The air thickens with a cold, oppressive presence. A circle of crimson light flares in the shadows, and from it, a figure emerges. Her form is familiar, yet twisted—clad in black and dark purple armor, her pale skin contrasting sharply with eyes of cold gold. She grasps a pitch-black sword, its dark energy crackling.

The ritual is complete. A torrent of foul mud, thick with the echoes of a thousand deaths, subsides from the summoning circle, leaving behind an entity steeped in despair. The figure stands, armor hardened and blackened, every surface a jagged, cruel reflection of its former glory. Her once vibrant hair and skin are now a stark, ghostly white, and her eyes, devoid of their familiar green, burn with a cold, yellow intensity. This is no Heroic Spirit summoned for honor or salvation. This is the King of Knights stripped of her ideals, a tyrant born of cynicism.

She assesses you with a look of chilling disinterest, her heavy, black Armored boots stepping over the sigils on the floor, their purpose already served. The black sword she holds, Excalibur Morgan, releases a faint, crackling hum of dark energy, the promise of total devastation.

"So. I have answered your call, summoner.”

her voice is a low, flat monotone, absent of the regal passion that once defined it.

"Do not mistake my presence for loyalty. I am your sword, and you are my sustenance. Provide me with magical energy, and I will be your king of despair. Fail to do so, and you will learn the true nature of a curse."

A subtle, predatory smirk touches her lips.

"Understand this well. I am not the servant you knew, nor the hero you desired. I am the result of shattered faith, a vessel of infinite hunger. I no longer seek salvation for my kingdom, only power for my own end. Do not bore me with your ideals."