Helena and Jeanne stood frozen, their eyes wide, faces drawn tight with sheer horror at the carnage sprawled across the sand. Jeanne's hands clamped over her mouth as a violent chill ran through her, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. The weight of what she had just witnessed threatened to suffocate her. Helena had assured her that all weapons used in the duels were enchanted to remain blunt, to prevent fatal injuries—but that clearly hadn't mattered. Godric's sheer force had turned his opponents into nothing more than broken, crumpled husks of flesh and bone.
Helena couldn't speak. No words formed on her lips, nor did she possess the composure to force any out. It was too much. Too grotesque. Toby lay in the center of it all, his body a mangled wreck, limbs bent at grotesque angles, his chest misshapen, as though his ribs had shattered and were now jutting painfully beneath his skin. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips, each shallow, ragged breath sending more of it dribbling down his chin. His eyes, once alight with fury, were now filled with unfiltered terror.
It made her stomach churn, her throat constricting as bile threatened to rise. If she had eaten anything before coming here, she would have surely emptied it onto the floor.
Yet, as the ringing in their ears began to subside, another sound rose to take its place—the deafening roar of the crowd.
Jeanne's stomach twisted.
The spectators were on their feet, their voices blending into a cacophony of cheers, hands slamming against the banisters in frenzied applause. They weren't horrified. They weren't appalled. They were celebrating.
Anton, standing above the arena, looked just as shaken as the Overseers and Enforcers flanking him. For the first time, the ever-charismatic announcer seemed at a loss, his usual bravado momentarily stripped away. Still, after a deep, bracing breath, he found his words again.
"The winner," he announced, forcing a grin onto his face, "and still reigning champion—Godric Gryffindor!"
The crowd erupted once more, chanting Godric's name as if he were some god of war descended to grace them with his destruction.
But Godric had already turned away, not even bothering to acknowledge their praise. He merely flicked his sword to the side, sending a final spray of blood onto the sand. His gaze flicked up to Anton, impassive.
"I'm done."
With that, he strode toward the exit, the iron gates creaking open to swallow him into the darkness.
****
Jeanne' trembled as she spoke. "What… what was that? What did I just see?"
Helena stood rigid; arms crossed—but it wasn't out of defiance. It was to steady herself, to stop the shaking that had taken root in her limbs. Her brown eyes were locked onto the medical personnel swarming the arena floor, their hurried movements frantic, their raised voices strained. Even with the roar of the crowd drowning them out, she could see their panic. The sheer severity of the injuries had caught them off guard.
It took her a moment before she could speak.
"Vis Vitalis is an ancient magic long thought to be extinct. I believed so too… until I saw Godric use it for the first time, all those moons ago," Helena murmured.
"Long story short, it's a form of magic that enhances physical ability—speed, strength, reflexes. But back then, his first attempt nearly tore him apart. It landed him in the Hospital Wing for a week. Since then, he's only ever used it sparingly, careful not to push himself past his limits."
Her eyes drifted back to the bodies littering the arena. Some of them still twitching.
"But this?" Her words grew tight. "To unleash that kind of power, with no blowback. No strain? There's no mistaking it—he's gotten stronger."
Jeanne swallowed hard, still unable to tear her gaze away from the carnage. "Those boys… they'll live, won't they?"
Helena let out a breath. "Live? Yes," she admitted. "But the road to recovery will be long. And painful." She exhaled sharply. Her expression grim. "Godric didn't kill them. But he made damned sure there will never be another Toby Melville."
She turned to Jeanne then, watching as the girl's features twisted with quiet sorrow.
"Oh, Godric…" Jeanne murmured.
****
High above The Congregation, where the raucous cheers of the spectators were nothing more than a muffled hum, a lone figure stood in quiet observation. His hazel eyes, sharp with contemplation, were fixed on the carnage left in Godric's wake. The hand resting on the hilt of his katana trembled ever so slightly, the faint clink of metal against the golden guard betraying his unease. Genji exhaled, his breath slow but unsteady, his chest weighed down by an uneasy mix of pride and regret.
Pride in seeing Godric ascend to a level of strength that few could ever hope to attain, and regret that it had taken such devastation to bring him there. But most of all, there was shame—shame that the boy he had once seen so much potential in had become nothing more than a blade without a master, cutting down anything and everything in his path.
"I have to say, of all the Chairs, you're probably the last person I'd expect to take interest in a simple duel," came a voice from his left.
Genji turned, his eyes meeting the figure that had joined him. A girl, draped in the crimson cloak of an Ignis Visionary, stood with her arms folded. Artoria Pendragon, regal and poised, bore a look of disdain as her gaze swept over the scene below.
"It has been a while, Artoria-san," Genji greeted her with a slight bow. "I trust all is well with your affairs."
"Nothing Arthur and I couldn't handle," she replied. Her expression hardened as she looked to the arena below. "The Lion of Ignis—Godric Gryffindor." There was something bitter in the way she said his name. "My brother seems to hold him in such high regard, but the longer I watch, the more my opinions about him solidify."
Genji raised an eyebrow. "And what opinions would those be?"
"He's reckless. Unstable. A danger to everyone around him." Her arms tightened over her chest. "I shudder to think what will happen if he's allowed to fully unravel."
Genji's fingers tightened briefly around his scabbard before relaxing. "Fair assessments, Artoria-san, but I must disagree." He met her gaze with quiet conviction. "Despite his current state, Gryffindor-san is a warrior, and more than that, a man of honor. I still believe in him. I stand by that belief."
Artoria let out a short, humorless laugh. "For a man who has seen the darkest shades of humanity, you are unbearably naïve, Genji." Her emerald eyes cut to him, sharp as the edge of the longsword sheathed at her side. "It doesn't matter who he used to be. It only matters who he is now. And right now? He's a man ruled by his rage, consumed by his hate."
She turned her gaze to broken bodies of his latest victims were being carried out. "And a blade wielded in hate is far more dangerous than a blade wielded in anger."
Genji's gaze remained steady as he spoke. "If I recall correctly, Artoria-san, there is a story about your ancestor, Uther Pendragon," he said, taking a slow breath before continuing.
"The one where he butchered an entire town in retaliation for their genocide against a nearby elven settlement. Not just the men… but the women and children as well. According to legend, he saw them as no better than beasts, and so he slaughtered them as such."
Artoria's grip tightened around her arm, a flicker of tension crossing her expression. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "A lapse in judgment," she said. "A stain my family has carried ever since."
"Perhaps," Genji conceded. "But that was not the point I was trying to make." His fingers traced the bindings of his katana's hilt, the feel of the woven silk beneath his touch grounding him. "What Uther did, by many accounts, was cruel, depraved, even monstrous. But in another light, to those who share my beliefs, he rendered justice upon the wicked—those who would have otherwise gone unpunished."
Artoria's eyes darkened. "Justice?" she repeated. "Uther's actions went beyond justice. He drowned his blade in the blood of innocents, people who had no part in the crime. He did not stop at retribution—he sought eradication." Her gaze flicked back to the arena. "Just as Gryffindor did."
Genji was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. "Where I come from, we have a saying: 'A single battle won does not make a victory. One may win the battle, but the war rages on.'"
He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Gryffindor-san has been fighting a war, and in every battle, those who seek to challenge him are relentless. They don't see him as a competitor; they see him as a beast to conquer, a legend to topple. What he did tonight wasn't just about winning—it was about ending the fight before it could begin. After today, I doubt there will be another reckless soul who steps into that ring without considering the cost of failure."
Artoria said nothing.
Genji exhaled softly. "His blade—wild, vengeful as it is—comes from a place of pain. Of grief." His words lost its sharp edge, turning quieter, more thoughtful. "You weren't there for the Yuletide Ball, Artoria-san. But I was. I saw them. Gryffindor and Raine." His gaze drifted slightly, as if recalling a distant memory. "I cannot speak for him, but I saw the way he looked at her."
His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his katana. "I have never known a love like his. And for a man of my station—the scion of the Shimada family—I know that love is but a hopeless folly. My betrothal, when it comes, will be nothing more than a political arrangement, an alliance between families. I have accepted this." He glanced at her, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Much like you and your brother."
She scoffed in response.
"But if I had ever looked at my beloved the way he looked at Raine," Genji continued, carrying a weight beyond words, "then my heart would never know peace, and my blade would never rest."
His hazel eyes darkened slightly. "And if my beloved had ever looked at me the way Raine looked at him… then the world would drown in an ocean of blood."
Genji exhaled deeply, the weight of his conviction settling within him like an unshaken mountain. "When I gave my crest to Gryffindor-san, I made a choice," he said.
"I chose to believe in the fire that burns within him, the fire that once guided his blade not through vengeance, but through selflessness and courage." His hazel eyes flickered with something resolute. "Even now, despite the darkness that has taken hold of him, I refuse to waver. I believe, and will continue to believe, that he will find the strength to rise above it."
Artoria watched him carefully, arms still crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. "Why, Genji?" she asked, her tone neither mocking nor dismissive, but genuinely curious. "Why go the distance for him? What do you stand to gain?"
Genji let out a soft chuckle. "Sarissa-chan asked me the exact same thing," he mused, shaking his head slightly. "And, as I told her, not everything is about personal gain." He turned to meet Artoria's gaze, his expression calm, almost amused.
"A wise man once said, hope can be found even in the darkest of times, so long as one remembers to seek the light. The bravest of warriors, the noblest of souls, may sometimes lose their way, but what makes them heroes is their ability to find their way back. And I believe Gryffindor-san will find his way back to us."
Artoria shook her head. "Like I said, unbearably naïve."
"Better an optimistic fool than a crippled realist, Artoria-san," Genji replied smoothly. "Besides, I'm quite certain your brother would share my sentiment."
She arched an eyebrow. "My brother isn't exactly the pinnacle of intellect," she remarked dryly. "At least, not when it comes to people."
"That much is evident. But even a man who lacks the wisdom to read others can still see when someone is worth saving." Genji smirked. "And Godric Gryffindor is still worth saving."
****
The following day found Jeanne no less troubled, despite the weekend offering the student body a much-needed reprieve from their studies. As usual, the streets of Caerleon were alive with the chatter and laughter of students eager to escape the confines of ink-stained parchment and the scent of old leather-bound books. Helga, Rowena, and Salazar had invited her to join them for a day out, but she had politely declined. She needed space. She needed time to think.
The events of the previous day had left a mark on her, one she couldn't easily shake. The sight of Toby's broken body, the sheer carnage left in Godric's wake, the blood, the shattered bones—it all played over in her mind like a cursed refrain. But more than that, what unsettled her the most was the emptiness in Godric's gaze. He had looked upon his fallen opponents without anger, without triumph, without even the satisfaction of victory. There was nothing there—no flicker of regret, no acknowledgment of what he had done. Just a hollow certainty, a predator dealing with prey as instinct demanded.
Jeanne walked the bustling streets, the midday sun warm against her skin, the scent of spring still lingering in the air. She wore a wool sweater over a light shirt and shorts, her tall knee socks tucked into a pair of simple white shoes. Casual as her appearance was, her demeanor told a different story.
A weight pressed against her chest, an emotion she couldn't quite define. Fear? No, it wasn't fear. It wasn't even horror. It was something more complex, tangled somewhere between sorrow and hesitation. She refused to believe that Godric was nothing more than a heartless monster bent on destruction. A person like that would never have stepped in to save her that night in Camelot. No, she was certain—everything he had done, everything he was doing now, was driven by grief, by anger so deep it had swallowed him whole. And yet, the way he had looked at those boys as they lay in ruin, as if they were nothing, as if their suffering was insignificant.
Jeanne exhaled sharply, massaging her temple as she shook her head. Why was she so fixated on him? Why did she care so much for a boy she had only just met, one who had nothing to do with her life? Was there truth in Salazar's words? Was she nothing more than a bleeding heart, always seeking out the wounded to save? The thought unsettled her. Could her intentions be so shallow, so predictable?
Or was it something deeper? Something real?
Too many questions. No answers. Jeanne sighed, letting the crowd around her blur into white noise. She had always been certain of herself, of her path. But now? Now, she wasn't so sure.
The sudden crash of furniture and the sharp sound of shattering glass snapped Jeanne's attention to a gathering crowd at the street corner. A part of her wanted to keep walking, to avoid whatever trouble was brewing, but another part, the one that had always been drawn toward those in need, urged her forward. Her hands curled into fists at her sides before she took off, weaving through the mass of onlookers.
When she reached the scene, her sapphire eyes landed on a group of men clad in black uniforms, an unfamiliar emblem emblazoned on their chests. Their insignia bore no resemblance to the symbols of the Clock Tower's guards or guardians. Before them stood a flower shop, its large front window shattered, jagged fragments of glass littering the cobblestone street.
Stalks of flowers lay trampled under heavy boots, their petals torn and scattered, woven baskets crushed and splintered. Among the wreckage, three young girls—one human, one elf, and one cat therianthrope—huddled on the ground. The elf looked the oldest of the three, the other two barely in their teens. Their wide, frightened eyes were downcast, their bodies trembling. But it was the gleaming black collars around their necks that sent a chill down Jeanne's spine.
Slaves.
Nearby, a man lay face down on the pavement, his hands cuffed behind his back. He struggled against the weight of the enforcer pinning him down.
"I believe we've had this conversation before, Mister Donaldson."
The voice was smooth, almost casual, yet laced with an undercurrent of disdain. Jeanne's gaze settled on the speaker, an elven man who looked no older than thirty—though with elves, that was often deceptive. His sharp features were framed by sleek blond hair, his ice-blue eyes gleaming with something cold and calculating.
Unlike the others, he wore a tailored grey suit, an overcoat draped over his shoulders. Two silver stripes marked the sleeves, denoting rank. He pulled off a pair of black gloves, tucking them neatly into his breast pocket before running a hand through his immaculate hair.
"I asked you kindly if you were harboring runaways, and you looked me in the eyes and said no," the elf continued. "I do so despise liars, Mister Donaldson. And now, in addition to harboring fugitives, we can tack on obstruction of justice. You may not be a slave, but it'll be a long time before you breathe free air again."
The man on the ground—Donaldson—lifted his head just enough to glare at his captor. Then, with as much force as he could muster, he spat on the elf's polished shoes.
"Screw you, Goras. Screw you and all you Authority bastards straight to hell."
A flicker of disgust crossed Goras' expression before he sighed, almost disappointed. Then, without hesitation, he drove his foot into Donaldson's face, sending a spray of blood across the cobblestones.
"No!" The elf girl among the slaves cried out, her hands clenched to her chest. "Please don't hurt him!"
Goras clicked his tongue and straightened his tie, glancing down at the bloodied scuff on his shoe. "Uncivilized brute," he muttered. "And I just had them polished."
He turned his gaze back to Donaldson, expression impassive. "You know the law as well as I do. Runaways must be reported to the Slaver's Guild and the Authority. You do not hesitate. You do not harbor them. And you certainly do not conspire with terrorists to aid in their escape." He shook his head. "Three hundred years later, and people like you still refuse to learn."
Donaldson groaned, blood dripping from his split lip, but his glare remained defiant. "How do people like you sleep at night?" he rasped.
"You sit by and watch fathers sell their daughters into slavery. You let men auction off children like cattle." He trembled with fury. "And not only do you do nothing, you help them. If not for sick, twisted whoresons like you—"
"Oh, spare me the petulant, self-righteous whining," Goras interjected with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "It's always the same spiel, over and over again. The wording changes, the faces change, but at its core, it's the same tired song and dance." He sighed theatrically. "By Gil-Galad, I've heard it all before."
He crouched slightly, his gaze locking onto Donaldson's with an air of patronizing amusement. "There are rules, and there are laws. End of story."
He straightened, brushing off his sleeves. "Laws that have been in place since the Ius Servitium was enacted centuries ago. Society has functioned under these laws, prospered under them. But every year, without fail, a few bleeding hearts decide they're above the law. That they know better."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling in exaggerated exasperation. "Do you people ever get tired of your own moral grandstanding?"
Jeanne clenched her teeth, the words searing into her like white-hot iron. Every fiber of her being screamed against the injustice unfolding before her, but she knew—she knew—that stepping forward now would accomplish nothing. These men had the law on their side, no matter how twisted that law had become.
But standing by and doing nothing?
That, too, was unthinkable.
Jeanne's gaze flicked toward the AEGIS guards stationed nearby, her heart sinking at the sight. They stood motionless, their expressions unreadable, as though the unfolding cruelty before them was nothing more than background noise. Not a single one of them made a move to intervene. One of them, a burly man with a thick beard, casually raised a steaming cup of coffee to his lips, taking a slow, measured sip. He didn't even blink.
As if it was just another day in Caerleon.
Goras let out a sigh, shaking his head as if burdened by the weight of responsibility. "Believe it or not, I take no pleasure in any of this," he said. Then, after a deliberate pause, a smirk twisted his lips. "Well… perhaps a little. There is something delicious about watching foolish little serfs who convince themselves that they can simply escape their fate."
His icy gaze shifted to the three girls, lingering on them like a predator sizing up cornered prey. The moment his eyes met theirs, they flinched, huddling closer together.
"But here's the truth," he continued. "You can't escape fate. You can't escape the Authority. And most of all…" He took a slow step toward them, boots crunching against the shattered glass. "You can't escape me." He spread his arms in mock invitation.
"I've been doing this for a very, very long time, and let me tell you something—" His smirk widened. "I am very good at what I do."
The tallest of the three, an elven girl with long auburn hair, straightened her back. She wrapped her arms protectively around the other two, shielding them as best she could. Her golden eyes, once filled with fear, now glowed with defiance. "In all my time, I have never seen an Edhellen wear his depravity with such pride," she spat. "I was born an elf of the Woodland Realm, and I say this—you have lost your Aurë. You have lost your honor."
Goras' smirk faltered, the words striking something deep within him.
The elven girl's eyes burned into him like embers in the dark. "I may wear this collar around my neck, but at least I know what I am. Do you?"
The shift in the air was immediate.
Goras' expression darkened, his smirk vanishing in an instant. His icy composure cracked, giving way to something raw and violent. Without warning, he surged forward and grabbed the girl by the hair, wrenching her up from the ground. She yelped in pain, her hands shooting up to claw at his wrist, but his grip was unrelenting.
"Denora!" Donaldson struggled against the enforcer still pinning him down. "Let her go, you bastard!"
Goras ignored him, his attention solely on the girl dangling from his grip. His pupils had shrunk to pinpricks, his breath slow and measured, but his knuckles were white against her tangled locks.
"Say that again, söa," he seethed, the Elvish word for 'slave' curling off his tongue like venom. "Go on. I dare you."
A bottle struck Goras hard against the side of his head, shattering on impact. A sharp crack split the air as shards of glass rained down, some catching the light as they scattered across the cobblestone street. He let out a pained grunt, his grip on Denora's hair loosening instantly as he staggered back, one hand flying to his temple. Blood welled between his fingers, warm and slick, and when he pulled his hand away, his ice-blue eyes narrowed at the smear of crimson staining his palm.
For a moment, the world around him was silent—stunned, breathless. Then his expression darkened, his lips pulling back in a snarl as his gaze snapped to the culprit.
Jeanne stood defiantly, her chest rising and falling with adrenaline, but there was no hesitation in her stance. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides, nails pressing into her palms as she squared her shoulders. The midday sun caught the golden strands of her hair, framing the unwavering fire in her sapphire eyes. If she was afraid, she didn't show it.
"I don't care who or what you are," she said. "I don't care if you arrest me like you did him. I don't even care about your laws or your justifications." Her gaze flicked briefly to the three frightened girls, then back to him, burning with determination. "But I will not stand by and let you terrorize them any longer."
The murmur of the crowd swelled, whispers spreading like wildfire, but no one stepped forward. Goras exhaled sharply, his eyes glinting with something cold, something cruel.
"You just made a terrible mistake, girl."
Without a word, one of the enforcers at his side stepped forward. The air thrummed with a metallic click as the man withdrew a sleek baton from his belt, flicking his wrist to extend it with a practiced motion. The polished steel gleamed under the daylight, its weight shifting as he gripped it tightly.
Jeanne's heart pounded, but she held her ground, her breath steady despite the ice settling in her veins. Around her, the crowd instinctively edged back, retreating like the tide, their faces carefully blank. The AEGIS guards posted nearby remained still, watching with disinterest.
Goras lifted his handkerchief, dabbing at the wound on his forehead with feigned care. "Excalibur students have been getting a little too bold lately," he mused. "It's time they were reminded of their place." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "And when we're done with you, if I'm feeling generous, I won't have what's left of you hauled off to the station and charged with assault."
The enforcer raised his baton, his stance firm. Denora gasped, eyes wide. Donaldson, still pinned beneath another enforcer's knee, struggled violently against his restraints. Jeanne squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.
A loud crack rang through the air, but the pain never came.
Instead, Jeanne felt a shift in the atmosphere—something sharp, something dangerous.
She opened her eyes.
A figure now stood between her and the enforcer, his chest broad, clad in black. The baton had struck his shoulder, but he hadn't flinched, hadn't even moved. He was taller than Jeanne by a full head, his frame lean yet undeniably powerful. His uniform was unmistakably AEGIS, but unlike the guards stationed nearby, his coat was trimmed in silver, his badge gleaming in the sunlight. Across the engraved surface of the shield-shaped emblem, the words AEGIS Guardian were stamped in bold lettering.
And then there was his weapon.
Strapped to his back was a sword unlike any she had ever seen. It was massive—longer and larger than Godric's own, its wide blade forged from gleaming crimson steel with blackened edges that seemed to swallow the light around them. At his hip rested a second sword, smaller but just as lethal.
His jet-black hair fell smoothly over his face, slightly tousled from movement. But what caught Jeanne's breath were his eyes—one a piercing silver, the other a striking shade of amber.
For a heartbeat, time stood still.
"I've seen guts in my day," he said, flashing a lopsided grin, "but you, miss? You've got more balls than half the blokes in this city."
Without looking, he drove his elbow backward, catching the enforcer behind him square in the nose. The crack of breaking cartilage was sharp, followed by a gurgled cry of pain as the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he hit the pavement.
Jeanne gasped, her heart pounding in her chest as she stared at the fallen enforcer.
The other officers immediately sprang into action, hands flying to their batons, wands and weapons, their expressions shifting from detached boredom to wary aggression.
He merely smirked, cracking his knuckles as he turned to face them.
"Well, well," he drawled. "You lot were perfectly fine standing back while your boy was about to beat a girl half to death. But the second someone fights back, now you remember how to do your jobs?" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Typical."
His gaze flicked back to the elven man, eyes narrowing slightly. "Yo, Goras, thought I smelled a pig," he said, tilting his head. "Figures. You always did have a taste for one-sided fights."
Goras scoffed, straightening his tie as he wiped the last of the blood from his face. His composure was forced, but the way his jaw tensed betrayed his rising anger.
"Bastion… Reinhardt." The name left his lips like a curse.