Mordred stood over Sir Ywain's body and licked his blade.
The blood still warm, still wet coated his tongue. He made a face of pure disgust, his features twisting as if he had tasted something foul.
"Even the blood tastes disgusting." He spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I wouldn't be surprised. After all, he was filthy. Nothing less. Nothing more."
The remaining knights stared at him, frozen.
They had all experienced Mordred. All of them carried the memory of what he had done. The rebellion. The betrayal. The battle that had broken Camelot's back and sent Arthur to Avalon's shores.
Sir Tor's face twisted.
"You bastard." His voice was low, trembling with rage. "Even in death, you dare to revolt against your own people? In the world of the living, you did so. But why here?"
He stepped forward, his snake blades gleaming.
"Did your soul not seek redemption? Did you not change?" His voice rose. "You're an evil monster. If there was a place we would go after this world, I would wish you the worst of all lives."
He raised his blades, pointing them at Mordred's heart.
"You trash bastard of a son."
Mordred looked at him with something that might have been pity.
"How shameful of you." His voice was calm, almost gentle. "You still bear such pitiful and wasteful emotions. One thing that made you weak."
He smiled.
"It's why I killed you in the world of the living. But you won't remember, would you?"
Tor's face went blank. "What do you mean?"
Mordred's smile widened.
"Oh my. What a shame. It turns out you don't learn from experience." He tilted his head, watching Tor's confusion with clear amusement. "You died by a blade to your back."
Behind Tor, the Roman soldier he had been fighting moved.
His blade stabbed forward not at Tor's back, but at his side. At his liver.
SHLIK!
The steel punched through armor, through flesh, through organ. Tor's body convulsed. His mouth opened in a scream that was also a roar.
"AAAAAAHHHHHH! IT'S HOT!" He twisted, the blade grinding against his insides. "AHHH IT'S FUCKING HOT!"
His elbow slammed backward, catching the Roman in the face. The soldier's head snapped back, his grip loosening. Tor spun, one of his snake blades whipping through the air and took the soldier's eye.
SHLIK!
Blood sprayed. The Roman staggered back, clutching his ruined face, giving Tor a moment's respite.
Tor fell.
His knees hit the sand. His hand pressed against the wound in his side, blood pouring between his fingers. He gasped for breath, his vision swimming.
Mordred watched him, unmoved.
"A man of mistakes." His voice was cold. "You will never learn."
Tor's mind was a storm.
I can't. I can't die. Not again. No I can't die.
His vision blurred. The sounds of battle grew distant. And in that space between consciousness and oblivion, his mind reached.
He saw faces.
King Arthur, standing at the Round Table, his hand on Excalibur's hilt. Sir Gawain, laughing at some joke Tor couldn't remember. Sir Bedivere, quiet and steady. Sir Kay, fierce and loyal. Sir Percival, young and bright-eyed. Sir Lancelot, the greatest of them all.
Their deaths.
The memory was a blade itself, cutting deeper than any Roman steel. He had watched them fall. Had felt them fall. Had carried the weight of their absence for centuries.
No.
His body surged.
Something erupted inside him a cooling shock that shot through his nerves like lightning, setting every cell alive. His hands stopped trembling. His vision cleared. The pain in his side became a distant thing, something happening to someone else.
I can't die again. I won't. Not here. Not now. Not like this.
Above them, Darlington laughed.
"Oh my. Oh my, oh my, oh my." He clapped his hands together, delighted. "This is interesting."
He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Tor's transformed form.
"When the human body is put in a state of great danger or great need, it immediately does anything necessary to survive." His voice was rapid, excited, the voice of a scientist witnessing a miracle. "It would go as far as damaging some of its own parts to survive."
He gestured at Tor below.
"This is caused by the release of adrenaline. This is the real power unlocked mode."
He began to pace, his words tumbling out.
"There are instances where a child is put in danger, and the body releases a ton of adrenaline. It gives the mother the strength and power to save the child. It has led to people being able to lift trucks. Run at speeds that beat the world record for humans."
He stopped, looking down at Tor.
"At this moment, there is a one-in-ten chance that his adrenaline levels are going to spike to the roof."
Tor shouted.
His hand released the wound in his side. Blood still poured from it, but he did not feel it. He turned his body moving faster than it had ever moved, faster than it should be able to move and dashed at the Roman soldier who had stabbed him.
His muscles became stiff.
And yet, somehow, impossibly, they were also as soft as jelly. Each movement was a contradiction rigid and fluid, controlled and wild. His fists struck with the impact of boulders, his body flowing like water around the Roman's desperate counterattacks.
His two swords waved.
They moved in stabbing motions, the curves of the blades making each strike impossible to predict. The Roman tried to block, tried to dodge but Tor was everywhere.
The blade found flesh.
It stabbed into the Roman's abdomen deep, final. Tor twisted the blade, anchoring himself to his enemy.
And then he began to punch.
His free hand hammered into the Roman's face. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
Each punch was a small crack. Each crack was a bone shattering. The sounds built on each other crack, crack, crack, crack, crack until they became a single, continuous music.
Blood began to squirt from the Roman's head.
His skull was shattered completely, absolutely, utterly destroyed by the barrage of blows. His face was no longer a face. It was a ruin of bone and flesh and nothing.
Tor did not stop.
"AAAAAHHHHHH! AAAAAHHHHHH! " His screams were not of pain. They were of fury. Of grief. Of everything he had carried for centuries.
"I WILL KILL YOU ALL! "
His fist kept pounding. The Roman's body went limp. His head collapsed inward, a crater where a face should have been.
Tor kept hitting.
Tor stood over the corpse of his enemy, blood dripping from his fists, his side still bleeding, his eyes wild.
And Mordred watched him with something that might have been interest