I Don’t Want to Be a Heroic Spirit

"I don't want to keep fighting. Can you calm down and listen to me?"

Artoria furrowed her brows as she made another attempt to speak.

Her words, however, had the opposite effect.

"Ugh… gah…"

Blood bubbled in Mordred's throat, silencing her. She sounded less like a person and more like a dying beast growling at its enemy.

Though words failed her, Mordred wasn't the type to waste time talking when actions would suffice.

Hot blood ran down her arm and onto the hilt of her sword, but she held on with both hands. Suddenly, she surged forward, swinging her sword in a vicious arc toward Artoria's waist.

The next instant, the sound of metal clashing rang out.

Beneath her helmet, Mordred's eyes widened in shock.

Her cursed blade—mid-swing—had been caught. Artoria had trapped it using her left elbow and knee.

A faint golden light shimmered around Artoria's joints. She had reinforced them with her mana, and Mordred's injuries gave her the confidence to block the attack in such an unconventional way.

Artoria didn't waste the opportunity. Her right hand, wreathed in golden energy, formed a claw and struck Mordred's shoulder.

The blows continued, swift and precise, targeting Mordred's head, joints, chest, abdomen, and waist. Each strike flowed into the next with practiced grace, disorienting Mordred and forcing her to release her sword.

"Argh—!"

Even disarmed, Mordred didn't relent. She lunged forward, gripping Artoria's wrist with both hands as crimson lightning surged around her.

Her voice was hoarse, laced with desperation.

"Die, Arthur!"

Her mana flared uncontrollably, the red lightning surging skyward and consuming both of their figures.

The world fell silent.

The battlefield became a sea of red lightning, a tempest of destruction obliterating everything around them as if the apocalypse had come early.

Suddenly, amidst the crimson chaos, a golden light pierced through.

A massive column of radiant light erupted, engulfing the crimson storm and expanding outward.

Inside the pillar of light, Artoria and Mordred stood face-to-face. Mordred refused to release her grip on Artoria's wrist, even as the golden energy scorched her body.

Her armor cracked and shattered piece by piece, exposing her face, which contorted in pain.

"Guh…"

The overwhelming heat and pain finally broke through her resilience, drawing a groan from her lips.

Even as the golden light washed over her, Mordred gritted her teeth and struggled forward, inching closer to Artoria.

Artoria's gaze hardened. The light surrounding them grew even brighter and more concentrated, forcing Mordred to her knees.

With a final scream of rage and frustration, Mordred was swallowed by the radiant flood.

"Ar—thur—!!"

The golden pillar dissipated, leaving the battlefield bathed in a gentle, warm light.

Golden particles rained from the sky like blessings from a divine presence, falling upon the shattered earth.

At the center of a massive crater, Artoria stood tall, her posture steady and regal.

In the crater's heart, Mordred lay sprawled on the ground. Her armor was completely destroyed, and her body was marred with burns.

Artoria had held back—her blows were measured. Mordred's physical injuries weren't as severe as her depleted mana, which was barely enough to sustain her existence in the physical world.

While Artoria had expended more mana during the battle, she had the Holy Grail's support. Mordred had no such luxury.

Unable to move even a finger without pain, Mordred glared defiantly at Artoria, her eyes burning with hatred.

Artoria, unfazed, stood over her, her gaze calm and unwavering.

Though her mind was clouded and her body battered, Mordred forced her eyes open, straining to see Artoria's face.

Those eyes…

Eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of nations, the passage of days and nights, and the reverence and fear of countless people. Eyes as flawless and beautiful as the purest emeralds.

Mordred yearned to see herself reflected in those eyes.

Even if the image was twisted by flames of anger or poisoned by hatred, it didn't matter.

So… please…

Choking on blood, Mordred forced out a hoarse cry.

"Ar…thur…!"

Hate me!

Despise me!

Detest me!

Loathe me!

Just like before—use your holy lance to pierce my heart!

Even after my death, let my image be seared into your eyes and soul forever!

A sigh broke through the tension, halting Mordred's spiraling thoughts.

Her wide, disbelieving eyes locked onto Artoria.

Artoria exhaled softly, her body radiating a gentle, golden light that fell upon Mordred.

In that moment, Mordred saw the emotions swirling within Artoria's eyes.

There was no anger, no hatred—only a serene clarity, as calm and deep as a summer lake.

Why…?

"I told you," Artoria said, her voice soft but resolute, "I've never hated you."

It was as though she had heard Mordred's unspoken question.

"Whether as the Rebel Knight or as Morgan's daughter, none of that matters to me… I have always regarded you as one of my finest knights."

Liar!

Mordred wanted to scream, but all that came out was more blood.

"I'm not lying, Mordred. I've already told you." Artoria's tone remained steady as she repeated the words that had haunted Mordred like a nightmare.

"The only reason I didn't pass the throne to you is… because you lack the qualities of a king."

"!!!"

Mordred's body trembled.

Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth—not only from her injuries but also from biting her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Ar…thur…!!"

How long will you keep humiliating me?!

Just kill me!

If you hate me so much, then cut off my head and hang it on the city gates!

Stop disgracing me like this!

To Mordred, this was the ultimate insult.

Artoria had bested her, inflicted heavy wounds, and yet refused to deliver the final blow. Instead, she lingered, using words to trample her pride and dignity into the dirt.

It was as though Artoria sought revenge by treating her the same way Mordred had once treated Camelot.

But just as Mordred's eyes burned with venomous hatred, Artoria spoke words that froze her mind completely.

Looking briefly at the sky, Artoria lowered her gaze and spoke with an unfamiliar weight in her voice—a voice carried on the wind, light yet reaching beyond time itself.

"And perhaps… I, too, lack the qualities of a king."

For a moment, the wind fell silent.

The night sky, cleared of storm clouds by their battle, revealed a sea of stars shining brightly above them.

---

Ahem! Gather close, esteemed audience! Do you comprehend the privilege of basking in my radiance? Truly, you're witnessing history in the making—a performance unparalleled in the annals of Fontaine!

Ah, but don't get distracted! Let me be clear: this brilliance isn't conjured from thin air. No, no, no! It requires effort, dedication, and… well, a touch of your generosity. If you fancy being part of something truly extraordinary, do step forward here: [patreon.com/WiseTL].

Oh, but wait! You're probably wondering, "Furina, how can someone as magnificent as you need assistance?" To that, I say: why deny mortals the honor of contributing to such greatness? Supporting me is supporting art, and who doesn't want to say they were instrumental in a legend's rise?

Now, off you go. Make your offerings, and perhaps, perhaps, I'll acknowledge you in my next soliloquy!

— Furina ✨