In the courtyard, the tip of a quill scratched softly across the slightly rough parchment, leaving behind line after line of elegant Ancient Celtic script.
"What are you writing? Let me see."
At some point, Samael had wandered around behind Morgan. Curious, he leaned over her shoulder and began reading.
"A proposal for the next Round Table meeting..."
The Witch stopped writing and straightened up, making no attempt to hide the document from her husband.
"Encourage immigration from the continent and propose that Camelot accept Gauls, Persians, and Romans from the Roman frontier?"
Samael skimmed through the proposal rapidly. Surprise soon gave way to a helpless smile.
"Do you think there isn't already enough mud being thrown at you? If you submit this, those nobles are going to tear you apart. And ordinary Celts will probably see those immigrants as outsiders coming to steal their land and food."
Celtic culture and the Druid tradition were both somewhat rigid by nature, and xenophobia had existed among them since ancient times.
They had only just managed to drive out the Saxons. Asking them to bring in another wave of outsiders now would be like kicking a hornet's nest.
Morgan froze for a moment.
After a brief silence, she gave a cold laugh, crumpled the nearly completed proposal into a ball, and irritably tossed it toward the ground.
"You're right. A proposal that can never pass is nothing more than wastepaper."
"You spent all that time writing it. Why throw it away?"
Samael hurriedly caught the paper and considered it for a moment before offering a suggestion.
"If you're trying to replace the young working population Britannia lost after years of war, I'd suggest lowering taxes and encouraging people to have children. It may not be a perfect solution, but it won't go too far wrong either. Immigration would work better as a later supplement."
"Rest and recovery? I'm afraid this island may not give us that much time..."
Morgan lightly pursed her lips and stared absentmindedly at the heavy clouds hanging over Camelot.
A cold smile touched her lips, then her expression dimmed.
Without another word, she rose and turned toward the Magical Workshop.
That seemingly casual murmur struck Samael like a bolt of lightning.
An answer suddenly escaped his lips.
"Don't tell me you're planning to use immigration to dilute Britannia's Age of Gods bloodline and weaken the Mystery of this island!"
Morgan, who had just begun to leave, abruptly stopped.
She slowly turned toward Samael. Surprise filled her gaze, along with a complicated hint of relief that was difficult to describe.
"Britannia's condition has already begun deteriorating, hasn't it?"
The Ancient Serpent's eyes flickered.
His tone was certain as he quietly met the Witch's gaze, his expression possessing a clear insight that seemed to see straight through the matter.
Morgan hesitated briefly, lowered her eyes, and slowly nodded.
Her tightly drawn brows seemed burdened by a cloud of worry that refused to disperse.
"You've lived in Camelot for so long that you may not have noticed the changes outside. I just returned from Orkney. Over the past two years, grain production there has fallen by half, and this year, one third of the fields produced no harvest at all."
"If this continues, the abnormalities will soon spread across all of Britannia, not just the borderlands. In another few years, I fear only the regions around Camelot protected by divine grace will still be able to grow food..."
Ever since the Twelve Dynastic Wars ended and Britannia was unified, unseen changes had already begun taking place in obscure corners of the island.
The land was becoming increasingly barren.
Water sources were drying up.
Vegetation was withering.
And corrupted monsters were appearing and causing havoc with increasing frequency.
The farther one traveled from Camelot, the worse these conditions became.
There was only one reason.
This land could no longer support such an enormous amount of Mystery.
Its potential was being steadily drained away, consuming its future in the process.
As the Witch blessed by the Mystery of nature and the [Mistress of the Island] of Britannia, Morgan sensed those changes more clearly than anyone else.
Viewed rationally, the Roman Christians who wanted to spread their faith throughout Britannia were not wrong.
The Age of Gods was already vanishing from this land where the Human Order flourished.
The gardens of the gods had long since been cultivated by humanity.
Unknown seas had become fishing grounds traveled by humans.
From the moment the faith foundation of the Holy Spirit was established upon this remote island far from the continent, the future had essentially already been decided.
The realm once built jointly by ancient peoples and Elementals, the world once ruled by gods, had already collapsed.
After the Creation of the Holy Covenant, the gate leading from the kingdom to the Crown would gradually close.
All that remained upon the earth were fragments forgotten or hastily abandoned by Divine Spirits, along with ugly monsters that could no longer return to where they belonged and were destined to become enemies of humanity before ultimately dying at human hands.
Ancient Mystery was about to recede.
The old races remaining upon the land had only two choices.
Migrate.
Or perish.
That fate could not be defied.
Yet Artoria had done precisely that.
She had forcibly locked the dying Age of Gods in place and squandered the remaining power of this land to build the miraculous pure white ideal city of Camelot, along with the enormous Knights of the Round Table and the Enforcement Knights.
As time passed, however, the goddess who needed to sustain both herself and her kingdom would eventually consume every last trace of Mystery.
She might even turn the lives upon this land into firewood and fuel to preserve that final brilliance.
The consequences of draining the land's potential so ruthlessly would inevitably bring even greater calamity.
Judging from the situation in Orkney, Morgan did not have much time left.
That was why her personality had changed somewhat recently, and why her actions had become increasingly urgent.
Only by shattering the illusion of this false golden age ahead of time could Britannia possibly retain a sliver of hope.
Only then could she possibly save that puppet imprisoned within her shackles...
For a moment, Samael could no longer tell which of those two goals mattered more to Morgan.
"Do you resent Artoria?"
The Ancient Serpent glanced down at the crumpled proposal in his hand and could not resist asking.
"What do you think?"
Morgan raised an eyebrow and returned the question quietly, a trace of mockery toward fate appearing in her eyes.
Samael understood.
Considering everything Morgan had experienced, Artoria might not have been the true culprit, but she had still been an indispensable cause of Morgan's suffering.
It would have been nearly impossible for Morgan not to resent her.
Yet that resentment did not stop an older sister who had spent so long alone and adrift from caring about her only blood relative.
"Do you know what I hate most about that woman?"
Something about the conversation stirred Morgan's desire to speak.
She looked toward Samael and gave a cold snort, her brows drawing together.
"She took everything from me, yet turned all of it into shackles that bind her."
"Every day she lives like a prisoner in chains. No joy, no sorrow, not even a moment of relaxation. As if everything she possesses were merely a burden forced upon her by someone else."
"It's disgusting!"
Morgan finally poured out feelings she had suppressed for years, thoughts she had never spoken to anyone else.
Her voice carried obvious anger and indignation.
Samael put himself in her position and thought about it for a moment before nodding sympathetically.
He understood that feeling.
It was basically the accidental version of showing off something another person desperately wanted while treating it as an inconvenience.
One person yearned for something and could never obtain it.
The other possessed it, yet regarded it as a burden.
Under those circumstances, Artoria walking around in front of Morgan every day was practically murder followed by an attack on the victim's heart.
The fact that Morgan had never stabbed her on the spot already showed remarkable restraint.
The Witch took several deep breaths, gradually calming emotions that had not surged this violently in a long time.
Then she frowned and gave a cold laugh.
"If kingship is such an unbearable burden to her, then what is wrong with me reclaiming what should have belonged to me in the first place?!"
"Even if Britannia is destined for ruin, it should be destroyed by my hands, the hands of the Witch! She has no right to bear that burden for me!"
Hearing this fierce declaration of usurpation, Samael nodded repeatedly on the surface while privately criticizing her in his heart.
The Four Great Calamities and the Battle of Mount Badon had been such perfect opportunities.
You didn't rebel then.
You didn't stab her in the back afterward.
And now you choose to step forward?
So you're volunteering to take the blame?
You intend to place the guilt for exposing the lie of this golden age, overthrowing Camelot, and breaking apart the Round Table entirely upon yourself, the Witch?
Rather than revenge born of hatred, this looked far more like compassion and pity for that lonely King trapped atop the tower.
Once the terrifying stigma surrounding Morgan was stripped away, Samael had long since understood the truth his employer had frozen beneath her indifferent exterior.
These were sisters bound together by both love and hatred.
It was impossible to judge their relationship through something as simple as good and evil.
For all Morgan's grand declarations of ambition, nearly half the Knights protecting Artoria's throne had actually been guided or raised by Morgan herself before being sent to accompany Artoria in this little game of kingship.
Samael vaguely remembered that in the original history, even after everything completely fell apart, with the Round Table collapsing because of Lancelot's betrayal and Artoria and Mordred killing each other on the Hill of Camlann, Morgan's first reaction had not been to seize the throne.
It had been to salvage the situation.
According to legend, she was the one who received the dying Artoria into Avalon, granting her eternal life.
Other records also mentioned that Morgan later appeared upon the site of the final battle and entrusted the Mystic Code [Erosion] to villagers near Blackmoa's grave.
She charged them with the mission of resurrecting King Arthur and became known among the villagers as the [Black Madonna].
The Mystic Code granted by the Black Madonna, Morgan, had supposedly been passed down in secret for the sake of King Arthur's return.
It was said to pierce not only flesh, but the gaps between body, mind, and soul.
During living sacrifices, the Black Madonna, Morgan, was said to have wielded this blade to disassemble the sacrificial victim's internal organs.
It was a sacred relic of the Druid tradition.
According to legend, it could also transform into a scythe or a sword.
And in the future, the villagers of Blackmoa had originally intended to stab it into a child named Gray, temporarily separating her mind and soul from her body.
Then they would allow King Arthur's spirit to inhabit that body, guiding the return of the Eternal King and completing the mission and prophecy passed down for a thousand years.
So in Camelot, there was never really any such thing as an anti-King faction.
There were only devoted King fanatics and twisted King fanatics...
That was precisely why, after understanding all this, Samael wanted to resolve the Lion King's deification peacefully.
It was also why he planned to wait until everyone else had exhausted their options before stepping onto the stage and revealing his own strategy, rather than immediately joining Morgan in plotting to stab Artoria in the back.
Who knew whether Morgan and the Knights of the Round Table would have joined forces to beat him senseless if he had actually done that?
It had to be said.
For all Artoria's miserable life and the burden she constantly endured, she was the true winner in Britannia.
Even centuries later, people upon this land would still long for the Eternal King's return.
The Ancient Serpent looked at the crumpled paper in his palm, then at Morgan.
Suddenly feeling as though he was holding something dangerously hot, he stuffed it into his pocket and shook his head helplessly.
"Forget it. Submitting something like this will only make them misunderstand you even more."
People who could truly see that Britannia's apparent golden age was already standing atop a raging fire would inevitably be unpopular if they spoke of crisis and darkness while everyone else remained intoxicated by prosperity.
Since Samael intended to deal with the problem himself, there was no reason to make Morgan walk straight into that trouble.
"It doesn't matter. What I do is my decision. What they think is theirs."
Morgan gave a cold laugh and stood without concern.
"Haven't I always been the evil Witch casting her shadow over the White City of Camelot? The one constantly plotting to destroy the Round Table?"
"Where are you going?"
Those indifferent eyes softened slightly when they settled upon the man before her.
The corners of Morgan's lips curved upward into a faint smile.
"To prepare the poison. The sooner I poison that woman to death, the better."
"Understood. Tomorrow's meal gets a lethal dose of cilantro. I'll make sure that bastard Kay can do nothing but stare helplessly!"
Samael leaned against the pavilion pillar with his arms crossed, grinning as he delivered this thoroughly vicious sentence.
Someone genuinely intending to poison another person would always seek the utmost secrecy.
If they truly planned to act, they would hardly announce it so loudly.
Those inside a situation often struggled to see it clearly, and concern only made matters worse.
Precisely because Kay was deeply involved, he still harbored strong suspicions about Morgan's true intentions.
Morgan did not answer.
She simply turned and walked away.
Yet beneath the thin veil, once her back was turned toward the man behind her, a faint smile appeared on her face.
Even her footsteps became a little lighter.
She suddenly felt that perhaps she had not been quite so unfortunate after all.
What she possessed was not necessarily inferior to what belonged to the lonely King trapped atop her tower.
Witch or Queen.
At least when she looked back now, she was no longer a Queen without subjects.
No longer a mother who had lost her child.
No longer a Witch condemned by the entire world.
Samael watched Morgan gradually disappear into the active Magecraft array.
Then he lifted his teacup and took a sip of tea that had long since gone cold.
His gaze shifted toward the small flowerbed in one corner of the courtyard.
He snorted irritably.
"Are you satisfied with that answer now?"
"Oh my. You noticed me already..."
The air twisted and rippled.
From among the fluttering petals emerged a handsome white haired man wearing a hood and a playful grin.
He opened his arms enthusiastically.
"It's been so long, old friend! I've missed you terribly!"
Samael narrowed his eyes and smiled as he walked forward.
His vertical pupils glowed with the eerie light of a hunting serpent, while his interlocked fingers cracked loudly as he flexed them.
"Yeah. My fist has missed your face terribly too."
Feeling the overwhelming wave of sinister intent, Merlin's expression stiffened.
Without the slightest hesitation, he spun around and hurled the white furred, pointed eared, puppy-like creature sitting on his shoulder.
"Cath Palug, run for your life! Split up!!!"
The white furred canine creature with purple eyes was still completely confused.
Before it could even react, the wind was already roaring past its ears.
Smack...
Samael instinctively raised a hand and caught the unidentified white flying object.
He froze.
The innocent purple eyes blinked up at him.
Man and beast stared at one another in silence.
A moment later, they both came back to their senses.
They turned toward the purple red petals that had already vaulted expertly over the wall and vanished into the distance.
Their expressions stiffened.
The corners of both their mouths twitched violently.
Merlin, you bastard!
Is this what you call "splitting up"?!
***
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