
"...When did you find out?"
"You mean about my future?"
Mordred remained surprisingly calm—no sign of the anger or hysteria he had feared.
"If you're asking when I confirmed it," she said, "then it was when Sis accidentally let it slip that in proper human history, I was killed by my own father—with that Holy Spear, Rhongomyniad."
That idiot Bavanzi…
Guinevere groaned and buried his face in his hands.
But Mordred wasn't done yet.
"If you're asking when I started to suspect it… that was pretty much from the moment we met."
"…What?" Guinevere blinked. "That was when you first arrived here."
"Exactly. Remember how you called me the 'Knight of Rebellion' when we first met?"
She gave him a sharp glance. "That title didn't sound like something anyone would give a proper knight. I even asked you what it meant—but you didn't answer me."
"But I could feel it, you know. That the part of my memories I hadn't regained yet… didn't end well."
"After all, just look at the others in this dream world. Every Servant or Nightmare Avatar has some kind of special ability—and that ability usually ties into their past trauma or fate. But my ability? It's practically useless."
"All it does is send me back to an immature past version of myself. It doesn't strengthen me—if anything, it weakens me. I only get a bit of power back after I die once. Don't you think that's pathetic?"
Staring down at the incoming tide of darkness, Mordred's expression was serene.
"So I thought… maybe I became that way because I hated the end of my life so much. Maybe I just wanted to go back to when it all started. Even though I was naive and clueless back then…"
"…That was still the happiest time of my life. When I looked up to the knights in those storybooks. When I swung my sword and dreamed of being a great knight myself."
"…I'm sorry."
Guinevere sighed.
But Mordred suddenly kicked him.
"What are you apologizing for now? Shouldn't I be the one thanking you?"
"…Huh?"
Guinevere was stunned.
"It's because I met you," she said, grinning brightly, "that I got to experience what those storybook protagonists did. I met real friends, went on a wild journey, and lived something amazing."
She laughed out loud, heartily, slapping Guinevere hard on the shoulder.
And this time, Guinevere didn't flinch from the impact like he usually did.
He just stared at her, stunned—because a terrible premonition was creeping over him.
But Mordred's face held no fear—only a radiant, determined light in her eyes.
"In other words, you helped fulfill my childhood dream."
"Thank you, Master. For giving me such a beautiful time."
"It's because I met you that I found the courage to move forward again… even toward that awful future."
"Because of you, I dared to hope again."
"And because of you, I can finally accept the future that awaits me—even if it's a despairing one."
"In fact, maybe it's because my end is so tragic that I'm able to help you now."
"…And now, it's time for me to fulfill the vow I once made to you."
With those words, she leapt forward—straight off the platform, plunging headlong into the surging tide of darkness below.
"Wait—don't—!"
Guinevere shouted, reaching for her—but Mordred was ready. She swung her sword and slapped his hand away.
"I entrust my sword to you. My honor to you. My life to you."
Her final words still echoed in the air as her figure vanished into the roiling tide.
In that moment, Guinevere felt the bond they shared—the essence of Mordred within their contract—suddenly weaken, nearly to the point of fading away.
But only for a heartbeat.
The very next instant, Mordred's presence surged back—stronger than ever before.
A thunderous boom resounded from below. A bolt of crimson lightning tore apart the tide's surface—and at its heart, Mordred stood with her radiant sword driven into the chest of the Shadow.
She hadn't pierced it deeply—the tip was only barely lodged in before the Shadow grabbed her and held her fast.
But she had wounded it.
"Hah! I knew I could do it!"
Her laughter was cut short by a grunt of pain—the Shadow had driven its other hand straight through her chest.
"Master! What the hell are you waiting for?!"
Blood gushed from her mouth as she screamed with all her might.
"My Spirit Core's destroyed! Use your Command Spells—swap me out, now!!"
"..."
Watching her fight with everything she had, Guinevere sighed inwardly.
He closed his eyes, bit back the sorrow rising in his chest—and when he opened them again, his gaze was steel.
One hand gripped the Grail, pouring mana into Mordred without restraint. The other slowly rose—
The red sigils on the back of his hand flared to life, blazing scarlet:
"…Activating Rune: Overload. Then, by Command Spell…"
[Rune: Overload – Originating from a legendary sage who once gazed upon the forbidden and sought to merge with it, his knowledge became forbidden itself. By expending up to twice the usual mana cost, you may double the intended effect. This also extends to your contracted Servant.]
It was the rune he'd earned from defeating Babbage—capable of empowering both himself and his Servants.
Now, Guinevere chose to invoke it, unleashing all three of his Command Spells in one go.
"First Command Spell: Defeat the Shadow of the Old Ones."
"Second Command Spell: Bring me victory."
"Third Command Spell…"
He hesitated.
"…Let us meet again. Alive."
"Got it!!"
With her grip tight on her radiant sword, feeling the endless torrent of mana surging through their bond, Mordred laughed joyously:
"Knight Mordred shall fulfill your command, Master!"
She turned her gaze once more to the Shadow before her.
The brilliant sword that had only barely pierced its chest now crackled with lightning—and suddenly, as if awakened, its blade lit up with blinding light.
"—I am no king, only one who follows in my father's path. For the peace of my lord, I shall expel all foes!"
With a roar, Mordred unleashed her Noble Phantasm:
"—Clarent Blood Arthur: Rebellion Against My Glorious Father!"
Red lightning crashed down from the heavens, slamming into the vortex of tide and darkness—into the blade in her hands.
Lightning danced along the sword, blasting the Shadow's grip apart.
And then, without resistance, the crimson King's Sword ran it through completely.
From the blade burst a flood of dark red radiance—similar in hue to the Shadow's, but utterly opposite in essence.
It howled as it tore through the monstrous form, unraveling it from within.
Red light roared, obliterating everything in its path.
Lightning shattered the tide. Radiance dissolved the shadow.
A deluge of mana rained down from the skies, piercing the upward-churning tide, the misty sky-bridge, and even the fathomless depths of Lake Hali. It smashed through the submerged, alien city of stone below—and still it surged downward.
This reckless, unrelenting force of destruction was just like its master—brilliant and brief, but blazing with unmatched intensity.
When the light finally faded—
Between heaven and earth, nothing remained.
No shadow.
No tide.
No trace of the Knight of Rebellion.
As if everything had been nothing but a fleeting dream.