Nathanael drew the Sacred Spear toward the heavens. His eyes shone with an absolute gold, as if the very sun had ignited within his soul. A divine aura emerged around him — intense, majestic, suffocating — and even the air itself seemed to bow before his presence. The ground trembled. The world held its breath.
"Arise... Camelot!" His voice reverberated like a divine decree, echoing through the skies and the spiritual world like sacred thunder.
Upon hearing the call of its wielder, the Sacred Spear blazed with ferocity. Its outer structure began to unfold, opening like a golden flower. From within, the Divine Core was revealed, pulsing with ancient, pure, and immeasurable energy. Beams of sacred light were emitted, intertwining in complex, rune-like, living geometric forms.
As a response to the unshakable will of the new King, the spear's cascade expanded, and amidst the light, towers rose. Walls emerged from the ground, as white and radiant as celestial marble. Golden pillars embedded themselves into the earth like roots of the sky. Structures arose from nothing, as if reality itself was being rebuilt by divine command.
Camelot... had returned.
At the heart of the fortress, a magnificent Throne Room took shape — vast, illuminated by celestial stained glass that filtered divine light. The throne, made of resplendent and ethereal marble, bore engravings of dragons, embedded swords, upright lances, and crests of honor. It was a seat worthy of a king not just of a kingdom... but of an era.
Nathanael walked toward him with slow steps, each movement echoing through the newly-formed hall. As he sat down, his armor adjusted flawlessly. He touched the helm with one hand, and with a whisper of energy, the helmet retracted as if dissolving into light, flowing and reintegrating into his armor. His hair fell like the mane of a white lion around his neck. His eyes scanned the hall — serene, yet relentless.
Then, he extended his right hand, open, toward the void before him.
The Sacred Spear had vanished, sealed within his soul — but that did not limit his dominion over it. The bond was absolute, spiritual, divine. And it was with that dominion that he summoned it again — not physically, but through its very essence.
A radiant golden glow began to spiral on the floor, expanding until it formed a perfect magical circle. From it, ancient symbols emerged, representing forgotten realms, eternal bonds, and promises never broken. It was the call… of a King.
In the very next moment, knowledge of the divine powers of Rhongomyniad was etched into his mind as though it had always been there. Details, applications, restrictions, possibilities — everything. And along with it, the right and power to summon those who once fought under a single banner: the Knights of the Round Table.
He rose from the throne.His voice cut through the air like a flaming sword.
"Behold the call of the King..."
His aura expands. A magic trembled. Time itself stopped.
"Fervent souls who remain steadfast in legend and in life...The vocation for your return,By the Sword of Promised Victory,By the Sacred Spear that binds heaven and earth,By the bonds you share with each other and with the one who was King of this realm,By the promise of the Eternal Utopia, Avalon... I summon you!"
The magic circle pulsed violently. The ground echoed like a drum of celestial war.
"I call upon you, loyal defenders of Camelot!Raise your swords and ignite your spirits with honor!To reignite the glory of the Round Table!"
Power gathered into a single point. The hall quaked with the pure manifestation of history and destiny.
"By the power of Rhongomyniad, by the Grail, and by my authority...I command you: heed my call!Stand by my side as the New King of Camelot!United with purpose, and together, we shall bring light to these shadowed lands!"
BOOM!
A golden light, as intense as a thousand suns, exploded at the center of the throne room, illuminating everything, consuming shadows, breaking all limits. Their presence was felt even before they took form.
Camelot... was being reborn.
...
Artoria was alone.
On the hill of Camlann, the wind blew with a cold lament, carrying with it the ancient scent of blood, earth, and regret. Around her, the bodies of her comrades lay as silent witnesses to a shattered ideal. She walked among them, each familiar face making her heart sink deeper into the abyss. Gawain, Tristan, Lancelot… all had fallen, directly or indirectly, because of her.
She who wanted to be the pillar. She who refused to be human in order to become a symbol.In the end… her symbol saved no one.
The light of dusk kissed the horizon with shades of dying gold as Artoria fell to her knees. Her hands, stained with blood and dust, clenched into fists. The pain was not physical — that had long since faded — but spiritual, a burden etched into her soul.
"My reign… was a failure," she whispered.
The tears did not come. A king does not cry, she used to say. But there, alone, stripped of everything — crown, army, dreams — she was no longer a king. She was just a girl who tried to carry the world on her shoulders… and now felt them crushed beneath the weight of history.
In that moment of eternal silence, she reached her will upward, beyond time, beyond death.
The Counter Force answered.
She offered her service. Not as a queen, not as a knight — but as an instrument. A sword of humanity, wielded by something beyond comprehension.In return, all she asked for was a second chance. The right to seek the Grail. To correct the past.To save her country.Even if it cost her eternity.
The contract was sealed.
And so, she was frozen — not in ice, but in a state of suspended existence. Trapped in Camlann, between time and nothingness. Her soul no longer belonged to a single point in the world. She became a piece to be summoned, called upon countless times across the ages… always with one purpose: the Grail.
But this journey had become a cycle.Endless.Hellish.Each summoning a new war. Each new war, a reenactment of her failure.
And yet… she went.
Until that day.
A golden light began to envelop the hill. Different from the ones before. This one was warmer. Denser. More alive.Artoria raised her eyes to the crimson sky, feeling the world around her begin to unravel.
"Another summoning?" she murmured. "Another war for the Grail…?"
But something was wrong.
The ground of the hill cracked into beams of light, particles separating like golden sand blown by the wind. The sky shattered into fragments of ethereal glass. And before she could react, her body was engulfed — not pulled… but lifted.As if she were being welcomed.
A voice was calling her.
Not a magical command.Not a contract.But a call… a real one.
When the light faded, Artoria opened her eyes.
She was kneeling before a throne.
The room was vast, monumental, adorned with marble pillars and divine stained glass windows that cast golden and blue colors upon the sacred floor.
The presence on the throne was familiar… yet new. Imposing.
And around her… eleven presences.Eleven presences she knew better than she knew herself.
"W-what…?" Artoria stood up abruptly, her eyes wide with shock. "H-how is this possible? These presences…?"
A shadow moved ahead.
Agravain, always the first to protect her, stood up, reverent.
"My King?" he said, in a voice she hadn't heard in centuries.
The figures revealed themselves, one by one.
Gawain, lifting his chin with dignity.
Gaheris and Gareth side by side, smiling.
Palamedes in silence, eyes closed as if in prayer.
Tristan with his lute, holding it with care.
Bedivere, hand over his heart.
Galahad, with his pure and unwavering gaze.
Kay, the brother, with a smug smile.
And Percival, grand, unshakable.
All… alive. Reunited.
"My King…"
"Father?" said a hesitant voice, almost trembling.
Artoria turned slowly… and saw.
Lancelot.
Standing beside Mordred.
The past and the future, side by side.
Artoria took a step back, her heart bursting with conflicting emotions — fear, hope, denial, longing.
"This… can't… be real…" she whispered.
But it was. And before her… on the throne of the new Camelot… someone had called out to her.
Someone worthy.
Someone with the light of the King… and the will to change the world.
"I hope you enjoyed this gathering."
The voice echoed through the throne room with a deep, powerful tone — as if the heavens themselves were speaking. It reverberated through the columns, the stained glass, and their hearts — and instantly, everyone turned toward its source.
What they saw made their eyes widen in shock and disbelief.
At the top of the white marble throne, adorned with intricate carvings of dragons in flight, crossed swords, spears, axes, and other weapons that told stories long forgotten by history, sat a man. His posture was upright and firm, like a divine statue. His hair, pure white, fell like strands of untouched snow to his neck, with a mane resembling that of a lion encircling it. His eyes, golden like the midday sun, shimmered with a blend of serenity and unquestionable authority. And beneath the golden light that bathed the hall, his armor gleamed like a masculine version of the legendary Artoria — only more aggressive, more feral, like a lion on a throne.
He didn't just look like a king.
He was one.
The divine aura emanating from him was overwhelming. A force that bent the world, that made time itself seem to halt. It was like the weight of a thousand years of history pressing down on the shoulders of those who dared to face it. And, one by one, the Knights of the Round Table felt compelled to kneel. Their knees touched the sacred marble without resistance. It was instinct. It was reverence. It was respect.
Except for one.
Artoria Pendragon.
She remained standing. Her gaze was steady, defiant. There was awe in her eyes, yes, but also curiosity. It wasn't pride, nor rebellion. It was discernment. A reaction worthy of the heir to the Dragon King.
'As expected…' thought Nathanael, watching her. A faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips. 'The divine bloodline of Zeus still flows in you, though faint and after all this time. Even with my ascension to the greatest of Divine Spirits, it's unlikely the wielder of the Sword of Promised Victory would kneel — not to mention she might be a version of Rhongomyniad… or the other way around.'
Shifting his gaze to the other knights, Nathanael finally spoke:
"Welcome to the modern era, Knights of the Round Table. I am the new King of Camelot… Nathanael."
The silence that followed was like the moment between lightning and thunder.
The shock ran through those present like electricity, piercing every fiber of their bodies. Eyes met, doubts arose, but no one dared to break that instant — until, as expected, the first explosion came from the one made of pure fire.
"WHAT NONSENSE!" Mordred's voice burst like a detonation. Her red eyes blazed like embers, and her stance was that of someone on the verge of battle. "STOP TALKING NONSENSE! I AM THE ONLY SUCCESSOR OF ARTHUR PENDRAGON! I AM THE TRUE KING OF KNIGHTS!"
The echo of her fury reverberated through the walls. The flames of her soul burned with untamed rage.
The room fell silent. A cutting, almost heavy silence.
Artoria closed her eyes and let out a long sigh, as if she had expected exactly that.
She said nothing — simply let the moment pass.
And then…
"Hahahaha!"
Nathanael's laughter broke out, clear and loud, with a touch of ironic lightness, but also with a weight that irritated. He wasn't mocking. He was enjoying himself. That alone was enough to make Mordred grit her teeth and take a step forward.
"Ah… Mordred," he said, holding back the laughter with a sharp look. "You would make an excellent King… If only you weren't so reckless, so explosive… so foolish."
"RGGH!"
She growled, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her sword. A pure warrior's reflex.
But then, Nathanael stood.
His footsteps rang out strong and slow as he descended the steps of the throne. With each step, the divine pressure increased. The stained glass windows trembled. The air grew heavier. When he stopped in front of Mordred, his smile softened, and his voice carried something unexpected: sincerity.
"But… there's still a chance for you to become King of Camelot."
Mordred froze for a second, confused. "What…?"
"If…" Nathanael said, slowly turning his gaze to Artoria, like someone aiming an arrow straight at the heart. "…your father marries me."
He paused, letting the silence savor the provocation.
"The heir will be the firstborn."
The world stopped.
Mordred's eyes widened. Artoria's eyes gleamed for a second, confused. The knights exchanged tense glances, some choking in surprise.
And then, once again…
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!"
Mordred shouted so loudly that the echo was lost in the heavenly vault of the hall.
Nathanael just smiled.
...
Mordred's anger screamed louder than her reason. She lunged forward impulsively, her instincts crying out for confrontation — but everything ceased the instant Nathanael cast a single glance her way.
It was as if time itself had frozen.
Her muscles locked, the momentum vanished, and her head lowered involuntarily. A mix of frustration and helplessness overtook her expression.
"It's the truth, Mordred," Nathanael said, his voice cold and unquestionable. "After all, your father is, in practical terms, the queen of Camelot. Whether you like it or not… he is a woman."
He walked slowly toward Artoria, who clenched her hands into fists. The mention of her femininity, said so casually, deeply unsettled her. She wasn't just a woman. She was the King. The weight of that title transcended gender — and yet, hearing it stated so directly… it hurt.
Nathanael continued:
"That said, King of Knights… it seems the bond with the Counter Force has been severed. Camelot has returned — even if in a different era."
Artoria's emerald-green eyes shimmered, consumed by a whirlwind of emotion. The eternal promise, the lost utopia, was now reborn. A distant dream — alive once more.
But before she could respond, Nathanael remained calm and delivered the true blade:
"However… I cannot allow you to resume your role as King."
The statement struck like thunder.
Silence fell instantly.
All eyes turned to him, incredulous.
"This has nothing to do with the fact that you're a woman — not at all. But rather, with your incompetence as a ruler."
Artoria's breath caught for a moment.
Nathanael continued, merciless:
"Camelot fell, primarily, because of its leadership… or rather, the absence of it. A King must never place themselves ahead of the people. It is the people who must stand before the King. The King should walk alongside their companions — but never take risks, for if they fall, the Kingdom falls with them."
He paused, and his voice grew even firmer:
"You failed everyone, Artoria. Each and every one. Your knights, your people, your ideals. The utopia you sought crumbled… and the consequences of that failure fell upon innocent shoulders. All because of your immaturity."
The words cut deeper than any sacred blade.
The knights remained silent. None of them could look Artoria in the eye. She trembled. She knew. Deep down, she had always known that the collapse of Camelot weighed on her shoulders.
But...
"I do not agree with your ideal of a King!" Her voice finally broke the silence. A cry filled with pride, pain, and conviction. "The King must protect their people at all costs! If anyone is to fall, let it be them! The King must stand at the frontlines, in every battle, with their sword in hand and heart laid bare!"
Nathanael sighed, disappointed. Not in anger, but like someone witnessing an old mistake being repeated.
"And that's exactly the immaturity I'm talking about."
Artoria was confused. Her anger slowly gave way to doubt.
"You haven't aged since the day you touched Excalibur," he said. "Neither your body, nor your spirit. You've remained bound to that same idealistic vision, to that same dream... like a child who refuses to wake up."
Nathanael then stepped forward, his golden eyes glowing with a quiet intensity.
"You're still living in a fairy tale, Artoria. But now... it's time to grow up."
"Kings are tyrants, Artoria. They always have been. The only difference lies in the kind of tyrant they choose to be." Nathanael's voice was calm, yet sharp as a blade. "There are those who hurt their people by offering false security and empty hope... and there are those who care for their people by making them believe they can walk on their own."
He drew closer, stopping right in front of her. His golden eyes met hers without hesitation.
"You... placed your people in a bubble of false safety. You gave them a utopia that never taught them to fight, to resist, to defend what was theirs. You turned them into sheep, into lambs for the slaughter. And you surrounded them with walls of glory that, in the end, crumbled. You never let them protect you. And because of that... Camelot fell."
The words cut deep.
Artoria lowered her head. Tears threatened to break through her pride and fall down her face.
She hated herself in that moment. She thought that man, sitting where she once sat, despised her. That he carried only judgment in his eyes.
But then, Nathanael's hand gently touched her face, lifting it softly.
"Don't be mistaken… I don't hate you."
His voice was different now. More intimate. More human.
"But I ask — acknowledge your mistake. That's all. Before you become my Queen."
As he spoke, his hand caressed her face with reverence. There was no lust, only respect.
'Your face… is like hers. My first love. Beautiful like her… perhaps even more so.'
"King and Queen must share power and authority. Walk side by side. That's why... I will make you my Queen. My wife. My companion. Promised only to me."
He looked around the hall with renewed seriousness.
"That way, you'll be able to rule properly — with someone who truly supports you, not a puppet or a scapegoat."
His eyes landed on Lancelot, who swallowed hard instantly.
"I hope this time, Sir Lancelot, you won't try to lie with your King's woman."
The tone was sarcastic, laced with dry irony.
There was a pause.
And then, to the shock of many, Artoria let out a soft, restrained laugh. Mordred laughed loudly. Other knights joined in—some nervously, others genuinely amused.
'Damn it…' Lancelot thought, sweating cold. Internally, his heart twisted in silent anguish. The weight of his betrayal still haunted him. And now… it was a public joke.
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Hello, I'm the Author. And I came to say that there will be no chapters until Friday afternoon. I have exams from Tuesday until then, and as soon as I finish I'll write again.
And about the chapter, I don't expect everyone to like it, but I hope that those who did like it will like it.