Darlington laughed.
The sound was sharp, genuine, cutting through the void around him like a blade through silk. His eyes fixed on Mordred's still form, on the zone the knight had entered gleamed with something between amusement and reverence.
"The art of genjutsu," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a lecturer. "The art of mastery of illusion. A style of combat that was created to bring down the enemy while using the least amount of strength and the least amount of damage."
He spread his hands.
"At its core, illusion art genjutsu is deceiving the enemy into believing that what they see is not what they see... and what they don't see is what they see."
He began to pace, his invisible feet tracing patterns on the invisible floor.
"This art strictly has no straight path. It can be conducted in any manner or style. And sometimes, to achieve the smallest win from it might take a long time."
He stopped.
"To illude someone..." He tilted his head. "You could pretend to love someone, and then kill them later. That is genjutsu."
He resumed pacing.
"You could use poisons on the battlefield to weaken the enemy... and then come with a cure, to gain their trust." He smiled. "That is also genjutsu."
He turned to face the battlefield at Mordred, at Gareth, at the invisible war being fought between them.
"Genjutsu are of many types. And of many uses."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"I hope I'll see more of it used."
A pause.
"No."
His smile widened.
"Yeah... I'll definitely see more of it."
His eyes gleamed.
"It's a must."
Darlington took his eyes off the battle for a while.
He let his gaze drift across the corpses, across the blood-soaked sand, across the carnage that had become the battlefield until it settled on a figure in the distance.
King Arthur.
The king was walking.
Not running. Not charging. Walking. His steps were slow, measured, inevitable. Each footfall carried the weight of a man who had already decided the outcome of the war.
His hair was blazing even more than before.
The golden flames that had replaced his brown locks roared higher, hotter, more absolute. The same flames spread through his beard, his armor, his very skin. He was not wearing the flames. He was the flames.
Darlington looked at him.
And could not utter a word.
Angel.
The thought came unbidden, unbidden, impossible. But it was the only word that fit. Arthur Pendragon the king of Camelot, the wielder of Excalibur, the sun that had risen over Britain was not a man.
He was an angel.
A light so scorching, so bright, so pure that it felt warm even from this distance, even through the grey veil of Valhalla, even to a false god who had forgotten what warmth felt like.
But Darlington was not drawn toward Excalibur.
The blade blazed in Arthur's hand a pillar of golden fire that should have consumed everything, that should have demanded attention, that should have been the center of the universe.
Darlington barely noticed it.
Instead, he felt something else.
The sword was calling him.
Not Excalibur. Not the blade in Arthur's hand. Something older. Something that had been waiting for him since the moment he arrived in this world, since the moment he had been dragged from his grief and thrown into this war.
He recalled that he had felt this feeling before.
It was almost choking.
His throat tightened. His chest constricted. His mind that brilliant, overclocked engine stuttered.
What
Then he heard something.
Not from the sword.
From behind his back.
Darlington turned.
His body spun invisible, formless, but real in this space between worlds. His eyes searched the void behind him, the nothing that had been empty just moments before.
His face froze.
Then twisted.
Shock.
And beneath the shock, something darker.
Hate.
As Mordred stood within the zone, he did not exist and existed at the same time.
His body stood on the battlefield still, upright, present. His eyes were open. His chest rose and fell. His hand still gripped his black blade.
But he could not feel the world.
Could not taste the blood on his lips. Could not hear the clash of distant steel. Could not smell the death that surrounded him. Could not see the grey sky above.
He was detached.
And in that detachment, he had solved the major problem.
The chemical was still in his body. The heightened senses were still active. But without the senses to receive the world, the poison could not reach him.
He was safe.
For now.
Gareth stood a distance away.
He held a broken blade in his hand the remains of the Roman sword he had been using, the steel shattered midway down its length. The edge was still sharp. The point was still deadly. But it was not the weapon he had started with.
It was not the weapon that had failed him.
He had pulled the blade from his head the dagger Mordred had stabbed into his forehead, the one that should have killed him and wrapped the wound with cloth. The fabric was already soaked with blood, dark and wet and seeping.
But the wound still bled.
He walked forward.
His steps were slow measured, deliberate, patient. Each footfall carried him closer to Mordred's still form, to the zone that separated them, to the moment that would decide everything.
His face was calm.
But beneath the calm, there was doubt.
Just as I had planned, he thought, his eyes fixed on Mordred's frozen figure. Everything fell into place.
He stopped.
Everything fell into place.
He looked at his hands at the broken blade, at the blood that still dripped from his forehead, at the trap he had laid.
So if everything fell into place...
He did not move.
...why has the devil not taken a step?
He stood there, frozen, uncertain.
Why?
He refused to move further.
He stopped there.
.
Darlington stared at something behind him.
Arthur walked toward his son.
Gareth waited.
And the grey sky watched