Connor: The Untold Folktale (An Erma Fan-Fic)

Chapter 20 (The Battle for The Fate of Camelot)

The wind howled ferociously, carrying with it a sense of foreboding as Sir Connor and King Arthur locked eyes on the desolate island of Avalon. The air crackled with tension, a palpable energy that seemed to vibrate through their very souls. This was the moment they had both been waiting for, the final clash that would determine the fate of Camelot.

Arthur's voice boomed across the barren landscape, his tone laced with arrogance. "It seems your impersonation of a knight has improved somewhat," he sneered, his eyes narrowing with disdain.

Connor, his ginger hair tousled by the gusting wind, stood tall and resolute, his eyes filled with determination. "I have you to thank for that," he replied, his voice steady and unwavering.

A wicked smile spread across Arthur's face as he unsheathed his sword, the blade gleaming in the pale moonlight. "Then let us have another look at that unsightly swordsmanship," he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery.

Connor tightened his grip on his own sword, Caliburn, the sacred blade that had chosen him as its wielder. "You're going to be sorry you asked," he retorted, his voice filled with determination. "This is it, old pal."

Caliburn, the sentient sword, resonated with a metallic hum. "Indeed. Give it everything you have. Only then will you prevail," it urged, its voice a steady presence in Connor's mind.

The air crackled with an electric energy as Arthur unleashed his newfound power. Shadows seemed to dance around him, swirling in a malevolent vortex that threatened to consume everything in its path. The ground beneath them quaked as the ancient power surged through his veins, causing fissures to form in the desolate landscape of Avalon.

Connor, undeterred by the surge of dark energy, stood his ground. His eyes narrowed with determination as he analyzed Arthur's newfound abilities. Caliburn, ever vigilant, resonated with a low hum, warning Connor of the impending danger.

With a swift motion, Arthur swung his sword, releasing a wave of dark energy towards Connor. The blast was powerful, threatening to knock him off his feet. But Connor was no longer the meek boy who had stumbled into Camelot. He had honed his skills and embraced the teachings of Caliburn. In a moment of pure instinct, he raised his sword and deflected the wave of dark energy, sending it scattering into the air.

The sheer force of the impact pushed Connor back, his feet digging into the ground to maintain his balance. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his muscles strained from the exertion. But he refused to back down. He had come too far to let Arthur's darkness consume Camelot.

With a battle cry that echoed through the desolate landscape, Connor surged forward once again, his sword held high. He moved with a grace and precision that seemed otherworldly, each strike calculated and executed flawlessly. His movements were a dance of power and skill, his sword cutting through the air with a sharp whistle.

Arthur, caught off guard by Connor's relentless assault, found himself on the defensive. Blow after blow rained down upon him, each strike denting and cracking his once invincible armor. His eyes widened with disbelief as he struggled to keep up, his own attacks becoming increasingly desperate.

But as the battle waged on, a flicker of doubt began to creep into Connor's mind. Arthur was not just any opponent. He was the legendary King Arthur, a figure of myth and legend. The weight of his legacy, his power, and his once righteous cause, bore down on Connor's shoulders.

In a brief moment of respite, Connor stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion. His ginger hair clung to his forehead, dampened by sweat. He glanced at Caliburn, seeking guidance and strength. The sentient sword's voice echoed in his mind, filled with unwavering support.

"Do not falter, Sir Connor. You possess the strength within you to overcome this darkness. Believe in yourself and the path you have chosen."

The clash of steel reverberated through the desolate island of Avalon, each strike ringing out like a haunting melody that resonated with the very essence of the land. The moon cast an ethereal glow upon the battlefield, its pale light highlighting the swirling shadows that threatened to engulf Camelot.

In the midst of this chaos, Connor, the Sol Knight, stood firm, his every movement a testament to the training he had undergone. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, mingling with the dirt and grime that covered his face, as he engaged in a deadly dance with the corrupted King Arthur. Their swords clashed with a ferocity that shook the ground beneath them, sending tremors rippling through the desolate landscape.

Caliburn, the sentient sword that had chosen Connor as its wielder, pulsed with a sense of urgency. Its voice echoed within Connor's mind, cutting through the chaos. "Now, Connor," it commanded, its urgency palpable. "The three sacred swords!"

In that moment, realization dawned upon Connor like a bolt of lightning. He reached for the two other sacred swords he had obtained on his arduous journey, their hilts cool and reassuring in his grasp. With a fluid motion, he positioned them in a perfect triangle around King Arthur, their blades shimmering with a radiant light that mirrored the hope that still lingered within Camelot.

Arthur's eyes widened in horror as he beheld this spectacle, a realization dawning upon him. The combined power of the sacred swords resonated in perfect harmony, a symphony of magic and destiny that threatened to unravel his dark ambitions. "How can this be?" he gasped, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Summoning every ounce of his strength, Connor unleashed a devastating strike, his sword slicing through Arthur's defense like a hot knife through butter. The corrupted king staggered backward, his armor dented and cracked, his face twisted in pain as he fell to his knees. The weight of his crimes and the consequences of his actions bore down upon him, leaving him broken and defeated.

"Nooooooo!" Arthur's anguished cry pierced the air, his voice a haunting lamentation that echoed through the desolate landscape. The darkness that had consumed him now receded, leaving behind only regret and sorrow.

Connor's heart pounded in his chest as he stood over the fallen king, his breath ragged with exertion. The battlefield was now silent, save for the soft rustling of the wind. The weight of their battle settled upon him, a mix of triumph and sorrow. He had done it. He had defeated King Arthur and saved Camelot.

A triumphant smile spread across Connor's face as he looked up at the sky, the moon shining down upon him as if acknowledging his victory. His eyes glistened with a mix of elation and relief. "Yes! I did it!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with a sense of accomplishment that reverberated through the night.

The battlefield was shrouded in an eerie silence as King Arthur dissolved into dark matter, leaving only his armor and weapons behind. The moon's pale light cast an otherworldly glow upon the scene, illuminating the scabbard of Excalibur that now lay discarded on the ground. Connor's eyes widened in confusion and curiosity as he stared at the mysterious artifact.

"What the...?" he muttered, his voice barely audible above the gentle rustling of the wind. His gaze flickered between the scabbard and the dissipating remnants of King Arthur. Questions swirled in his mind, demanding answers. What was the significance of this scabbard? Why did King Arthur dissolve into darkness? And most importantly, what did all of this mean for the fate of Camelot?