Chapter 65

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The laughter didn't come from Lancelot, not that I had expected him to laugh at his victory. He had never been the type to do something like that, and after his affair with Guinevere, well after all that, he was even less likely to do something like that.

Mordred would no doubt be pissed out if he did laugh, and a fight would break out.

Yet, neither was it Mordred who laughed. She might be a girl, but her laugh wasn't very feminine this was, this was the laugh of a woman.

Which also ruled out the rest of my knights.

It was crisp, clear, and loud, very, very loud, far too loud, and if the sheer scale of it didn't already give off the signal that something was wrong, then the magic I could feel in it did.

The laughter echoed through the tournament grounds, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd like a blade through silk. It was neither mocking nor joyous, but something else—something unnatural. It carried power, reverberating through the very air, sending a shiver down my spine.

I straightened, my grip tightening on the arms of my throne as I turned my gaze toward the source.

The knights, ever vigilant, had already moved to act. Lancelot's hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, his gaze sharp and wary. Mordred, still dusting herself off from her fall, scowled as she turned her head toward the disturbance.

The laughter did not stop. If anything, it grew louder, filling the very air, warping it with its magic.

And then—

A figure moved.

She stood upon the stone railing of the grandstand, her arms crossed, her golden eyes gleaming with amusement as her long, dark cloak billowed in the wind. Her silhouette was striking, her presence undeniable.

A woman—no, a sorceress.

"It saddens me as a mother to see my child lose, so I couldn't help but show myself, to come forward to cheer you up, my child, my son, Mordred." The woman said, her voice as loud as her laughter, magic ensuring everyone could hear it.

Mordred went rigid, her head snapping toward the woman with a look of pure disbelief.

The tournament grounds fell silent, the weight of the words crashing over the gathered knights and spectators like a tidal wave.

Agravain's grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles white. Gawain inhaled sharply, his expression unreadable. Bedivere, ever composed, shifted slightly, his eyes flickering between Mordred and the sorceress who now stood before them.

The woman smiled, her golden eyes gleaming with something between amusement and warmth. "Have you truly forgotten me, my son?"

Mordred's jaw clenched. "You are not my mother." Her voice was low, dangerous, yet laced with uncertainty.

His words seemed to slightly take the wind out of her sails, clearly that wasn't what she had expected, but she was quick to recover. She sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "Still so stubborn. Just like your father." Her gaze flickered to me, and she smirked. "Or should I say, my brother?"

That was when the murmurs began. The crowd, confused yet enthralled, whispered among themselves, piecing together the implications of her words.

There was only one person in the world who could claim to be the mother of Mordred and my sister, and that was Morgan Le Fay, the queen of fairies and the architect of my downfall.

Morgan le Fay.

Her name alone was enough to send a ripple of tension through the air. The whispering in the crowd grew louder, uncertain, fearful.

I exhaled slowly, keeping my posture composed. My heart was steady, but my mind was already calculating. This naturally wasn't the same Morgan I knew, she wasn't my sister, not the mother of Mordred.

I knew that, my knights knew this, but my people didn't, and neither did she.

In fact, even without my knowledge about the situation, just the fact that she had appeared like this was enough to tell me she wasn't the real Morgan, after all, my sister wouldn't show herself in a situation like this.

Mordred, however, was far less restrained. She took a sharp step forward, her entire frame tense with barely contained fury.

"You're lying," she spat. "You damned witch, you think I wouldn't know my own mother? You aren't the first pretender I have met so far, neither will you be the first to fall before my sword!"

The crowd gasped at Mordred's outburst. Her fury was palpable, radiating off her like a wildfire barely contained. The knights of the Round Table stood at the ready, hands twitching toward their weapons, waiting for my command.

And I was tempted to give it, because with my eyes, my divine eyes, I could easily see the darkness in the woman down there. Morgan might be called a dark witch, but compared to this woman, my sister might as well have been a saint.

"Oh, Mordred, my dear child," she cooed, shaking her head. "How cruel it is for you to speak such words to your own mother. Have they poisoned your mind so thoroughly?"

Mordred's grip on her sword tightened. "Spare me your nonsense," she growled. "I know exactly what you are. You reek of foul magic. You think you can deceive me?"

The imposter's smirk remained, unfazed. If anything, she seemed entertained.

I exhaled slowly, stood up from my seat, and glared down at the woman. She might be the Morgan Le Fay of the Marvel universe, but I wasn't about to recognize her as such, nor allow her to cause problems here.

"Witch! I have outlawed the use of magic within my realm; only those with permission may use it freely; my sister, if she was here, I would grant permission, yet you? You are not of my blood, and as such, you have no permission."

My voice was loud, and each word grew heavier as I slowly began to unleash a bit of my power, the weight of my divine nature pressing down on her foul darkness.

"At the banquet of kings, we too were introduced, and Iskandar offered the intruder a cup of wine." I said, thinking back to the banquet of the Fourth Holy Grail War.

I gripped my own cup of wine and, using wind magic, sent it gently flowing down to her. "This wine is as your blood. He spoke those words back then, and now I have repeated them."

With the cup moved down before her, easily within reach, I let go.

Morgan—no, this Morgan—smirked, her golden eyes gleaming as she reached out and placed her delicate fingers against the silver. Before she let out a pained hiss and ripped her hand back as the cup fell to the ground, the wine spilled.

She cradled her hand against her chest, fingers trembling slightly from the brief contact. The air around her shimmered with unstable magic, warping like heat waves on a summer's day.

The knights tensed. Lancelot's sword was already half-drawn, his sharp gaze locked onto the sorceress. Agravain stepped forward, his expression grim, while Gawain's usual warmth had been replaced with wary calculation.

Mordred, however, grinned.

I had long since told Mordred this story, and she knew well how it had ended, and how it would end here.

I admit I had played a slight trick; the cup had been infused with a bit of magic, simple stuff; if anyone who had killed someone innocent within one day touched it, they would get burned; it was a test to see if she had killed one of my citizens, and she failed.

The false Morgan exhaled sharply, the amusement returning to her face—but now it was forced, brittle. "Ah," she murmured, flexing her fingers as if testing their strength. "it seems you still have not forgiven me, dear brother, though I must thank you, thanks to you, I will soon be queen once more."

"Mordred." That was all I said, but it was more than enough.

All my Knights stood ready, all of them unwilling to allow this witch to pretend to be my sister or their mother. Whatever the reason it might be, they were ready to deal with it, and the honor, I granted my child and heir.

Mordred didn't need to be told twice.

With a wicked grin stretching across her lips, she took a single step forward, her crimson cloak billowing behind her as she held Clarent high. The silver edge of the blade gleamed under the sun, adding an almost holy look to what was, by all means, a cursed blade.

She wasted no time, already angry from the defeat by Lancelot, the knight of mine she hated the most, and now someone came here, ruining the tournament, which was a reward from her father to her, claiming to be her mother, she was angry and had an outlet.

So, in an instant she crossed the distance between then. Her shadow touching the wine stained ground, ready to stain it with blood Clarent coming down, it happened so fast, so suddenly, that it might have been a bullet rather than knight and sword.

Morgana's golden eyes widened slightly as Mordred closed the distance between them in a flash of crimson and steel. The cursed blade Clarent descended like judgment itself, its silvered edge streaking through the air with impossible speed.

Yet, at the very last moment—just before the blade could carve through flesh—a wall of black energy erupted between them.

CLANG!

The sheer force of Mordred's strike sent a shockwave rippling through the arena, shaking the stands, causing the nearest spectators to stumble back in fear. A jagged rift in the cobbled ground split beneath her feet from the impact.

But the false Morgan had not been cut down.

She stood just beyond the crackling veil of magic, her form untouched, though her smirk had faded into something colder, something calculating. One of her hands remained outstretched, fingers curled as though grasping invisible strings.

"Tsk, tsk." She clicked her tongue, mock disappointment lacing her tone. "Is that any way to greet your dear mother?"

Mordred didn't hesitate. With a snarl, she twisted her grip and swung Clarent again—this time from the side, a brutal horizontal slash meant to carve through both the barrier and the woman beyond it.

The black wall of magic shattered like brittle glass.

But Morgan was already gone.

She reappeared in the air above, hovering like a specter, her dark cloak billowing as strands of her long hair swayed in the wind. A faint glow of golden light flickered around her, tendrils of dark magic still coiling around her fingertips.

Mordred, undeterred, growled in frustration. "Stop running!"

Morgan's laughter returned, though even to me, I sounded fake like she struggled to hide her shock or even fear.

"It seems your dear father has failed to teach you to respect your parents, but that is to be expected from you, after all, you killed him, didn't you?" She said, trying to mess with him and provoke him further.

Mordred was easy enough to provoke, but if this woman hoped that by doing so, she could cause him to make mistakes she could take advantage of, she was mistaken.

After all, Mordred still wasn't going all out, far from it, and before he would make mistakes, he would first go all out.

Mordred's grip on Clarent tightened, the cursed blade humming with barely restrained power. Her knuckles went white beneath her gauntlets, but she did not charge blindly.

Mana burst, a fairly common ability back in the Fate universe, all of my knights could use it. it was simple: using an intense burst of mana to enhance physical ability. It made you stronger and faster and increased your magic resistance.

Mordred was indeed the most powerful child of Morgan, and much like me, had certain dragon traits, not a full dragon core like myself, but close enough, so when Mordred fully unleashed his mana, it manifested in red lightning.

The moment Mordred released her power, the tournament grounds became a storm of crimson energy. Red lightning crackled around her body, arcing through the air and scorching the earth beneath her feet.

The witch flying about looked shocked and fearful, no longer able to maintain her arrogance. I figured that my Mordred was far stronger than her's, and it frightened her.

Mordred grinned, baring her teeth. "Oh? What's wrong?" she taunted, rolling her shoulders as the raw energy surged through her body. "Getting nervous?"

Without warning, she vanished.

No, not vanished—moved.

The force of her mana burst propelled her forward at a speed beyond human perception. The ground beneath her cracked and splintered from the sheer power of her launch, sending dust and debris scattering in all directions.

Morgan barely had time to react before Mordred was upon her.

Clarent flashed, its red glow burning like a brand against the sky.

Morgan raised her arms, magic coalescing into a defensive spell—but it was too slow.

BOOM!