The flat square before the main gates was covered with thousands of people. They waited in formation, in crowds and in separate groups, but all were forced to gather under a single gaze—a gaze that didn't seek participation, but rather met its criteria. On the platform, Arturia held Rhongonimiad straight before her; her spear didn't waver. Around her stood the knights, shoulder to shoulder, each in his own armor, ready to carry out the will of the crown.
As the spear glowed, the light descended upon the square, thick and silent. Those touched by its radiance suddenly changed: their faces brightened, their bodies became lighter, their feet seemed to lift themselves. They rose and passed under the arch of radiance, without pause, without fear, without hesitation—as if the light were opening a path before them and guiding them onward. There was no ostentatious loftiness in their gait; simply a steady, silent stride through the gate.
The rest remained on their knees. Their hands reached toward the platform, their lips whispered words of prayer or supplication, their voices sometimes breaking into hoarse pleading. No one could change the spear's decision; no one was given an explanation. The crowd thickened at the edges of the glow, and those who had been refused sank ever deeper, begging for mercy, accepting their sentence as inevitable.
Gawain stepped forward without pause. His stride was measured and calm, like that of a man who had long ago learned to distinguish between duty and compassion. He spoke no words. He sought no showmanship. His blade was drawn in one clear motion—short, precise, without unnecessary abruptness. Strike after strike, he carried out what was demanded of him: one movement—and the man fell. Each time, his hand returned to the hilt with the same immutability; each time, the blade descended, and life in the square ceased, quietly, quickly, and completely.
The other knights remained at their posts, maintaining order; Lancelot held the flank, ready to hold back the tide if it appeared, Tristan and Mordred stood ready to cover if needed. But Gawain carried out the execution. His blows were without pomp or threat—simply the precise execution of will, like a finely tuned piece of machinery.
The square's stone slabs gradually became stained. Blood seeped along the seams, soaking into the porosity of the stone, and sunlight briefly caught the iron of blades and the gleam of armor, reflecting a brief glow. These reflections seemed to serve only to emphasize the calculated nature of what was happening: an order completed through a repeated act. The entire scene unfolded according to an established sequence—light, passage, refusal, blow—and nothing interrupted this rhythm.
Arturia observed everything with a cold, majestic air. Her face remained serene, her gaze level, as if she were measuring not people but their conformity to some ideal. She did not intervene personally; her role was that of a guarantor, and she remained on the platform, holding the Rhongonymiad ready. At her command, the radiance spread and once again found its target—the next ones stepped forward to meet the light, the rest remained on their knees.
As the sequence repeated itself again and again, the square filled with the sound of falling metal and the heavy breathing of those who remained standing. Rhongonymiad did not hesitate, Gawain did not hesitate; the ritual continued, steady and relentless, until the ranks thinned, intersected, and the stand was the only place from which a resolute silence emanated.
Ritsuka couldn't resist.
Her feet shot forward through the crowd so silently and suddenly that those around her barely had time to flinch. Dust billowed beneath her boots, her hair fluttered, but there was no fear or doubt in her gaze—only determination. She broke free from the line of onlookers and rushed straight to the podium, to the place where the light of the Rongonimiad bathed those the crown deemed "pure."
The crowd began to murmur, some closing their eyes, some screaming, some trying to stop the girl. A pair of guards stepped toward her, raising their hands, but Ritsuka slipped between them without stopping. Her voice pierced the air—short but clear: "Stop!"—and that word contained all the plea, all the demand, that an ordinary girl, thrown into the cruel, sacred drama of an alien world, could utter.
Mash was nearby. She didn't hesitate for a second: the shield that usually hung behind her rose up, forming a dome of light and metal between the refugees and the podium. The shield easily absorbed some of the heat and dust erupting from the crowd's columns, and its shape shielded those standing in the thickest of the crowd—the women and children who lacked the strength to fight back.
Arturia noticed the movement immediately—as usual, calmly and emotionlessly. Her hand didn't twitch, but for a moment the light of the Rhongonimiad flickered and intensified its brilliance. This contact of two wills—the magical spear and the protective shield—generated not a simple spark, but a genuine impulse: the air around them compressed, as if someone had plucked an invisible string.
A pulse rippled across the square. It was felt not only by those standing nearby, but also by those at the very gates: the ringing of the warding bells arrayed within Camelot's walls rang out in a single, drawn-out signal. Lights flashed across armor in short bursts. The flames of guard torches flickered along the battlements—as if the city's very protective magic had awakened and responded to the ritual's interruption.
Arturia took this as a challenge, but she remained where she was. Her face betrayed no emotion; only her gaze grew slightly more intent. The knights on the platform shifted, ready to respond to any threat: Lancelot shifted his foot slightly, Gawain tensed, as if sensing the need to act, Mordred pressed her lips together, and Agravain raised his hand, as if to maintain order.
Meanwhile, Mash held the shield. Its surface remained still, dampening the distortion inflicted by the spear; thin cracks of energy glow were visible, spreading along the edge. The shield trembled with the returned power, and Mash, though strained, did not loosen her grip: the children and elderly hiding behind her armor were relatively safe for the duration of this moment.
The alarm sounded instantly throughout the city. Trumpets sounded on the walls; lighted signs appeared from the towers; squads of guards moved toward the square. The air within Camelot changed: the order—formal and absolute—was shattered. And even if most residents didn't yet understand what had happened, a feeling of unease and the unexpected swept through them like a cold wave.
Arturia lowered her spear slowly from the platform. The light around Rhongonymiad dimmed slightly, but did not fade. She did not order immediate reprisals; instead, her voice, when it rang out, was even and precise: "Speak up, those who dare defy the will of the crown." There was neither a threat nor a plea in this sentence—only a statement of authority.
Gawain stepped forward without fuss or theatrics. His knightly gait was even, every movement measured to the point of automatism; he held the sword in one hand as if it were a tool he had known all his life. The blade truly seemed filled with light—not a pulsating gleam, but a steady, almost emotionless glow that reflected the sun and cast brief, harsh gleams on the square's flagstones. He didn't shout or feign pathos; his face was serious, focused, ready to fulfill his duty.
Bedivere paused and slowly removed his cloak. The movement was unhurried, rather solemn. Beneath the fabric, a metal shoulder and a silver prosthetic arm were revealed, smooth and shiny, with inlays and carvings reminiscent of the craftsmanship of ancient masters. The prosthesis did not look like a pitiful substitute—it was a sign of an oath, a marker of the path traveled and the commitments made. Bedivere pulled his hand away from the hilt and held the prosthetic out, as if showing the world what he had lost and what he had gained for his ideal.
The first blow rang out sharply and clearly. The fight began without further preamble: two wills, two honed techniques clashed, and the space between them filled with the ringing of metal. Gawain's blows were precise and powerful, aimed to deprive his opponent of maneuver; he acted like a warrior bred by tradition and duty. Bedivere responded differently: his movements combined knightly bearing and survival practice—his prosthetic allowed him to deliver unexpected, practiced blows that didn't always follow the rules. Their steel met, cutting through the air, bouncing off shields, clanging against armor; each sound was clear enough to drown out the whispers of the crowd, but not so loud as to turn the duel into a spectacle.
The duel was majestic because both warriors had something to defend: form and meaning, duty and faith. It was tragic because both sides paid with their blood for what they believed in. No words passed between them; only steel communicated for them. At times, it seemed they weren't trying to destroy each other as individuals, but merely to prove the correctness of their own understanding of order and honor. Therein lay the tragedy: both acted out of a deep conviction that could not be touched by arguments or pleas.
The knight stood to the side, watching from afar. His mask concealed his face, but it didn't hinder his observation. He didn't interfere; his position was one of observation. With each clash of blades, a strange feeling grew within him—as if he were witnessing a repetition of a long-familiar scene: two men fighting for an ideal they both held dear. This déjà vu didn't turn into doubt; it was more of a captivating sensation: the familiar structure of conflict, the familiar brutality of choice from which others rarely emerge unscathed. He watched the duel intently, noting the rhythm, force, and vulnerability of each blow, memorizing how these two men healed or crippled their faith before everyone's eyes.
Ritsuka didn't hesitate for a second. She rushed into the crowd, pulled a woman and a child by the hand, pulled two more men toward her, and pulled them toward Mash. Mash's shield rose precisely and just in time: metal and magic formed a dome over the rescued people, allowing them to catch their breath and crawl away. Mash forcefully pushed the dense mass of poor people away from the line of fire, shielding them with her body, while Ritsuka stuffed water and bandages into bags, grabbed the elbows of those who couldn't walk, and dragged them away from the podium.
They didn't stage heroic feats—they acted quickly and pragmatically. Several times, Mash deflected arrows and spell fragments with her shield, and a couple of times blocked blows that would have struck the man behind her in the head. Ritsuka burned her palms as she encountered resistance from the crowd, pulling people out from under her feet and pulling them toward those Mash had managed to shield. Through the furs and dusty bandages, there were howls, whispers of gratitude, and the cries of those who hadn't been saved in time.
Once they managed to extract a few survivors from the danger zone, the team quietly retreated toward the edge of the square, hiding behind the scattered columns and debris. They weren't looking for a fight—their task was simple: save those who still breathed. Behind them, the square continued to function according to its own cruel logic: light passed, a blow completed the sentence, another row—and then the same order again.
Gawain stood motionless on the blood-stained slab. He didn't follow them, didn't shout, didn't pursue. His gaze was fixed on the retreating group; his sword hand didn't waver. His face bore the expression of one who has fulfilled his duty: neither joy nor doubt. He watched Ritsuka and Mash lead the men away, and there was no rush in this observation: he saw only the fulfillment of a will and the acceptance of the result.
Arturia lowered her spear and, without taking her eyes off the departing figures of the people, said in a voice even and detached:
"They are trespassers. Find them and bring them to me."
The rescued team disappeared into the labyrinth of streets and overhanging arcades, and Mash and Ritsuka stood wearily behind a column, listening to the footsteps receding from them. An oppressive silence fell over the square once again, broken only by the rustling of cloaks and the faint scraping of swords.
The knight took a step back, then slowly turned his head toward the sun. Everything flashed in the reflection of his mask: the desert dunes on the horizon, the dark stains on the rocks—blood—and far above them, the glow of the Rhongonimiad, piercing the sky. His mask reflected this image emotionlessly; he didn't blink. In the mirrored surface of the metal, the combination of desert, blood, and light seemed an inevitability from which one could neither turn away nor escape.