At the edge of the crowd, Kanjuro (Merlin) stood quietly in the shadow of a black robe. The hood concealed most of his expression, leaving only that faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth as if he controlled everything. He watched Artoria—the "work" he had carved with his own hands—walk toward that stone of destiny, watching her slender yet firm hand grasp that hilt which no one could shake.
There was no world-shaking roar, no dazzling magical brilliance, only a crisp and pleasant "clink" like the sound of metal and stone striking.
Under everyone's disbelieving gazes, that King-Selecting Sword, deeply embedded in the giant rock, was actually pulled out by Artoria seemingly with ease and stability! The holy sword shone with an unprecedented brilliance in her hand, as if it had finally found its true master. The blade hummed, resonating with the Red Dragon Power within Artoria, emitting a kingly majesty that commanded respect.
In an instant, the entire king-selection grounds fell into a deathly silence, followed by an explosion of cheers like a mountain tsunami!
"King Arthur!!"
"King Arthur, chosen by destiny!!"
"Britain is saved!!"
A tide of wild joy swept over everyone. Knights waved their fists excitedly, nobles showed relief on their faces, and hope ignited in the eyes of commoners. They witnessed the birth of a legend, a king personally selected by the divine sword!
Artoria held the sword in the stone high, feeling the warmth and power coming from the hilt, and also bearing the countless fanatical, worshipping gazes below that were entrusted with all hope. This sudden, immense glory and responsibility struck her soul like a flood.
However, at the peak of the cheers of ten thousand people, her gaze crossed the surging crowd and landed precisely on that "270" mentor with silver hair and a black robe who had been standing quietly aside the whole time.
The sunlight outlined his mysterious silhouette; the shadows under the hood seemed to contain endless wisdom and power.
In Artoria's emerald eyes, there was no greed for power, no intoxication with glory, only a nearly pious, infinite warmth and dependence. At this moment, what flashed through her mind was the patient guidance in the woods, the gentle encouragement by the stream, and the back of the person who had brought her out of the shadow of being "abandoned" and guided her to such a glorious position.
Gratitude and appreciation were like a warm current, drowning out all her other emotions. In her heart, all this glory should belong to her teacher, Merlin.
Meanwhile, in reality, inside the "Silent Room" cave.
Joan of Arc still stood like a cold statue, observing Artoria, who was trapped in her inner demons.
She keenly noticed that Artoria's brow, which had been furrowed in pain, had relaxed slightly at some point, and her tightly pursed lips even pulled into an extremely subtle curve of nostalgia and warmth.
This smile appearing on her currently pale and struggling face seemed so abrupt and... heart-wrenching.
Joan of Arc sighed softly, her ice-blue eyes showing no surprise, only a realization of seeing through fate and a hint of faint mockery. She whispered to herself, her voice exceptionally clear in the silent cave:
"Kanjuro... you really did something even more 'excessive' to her. Tampering with memories, weaving beautiful dreams... letting her taste the poison you prepared long ago at her happiest moment."
She seemed to be able to penetrate time and space to see the mastermind behind the scenes admiring his "masterpiece."
"Often, the more happily one smiles in memory and the more real the warmth felt, the more bone-chilling the despair will be when the truth is revealed. Using hope to create despair, using trust to pave the way for betrayal... you are just that kind of person, Kanjuro."
In the illusion of memory, the cheers were still deafening.
Artoria held the sword in the stone, but she did not respond to her people first. She made a move that surprised everyone—she turned around, pushed through the excited crowd, and walked step by step to the front of the still-standing Kanjuro (Merlin).
Under the gaze of countless eyes, this future King of Britain, who had just been chosen by destiny, actually knelt on one knee before Kanjuro without hesitation, in a posture of utter piety and dependence.
She looked up, her emerald eyes under the helmet clear to the bottom, filled with total trust and an almost imperceptible plea.
"Merlin," her voice came through the visor, with a slight tremble after the excitement, yet crystal clear, "I did it... I became the King." She paused and asked the question that had been circling in her heart for a long time, far more important than the throne, "In the future... you will be like before, staying by my side forever and guiding me, right?"
This almost childish dependence, at this moment of coronation, seemed so sincere and moving.
Kanjuro looked down at Artoria kneeling at his feet, seeing the pure trust and plea in her eyes. Under the shadow of the hood, the "gentle" smile on his face was flawless, as if saturated with infinite affection and promise. He reached out, his movements gently brushing over Artoria's golden hair pressed by the helmet (despite being separated by armor, this movement was still full of symbolic intimacy), his voice in a deliberately softened tone enough to make one drown:
"Of course, my dear Arthur." His voice was not loud, yet it seemed to carry magic, reaching the ears of everyone present, "I am both your mentor and the protector of Britain. Your path has only just begun. I will naturally be with you like a shadow, staying by your side forever, guiding the way for you, until... eternity."
These words were like the most solemn oath.
Seeing this scene, the surrounding knights and nobles did not think the new King was weak; instead, they became even more respectful. King Arthur not only received the recognition of the divine sword but also the unconditional support and assistance of the legendary embodiment of wisdom and power—Merlin!
Did this not precisely predict that Britain's future would be full of hope and would surely move toward unprecedented brilliance? The cheers rang out again; this time, they were for Arthur and Merlin, the pair of "monarch and subject" destined for legend.
Artoria listened to Kanjuro's promise and looked at his "gentle" smile. The last trace of unease in her heart vanished, replaced by a great sense of happiness and security. She stood up, holding the holy sword and facing her people. Sunlight spilled over her, as if draping her in a layer of golden brilliance.
And behind her, Kanjuro (Merlin) still maintained that perfect smile, but in the deep shadows of that hood, in the depths of his eyes invisible to anyone, a cold and joyful light flashed quietly like a poisonous snake.
This grand, hopeful opening was exactly the most perfect prologue to the tragedy he had carefully rehearsed.
He looked forward to how much despair and brokenness would be in those emerald eyes, currently full of warmth and trust, when this illusory glory was completely torn apart. That was the "fruit" he ultimately wanted to taste.
Time passed quickly, and years flew by. Many years had passed since the sword in the stone was pulled out. Artoria—now honored as King Arthur—with her outstanding military talent and firm king's way, led the twelve famous Knights of the Round Table under her command, campaigning in the east and fighting in the west, battling bloodily. Through one tough campaign after another and one brilliant victory after another, Britain, which was once fragmented and suffered from foreign bullying, was finally forged by her with sword and fire into a strong and unified kingdom. It reclaimed the glory and dignity that belonged to it and stood tall among the great powers.
And in the depths of Camelot Castle, in the shadows where light did not reach, Kanjuro always sat alone backstage of power in the identity of "Merlin." He seemingly did not interfere in specific military affairs, yet he firmly controlled the kingdom's internal affairs, diplomacy, and intelligence network. Like an invisible giant hand, he stabilized the rear for Artoria at the front and cleared away many undercurrents and conspiracies from within that she had not noticed. He was still that mysterious, respected national teacher.
For Artoria, every time she returned in triumph covered in the dust of battle, what made warm ripples rise in her heart was not the cheers of the people lining the streets, nor the respectful gazes of the knights, but rather seeing that tall, quiet figure in a black robe waiting in that familiar high tower study or palace corridor, no matter how late it was. As long as she saw "Merlin" there, all her fatigue seemed to dissipate instantly, leaving only a heart full of stability and joy. He was the starting point of her journey and the harbor of her return.
It was another late night, and Camelot Castle was completely silent. Moonlight shone through the stained glass windows, casting mottled light and shadows on the cold floor. Artoria had removed her heavy armor and was wearing only a simple white shirt and trousers. Her golden hair was scattered casually. She had set aside the majesty of a king, her face showing the deep, unmistakable fatigue accumulated from years of campaigning and governing. She stood quietly by the window, looking at the sleeping city outside and the outlines of the distant mountains.
Kanjuro (Merlin) appeared by her side as silently as a ghost, looking out the window with her.
"In an instant, many years have passed." Artoria spoke softly, her voice carrying a hint of hoarseness, "Look, Merlin, Britain... has finally become strong. We no longer have to worry about being bullied by anyone, and the subjects can live and work in peace..." There was relief in her tone, but more of it was a kind of emptiness and weariness after putting down a thousand-pound burden.
Kanjuro turned his head to look at her profile, which was slightly thin and fragile as outlined by the moonlight, and asked gently: "Do you feel very tired?"
Artoria did not avoid the question. She nodded gently, her emerald eyes appearing exceptionally clear and honest under the moonlight: "Yes, very tired." She turned around, her gaze staring deeply at Kanjuro, a look that seemed to cross the years and return to the time of their first meeting in the woods, "But, everything I have done..." She paused, as if gathering courage, and finally bared her truest thoughts from the bottom of her heart, "is because you, Merlin, wanted me to become better, wanted me to become the king you expected who could save Britain. As long as it is what you wish, no matter how tired I am, I am willing to bear it."
This unreserved outpouring revealed her dependence and absolute trust in Kanjuro in the depths of her heart.
The habitual, flawless gentle smile appeared on Kanjuro's face. He reached out and, just as he had in the woods many years ago, gently brushed over the golden hair scattered on Artoria's forehead. The movement was full of pity and... a sense of satisfaction from controlling everything.
"You are already very excellent now, Artoria." He said in a low voice, his voice carrying a soul-bewitching magnetism, "Even more excellent than I expected."
Hearing this call, Artoria's body trembled slightly and almost imperceptibly. He called her "Artoria," not "Arthur," nor "King." This name seemed to momentarily release her from the shackles of the throne. A gentle, feminine smile that was weary yet incredibly real appeared on her face:
"Only in front of you, Merlin... can I feel that I am not just 'King Arthur,' and can occasionally... be an ordinary woman." Her words carried a hint of faint shyness and deep sentiment, "It's just like when I was a child, and you kept meeting and teaching me in the woods. By your side, it's as if I have never changed."
"Yes," Kanjuro's gaze still "affectionately" enveloped her, as if she were his whole world, "You have never changed; you are always the tough and pure Artoria I first knew."
Artoria looked at him, her lips moving slightly as if some more important words were already at the tip of her tongue, perhaps a deeper emotion that transcended dependence and gratitude. But in the end, those words remained unspoken. Perhaps it was out of restraint, or perhaps for fear of breaking the current tranquility and beauty. She just seemed to have exhausted all her strength, or perhaps seeking final solace, she reflexively took a step forward and gently rested her forehead against Kanjuro's chest. Her voice carried a hint of imperceptible sobbing and total vulnerability:
"Merlin... don't leave me, okay?" she murmured softly, like a child afraid of being abandoned, "I'm really... so tired. Only with you can I feel a moment of peace."
Kanjuro reached out and gently wrapped his arms around her slightly trembling shoulders, his movements as gentle as if he were protecting a rare treasure. His voice rang out above her head like the firmest oath:
"Don't worry, I won't leave you, Artoria."
However, after this extreme tenderness and promise, his words were like the next step in a carefully calculated game of chess, quietly falling:
"However, my King," his tone was still gentle, but he introduced a realistic and heavy topic, "a kingdom needs stability, needs a future. It needs not only a powerful ruler but also... a legitimate successor."
He paused slightly, feeling the instant stiffness of the body in his arms, and continued in that guiding tone that was for her sake:
"At present, the large-scale wars have basically ended, and Britain has welcomed a rare peace. We should also... consider your future and the longer-term stability of the kingdom."
This sentence was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, causing layers of ripples that were hard to settle in Artoria's dependent and weary heart. A successor... what did this mean?
She understood Merlin's hint almost instantly. A nameless panic and resistance, mixed with speculation about Merlin's intentions, began to spread in her heart. However, her long-standing trust and obedience toward Merlin made her unable to refute immediately. She just buried her head deeper, remaining silent in this warm embrace, feeling an unprecedented confusion and a trace of a cold omen.
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