Steel rang like thunder.
The clash between King Arthur and Angor Rot was not merely a duel—it was a collision of two legends shaped by entirely different worlds.
Light… against shadow.
Honor… against death.
Arthur moved first.
Excalibur carved through the air in a radiant arc, its golden brilliance illuminating the ruined throne room. Every swing was precise, disciplined, and devastatingly efficient—centuries of royal training condensed into flawless swordsmanship.
Angor Rot met it without hesitation.
His dagger flashed upward—
—and the two weapons collided.
The sound was deafening.
Not the sharp ring of normal steel—but something deeper. Heavier. Magic grinding against magic.
Sparks erupted—gold and black—scattering across the shattered stone floor like dying stars.
Arthur pressed forward immediately, his stance shifting into a fluid sequence of strikes. A horizontal slash aimed for the neck. A pivot. A downward cut meant to split Angor Rot in half.
Relentless.
Precise.
Royal.
Angor Rot flowed around it.
He didn't fight like a knight.
He fought like a shadow given form.
His body twisted unnaturally, slipping just outside the edge of each strike. His dagger darted forward—not to meet strength with strength, but to exploit the smallest openings. A strike toward Arthur's ribs. A feint. Then a sudden shift—aiming for the throat.
Arthur blocked every one.
Barely.
Excalibur flared brighter with each clash, its holy power pushing back against the dark sorcery woven into Angor Rot's movements.
Because he wasn't just fighting physically.
Dark magic seeped from him.
With every step, shadows clung to Arthur's feet, trying to bind him. With every strike, cursed energy lingered in the air, seeking to weaken, to slow, to kill.
Arthur roared, his will pushing back.
The light of Excalibur surged outward, burning away the encroaching darkness, forcing Angor Rot to retreat a single step.
That was all Arthur needed.
He advanced.
The sword became a storm.
Fast. Brutal. Unyielding.
Every swing carried the weight of a king defending his kingdom, every movement backed by raw strength and unwavering resolve. The air itself seemed to split beneath his strikes.
Angor Rot adapted instantly.
He vanished.
Not fully—just enough.
His form blurred into shadow, slipping between visibility and nothingness as he reappeared behind Arthur, dagger already descending toward the king's spine.
Arthur turned instantly.
Excalibur intercepted the strike—
—and the force of the impact cracked the ground beneath them.
They locked for a moment.
Blade against dagger.
Light against shadow.
Arthur's strength was overwhelming.
Angor Rot's precision was lethal.
Then Angor Rot changed the rhythm.
His free hand ignited with dark sorcery—black and violet energy spiraling around his fingers as he drove it forward into Arthur's chest.
The blast hit.
Arthur staggered back, armor absorbing most of the impact—but not all. The magic lingered, trying to seep into him, trying to corrupt, to weaken.
But Excalibur flared again.
Bright. Pure. Absolute.
The corruption burned away instantly.
Arthur surged forward once more, faster this time, adapting just as quickly as his opponent. His strikes became tighter. More efficient. Less predictable.
Angor Rot was being pushed back.
Not defeated.
Not yet.
But forced onto the defensive.
Steel flashed again and again, each clash sending shockwaves through the already shattered throne room. Debris fell around them as their battle carved destruction into the very foundation of Camelot.
And still… neither yielded.
From across the battlefield, I watched.
Calculated.
Measured.
And understood.
Arthur was stronger than expected.
Excalibur was a problem.
And Angor Rot—while deadly—was not enough to secure victory quickly.
Behind me, Merlin still stood.
Unshaken.
Unrelenting.
And that was the deciding factor.
I exhaled slowly.
"…This isn't the battlefield where I win."
The realization wasn't frustrating.
It was necessary.
Merlin had experience.
Centuries of it.
His combat instincts, his mastery, his control—
They were refined beyond what I could currently match in a prolonged fight.
If this continued…
I would lose.
And I don't lose.
My hand rose.
Shadows answered instantly.
A portal tore open behind me—dark, swirling, absolute.
"Angor Rot."
He disengaged instantly.
No hesitation. No resistance.
Arthur's blade cut through empty space as the assassin vanished into shadow, reappearing at my side in the same motion.
For a brief moment, the battlefield stilled.
Arthur stood ready, Excalibur glowing.
Merlin watched, his expression unreadable.
I met his gaze.
Calm.
Unbothered.
Already planning the next move.
"This isn't over," I said softly.
Then I stepped backward.
The shadows swallowed us whole.
And Camelot…
Was left standing.
For now.