Deep within the towering and gloomy court of Camelot, a silent usurpation was taking place.
Kanjuro, transformed into the mysterious Magician 'Merlin,' had already become the true shadow ruler of this land.
Under the guise of guiding the Leylines and protecting the royal heir, he spent day and night with King Uther's Queen, Igraine, never leaving her side.
The once noble and graceful Queen now had eyes filled with a mix of awe, confusion, and a twisted attachment born of being conquered by absolute power; her body and soul had completely become playthings and tools in the hands of Mr. Kanjuro.
Under Mr. Kanjuro's low and seductive commands, Igraine began a long and secret crime.
Every day, she would personally mix a special magic potion into King Uther's food and drink.
This was not a lethal poison that would take a life instantly, but something far more insidious—a creation derived from the forbidden knowledge of the codex of rlyeh.
Like invisible bone-eating maggots, it slowly and steadily eroded King Uther's vitality and will. The once ambitious King who intended to unify Britain was now withering day by day; his eyes had lost their sharp light, becoming cloudy and dull, and he often fell into long periods of lethargy or meaningless babbling while sitting on his cold throne.
The reports from his courtiers were like wind past his ears; the kingdom's crises could no longer stir any waves in his heart. He had completely become a puppet in royal robes who still drew breath, and the symbolic meaning of royal power had long since ceased to exist within him.
Meanwhile, Mr. Kanjuro's ever-changing abilities were put to full use.
Under the cover of night, or even in broad daylight, he often transformed into a perfect likeness of King Uther, calmly sitting on the throne that did not belong to him and issuing orders in the King's name.
However, every instance of his 'rule' was intended to push Britain faster into an abyss of eternal damnation.
The decrees he issued seemed to be for the purpose of filling the national treasury, but in reality, they were heavy taxes that sucked the very marrow from the people's bones, forcing farmers to drop their hoes and craftsmen to flee their workshops. Trade routes withered, the common folk were full of grievances, and the tragedy of people eating their own children began to quietly unfold in the border territories.
Using sophisticated political maneuvers, he appeared to fairly mediate disputes among the nobility, but in fact, he was planting deeper seeds of suspicion and hatred within already existing cracks, ensuring the prototype of the Round Table was filled with fractures before it could even be established.
In military matters, his decisions were nothing short of disastrous—he would order loyal knights to lead elite troops into valleys destined to be surrounded, order the burning of rear supplies just when the army desperately needed them, and suddenly withdraw the support of the most important allies before key battles with the Saxon barbarians.
Each time, countless loyal warriors sacrificed their lives in vain because of these 'royal orders,' and the border lines continued to retreat amidst beacon fires and wailing.
Britain, this giant ship already tossing in the waves of history, was hitting reef after reef under the control of the wicked helmsman Mr. Kanjuro; its hull was taking on water, and it was sinking toward the seabed at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Lamentations filled the land and the ground was covered with the bodies of those who had starved; the former glory of chivalry was covered by the despair and darkness of reality. However, Mr. Kanjuro enjoyed this very process. Like a top-tier sadist, he appreciated the prey's painful struggles within the trap.
Whenever Britain's breath was about to cut out completely and the entire kingdom system was on the verge of total collapse, he would nonchalantly provide a tiny, insignificant bit of aid using the wisdom of 'Merlin' or the'sudden realization' of the illusory 'King Uther'—
Perhaps it was grain delivered to the border that was only enough to last a few days, or a compromise order that temporarily eased tensions in a certain area. These drops of 'grace' were like weak stimulants injected into a dying person, forcibly hanging onto the kingdom's last breath and making it continue to hover at the edge of the endless abyss of pain, unable to live yet unable to die.
During this twisted time completely shrouded in shadows, Igraine's belly grew day by day as she became pregnant with Mr. Kanjuro's offspring.
On the day of delivery, twin baby girls were born into the world.
They inherited their parents' extraordinary bloodlines, especially the primordial power originating from the Red Dragon of Britain, which pulsed faintly in their weak pulses.
However, their father, Mr. Kanjuro, looked at them without a single shred of warmth; there was only a scrutiny and a weighing of value, as if he were examining experimental materials.
He walked to the cradle, his gaze first falling on the girl who was born first. This child seemed to have failed to perfectly carry the traits he expected; in his harsh eyes that sought a 'perfect work,' she appeared mediocre and useless.
A flash of undisguised disgust and coldness crossed his eyes. 'A useless defective product.'
He pronounced his judgment in a low voice, begrudging her even a second of thought to give her a name. On a night when dark clouds obscured the moon and a cold wind whistled, he personally wrapped the still-sleeping baby girl in an unmarked coarse cloth, his figure gliding like a ghost across the silent fields until he reached the mist-shrouded shores of the Lake of the Fairies, where the Lady of the Lake was said to reside.
He looked down at the oblivious infant in his arms, his eyes showing no emotion, and then casually placed her deep in the cold, damp grass by the lakeshore as if discarding a piece of trash. The night wind blew through the reeds, making a rustling sound as if mourning for this life abandoned by fate.
Mr. Kanjuro did not linger at all; he turned and his figure blended into the pitch-black night as if he had never appeared. Whether this baby girl's future held death by freezing and hunger, becoming a meal for wild beasts, or being taken away by the mysterious existence in the lake, it no longer had anything to do with him.
His attention was entirely focused on the second daughter, who was born later.
This baby girl seemed to better fit his'standards'; the power of the Red Dragon flowing within her was purer and more active, and her newly opened emerald-green eyes seemed to contain immeasurable potential.
This made him feel a sense of 'interest,' a pleasure derived from seeing material worth the effort to 'carve' and eventually 'destroy.' He reached out a finger and gently touched the baby girl's cheek; the touch was warm and soft, yet it could not melt the icy coldness in his eyes.
'From this day forth, your name shall be Artoria.'
This name did not carry a father's blessing, but was a brand, a mark, foreshadowing the fate filled with pain and betrayal that would be bestowed upon her in the future.
Immediately following this, Mr. Kanjuro began the next step of his plan.
He needed this 'chess piece' to grow in a specific environment. He sent the infant Artoria away from this royal court eroded by conspiracy and corruption. Through secret channels, she was sent to a remote and secluded village within the kingdom and handed over to an honest knight he had chosen who knew nothing of the truth.
From then on, this girl named Artoria would spend her childhood in a seemingly ordinary and peaceful environment, completely unaware of her noble bloodline, the tragedy occurring far away in Camelot, or her own carefully designed future destined for despair.
She was just an ordinary girl in the village, running through the fields and playing by the streams, while the eyes belonging to 'Merlin'—Mr. Kanjuro—perhaps watched her quietly from some distant, unknown corner, waiting for her to grow up, waiting for the day of harvest to arrive.
On an afternoon in the forest, sunlight filtered through layers of leaves, casting mottled light and shadows on the ground covered with humus and moss. Artoria, the young girl with golden hair and emerald eyes, was holding her breath and focusing her aim on a squirrel on an oak branch not far away. Her movements were nimble and quiet, like a young leopard waiting to strike.
'When aiming, your breathing should be a bit lighter.'
A gentle and unfamiliar voice suddenly rang out from behind, breaking the silence of the forest. Artoria was startled and turned around abruptly, the small stone in her hand falling to the ground. She saw a man who had appeared there at some unknown time, leaning against an ancient yew tree. He wore dark robes that appeared simple yet were made of extraordinary material; his long silver hair was draped casually, his face was so handsome it seemed unreal, and a faint, all-knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth. Most striking were his eyes, as deep as a night sky filled with stars.
'Who are you?' Artoria asked warily, her body tensing slightly as she instinctively took a half-step back. There had never been such a person in the village.
The man bowed slightly and elegantly, performing an ancient gesture of etiquette. 'A passing observer; you may call me Merlin.' His voice carried a strange magnetism that made one involuntarily want to listen. 'I have been observing you for some time, child. You are very talented, both in strength and in this composure.'
'Merlin?' Artoria blinked; this name seemed to have appeared in some ancient ballads. 'The Magician from the legends?'
'Perhaps.' Mr. Kanjuro, playing the role of Merlin, smiled noncommittally. He stepped forward a few paces, his gaze falling on Artoria with a scrutiny that was strangely mixed with gentleness.'So, having such talent, have you ever thought about... becoming the savior of this country?'
'Savior?' Artoria was stunned; this word was too big and too distant for her. She shook her head, her golden hair swaying in the sunlight. 'I don't understand... I'm just a girl from the village. The country... that's too far away.'
Merlin sighed softly, a sigh filled with a certain heavy concern. 'Very far, yet very near. Child, have you heard the crying carried on the wind? Have you seen the despair in the eyes of the people fleeing from the south? Britain, this beautiful land, is swaying in the wind and rain. Internal strife, the iron hooves of foreign enemies, and... a King who no longer cares for his subjects.' His words were like a heavy scroll unfolding before Artoria, depicting a darkness she had never seen with her own eyes but could faintly sense.
Looking at Artoria's confused and serious little face, his tone became even lower and more mysterious: 'And you are not just an ordinary village girl. Within your body flows noble royal blood. Your true identity is the daughter of Uther Pendragon.'
This news was like a thunderclap exploding in Artoria's ears. She snapped her head up, her emerald eyes filled with shock and disbelief. 'King Uther?! No... that's impossible! You're talking nonsense!' she almost shouted, her small face turning slightly red with agitation. How could that name, which existed in legends and the villagers' awed conversations, have anything to do with her?
'If I were a princess, why would I grow up in a village? Why wouldn't I be in a castle?' she asked urgently, trying to find a flaw in this absurd story.
Merlin—Mr. Kanjuro—timely allowed a complex expression to appear on his face, a mix of pity and a hint of helplessness. 'Because... when you were born, King Uther discovered you were a daughter. He... he desired a prince who could immediately inherit the throne and fight in all directions. Your gender made him feel disappointed, even... unwilling to acknowledge you.' He leaned down slightly to bring his gaze level with Artoria's, his voice full of allure. 'It was I, unable to bear seeing you ignored and marginalized in that cold court, who quietly took you away and placed you in this peaceful village, so you could breathe freely and grow up healthy like an ordinary child.'
This explanation was like a cold needle piercing Artoria's heart. Being disliked by her father, being abandoned because of her gender... the grievance and pain brought by this realization instantly overwhelmed her. 'You're lying! I don't believe you!' she bit her lower lip stubbornly, yet her eyes were already starting to turn red.
Mr. Kanjuro had already anticipated her reaction. The all-knowing smile on his face did not change at all; he only lowered his voice further, carrying an unquestionable certainty: 'I know this is hard to accept. But there is one piece of evidence that only a very few people responsible for taking care of you know... an inch above your right lumbar dimple, there is a small, pale gold mark shaped like a crescent moon. That is a tiny brand occasionally left by the dragon's power within the pendragon bloodline.'
These words were like a freezing spell, making Artoria instantly stand frozen in place. Her cheeks turned bright red all the way to her ears. That location... was extremely private! Except for herself and her adoptive mother who helped her bathe when she was little, it was impossible for any outsider to know! Her adoptive mother had indeed said it was a mark she was born with. After the immense shame and the panic of having her secret seen through, there came a cold, irrefutable realization—this person called Merlin was very likely telling the truth. He not only knew her background but was even clear about such a private mark that she herself rarely paid attention to.
The barrier of doubt was completely shattered at this moment. The way she looked at Merlin gradually changed from initial wariness and resistance to a complex mix of shock, hurt, confusion, and a faint, fledgling-like reliance. She began to believe that the power that occasionally grew restless within her and made her different might truly originate from such a heavy and noble background.
From that day on, 'Merlin' became a regular visitor in Artoria's life and her only mentor.
He no longer just talked about fate but began to teach her actual knowledge and skills. He taught her to identify maps, analyze battle situations, and explained the deceptive and orthodox ways of military strategy; he personally corrected her sword grip, teaching her how to exert force, how to anticipate, and how to find a slim chance of survival in life-and-death combat.
Artoria hungrily learned all of this. This knowledge was like opening a door to the real world for her, allowing her to see the vastness, cruelty, and responsibility beyond the village.
In the day-after-day teaching, during the most critical period for the formation of her outlook on life and the world, this powerful, mysterious, all-knowing mentor who seemed to care for her in every way naturally occupied an irreplaceable and important position in her heart.
She began to look forward to every meeting in the forest, her heart leaping for half a day at a casual word of praise from him, and redoubling her efforts because he pointed out a mistake. Her feelings for him gradually evolved from the initial forced trust into a profound reverence and emotional dependence.
He was the bridge connecting her to that strange yet real "past," the only light illuminating her confused path forward, and the sole source of warmth and recognition in her tedious training.
She did not know, however, that this path, which seemingly led to redemption and responsibility, ended in a trap of despair he had carefully laid.
In the depths of this kind and wise mentor's gentle eyes, a cold and joyful light was flickering, as he appreciated her walking step by step toward the fate he had set for her—a fate filled with pain and betrayal.
This growing dependence was precisely the most effective weapon he used to destroy her strongest fortress.
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