Though Lot couldn't fathom why the knight had appeared here, one thing was certain: Lancelot had been deceived by those nobles.
The man might be an emotional trainwreck cuckolding his own king with Guinevere but in all other respects, he was a knight of impeccable integrity. He'd never willingly collude with corrupt aristocrats.
Which meant he'd been tricked.
Lot's goal now? Expose the lie.
Make him stand down.
[If he still insists on fighting after I explain everything… well, I'll just unleash Galahad on him again. Hell, if I ever get my hands on Frostmourne or Mordred's sword, I'm giving it to Gala and letting him teach his old man a brutal lesson.]
Morgan, overhearing his thoughts, nearly facepalmed.
Sending a son to butcher his own father?
You've hit rock bottom.
Also what was this father-son situation?!
And since when did "Frostmourne" and "Mordred's sword" enter the conversation?
Are they powerful artifacts?
Her expression morphed into blatant curiosity.
Galahad, meanwhile, buried his face in his hands. Though he couldn't read minds, Lot and Morgan could feel his exasperation.
[My father… is an absolute moron.]
Lancelot had been ready to leave until Lot's words froze him mid-turn.
"You've been played."
"Why would you say that?" he demanded.
As a knight, nothing disgusted him more than being used as a pawn.
If I've been fooled, I'm the world's biggest fool.
Lancelot, the Flower of France, had spent years unchallenged in his homeland. Lords, knights none could match his blade. He'd craved a worthy rival.
He'd believed himself the era's finest young knight until tales of Lot and Morgan reached his ears.
Their ages mirrored his, inviting inevitable comparison.
Vortigern's infamy had spread even to France.
"Child-terrorizing tyrant" barely scratched the surface.
And yet this same Vortigern had fallen to Lot and Morgan.
Across the Channel, details were scarce. Only the outcome mattered: the duo had toppled the Vile King.
Overnight, Lancelot's accolades rang hollow.
"You're strong? Only compared to us drunken nobles."
"Try facing Vortigern!"
"Oh wait even he lost to Lot and Morgan."
So, bristling with wounded pride, Lancelot sailed for Britain.
The narrowest stretch between France and Britain spanned barely thirty kilometers swimmable for a knight of his stamina. Upon landing, he'd wandered into a noble's domain…
Just as Vortigern's remnant bandits raided it.
Naturally, Lancelot intervened.
With less than ten percent of his strength, he crushed dozens of marauders capturing them alive.
The local lord, awed, hosted him as an honored guest.
Word spread. Soon, every aristocrat knew: a peerless French knight had arrived.
And with their feud against Morgan escalating? They needed him.
Banquets piled high with delicacies. Flattery thicker than castle walls.
Lancelot, ever the idealist, assumed their hospitality genuine.
Between toasts, he inquired about Lot and Morgan.
The nobles leapt at the opening.
"Oh, those two? Treacherous snakes!"
They painted the couple as honorless schemers who'd sacrificed even Uther Pendragon as bait against Vortigern.
"They delayed their attack until the king was mortally wounded. Frankly? We suspect letting him die was always part of their plan."
Not a word about Uther's willing sacrifice.
Just venomous lies to stoke Lancelot's fury.
To seal the deal, one lord whispered:
"Morgan eyes French lands. Having 'defeated' Vortigern, she'll impose her tyranny on your people next."
Lancelot bought eighty percent of it.
Enough to seek Lot out today under the pretense of a "chivalric duel."
Yet now, after witnessing Lot's… creative combat methods, he hesitated.
"Why claim I've been deceived?"
Lot smirked. "Did they call me 'dishonorable'?"
Lancelot's gaze flicked to the MP5.
Need you ask?
Unfazed, Lot continued: "Honor's relative. To parasites clinging to privilege? I'm a monster. To Camelot's people? Morgan and I are their shield."
"See for yourself."
No boast just fact. By medieval standards, Lot's reforms were revolutionary.
"I will," Lancelot conceded.
As he turned to leave, though
"Wait."
He studied Galahad. "This knight… why does he feel familiar?"
[That's your SON, you oblivious ]
Lot and Morgan screamed internally.
Noticing Lancelot's youthful face, Lot shot Morgan a meaningful look.
[We should… expedite Gawain's conception.]
Morgan kicked him.
Must you fantasize at a time like this?!
And why 'Gawain'?! What if it's a girl?!
She'll disown you faster than Galahad skewered Lancelot!
Meanwhile, Galahad teeth gritted muttered:
"Just some no-name knight raised by a single mother. Never met France's great Lancelot before."
The bitterness in his tone baffled Lancelot.
But with bigger mysteries ahead, the French knight departed only to collide with two newcomers.
One towering, one petite both radiating competence.
More of Morgan's forces?
How many elites does she have?!
Then he noticed their bloodied swords.
Realization struck.
The nobles had sent assassins ones these two had intercepted.
So much for 'chivalry'...
His trust in Lot's claims grew.
"Who're you?" Kay leveled his blade.
"Let him pass," Lot ordered.
Kay and Artoria stepped aside.
"My liege, we've eliminated ten assassins."
Lot grinned. "Good work."
Artoria beamed not at the praise, but at dodging Morgan's ultimatum:
[Fail today, and half your rations become sawdust bread.]
Never! her stomach roared.
Then she noticed Galahad's gaping stare.
Hm?
The white-haired knight looked ready to swallow his own helmet.
What… WHAT AM I SEEING?!
KING ARTHUR BOWING TO MORGAN?!
Kay nudged him. "You okay?"
"F-fine!" Galahad's cheeks burned.
Morgan introduced him: "This is Galahad a future Round Table member."
Artoria lit up.
Ah! No wonder he's shocked!
He must know I'm the Round Table's First Knight!
Does he doubt my qualifications?
I'll prove myself!
She puffed her chest out noble, resplendent.
Galahad's eyes locked onto her sword.
"D-did you… pull that from the stone?"
"Yep!" Artoria chirped. "Morgan told me to, but I'm happy I did!"
Galahad's brain short-circuited.
His mother's stories.
This cheerful girl.
The sheer incongruity.
"This… makes no sense," he whispered.
Reality had officially broken.
Galahad's mind reeled as he stared at the cheerful blonde girl who had just casually confirmed she pulled the sword from the stone. His mother's stories about the solemn, noble King Arthur - the Once and Future King who led Britain to glory - clashed violently with this... this...
Food-motivated country girl?!
The cognitive dissonance was too much. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water before he managed to croak out:
"But... but the Sword in the Stone... it's supposed to choose Britain's true ruler..."
Artoria blinked, then tilted her head. "It did? I mean, I guess that's what Morgan said, but mostly she just told me to pull really hard." She demonstrated with a yanking motion. "Like when you're trying to get the last turnip out of stubborn soil!"
Galahad made a noise like a teakettle about to boil over.
Kay, taking pity on the poor boy, clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't think too hard about it, kid. Our Artoria here may not look like much, but she's got the strength of ten men and the appetite of twenty."
"Hey!" Artoria pouted, then brightened immediately. "Though that reminds me - we should get back soon. Cook promised mutton stew for dinner!"
Morgan watched this exchange with amusement while Lot barely contained his laughter. The sheer absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on him - the legendary Sir Galahad, paragon of purity, being mentally broken by Artoria's complete lack of royal gravitas.
[This is even better than I imagined.] Lot thought gleefully. [The Round Table's gonna be a circus with these two.]
Clearing his throat, Lot decided to move things along. "Right, we should head back before "
A loud growl interrupted him. All eyes turned to Artoria, who blushed as her stomach protested loudly.
"...before someone starves to death," Lot finished dryly.
As the group began moving, Galahad fell into step beside Kay, his voice low. "So... she's really...?"
Kay nodded, keeping his voice equally quiet. "Yep. Our little Artoria's the chosen king. Don't let the appetite fool you - in battle, she fights like a demon. Saw her take down six armed bandits last week before they could blink."
Galahad's eyes widened. "But her demeanor..."
"Acts like a country bumpkin, fights like the wrath of God," Kay summarized. "Honestly? Best disguise there is. Enemies never see her coming."
Ahead of them, Artoria skipped along, happily describing different stew recipes to a bemused Morgan. Galahad watched, the last fragments of his worldview crumbling.
Mother... why didn't you tell me King Arthur was a gluttonous airhead?!
Meanwhile, Morgan found herself unexpectedly charmed by Artoria's simple enthusiasm. There was something refreshing about the girl's complete lack of pretense.
[Perhaps... this version of events won't be so bad.] Morgan mused. [A king who cares more about supper than politics might actually be what Britain needs.]
As they approached Camelot's gates, Galahad finally managed to collect his scattered thoughts enough to ask the burning question:
"So... if she's king... what does that make you all?"
Lot grinned, throwing an arm around Morgan's shoulders. "Why, we're the power behind the throne, of course!"
Morgan elbowed him sharply, but didn't deny it.
Artoria turned back, beaming. "They're my family! Well, except Morgan, who's more like... um..." She frowned, struggling for the right word.
"My babysitter?" Morgan offered dryly.
"Right!" Artoria nodded cheerfully. "The scary-smart babysitter who makes sure I don't trip over my own crown!"
Galahad made that teakettle noise again.
Kay sighed. "You'll get used to it, kid. Just wait till you see her at a banquet. Last time, she challenged a visiting duke to an eating contest. Won, too."
Lot added helpfully, "Then vomited on his shoes."
"Only because he cheated with under-seasoned mutton!" Artoria protested.
As the bizarre conversation continued, Galahad came to a terrible realization:
This... this is my life now.
The legendary Round Table... is going to be full of lunatics.
His eye twitched.
Somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf howled - or maybe it was just Lancelot screaming into the void. Either way, it perfectly captured Galahad's mood.