[ There's a futility about this all, a melancholy that runs under the battle that Lancer is catching on to: there's no glory for his Master, even if he should win this fight, no overarching victory they can be sure of, no definitive conclusion. He's caught on to the fact that the initial lack of prana isn't due to an ace up his sleeve, that the absence of Saber's Master isn't a plan or a scheme.
Whatever this is, it's a hollow war. But that doesn't exempt them from their duties, nor their fate.
Lancer pivots and crouches, ducking a flurry of blades before pushing up on his knees and going for what he thinks can be a definitive strike— a glow of red, energy surging from his palm up through his spear. This isn't the victory that he would have wanted, but it's a victory that he'll take, if he can. ]
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Whatever this is, it's a hollow war. But that doesn't exempt them from their duties, nor their fate.
Lancer pivots and crouches, ducking a flurry of blades before pushing up on his knees and going for what he thinks can be a definitive strike— a glow of red, energy surging from his palm up through his spear. This isn't the victory that he would have wanted, but it's a victory that he'll take, if he can. ]