Lancelot walked to a point roughly a hundred meters away from Anno and stopped.
Through the windblown sand, Anno observed his son.
Lancelot, standing opposite him, said nothing and showed no desire to attack. He merely lowered his head.
Perhaps he was looking at the blood on his body. Perhaps at the yellow sand beneath his feet.
The magical energy within him was undoubtedly immense.
So immense that even Anno's heart grew heavy.
Looking at Lancelot like this, Anno let out a sigh.
Was Lancelot strong?
Perhaps, judging from how he and Mordred had been defeated barehanded by Anno after becoming vessels of the Vile King, he was not strong. The title of "Britain's Strongest," which he had inherited after Anno stepped back from the front lines, had seemed like a joke ever since.
But what was the truth?
Was that really the case?
Mordred's strength was not particularly outstanding among the Round Table. She could only be considered somewhat above average, and someone like her could not resist the corruption of the Vile King's vessel.
But Lancelot was different.
Lancelot was far stronger than Mordred. His title as the strongest of the Round Table after Anno was no empty claim.
He could resist the assault on his consciousness brought by the Vile King's vessel. Even if it was only a sliver, he had a chance of breaking free through his own strength.
However, perhaps because he had killed Gareth, Lancelot had fallen into self-doubt.
Yet even so, after sensing Anno's intentions, his body had done everything in its power to restrain its own strength, allowing Anno—who had barely managed to unleash most of his power in one final burst—to peel away the outer shell covering him and Mordred.
Moreover, the Vile King's vessel was actually more of a weakening