Not his body. Not his spirit. Something else. Something that had been contained behind his calm smile, his lazy posture, his bored eyes. The wound Galahad had carved into him from eye to thigh should have killed him. Should have sent him to whatever afterlife waited for Roman generals.
Instead, it unleashed him.
He laughed.
It started low a rumble in his chest, a vibration in his throat. Then it grew. Swelling. Becoming something that was not just sound but force. He imbued his laugh with his killing intent, flooding the battlefield with waves of pressure that radiated outward like ripples in a pond.
"HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!"
The ripples pushed.
Sir Galahad stumbled back, his sword raised, his teeth grinding against the pressure. Sir Kay dropped to one knee, his hand pressed against the sand, struggling to rise. Sir Percival's bleeding eyes widened as the killing intent washed over him not targeted, not focused, just everywhere. Sir Tristan, who had only just recovered his breath, felt his throat tighten again, not from injury but from fear.
It was like an ominous bomb of destruction had detonated in their midst.
Their muscles became hard not from exertion, but from paralysis. They could not move. Could not flee. Could only stand there, frozen, as the madman's laughter echoed in their ears.
But Lancelot was not affected.
He stood among them, Arondlight in hand, his expression unreadable. The killing intent washed over him like water over stone present, but not penetrating. Not touching.
Above them, Darlington's eyes gleamed.
"Wow." The word escaped him like a breath. "This is interesting."
He watched Lancelot's still form the way the killing intent seemed to part around him rather than strike him. The malice that had consumed him, that had reborn him, had left something behind. Something that could not be touched by fear.
"I'm wondering..." Darlington tilted his head. "What other things are you immune to, Lancelot?"
He didn't wait for an answer. Couldn't afford to. The battle below was already escalating, and he had a role to play.
"Alright." His voice sharpened, becoming the voice of a commander. "It's time to play our game."
He looked at Titus at the laughing, bleeding, mad general who was still radiating killing intent like a furnace radiated heat.
"The opponent we're about to face has a gruesome level of strength. But we can bring him down."
He began to calculate.
"First let's test the water. Straight ahead. A propelled strike. Let's test his reaction speed."
Lancelot's muscles tightened.
Every fiber of his transformed body coiled not with tension, but with readiness. He raised his leg. Planted it.
And stepped.
It was as if his entire body vibrated a hum of power, a note of violence. Then, like a stone launched from a slingshot, he blitzed forward.
He moved across the battlefield in a zigzag pattern left, right, left, right his path unpredictable, his speed inhuman. The sand exploded behind him with each step, kicked up by forces that should have been impossible.
He reached Titus.
He turned.
To the general's back.
Darlington's voice cracked like a whip.
"180 DEGREES! 20 CONNECTIVE STRIKES!"
Lancelot's arm moved.
Arondlight became a blur not a sword, but a hammer. Not a blade, but a nail. He stabbed with the speed of a piston, each thrust aimed at a vital point, each one precise.
But Titus was fast.
Even wounded. Even bleeding. Even laughing.
He dodged.
Each of Lancelot's stabs was met with a counter. Not a blade his sword was broken, shattered by Galahad's Cut. But his fists were weapons. His arms were weapons. His body was a weapon.
He threw punches large, twisted blows that behaved like drills. They spun through the air, their force concentrated into a single point, their trajectory unpredictable.
Lancelot dodged. Stabbed. Dodged again.
Titus dodged. Punched. Dodged again.
They were locked in a dance of death, neither gaining ground, neither yielding.
Above, Darlington held his head together.
His hands pressed against his temples. His fingers dug into his scalp. The intensity of the battle below was ramping up, and his mind that brilliant, overclocked mind was struggling to keep pace.
"This bastard." The words came out through gritted teeth. "Why the fuck is he like this?"
He watched Titus move the way he adapted to Lancelot's attacks, the way he learned with each exchange, the way he seemed to grow even as he bled.
"Is that why he thirsts for battle?" Darlington's voice was strained. "To always learn? Always modifying?"
He saw the pattern now. The truth of General Titus.
"It's like he embodies the main part of a human being to continuously adapt. To never stop. To never settle."
His eyes widened.
This is bad.
He shouted down to Lancelot, his mental voice urgent.
"Change of plan! Back out! We already have enough info on his speed and reaction BACK OFF!"
Lancelot tried.
He shifted his grip on Arondlight, raising the hilt to launch a counterattack a blow that would separate them, create distance, give him room to retreat.
But Titus gave him no space.
The general pressed forward, his punches coming faster, harder, each one aimed at closing the gap rather than landing a killing blow. He was not trying to hit Lancelot.
He was trying to trap him.
Lancelot's range of attacks shrunk. The space between them vanished. He could not retreat. Could not escape. Every move he made was answered. Every opening he found was closed.
He was being consumed.
Darlington's mind raced.
"This bastard." His voice was a snarl. "He's set a trap for us."
He watched the exchange the way Titus moved, the way he herded Lancelot into a smaller and smaller space, the way he controlled the battlefield without ever seeming to try.
"It's like a sinkhole." The word tasted bitter. "Like a snake. Coiling around its prey. Squeezing. Constricting."
He pressed his palms against his eyes, forcing his mind to work.
Think, Darlington. Think.
The false god who had been so confident, so arrogant, was now scrambling. His piece his only piece was being trapped. And he could not see a way out.
How will I break Lancelot out of this?
The question echoed in the void around him.
How?
Below, the dance continued.
Lancelot stabbed. Titus dodged.
Titus punched. Lancelot dodged.
Lancelot stabbed. Titus dodged.
Titus punched. Lancelot dodged.
Lancelot fought on.
And Darlington thought