Asmodeus had to make a choice.
Would he fight… or would he run?
At the same time, Aeris had contacted her grandfather.
"Grandfather… Lancelot is being executed tomorrow.
Lancelot is Avalon's last stronghold. We need your help."
The answer came quickly. Too quickly.
"No."
His voice was tired.
"We do not have the strength to stand against the Church right now.
If we oppose them, we will all be wiped out."
Aeris's hands trembled.
She hurled her magic sphere in rage. It shattered against the wall.
That night, Asmodeus could not sleep.
Lancelot was the first truly good person he had met in this world.
Arthur's closest companion. His mentor.
The man who taught him everything about this world.
Unlike the father who had thrown him into the cursed forest,
Lancelot was a true father figure to Asmodeus.
Excalibur spoke.
"Asmodeus… Whatever you choose tomorrow, I will always be with you.
But understand this."
"With your current power, you wouldn't even scratch Michael—
and there are four others who rival his strength."
Asmodeus said nothing.
Aeris strengthened her magic to conceal herself.
There was a reason the Church feared her family so deeply.
They were the last heirs of the enchanted blade lineage—
capable of wielding both magic and sword.
Aeris and Asmodeus met in the same room.
They did not speak.
Both were broken.
By morning, Asmodeus had made his decision.
He would either die alongside Lancelot…
or save him.
He left a note for Aeris.
"Thank you for everything, Aeris."
By the time Aeris read it, it was already too late.
She ran.
"You idiot… You absolute fool!
You're going to get yourself killed for nothing!"
Thousands of Church soldiers had gathered.
Four High Priests arrived.
Only Michael's name was known.
---
The Dungeon
"Your time has come, Lancelot," Michael said.
Lancelot smiled.
"Without your tricks, I would have strangled you with my bare hands, you fool.
While King Arthur lived, you wouldn't have dared come near this place."
"But he's dead."
"HAHAHAHA!"
Lancelot strained against his chains.
They did not break. They were forged with special magic.
Escorted by the four High Priests,
he was led slowly toward the execution ground.
His life flashed before his eyes.
Sunlight was rare in Lancelot's childhood.
But it wasn't because of the weather.
In his world, light never lasted long.
Whenever it rained, his mother whispered the same words:
"Be quiet, Lancelot… God hears less in the rain."
He didn't understand back then.
Later, he did.
It wasn't God they feared.
It was the Church.
His father was a guard.
No armor. No fame.
Every morning, he stood in front of the door, back turned to the house.
"If anyone enters," he would say,
"they'll have to go through me first."
The night the Church came, they didn't knock.
They tore the walls down.
Lancelot was in his mother's arms.
His father stepped forward. Unarmed.
A soldier laughed.
"This is what's supposed to stop us?"
His father didn't answer.
He simply opened his arms.
Lancelot saw the spear pierce his father's chest.
But what he never forgot was this—
even as he fell, his father never looked back.
His mother shoved Lancelot beneath the floorboards.
The wood closed.
Darkness fell.
He stayed there for hours.
He didn't hear his mother scream.
Only her breathing.
It slowed.
Then… stopped.
That night, Lancelot didn't cry.
Because he learned that making sound meant death.
When he was brought to Avalon, he was still a child.
But he didn't act like one.
He never lifted his head while eating.
His hands clenched into fists while sleeping.
He didn't scream in his dreams.
He stayed silent when awake.
A master placed a sword in his hands.
"Don't be afraid."
His hand trembled.
"You're afraid," the master said.
Lancelot looked up.
"No," he replied.
"I remember."
That night, he laid the sword down for the first time.
And defied someone for the first time.
By the time Arthur noticed him,
Lancelot already looked dead.
He smiled—but his eyes were empty.
He won—but never rejoiced.
He lost—but never grieved.
One day, Arthur asked:
"Why do you never retreat?"
Lancelot was silent for a long time.
"Because if I retreat," he finally said,
"someone dies behind me."
Arthur did not teach him power.
He taught him when to stop.
"A true knight," Arthur said,
"does not stand to win…"
"but so others may escape."
When the Church reached Avalon's walls,
Lancelot stepped forward.
He could have fled.
Everyone would have cleared the way.
But he would not abandon Arthur's legacy.
Behind the walls were silent children.
Hidden beneath floorboards.
Lancelot raised his sword.
"Rise."
The stone answered.
---
The Execution Ground
Kneeling at the scaffold, Michael asked:
"One final prayer?"
Rain began to fall.
"I prayed once," Lancelot said.
"No one listened."
He smiled.
Asmodeus locked his eyes on Michael.
He reached for his sword—
A hand stopped him.
Merlin.
"Don't even think about it," he said.
"You'll die in seconds."
Merlin was Camelot's greatest sorcerer.
"Let me go, old man!" Asmodeus cried.
"I won't let Lancelot die!"
Tears streamed from his eyes.
His voice was loud enough to be noticed.
Merlin cast a spell.
"Silent Barrier."
"They can't hear us now."
"No one can oppose the Church right now, Asmodeus," Merlin said.
"Camelot must be rebuilt."
"And for that, you need power."
"You will not act until you graduate from the Academy."
At that moment, the clouds parted.
As if the world itself refused to witness what was coming.
Lancelot knelt.
Chains bound his body—but his head was held high.
Michael shouted:
"Lancelot, last knight of Avalon, is judged in God's name!"
The crowd held its breath.
"Any final words?"
Lancelot scanned the square—
soldiers, priests, terrified faces.
Then he looked at the walls.
"Let me ask you something," he said calmly.
"Have you ever seen a child hold their breath while hiding?"
No one answered.
"I have," he said.
"That's why I'm here."
"Execute him!"
The executioner raised his sword.
Lancelot stood.
The chains cracked.
"I did not rise to kneel," he said,
"but to stand one last time."
His aura surged.
Not weak.
Final.
The stone ground split apart.
Michael stepped back.
"That's impossible—"
"Arthur taught me one thing," Lancelot said.
"Walls crack before they fall."
He raised his sword.
But he did not strike.
He drove it into the ground.
"From here on, it's your burden," he said.
"I've done my duty."
The chains glowed.
A holy seal activated.
His aura was torn from his body.
He suffered.
But he did not scream.
"One day…"
"When you no longer need walls…"
"Do not remember me."
He smiled.
"Because on that day…
you will have won."
Light exploded.
And Camelot's final blade—
Arthur's companion—
Ruler of Avalon—
The greatest of the Round Table—
Lancelot died standing.
He never fell.
Even in death, his body struck fear into his enemies.
And Camelot's last fortress fell with him.