The battle lasted an entire day.
Above Camlann, gods wailed and ghosts howled.
The blood of gods poured down like torrential rain. The immense magic power that escaped should have been enough to transform all of Great Britain into another world, yet strangely, it caused no widespread impact.
Above the stars, twelve constellations shone with blinding radiance, forming the shape of a Holy Grail.
Through the Magic Web, all of Great Britain—even all of Europe—had been enveloped by the ritual.
Over the past decade, gods had entered the fray one after another, binding themselves to the fates of mortals. The magic power of every human or god who died within this ritual was squeezed out and absorbed by the Magic Web.
Now, the Holy Grail was on the verge of completion.
Below the sky, the mortal soldiers on both sides had been infected by the murderous aura of the gods. They seemed to know no fear, fighting until the very last man.
Mordred cast aside his armor and fled in panic.
On the other side, only two grievously wounded knights remained at Arthur's side.
Ignoring their pleas, Arthur gripped the Sword of Victory and insisted on pursuing him. He had nearly forgotten the prophecy he had heard in his dream that morning.
He had the Sword of Victory. This treasured blade, blessed by the King of Angels, made him invincible. He could not lose!
Not far away, Mordred suddenly stumbled and fell. Seeing his chance, Arthur was about to step forward and finish him off.
But then, he saw the panic-stricken face beneath the rain.
Those eyes belonged to Morgan, his half-sister.
Yet lightning cast shadows across that face, tracing another familiar outline. For an instant, he was dazed.
That face—
Why did it look more like—his own?
A long-buried