Percival, Gawain, and Tristan sat slumped on the ground, bruised and exhausted, while Lancelot stood in front of them, effortlessly brushing dust from his armor. The battle had ended quickly once he stepped in, his strikes precise and unstoppable, but instead of gloating, he turned to them with sharp, instructive words.

“Gawain,” he began firmly, “you should’ve focused on Ironside. Even with brute force alone, you could’ve at least held him down. Don’t waste your strength swinging wild.” He shifted his gaze to Tristan, whose eyes lowered in embarrassment. “And you—you had openings to use Full Counter. Their attacks could’ve been turned against them, but you hesitated.” Finally, his eyes softened slightly on Percival. “And you, with that insane life-spirit of yours… you could’ve taken the hits and pushed forward. Your regeneration makes you nearly unstoppable if you trust it.”

The three younger knights sat in silence, stung by the truth but unable to deny it. They knew he was right—each of them had the power to turn the fight around, yet they hadn’t.

As Lancelot looked back at the fallen chaos knights, his expression hardened again. He hadn’t just grown stronger—he had learned how to think ahead, how to protect what mattered. And for Percival, Tristan, and Gawain, the lesson was clear: they still had a long way to go.