Chapter 59: Grangotte -3-

The upper floors of the Obsidian Castle had vanished into thin air.

Amid the ruins where acrid smoke and dust were settling, Medusa knelt in silence.

Though it was a trophy claimed after a brutal struggle, Medusa's fingers caressed the dagger as if it were not a weapon at all.

It was as if she were tenderly stroking the cheek of a long-lost child, her touch brimming with boundless care and affection.

"Medusa. Are you injured anywhere?"

Kay picked his way over the shattered rubble and approached. Though Tamamo's talismans had provided emergency treatment, her robes were still torn in places, and burn scars marred her skin.

In answer to Kay's worried question, Medusa held the dagger close to her chest, a faint, exquisite smile gracing her lips—completely unlike her usual cold demeanor.

"Yes, Master. I am fine. But… please look at this. My child has finally returned to my arms."

"Child? Ah, you mean Chrysaor. In Greek myth, he was said to have been born from your body, after all."

Kay nodded and stared at the dagger. Then, on a whim, he let slip the shallow bit of mythological trivia that had popped into his head.

"But wasn't his father supposed to be Poseidon?"

In an instant.

The gentle smile that had bloomed on Medusa's face snapped as cold as ice. Her violet eyes slit like snakes', and a frigid killing intent froze the very air around the spire.

"...No."

Medusa ground her teeth and denied it decisively.

"That hideous male deity has nothing to do with this child. Neither Pegasus nor Chrysaor… they are merely lives conceived from my pure blood seeping into the earth when my head was severed. I will not have that filthy god's name bound to my child's birth by even a single letter."

Medusa's vehement loathing for Poseidon shone through without restraint. Kay broke into a cold sweat and scratched the back of his head in alarm.

"Ah, right. Sorry, sorry. I just blurted out something pointless. You know, the bit about Poseidon blessing the two…"

"No."

"Ah, sorry."

Kay peered down at the golden dagger nestled in Medusa's arms, and she offered him a faint smile.

"Let's not call him the child of such trash. Let's say he is our child—yours and mine."

"Huh."

"We are husband and wife, after all, aren't we?"

"So suddenly we're getting an adopted kid? Well, I don't really mind. It's just that to my eyes, he only ever looked like a sword—sorry about that."

"Heehee. Just give him a gentle stroke once in a while."

Kay stared at Chrysaor in silence before a mischievous grin crossed his features.

"Son, did you know your mom is quite the nympho? She gets scandalously lewd every single night."

"W-what are you saying…? And didn't you say you liked me that way?"

"Exactly. That's why I love you. A cool, composed beauty who turns into a slut at night—that's the real charm."

Kay chuckled and wrapped an arm around Medusa's waist. Blushing, she turned her head away in embarrassment...

"Haah. Here we are, getting all lovey-dovey in the middle of a dusty ruin."

At that moment, Jeanne d’Arc Alter clicked her tongue and approached over the debris. Blood splatters marred her armor, a sign that the cleanup inside the castle had been fiercely contested.

"The garrison's all been dealt with. There were a few pesky subordinates under that giant, but…"

KWA-AAAAANG!!

No sooner had Jeanne d’Arc Alter finished speaking than a blinding flash erupted near the east annex of the castle. A massive X-shaped surge of magical light shot skyward, cleaving the annex building in half.

"...Looks like they just finished it."

Jeanne d’Arc Alter shook her head as if sickened. That golden X-shaped flash was a spectacular full stop, signaling that every battle in the castle was completely over.

Moments later, Britomart ascended the shattered spiral staircase with heavy steps.

Beside her, the queen, Irena, looked haggard as she was supported by Britomart.

"...Everyone. I'm glad you're safe."

Bowing her head, Britomart's face bore not joy, but a deep sorrow.

"Lady Medusa. I never imagined you would single-handedly dispatch that dreadful tyrant before I even arrived. As the fairy queen's envoy, I offer you my deepest gratitude."

"There is no need for thanks," Medusa replied quietly.

"He was truly a force beyond measure. If he had been even slightly more skilled at handling the stolen Keraunos and the power of Chrysaor… I would have been the one defeated."

Bitterly smiling at Medusa's humble assessment, Britomart's gaze fell on the gruesome corpse of Grangotte lying on the floor.

"On the way here, we rescued Queen Irena from the underground prison. And… we also retrieved the body of Sir Arthégal."

Britomart's voice quivered slightly.

"He was the one the Queen said would be my destined partner. If only I had arrived sooner…"

Buckled over with her head bowed, Britomart's shoulders trembled. Kay silently approached and patted her armored shoulder with his large hand.

"Don't blame yourself so much, Lady Britomart. If you hadn't led us here, Queen Irena would have perished in the dungeons, and that tyrant would have slaughtered even more innocents. You fulfilled your mission admirably. And you avenged Sir Arthégal. This country is saved because of you."

At Kay's rough but heartfelt reassurance, Britomart quietly wiped away tears and nodded.

"Thank you, Sir Kay. …Oh, and this."

She held up the loot found beside Grangotte's body: Keraunos.

"Lady Medusa defeated the tyrant, so please accept this Keraunos as well."

But Medusa shook her head.

"I cannot wield it. It is incompatible with my attributes. And besides, I am disinclined to use the power of the Olympian gods."

"Then Master…?"

Jeanne d’Arc Alter looked at Kay, but Kay also waved his hands in refusal.

"I can’t take it either. That thing looks like a huge mana-drain. It's not just a divine artifact—it's the weapon of a chief god. No way I could handle it."

Finally, Kay shouted into the air.

"Hey, Tamamo! Think you could give this a shot? You're a divine spirit and all—you ought to be able to handle it, right?"

Poof! In a cloud of pink smoke, Tamamo appeared.

"Oh dear, Master. It seems I'm not exactly suited either. That Keraunos is quite a finicky piece. And since I'm contracted to you as your Servant, your ordinary mana reserves won't be able to handle that weapon's consumption. You'd be better off with…"

Tamamo swished her tail and pointed at someone walking up behind them.

"See that Caster shuffling over there? She'd be perfect for it."

At the tip of Tamamo's finger stood Caster, leaning on her staff as she approached.

"Oh? Keraunos? Hehe, if there's no one else who can use it, I would happily take it, dear brother♡"

Caster readily took the thunderbolt and tucked it away. The division of spoils was roughly complete.

Kay clapped once and rallied the group.

"Alright, that’s done. Let’s recover the tyrant’s body, repair Ehangwen, and get ready to return to North Wales!"

With the fairy queen set to handle the cleanup, their expedition was over.

Grangotte’s blood-soaked tyranny abruptly ended in a dull thud before their overwhelming strength.

However, the opposite held true across the sea in southern Britain.

In the forests and plains of southern Britain, gray despair and the scent of blood never ceased.

"Hyaaah...!!"

KWA-ANG!!

Wave after wave of sword-beams from Excalibur rained down, cleaving several Saxon warriors wielding massive axes in half at once. Their filthy blood spattered across Artoria’s armor and her pale cheeks, staining them red.

"Your Majesty! Enemy reinforcements are advancing along the right ridge!"

"Hold the line! Do not give an inch!"

The war of attrition against the Saxons showed no end in sight.

Amid the endless tide of enemies that poured in despite how many fell, Artoria’s eyes were slowly dimming. Her soul—swinging her sword like a machine—had already worn thin from exhaustion.

Five years. The battlefield where Kay’s warm meals and smiles had vanished was no longer a beautiful homeland to protect for Artoria—it had become an inescapable hellscape.

At last, the long day’s battle waned, and night fell upon the encampment.

To Artoria, slumped in front of her tent, drenched in the stench of blood and dust, came her greatest dread… mealtime.

"Your Majesty!! You've worked hard today!!"

Gawain beamed and swaggered forward toward Artoria, his hearty voice booming.

He carried a massive wooden tub in both hands, piled high with steaming white blobs made from crushed potatoes. Gawain’s signature dish: mashed potatoes.

"Today’s fighting was especially brutal, so I didn’t even get to wash properly before cooking! But Gawain here, fueled by loyalty to the King, fired up the hearth and crushed these potatoes to deliver the finest feast!"

Artoria, resigned, held out her empty mess tray. Gawain scooped the mashed potatoes with a large ladle and plopped them before her.

But then.

Today, the mashed potatoes on her plate looked... off. Instead of their usual pale white, they were streaked with a murky gray, pockmarked with black specks and lumps.

To any eye, it was a cocktail of dirt and rock dust.

"...Sir Gawain."

Artoria’s voice quivered slightly.

"What on earth is with the color of these potatoes… and these... inedible granules?"

Gawain laughed heartily as he spread both thick palms. They were crusted with the stone dust, mud, and dried blood from smashing Saxon bones and armor.

"Hahaha!! I didn’t have time to wash my hands, so I mashed these taters with my bare palms, and I guess a bit of battlefield dirt and sand snuck in! But fear not, Your Majesty!"

Gawain pounded his chest proudly.

"On the contrary, the rugged sweat and earth of an unwashed knight blend together, creating the ultimate delicacy with real hand-flavor—the taste of nature itself!! Hahahaha!!"

"...."

Artoria stared down at the gray, muddy mass of potatoes on her tray, thickly mixed with dirt and stone dust.

The memory of the sweet mashed potatoes her brother Kay used to wash so thoroughly and make fluffy as a cloud with butter and milk flashed through her mind.

...Why am I even fighting?

The moment her spoon plunged into the grit-filled potatoes, there was a nasty screeech as it scraped against a pebble.

One could almost hear the snap as the last vestige of sanity in Artoria’s green eyes broke.

...Screw being king. Screw it all. Maybe I should just walk away.

Artoria—the great prophesied king, savior of Britain—

stood before Gawain’s special mashed potatoes, crusted with stone dust, and for the first time in her life seriously considered abandoning the throne and fleeing into the night.

And then.

[Hm, the situation isn’t improving as I thought. At this rate, they'll send another envoy. Or maybe a delegation.]

"If it's a delegation, wouldn't it be impossible for me to stop them? I could kill them, but I think we'd be found out."

Merlin was conversing with Gareth through the parrot, lamenting how sluggish things were moving due to Artoria’s lack of motivation.

He fretted that Kay might come personally, or worse, a whole delegation might arrive. Gareth said killing them would be no problem, but the fear was getting caught.

[They’ll probably uncover Kay’s return within a month. This is troublesome—of all the first points, we chose North Wales. Had we started with Orta or Alter, it would’ve taken much longer.]

"You’re right. I’m not even sure killing that last envoy made much of a difference."

But someone overheard that remark.

"What… what did you just say?"

[Eh.]

"Ah."

Clomp, clomp. A girl staggered forward, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d heard.

"Brother… has come back?"

It was Lily.

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