Once upon a time,
There is a boy who would one day be hailed as the Once and Future King but he was not born into glory.
Arthur Pendragon came into a world where magic defined power. Every noble, every royal, every great warrior possessed some blessing of sorcery like flames at their fingertips, storms at their call or even possessed a dragon-like power.
But not Arthur.
Though royal blood flowed in his veins, no spell ever answered him. No spark, no flame, no whisper of arcane power. He was a prince without magic and because of that, he was mocked, ridiculed, called a mistake of fate. Even his own kin looked upon him as a shadow of the Pendragon line.
Yet, where magic failed him, willpower carried him.
The boy trained his body until his muscles ached, raised his sword until his hands bled. He endured humiliation, endured defeat, endured the loneliness of a prince with no gift until at last, his strength shone brighter than any spell.
The only people that trust all of his hardworks is his friend who is also his mentor, Merlin and his other best friend, Lancelot.
And when destiny called, it was Arthur who stepped forward to draw the sword from the stone. The blade of kings, Excalibur did not ask for magic. It asked for worth.
And Arthur answered.
From that day, he rose as Britain's greatest leader. He forged a kingdom of honor and justice, binding together noble knights and outcasts alike into one brotherhood including one of his friends, Sir Lancelot into the Knights of the Round Table. No king above another, no knight beneath another. Only equals, bound by oath and valor.
But even the strongest king was still a man.
At the edge of a tranquil lake, he met her.
Guinevere.
The princess by the Swan Lake.
Arthur had thought himself incapable of love, his life devoted to crown and blade but when she smiled, the world grew warm. For the first time, the boy who carried a kingdom on his back felt the weight lift.
With her, he was not king. He was simply Arthur.
The night before their wedding, he felt joy he had never known. Tomorrow, he thought, his life as a king and as a man would be whole.
He married his lifelong love and made Guinevere his Queen. And both of them rule over The Kingdom of Logres inside their castle at the center of Camelot.
But destiny is cruel.
One night, the truth came to him like a blade through the heart.
Guinevere did not love him.
Her heart had been taken by another… by one of his own brothers-in-arms. His most trusted knight. His friend, Sir Lancelot.
The betrayal cut deeper than any wound on the battlefield.
The whole nation is shocked and they almost crumble after knowing the news that their Queen has run away with one of the knights who is also the king's trusted companion.
Arthur's kingdom would remain strong, his legend would not falter. But the man behind the crown… he would never be the same.
He carried that pain with him, hidden beneath the shining armor, beneath the noble kingly visage. The weight of betrayal, the burden of broken love had chained forever to his soul.
And now, in the coliseum of gods and men, as Alexander's spear drove deep into his chest, that pain stirred once more.
The wound was not just flesh, it awakened scars of the past.
Yet even so… Arthur still stood.
The king who lost love. The king who bled for loyalty. The king with no magic, who rose by will alone.
The king who refuses to fall.
The crowd roars as Arthur stumbles back, blood splattering the stone floor. Alexander's U-shaped sarissa drips crimson, the conqueror standing tall and unreadable.
Arthur grips his chest, Excalibur trembling in his hand. His breath comes heavy.
Then…
The battlefield dissolves in his mind. The clash of steel, the screams of the crowd, all fade into silence.
Instead, Arthur sees her.
A swan gliding over a moonlit lake. A smile warmer than sunlight. Guinevere.
For a moment, his heart softens. He remembers that warmth, that fleeting dream of peace.
But then the memory shifts. Her lips were not pressed to his, but to another's. The face of Lancelot, his most trusted knight. Betrayal sharper than any blade. The same scar of heartbreak now echoes with the pain in his chest.
Arthur clenches his teeth.
"Even if love betrays me… even if my heart is torn…"
His grip on Excalibur tightens, the blade humming faintly with golden light.
"…I am still the king who must stand for his people."
The flashback shatters. He is back in the arena, bloodied but unbroken. His eyes burn not with magic, but with unyielding resolve.
Rumpelstiltskin's voice cracks with excitement from above:
"Look at him! Even after that brutal strike, the True King rises again! This is no sorcery, no divine blessing! This is the iron will of a man who has already bled more than any king alive!"
The crowd erupts, half in awe, half in disbelief.
Arthur raises Excalibur, pointing it at Alexander. His voice thunders across the arena:
"Conqueror! You may cut me down a hundred times, but I will rise a hundred more. For I am Arthur Pendragon, King of Britain, The ruler of the Kingdom of Logres!"
The atmosphere explodes, fairy tale creatures gasp, humans across the world pound tables and cheer, even some Grimm spectators widen their eyes.
And Alexander?
For the first time, his stoic mask twitches. Just a hint of a smile.
"So the king still has teeth."
He lowers his sarissa into a ready stance.
The duel is far from over.
Arthur with blood dripping from the scar on his chest. Grip the handle of the legendary sword and ready for another clash of steel.
Then, they start to rush towards each other and the Excalibur and the sarissa scream against each other, sparks spraying like fireworks across the shattered stone. Blow after blow, the two legends carve furrows into the arena floor, neither yielding an inch.
Alexander shifts, his every movement precise, every strike calculated as if commanding an invisible army. Yet his chest thrums with something he has long buried, excitement.
For the first time since his best friend, Hephaestion, someone matched him stride for stride. He remembered the nights in his youth, laughing, training, dreaming of carving their names into history together. His eyes soften, just for a heartbeat, and in that blur of memory, he sees Hephaestion's face superimposed on Arthur's.
That brief second is all it takes.
Arthur's sharp knightly instinct senses it, the crack in the conqueror's mask.
He pivots, blood spraying from his chest wound as he twists his body into a perfect arc. Excalibur gleams golden, flaring with his will.
Arthur roars the name of his strike, his voice like a king delivering judgment:
"ROYAL VERDICT!"
The blade slams against Alexander's side, tearing through armor and flesh. Blood bursts across the arena floor as the Conqueror is sent skidding backward, his spear gouging deep trenches as he struggles to stop his fall.
The crowd explodes. Fairy creatures leap to their feet, howling in shock. Humans across the world scream in disbelief - the True King landed a decisive blow!
Rumpelstiltskin nearly shrieks from the commentary box, his voice cracking with manic glee:
"Arthur's done it! The True King has carved through the Conqueror's iron defense with his very soul! That was no ordinary strike, ladies and gentlemen—that was Arthur's judgment upon the ages!"
Noah and Lucianne lean forward in their seats, hearts pounding. Lucianne grips her notebook tight, whispering, "That looks like one hell of a damage towards Alexander…"
And across the arena, the Grimm Brothers sit in their gilded throne-like chairs. Hans smirks, leaning to his brother.
"See, Leo? The humans also bleed early. Your so-called strategist wasn't flawless after all."
But Leo doesn't answer. His eyes are narrowed, studying Alexander. Not the blood dripping from his side, but the faint smile tugging at his lips.
Alexander stands tall again, spear in hand, bloodied but grinning for the first time.
His voice is low, yet carries across the arena:
"Excellent. Show me more, King of Britain… show me how far your will can go."
And with that, he lunges forward again.
His boots thunder across the arena floor, the sarissa aimed like a lightning bolt. But as steel and flesh blur together, his mind is pulled elsewhere, back to the sun-baked lands of Macedonia.
He sees himself not as the bloodied warrior in the present, but as the young prince who stood on the ridges above armies. A boy with an unshaken gaze, his face stoic even when victory came at the cost of countless lives. Men hailed him as brilliant, cold, unstoppable. A commander who never faltered.
Yet behind that mask, there had only ever been one person who truly saw him.
Hephaestion.
A memory blossoms of two boys sparring under the harsh sun of the Aristotle school at Mieza in the ancient greek. Alexander strikes hard, precise, yet always expressionless. Other children mocked him and called him stone-faced, soulless. He would return to his quarters alone, nights colder than the marble pillars that lined the palace halls.
But Hephaestion stayed.
Hephaestion laughed.
Hephaestion believed.
"You don't need to smile for the world, Alexander," Hephaestion had once told him, clapping him on the shoulder after a spar. "Just fight with me by your side, and that's enough."
His friend is never a military type companion and more to tactical and political expert rather than sword and spear. But, he still becomes Alexander's personal bodyguard and always be beside him. Hephaestion is the only one Alexander can talk about his secrets with. Nothing can separate them apart.
Until…
The memory shifts again.
In front of Alexander, is his best friend's lifeless body and he can not do anything about it. Hephaestion has been hit with a serious illness that caused him to be bed ridden. Alexander was somewhere else at the time and when the news of his friend's illness comes to him, he quickly rushes to come back to their camp before it's too late.
But… It is too late.
The illness has taken his closest companion.
For the first time, the stone-faced Alexander wept. Not before his soldiers, not before the world but alone in the dark of his tent. The conqueror, the boy who had everything, brought to his knees by the loss of the one who made him human.
Back in the arena.
Alexander's strike carries the weight of that memory. His expression cracks, ever so slightly, not into grief but into something sharper that is resolve born of loss.
Rumpelstiltskin gasps from the commentary box, voice trembling with both horror and delight:
"Ohoho… I see it… I see it! The Conqueror's mask is breaking! He's not just fighting Arthur Pendragon but he's fighting with a ghost at his back!"
Alexander roars, his voice shaking the stone of the coliseum:
"This spear carries the will of Hephaestion! The world may have taken him, but it will never take my conquest!"
He closes the gap, sarissa sweeping like a tempest toward Arthur's chest.
Arthur braces himself, Excalibur gleaming, his face grim but unyielding.