Sorry, Cowlick

"Holy Lance, compress!"

As Samael frowned in thought, a cold whisper, like a divine proclamation, echoed beside mortal ears.

At once, the pitch-black curtain descending from the heavens over Mount Basdan twisted violently before being forcibly pierced by a spiraling band of light, radiating brilliance like the stars.

The King of Britain, mounted atop the silver-armored warhorse East Stalion, held his upright lance like a lighthouse guiding the lost through the deep sea, utterly dissolving the surrounding foul darkness and forming a fortress of light that cut off that abyss.

"Holy Lance, raise anchor!"

With that cold pronouncement, the spiraling band of light that linked heaven and earth pressed forward and downward.

In an instant, the sharp star-anchor of the storm sliced apart and tore through the dark kingdom Vortigern had summoned, striking directly at the silhouette concealed within the black mist.

"Roar..."

In that instant, the darkness boiled violently. Amid a miserable shriek, the pure-blooded dragon beneath Vortigern plummeted from the sky, a horrific hole punched through its chest.

Pink scraps of dragon heart, shattered fragments of dragon scales, and tiny splinters of white bone scattered in every direction.

A great quantity of dragon blood turned into scarlet rain, spraying from the savage wound onto the scorched earth.

Though Vortigern on the dragon's back had narrowly escaped disaster, he was not unscathed. The iron armor around his right arm shattered, and the red-black demonic sword fell from his hand.

"Arthur, don't get cocky! Even if Britain falls, it will fall by my hand!"

Yet in the next moment, under the extreme danger, the wounded Low King's Serpent Eyes shrank to pinpoints. His face twisted, his mouth split all the way to his ears, sharp teeth protruding as an inhuman roar escaped his throat.

Gray-white scales emerged across his pale