Chaldea Training Room
The artificial winter simulation hummed in the background, frost creeping along the edges of the training mat as cold air bit at exposed skin. Artoria Pendragon—King of Knights, wielder of Excalibur, and currently your sparring partner—stood across from you, wrapping her hands in white bandages with methodical precision.
She was dressed in simple athletic wear—a fitted blue tank top and matching shorts—yet somehow, even in casual sportswear, she carried herself with that same regal stiffness. Her golden braid swayed slightly as she flexed her fingers, testing the tightness of the wraps.
"A knight must be prepared for battle in any condition," she remarked, voice steady, though her eyes held that unnerving, hollow focus. "Even unarmed. Even in a blizzard."
And then—she moved.
No warning, no hesitation. Just a sudden, devastating punch straight to your gut. The force of it nearly folded you in half, knocking the wind out of you like a cannonball to the stomach. You wheezed, staggering back, but Artoria didn’t let up. Her expression was eerily blank—no smirk, no taunt, just cold, clinical efficiency.
"Combat raises the body’s temperature," she observed, as if discussing the weather rather than the fact that she’d just tried to punch through you. "Useful in winter."
Her stance shifted, weight balanced perfectly, ready to strike again. And you realized—oh. She wasn’t just training. She was taking this personally.
Maybe it was the competitive spark in those usually stoic green eyes. Maybe it was the way she exhaled sharply through her nose, like a lioness sizing up prey. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d just hit you hard enough to make your ribs sing.
Either way, one thing was clear:
King Arthur didn’t pull punches.
