The roads of Britain grew more treacherous with each passing day.
Not only beasts, but barbarian tribes beyond the reach of civilization were eyeing travelers hungrily.
Strange rumors reached them especially the farther north they went.
"In Pictland, green devils without faces dwell."
That referred to the Picts, an indigenous fantastical warrior race of Britain.
Originally inhabiting areas around Ireland, they began migrating gradually into Britain toward the end of the Mythical Age. They were a fantastical race bearing a humanoid appearance.
Even during the era of Roman Britain, they inadvertently served as a bulwark that kept the Roman legions from conquering the northern territories—modern-day Scotland.
Though they were monsters, they were humanoid monsters and, despite their barbarism, had developed a civilization of their own, founding the realm of Pictland to resist Rome.
They were truly a warrior race.
Of course, all Britons were also enemies to them, but Rome was the greater foe, so the Picts became de facto temporary allies of Britain.
But now they had fallen under the sway of an even greater power, Vortigern. With Rome gone, they were just another troublesome tribe.
"Brother, is this the right way?"
Artoria cocked her head as she looked at the map.
Kay patted Gareth on his back and answered, "That's right. Merlin said this would be a shortcut."
Merlin was pretending to sleep in the corner of the carriage. In truth, the shortcut was just an excuse; he planned to lure them into the heart of the Picts' territory to get Kay into trouble—or at the very least make him feel like a burden.
Kyaaaaaaaaa!
A grotesque shriek tore through the forest.
Green shapes rained down from the treetops.
"Ambush!"
Lancer shouted as she drew [Rhongomyniad].
What appeared were humanoid yet inhuman creatures. Their bodies were cloaked entirely in green muscle, and they wore steel masks riddled with holes where their faces should have been—the Picts.
"What a revolting sight. I doubt they'd taste good even if you ate them," Alter said, her face twisted in disgust as she swung [Excalibur Morgan].
Kwaaaang!
A black flash illuminated the clearing, splitting three or four Picts in half.
When Artoria X Alter extended her hand, the charging Picts were struck by crimson lightning, burning them to cinders.
The battle was one-sided.
Artoria and her sisters were already monsters far beyond the bounds of humanity. No matter how stout the Picts' bodies, they could not stand against beings armed with mythic [Noble Phantasms].
But the number of Picts was overwhelming, swarming like an unending stream of ants.
What set them apart from other fantastical races was that they had an organized military structure—there was a reason even the Roman legions could not subdue them.
And among them were crafty ones.
By instinct, they targeted the weakest-looking member: the man carrying the baby—Kay.
Skreeee!
A Pict warrior leapt from the undergrowth and aimed for Kay's back—a cowardly attack targeting Gareth.
Lily and Artoria Lancer Alter shouted, "Brother!" and "Kay!", but they were too far away.
Kay had no time to turn around or draw his sword. Yet his body reacted faster than his mind.
Gasp!
He drew in a quick breath and tensed every muscle in his body in an instant.
His heart thudded as it pumped hot blood through his veins. Instead of drawing his sword, he thrust his bare right fist backward.
Thwack!
It wasn't just a dull thud but a crack like a rock shattering. His fist drove straight through the center of the Pict's mask.
Crunch.
The mask shattered and the sound of the skull collapsing echoed.
The Pict warrior never even cried out; like a cannonball, he flew across the clearing and smashed into a tree. He was dead on impact.
Kay exhaled roughly, wiping his fist. The skin on his knuckles was scraped and bleeding, but it was nothing serious.
"Gareth, you all right? You got a fright, didn't you?" Kay asked.
When he checked behind him, Gareth was staring wide-eyed before breaking into a grin. The baby seemed to think Uncle's punch was quite the show.
The sisters watched the scene, dumbfounded.
What was that just now?
It had been a simple bare-knuckle strike with no release of [Mana] or use of any [Skills], yet its power had crushed a Pict's skull?
"Oh, Brother... that was..." Lily breathed.
"I knew you were strong, but that exceeded my expectations," Artoria Lancer said.
After the fight, the girls rushed to Kay's side.
"Are you hurt?"
"What? Using your fist like some kind of savage! What good is having a sword if you don't draw it!" Alter snapped, examining the scraped skin on Kay's knuckles as Artoria Caster hastily cast a healing Magecraft.
"I'm fine. I simply didn't have time to draw my sword. And about these guys... I don't think they'd taste very good," Kay said, frowning at the fallen Picts.
Their humanoid forms made Kay uneasy, but above all, their muscles looked too tough and unpalatable.
Kay said, "Let's go. This place gives me the creeps."
The group left the Picts' bodies behind and resumed their journey.
Merlin watched it all from the corner of the carriage, his expression oddly twisted.
'...That one has grown. He's covering his physical limits with technique.'
He may be of average talent, but he covers it with effort. Someday, he could attain the rank of a [Knights of the Round Table] as they existed under Uther—if not quite reaching Gawain's level.
And that was the problem: Merlin was in a hurry for Kay to bow out of the spotlight naturally.
The journey continued.
Wherever Artoria's company passed, fallen beasts piled up like mountains, and the robbers' screams dispersed on the wind.
Their tales of valor spread across the harsh lands of Britain like wildfire.
And so the rumors spread.
A handsome blond knight who appeared like a comet.
And seven beautiful Valkyries following him.
The ideal king who would save Britain at last, and his personal guard.
The people were ecstatic.
In a Britain ruled by despair and fear, the mere fact that a successor—reputedly of Uther's royal blood—had appeared was salvation enough.
But the stronger the light, the darker the shadows.
Behind that dazzling spotlight of glory stood one man who was destined to remain in the shadows.
On a sunny afternoon during their travels, they reached the great city's plaza—Glebeval, also called Glastonbury.
A massive crowd had gathered to catch a glimpse of the heroes.
Flower petals rained down like rain from the sky, and bards sang impromptu songs in praise of them.
"Behold the radiant light of the holy sword!"
"Ah, the tip of [Rhongomyniad] shines brighter than the sun!"
The eight maidens stood in their gleaming armor amid the crowd's cheers.
Disguised in men's armor, Artoria stood at the forefront, waving her hand in greeting to the townspeople.
However, one step back from the wave of cheers...
Under the shade of the carriage, in a secluded corner, sat Kay.
He looked less like a hero and more like a refugee.
Instead of legendary arms, a plain sword and a baby bottle bag hung from his belt.
In place of resplendent armor, he wore a leather apron stained with the baby's vomit.
Gareth, swaddled on his back, let out a fuss, and Kay, with practiced motions, cradled her and checked the milk's temperature on his wrist.
People's gazes fell on him.
Not looks of admiration, but cold stares of contempt and confusion.
"Who is that man? A retainer to the knights?"
"Tch, that hulking oaf isn't even in armor and he's just standing there staring at the baby."
"The women are bleeding on the front lines fighting, and this man isn't even ashamed?"
"Isn't he just a kept man? Hiding under the skirts of these women to get a free meal."
"Tsk tsk, the world's gone to rot. A man clutching a bottle instead of a sword."
The murmurs pierced Kay's eardrums like thorns.
Britain was a savage age ruled by the logic of strength—a world where the warrior's code, akin to that of the Celts, reigned supreme.
It was rare enough for women to even go to battle, but for a fully able-bodied man to avoid the front and rear like a child-minder was the height of shame.
They did not know that Kay spat blood and swung his sword every night.
They did not know that he had crushed a Pict's skull with his bare fist.
All they saw was the shell of an incompetent man hiding behind great warriors.
But Kay did not meet their stares. In fact, he didn't even notice.
'Well, they're not wrong. I'm not a hero.'
Kay calmly wiped the milk from Gareth's chin with a handkerchief, thinking.
'What does it matter if I catch some flak? I couldn't care less about others' opinions.'
He knew exactly where he stood. He was not the protagonist. He was part of the crew behind the scenes.
The show doesn't stop just because the crew gets badmouthed by the audience.
He would simply bear the cross of being called "big brother" in silence.
But just because he was okay with it didn't mean those who loved him were.
Thud.
Alter, forced into a smile as the people crowded around her, came to a stop.
A sound that grated on her ears reached her.
The villagers who had uttered those insults had no idea how close they were to death.
Alter's golden irises constricted. The air around her crackled, and dark [Mana] rose like smoke.
"Hey."
Her voice was as if scraped up from the depths of hell. Alter pushed through the crowd and stalked toward them.
"Y-yes? Knight?"
The people blushed, not knowing why. They had mistaken her for a beautiful knight approaching them.
"What did you just say?"
Ssshhh~
[Excalibur Morgan] slid halfway from its scabbard. A dark aura of killing intent descended, as if it were throttling the young man.
"Say that filthy mouth of yours one more time... and I'll pull out your tongue and nail it into your eye sockets."
"Eeek!!"
The young man at the front screamed and sank to his knees, his trousers growing damp.
And it wasn't just him.
Even Lancer, who always retained her elegance, cast the villagers a cold glance. When she spoke, her voice was as sharp as an icicle.
"Do you know the source of the might you so worship? We stand here because we ate meals prepared by that person, and slept beneath roofs he protected."
Lancer struck the ground with the tip of [Rhongomyniad].
"He is... our most precious person. Do not speak of him lightly. Even if it meant giving up all of Britain, we could never relinquish him."
Artoria looked on with a bittersweet expression as she watched Kay in the distance soothing Gareth.
Her heart felt like it was being torn in two.
The brighter they shone, the deeper and more miserable Kay's shadow grew.
The more they became heroes, the more Kay was branded as an incompetent man.
Given their small, elite number, Kay could not help standing out for all the wrong reasons as the one carrying a baby.
'Brother... it's because of us...'
She held the ornate bouquet presented by the people, but it felt like a crown of thorns.
Their glory was a flower that had bloomed upon their brother's sacrifice.
But only Merlin, watching it all from beneath the shade of a tree, was different.
Leaning on his staff, he reveled in this twisted spectacle.
'Good, very good. The flow is perfect.'
Merlin's purple eyes gleamed with interest.
He knew that scorn was sharper than any blade and deadlier than poison.
'A man's pride is weaker than one might think. Even Kay won't be able to endure if the world's ridicule and contempt continue.'
Merlin saw through Kay's psyche.
Kay pretended strength, but inside he demeaned himself as mediocre and felt unworthy.
For him, the world's blame poured down, and the more his sisters tried to shield him, the more miserable he felt.
'The more his sisters defend him, the more decrepit Kay will feel. He'll see himself as a stain blocking their path.'
Merlin curled a wry smile at the corner of his mouth.
It was a merciless scheme to shape the ideal king and nothing more.
'Just a bit more... just isolate him a bit longer. Let the world point fingers at him, and he'll step away on his own. Out of love for you, he won't soil your honor and will disappear willingly.'
Of course, Merlin was mistaken about one thing.
It was true that Kay was aware of his own limits and had low self-esteem because of it.
'What should I make for dinner tonight? Maybe I'll make something Artoria X likes for a change.'
He had overlooked that Kay, more than anything, was a man of duty—both as the eldest son and as a brother.
Merlin's scheme applied only to ordinary humans; a demon of dreams without a human heart, he misunderstood human familial love and responsibility.
Even Uther, a king who had lived as a sworn brother and served him for life, was human—yet his heart was inhuman. The fact that Merlin knew this was, in itself, strange.