As the pitched battle raged over the horizon, a lone horseman rode at full pelt to reach the field. The man, clad in purple armour, rode from his territory, personally assigned to him by Arthur to govern and maintain. It was ironic, then, that it was that very territory in which Lancelot had deposited Arthur's own unfaithful wife after they fled Camelot, leaving several dead knights in their wake, including Sir Agravain, the king's own nephew.

There was certainly no hope of forgiveness for her now. But even so, he knew the fate of the nation was at stake just over this ridge, and he would never be able to call himself any sort of noble man were he to leave the defenders of Britain down a Master and Servant at so crucial a time. If nothing else, he and Berserker could face down some of the Red Faction's other Masters to ease the other Masters' struggle and give them a chance to strike down Morgan.

He rode over the ridge, Berserker by his side in spirit form. He knew not for how long the battle had raged, nor the state of the other seven Masters and their Servants. All he knew was that it was time for him to turn the tide.

With lance in hand, he thrust and slashed his way through many enemy troops as he drove deeper into the chaos. His horse was eventually felled by a stray arrow, throwing him to the ground; but a quick roll brought him back to his feet, sword drawn and ready to kill. He almost hoped that arrow had come from that bastard Archer of Red, presenting himself for Lancelot to take his vengeance, however unlikely that man's presence may be.

The first warrior he recognised was actually Caster, stood on a slightly elevated position, surrounded by knights. From where she stood, Lancelot followed her gaze to the sole spot of sunlight piercing through the grey clouds above. Sir Gawain. Lancelot rushed towards his comrade's position, pushing through the enemy ranks to find him showing why he was considered one of the most skilled swordfighters among the Round Table.

Rushing in, Lancelot impaled a Pict attempting to strike the white knight from behind, thrusting the attacker's body into the dirt. Gawain seemed shocked to see Lancelot, but the other man was out of the newcomer's sight instantly, as he turned to cut down more foes, Berserker materialising to assist in the slaughter. Before too long, the enemy unit was wiped out, giving the three some breathing room. From what Lancelot could see, this was a skirmish on the outskirts of the battle at large. Perhaps this was an enemy pincer attack that the two had just foiled, or Sir Gawain had come to stop a particular plot from being-

"What are you doing here, Sir Lancelot?" Despite addressing him with proper honorifics, there was a clear disdain in Gawain's voice as he demanded the answer to this question. He doubted word had yet reached Gawain of what had transpired back at Camelot. If it had, Lancelot doubted Gawain would have bothered to even speak to him, instead letting his blade speak for him.

"I come to join our cause in the battle, of course," Lancelot explained. His sins could be revealed and discussed later, once the battle was won. Once the kingdom no longer had need for this knight and Master.

"You were to stay at the castle and await our return," Gawain reminded, his tone growing more agitated with each word. "That was your express command from the king. It seems disobedience is all you are good for anymore."

"This battle could be the last of this War. I would be a fool to not join the fight!"

"You are already a fool, Lancelot. Your affair with the queen is proof enough of that."

So that was the reason for the hostility. As dishonourable as it could be seen as, Lancelot felt almost relieved for the confirmation that Gawain did not yet know that the man before him had cut down his brother mere hours ago.

"Listen, Sir Gawain-"

"There is nothing more for you to say, adulterer. Return to the castle now, while you still have some honour left to lose." Without another word, Gawain allowed Caster to land beside him and leap an impressive distance deeper into the fray to pursue some other target, their defensive knights bringing up the rear.

Lancelot stood in silence, not at all surprised by the icy reception that had greeted him. Berserker, having finished looking out for any enemy advancing on them, stepped into view, his bloody visage reminding Lancelot of the aftermath of the confrontation with Sir Agravain. "Is that it? Are we going to just give up and go home?"

On some level, Lancelot was tempted to do exactly that. To return home and await judgment once the king learned of his crime. But he knew that if he turned back now, the chances of survival for the king and her knights would surely diminish. Lancelot was already dishonoured several times over, even if his fellow knights knew not the full extend of his sins. Thus, disobedience in the name of helping to end the war was his only choice.

"No. This battle's outcome is too important for us to worry about dishonour anymore."

"Hm. That is what I like to hear," Achilles said with a satisfied nod. "Give the order, and your enemies will meet the same fate as the Trojans."

"Go. Slaughter the enemy. But spare Sirs Gareth and Gaheris. They are enchanted by Morgan. It is akin to interference from the gods. They are innocents who do not deserve to be cut down for roles that were thrust upon them."

The look Achilles gave him indicated that he knew what Lancelot was doing: utilising knowledge of his Servant's relationships and his disdain for how the gods had conducted themselves in his war to push his buttons. He recognised this attempt to manipulate him, but he nodded nonetheless. "As you wish. If you insist they are innocent, then I will do everything in my power to see them through this war. But the rest will die."

"Thank you, my friend," Lancelot said with what felt like the first genuine smile he had mustered since being caught in the act. "Now, go."

Without another word, Berserker leapt into the fray as Caster had done. Hopefully, Sir Gawain would at least allow Berserker to assist him in the fight. In the meantime, Lancelot clambered up the small hill on which he had spotted Caster earlier. From there, he was sure he could observe the battlefield and find a skirmish that would benefit from his assistance.

He spotted a duel raging between the king and Sir Mordred, their respective Sabers imperceptibly battling as flashes of blade impacts all around their Masters. Lancelot now had his destination set. A destination that suddenly grew much farther away. It took Lancelot a moment to realise he had been grabbed around the throat and was being tackled off of the elevated position by a knight in dragon-themed armour.

Vortigern, the late uncle of the two faction leaders; slain some years ago by the king and Sir Gawain, and now revived by Morgan as the Berserker of Red. Sir Gawain had identified him when he joined King Lot in the skirmish that cost Gawain's father his life. It had taken the king, armed with the holy lance, and Gawain together to topple this mythic figure. And now, he was a Servant; one fuelled by his hatred of Arthur and her followers.

Lancelot's body came crashing down to the ground at the bottom of the hill. The dragon knight's burning white-hot eyes bore into him as he looked the fallen knight over, like a beast studying prey it had already killed. But Lancelot was not some carcass fit for consumption.

He wound his arm around Vortigern's back and gripped the blade at the other side. He then pushed up his chest to wind his head back before headbutting the dragon knight. The impact had certainly done more damage to Lancelot's unprotected head than to his foe's, but the shock of the attack threw the Berserker off, while also managing to cut the back of his neck with Arondight's blade. This allowed Lancelot to get his foot under Vortigern's chest and finally push him off of him with a kick.

But the Servant recovered quickly. He was inches away from having Lancelot's throat in his gauntleted hand once again, but Lancelot's upward thrust with his sword forced his foe to twist his body to evade. The next few strikes the two exchanged were quick, and Lancelot barely registered them consciously. But the Servant quickly gained the upper hand.

It was only when Lancelot's own hand came up to punch Vortigern in the face to escape his grasp that he remembered the Command Spells. He had only used one thus far, leaving him the opportunity to use one more without risking losing Masterhood over his Servant.

"Berserker! I command you to come to my side!" With the blood-red glow of the mark on his hand visibly fading, even beneath his purple gauntlet, even savage Vortigern seemed to understand the need for haste now. He wound his arm back and prepared to spike Lancelot head-first into the ground, only for Achilles' Pelian Spear to crash down into Vortigern's outstretched arm and impale it. The tip of Diatrekhōn Astēr Lonkhē dug deep into the earth, stopping that arm from being used to throw Lancelot.

Instead, he released the knight and kicked him hard in the head, launching him several feet away, where he crashed into the dirt once more. Achilles struck Vortigern from above with a vicious kick to the top of the head. Vortigern tore his arm out of the spear's hold, and knocked Achilles out of the air with his limp, barely still attached limb. Achilles recovered quickly and reclaimed his weapon while Vortigern's arm quickly regenerated - a boon from Morgan, perhaps.

The clash of the Berserkers was intense - likely the most intense matchup one was likely to see in any Grail War. But Lancelot barely witnessed any of it. That kick had knocked him senseless. He was barely clinging to consciousness at this point. He may actually have briefly fallen unconscious for a moment, so difficult was it to recognise his current state.

By the time he recovered, Achilles was struggling. His heel had been struck and Vortigern was holding the Greek hero's own spear over his head. That was when Lancelot charged in, his own legendary weapon penetrating the dead king's flesh with ease from behind. The weapon fell from the dragon knight's hand, allowing Achilles to reclaim it from his position on the ground and thrust it right up into the other Berserker's skull. The fallen king returned to Hell from whence he had come, leaving Lancelot and his Servant to recover as best they could and re-join the battle.

Lancelot already knew where the king was fighting, so he made his way there at full speed with Achilles' help. As they reached the site, they found the king standing over the dead Mordred, his blade poised to strike down the wounded enemy Saber. But as the defeated woman's eyes met his, Lancelot suddenly understood everything

Sir Mordred, now dead by his father's hand, and the woman that had fought by his side. These were the cipher by which this puzzle could be decoded. Sir Mordred had previous declared that Arthur was his father, born of Morgan, Arthur's sister. At the time, the accusation of incest had fallen upon deaf ears as a shallow attempt to sully the king's good name. None of the knights had believed it. But now...

Guinevere had confided that Arthur's true gender was female. Her word was as trustworthy as they came. If Arthur was a woman, it was truly impossible for her to be Mordred's father. But there were two Arthurs. And looking at the two side-by-side, it was clear which of the two was female. It was as if she had been exposing her womanly figure without armour, putting her physical wellbeing at risk to reveal her gender to her enemies. But why would she do this?

Guinevere had known of Arthur's true gender all along. She had kept his secret and received nothing but neglect and scorn for it. But even without a desire to be intimate with her wife, why would Arthur do this? The king he knew had been so much more noble than that before all this Grail War business began. And there were two of her now before him.

The pieces finally fell into place for Lancelot. He cursed how blind he had been up to now. Guinevere may well have been trying to warn him in secret, for fear of being put to the sword for her 'betrayal'. But there was no betrayal in her words. Arthur was a woman. One Arthur flaunted her gender to show him which was the true Arthur.

The Arthur in blue was not the real Arthur. He was a copy, a homunculus inserted into Camelot by Morgan at some point to disrupt the nation and the war effort. He was a man, the father of Mordred with his creator and alleged sister. He was the Arthur who had neglected and imprisoned his beloved Guinevere. He was the one one throwing Britain into discord with this Grail War. He was the one who had sent Galahad and his comrades to their deaths at the hands of Morgan's Roman ally.

Oh, how blind Lancelot had been! But no longer. He drew his sword and lunged for the fake, running his sword through their back and spraying the true king with the red life essence of her doppelganger. Before the fake could attempt any sort of escape or recovery, Berserker used his supreme strength to snap the faker's neck, putting an end to the fake Arthur.

Lancelot bowed before the true Arthur, once more pledging his allegiance to the true king.

Then he woke up. Lancelot found himself lying in the dirt, struggling to think as his entire understanding of this conflict changed. Achilles continued his battle with Vortigern. The numerous deep craters around them were proof of the ferocity with which the two Berserkers fought. All weapons were discarded as the two fought with fists and feet and foreheads.

Lancelot pushed himself to his feet, using Arondight as a crutch. There was no time for this. "Berserker! To me!"

Achilles spared only a quick glance back towards him before returning his attention to his opponent. One good punch to the jaw knocked Vortigern to the floor and opened a chance for Achilles to rush back to his Master's side. "I'm happy to see you back on your feet, Master," Achilles told him in as friendly a manner as he ever had.

"We are wasting time fighting this relic. I now understand who the true enemy in this conflict is. The fake Arthur cavorting with that Saber."

"...Do you mean Mordred?" Achilles asked, evidently not having had the same epiphany.

"No, fool. Our Saber. It was all a plot to get Camelot under Morgan's control."

"...And where exactly did you come by this revelation?"

"While I was unconscious, my mind was finally able to piece everything together."

"You got this important revelation... in a dream?" the Servant asked incredulously.

"Yes! Don't you see? This whole conflict has been one of Morgan's plots to destabilise the nation! And we almost fell for it."

"It sounds to me like this dream of yours is the plot-"

"Stop questioning me!" Lancelot snapped defensively. "Yours is not to question why. Yours is to simply obey." Lancelot, for the third time, raised his right hand and the crimson glow flooded forth.

"No, wait!" Achilles tried to stop his Master for using his final Command Spell. Partially, he felt that this was the only thing keeping him from completely losing his entire sense of self to the rage burning within him. But he also knew his Master was not in his right mind. If he used this spell now, he would surely come to regret it. But he was unable to stop Lancelot's action as a large rock was flung his way. Achilles managed to dodge it and push Lancelot back so that neither was struck, but Lancelot's form was barely affected. In fact, he didn't even seem to notice what had just happened.

"By my Command Seal, I command you: unleash your fury. Let out every ounce of rage within you. Let the fake Arthur and all the enemies of Britain feel every bit of the vengeance your wrought upon Hector and Troy. Show them what it truly means to be deemed a Berserker!"

Achilles' mind was washed away in the crimson tide. His entire self was erased, leaving only a burning red rage in the shape of history's most famous avenger. The only thing giving this rage named Achilles form was the command of his Master: to kill the fake Arthur and the enemies of Britain. With that command to guide him, Berserker leapt once more into the fray, cutting down the forces of both Morgan and the fake Arthur. It no longer mattered whether or not Berserker believed his Master's conclusion. All that mattered was that he was his Master, and the Servant was merely an extension of his will.

Lancelot soon followed in his wake, doing much the same, on a slightly smaller scale. Vortigern watched him go, entirely forgotten by the knight as he fought his way towards the doppelganger.

Vortigern made to follow, but the voice of his own Master echoed in his mind. "Let him go, Berserker," Morgan commanded. "You did well to bring him to this point. Now, return to the battle, but leave those two to their rage. They will give us our opportunity. Simply continue to bring ruin to Arthur's forces, and weaken Excalibur. Do this for your Master."

Vortigern was not too dissimilar to Achilles. Through exclusive use of his Class name and expert application of Command Spells, Vortigern's sense of self had been whittled down until he no longer remembered who he once was. The White Dragon of Britain was long forgotten by his human incarnation. He was now only Berserker, a tool of his Master, Morgan le Fay.

He remembered only enough to hate. He hated Excalibur, and the one who wielded it. And he knew he had the power to weaken that accursed blade. As usual, obeying his Master coincided with his own desires. And so, he would obey.

Lancelot slaughtered all who came into his path. The once noble knight now served as a force of nature as he ravaged both sides. A few pockets of resistance banded together from both sides to survive the onslaught. But none of them did. Lancelot fell deeper and deeper into rage with each passing second, the notion that the fake Arthur yet lived to besmirch his king's good name disgusted him to no end.

That was why the sight of two enemy Masters finally gave him pause. His path was blocked by Sirs Gaheris and Gareth, two traitors to the nation, despite their great resemblance to their uncle, Arthur. But then, from their great resemblance, it was entirely likely that the two were like Mordred - bastard homunculi born of Morgan and her perfect creation.

The two barely registered that he was present by the time his blade came crashing down towards Gaheris. By chance, one of the fools aligned with them moved into the path of Arondight, being cut in twain by the mighty blade of the Avenging Knight of Camelot. Both former knights were taken aback by the abrupt appearance of their former compatriot.

"L-L-Lord Lancelot," Gareth stammered out, eyes wide and lip quivering, as her grip on her lance loosened. This was not a confrontation she had ever wanted to take part in. Well, she should have thought of that before she turned traitor, he decided.

The turncoats' shock almost led to their deaths as they only just managed to react in time to avoid the next swing of his blade. Gareth's Rider attempted to intervene, but was struck with a mighty kick from Berserker, sending both careening through the nearby crowd.

Gaheris moved between his sister and Lancelot, managing to keep up with the enraged man for only a few seconds. Once Lancelot saw the man's face up close and was reminded of how similar he looked to his brother Gawain, Lancelot's mind was flooded with memories of Gawain's transgressions against him, and the identity of his mother.

The knight's attacks became increasingly animalistic, striking again and again, never letting up for even a second. It was only a lance thrust of Gareth from his side glancing off his armour that drew his attention away from her brother. He grabbed the young woman by the collar and delivered a heavy headbutt that violently floored her. Gaheris' next attack was easily parried by Lancelot's wild swing, allowing him to tackle the young man to the ground and punch him repeatedly in the face.

Gareth once again intervened to save her brother, grabbing Lancelot from behind and just about managing to throw the larger man off of her brother. He was back on his feet promptly, instantly closing the distance and lifting her over his shoulder as he ran several more paces, before slamming her onto the ground.

Now that she was so vulnerable, Lancelot swung his sword in a wide, heavy, untrained arc toward tiny Gareth. Gaheris was not close enough to reach his sister in time. Nor was Assassin.

The blade of the madman came to a stop, not within Gareth's flesh, but against the blade of another Knight of the Round. Excalibur Galatine held back the strike, but was unable to push back against it, leaving Gawain no choice but to push himself back, grabbing his sister and pulling her away with him. He maintained his position between Lancelot and Gareth, only now realising he had boxed himself in between three turncoat knights, each armed with a Servant of their own.

"Gawain?" Gareth asked in a tiny voice.

Gawain had not heard his sister's voice in such a long time. It almost felt like years since then. He smiled down at her, tousled her hair as he used to before all of this. "I'm here, little sister."

He had little time to do anything but block as now Berserker came crashing into him. The strike pushed him back several feet, his boots digging into the ground to keep him steady. With all of his might, Gawain shoved Achilles back and swung his blade, not to strike him, but to force him to back off. Even with his legend of invulnerability, Achilles could still receive pain from enemy strikes.

"You still with us, brother?" Gawain asked to his side, where Gaheris was recovering.

"I am," the Master of the Red Assassin responded through grit teeth. Gareth quickly scrambled to the side of her brothers as well.

"Can we put the War aside for now and deal with this problem first?" Gawain asked his siblings, silently praying for the answer he desired.

"Yes!" Gareth exclaimed joyously, without the tiniest moment of hesitation. Her lance was already in hand before Gawain could even smile. She called for her Rider Servant, by name, rather than by class. So excitable and quick to make friends. Whatever Morgan had done to her, Gareth, ultimately, was still Gareth.

"We follow your lead, Gawain," Gaheris stated, drawing his own weapon and performing some signal with his free hand, presumably commanding his Assassin to prepare herself.

"BERSERKER!" Lancelot screamed.

Achilles obediently, furiously lunged at the siblings.

"Caster!" Gawain cried out to his Servant, who remained at a safe distance, and he threw himself into the fray. Excalibur Galatine shimmered brilliantly from the focused sunlight targeting its wielder like a laser beam from the heavens, ordaining the three siblings with divine purpose.

The titles "Venom" and "Madness" were switched around after I added the Agravain scene to the previous chapter, making "Venom" fit better for their mutual disgust, and "Madness" for Lancelot fully losing it.