The white dragon, radiant with azure light, descended from the sky.
He plunged into the demonic dragon's lair, engaging in the most primal and brutal clash with Vortigern, the White Dragon King fused with Britain itself.
"If you can no longer rule this island, then die quietly!" Alaric roared.
His terrifying claws tore through the demonic dragon's scales with ease, exposing blackened, corrupted flesh beneath.
Despair and curses flowed from Vortigern's body in the form of blood, inevitably staining Alaric's divine form.
"Be careful!" Artoria cried, raising her holy sword to join the dragon-on-dragon fray.
But Alaric whipped his head, flinging her away.
"Stay back!"
"This is my fight!"
"From this day forth, be it god or king, there will be only one white dragon in this world... me!"
Alaric's proud roar echoed with a majesty that dominated the heavens.
But...
"Pathetic!" Vortigern snarled.
"You fool, don't you understand?"
"This island needs neither king nor god!"
"Destruction... it craves only utter destruction!"
In response to Alaric's bold declaration, the demonic dragon, pinned beneath him, refused to yield. It raised its grotesque head, spewing black breath in all directions.
It was the vilest, most defiled substance in the world... the despair and rage amassed over Britain's 4.6 billion years of existence.
No sanctity could withstand such corruption; no hope could overcome such despair.
At the brink of the world's end, the island's anguished cry could not be soothed.
But what of it?
"Victory!"
"No matter what, I still crave victory!"
Facing the oncoming curses, Alaric didn't dodge. He met the island's despair and rage head-on with his own body.
From thousands of meters away, Artoria watched the white dragon standing resolute on the earth, her expression fraught with panic.
Black sludge tainted his sacred form, creeping over his pristine wings. The radiant white glow faded, replaced by a deep, abyssal blue, as if born from the ocean's depths.
"See? Your curses can't touch me!"
"Your rage can't quell my thirst for victory!"
Alaric lowered his head, glaring at the demonic dragon pinned to the ground.
As he parted his jaws, purple lightning crackled around him. The sky's clouds turned a chaotic violet, joining the blazing flames below in a hellish tableau of the apocalypse.
"The battle is over, demonic dragon!"
[Ding! You have defeated: Demonic Dragon of Britain.]
[You gained: Growth Value +10,000.]
[Current Growth Value: 14,500/10,000 (Evolution Unavailable)]
[You gained new concept: Kingship (Activated)]
[You gained new concept: Destruction (Activated)]
[You gained new concept: Despair (Activated)]
The fire burned for seven days.
It consumed the city, reducing White Castle to a true wasteland, and incinerated the demonic dragon's corpse, erasing Vortigern and his ambitions to dominate the world without a trace.
"Now, all that's left is to rebuild this city and deal with those foreign tribes." Alaric said, standing beside Artoria in human form, a faint smile on his lips.
But seeing him now, Artoria could hardly smile.
The glowing boy was gone. In his place stood a handsome, quiet young man clad in a deep blue ceremonial robe, a black crown adorned with thorns resting on his head. His once-vibrant azure eyes were now a profound blue-black.
In that moment, Artoria understood why Alaric had chosen to meet her in human form before the battle with Vortigern.
"Please remember me as I am now."
Those were the words he'd wanted to say, but she'd been too busy laughing and marveling to listen.
"Is this okay?" She asked, worry creasing her brow.
Even if she knew little of Mysteries, she could tell this was not the form a young dragon should take after proper evolution.
"It'd be a lie to say it's fine." Alaric admitted.
"There's always this annoying whispering in my ears."
"But it's just that... annoying."
He tapped his ear, feigning indifference.
When he saw Artoria's skeptical look, he cited an example of someone who'd left this world long ago.
"Scáthach. You remember Scáthach, right?"
"The curse she bears for stepping into the divine realm as a mortal is far worse than mine... it still torments her."
"But so what? She's lived through it all these years, hasn't she?"
Scáthach's stature among the Celts was undeniable. Even Artoria, the chosen king, nodded in acknowledgment at the mention of the warrior's name, setting aside her concerns about the curses.
After all, who among them didn't carry a curse or two?
In Artoria's mind, the "throne" itself was a curse. Those who bore it had to forsake personal emotions and happiness, dedicating their lives to the nation's prosperity. Yet, to protect the smiles of the Britons, she'd chosen this thorny path, fated for a tragic end, and became Britain's king without hesitation.
"But these sacrifices are worth it." She said.
"The Vile King is dead, and the island's rage has been quelled."
"Now begins the true era of peace, doesn't it?"
Gazing at the dissipating clouds and the sunlight breaking through, hope filled the girl's face.
The era of King Arthur had begun.
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