The surroundings changed—gone was the grand throne room of Camelot. Instead, everyone found themselves standing in a desert: sand shifting under their feet, wind warm against their skin.
And the scent of blood was strong in the air.
Steve looked around, shocked, unused to such magical displays. "Where are we?"
"That city," I said, pointing toward a distant skyline, "is the holy city—Jerusalem. And this"—I pointed to the countless dead bodies surrounding us, their blood staining the sand red—"is the last grand Crusade."
Steve turned slowly, taking in the bodies scattered across the dunes. Soldiers in rusted mail. Civilians in torn robes. Men, women, children. Some bore the marks of blades, others arrows.
"This isn't…" he began, then stopped. His jaw tightened. "Why are you showing us the Crusades?"
"This isn't just any crusade," I said. "This is the last one."
I looked away from the city in the distance and instead looked up.
There was a sight I had seen only once—alien to the sky, beautiful, and baleful.
"Behold, Steve Rogers," I said, gesturing toward the heavens. "Behold the end of the world."
Not just Steve, but all my knights looked up, and there they saw it: a vast ring of light—mysterious, enchanting, deadly.
To the naked eye, it was beautiful. But to me—to a Divine Spirit—it was something else entirely.
It was Goetia's ring of light. The burning of humanity into pure fuel. Human potential—what could be, would be, had been. And now, never would be.
Humanity distilled into raw power.
Billions upon billions of bands of light, each a human, and now only a fixture in the sky.
"The end of the world?" Steve asked, clearly confused.
"Pity." A single word—its meaning indescribable to anyone who didn't know, didn't understand.
He wasn't able to ask about it before another voice filled the desert.
"Light, may you be released from the ends of the world. Split the heavens and tether the earth—anchor of the storm! Rhongomyniad!"
A voice—my own—thundered.
Everyone turned their heads toward the source, and there I was: astride my dun stallion, my lance held up high.
In the next moment, a pillar of light descended upon Jerusalem.
Yet as the light fell, another golden radiance appeared within the city—streaking out from its heart and toward the east.
I could see what it was. Tristan could as well. But beyond that… none saw the truth. None saw the secret battle between the King of Storms and the Sun King.
"Your Majesty!" Sir Galahad couldn't help but exclaim as he watched the holy city reduced to dust. He was, after all, the most devout of my knights—also known as the Knight of Heaven.
I did not answer him. He wouldn't understand. After all, Galahad hadn't been among those who sided with me in this Singularity.
As we stood there, the fighting between the crusaders of the north and the people of Jerusalem came to an end; the city they fought over was no more.
Instead, the white city of Camelot rose in its place—brilliant walls shining in the desert.
"What is this?" Steve asked again, voice tight.
"This is important. This is history. This is one possibility, and it is a lesson." I looked at him. "Now watch. Witness. Learn the mind of a god."
I shifted the illusion.
This time, we appeared inside the throne room—and if not for there being two of me, they might have believed the illusion had ended.
I said nothing. I only watched as my other self used the holy lance, Rhongomyniad, to summon her knights—my knights.
The other me stood before the throne.
Not a copy, not an echo—but the king I had been. The pure and true Goddess Rhongomyniad.
The holy lance was planted before her, its light anchoring the world itself—a pillar holding reality in place against collapse. The air thrummed with power as my knights answered the summons, one by one, materializing in flashes of light and steel.
Sir Gawain, radiant beneath the sun.
Sir Tristan, eyes distant, harp silent.
Sir Lancelot—silent, burdened, resolute.
All of them—all but one.
Bedivere did not appear. He wasn't yet on the Throne of Heroes; he was still with Merlin in Avalon.
Steve's breath caught. "You summoned… all of them."
"Yes," I said quietly. "Because the world was ending."
Illusion-Arthuria raised her voice, and the throne room fell silent.
"Hear me, Knights of the Round Table. Humanity has reached its end. The incineration of human history has begun."
A ripple passed through the assembled knights—disbelief, horror, denial.
"The world cannot be saved," she continued, voice steady. "But humanity can be preserved."
Steve turned toward me sharply. "Preserved how?"
I didn't answer yet.
In the illusion, Sir Galahad stepped forward at once, kneeling without hesitation.
"My king," he said, voice unwavering, "I will follow you—always."
More joined him. Even Mordred—the Knight of Rebellion, who had caused my fall at Camlann—knelt.
Others didn't move.
Sir Gawain was the first after Galahad—radiant, resolute, his faith in his king unshaken even as the world itself burned.
Sir Tristan followed next, expression hollow, fingers tightening around the neck of his harp as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reason.
Sir Lancelot knelt without a word, head bowed, shoulders heavy with guilt and duty alike. He did not look at me—he never did—but his loyalty was absolute, forged from regret rather than faith.
Then Mordred stepped forward.
Steve stiffened as the Knight of Rebellion moved, armor clanking, helm tilted slightly upward as she looked upon her king.
"My king," she said, voice rough, uncertain—and yet sincere. "If this world is ending… then let it end by your hand. I won't run from that."
She knelt.
Agravain was the last.
He did not hesitate. He did not speak. He simply went to one knee, fist pressed to his chest, eyes burning with something close to reverence.
These five.
Only these five.
The rest of the Round Table stood frozen.
Sir Galahad rose slowly, horror dawning in his eyes as he looked upon the kneeling knights.
"This is wrong," he said, voice trembling. "This is not salvation. This is judgment."
Illusion-Arthuria regarded him calmly.
"I am beyond judgment," she replied.
Galahad shook his head. "You are abandoning humanity."
"No," she answered. "I am preserving what is worthy of it."
Steel rang.
Not in attack—but in refusal.
Sir Galahad drew his sword and stepped back.
Others followed him.
Knights who had fought dragons, giants, and kings now found themselves facing something far worse.
Their god.
Steve's voice was barely above a whisper. "They're going to fight her."
"Yes," I said quietly.
And I felt it immediately—the shift in my current knights, those who watched beside me, those who had no memories of this event. Their loyalty was being tested, and some could not follow their king into madness.
To those who did, it was betrayal.
To the others… it was just as shocking to see their king so cold, so inhuman—and to witness themselves turn against her.
The battle that followed was swift.
Not because the dissenting knights were weak, but because I was strong—and their conviction was not.
They knew they were dead. They knew they had no right to judge, to act, and many hesitated. It was one thing to disobey their king—another to strike.
My other self had no such hesitation. She was beyond such a concept—too divine, not enough human left.
When it was over, only the five remained standing before the throne.
Steve was shaking.
"You… you killed them," he said.
"No," I corrected gently. "I sent them back to the Throne."
The illusion shifted.
The gates of Camelot opened.
Beyond them stood humanity.
Not armies.
Not kings.
People.
The sick.
The faithful.
The terrified.
And out came the sun itself.
Sir Gawain walked out of the gate, followed by the Enforcement Knights in gleaming steel. And with Gawain came the light of noon.
His very presence turned night to day.
"Today," the Gawain of the Sun announced, "is a day of holy selection, where you will be judged before the King of Storms. Those souls found pure—found worthy—shall be allowed into Camelot."
Next, my other self arrived atop the wall, and light poured forth from Rhongomyniad, washing over them in slow, inexorable waves.
Some glowed in response.
Gawain, with a gentle smile, congratulated them—and under escort of the Enforcement Knights, they were taken into the city.
The rest—the vast majority—were left behind.
Thousands of men, women, and children, surrounded by the gleaming steel of my knights.
Gawain of the Sun turned to them, sadness on his face. "For the rest of you, I can't offer salvation. But fear not—our merciful king has decided to grant you mercy."
He drew his blade.
Gawain did not wait for screams.
He stepped forward and struck.
The first man barely had time to look up before the blade passed through him—not clean, not gentle. Steel tore through flesh and bone alike, dropping him into the sand in two pieces.
The scream that followed was not singular.
It was thousands.
The Enforcement Knights moved as one.
They did not chase.
They did not hesitate.
They advanced.
Swords rose and fell in methodical arcs, cutting down the gathered mass without discrimination. Men tried to shield their children. Mothers clutched infants to their chests. Some fell to their knees, praying—not to God, but to the king they could see upon the walls.
It did not save them.
Gawain's blade burned brighter with every strike, the sun itself answering his will. Bodies were cleaved apart, cauterized edges steaming in the desert air. Blood soaked into the sand until it could drink no more.
Steve staggered backward.
"This—this isn't mercy!" he shouted, voice cracking as a woman was cut down mid-scream, her child tumbling from her arms only to be trampled beneath armored boots.
"It is," I said calmly.
He turned on me, eyes wild. "You're slaughtering them!"
"Yes," I replied. "Quickly."
The illusion did not spare him the sound.
Steel biting into bone.
The wet, choking gasps of the dying.
The desperate prayers that went unanswered.
Some tried to flee.
They did not get far.
Tristan's arrows cut them down from the walls, each shaft piercing clean through backs and throats alike. Mordred waded into the crowd, teeth bared, screaming not in rage—but in anguish—her blade hacking through bodies as if trying to outrun the guilt clawing at her heart.
Agravain was worst of all.
He did not shout.
He did not sneer.
He executed.
One after another, he ended lives with the precision of a man convinced this was not only necessary—but righteous.
Steve fell to his knees.
"They're innocent," he whispered.
"No," I corrected. "They are human."
The killing did not stop until the desert was silent.
Not peaceful.
Silent.
The sand was no longer gold, but blackened red—thick with blood and ash. Bodies lay piled where they had fallen, limbs twisted, faces frozen in terror or disbelief.
Gawain lowered his blade at last.
His shoulders sagged.
"For those souls," he said quietly, voice heavy, "suffering has ended."
Steve looked up at me, tears streaking down his face.
"You call that mercy?" he demanded.
I met his gaze without flinching.
"They were going to die," I said. "Every last one of them. Burned into fuel. Screaming as their very existence was consumed."
I gestured toward the sky, where Goetia's ring still blazed.
"This," I continued, "was faster."
Steve's hands trembled.
"They didn't choose this."
"Neither did the world," I answered.
I turned back to the illusion—to Camelot standing pristine behind its sealed gates, filled only with those deemed worthy.
"This is what love looks like," I said quietly, "when hope is no longer an option."
I looked down at him.
"When a god decides that saving everyone is impossible… so He saves what He can."
The illusion began to dissolve, blood-soaked sand fading back into marble and gold.
Steve did not rise.
And I knew then that he finally understood.
Not that gods are evil.
But that mercy, in divine hands, is something humanity was never meant to witness.
(End of chapter)
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