"Ugh!"
I found myself within the very bowels of the beast. To be precise, I was suspended just above the chasm of its gullet.
By some stroke of fortune, I had avoided being crushed by Vortigern's jagged teeth. Acting on desperate instinct, I had driven my blade deep into the soft tissue of the dragon's esophagus, anchoring myself against the void.
I peered down. Below me lay a pool of gastric acid so potent it radiated a terrifying, visceral aura of dissolution.
Clatter. Hiss!
A piece of my battered, crumpled armor broke free and tumbled into the depths. The moment it touched the fluid, the steel vanished, melted away into nothingness. Cold sweat pricked at my brow.
That could have been me.
Vortigern thrashed violently, no doubt feeling the cold bite of steel in his throat. He was trying to retch, to purge the irritant from his body.
But being vomited out offered no salvation. If I were expelled now, I would simply be caught between those mountainous fangs and ground into paste.
"Gah! The stench is unbearable... and I am truly in the thick of it now."
I fought back the urge to heave as the miasma of the dragon's interior filled my lungs. If Vortigern remained standing, there was no hope for our side.
Rhongomyniad, the only weapon capable of piercing the Vile King's hide, was held by Artoria—and she had spent the last of her prana. Even Gawain's Excalibur Galatine lacked the specific Mystery required to fell this beast. We were at a total impasse. A checkmate.
Tch... all I have is this replica of Caliburn, a spare dagger, and perhaps thirty percent of my remaining magical energy.
Even the Caliburn replica was insufficient to inflict a mortal wound. It had only managed to pierce this deep because the interior of the throat lacked the reinforced scales of the outer hide.
To make matters worse, my arms were beginning to scream. The accumulated exhaustion and injuries from the battle were finally demanding their toll.
Truthfully, not a single part of my body remained unscathed. Am I really to die like this?
In that moment of encroaching darkness, a flash of inspiration struck. It was a gamble—perhaps the only one left to play.
There are many ways to utilize a Noble Phantasm. Typically, one wields them as weapons or performs a True Name Release to bring about a miracle of victory. However, there exists another, more sacrificial method.
One can overload the weapon, detonating the immense magical energy stored within the core of its Mystery at the cost of the blade's existence.
Broken Phantasm.
Unless one was a certain golden king of antiquity or a red-clad archer with a heart of glass, using a weapon as a projectile, this was effectively a suicide strike for any melee combatant. I would be at the heart of the explosion.
Yet, I was out of options. Artoria and the others would be forced to retreat, and once my strength failed, I would inevitably fall into the acid. I had to trust in the resilience of my own frame. Whether I died here or died there, wasn't it better to bet on the sliver of a chance that led to his death?
Moreover, though I was not a true dragon, my body had endured the heat of a dragon's breath once before. If I channeled every drop of my remaining prana into reinforcement, I might just survive the shockwave.
Steeling my resolve, I gathered every ounce of my strength and shoved the blade as deep into the visceral flesh as it would go.
No matter how legendary the dragon, its internal organs could not be hardened like armor. Vortigern let out a muffled, agonizing roar, his entire frame shuddering in a violent convulsion.
"Too late, you bastard. Who told you to swallow me? Here is a gift from me to you—I hope it chokes you!"
"Broken Phantasm!!"
A blinding radiance engulfed the world.
-------
"No... Eli... Elius..."
Artoria whispered his name, her voice trembling and hollow. The man who had held her only moments ago, her precious knight who had sworn his life to her cause, was gone.
The girl who had forced herself to act the part of the perfect King could no longer maintain her stoic mask. The sudden, agonizing void left by his absence was a weight she could not bear. She stood in a daze, murmuring his name like a prayer for a miracle that would not come.
Observing her grief, the great dragon Vortigern shook his massive head with cold, reptilian disdain.
[ To think you were even granted Rhongomyniad... Foolish children. In your haste to strike down a tyrant, you have only beckoned a greater ruin. ]
[ Offspring of Uther, my brother. You cannot save this nation. You cannot claim victory for humanity. ]
[ For the Age of Mystery has reached its twilight. Beyond this lies the Age of Man, the era of civilization. The power that flows through your veins is anathema to the coming world. As long as you draw breath, there is no future for Britain. Curse your fate. The Britain of old died long ago... Ghak! ]
Vortigern, who had been delivering his grim prophecy with arrogant calm, suddenly recoiled. His features contorted in a mask of agony, his colossal frame beginning to tremble.
[ Gah! Elius... you cur... could it be you yet live...? Cough! *Hark!* ]
The Vile King fell into a fit of violent retching, his body bucking as if trying to expel something caustic and wrong. He no longer paid any heed to Artoria or Gawain.
Seeing the opening, Gawain rushed forward and scooped Artoria into his arms. The King remained in a state of shock, her eyes vacant as she looked up at him.
"Sir Gawain...?"
"Your Majesty! This is our chance to retreat. He is incapacitated and can no longer pursue. We must withdraw immediately!"
"No... I cannot. I will not! Sir Elius is still within him!! Until we have recovered him, I cannot—"
"He is dead!" Gawain roared.
The words struck Artoria like a physical blow. Seeing the devastation on her face, Gawain's heart bled, but there was no time for gentleness.
"We have no means to win! Excalibur and Galatine are ineffective, and Rhongomyniad is exhausted! Even now, Sir Elius is buying us this time with his very life. We must survive to make a new plan. We cannot allow his sacrifice to be in vain!"
The word 'sacrifice' pierced Artoria's heart like a poisoned thorn.
Sacrifice. Looking back, she realized he had always lived for her sake. He had constantly offered himself up, body and soul, to ensure her path was clear.
Disregarding his own safety, he had shouldered her burdens and duties, supporting her from the shadows. She remembered the many nights he had collapsed from exhaustion, blood dripping from his nose as he worked through her ledgers. Whenever she expressed concern, he would simply offer that gentle, reassuring smile and tell her he was fine.
In the heat of battle against the Saxons, he had thrown himself in the path of blades meant for her, taking wounds she had earned through her own moments of hesitation.
Every action he took was an act of devotion. And what had she given him in return? Simple words of thanks. She had done nothing for him. She had never even taken the time to brew him a single cup of tea.
The weight of her regret was suffocating. Her chest burned with a pain more acute than any blade could inflict.
As a King, she knew Gawain was right. They had to retreat. They had to gather the Knights of the Round Table and wait for her prana to replenish. But as a human, her lips refused to form the order. She remained paralyzed by indecision.
Gawain, seeing the King's hesitation, tightened his grip, prepared to carry her away by force. But in that moment, Vortigern's thrashing reached a crescendo.
[ You... insolent... RAGGGHHHHHH!!! ]
BOOM!
A titanic detonation erupted from within the dragon's chest. Vortigern's body arched violently. A torrent of blood and visceral matter erupted from his mouth and nostrils in a sickening crimson spray.
The dragon, having coughed up a literal mountain of gore, finally collapsed onto his side. His massive form twitched feebly a few times.
[ I... cannot die... here. Not... here... ]
With those final, ragged breaths, the light faded from the dragon's eyes. The Avatar of the Isle of Britain fell still. He had died a hollow, ignoble death.
Stunned, Artoria and Gawain could only stare at the fallen mountain of the Vile King in a silence that felt as heavy as the earth itself.