Eliza stood, battered and bloody, but unwavering. One horn was shattered, her right arm gone, and the remnants of Excalibur lay in broken shards at her feet. Any attempt to regenerate her limb had failed—a chilling curse from that dark blade blocked her powers, leaving her to staunch the bleeding as best she could. Yet even amid the pain, her eyes remained fierce.

  “I will see this fight through to the end… no matter the cost,” she growled, voice raw but defiant.

  Just steps away, Faker regarded her with a sneer, his aura pulsing like a living storm of malice. In his grip, Mordred—twisted daughter to Excalibur—throbbed with unnatural energy, as though savoring the surrounding devastation.

  “Mordred, look at her,” Faker said with mocking relish. “She wants to keep going. Adorable. But honestly, it’s more beneficial to leave you alive. Go back to your boss, let A.E.G.I.S. see your pitiful state. Fear will spread. You were never anything like that man—not even close. You’re just… a disappointment.”

  Eliza’s vision swam, but she latched onto his words, letting them spark her anger. Steeling herself against the agony clawing at her, she lifted her gaze.

  “You’ve been going on and on about this ‘swordsman’ the entire fight,” she spat. “But the way you talk… it’s obvious. You never got to finish your fight with him. You fled. Just before he could kill you.”

  A tremor of rage flashed across Faker’s face. His hold on Mordred tightened, the blade vibrating with his fury. “What did you just say?”

  She took a shaky step forward, ignoring the throbbing ache in her severed arm. “You heard me. You’re hiding behind puppets and tricks. The swordsman you despise isn’t even around anymore, yet you’re still terrified he’ll show up and finish the job.”

  Faker’s features contorted, all traces of arrogance warping into unbridled anger. “You dare… call me a coward?”

  “You know it’s true.” Her voice was unsteady, but there was a daring spark in her eyes. “I’m broken and bleeding, but I’m still fighting. You, on the other hand, are too scared to face him again.”

  “Mordred, I’m going to kill her,” Faker seethed, his tone suddenly calm, chilling in its certainty. “Then I’ll slaughter every single person in this facility. One by one.”

  Eliza stood her ground, battered but unbowed. A faint light pulsed from the broken remains of Excalibur, the fragment in her hand glowing brighter than ever. It was as though the sword still answered her will, refusing to abandon her even in its shattered state.

  Across from her, Faker raised Mordred, dark energy spiraling along its edge. He slashed down with lethal force—but Eliza was ready. She brought up the ruined Excalibur, meeting his blow with a burst of dazzling light. The impact cracked the floor beneath them, yet she held firm, forcing Mordred aside. Seizing the opening, she slashed through Faker’s torso in a spray of blackened blood, splitting him clean in half.

  For an instant, there was hope… until his severed halves writhed and crawled back together in a swarm of maggots. Within moments, his body reformed, his mouth curving into a sardonic grin. “How tiresome. Is this the best you can do?”

  Eliza’s heart thudded, but her eyes burned with defiance. She lifted Excalibur’s jagged blade, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I wonder how many times I’ll have to kill you,” she said coldly. “Because I can’t wait to find out.”

  His twisted amusement sharpened into menace. “Then let’s see who breaks first.”

  She sprang forward, unleashing a furious stream of dragon fire. Flames roared around Faker, igniting his flesh. Before she could capitalize, his leg morphed into a curved scythe, slicing the air so close she could feel its deadly rush. Dodging by a hair’s breadth, she ducked aside as he brought Mordred down in a torrent of dark fire.

  Eliza dove past the strike, ramming the broken tip of Excalibur straight into Faker’s chest. The fragment flared brilliantly, tearing a gaping hole through him. Even then, she did not stop—her Berserker aura feeding her every swing, she hacked and slashed until his limbs lay in a heap on the ground.

  In seconds, that grisly mass of flesh disintegrated into swarming maggots, squirming away into the shadows. Faker vanished into the darkness with them, slipping from her grasp.

  “Coward,” Eliza spat, breathing hard as she held up the glowing remnant of Excalibur. Blood dripped from her wounds, but her resolve stood unbroken. She knew this fight was far from over—and she was ready for whatever came next.

  Eliza felt the ground twist beneath her, the shadows stretching like living claws ready to drag her under. Instinct took over—she darted aside, each swipe of those dark hands brushing past by a breath. From the seething darkness rose wolves of pure shadow, their eyes gleaming hungrily as they closed in.

  Undeterred, Eliza lifted the broken Excalibur, its radiant edge flashing through every attacking wolf. Yet for each one that dissolved, another rose behind it, splitting off from the swirling dark like a nightmare given form.

  Then they shifted again. The wolves melted into a chaos of inky forms that took flight as a flock of screeching ravens, wings churning the air into a black torrent. High above, the ravens merged midair into a monstrous silhouette—Faker reformed, now sporting vast raven-like wings and a dragon’s head in place of his left arm.

  A deep growl rumbled from that draconic maw, followed by a torrent of shadow breath. Eliza dove sideways, wincing as the ground where she’d stood melted under its corrosive force. She exhaled her own dragon fire, scarlet flames meeting Faker’s darkness in a storm of colliding power. Neither attack gave way until Faker’s wings propelled him forward. He swooped down with predatory speed, dragon jaws snapping for Eliza’s head.

  She twisted aside, raising Excalibur’s broken blade. In a single fluid slash, she sliced clean through Faker’s torso. Black blood sprayed as his body split. But instead of collapsing, the pieces twisted back into the shadows, dissolving with his eerie laughter.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “You can carve me up as much as you like, Slayer,” his voice taunted from the gloom. “I’ll always come back.”

  Eliza staggered but refused to yield. Blood seeped from fresh cuts and bruises, yet her grip on Excalibur’s broken hilt never faltered. The sheer force of Faker’s power pressed down like a crushing weight, and still she held fast.

  “Just die already!” Faker howled. Shadows ripped from the ground in razor-sharp tendrils, slicing through the air. A few nicked Eliza’s side, but her draconic aura flared, sealing the shallow wounds as fast as they formed.

  With a snarl, she slammed the broken sword into the floor, channeling all her will through its shattered blade. Blazing light detonated outward, tearing the darkness apart. The shadows burst into swarms of maggots, multiplying in a sickening tide that squirmed across the ruined battlefield.

  “Enough of this!” Eliza roared, hacking through the writhing mass. But as fast as she cut them down, new ones emerged, merging into floating eyeballs that glared with malevolence. They surged at her, exploding one by one in fiery blasts. Her dragon scales held, but the onslaught was relentless.

  Faker appeared in the chaos, landing a flurry of brutal punches. Eliza’s skull rattled under each hit, blood trickling from her nose. Still, she snarled through the pain and whipped Excalibur in a vicious arc, cleaving his head clean off. His body stumbled, dissolving once more into maggots.

  Wiping the blood from her face, she sneered at the gore. “Is that all you've got? Those punches don't even hurt.”

  Faker’s head reformed a short distance away, face contorted in fury. “You’ll regret that,” he hissed.

  Eliza grinned, sparks dancing between her teeth. “Come on then, coward,” she challenged. “Let’s see if you can make me feel anything.”

  Faker’s usual mocking composure had vanished, replaced by raw fury. Dark energy surged around him, twisting the air into a storm of roiling shadows. His limbs reformed with a grotesque snap as maggots melded seamlessly into flesh, and those nightmarish wings—part raven, part dragon—spread wide at his back.

  “You… insufferable wretch!” he snarled, eyes blazing. “You’re nothing but a weak, broken imitation!”

  Eliza planted her feet, refusing to flinch. Her body, riddled with bruises and cuts, was on the brink of collapse, but her will burned brighter than ever. The crimson glow of her Berserker ability encircled her like living flame, and even broken, Excalibur pulsed in her grip, refusing to be silenced.

  “Your words mean nothing, Faker,” she shot back. “I don’t care about your past or your grudge with that swordsman. I am the Slayer—every monster will fall by my blade!”

  Faker lunged, his body morphing mid-flight into a howling whirlwind of claws and dark flames. Mordred crashed against Excalibur with enough force to send shockwaves through the air. Sparks erupted where their blades met, dark and light battling in violent flashes.

  He roared, “You talk too much!” His free arm warped into a monstrous claw, lashing out with tendrils of living shadow.

  But Eliza slipped under his swing, her movements precise and swift. With a fierce cry, she drove the fractured Excalibur into Faker’s abdomen. A burst of radiance engulfed them as the blade’s energy flared, momentarily warping his form.

  “You think this will stop me?” he spat, voice dripping venom.

  “Then I’ll cut you down until there’s nothing left.” Eliza sprang forward, slashing with relentless fury. Her heightened senses guided each blow, Excalibur carving deep into Faker’s body. Chunks of his flesh and shadow peeled away in a rain of twisting maggots.

  Yet no matter how many times she struck, Faker’s body clawed itself back together, the writhing swarm of maggots birthing new limbs and tissue. His eyes blazed with maddened glee, even as he staggered under her onslaught.

  Eliza pressed on, refusing to yield, crimson aura surging, Excalibur’s light searing the encroaching darkness. She could sense the toll on her body, her strength ebbing. But as long as breath filled her lungs, she would not stop—not until every last fragment of Faker was destroyed.

  Eliza could feel Faker’s rage like a tangible force, twisting the surrounding air. “Enough of this!” he roared, the floor trembling at his voice. His facade of calm had shattered; now only seething fury remained.

  With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised Mordred. “Mordred,” he murmured, “it’s been a while… let’s use our full power. Soul Release.” Without hesitation, he drove the sword into his chest.

  A horrifying transformation followed; maggots writhed in torment instead of knitting him back together, and dark lightning crackled across his body. Mordred melded with his flesh until blade and wielder were one. Black, jagged armor sealed over his form, shadowy scales glistened where skin had been, and a hideous maw replaced his face. Raven-dragon wings unfurled behind him, each movement dripping with malice.

  “I’m sick of this charade,” Faker growled, voice ragged and inhuman. “No more games.”

  Darkness seeped from his body, warping the shadows across the walls. Eliza felt his foul presence pressing on her, threatening to crush her will. Yet she refused to yield. Though Excalibur lay broken in her hands, it pulsed with each beat of her heart.

  Then, amid the suffocating gloom, she heard it—a voice clear and steady, cutting through the chaos like a blade through flesh:

  “Do you want to win? Are you willing to do whatever it takes to survive?”

  Time seemed to slow, Faker’s monstrous figure momentarily distant. Eliza realized the voice echoed from within herself… and from the broken sword. Excalibur was more than just a weapon. It had always been alive, resonating with her spirit, and now it spoke to her directly.

  “That man is right,” the voice continued, calm yet filled with ancient power. “You’re very similar to him, which means you can wield my true power.”

  Her heart pounded, awe and resolve flooding her veins. The sword she had entrusted her life to was revealing its true nature at her darkest hour.

  “You can call me Arthur,” the voice said.

  Eliza watched in grim fascination as Faker’s monstrous new form took shape, the corridor around her vanishing into a void of seething darkness. His black feathers fell in sheets, each one hissing with deathly energy that burned when they brushed her skin. Countless eyes blinked open in the gloom, all staring at her with a hungry, predatory light. Every inch of space seemed filled with his malice, threatening to crush any hope of escape.

  Yet Eliza stood resolute. She could feel her breath growing heavier, as though the shadows themselves tried to strangle her. Blood trickled down her face; her right arm throbbed with agony. But her spirit—her resolve—refused to break. She clutched the shattered hilt of Excalibur, the fractured blade still aflame with defiant light.

  In her mind, Arthur’s voice resonated, carrying a regal, haughty tone.

  “I want you to win. Destroy this damn creature—my previous user couldn’t. My ego has awakened for this purpose. He is one of the few enemies who still walks this era, and I will make you the one true king of this world, as I once made that man.”

  The world shifted. One moment, Eliza was shoulder-deep in creeping shadow; the next, she stood in a ruined throne room that stretched far beyond anything she’d ever seen. The walls were cracked, the air stank of stale blood, and rusted suits of armor lay half-buried among the remains of long-dead knights.

  At the chamber’s center, a young man slouched on a blood-soaked throne. Waves of dark hair framed piercing azure eyes that glowed faintly in the dim light. A crimson fur coat hung off his shoulders, and a crooked crown rested on his brow as if placed there in half-forgotten mockery of royalty. Beside him, leaning easily against the throne, was Excalibur—untouched by the surrounding decay, shining in stark contrast to the rot of the room.