"Do you see, King Arthur? Your kingdom is utterly ruined! Whether you win or I do, everything you see has turned to ash and dust!" Amidst a scream laced with hatred and exhilaration, Mordred brought her longsword down in a savage arc. Facing the King, facing the one to whom she shared blood, she held nothing back; the only thought in her mind was to plunge the blade into his body.

Clang!

The clash of steel sent Altria staggering backward. She gritted her silver teeth, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth. Though her grip remained strong, her sword hand trembled slightly.

Not a single knight of the Round Table was weak; nor were the soldiers in Arthur’s army. Even though Altria’s current power far surpassed that of "a year ago," the preceding battles had drained nearly all her strength. Her armor was no longer gleaming silver, marred everywhere by sword marks, stained with the blood of both enemies and herself. The only thing keeping her upright was sheer willpower. Against Mordred, whose strength was certainly not inferior to her former self, victory seemed an immense struggle.

Yet, even though the things she wished to protect had changed, her resolute and stubborn nature remained utterly unaltered. Even when facing absolute disadvantage, she never once considered surrender.

"My nation is ruined because of me. Do you hate me? That’s right, I hate you too, even more than you hate me!" Mordred roared, as if releasing pent-up fury, and attacked again with three full-force strikes.

Whoosh!

Altria was immediately blasted backward, tumbling down the Sword Hill, rolling over mounds of corpses. Sensing a powerful strike surging from behind, she lacked time to turn, merely swinging her sword forward in defense.

Clang!

The twin blades met. Altria dropped to one knee, holding her sword with one hand, managing to parry the full force of Mordred’s attack. Where the edges scraped, violent sparks erupted.

Mordred loomed above, a smug smile playing on her lips. While pressing the advantage, she chuckled, "Heh. If this were an ordinary sword, it would have been shattered by now. What a pity—the blade in my hand is just like your holy sword." The Goddess of the Lake wasn't wrong when people said she mass-produced Holy Swords; not only did King Arthur and Lancelot possess them, but the top ten knights of the Round Table each had one. The one in Mordred’s hand was the Sword of Turning Victory, whose power was in no way inferior to Excalibur without its scabbard.

Wielding this sacred blade that did not rightfully belong to her, combined with her inherent martial prowess, Altria knew this battle offered a near-certain death. But!

Clink!

Biting down hard, Altria lunged sharply to the side. Her blade grazed past, letting out a grating screech. Mordred instinctively frowned, her force faltering for a moment. Altria seized the chance and kicked her hard in the back, sending her flying.

Mordred rose from the ground, spitting out a mouthful of blood, yet spoke disdainfully, "Tch. You had a perfect chance to deal a serious blow, though success wasn't guaranteed, and you didn't strike with your sword. Do you still hold back even now? Or are you naively hoping we can reconcile?" "That is... impossible!" With a roar full of hatred, Mordred attacked again, and Altria, having missed her opening, could only grit her teeth and struggle to hold on.

It was true that the former her would never have let such an opportunity slip by. Even if she couldn't decapitate Mordred in one strike, she could have severely wounded her. But the current her could not bring herself to do it. This wasn't naiveté, nor did it stem from any hope of reconciliation; it was because the person she fought was her child!

Regardless of how scandalous and forbidden Mordred’s birth might have been, regardless of how unavoidable and undesired the circumstances of her conception, she was ultimately the child of her own blood. This fact was undeniable... Previously, Altria refused to acknowledge this child. As King, she couldn't accept it; as a woman, she found it even harder. But only after giving birth to a child of her own did she finally understand what it meant to be a mother.

The final days in the crack between worlds were the happiest period of her life as a woman, the most joyful time as a mother. While showering her own child with meticulous care, she was constantly reminded of Mordred. She owed this daughter so much.

Mordred had never received her affection, never gained her approval; she hadn't even been able to look her straight in the eye. Mordred's intense hatred for her was not without reason—perhaps it was entirely justified.

She could steel her heart and bring the Sword of Slaughter down upon knights who had followed her for years, doing so to end a war. But how could she bring herself to strike her own child?

Altria hesitated to strike, but Mordred would not relent. Her attacks came like a furious tempest, the Sword of Turning Victory cleaving down under her furious swing, carrying with it her resentment and unfulfilled rage. "I understand! From the very beginning, you despised and loathed me, because my impurity tarnished your divinity. So no matter how hard I tried, how excellently I performed, in your eyes, I was always just trash!" "Mordred..." Altria tried to explain, but the words caught in her throat. What meaning was there in saying anything now? The wounds inflicted upon Mordred by her cold blade could never truly heal, and what she owed her could never be repaid.

Thus, facing Mordred’s accusations, she had no counter-argument, only biting her jaw and deflecting the fierce, fatal attacks again and again.

"I am braver than anyone! On the battlefield, I charged ahead of everyone, and I was always the last to retreat from every fight. I am stronger than anyone! I can even clash head-on with Lancelot! But why, for being someone like me, must I remain at the bottom of the Round Table rankings? Because I am the one you detest!" Whoosh!

This time, Mordred’s attack succeeded. Under the heavy blow, her sword sent the Sword of Victory's Oath flying. The violent force slammed Altria several meters away. The Sword of Turning Victory let out a bloodthirsty roar, pulling Mordred forward as she lunged for the thrust.

Was this the end? At this moment, Altria's limbs felt weak; merely staying upright was a strain. Facing this fatal stab, she lacked the strength to fight back. A silent apology formed in her mind as she closed her eyes in resignation.

Then came a shrrriiiik—a weapon pierced through armor and flesh.

Feeling a sharp sting above her head, Altria instinctively opened her eyes. She saw Mordred standing before her, the tip of the Sword of Turning Victory resting against her forehead. But the attack hadn't fully landed. Her chest armor was shattered, and a long spear had pierced directly through her heart. At the other end of the spear were... her own hands!

"This is?!" Altria’s eyes widened in disbelief.

"To think it would end this way... Perhaps I suspected it from the start," Mordred coughed up blood. With a clang, the Sword of Turning Victory dropped to the ground, and her body slowly slid down toward the earth.

"Mordred!" Altria reacted instinctively, catching her and sinking to her knees, tears of agony streaming from her eyes.

She finally understood what had happened in that split second. Although she had given up resisting, when Mordred’s blade struck her, the life-saving instinct took over, causing her body to react with a speed surpassing her own capabilities, driving the nearby upright spear into Mordred’s body.

"Heh heh... It’s the first time I’ve seen a King cry. Why is that?" Mordred gazed at the tears in Altria’s eyes and chuckled softly, almost dazedly.

She was not a normal person. Although she appeared seventeen or eighteen, she had actually lived for less than twelve years. Morgan had used special methods to mature her mind and body, but such methods were inherently reckless, causing immense instability. The instant her heart was pierced, all her vital functions ceased; even her consciousness was fading rapidly.

Yet, she still retained a sliver of awareness now, because of a single question: "Father? Or Mother? What should I call you, anyway?"

A look of earnest longing flashed in Mordred’s eyes. She remembered the first time she met King Arthur—she had been filled with worship, like a pure child, believing it the greatest fortune in life to serve such a King, vowing to follow him to the ends of the earth, scorning Morgan’s schemes.

When she learned she was King Arthur’s child, the self-loathing born from her shameful origins vanished. Since she was the child of that King who stood above humanity, being "not human" could be considered an honor. As the heir to the King, her body and spirit were aligned.

Mordred had been ecstatic then, dreaming of the day she could earn the praise of the god-like "Father." She had strived day and night to become a knight worthy of the title "Child of the King," so she could stand before the King openly and display the genuine, heartfelt reverence she felt... But!

"I am sorry, Mordred," Altria didn't know the full scope of Mordred’s thoughts, but from those words, she understood the depth of feeling the girl carried, a feeling she herself had trampled upon. Regret and sorrow mingled in the tears that fell.

As the tears touched her face, Mordred’s consciousness cleared slightly. Seeing the King’s expression, a bitter smile finally surfaced. She reached out a hand toward Altria’s cheek. "Why... why didn't you... sooner... I wanted it so..."

That hand never reached the King's face before it fell, along with the words she could no longer finish.

Mordred’s life extinguished completely.