I, Guinevere, am going to crush you, you curry stick, today!

The final frame of the video shows this scene.

Beneath the blue sky and white clouds, a massive black dragon was being utterly defeated by a figure shrouded in light. And from the current perspective, she... seemed to be none other than the black dragon being brutally beaten.

"This is……"

what happened?

Before the question could be uttered, another voice, one that had been heard several times before, rang in her mind: "Weren't you already prepared for this?"

“Fafner…”

"Your selfless act is truly admirable." Although he said he admired her, a hint of sarcasm could be heard in his tone.

Lightswords rained down from the sky, and Guinevere experienced the feeling of being turned into a beehive from a first-person perspective. Fortunately, she felt no pain; otherwise, she felt that it would be wishful thinking to even maintain a relatively clear mind, let alone have a proper conversation like this.

"Selflessness..."

"otherwise?"

"A promise is a promise. I don't want to break my promise unless there's no other way. And if I die because of it... it just means that's all I am."

In his mind, the exchange with Fafnir was lightning fast. The moment the words left his lips, the figure opposite him took a step forward, appearing before him in a flash and catching a longsword that had been shot at him. The atmosphere froze, and the aura of death swept over them.

“So now, you’ve died as you wished.” Fafnir’s deep voice echoed directly in his mind: “How does it feel?”

“It’s a bit… a pity,” Guinevere replied honestly after thinking for a moment.

"Ah."

Her response was a soft laugh from the dragon. The sound paused for a moment, and in her vision, the figure slowly raised its longsword. Light converged, transforming once more into the massive golden blade it had been before. Suddenly, Fafnir said, "Do you know who this guy is?"

"do not know."

"Nuada, the first king of Tuhaddanan, the 'God of War'."

"famous."

Guinevere's words to this mythical figure, whom she frequently encountered in various works from her previous life, were truly heartfelt.

Fafnir chuckled softly again: "But the true God of War is long dead... He died first under the demonic eye of Barol, and the second was completely annihilated by his own descendants. What is here now is merely a wisp of his remaining consciousness left on that sword. Nevertheless, the God of War is still the God of War, and very few in this world can surpass him."

An arm rose, the greatsword materialized, poised to slash down in the next instant, the deep voice continuing unhurriedly: "You are fortunate; through a series of coincidences, you have gained the sword's approval. Now, all that's needed is an opportunity—"

"Opportunity?"

"Do you remember our promise?" Fafnir suddenly asked. Before the girl could answer, it continued, "Right now, you're just a fledgling bird that has just hatched. But in you, I do see a glimmer of hope, so..."

The voice just fell.

The black dragon, which had been on the verge of death, suddenly regained its strength. Its wings, as dark as shadows in the sky, spread out, and its head was raised high. In the depths of its deep yellow eyes, there was an arrogance that was in no way inferior to that of the war god before it.

"I'll give you the opportunity you're missing. Whether you can seize it depends entirely on your abilities—"

A long, resonant dragon roar echoed between heaven and earth. The black dragon spread its wings and soared into the sky, actually using its tattered body to actively meet the giant sword hanging high in the sky! Even upon seeing this scene, the God of War showed no emotion whatsoever. It simply acted like an incredibly intricate mechanical puppet, following a predetermined program, raising its sword and slashing down with a strike that could split mountains and cleave seas!

But the black dragon neither dodged nor avoided the blow, allowing itself to be cleaved in two by the attack. Its body then transformed into a cloud of black mist that surged forward, engulfing the God of War, who was still in a sword-wielding stance, along with his sword.

The next moment, the black mist, like a constantly churning liquid, gradually settled down, revealing a burly figure holding a long sword within it—and in Guinevere's perception, as the black dragon transformed into mist and surged upwards, an astonishing force, like a vast ocean tide, crashed into her body!

……

P.S.: I was stuck on the first half of the battle for two whole days, and I finally managed to write it... Although I guess no one will care, I'll just consider it a kind of self-satisfaction (sigh).

That said, seeing several new books on the list that are riding the wave of popularity and yet outperforming me by several times... I'd love to try and get a piece of the action, but after thinking about it, it seems like there's no way my book can really capitalize on that trend... It's probably unique that I've written such a flop on such a popular genre as Type-Moon; utterly hopeless...

Chapter 131 The Symbol of the King

Before she could react, an incredibly domineering force suddenly crashed into her body—it felt as if a scalding hot blade had been suddenly pierced in, violently stirring and causing her internal organs to burn in flames.

It's as if every bone in your body has been cruelly broken and shattered. The pain gradually becomes numb, but then in the next instant, it transforms into an even more intense and unbearable torrent of agony.

Guinevere took a few deep breaths, but she couldn't even clearly feel her own body. She was like a piece of dead wood floating on the sea, bobbing up and down, with no land in sight. Under the extreme torment of pain, even her memories became confused and unclear. She had to exert all her strength to barely catch a glimpse of something that flashed through her mind.

"We need a catalyst—"

"This opportunity—"

The enormous black dragon spread its wings and let out a long, drawn-out roar: "—I've come for you!"

The sound was like a knight's horn before battle, sweeping across the boundless world in an instant with the cold wind. At the very moment those words were uttered, she was expelled from her body by Fafnir's will.

After a moment of swaying, the perspective began to rise steadily, offering a commanding view of the battered black dragon transforming into a cloud of dark mist. Before the "God of War" could recover, the mist surged forward and completely engulfed him.

What happened next was perhaps too much for Guinevere to watch. She felt a tremendous force surge into her body without warning, expanding and taking over, while simultaneously triggering a counterattack from another magical force—the latter being the evil dragon curse that had once been expelled from her body but suddenly retaliated due to the loss of its suppressing power.

The two forces advanced and retreated, attacked and defended, and actually used her body as a battlefield, fiercely entangled. The girl could do nothing about it, and did not even have a good grasp of the specific situation, but she had a bold guess in her mind.

Unable to change the situation, she calmed herself down and tried to sense the aura that had suddenly appeared and was entangled with the power of the evil dragon. Gradually, a blurry outline emerged in her consciousness.

"This is... my memory?"

It feels like it happened a long time ago.

The wind rustled the grass, and crowds surged about. This was an open space outside a small town in the southern border, usually used as a training ground for local knights. But at this moment, it wasn't just the knight candidates and squires from the surrounding families; almost the entire town had gathered there, forming several concentric rings, making it impossible to move.

In the very center of the crowd, a female magician with long silver hair and a hooded robe was speaking loudly. Then, with a flick of her wrist, a stone with a sword stuck in it appeared out of thin air and was placed beside her. The crowd gasped, and then, as if by unspoken agreement, they all turned their heads, their gazes turning in their direction.

These gazes fell upon her, and Guinevere suddenly jolted back to her senses, only to realize that she had unknowingly become dressed in the clothes she remembered: cheap gray fabric chosen to avoid attracting attention, tailored to fit her body, with the cuffs and trouser legs deliberately tightened for ease of movement, and her long hair left untied, cascading down her back like flowing gold dust in the midday sun.

She reached for her waist, but didn't touch the Star Sword that had been with her for nearly ten years. This was the only difference from before. Thinking this, her fingers, which had missed their mark, twitched unconsciously, forming a loose fist.

The crowd inside and outside parted in a commotion—a scene reminiscent of the legendary parting of the sea by a saint—revealing the female magician in the center and the sword in the stone to her.

"The sword in the stone..."

However, as Merlin raised his hand, the longsword that was firmly planted in the boulder suddenly wobbled and snapped into several pieces. Several fragments slowly floated in the air, then fit together seamlessly like gears, falling into a silver palm along with the hilt.

He was a burly man nearly two meters tall, with messy hair, a thick beard, and a long robe mainly in black with white trim. He had half of his chest and right arm exposed, and a pair of huge black wings like those of a raven on his back. His expression was serious and imposing.

But what's most striking is the man's right arm.

The rest of his body was no different from that of an ordinary person, except that this arm was not made of flesh and blood, but a prosthetic arm made of pure silver. As a result, it appeared much thicker than his left arm, and its light flowed, so dazzling that it was impossible to look directly at it.

Upon seeing the iconic silver arm, Guinevere immediately recognized the person's identity.

"God of War, Nuada..."

She murmured to herself, not knowing if her words had traveled far. She saw the majestic deity before her take a step back and stand to Merlin's right, separated by the large, square rock.

The female magician waved her hand again.

As if sand and dust gathered in place, a gentle breeze blew by, and amidst the flickering light, another identical sword was thrust into the stone.

"Why is the sword in the stone qualified to choose a king?"

A huge, rumbling sound rang out, as if it had asked a question that had lingered in the girl's mind for a long time.

She had always believed that the entire selection ceremony was nothing more than a performance orchestrated by Merlin, with the aim of making Artoria not only Uther's unknown child, but also the chosen one destined to save Britain.

Guinevere has seen far too many of these tactics throughout history and across cultures, and thus, whether in her past life or this one, she has always held this belief.

But if that's the case, how was I able to pull the sword out of the stone?

She initially attributed the whole thing to Merlin's scheming.

Until this moment.

Guinevere looked at the imposing figure before her, and suddenly realized the answer.

"The sword in the stone is more than just the sword in the stone."

Looking at the holy sword stuck in the stone, she didn't know why, but suddenly felt a strange sense of familiarity, as if a traveler who had been away for many years had returned to his hometown. Familiarity and unfamiliarity surged and intertwined, and the emotion that finally settled in her heart was something she couldn't even describe accurately.

The girl took only one deep breath.

A word emerged at that moment, initially vague, but then becoming clearer and clearer, as if someone were whispering in your ear: "Call that name, and you will gain the power you desire."

That name.

She certainly knew what that "name" referred to, but this understanding didn't come from any impression she gained in a game in her past life; rather, it was a natural and spontaneous realization deep within her heart.

Its name is the Golden Sword of Inevitable Victory.

This sword is a symbol of the king, representing so-called royal power. It was originally created as an "anti-personnel Noble Phantasm" to help King Arthur grow into a true king.

By simply uttering this name, one will become the master of this sword. Given time, one might even become another King Arthur, or even replace him—it's not impossible.

Compared to Artoria, who currently lacks a solid foundation, she, as a princess of the Kingdom of Scotland, would undoubtedly have a greater advantage in every aspect if she truly harbored such intentions. Her brother, Pat, was merely a mediocre talent; even if he tried hard to establish merit, there were still voices within the country advocating for Leod Ogland to make the princess the crown prince. With a little manipulation…

As human beings, standing tall and upright, who hasn't dreamed of dominating the world and being a force to be reckoned with? In an instant, when this possibility was truly right in front of her, Guinevere found herself genuinely moved.

This was also the first time she realized that she actually harbored such ambitions. What she saw before her seemed to be an incredibly smooth and prosperous road, just waiting for her to take the first step, and from then on, she would hold great power, live by the wind and die by the wind, and even leave her name in history, to be praised for generations to come.

"But... so what?" Thoughts churned, but in the end, she only smiled gently: "Life is only a few decades long, why push yourself so hard and live such a tiring life..."

As she walked forward, she shook her head with a sense of relief. Gazes came from all around her, then fell behind her as she moved forward. The girl paused in front of the large rock, casually stretched out her hand, and took another step. Merlin stepped aside, and the tall figure seemed to frown.

Silently, the sword was pulled from the stone, accompanied by a few crisp cracking sounds, and the once intact blade was instantly covered with cracks.

"Human, do you know what you've given up?" The voice that had reminded her earlier rang out again, this time clearly audible—it was Fafnir's deep, echoing voice: "The power that so many in the world crave but cannot attain, just now, slipped through your fingers—"

“Or rather… I just got rid of a lot of trouble.” Guinevere tilted her head, revealing a faint smile: “A lot of trouble.”

As soon as she finished speaking, she stopped and slashed at the god of war. The two held almost identical longswords, one of which had broken and reformed, while the other was full of cracks, as if it might break into pieces at any moment.

You need to give me an opportunity.

"Yes."

"I have earned the sword's approval."

"Yes."

"So, what does that sword refer to?"

"You already had the answer." The dragon's roar paused, as if it came from an extremely distant place: "That magician obtained the broken divine sword from Niman's treasury, modified it himself, and created a decent semi-finished product. Although you are not qualified, with my help, you can still forcibly control this semi-finished product, and then everything will fall into place naturally."

"At that time, it wasn't the Sword of the King who acknowledged me. That's why the sword broke the moment I drew it, or rather..."

"This is its true form."

“The divine sword that fell long ago along with the God of War has actually recognized me…” With a flick of his finger, the slender blade responded with a “humming” sound: “Should I feel honored by this truth, or should I feel sad that I am indeed not qualified to be a king?”

Fafnir seemed to smile briefly, as if it were just an illusion: "Time is limited. The power of the divine sword is immense. With the remaining power within you, I can only delay you for a few more moments. If I cannot defeat the war god before you before I am completely annihilated, and it retaliates, both my physical body in the nightmare and your consciousness will suffer severe damage. The worst outcome is annihilation on the spot, leaving no trace—"

“A moment, huh? I don’t like this vague description…” Guinevere exhaled a breath of stale air, flipped her sword-wielding hand, and the tip of the sword drew a shallow mark on the ground.

The girl looked down and suddenly laughed: "Since we're at the last minute... let's give it our all."

Suddenly, killing intent gathered! A figure nearly two heads taller than her slashed out with a sword. Guinevere raised her hand to block, stepped back, and spun around, thrusting her sword upwards from her opponent's blind spot!

P.S.: My cold hasn't gotten better; it seems to have gotten worse. After taking medicine, I wrapped myself in a blanket and typed all night... I'm feeling dizzy and don't really know what I've written... The quality might be a bit poor, so please bear with me!

Chapter 132 The Beasts of the Divine Age (Part 1)

Pong!

A sharp clang of metal clashing rang out as the two swords separated in an instant, sparks flying everywhere, reflecting the fine beads of sweat on the girl's forehead. The crimson light then dimmed—clang! Clang! Clang! Three more short clashes followed in the blink of an eye!

Then came a muffled groan, and the longsword flew from her hand, covering several meters before landing firmly in the square boulder. Guinevere staggered backward, her right hand trembling, her breath hot and rapid. When she finally stopped, she found herself right next to the boulder, able to reach the hilt of the sword.

When she looked up, she met Nuada's indifferent, even somewhat cold, gaze—his pupils were silver, seemingly lifeless, yet possessing a radiance distinct from the whites of his eyes, like the silver hand that became widely known in later generations. They were empty, reflecting neither the sword light in his hand nor the girl who was his opponent.

Guinevere took two more breaths, clenching and unclenching her right hand several times before gradually regaining sensation. She gripped the hilt again, pulled it out with a forceful effort, and heard the longsword vibrate with a "hum" in the sunlight.

This was the seventh time she had been disarmed by the other party.

Of course, it is not shameful to lose when facing a deity as an opponent—even if it is just an unreal phantom—but the girl also understands that she is not facing the real Nuada at this moment.

During their first encounter, she realized that her opponent was unwilling to overpower her with brute force, so he deliberately kept his strength and speed at a level similar to her own. Even so, he still managed to force her to retreat step by step, leaving her with almost no chance to fight back.

"So strong..."

After a brief standoff, the man opposite them strode over. He was tall and his strides were long. In just two or three steps, the distance between them disappeared. Guinevere raised her longsword, the sunlight fell on the horizon, and the God of War's silver arm was raised in the air—in the girl's mind, what was being grasped between those five fingers and descending upon her at this moment was the entire sky!

So far, she has fought against all sorts of people. Some are cunning and calculating, treating swordsmanship more like chess than swordsmanship, requiring utmost caution in every move, lest they fall into a trap. Others are unique, eccentric, and unpredictable. But in this island nation that emphasizes chivalry, the most common style is still the upright and straightforward swordsmanship.

The two most representative swordsmen of this type she had encountered were Gawain and Artoria.

Gawain was an impeccable knight, and with the blessing of a saint, his physical abilities were tripled under the sunlight, making him almost an invincible fortress during the day. Even the simplest thrust or slash could unleash power that was unimaginable to ordinary people.

Artoria is similar in some ways. The red dragon heart within her allows her to use magic to enhance her body without restraint, almost recklessly. Her strength and speed are in no way inferior to those of the most powerful men. Hector taught her swordsmanship according to her aptitude, which was simple and unpretentious.

Even these two had never given Guinevere such a sense of oppression. Nuada's sword was not fast, nor did it have any deliberately left flaws or traps. When he swung his sword, it was often just a simple strike, unlike Gawain's overwhelming force, which felt like a mountain pressing down on him, and unlike Artoria, whose moves, though simple, were always the most appropriate response at the time.