Leonardo da Vinci helped Lancelot dress his wounds.
Lancelot lay sprawled on the dunes with a look of utter despair, gazing at the sunset nearing the horizon as he let out a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
What kind of goddamn day was this?
Getting beaten up by his father was one thing, but then he had been beaten up by a Demi-Servant who had inherited his son's Saint Graph.
Being beaten by his father was understandable. Lancelot himself knew that he had been asking for it back then; if he had been in Anno's position, he probably would have flown into a rage and given himself a thorough beating too. But what was the deal with getting beaten up by Mash afterward?
Forget it. Forget it.
At least now, there was no longer any reason for him to stand against his father and... well, perhaps his daughter? There was no longer any reason for him to be their enemy.
Though that didn't make his foolishness any less foolish.
I'm really such an idiot.
Lancelot covered his face with his hand.
"You still look quite unwilling. Could it be that you haven't fully converted yet?" Xuanzang poked Lancelot's armor with her monk's staff and studied him curiously.
"Don't be so downcast, Sir Lancelot. It couldn't be helped, could it?" Bedivere sat beside Lancelot and patted his shoulder.
"I'm sorry. I truly have no face left to meet any of you. Sir Bedivere... and especially Sir Pindo, I am deeply sorry." Lancelot's voice came from behind his hand, trembling slightly.
"Get up. What kind of sight is this, lying on the ground?" Anno gave Lancelot a kick.
Lancelot hastily scrambled up, clutching his rear.
"Dad, do you have any dignity as a knight at all?!"