Who Was the Servant, and Who Was the Master?

Inside the elevator, Duke watched the floor numbers tick upward at a steady pace and clicked his tongue. "Xiaolan, you're really no fun. You're taking away so much of my enjoyment!"

Lancelot dropped to one knee and pressed one hand against the elevator's polished floor. Dark red veins spread outward like blood vessels as he treated the elevator itself as a weapon and took control of it.

To Lancelot, a weapon was a concept, not merely swords, spears, sabers, halberds, F-22s, or Tomahawk cruise missiles. If necessary, even a streetlamp, folding stool, or toilet brush could be considered a weapon and turned into a D-Class Noble Phantasm through his Hand of NTR.

If Lancelot had been a little more ambitious, perhaps he really could have grabbed the Earth while standing upside down... though it was hard to say whether Duke had enough mana to support Lancelot swinging the planet around to smash people.

"Master, we are at war. It would be wiser to be cautious!"

"Relax. How could a mere Diarmuid possibly be a match for you, Xiaolan? You both seduced your brother's wife, but he got chopped into a thousand pieces by his brother and his men, while you've remained free and easy all this time. That's the difference!"

"Master, can we stop bringing that up?" Lancelot was going mad. This little thing got brought up eight times a day. Wasn't Duke sick of it yet?

"No!"

"..."

Lancer stood at the elevator entrance on the twentieth floor, watching the changing numbers draw closer. He excitedly twirled his twin spears, waiting for the elevator doors to open so he could unleash a Thrust of the Goddess of Fortune. Yet the elevator passed right by him without stopping, continuing upward as if it were headed straight for the top floor.