The dust began to settle, revealing the wreckage of a once-majestic ballroom.
Lancelot knelt in the heart of the devastation, armor battered and streaked with soot. Blood trickled from a cut above his brow, staining his face and dripping onto the crushed tiles below. In his arms, Elena trembled, her white gown dirtied by ash and rubble, but otherwise untouched.
He had shielded her with his body.
"Sir Lancelot, you're bleeding!" she gasped, voice tight with panic. Her hands hovered near his wounds, unsure where to begin.
"Why would you do that?" she demanded, fear and confusion overtaking her poise.
"Lady Elena," he murmured, placing a steady hand on her shoulder, grounding her. "Compose yourself."
Her breath hitched. Despite the chaos, the intimacy of his voice and the closeness between them drew color to her cheeks—but the world crumbling around them kept her tethered to reality.
"Elena! Are you hurt?!" Natalia's voice rang out, clear and commanding. She fought against the knights restraining her, fury crackling in her eyes.
"I-I'm fine!" Elena called back, her voice breaking. "Sir Lancelot protected me."
Natalia's posture eased, though her eyes never left Lancelot—sharp, scrutinizing, unforgiving.
Still the same... he thought with a faint smirk, chest rising and falling with each labored breath.
Then—
An arrow tore through the air, embedding itself into the marble just inches from Elena's head.
Lancelot's blade lashed out, catching the next projectile mid-flight in a brilliant arc of steel.
Elena froze, her body seizing as the near-death moment truly sank in.
From the broken walls and shattered windows, shadows began to emerge. Figures cloaked in black, moving with unnatural grace. Blades shimmered under the fractured moonlight pouring in through the ceiling.
Assassins... Julius, you fucker. Wasn't blowing up the hall enough?
A pulse of magic rippled through the room, and a barrier shimmered into existence around the perimeter—sealing them in.
Lancelot stepped forward, placing himself between Elena and the threat.
"Lancelot du Lac!" Natalia's voice rang out with royal authority. "As your queen, I command you: protect Elena, no matter the cost. Even if it means your life."
Silence fell. Even the assassins paused.
Without hesitation, Lancelot nodded. "Understood."
She only cares about her... That hasn't changed.
But that's fine. It's enough.
He turned to Elena, urgency in his tone. "Lady Elena, I need support magic. Anything you can manage."
"But… I'm not trained enough to—"
"Now," he ordered. There was no time for doubt.
She flinched but obeyed. Her voice wavered as she raised her hands.
"Rassemblez les Esprits du Vent… Aidez le Guerrier…!"
A breeze encircled him, gentle but focused. The spirits responded, empowering him.
It was all he needed.
They came.
The first assassin lunged.
Lancelot's body reacted on its own. He sidestepped, parried, countered. His sword moved with fluidity, but his mind struggled to keep up—like piloting a ship without knowing how to steer.
I can't follow these movements...
He stumbled—tripped over a fallen knight's body—and barely recovered in time to deflect another strike.
Damn it... This isn't enough.
His heart pounded, each breath ragged. His body—Lancelot's body—moved like a seasoned warrior. But his thoughts lagged, a rookie mind trying to keep pace with a master's reflexes.
These are Lancelot's instincts... but without the training, I can't control them.
Another clash. A spin. A feint. Slowly, his motions began to align. Sword and soul found rhythm. Muscle memory and mind found common ground.
I see it now. It's not about mimicking him. It's about trusting him.
This body... these instincts... They're brilliant. A genius, through and through.
But just as he began to match the rhythm—
A blur darted from the side.
His eyes widened.
An assassin, faster than the rest, was almost upon Elena. She was mid-chant, her back exposed.
Too far. He couldn't intercept in time.
No. No, no, no—I'm not going to make it!
Time slowed. His heart thundered.
Is this how it ends?
Will I really fail here... fail to protect her? Even after all this?
Then—a memory.
A line. A moment etched deep into the story he himself had written.
A technique only Lancelot could pull off.
The Hundred Step.
"For every hundred steps they took, he only took one."
His own words echoed in his skull.
But that's impossible. That move comes way later. Lancelot had trained for years to—
He clenched his jaw.
Fuck that.
He slammed his foot down.
Get a grip, damn it! This isn't a story anymore!
The world blurred. He didn't understand the mechanics. He had no theory, no formula.
Only desperation, raw instinct, and Lancelot's sheer talent guiding him.
In one explosive motion, he moved—covering the distance between him and Elena in a single breath.
His body bent like a bowstring, then released.
The wind screamed around him.
Steel flashed.
The assassin's eyes widened in shock—too late.
Lancelot's blade tore through him mid-air.
The enemy crumpled, lifeless.
Lancelot landed in a roll, barely keeping upright, chest heaving.
I did it...
Not perfect. Not clean. His movement was jagged, rushed—a pale imitation of the real thing.
But it was enough.
Elena was safe.
He stood still, panting, the hilt of his sword shaking in his grasp. His muscles screamed. His vision blurred.
But he'd won.
The remaining knights rallied, dispatching the final few assassins.
Then—
Clapping.
Slow. Deliberate.
Mocking.
Lancelot's head snapped up.
A figure descended from the broken rafters, landing without a sound. Her movements were elegant, inhuman.
Silver hair spilled down her back like molten moonlight. Crimson eyes shimmered with cruel amusement.
"You really are full of surprises," she said, her voice velvet and venom.
Before he could react, a blade was at his throat.
The woman stood before him, poised and beautiful—and utterly lethal.
"That was quite the performance, Sir Lancelot…" Her smirk deepened. "But far from perfect."
Lancelot's pulse quickened.
`Who the hell is this now...?`