The dawn in Camelot was as blinding as a death sentence.
White towers rose above the golden sands, reflecting the light so brightly that the entire city seemed carved from the sun itself. Dust trembled in the air like sacred smoke, and the wind, blowing through arches and bridges, sounded like a temple organ. But this light was cold. It didn't warm—it emphasized order.
In the heart of the citadel, on the terrace where prayers once sounded, she stood.
Arturia Pendragon is the King of Camelot. But no longer human. No longer a ruler of flesh and blood, but something greater and more terrible—a goddess bearing Rhongonimiad, the spear of the end of the world.
Her gaze was clear as polished steel; there was no trace of doubt or pity in it. Only a cold will, holding the fabric of this world together.
Before her, on the stone slabs, a summoning circle glowed—enormous, woven from magical seals, ancient runes, and sacred symbols borrowed from a time when the sun itself was a god. The sand trembled around her, and the air rang, as if at breaking point—in this silence, even her own breath seemed sacrilegious.
Arturia raised her hand. Her voice sounded as calm as a law:
"I call upon all Knights of the Round Table. All who have sworn to serve Camelot. All whose names are forever inscribed in legend. Rise from the sands of time. Fulfill the will of the King."
The words were reflected in the stone, echoed in the sky, passed through the earth and returned as a response from the ancient spirits.
The circle flashed with a blinding light - white as the blade of Excalibur.
From the radiance, as if from the depths of a dream, figures began to emerge.
The first to appear was Gawain, the Knight of the Sun. His armor shone golden, reflecting the light of dawn; his eyes gleamed with unwavering faith. He knelt on one knee, but even in that movement there was a sense of power—one who might have been the sun himself, had he not bowed before its incarnation.
Tristan followed him, his face sad and his hand on the strings of his harp. His eyes, filled with sorrow, seemed to have already seen what was to come. A musician and a warrior, he always came to the place where the last chord sounded.
Agravaine, the loyal advisor, appeared without pomp. His armor was dark, his face marble-stern. He neither swore nor prayed—he simply bowed his head, acknowledging Arturia's authority as one acknowledges the inevitability of law.
Lancelot appeared next, the light around him seeming to waver—a knight whose honor was both a blessing and a curse. His armor, scorched by the flames of shame and glory, shimmered in the morning haze. He didn't dare look directly at his king.
A swirl of scarlet light erupted next to him, and Mordred stepped forward. She didn't kneel, but merely grinned, gripping the hilt of her sword, Clarent.
"Well then," she said, "it's all over again, mother?"
Arturia didn't answer. Only the slight movement of her eyelashes betrayed her irritation, which quickly disappeared beneath a veneer of indifference.
They came one after another, like an echo of a great past, until the circle was filled with all who had once made up the glory of Camelot.
When the last of them took shape, the circle closed - the light shrank to a point and disappeared.
For a moment, silence reigned. Only the desert wind howled beyond the walls, as if reminding everyone that beyond this city there was nothing but silence and sand.
Arturia lowered her hand.
"The circle is assembled," she said. "Camelot is full again."
The words were majestic, but there was no joy in them. It was a fact, nothing more.
The knights standing before her exchanged glances. Their gazes were a mixture of respect, doubt, and fear. Each of them understood: their king had changed. This was no longer Artoria, who had led them under the green sky of Britannia. This was the goddess of light, bearing the Rhongonimiad, an ideal devoid of compassion.
The silence lasted a long time. Only Agravaine's footsteps broke it—he came closer and bowed.
" Your order, my king?"
Arturia looked at the circle of knights. Her gaze reflected the dawn—not a living one, but scorched, cold, artificial.
"The world outside Camelot is lost," she said. "The light is gone, faith is extinguished. We are the last to maintain order. Here, in this fortress, we will build the Kingdom of God."
Gawain knelt again, solemnly.
" Your will be done, King."
Mordred chuckled, Tristan looked down, Lancelot didn't say a word.
And only Agravaine answered firmly, as always:
" For this, Camelot must be cleansed."
Arturia nodded.
"Then let's begin."
And over the walls of Camelot the first ringing of steel arose - a ringing that began a new chapter of the legend.
The sun rose higher and higher, and its light fell on the knights' armor as if on golden coffins.
The silence that followed the summons didn't last long. It wasn't peace, but a taut string—one touch would snap it.
Camelot glowed—not with life, but with heat. The sunlight reflected off the white towers made the air almost unbearable. On the parade ground where the knights had gathered, the sand seemed like glass; every step echoed with a ringing sound, as if the world were on the verge of cracking.
Arturia stood on the dais, motionless as a statue. Her gaze swept over the faces of the knights—from Gawain to Mordred, from Lancelot to Agravain.
There was still a glimmer of humanity in them. In her, there was none.
"King," Gawain spoke first, "we are ready to fulfill any will. But tell me... if the entire world perished beyond the walls of Camelot, for whom are we building a new order? For the light, or for the light itself?"
His voice was calm, but there was doubt behind it. Doubt that Arturia did not want.
"For the sake of order," she answered coldly. "Light is not a gift. It is the law. The law needs no justification."
Gawain lowered his eyes but did not bow.
Beside him, Tristan shook his head, his fingers barely touching the strings of the harp.
"A law without a heart is dead, my king. You seek to resurrect the world, but all I hear is silence."
"Silence is perfection," Arturia snapped.
"Perfection?" Mordred interjected, smirking. "Well, yes, now I understand why I can't smell blood in this 'paradise.' Camelot is a city of the dead."
"Shut up, Mordred," Agravaine hissed. "You're not worthy of speaking to the king."
"Are you worthy?" she snapped. "Or are you just too cowardly to admit we were used as toys?"
Agravaine straightened, his eyes narrowing.
"I serve not out of love, but out of duty. It's a distinction you won't understand."
"And I am by blood!" she cried, pulling her sword from its sheath. "And if my mother has turned into a monster, I want to see it with my own eyes!"
A flash of light from the Clarent's blade illuminated the parade ground.
Gawain raised his sword, standing between them.
"Enough!" His voice was like a bell. "This is a sacred place. We are Knights of the Round Table, not savages!"
But it was too late.
Lancelot took a step forward—not toward anyone, but simply because he couldn't help himself. His eyes glowed beneath his helmet.
"If our king has become a god, and we are a shadow, then let the sword decide who is worthy of remaining."
"Well said," Tristan muttered. "But you don't understand, Lancelot: there's no chord in this song that can set everything right."
And the next second the air exploded with the ringing of steel.
Mordred was the first to charge, her blade cleaving the sand, raising a hot cloud. Gawain parried the blow, the sun glinting off his sword so fiercely that the very air trembled. Their blades met with a crash, like stars colliding.
Lancelot attacked both Agravain and Tristan at once. His movements were flawless, precise, and devoid of passion. Each blow was like a prayer spoken without faith.
Agravaine held the line, cold and calculating, like a lawman. Tristan dodged the blows as if in a dance, his harp ringing as if every movement were accompanied by notes of despair.
The sand rising around them turned the battle into a chaos of light and shadow.
The sun was blinding, the armor was ringing, the voices were drowned out by the roar of steel.
"Mordred!" Gawain blocked another of her blows. "Stop! This is madness!"
"It's madness to worship a dead sun!" she cried, throwing him back.
Her blade described an arc, but at that moment a light struck from behind her.
Gawain, activating the sun's blessing, parried the blow, his armor glowing, and Mordred was momentarily blinded. But her fury didn't fade—in fact, it flared even more intensely.
Lancelot, meanwhile, had broken through to the center, his sword covered in blood and sand.
He met Arturia's gaze. And he realized she wouldn't interfere. She was watching. Testing.
"So that's what you wanted," he whispered. "You wanted us to destroy each other?"
There was no answer. Only the cold light of her spear, quietly glowing in her hands.
Lancelot screamed, not from anger, but from pain that had accumulated over the years.
He lunged forward, and their blades clashed, sparks blinding everyone around.
The world seemed to stand still: only sand, light and two ideals - the king and the knight, once one.
But Arturia did not hit back.
She simply raised her hand. And a stream of light emanating from Rongonimiad passed across the field like the breath of God.
He didn't kill—he stopped. He absorbed movement, deprived one of will.
One by one, the knights froze. Mordred sank to one knee, breathing heavily; Gawain covered his face with his hand; Tristan remained silent, his harp ringing with the heat; Agravain stood, gritting his teeth, but not lowering his sword.
Lancelot, the only one still resisting, froze, staring at the king - and lowered his blade.
"Enough," said Arturia. "Those who fail to submit to order will be erased."
Her voice was calm, but it exuded a power that made the heart clench.
Among the many summoned, only five now stood.
The rest disappeared, dispersed, as if their names had been erased from the legend.
The sand settled. The wind died down.
The world became quiet again.
Gawain lowered his head.
"So this is our new Camelot... Empty."
Mordred laughed hoarsely.
" But it's clean, just like you wanted, mother."
Arturia didn't answer. She stood amid the ash and light, motionless as a statue.
Behind her, in the cold shadow, there was a wisp of air in which something new was being born—barely perceptible, but ominous.
What was to come next.
***
The sun rose again over Camelot, and its light seemed painfully bright. The sand near the walls heated to a white heat, and the air trembled, as if the very earth could not bear the weight of the light. After their internal conflict, the knights were exhausted—not only in body but also in spirit. The silence now rang louder than steel, and footsteps echoed in every tower.
Artoria stood in the square before the temple. Her armor reflected the light so that she seemed woven from gold and ice. But her eyes remained cold, like bottomless wells. Beside her stood five: Gawain, Lancelot, Mordred, Tristan, and Agravain. All were wounded, but they stood straight, as if fear and fatigue no longer existed for them.
Arturia spoke quietly, and this only made her words sound stronger:
"Five knights remain at the throne. Five faithful, who did not waver before the test. But a new storm is coming. Those who rejected order are gathering again. Their faith is twisted, but strong."
She looked at the horizon - there, beyond the dunes, the black banners of the rebels were slowly rising.
"The flames of rebellion cannot be extinguished by light alone. Sometimes something else is needed to stop chaos."
Gawain frowned.
"Otherwise, my lady? We are strong enough. If necessary, I alone can hold back their onslaught."
Arturia looked at him with a slight hint of regret—barely noticeable, almost human.
"No, Gawain. They cannot be held back by sword alone. The world is crumbling not from weakness, but from the abyss that opens within. To maintain order, we must call upon one who understands the very nature of this abyss."
Agravaine leaned forward slightly:
"Another servant, my king?"
"Not just a servant," Arturia said. "A guardian of the void."
Mordred crossed her arms with a smirk.
"Sounds like something out of a fairy tale," she snorted. "Tell me next, we'll call the devil himself to wipe the dust off."
"If this will bring order," Arturia answered coldly, "I will call the devil."
At that moment, the ground beneath their feet shook. The air darkened, and a new circle flared in the sand before Arturia—intricate, like glass carving. The symbols shifted, as if flowing, intertwining and forming a shape that none of those present could describe in words.
Tristan said quietly, almost in a whisper:
"This isn't magic as I know it. There's no music in it... only silence."
Arturia stepped forward and raised her spear. Its light reflected the sky—cloudless, yet strangely dead.
"Saber-class servant," she said. "I, the King of Camelot, call you. Though your name be lost, though your history be forgotten—rise. Come from the darkness, where neither light nor darkness dwell."
Gawain took a step back, feeling a chill run down his spine. Lancelot gripped his sword hilt tighter, sensing the absence of the familiar mana in the air—instead, a void.
Mordred narrowed her eyes.
" What are you doing, mother..."
"I am fulfilling the will of the throne," Arturia answered.
The flash of light didn't blind me—in fact, it seemed to suck all the color from the world. In the place of the circle stood a figure. Tall compared to the others, but it exuded a sense of abyss.
White hair, light as ash. A mask on her face, smooth and featureless. No eyes, no mouth, only empty slits that reflect the light like a dead mirror. Light armor, darker than night, covers her body; a thin cloak the color of a deep blue drapes over her back, moving as if blown by an invisible wind.
He stood straight, his head held high, and the silence around him became thick and viscous. Even the sand stopped moving.
"Who are you?" Lancelot asked, stepping forward.
There was no response.
Mordred chuckled.
"Maybe he's mute? Or maybe he just doesn't want to talk to us sinners."
Tristan ran his finger along the strings, but there was no sound—the strings rang out like a silent echo, as if the air itself did not want to sing.
"He's not part of this world," he whispered. "His silence speaks louder than any answer."
Arturia lowered her spear and said quietly but with authority:
"He has no name. Let him be called the Ghost. From now on, he is my sword. Saber."
The figure bowed its head slightly. It wasn't submissive, but rather an act of recognition.
Agravaine crossed his arms.
"I don't feel any mana from him. Just cold."
"It's not mana," Arturia replied. "It's power born where even the gods fear to look."
Gawain took a cautious step forward, examining the new servant.
"He's not like us," he said. "He has no pride. No rage. He's... empty."
"That's precisely why it's needed," Arturia replied. "The Void knows no doubt."
Lancelot frowned.
"But emptiness knows no honor."
Arturia turned to him, and for the first time a steely note of irritation sounded in her voice:
" Honor won't hold up walls. Order will."
Silence once again enveloped the courtyard. The sand stopped trembling, the circle faded, and only a faint glow emanated from the Ghost—not light, but a reflection of light. He didn't move. Only the wind brushed across his cloak, as if checking to see if he was even alive.
Mordred turned to Lancelot, chuckling:
"Well, at least he doesn't argue. Maybe for the first time we'll have someone who just does what they tell him."
Tristan sighed.
"Those who don't speak still hear. And silence is sometimes more frightening than screaming."
Arturia raised her spear and said:
"He will fight for Camelot. From now on, for order."
She glanced around at her knights.
"But remember: even light can burn. And even darkness can serve the crown."
The ghost slowly turned to face her. For a moment, the slits of his mask seemed to glow faintly—not with light, but with the reflection of a fire burning somewhere deep within. He didn't nod, didn't speak, but everyone present felt it: he heard. And accepted.
At that moment, the wind died down, and Camelot seemed to exhale. The appearance of a new warrior completed the ritual, but brought with it not relief, but a premonition—as if it were not the sun that was looking down upon the city from the heavens, but the eye of something silent and eternal.
***
The sand at the foot of Camelot heaved like a sea in a wind. The hot air shimmered, and the haze made the Crusader armies seem endless. Their armor glittered, their shields reflected the sun, and their banners, bearing the cross, stretched toward the sky, as if trying to pierce the clouds.
The roar of footsteps and the clang of weapons grew louder. The cries of fanatics echoed over the army—they called for "purity of light" and "holy retribution."
The knights gathered on the walls of Camelot. Gawain, standing next to Arturia, gazed at the horizon. His sword, shining in the sun, was already raised.
"There are too many of them," he said. "Even if we all get out, the numbers are not in our favor."
"We won't rely on numbers," Arturia replied calmly. Her voice didn't waver, though even the stones beneath her feet sensed the approaching storm. "Today, strength will decide."
The Ghost stood among the knights. Motionless, like a statue. The sand didn't touch his cloak, no shadow lingered on his face. Only the faint shimmer of his mask betrayed his life.
Mordred stepped towards Arturia, holding the helmet under her arm.
"So this is your new trump card, huh?" she asked with a hint of alarm in her mockery. "A silent killer against an entire army?"
"Sometimes one sword means more than a thousand," Arturia replied. "Saber, move forward."
The ghost moved forward silently, his footsteps leaving no trace. He crossed the gates of Camelot, descended the steps, and stopped on the plain, between the two armies.
The crusaders laughed when they saw him.
"Alone?!" their captain shouted, raising his spear. "They're sending one against us!"
The ghost did not answer.
He raised his sword—a thin blade like a fragment of a star. The steel trembled, but not from the wind: it rang, as if responding to something invisible.
The first rank of crusaders rushed forward. Sand rose in the air. The ghost did not move until the spears were close. Then—the blow.
With one swing he cut through the air.
The spears crumbled to dust. The men froze, their armor cracking from the impact, as if something within them had been driven out of existence.
"What the..." the captain didn't have time to finish before the Ghost rushed forward.
He moved unnaturally fast. Each movement was short and precise, as if time between strikes didn't exist. His sword left behind thin trails of light that never faded, but instead transformed into ghostly lines—Soul Spells.
With each swing, a stream of energy—Vengeful Spirit—erupted from the blade. Blue flashes seared through the air, shattering armor, burning through stone and flesh.
Next comes Shade Soul, a strike in which shadow and flame mingle into a single breath of emptiness.
The Crusaders fell, not understanding who they were fighting. Their cries were lost in the roar of the wind.
On the walls of Camelot, the knights watched in silence.
Mordred whistled.
" Yeah, now it's clear why he doesn't talk. He doesn't need to."
"His style..." Lancelot spoke slowly, carefully watching the Ghost's every move. "It's not fencing. It's instinct. The pure will to survive."
Tristan looked down.
"I don't hear a sound in his battles. No soul, no heart. Only... an echo."
Arturia didn't look away, her eyes reflecting the battle like a mirror.
"That's the power of the void," she said. "Silent and inescapable."
But with each passing minute, more and more crusaders rose up. Their numbers grew. And though the ground was strewn with bodies, the army still advanced, like an endless stream of light.
The ghost stopped. His sword still glowed, but less brightly.
He slowly turned his head toward the sky. A thin crack ran across his mask—not a physical one, but as if a light from within was trying to break through.
Gawain was the first to notice.
" What is he doing?.."
Saber lowered his sword into the sand. A dull sound echoed—not the clang of metal, but something else, as if from the depths of the world. The ground shook. Something black emerged from the cracks beneath their feet.
Emptiness.
It didn't flow, it didn't burn. It simply was. The sea of shadows began to spread, rising like the breath of a giant.
The Crusaders stopped. Some fell to their knees, feeling their bodies lose weight and their souls lose their connection to their bodies.
Arturia said quietly, without looking away:
"It has begun."
The ghost raised his hand. The Sea of Emptiness responded. Silhouettes rose from it—faceless, bodyless, reflections of people who were no longer there. They moved forward like a wave, passing through the crusaders.
Those touched by the shadow instantly collapsed. Not from wounds, but from disappearance. Their armor fell away as if there was nothing inside.
"Holy... light..." the captain of the crusaders breathed out before dissolving into a black whirlwind.
The sea swallowed everything. The noise of the battle died down, leaving only the gentle rustle of the wind.
When the Void vanished, the land was clear. No bodies, no weapons. Only sand and the Ghost's footprints, leading back to the gates of Camelot.
He stopped in front of Arturia.
The mask was whole again.
There was silence.
Arturia looked at him for a long time.
"You carried out orders," she said. "And exceeded expectations."
The ghost did not answer.
Mordred muttered quietly, looking at the black spot where the Void had recently raged:
"It's not a sword. It's a plague."
Gawain crossed himself.
"Even the sun is afraid to look there."
Agravaine frowned but said nothing. He understood that the power Arturia had summoned wasn't a blessing, but a reminder. A reminder that the king was willing to go further than even a god himself for the sake of order.
Tristan lowered his head.
" How much pain must one bear who lives in eternal silence..."
Arturia turned away and headed towards the throne.
"Let him carry it as long as the world holds," she said. "As long as Camelot stands."
The ghost remained standing in the wind, his cloak barely fluttering, and for a moment it seemed as if a shadow was moving around him again.
He looked up at the sun, and somewhere in the depths of his empty eyes there was a reflection of something that neither light nor darkness could name.