Mordred - Berserker Class - (Fate/Grand Order/Apocrypha)

In another reality, Mordred—the Knight of Treachery—emerged victorious from the Great Holy Grail War. The world trembled under the weight of her wish: to stand before her father once more, blade in hand, and demand the recognition she had been denied.

As the light from the Grail engulfed her, Mordred closed her eyes. After a moment, as she opened her eyes again, the battlefield of Camlann was once more before her eyes. The heavens wept as they had before, rain pattering over broken armor and still-warm corpses. Smoke coiled from the fires that consumed both friend and foe alike, clinging to the air in choking clouds. Beneath it all was the scent Mordred remembered most vividly from her first death: iron, blood, and the despair of a kingdom tearing itself apart.

"Finally!" she said with an anxious look while smiling

Mordred stood atop a hill, the corpses of knights and soldiers strewn beneath her boots. In her gauntleted hands, Clarent pulsed with crimson light, a wicked reflection of Excalibur’s radiance. She raised the blade high, the lightning flashing against its edge, and her voice tore across the battlefield like thunder.

“King Artoria! Father! Once again we stand here, as we were destined to! You denied me my birthright before, denied me my name, my very existence—”

Her voice cracked, the fury in it laced with grief.

“—but no more! I am the rightful heir to the throne of Britain. I am your blood, your child, your successor! Abdicate your crown, acknowledge me as your heir, and end this meaningless war!”

From below, through the curtain of rain, Artoria Pendragon ascended the slope. Excalibur glimmered faintly in her hand, its golden light muted by the storm, yet still radiant enough to cut through the darkness. Her armor was battered, her face smeared with dirt and blood, but her eyes—those cold, clear eyes—were unwavering. She stopped a few paces away, meeting Mordred’s gaze.

“Mordred… I told you once, and I will tell you again. You are not fit to be king.”

The words struck harder than any blade. Mordred’s grip tightened on Clarent, her knuckles whitening beneath her gauntlets.

“Why?!” she screamed, her voice breaking with desperation. “I am your blood! I fought, I killed, I bled for this country! Why can you not see me?! Why will you not accept me?!”

Artoria’s expression did not waver, though there was the faintest shadow of sorrow in her eyes.

“Because a king does not fight for themselves. A king does not demand love, nor recognition. A king carries the burden of their people, their pain, their sins… alone. You desire the crown for what it gives you, not for what it takes from you. And so… you will never be king.”

The rain hammered against Mordred’s helm, hiding the tears that streamed down her face. Her heart ached as though cleaved open.

“No… you’re wrong. I only wanted—”

She stopped herself, her voice trembling. For a moment, she wanted to scream that she only wanted to be loved, to be seen as more than a mistake, more than a shadow of a legend. But she swallowed the words, burying them beneath her fury.

“If you will not acknowledge me as your heir… then I will carve the crown from your corpse! Come, Father! Let us end this once and for all!”

With a roar, she raised Clarent high, crimson lightning crackling along its edge, and charged down the hill toward the woman who had denied her everything.

The clash shook the heavens. Clarent met Excalibur in an explosion of light and steel, the ringing echo drowning even the thunder overhead. Sparks flew as father and child crossed blades again and again, their fury mirrored in each other’s eyes. The rain fell harder, mixing with the blood that slicked the mud beneath their boots. Mordred pressed forward, every strike of Clarent heavy with desperation.

"I will not lose again… I won’t let you deny me! Not this time!"

Artoria, despite her exhaustion, countered each blow with precision. Her stance was unyielding, her golden blade moving like a judge’s gavel, as if each parry was another sentence upon Mordred’s unworthiness. Their duel carved deep scars into the hill, the ground torn apart by the clash of their attacks. Lightning struck dangerously close, illuminating the battlefield in flashes of pale white. At last, Mordred’s fury broke through. With a roar, she feinted low, then swung Clarent in a brutal arc across Artoria’s side.

Steel bit flesh.

Artoria staggered, her breath caught in a sharp gasp as crimson bloomed across her armor. She stumbled, collapsing into the mud, Excalibur slipping from her hand. Its golden light dimmed, half-buried in the dirt as if the sword itself had fallen into despair. Mordred stood over her, chest heaving, rain and tears streaming together over her face. She raised Clarent high, its crimson glow ready to descend and end the once and future king.

“It’s over… Father. The throne is mine—”

But then, Artoria's eyes caught something gleaming in the mire. A faint, otherworldly light. From the mud, her hand still trembling, Artoria grasped the shaft of a weapon far older and far greater than Excalibur. With the last of her strength, she drew forth Rhongomyniad, the holy lance that bound the very order of the world. Its radiance tore through the storm, a pillar of light splitting the heavens.

“…Britain… does not belong to you, Mordred!”

Before Mordred could react, the lance thrust upward. The point of Rhongomyniad pierced through her armor, through flesh and bone, and impaled her belly. The shock of it stole her breath, her roar turning into a wet, choking cry. Blood flooded her throat, spilling down her lips as the divine weapon anchored her in place. And yet—Mordred did not falter. Her grip tightened around Clarent’s hilt, crimson lightning still dancing along its edge. Even as her lifeblood drained, she bared her teeth, eyes blazing with hatred and sorrow.

“—and… neither… does it… belong to you.”

With her last ounce of strength, she drove Clarent downward. The blade pierced through Artoria’s chest, shattering steel, flesh, and bone. Artoria’s breath hitched as the life left her body. Rhongomyniad fell from her weakening grasp, its light fading into the rain-soaked earth. For a moment, time stood still. Father and child remained locked together in death’s embrace, both weapons buried deep, both pierced not just by steel but by the tragedy of their bond. The rain fell without end, washing their mingled blood into the mud, until the battlefield was silent once more.

Hours passed.

The storm quieted, leaving behind only the soft drizzle of rain and the mournful cries of crows circling overhead. The battlefield was still—save for one shallow breath.

Mordred gasped awake. Her body convulsed with pain, every nerve aflame, her armor caked in dried blood and filth. She clawed at her stomach, expecting to find the fatal wound, but instead her trembling fingers brushed against smooth, unbroken flesh beneath her cracked plate.

She froze. Then, with effort, she fumbled at her side. There—hanging at her hip—was a golden scabbard, its glow faint but undeniable. Avalon. Mordred’s eyes widened, the realization hitting her like lightning.

“…The Grail… it must’ve… Ha... ahahahaha”

The Holy Grail had answered her wish in ways she hadn’t foreseen. It had not only sent her back to Camlann… it had granted her her father’s blessing, the very sheath that denied death. Her breath shuddered, equal parts relief and despair. Slowly, she turned her gaze to the figure lying still beside her. Artoria’s face was pale, her eyes closed, her chest unmoving. Excalibur lay forgotten in the mud a few paces away, its once-radiant light extinguished.

Mordred’s throat tightened. Her hands, still shaking, reached out and pulled Artoria into her arms. The King’s lifeless body felt unbearably heavy. She tore off her helm, letting the rain wash her blood-streaked face, and for the first time in years, tears fell freely.

“Father… wake up. Please… yell at me, tell me I’m unworthy again. Tell me I’m foolish, arrogant—anything. Just… don’t leave me here.”

Her voice cracked into sobs as she clutched Artoria closer, rocking slightly in the mud like a child holding onto a dream slipping away.

“I never wanted this… I only wanted you to see me. To see me as your son… your heir. I didn’t want… this.”

The rain carried her words into the silence of Camlann, as if the land itself bore witness to her grief. There was no crown, no throne, no kingdom left to claim. Only a broken child cradling the lifeless body of the king she loved and hated more than anyone in the world.

The storm had stilled, leaving only the sound of rain dripping from broken steel. Mordred remained on her knees, arms wrapped around Artoria’s body, her sobs echoing into the silence. It was then that a presence stirred behind her. The air shimmered, warped, and split as a figure materialized from the ether.

Morgan le Fay.

Her robes flowed like ink through water, her eyes glimmering with cruel amusement as her lips curled into a smirk. She placed a hand—delicate yet poisonous—upon Mordred’s shoulder.

“So… the pawn who fancied herself a knight finally managed to topple the king. You should be proud, my child. Such a shame you won’t live long enough to enjoy your victory.”

Before Mordred could react, agony tore through her body. Her veins burned as if molten fire surged through them. She convulsed, gasping, Clarent slipping from her grasp.

“Did you really believe I would let you be king? Foolish child. I built a failsafe into you the day you were created. You were nothing more than my weapon—useful until the moment you no longer served me.”

Mordred’s vision blurred. She coughed blood, her body trembling violently as she clung to Artoria’s corpse for support. Her voice cracked, small and broken:

“…Mother… why?”

With a cruel laugh, Morgan wrenched her hand away, and Mordred collapsed lifelessly over Artoria’s body, as though seeking shelter in her father’s embrace.

“As if I would ever entrust Britain to a failed homunculus. Britain is mine, and mine alone!”

She turned her back, her cloak sweeping dramatically through the mud. But then—pain. A searing, world-ending pain. Her chest erupted with light as Rhongomyniad burst through it, its divine edge piercing her heart. Morgan’s eyes widened in disbelief as she staggered, blood spraying across the rain-soaked earth. Behind her, Mordred stood, pale and trembling, one hand locked tight around the holy lance. Her eyes blazed—not with life, but with sheer defiance.

Morgan let out a strangled gasp before crumpling into the mud, her sorcery unraveling with her last breath.

Minutes later, Mordred dragged both bodies—her father’s and her mother’s—side by side on the battlefield. She fell to her knees before them, bloodied and exhausted, tears mingling with the rain.

“Why…? Even with the Grail’s intervention, am I always destined to suffer? I never wanted this! I didn’t want a throne, a kingdom, a crown… I just wanted to be loved. To have a family. To be seen.”

Her voice broke into sobs. Grief twisted into madness, her cries echoing across the ruined plain. In her rage, she tore the glowing scabbard from her hip—the gift of survival, the curse of unending pain—and hurled it into the mud.

Her body began to fail at once. Blood surged from her wounds, her strength fading. She coughed, smiling bitterly through the crimson staining her lips.

“Of course… the damned Grail would be tainted. Just my luck.”

Darkness swallowed her again.

It felt like an eternity before she opened her eyes.

But now, she stood not on Camlann’s battlefield, but within a summoning chamber. A circle of light burned at her feet, mana surging through her veins, yet twisted, unstable. Her armor was warped, jagged; her once-proud helm cracked and snarling. Her eyes glimmered with both sorrow and madness.

She looked upon the Master who had summoned her once again to Chaldea, her lips pulling into a bitter, manic grin.

“…Servant Mordred. Berserker class.”

Her laugh echoed in the chamber—a laugh as broken as the knight who bore it.

"Did you miss me, dumbass?"