"Can you tell me a story?...The story of a knight?" (Lena)

You do not have a destiny, tool of Morgan." (Gawain)

"I am so proud of you." (?)

"Let us raise our mugs for the prosperity of Britain. For King Mordred." (Lancelot)

"If everything is to disappear and I am to forget, then please let her name persist through time and space." (Kenelm)

"No matter how determined you were, you never did escape your fate…Even in failure, you smile." (Morgan)

"Is this your happy ending, Mister Knight?" (Lena)

"This is my...happy ending."


In the middle of a desert, a figure in black and red knight armor stood above another. The knight was, for a lack of better words, beating the shit out of the fallen man. After realizing that it was harder than expected to fist a struggling human in his orifice, she swapped tactics. Her metal plated foot continuously rammed against his body; the victim's constant screams of pain was proof of her action's effectiveness. His cries were sweet nectar to her eyes and satisfied her craving for revenge.

"What did I do to deserve this?" The man whimpered.

"Everything." The knight angrily answered and landed another kick to his temple.

"I don't even know who you are." Bedivere reasoned. His statement caused the knight to pause and the blows to stop.

Mordred's helmet shifted and slid off her head to reveal her face.

"Recognize me now." She spat with venom. Bedivere's body trembled in fear, and then confusion, when he saw Mordred's face. From his experience, Mordred was the shortest member of the Knights of the Round Table and acted akin to a wild beast in the battlefield. The Mordred that stood before him was easily a few centimeters taller than Gawain. Her face was warped beyond viciousness as if the wild beast was left to starve for days and had finally found fresh meat.

The Mordred that was exacting vengeance was not the knight he had known…She should not exist, yet here she was beating him to the ground. Perhaps she was also sent here by Merlin to help resolve this Singularity. If so, then it begged the question on why he was never notified of this and was suffering by the hands of his potential ally. There were so many possibilities, all of which brought him an immense headache that worsened the pain of his bodily wounds.

"How are you here?" He desperately questioned to prolong the knight's hesitation to resume her assault and cease his new found curiosity.

Mordred's eyes jolted open in surprise at her own predicament. She did not know why she was here nor how she survived. In fact, her mind was simply too angry to check her surroundings and wellbeing. Now that it was brought to her attention, everything felt out of place. She examined her arms, which had magically reattached themselves. There was no taste of iron in her mouth and no hole in her chest.

Everything was fine; she was healthy and back to full strength…No…She was more than full strength: the mana surging through her body, the clenching of her fist, and the 20/20 vision of her eyes. Mordred was alive and rejuvenated.

The how was discovered when she searched her memories. Knowledge she was unaware stuck out like a sore thumb; they were different from the ideas she would usually acquire from the strange voice inside her head. The information drilled into her was more profession, unlike the broken phrases of the voice and her partner. She knew what she was, though her reason to be summoned at this place was clouded in mystery. Mordred…Or Mordred Alter as she was not the original…became a heroic spirit due to unknown forces.


A Warehouse At Present Time

A large group of cultists danced around a table filled with Mordred merchandise. On occasion, a cultist would add another offering to the pile. They sang praises and chanted three words.

"For her happiness."


Any further effort to uncover her miraculous entrance to the throne of heroes brought unusual chills down her spine…And a deep [redacted] for [redacted]...For her [redacted] [redacted].

There was also the odd appearance of this Bedivere. Instead of a missing stump for a limb, he had a silver mechanical-like arm. He still emitted the energy of the King Arthur simp, except less crazy and more considerate. She needed answers and he was the perfect target.

"Tell me." Mordred started. "What happened- Motherf*cker!"

In the midst of her thoughts, Bedivere had apparently escaped. She furiously scanned for his galloping figure.

"That piece of shit got away." Her helmet slid back on as she cursed her sloppiness. When she saw nothing besides desert sand, Mordred stomped angrily to a random direction and hoped for the best.

As Mordred's silhouette disappeared into the horizon, a pile of sand shifted and Bedivere emerged from underneath the surface. His gray and light brown cloak made it easy for him to conceal in the desert. With some careful digging and fear for his life, Bedivere hid from his assailant.

He dusted himself off and continued his journey as if the beatdown never occurred. For his sanity, it was better to forget what had occurred and try to avoid the strange Mordred. The agony of his hips was not improving his journey. The pain would disappear in time; he had to endure it for the moment


AN: Mordred Alter (mc) will sometimes be referred to as Alter, while the original Mordred is referred to as just Mordred.

"Stupid ass simp." Mordred Alter complained. She walked on no particular path; it was a random straight route to nowhere.

The life of a spirit was unique. She could not starve nor succumb to fatigue. Having enough mana to stay in these lands was her only constraint, though even that was strangely absent. Her mana reserves had a max limit that could not be surpassed. However, it would regenerate enough to keep herself from vanishing into golden particles.

Endless plain of sand as the eyes could see. Mordred Alter's only entertainment was carving trails using her weirdly black colored Clarent. The sword forwent its original silver colors for a black blade with red markings. The new variant suited her armor quite nicely, though there was the added bonus being perceived as extra villainous by others.

Her mentality also shifted. A tick of everlasting anger gave her increasing aptness for violence. It was an itch that she could never extinguish. Her beatdown of Bedivere escalated that desire for bloodshed.

In the desert without any stimulants to satisfy her tingles of wrath, carving trails in the desert sand was her sole outlet. She imagined herself killing the desert to appease her senses and stop herself from fisting the first stranger she would find in this desolate place.

However, all shackles were off if she was to find Bedivere; the next time they met, he wouldn't have the legs to run away with.

A couple of days of walking, dragging things through the sand turned into an annoyance. The heat was also getting increasingly nasty. Mordred Alter removed her helmet in hopes of cooling herself, but the boiling desert sun striking her face made everything worse. She might be a servant who couldn't die from dehydration, but a nice cold drink would still do wonders to her constitution. At least it would satiate her irrationation and lessen her craving for murder.

It took another hour until any signs of life were visible. The figures were on horseback and raced towards her location. The lead figure was a blond-haired man with a dark green cape, Gawain. Alter was hesitant in greeting the group due to her previous interactions with the Bedivere lookalike. In addition, her urges made it difficult to not smash his face in. She resisted because she needed the blonde knight to get useful information out of him.

'This is not the knight we knew.' A voice confirmed her suspicions.

If this truly was a different world, then Gawain would know of a different variation of Mordred. The Mordred of this world could feasibly be the one in those visions Alter had spectated during her battle with the corrupted King Arthur.

"Mordred, what are you doing here?" Gawain rode his steed closer and asked when he stopped at Alter's side. "You look…different?"

His voice hints at his confusion at her unannounced presence and physical features. If memories served Alter correctly, the original Mordred should be wearing the old armor and was by far the shortest Knight in the Round Table.

"I…Umm…was trying out a new look." She tried to rationalize. "How was your…travels?"

Gawain looked unconvinced by my display of reason, but made no comment on it.

"I have completed my assigned task by our King and will be returning." He peered behind me and his confusion turned into suspicion. "Where are your soldiers who have been assigned to you for your subjugation?"

"They were killed in battle." She quickly replied and prayed he didn't ask for the details. "The enemy put up more of a fight."

The male knight mentioned king, which was inferred to be King Arthur. Gawain spoke highly of his king, unlike when Alter took the throne, and hinted that she was not the king in this realm.

'Asshole simp.' An agreeable thought confirmed.

Gawain tsked under his breath before offering to travel together back to Camelot. A capital she had swarn wasn't built in the middle of a desert.

"Our king will be displeased by your results…parallel to my own fate. King Artoria will not stand for any delays." He sadly declared. Another detail was disclosed - her Father was addressed as King Artoria, not King Arthur. Although the name could be interchangeable.

In the end, Alter agreed to join Gawain on their trip back to Camelot. Their travel was dotted with small talk, which Alter leveraged to squeeze info from her potential enemy.

King Artoria Pendragon was revealed to still be the moron who believed in perfection. Yet now, the monarch held the status of a god and the power to achieve it. She was forcing her ideals upon the very world and killing everything that she deemed undesirable.

How was she supposed to stop her Father from this senseless slaughter? It would be a battle between a stray spirit and divine spirit. The only chance of victory she had was if she played dirty or a miracle happened.

Once they entered Camelot, soldiers and civilians alike gave Alter questioning looks for her strange attire. Quietly, Alter escaped into the rooms of the fortress centered in the city to avoid further suspicions from the inhabitants. At times when she couldn't escape attention, Alter tried to enact the original Mordred.

Her talent as an actor was extremely lacking, but no one ratted her out so far.

Alter's luck seemed to run out when she confronted a shorter mirror of herself. The two Mordreds stared at each for what felt like eternity, though it was in actuality just seconds. On instinct, both threw a punch at each other's faces. The original Mordred's fist was aimed upward because Alter was taller, while Alter did the vice versa.

Original Mordred's blow impacted Alter's jaw…yet it was not that painful. Compared to losing limbs and impaled in the chest for prolonged periods of time, a simple punch to the face was harmless.

Alter took the uppercut like a tree being rammed by a bull. On the other hand, the counter attack caused the original Mordred to flinch and her knees to buckle. The wound was aggravated by Alter's bulkier and deadly choice in armor. The original was done with one swing.

'This was not a great first impression in a meeting with our past self.'

Alter gulped in fear of accidentally killing her younger self in another timeline. If the original was to awaken, this disgrace would enrage her to no bounds; it was how Alter would react. Quietly, the unconscious body was dragged into a nearby room and tied up.

"Sir Mordred, our King wishes for your attenda-" Lancelot walked past the room and looked inside. He stopped in his tracks when he witnessed Alter tying up his Mordred.

"Ummm…You didn't see anything?" Alter sheepishly suggested.