This Is My Holy Grail War [149]

"Go deal with the Black Archer! Now!"

Her father’s voice echoed relentlessly in Mordred’s mind, etched in vivid detail. Behind the helmet that shielded her face, her expression was full of anguish. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. All she could do was watch as her father fought with every ounce of his strength, desperately fending off Black Lancer’s relentless assault.

The silent, starless night spread out before her, the faint light of a cold moon reflecting off her armor. Its pale glow slipped through the cracks of her helmet, casting an icy sheen over her face. Clutching her blade tightly, she lowered it reluctantly, forced to follow her father’s orders as she trudged alone into the dark unknown.

Her teeth bit into her lip so hard that blood began to seep out, though she had long gone numb to the pain. All that remained was bitterness coursing through her. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t help—she was a burden. Without her father shielding her, she wouldn’t have survived.

She felt utterly inadequate compared to her father. She couldn’t stop the stakes, and she didn’t have even a fraction of his composure. All she could do was watch as her father shouldered every burden, carrying it alone.

It’s infuriating… humiliating!

“I’m not satisfied… I’m not satisfied!” Mordred seethed at her own helplessness, her voice trembling in her thoughts. Why am I so weak? Why am I so useless? Why can’t I do anything for him?

If only she had Lancelot’s skill… or Gawain’s strength… or even Merlin’s magecraft. She was furious at her inadequacy, realizing for the first time how incomplete her training had been.

I’m not worthy of being Britain’s king… not yet. The thought struck her like a hammer, leaving her dazed.

Another arrow whistled past, breaking her reverie. Her instinct told her she couldn’t afford to falter any longer.

Her father’s steadfast resolve weighed heavily on her. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though she were wading through quicksand. The coppery scent of blood filled her nose, sharp and overwhelming—her father’s blood, spilled as he fought for his life.

Tears threatened to spill, but Mordred forced them back. A king does not cry. A knight does not weep. She was a Knight of the Round Table, the child of the undefeated king.

Mordred, the so-called Traitor’s Blade, had only ever wanted her father’s acknowledgment. Now that Arthur had accepted her, she had to live up to that recognition. She had to embody the dignity of a king.

The heavy clinking of her armor was grating, each step reverberating loudly against the cold black stone beneath her feet. The sound made her uneasy, amplifying the bitterness in her heart.

A frigid wind howled through the air, carrying a hint of salt that stung her cheeks, as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea.

An arrow grazed past her shoulder, its sudden presence snapping her back to attention. Anger surged through her as she realized the hidden archer was still targeting her and her father.

Coward. She clenched her fists, her frustration morphing into rage. Whoever this archer was, she would cut them down and return to her father’s side, triumphant.

Her resolve hardened. Mordred surged forward, charging straight into the rain of arrows.

“I am Mordred, summoned as Saber in this Holy Grail War!” she bellowed, her voice fierce and unyielding. “I am a Knight of the Round Table and the rightful heir of King Arthur! Archer, hiding in the shadows—state your name!”

Her declaration echoed across the battlefield, heavy with pride and defiance.

No answer came. Only more arrows flew her way.

Calm down. Knights should not be ruled by anger. Mordred suppressed the fire in her chest, determined to emulate the virtues of her fellow knights.

She steadied her breathing, raising her sword in a composed stance. For perhaps the first time in her life, she faced combat with true tranquility. Gone were the reckless fury and blind aggression.

Guided by this newfound clarity, she moved gracefully through the arrow storm, cutting down a high rock with a single fluid stroke. Her sword gleamed as it pointed skyward, aimed directly at Archer.

Archer, perched in the air, drew two arrows from his quiver with one hand while clutching four more in the other, their sharp tips gleaming like claws.

Close combat? For an archer, that’s bold… or foolish. Mordred felt her pride flare.

But before she could make her move, Archer did something unexpected. In midair, he braced his bow with his foot and drew the string with his thumb, one hand still holding additional arrows.

What—?!

With a sharp whistle, the arrow flew straight for Mordred’s forehead.

Caught off guard, Mordred flipped her sword to deflect the projectile, its force rattling through her arm. By then, Archer had landed in a cloud of dust.

Taking advantage of the moment, Archer hurled the arrows in his left hand like throwing knives.

Clang, clang, clang!

Mordred’s blade gleamed as it deflected each arrow in rapid succession.

But Archer didn’t stop. Slipping past Mordred in a fluid motion, he unleashed another arrow at point-blank range.

This was no static contest in a training yard—it was a battlefield duel. Archer’s every movement prioritized speed, his technique more reminiscent of a mounted nomad’s rapid fire than a stationary archer’s precision.

With every dodge and counter, Archer’s relentless attacks left Mordred scrambling to keep up.

An arrow slipped past her defense, striking a joint in her armor and drawing blood.

The pain sharpened her focus. Mordred didn’t give in to her usual temper, maintaining her composure. She needed to find an opening and exploit it.

“Interesting…” Archer lowered his bow briefly to retrieve more arrows, his voice laced with curiosity. “You’re nothing like you were before. You’re calm, measured, and… different. What changed you?”

“I am a knight,” Mordred replied, her voice firm with resolve.

“If someone told me now that you were her blood, I’d believe it.” Archer’s voice softened, almost kind. “I don’t know what Black Saber did to you, but you’re better for it.”

“That’s my father!” Mordred shouted, the declaration bursting from her with pride. Excitement filled her, but she quickly steadied herself, her growing confidence tempered by the acknowledgment that she still had much to prove.

She watched Archer carefully, her breathing even. Each time his fingers moved to nock an arrow, she prepared to react. At this distance, no matter how skilled he was, she would find her chance to strike.

Her sword carved through the air, scattering the incoming arrows like leaves.

As she drew closer, she prepared to deal a decisive blow. Just as she was about to strike, Archer lowered his bow.

“I’ve found your weakness.” His voice brimmed with quiet certainty, and with it came a sudden, oppressive pressure.

“What?!” Mordred’s instincts screamed as she looked up.

In the cold moonlit sky, faint stars began to shimmer ominously, forming the constellation of Sagittarius.

Chiron revealed his Noble Phantasm once again, and Mordred’s [Instinct] screamed in alarm.

You’ll die. This arrow will kill you.

To block [Antares Snipe], she would have to unleash her own Noble Phantasm.

Mordred froze, her gaze falling to the elegant silver blade in her hand.

This brilliant, radiant sword represented her lifelong obsession and the symbol of her rebellion. With it, she had once pierced the undefeated king, earning a name not for loyalty or knighthood, but for treachery.

The world remembered her not as a noble knight but as a parricide, a traitor who slew her king, her father, and her kin.

I can’t do it. She had sworn to abandon that past—how could she betray her father again? No. Absolutely not.

“I am a king!” Mordred shouted, defiance ringing in her voice. She was no longer the traitorous knight. She wouldn’t even allow herself to recall the name of her Noble Phantasm. She had vowed to leave that part of her behind, and she would not desecrate the acknowledgment her father had given her.

The emerald glow approached, and the night sky ignited with the brilliance of Chiron’s Noble Phantasm. A radiant meteor tore through the trembling clouds, a green thunderbolt roaring directly toward Mordred.

The streak of light split her armor apart and drove straight through her heart.

Her senses dulled, the world around her fading to a haze of muffled sounds and distorted shapes. The overwhelming flow of magical energy shook her body, threatening to topple her.

But she planted her sword into the ground, forcing herself upright. Her fierce gaze locked onto Archer, her will to fight unbroken. Yet, Archer’s relentless volley of arrows followed, piercing her armor over and over until she resembled a sieve.

Is this the end?

Her thoughts wavered as she struggled to turn her head. Her eyes fell on the gleaming silver sword in her trembling hand.

I can’t. I won’t use this Noble Phantasm. I am not a traitor.

“By the power of this Command Spell, I order you—Saber, unleash—”

“No!” Mordred’s will cut through Kairi’s command before he could finish.

This sword was the embodiment of her rebellion, and she had vowed never to invoke it again. To do so would be the greatest insult to her father’s recognition.

Kairi paused, sensing her resolve. His voice softened.

“Fine. Don’t use it. Just… give it your all.”

Strength surged through her as the Command Spell’s power coursed through her veins, revitalizing her body like a jolt of adrenaline. Mordred pulled her sword from the ground, ignoring the grievous wounds that marred her form. The force of [Battle Continuation] kept her standing, though barely.

Mordred charged forward, her silver blade gleaming even as blood poured from her injuries.

Archer remained expressionless as he drew his bow. Arrow after arrow flew toward her, striking her abdomen, shoulder, and knee. Each blow slowed her, each step grew heavier.

Kairi’s voice returned, issuing another command.

“By the Command Spell, I order you—kill Archer!”

His second spell burned into her consciousness, but he wasn’t finished.

“By the Command Spell, I order you—stay alive!”

The final Command Spell glowed brightly before disappearing altogether.

“I am the King of Britain!” Mordred roared, her voice echoing across the battlefield.

The Command Spells supercharged her magic, propelling her forward like a rocket. She moved too fast for Archer to evade, forcing him to stand his ground and counter.

Even as his arrows struck her, Mordred pressed on, recklessly closing the distance. She ignored every wound, every drop of blood spilled, and charged straight into Archer’s space.

When she reached him, the bloodied knight swung her silver sword in a single, devastating motion.

The blade plunged through Chiron’s chest, its polished surface emerging crimson on the other side. Blood dripped steadily from the wound, pooling on the scorched ground.

Chiron’s body trembled as Mordred staggered back, her own lifeblood mingling with his on the battlefield.

The knight had given everything—her life and her strength—to end this battle.

She collapsed to her knees, her breaths shallow and ragged. Her entire body was drenched in blood, her shattered spirit core barely holding her together.

Even so, Mordred forced herself to rise. Her helmet clattered to the ground, exposing her face to the moonlight. The silver glow felt warm against her cheeks for the first time, no longer cold and distant.

Although the Command Spells had been exhausted, the bond with her Master remained intact. Through that connection, she sensed Kairi approaching, oddly unhindered by the chaos of the battlefield.

“Did the Masters not fight each other?” she asked weakly.

“See that giant over there?” Kairi pointed to the distance.

The land had long since been reduced to desolation. It was impossible to miss the hulking gray-black automaton standing amidst the ruins.

“I see it. What about it?”

“Everyone—every Master—tried to reach it,” Kairi explained, clutching his head as though trying to ward off a compulsion. “And then… they all died. Became its fuel.”

“I see.” Mordred nodded slowly, understanding.

Then, she made a request.

“A cigarette.”

“What did you say?”

“I remember you promised me one. You better not try to keep it for yourself. My… my fight is over. Let me… relax a little,” she said, her voice faltering.

“Oh, right!” Kairi exclaimed as he fumbled with his cigarette box. “I’ve got one ready for you.”

He handed her a cigarette, and Mordred took it with trembling fingers.

Her body was failing. Though [Battle Continuation] kept her alive for now, the shattering of her spirit core left her tether to the world fraying.

“I want to see Father. I have to see Father.”

Mordred’s whispers grew louder as she stared ahead, her vision fixed on a distant point.

Her father’s presence was close. If she could just hold on a little longer…

Dragging her injured body forward, she staggered step by step, guided by the familiar pull of her father’s magical energy. Her surroundings blurred, fading into irrelevance. She could only focus on moving forward.

Mordred’s strength ebbed away with each step, her memories dissolving alongside it.

But she refused to stop. If she gave up now, she would lose her chance to see him forever.

“Father…” she called, her voice cracking as she smiled.

Warmth enveloped her, and her vision filled with the image of her father’s kind gaze and gentle hand.

Tears finally spilled down her cheeks, not from pain, but from relief. She smiled, and she wept.

“This isn’t a dream,” she thought.

The cigarette slipped from her hand as the last of her strength faded.

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T/N: mordred...

This is a fan translation of 这是我的圣杯之战 by 向希望祈祷. All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!