The temporary camp of Arthur's Army.
They were currently laying the foundation for a new kingdom called Logres, constructing Castle Camelot, which would one day serve as their glorious capital.
But until the castle was completed, they were forced to live in tents, constantly patrolling the surrounding plains and forests to hunt down the remnants of the Saxon forces.
Of course, there were existing towns, so living outdoors wasn't strictly necessary. However, the Saxons would never have allowed them to settle in peace; thus, the knights had to lead from the front and fight.
It was dinner time, following the conclusion of another blood-soaked battle.
In the center of a clearing lit by hundreds of torches, several massive iron cauldrons hung over fires to provide rations for the soldiers.
Only the crackle of burning firewood filled the quiet camp. No one displayed the usual anticipation or vitality that typically precedes a meal.
Instead, the scent rising from the pots did nothing to whet the appetite of the famished soldiers; it only prompted deep, heavy sighs.
"Alright, here are today's rations! Fresh eel, just caught from the nearby river! Don't leave a scrap—clear your plates!"
The soldiers tasked with cooking shouted in lifeless voices, shoveling the contents of the cauldrons with ladles and dumping them haphazardly into the soldiers' bowls.
To call it a "dish" was a profound insult to the ingredients. The eels, which had been crawling along the riverbed, had their entrails barely removed before being chopped into large chunks and boiled in plain water with a handful of salt. The result was horrific.
Furthermore, because the large-scale distribution took so long, the eel skins and bones had burst in the pot, releasing a thick amount of collagen.
As it cooled in the chilly night air, the broth had solidified into a grayish, translucent, and gooey eel jelly.
"...Sigh."
In front of the king's tent.
Artoria looked down at her tray—at the glossy eel jelly reeking of river slime and the lumps of pale, roughly salted potatoes—and let out a deep sigh.
Originally, Artoria had been more than just a transcendent glutton; she was a goddess of eating who could effortlessly devour the portions of ten Knights of the Round Table.
She remembered the days when Kay would prepare mountain-high piles of juicy wild boar barbecue, spicy and rich meat stews, freshly baked bread redolent of butter, and fruit tarts slathered in honey. At that table, she would always watch with sparkling eyes, finishing three or four bowls with a blissful smile.
But in the five years since he had disappeared...
The barren wartime rations of Britain had completely destroyed her delicate palate and the very joy of eating.
It tastes horrible. It's like chewing on a fishy eraser. And why is the texture so slimy...
Artoria poked at the eel jelly with a wooden spoon, squeezed her eyes shut, and forced a chunk into her mouth.
It slid down her throat with a repulsive, slippery sensation that required no chewing, making her stomach let out a small scream of protest.
As king, she could not show weakness by leaving food on her plate in front of her soldiers. Driven solely by the obligation to survive, she moved her jaw mechanically.
Beside her, Lily was in no better state. Her usual polite, bright smile had vanished; she merely picked at the dry, chalky mashed potatoes with the tip of her spoon, swallowing her tears.
"Ugh..."
"Pinch your nose and swallow it whole without chewing. Don’t let it touch your tongue."
In this wretched dining scene, the soldiers were not savoring a meal; they were enduring torture.
A short distance away, Bedivere watched the scene with a bitter expression and downed a glass of sour ale in one gulp.
"Khrg... To think this spoiled, cheap ale would be my only salvation."
To wash down the foul taste and rinse away the fishy aftertaste, the soldiers and knights gulped down the acidic, potent ale—something they would normally never touch—as if it were the water of life.
The laughter and harmony that should have accompanied a meal had long since vanished.
"Tch. This isn't a meal. It's just fodder."
"If only Sir Kay were here... he would have filleted and fried these muddy eels, tossing them in some incredible seasoning."
"He did that once, didn't he? The grilled eel. It was a delicacy you couldn't find anywhere else in Britain. I miss it even more today."
A few veteran mercenaries, who had fought alongside Kay since the beginning, chewed the hardened eel jelly and quietly whispered his name.
"Sir Bedivere! Here, don’t just drink alone—try some of my special dish!"
At that moment, Gawain, completely oblivious to the gloomy atmosphere of the camp, approached Bedivere with a beaming grin, carrying a huge pot piled high with a white, mashed potato concoction.
"Today, I have prepared my own signature mashed potatoes! I've carefully mashed them and added just a tiny pinch of salt to maximize the raw, natural flavor of the earth—a top-tier nutritional meal! What do you think? His Majesty always clears her plate without leaving a single grain when it's my cooking! Ha ha ha ha!"
Gawain firmly believed, without a shred of doubt, that his culinary skills were the finest among the knights.
The oblivious Knight of the Sun failed to realize that the only reason Artoria emptied her tray was due to her royal dignity and sheer starvation, all while swallowing tears of misery.
Bedivere looked at the dry, flavorless mass—which resembled raw flour dough more than food—and let out a hollow laugh.
Sadly, Gawain was the only person in Arthur's Army capable of cooking ingredients without burning them into charcoal.
The other knights, including Bedivere, were masters of the blade on the battlefield, but they were absolute disasters in the kitchen. Consequently, they were in no position to complain about Gawain's cooking.
"...Thank you, Sir Gawain. But in moments like this... I cannot help but ache for Sir Kay."
"Hmm? You mean the man who vanished into another world?"
Gawain took a large bite of his stodgy potatoes and tilted his head.
"I heard he performed incredible magic whenever he held a kitchen knife. Was he truly better at cooking than my perfect mashed potatoes?"
It was a question of pure, arrogant innocence.
Bedivere was nearly speechless, but he couldn't bring himself to tell Gawain the brutal truth: that his cooking was inferior to basic combat rations.
He took a silent swig of the sour ale and spoke softly.
"Sir Gawain's cooking... is excellent fuel that allows the soldiers to swing their swords the next day. I do not deny that. But... Sir Kay's cooking had soul."
Bedivere's gaze drifted toward the starlit sky. Memories from five years ago shimmered like a mirage.
"At the table he set, the fear in the soldiers' eyes vanished even in the face of Saxon spears, and everyone could laugh together like a family. It wasn't just about the taste. It was the warmth of the stew that thawed frozen hands, the scent of crisp meat pies that gave us the strength to endure grueling training... His kitchen was the only sanctuary permitted in this hellish Britain."
Bedivere's mournful voice drifted with the campfire smoke, scattering into the heavy night air.
"Perhaps... the true golden age, when our army was happiest and strongest, wasn't now, as we expand our territory and build a grand castle... but those days when Sir Kay would hum a tune by the cauldron while preparing our meals."
Hearing Bedivere's soliloquy, Gawain slowly set down his spoon, dazed.
Silence settled over the camp.
Despite the birth of the great kingdom of Logres, the knights and soldiers spent the long night with emptier stomachs and hollower hearts than ever before.
They were painfully aware of the void left by the only cook who had ever truly filled their souls.
Meanwhile, at that very moment, a very different kind of bloody drama was unfolding at the royal castle of North Wales.
Lancer Alter, having lost her reason, pointed her spear at Kay and issued a savage declaration.
"Fine! In that case, Brother Kay! I formally challenge you to a duel! If you cannot conquer me by force, then you must go quietly to the bedroom and accept me as your lover!"
Lancer Alter was secretly confident of victory.
Five years ago, while Kay was respectable in combat, he was no match for her, and he had always been endlessly gentle and soft toward his younger sisters.
She believed he would never truly strike or hurt her, and her shallow calculation was that he would simply give up and accept her demands.
However.
"Is that so? I wonder how much you've grown while leading that mercenary band. Shall your big brother put your skills to the test?"
"Huh...?"
Kay's gaze shifted instantly, transforming into the cold, piercing eyes of the warrior who had been forged under Scáthach's tutelage.
In the next instant, a colossal golden axe appeared in Kay's hand.
It was too massive and brutal to be called a mere axe—a heavy, golden weapon nearly two meters long, once wielded by the legendary Queen of the Amazons.
It was Hippolyta's Axe.
When that brutish hunk of metal slammed into the training ground, the earth split open, sending a tremendous tremor through the ground.
"...?! B-Brother? Where on earth did that monstrous axe come from...?"
Lancer Alter stumbled backward in confusion.
Suddenly, a tale she had heard from her subordinates during her mercenary days flashed through her mind.
"Captain, have you heard? A knight acquaintance of mine once overwhelmingly defeated a proud female knight in a duel, and then took her as his wife. They say that while defeat is a humiliation, it can sometimes lead to love."
Right! That's it!
Lancer Alter cheered inwardly.
Kay stood there with that brutish golden axe. What if she fought just enough to collapse pitifully in his arms?
He would worry, scoop her up, and in that moment, she would tearfully declare that her body and heart belonged entirely to him.
She would outshine those annoying fox sisters and, as the perfect, tragic heroine of defeat, monopolize Kay's love.
Alright. I'll lose in the most perfect, seductive way possible.
With a small smirk, Lancer Alter deliberately loosened the magical flow of her holy spear and charged at Kay with an elegant, graceful stride.
"Come at me, Brother! And take my body to your heart's content—!"
However.
Kay didn't notice his sister's cutesy honey-trap operation at all.
All he saw was his admirable younger sister, who had apparently grown quite strong in Northern Britain, giving him her all.
Kugugugugu!!!
Kay's powerful muscles expanded, and the golden axe tore through the air, swinging downward.
There was no mercy, no romance, and no compromise in that strike. It was pure, unadulterated violence, as if a massive mountain were falling from the heavens.
"...Huh?"
The moment Lancer Alter faced the overwhelming, remorseless trajectory of the axe blade descending upon her, the romantic defeat scenario in her head vanished instantly.
Holy crap. If that hits me, I'm dead.
Forget "pitifully losing"—if she took that hit, her upper and lower halves would be saying a permanent goodbye.
Sensing a lethal threat, Lancer Alter instinctively pushed her Dragon's Heart to its limit, pouring every ounce of magical energy into her spear to assume a desperate defensive stance.
"Wait, wait, Brother!! Are you actually serious?!!"
"If you're a Celt, then respond properly!!!"
KWA-BOOM!!!!
A colossal golden explosion rocked the royal castle of North Wales.
It was the moment Brother Kay's merciless full swing shattered his sister's "adorable courtship" with pure, raw physical force.
Kugugugung!!!!
Tch, what is this insane strength?! He's on par with me, or maybe even stronger?!
Lancer Alter barely managed to block the strike with her spear. However, the force of Kay's downward blow was so fierce that her arms and legs trembled violently.
In terms of raw physical prowess, she was superior to almost everyone and the strongest among the sisters, yet she was being overpowered by Kay.
Then, Kay's eyes flashed, and a heavy knee kick slammed into her.
WHAM!!!
"Kugh!?"
Lancer Alter was sent reeling backward by the blow. Kay then tossed the axe over his shoulder and reset his stance.
"Wait, wait! Are you really intending to make this a fight to the death?!"
"Recently," Kay answered earnestly.
"After seeing that fellow Taquin overpower and humiliate Artoria, I realized I've spoiled you all too much. No matter how precious you are to me as family, I should have raised you to be tougher. I left your training entirely to Merlin, and it seems he was too soft. You are of Celtic blood, Britons; you should have been raised by warriors, not a nightmare. Merlin is just a mage who happens to be decent with a blade."
"What do you mean by—"
"I finally understand why Scáthach trained me so harshly. Because I am precious to her, she couldn't stand the thought of me being beaten by others. Now, I feel the same. I cannot bear the thought of you being pushed around by nobodies. Since you are geniuses, shouldn't you become even stronger than I am?"
Kuguguguk...!
As he gripped the axe tighter, his physique began to expand, his muscles bulging. Heat and steam began to emanate from his body.
He was accelerating his heart rate and blood flow to raise his body temperature and enhance his physical capabilities. This was a constitution manifested through sheer effort; hormones secreted by his brain caused his muscles to temporarily hypertrophy.
"So, I won't be gentle with you anymore. Don't worry, though. Even if you get hurt—even if a limb gets severed—Tamamo can heal you instantly. I won't actually blow you away, so don't worry. I'll control my strength."
"Wait, that's not reassuring at all—!"
Then, Kay's eyes glowed red.
Even with solid fundamentals, there is a wall that cannot be overcome by basics alone. There are countless heroes, including Setanta, with perfect fundamentals. But each of them possessed their own unique techniques. For you, it would be difficult to master such techniques on your own.
So what? Instead of an original technique, you're saying you'll teach me someone else's?
Precisely. It is a technique that even the gods admired. Since my specialty is the spear, it wasn't to my taste, but it will suit you perfectly as a user of the axe and sword. A martial art that is both a skill and a Noble Phantasm. Of course, even if you spent your entire life practicing, I doubt you could master even a fragment of it. In fact, you probably couldn't.
Then it's pointless!
Kay, I gave you wisdom. Use that wisdom, and you will be able to temporarily wield a fragment of it. It is a style centered around the Greek sword, the Falcata. I learned it myself, though it didn't suit me. I shall pass it to you. Use your wisdom to manifest it. I usually dislike such shortcuts, but I will make a special exception for you.
Special treatment, huh?
In exchange, do not go around getting hurt in Britain. This is a promise akin to a Geass.
"...Give it everything you've got. Be sincere. Otherwise, things will get very ugly."
Shiver!
Kay's aura shifted completely, and Lancer Alter's instincts screamed a warning.
If I can't block or dodge this, I'm dead.
Then, he charged. The massive axe swung with devastating force.
"<Gashky: Nine Lives>"
Nine consecutive strikes, unleashed almost simultaneously, whirled through the air like a descending dragon.
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