Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

After settling Bedivere, Aslan turned his attention back to the remaining Knights of Justice and rejoined the fray. These Upright Knights had long been enhanced through Holy Grail rituals. By now, Aslan and the others were thoroughly familiar with their behavior and combat patterns. It was no longer a battle—it was pest control.

Once the last of the enemies were cleared, Aslan prepared to escort the rescued civilians and Bedivere back to the Little Holy City. Just then, a crow soared overhead—one of Morgan's familiars. Ordinarily, they would not appear unless something significant had occurred.

So… something had.

Aslan raised a hand, releasing a wave of fairy script—an elementary application of Fae magecraft—guiding the crow toward him. The bird descended, its eyes a pale blue like Morgan's, and landed gently on his arm. As Aslan met its gaze, his consciousness was drawn inward. A stream of images and information surged into his mind.

A moment later, the crow spread its wings and lifted into the air. It dissolved into pale blue flames and vanished.

Melusine, having stuffed the remaining armor pieces of the Knights of Justice into her enchanted storage, turned and asked warily, "What is it? Hopefully not more bad news."

Aslan opened his eyes. His expression had hardened.

"Unfortunately, it is bad news. Serenity Hassan and Hundred-Faced Hassan ran into Tristan while escorting another group of civilians. No one expected him to act alone like that. Has he gone mad? He's not even worried we'll ambush him?"

In truth, it was a coincidence—for Tristan, at least.

His blessing had long since become inverted, turning him into a monster who found joy only in suffering and death. After being further strengthened by the Holy Grail, his urges grew more violent, his control more brittle. The Resistance's continued success had only worsened the situation, disrupting the sacred selections and denying him the catharsis of ritual slaughter.

And so, Tristan had begun to unravel.

He still wore a beautiful smile on his lips, but it was no longer charming—just wrong. No matter how you looked at it, it was off. Behind those elegant eyes now lurked the unquenchable hunger of a beast in chains.

The Lion King remained silent on his behavior, but the other Knights of the Round Table had started avoiding him entirely. They understood it wasn't Tristan's fault. They knew what the reversal had done to him. But still, no one could bear to be in his presence for long.

And so, deprived of release, Tristan had started seeking it elsewhere.

Whenever an Upright Knight faltered in the sacred selection—even slightly—Tristan would strike. A melody of hollow joy would ring from his harp, arrows would rain from nowhere, and by the time the music stopped, all that remained was a crumpled suit of armor.

At first, the slaughter had satisfied him. But the Upright Knights were artificial beings. Killing them had lost its flavor.

He needed blood. Real blood.

So when the Knights of Justice were dispatched to gather more civilians, Tristan slipped out quietly. He wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't assigned. But he didn't care. The Lion King wouldn't punish him—not unless he made an unforgivable mistake. And until then, she would turn a blind eye.

He had to do it. Staying in Camelot a moment longer would have broken him.

And so, when he stumbled across the group led by the two Hassans, he smiled.

A real encounter.

Two Servants. Two enemies of the King. His fingers trembled with anticipation.

"God truly smiles upon me," Tristan murmured, pressing a hand against his cheek. "To think I'd be the one to put an end to the heroes of the resistance... Ah, how sad. You dared to challenge the king knowing what she is. That courage… that foolish hope… It's so beautiful, it almost makes me weep."

He giggled, face twisted in delight. "But sadly, all beautiful things must end."

With that, his harp began to sing. Joyful notes, deceptively light, twisted into arrows and fired in quick succession toward the two Hassans—and some civilians behind them.

Not that Tristan meant to hit them. No, of course not.

In his mind, any civilian caught in the crossfire was simply... an accident.

A byproduct of eliminating enemy leadership.

It would be tragic, of course, if he killed too many. The Lion King might scold him. He had to preserve enough people for the sacred selections, after all. Killing two Servants, though? That would earn forgiveness. Praise, even.

He just needed a taste. Just a little blood to soothe the madness. Then he could return, play the loyal knight again, and wait for the next hunt.

Like licking an ice cube before entering an air-conditioned room—just a small indulgence to cool his nerves.

But not too much.

Just enough to kill.

Across the battlefield, the two Hassans—Serenity and Hundred-Faces—exchanged a glance. In their long partnership, words were rarely necessary. They moved in perfect sync.

Tristan was dangerous, that much was clear. A Knight of the Round Table, enhanced, unhinged—and deadly.

But like all Knights, he had weaknesses.

Poison, for example.

They had done their research. They'd compiled notes. This one could be affected by toxins. And so…

Serenity made her decision.

She would release her Noble Phantasm.

Unfortunately, what neither Hassan knew—and what even Aslan had forgotten—was that Tristan's reversal blessing had long since rendered him immune to poisons.

The plan they were counting on was about to fail.

And the battlefield was about to descend into chaos.

-End Chapter-

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