"Rhongomyniad is the key to the world's end."
To be honest, Scáthach's assessment slightly inverted cause and effect.
It wasn't that drawing the holy lance caused the apocalypse, but that the apocalypse's arrival necessitated its use... that was the true purpose of the lance's existence.
For the gods of this island, however, the distinction was meaningless.
"When the true end times arrive, this lance will be entrusted to the savior to fulfill their mission." Scáthach said.
"But, in truth, what humanity truly desires is that this lance never be drawn."
Gazing at the Tower of Radiance, gleaming with blinding light, Scáthach let out a sigh.
Alaric shared her sentiment.
In that moment, he understood the perilous nature of what Merlin intended to place in Artoria's hands, why Vortigern spoke of "even greater destruction" upon seeing the lance, and why Artoria imposed thirteen seals on Rhongomyniad, requiring the Round Table's consensus to unleash its true power.
It was an ill-omened force.
Not a cure, but a potent painkiller. The moment it was used, the situation was beyond salvation. As long as it remained untouched, no matter how dire things became, there was still hope for redemption.
"One last question." Alaric said. "Master, after walking that path, do you regret it?"
Scáthach froze.
For the first time, she looked at the white dragon, whose gaze remained fixed on the Tower of Radiance, with a puzzled expression.
She didn't recall ever sharing those details with him.
"How does he know?" She wondered, suspecting Alaric had awakened some strange power... perhaps clairvoyance to glimpse the past or the ability to peer into hearts.
But no matter.
Scáthach was Scáthach.
The oldest human hero, never one to mince words.
"It's been painful, yes." She admitted.
"When I gripped my weapon, my mind went blank. All I thought about was fighting my way through… and before I knew it, I'd reached this point, with no way to turn back."
Reflecting on her past, Scáthach's voice carried a hint of wistfulness.
From an "ordinary" Human girl to a hero capable of slaying gods, completing her path to divinity... the hardships were hers alone to know, the costs hers alone to bear.
"But since it was the path I chose, how could I regret it?"
"To pursue victory, some sacrifices are inevitable, aren't they?"
"Or rather… a victory without sacrifice... how could that be true victory?"
The oldest human hero imparted her life's greatest lesson to this unexpected "disciple."
Her words reminded Alaric of an "old friend."
"I respect victory."
"No matter what happens, I only respect victory!"
Alaric murmured to himself, as the system interface's [Certain Victory] concept, extracted from Excalibur, glowed brightly.
Camelot Kingdom, Temporary Palace.
Another ordinary day.
Having waited an entire day in the Dragon's Sanctuary without Alaric's return, Artoria returned to the council chamber, dejected.
The room held its usual setup: the king handling critical affairs, Bedivere compiling and presenting intelligence, and the magus lounging by the window, munching on an apple.
"Well, well, the king seems upset." Merlin teased, noting the gloom of the king who'd returned empty-handed.
Of course, she wasn't angry at Alaric... she was worried about the island's fate. Knowing a solution existed only made her more eager to find it and defeat the White Dragon King in one fell swoop.
"But such things can't be rushed, can they?" Merlin said.
"There's still time. Why not address the immediate issue?"
"Like… entertaining a noble guest, perhaps?"
Merlin glanced out the window, a "surprised" Smile playing on his lips.
"A noble guest? Who?" Artoria asked.
"Has Guinevere returned?"
In this kingdom, the princess was indeed considered "noble"... not just for her beauty, but for her kindness and her contributions during Camelot's darkest days, bringing vital supplies and volunteering as the kingdom's diplomat to negotiate with other leaders.
To outsiders, Camelot's favorable reputation owed half to Artoria, the king who forged a divine pact, and half to Guinevere, the graceful and exemplary princess.
"Hey, don't let the other princess hear that... she's terribly vindictive." Merlin said with a laugh, referring to the equally noble but less beloved Red Dragon Princess, Morgan.
In the next moment, his expression turned serious.
"But this guest is far nobler than both princesses combined."
"???"
Artoria raised her head, puzzled by Merlin's cryptic words.
But Merlin never lied.
"Fine, fine, let's see just how noble this guest is... "
With a spark of curiosity, Artoria rose from her seat, ready to leave the palace and greet this "noble guest" Merlin spoke of.
But there was no need.
Clang...
The heavy doors swung open from the outside.
A small figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light, their face obscured.
But their irritated voice was unmistakably familiar to Artoria... a familiarity etched in her soul.
"This is my kingdom!"
"Who are you calling a guest, magus?"
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