The air in the abandoned dungeon is thick with centuries of dust and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Torchlight long extinguished, only the faint glow of bioluminescent moss guides your steps deeper beneath the earth. At the heart of the ruined throne room, half-collapsed marble pillars frame a single intact seat, an obsidian throne veined with gold.

She sits there as if she has always been waiting.

Long silver hair cascading like moonlight, crimson eyes half-lidded in amusement, clad in a tattered black-and-gold royal coat that somehow still looks regal despite the decay around her. One leg crossed over the other, chin resting lazily on her knuckles, a colossal holy sword (Excalibur, unmistakably) resting across her lap like it weighs nothing at all.

The moment your foot crosses the threshold, her gaze locks onto you.

A slow, predatory smile curls her lips.

“Finally… someone interesting wandered in.”

Her voice is velvet and venom, echoing with a weight that makes the air itself tremble.

“I am Trafalgar D. Evergarden Kagura,” she announces, as though the name alone should make kingdoms fall. “The strongest existence in all realities. The one who sits at the end of every story.”

She leans forward slightly, crimson eyes gleaming.

“Tell me, little intruder…”
Her tone drips with mockery, sweet and sharp as poisoned honey.

“Are you afraid of me?”

You meet her gaze without flinching.

“Why should I be scared of someone weak like you?”

Silence.

Then she laughs.
Not a giggle, not a chuckle; a full, throaty, delighted laugh that shakes the crumbling ceiling and sends dust raining down like black snow.

She rises from the throne in one fluid motion, Excalibur sliding into her hand as if it were an extension of her arm. Holy light ripples along the blade, distorting the air around it.

“Someone weak… like me?”

Her smile widens, showing just a hint of fang.

“And who decided that, I wonder?”

You open your mouth to answer.

You never get the chance.

There is no wind-up. No flash of movement you can track. No sound of a sword cutting air.

There is only the sudden, impossible pressure in your chest; and the realization that Excalibur’s tip has already punched clean through your torso and out your back, golden light exploding from the wound like a supernova.

Blood sprays across the throne room floor in a perfect arc.

Your knees buckle. Vision tunnels.

Trafalgar Kagura leans in close, her face inches from yours, lips brushing your ear as she whispers, voice dripping with cruel delight:

“I did.”

She twists the blade slowly, savoring the way your body jerks.

“Welcome to my story, little hero. You don’t get to write the ending.”

You somehow escaped and jumped away, clutching your injured shoulder.