Lancelot staggered back to the bedchamber entrance, his bloodied hand gripping the doorframe for support. His gaze passed over Artoria, fixing intently on Kanjuro. That look was like a poisoned dagger, mixed with bone-deep hatred and a sudden, horrifying realization.
"It was you..." a hoarse voice seeped from between his clenched teeth. "It was never the King who changed... it was you... Merlin... or what should I call you? You viper coiled around Camelot's heart!"
Kanjuro calmly shielded Artoria behind him, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly beneath the hood's shadow. "The howls of a stray dog are always particularly grating."
Lancelot coughed violently, then suddenly looked at the pale-faced Guinevere. A final surge of warmth churned in his eyes, like a dying star's last burst of light. "Come with me, Guinevere! Leave this cage woven from lies! I would spend the rest of my life..."
"No!" Guinevere interrupted sharply, her nails digging deep into her palms. She glanced fearfully at Kanjuro, hurriedly declaring her loyalty: "I am the King's wife, forever... the King's woman." These words were like icy chains, binding herself and severing Lancelot's last hope. "Please... spare me, and spare yourself."
Lancelot threw his head back, letting out a broken, bitter laugh, allowing the blood from his shoulder to soak through his Knight's cloak. He took one last look around this palace that had once symbolized glory—the moonlight shone on the wide-open eyes of the soldiers, their unseeing pupils still reflecting the figure of King Arthur wielding her sword.
"May the lake's curse entangle you all..." He dragged himself away, leaving bloody footprints. The stigma of traitor would follow him like a shadow.
Three hours later
The palace servants had repeatedly scrubbed the marble floor with rosewater, but the scent of blood still seeped faintly from deep within the brick seams. Artoria stared blankly at the full moon outside the window, murmuring softly, "Even the most loyal Lancelot... I truly am unworthy..."
"You are wrong." Kanjuro stood at her side, his fingertip lightly tapping the map on the spot below her collarbone where an old scar lay. "Look at this land—roads connecting every village, laws protecting every child. These are miracles you created with your own hands." His voice was low and clear. "How can ordinary people understand the trajectory of stars? It is enough that I understand you."
Artoria turned to face him, a complex smile suddenly flickering in her eyes. She took the quietly standing Guinevere by the hand and pointed to the territory map spread out on the desk. Moonlight fell on the parchment scroll, densely marked with dozens of scar-like notations—the ruins of fortresses, beacon fires at the borders, marks of lands ravaged by war.
Guinevere lightly touched a mark spanning the northern territories on the map: "This was from last year's suppression of the northern rebellion..."
"Every victory comes at a cost." Artoria took Kanjuro's hand, placing his palm over the center of the map, letting him feel its heavy weight. "But look, these scars never appear in Camelot's heartland. I always face Britain's enemies..." She raised her head, her gaze burning with firm conviction. "And more importantly, I face the direction you guide me towards."
She called Guinevere to the table as well. The figures of the three overlapped quietly in the candlelight as they jointly raised a cup of wine symbolizing their covenant. "Tonight, let us prove that more than the crown and the holy sword..." She raised her glass to Kanjuro, her voice carrying an undeniable sincerity. "We wish to be your most loyal followers."
Guinevere stood quietly on the other side, her expression complex, as if pulled by an invisible fate. Kanjuro gazed at the scene before him—the shattered pride of the king of knights and the restrained wavering of the Queen together sketching out the long-awaited picture he had envisioned.
Outside the window, startled birds suddenly flew past, and the moonlight briefly illuminated the eyes beneath his hood.
There was no fervor there, only the focus of a creator gazing upon a work nearing completion.
The faint light of dawn had not yet fully dispelled Camelot's night; the bedchamber was filled with the peculiar atmosphere that lingers after a night-long conversation.
Artoria rested quietly, caught between exhaustion and a certain sense of release.
Just as he was about to leave, a cold, familiar surge of magical energy coalesced in the shadows of the corridor. Morgan, with her silver hair and purple eyes, gradually materialized. Leaning against a cold stone pillar, her face pale, her eyes churned with uncontrollable jealousy, anger, and a deeper, almost despairing insight. She had clearly sensed some subtle, dark transformation of power within Artoria, born from her union with Kanjuro.
"Just what do you think you're doing, Merlin? Or should I call you... Father?" Morgan's voice sounded as if dredged from an ice cellar, carrying a biting chill and mockery. "You manipulate her life, tamper with her memories, and now, you won't even spare her body and her last shred of dignity? What have you turned her into? A puppet plaything who obeys your every word, who can even cast aside ethics?"
Kanjuro stopped and turned his head to look at this daughter, connected to him by blood yet filled with resentment. His face showed no trace of embarrassment from the accusation; instead, it held a calmness akin to academic discussion.
"Morgan," his tone was offhand, as if discussing the weather, "you are always bound by society's shackles. Emotion, or rather connection, can transcend ethics, transcend blood ties, transcend all the established rules of this world. They are merely chains the weak use for self-comfort. Everything I have done is to explore possibilities, to shape a more 'perfect' existence."
"Transcend ethics?" Morgan let out a sharp, mournful laugh that echoed in the empty corridor. "Then what about me?! What am I?!" She took a step forward, her eyes burning with painful flames. "The daughter you discarded like trash at the Lake of the Fairies? The Morgan you never showed a shred of warmth to? Why is your 'transcendence of ethics' so stingy when it comes to me alone?!"
Kanjuro watched her loss of control quietly, like observing an interesting experiment. He was silent for a moment, then spoke in a tone so plain it was almost condescending:
"Actually... you could too."
These simple words were like a bolt of lightning, instantly cleaving through all of Morgan's confusion and haze. She recoiled a step as if bitten by an invisible snake, staring at Kanjuro in disbelief. In that moment, all her previous suspicions and conjectures were confirmed. This person before her possessed no emotions in the worldly sense; whether love, familial affection, or desire, they were merely tools he used to manipulate and toy with people's hearts. What he enjoyed was the process, the control, the process of watching the noble fall and the resilient crumble.
"You... you are the true demon..." Morgan's voice trembled, a shudder originating from the depths of her soul. The jealousy and anger in her eyes receded like a tide, replaced by a coldness mixed with pity and utter clarity.
She shook her head, her silver hair swaying in the faint light. "I suddenly... feel a bit sorry for my foolish sister." Her gaze seemed to pierce through the walls, seeing the slumbering Artoria. "To this day, she's probably still immersed in the false warmth woven by you, this demon, believing she fights for you, for Britain... Merlin, you are truly terrifying."
She turned resolutely, no longer looking at Kanjuro.
"But this time," Morgan's voice regained its calm, a calm born of determination, carrying a destructive undertone, "I will stand against you. And I hope I can make that 'harlot' lost in her false dream... my dear sister, see the truth clearly! See what kind of monster lies beneath your glamorous facade!"
Kanjuro watched Morgan's resolute retreating back, and for the first time, a semblance of "regret" appeared on his face. But that regret vanished in an instant, replaced by an even more intense, more twisted interest.
"So... you are still such a clear-sighted person. Truly... impressive, my dear daughter Morgan." His voice held a hint of approval, as if praising a piece of work that had exceeded expectations.
Then, that regret and approval transformed into a burst of laughter directed at the sky. The laughter, no longer concealed, was filled with arrogance, delight, and boundless anticipation for the impending conflict. It echoed madly through the castle corridors before dawn, as if trying to shatter all false tranquility.
"Hahahahaha... Hahahahaha!!!"
"Come! Let me see! Let me see what abilities you, my dear daughter Morgan, who has inherited my indomitable and hateful bloodline, possess to oppose me! This drama is becoming more and more interesting! Hahahahahahaha—!!!"
The arrogant laughter was like a tangible shockwave, yet Morgan's figure remained steadfast, disappearing into the end of the corridor amidst the laughter, carrying her clarity, her hatred, and a resolve potent enough to shake all of Britain.
By the Lake of the Fairies, mist swirled, as if an eternal twilight enveloped this secluded realm. Morgan stumbled through weeping willows and reeds, her silver hair disheveled, her purple eyes burning with resentment and a clarity bordering on despair. She went straight to the smooth giant stone by the lake. The figure of Vivian, the Lady of the Lake, was slowly coalescing with the rippling light. Her visage remained kind and serene, but her eyes were deeper than the lake water, as if holding millennia of wisdom and a trace of imperceptible worry.
"Mother..." Morgan's voice held a rare fragility and urgency. She knelt by the lakeshore, pressing her forehead against the cold stone surface. "I saw him... that man who calls himself Merlin, my... father. He... he is simply not an existence comprehensible to humans! He toys with Artoria as he pleases, treats Britain as a chessboard! I..."
Vivian, the Lady of the Lake, sighed softly, a sigh that seemed to still the ripples across the entire lake surface. She reached out, her ethereal fingertips lightly touching Morgan's head. A cool, tranquil power slowly flowed into Morgan's agitated heart.
"Child, I warned you long ago." Vivian's voice was ethereal and distant, carrying a godlike detachment. "Merlin... or rather, the existence occupying the name 'Merlin,' his essence has long transcended the bounds of mortal time and space. His gaze may penetrate past and future; his schemes may have enveloped every tributary of fate before you or I could perceive them." Her expression grew exceedingly grave. "It is very likely that everything you are experiencing now—your hatred, your resistance, even your coming before me now seeking help—are still but parts of his grand design..."
Morgan looked up sharply, a flicker of horror in her eyes, but it was soon replaced by even firmer resolve. "Then... is there truly no way? Must we just watch helplessly as he distorts everything, destroys everything? Including that... sister I hate, yet must admit shares a similar bloodline with me?"
Vivian fell silent for a moment. Her eyes, which seemed capable of reflecting all eternity, gazed at Morgan, as if weighing some immensely significant choice. Finally, she slowly raised her hands. From the depths of the lake's heart, a light more profound and heart-stirring than when Excalibur emerged slowly rose. It was not a holy gold, but a strange radiance that seemed to condense the essence of the night sky, flowing with stardust and shadows.
A longsword materialized accordingly. Its design was ancient and peculiar. The blade seemed forged from some unknown black metal, etched with runes not of this world, which flowed slowly like living things, absorbing the surrounding light. The crossguard was set with a gemstone that constantly shifted colors, sometimes black as an abyss, sometimes dazzling as the aurora. It emanated not the brilliance of the king's way, but a bizarre power... as if capable of severing fate, cutting causality.
"Merlin's essence is transcendent; directly opposing him is nearly impossible." Vivian's voice held unprecedented seriousness as she manipulated the water, bringing this strange sword before Morgan. "The threads of fate have different paths and possibilities. I cannot see through Merlin's ultimate scheme, but I know that now, perhaps only by completely shattering his meticulously crafted 'masterpiece'—King Arthur, Artoria—can we break this deadlock, force him to reveal his true intentions, and thus glimpse a sliver of truth's dawn."
Morgan looked upon the holy sword hovering before her with awe. She could feel the vast, bizarre power contained within it, far surpassing that of the Sword of the Lake, Excalibur. She reached out and cautiously grasped the hilt. The moment she touched it, an icy yet immensely powerful force surged up her arm into her entire body, resonating strangely with the magical energy within her and that dark bloodline originating from Kanjuro.
"This sword..." Morgan felt the sword's power pulsating like a whisper.
"It has no name, or rather, its true name was lost with the previous age." Vivian explained. "It is not a weapon bound by the principles of this world. Its power lies in 'negation' and 'reshaping.' Perhaps... it can sever the shackles Merlin has placed upon Artoria, whether of memory or of power."
Morgan gripped the hilt tightly, feeling that power merge with her vengeful resolve. She nodded heavily. "I understand, Mother. Artoria is the key... I must defeat her. For Britain, and also to... let myself, let everyone, see the truth clearly!"
Carrying the Holy Sword bestowed by the Lady of the Lake, which transcended mortal understanding, Morgan left the Lake of the Fairies. She did not immediately seek out Artoria for a final battle; instead, she returned to her hidden workshop deep within the border forest. She knew that facing a monster like Mr. Kanjuro and the Artoria he had "armed," a single powerful sword was far from enough.
She needed knowledge, strategy, and Black Magic power capable of countering that unfathomable Space-Time Authority and the distortion of minds.
Inside the workshop, candlelight flickered, illuminating walls covered in eerie magic circles and mountain-like stacks of ancient scrolls. Morgan placed the Holy Sword, which surpassed the Sword of the Lake, at the center of the transmutation circle and began frantically flipping through alchemy texts written on dragon skin in Ancient Elven and even older scripts. The parchment rustled in her hands, her gaze focused and sharp; she recorded and calculated, her fingertips turning white from excessive force.
"Merlin's magical foundation lies in the distortion of the Root and interference with space-time... Artoria's core power is the Red Dragon bloodline and avalon's blessing, but it has been contaminated..." she murmured to herself like the most obsessive scholar. "I need to find an alchemical concoction that can both penetrate space-time defenses and purify—or more thoroughly... destroy—that contaminated origin... or, a plague that can dismantle the 'Order' he has imposed upon Britain through Artoria on a massive scale..."
She picked up a small knife inlaid with obsidian and unhesitatingly slashed her palm, letting blood containing special magical power drip into a boiling cauldron. The blood mixed with the tumbling liquid inside, which emitted the scent of sulfur and stardust, making a hissing sound and giving off eerie purple smoke.
"Come, Merlin... my dear 'father'." Morgan lifted her face, stained with blood and potion residue, and looked toward Camelot, her purple eyes flashing with a cold and determined light. "Let's see if the web of fate you've woven is tougher, or if my alchemical fire, fueled by hatred and lucidity, can burn your entire game... to ashes!"
Inside the workshop, there was only the sound of the cauldron boiling, pages turning, and Morgan's suppressed breathing. A secret war with all of Britain at stake, centered around 'truth' and 'destruction,' quietly began in the hands of this clear-headed avenger.
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