"Surely, you don't just have one ally," Artoria remarked.
The Last King paused, then let out a wry chuckle.
"You've noticed…"
A low hum resonated, and a faint shadow resembling a misty cloud appeared beside him, indistinct against the darkened backdrop.
"This is my brother—my subordinate god."
With a heavy sigh, the Last King explained, "The heretic gods are deities who have deviated from their myths, embodying chaos and disobedience. Typically, they're consumed by madness, surrendering to their basest instincts. A war god, for example, would be forever trapped in the ecstasy of battle, endlessly seeking worthy foes to defeat."
"But I was born with a mission. I couldn't allow myself to be influenced by that madness. So, my brother bore the burden of distortion in my place, allowing me to manifest here in a stable form. However, he's taken on such an overwhelming share of the madness that he can no longer appear in this world as a complete being."
The Last King's voice softened as he lifted his gaze, his battle-hardened eyes gleaming with unyielding resolve.
"As I stand here, I carry the expectations of too many. A hero like me has no right to abandon his duty. I have an obligation to meet those expectations."
Artoria regarded the Last King silently for a moment, her golden eyes betraying a trace of empathy before she spoke.
"A heavy burden indeed... If it were the blue version of me, I imagine she'd have much to discuss with you."
For the prosperity of her kingdom and the happiness of her people, she had abandoned her humanity, choosing a path that guaranteed a bitter, lonely end.
Even as she foresaw the fall of herself and her country, she also witnessed the fleeting yet genuine smiles of those who surrounded her.
In many ways, Artoria found the Last King to be a kindred spirit—both driven by fate down a path crowned with the name of righteousness.
But there was one crucial difference: Artoria had once possessed the power to choose.
Before she drew the holy sword, Merlin had urged her to reconsider.
And yet, enchanted by the radiant smiles of her people, she had resolutely drawn the sword and ascended as king.
Ironically, Artoria's lived experiences had been turned into nothing more than a fabricated tale in this world.
Glaring at the Last King, her golden irises narrowed into predatory slits. A foreboding aura radiated from her.
The Last King hesitated. Had he said something wrong? Why was she staring daggers at him?
"Mordred," Artoria called, her cold gaze shifting to her knight. "That one's yours."
Artoria had anticipated the Last King would have backup, so this division of responsibility had been planned beforehand.
"The bandaged one?" Mordred grinned confidently, tapping a fist against her chestplate. "Leave it to me, Father. I'll make sure to take him down in style!"
"My friend…"
The Last King kept his focus on Artoria, speaking in a calm and reverent tone. "Once again, I must entrust this to you."
"I will deliver victory for you, my king," came the bandaged figure's solemn reply.
Mordred and the mysterious ally locked eyes from across the battlefield. In the next instant, crackling crimson lightning erupted from one while an invisible gale enveloped the other. Without a word, the two shot into the distance, leaving the field to Artoria and the Last King.
As his ally disappeared over the horizon, the Last King exhaled softly, shifting his attention fully to Artoria.
"Well then, shall we continue where we left off, Lady…?"
He trailed off, realization dawning upon him. He had been locked in combat with this formidable opponent for so long and had yet to ask for her name.
How rude! How could he face such a worthy adversary and not even know her name?
"Artoria."
Perhaps noticing his momentary embarrassment, Artoria stepped in to answer, her tone neutral. "Artoria Pendragon."
"...Eh?"
"Your shock is written all over your face. I'm used to that reaction by now."
Artoria's voice was icy as she noted the Last King's stunned expression. "I have no intention of explaining questions about my gender or why a fictional character like me exists in this world. I simply don't have the time. Believe what you will."
She raised her sword, pointing it at the Last King. Her face was cold, her tone sharp.
"Now you know why I'm so furious with you. My story, my knights of the Round Table, and the people of Britain—all of it was reduced to mere fiction. Then, to add insult to injury, some laughable 'original prototype' appeared out of nowhere. You tell me—how can I not want to kill you?"
"Ah, um… my apologies…"
The Last King's apology came swiftly and earnestly, despite the absurdity of the situation. Though he was the strongest warrior chosen by the gods, destined to vanquish demon kings, his gentle nature shone through in moments like this.
"I see… So that explains why you, too, are called the Last King. It also explains why I find your presence strangely familiar…"
He scratched his head in thought, his expression complicated. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he spoke politely.
"As for me… I am known as the Last King, or the Hero. But you may call me—"
The words caught in his throat. His face shifted through a mix of confusion and realization before he composed himself.
He couldn't remember his own name.
No matter how long he'd been asleep, forgetting his name entirely was unthinkable.
It seemed that centuries of drifting across the earth had worn away not just his body but also crucial fragments of his soul.
"You're Rama," Artoria said bluntly, her voice unwavering.
"Rama?"
"Yes. You're the original archetype of the hero who slays the demon king and saves the princess. The central figure of the Indian epic Ramayana, an incarnation of Vishnu who descended to vanquish the demon king Ravana."
"Rama…"
The Last King repeated the name, a spark igniting in his eyes. He took a deep breath, and in that moment, his very presence transformed.
It was as if a missing piece of his being had been restored, and his gaze now radiated dazzling brilliance.
"I am… Rama!"