[T/N: Mass update: 3/5]
"It's this guy again! Master, stay back!"
Seeing Berserker's relentless charge and that unshakable sense of familiarity, Saber couldn't help but feel a twinge of irritation.
He swung the invisible holy sword without mercy, slashing down at Berserker while already calculating his next move. Should he sidestep and counterattack? Retreat and call forth that strange Noble Phantasm to arm himself with an advantageous weapon? Then clash blade against blade in a duel of pure skill?
But—
The frenzied Berserker reached out with both hands and, in one smooth, practiced motion, like something drilled into his soul a thousand times over, caught the invisible blade squarely between his palms.
"He caught it? He can see it?"
Saber's eyes widened. His Wind King's Barrier wasn't some trivial trick. Concealing the blade's length and trajectory with compressed wind, it had always given him the edge in an initial clash. Opponents never knew the true reach of his sword until it was too late.
Yet Berserker had caught it flawlessly.
Saber had dismissed the possibility before, but the truth he'd been subconsciously ignoring now stood plain before him:
Berserker knew the length of his holy sword. He understood Saber's fighting style. He knew him, intimately.
And he bore an obsession so deep it was palpable.
"Who are you?! If you claim to uphold the honor of knighthood, then declare yourself! Face me with your true name!"
Watching Saber's demand, Roland pursed his lips, but the amusement on his face only deepened.
Behind him, Caster let out a soft sigh. She had been warned of this reveal beforehand, of who Berserker truly was and the bitter history that bound him to Saber. And now, watching it unfold, she could only mutter inwardly:
'My master has such wicked taste.'
Still, she raised her staff without hesitation. Mist gathered at its tip, swirling into a ribbon of pure light, and shot toward Berserker.
The Berserker class imposed no restrictions, any Heroic Spirit could theoretically qualify. Yet those with legends of madness, frenzy, or loss of reason were favored for their natural affinity to the role.
When Roland seized control of Lancelot, he discovered that despite Berserker's seemingly rabid state, his Madness Enhancement was only rank C. He could still cling to the obsessions of his life, his noble soul hidden beneath a shroud of insanity.
That discovery sparked Roland's bold experiment.
In essence, the frenzy wasn't innate, it was imposed. A magical shackle layered onto the spirit to bridge the gap between Master and Servant and enforce obedience.
But once a Servant manifested, the vessel was fixed. Could those shackles be stripped away? Could the curse be undone?
Roland had asked Medea. Her answer had been a confident yes, but with one caveat: It required a power that could reverse magical corruption entirely.
And she had it.
A Noble Phantasm from her distant past, before betrayal turned her into the infamous witch. A pure, healing relic from her days as an innocent maiden:
A miracle that could restore all things twisted by curse or magecraft to their original state.
All flaws can be mended.
The light touched Berserker's form. The roiling black haze writhed like a living thing, boiling away, unraveling, and then shattering.
Gone was the shadow-drenched beast. In its place stood a knight in gleaming armor, majestic and awe-inspiring. Even under the muted glow of the winter moon, his polished plate shone with a brilliance that proclaimed his name.
The hunched monstrosity straightened into regal poise. The contorted visage beneath the helm resolved into a face of almost painful beauty, a knight whose allure could topple hearts as easily as his blade toppled foes.
Once scorned as a rabid hound, he had been the pride of Camelot, the peerless first among the Round Table.
Lancelot du Lac.
Reason reclaimed its throne, casting madness into oblivion. For any knightly spirit, this should have been a moment of triumph.
But not for him.
Even veiled in the last tatters of dissipating mist, he saw that figure, the sacred silhouette, the aura of unyielding kingship.
Even if the body was different, male where once there had been a queen, that presence was unmistakable.
His King.
His oath-bound sovereign.
But why… a man?!
Lancelot's thoughts spiraled into chaos. His honor howled in agony. If a hole had opened in the earth at that instant, he would have buried himself without hesitation.
If it had been the king he knew, he would have endured any fate, battle, apology, even execution. That was justice.
But this? To be dragged into such disgrace before this King Arthur… it was unbearable.
Me from another world, what sin have you committed?
Shame clawed at his soul. Even as clarity returned, he lingered in the mist, his last shred of concealment.
Then came his master's voice, cruel and mocking:
"Come now, Berserker. I've lifted the constraint. Speak your name proudly. Your opponent is none other than the famed King of Knights. To face him is an honor any knight would kill for."
Honor? Honor will be the first thing butchered here…
Lancelot's lips curved into a bitter grimace. His new master was a demon in human skin.
And then, as if to pour oil on the inferno, Saber called out again, voice ringing with righteous fire:
"That's right! If you have the courage to challenge me, then proclaim it! Whatever past you bear, cast it aside! Here and now, we are knights, nothing more, fighting for our Masters and for our chosen ideals!"
Those words, fierce, commanding, achingly familiar, stabbed through Lancelot like a blade.
Knights… fighting for our goals?
Yes. His tale had ended long ago. The man he had once been had fallen. Now, as a Servant, he owed no fealty to old sins. Not to guilt. Not to ghosts.
He would fight not as a traitor groveling before a king, but as Lancelot, the knight who once stood at the pinnacle of all chivalry.
With a slow exhale, he stepped forward, mist curling away like tattered veils. His voice, deep and resonant, tinged with pride, regret, and defiance, rang out across the frozen forest:
"If this is what you desire… then so be it.
I, Lancelot Du Lac. First Knight of the Round Table. Accepts your challenge!"