In the highest bedchamber of Camelot Castle, the clear cry of an infant pierced the silence of dawn, like the first ray of sunlight breaking through leaden clouds. Artoria—King Arthur—was pale, her sweat-dampened blonde hair clinging to her forehead, yet she wore a weary, satisfied smile, as if she had completed a sacred mission. In her arms, she held a baby girl wrapped in a soft fleece blanket. The child had golden hair similar to hers and a pair of clear green eyes that held a strange calmness for a first look at the world.
Kanjuro (Merlin) stood by the bedside, having shed the hood that usually shrouded his entire body, revealing a handsome face that seemed otherworldly. He looked down at the newborn, his face wearing a perfectly measured smile—a mix of tenderness, affection, and an indescribable depth of meaning. He reached out a finger, touching the infant's delicate cheek with extreme gentleness.
"Mordred..." Artoria softly called the name she had already chosen for her daughter, her voice weak from childbirth but filled with emotion, "Our daughter."
"Yes, our daughter," Kanjuro echoed, his tone filled with the satisfaction of possessing a 'perfect creation.' He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Artoria's sweat-dampened forehead. "You did well, Artoria. She will be... the future hope of Britain."
The news spread quickly: the heir to the kingdom, a princess, was born! Although some whispered privately about the heir being female rather than a prince, under the public opinion skillfully guided by Kanjuro and the backdrop of the kingdom's surface prosperity, all of Britain fell into a sea of celebration. Bells echoed over Camelot; people temporarily forgot the heavy taxes and labor, and the streets overflowed with a false revelry, as if the birth of this little princess could truly dispel the gloom hanging over the kingdom.
However, before the celebratory wine could cool, urgent military reports arrived from the border—the Saxon tribes of the north had allied with several other neighbors uneasy with Britain's strength. They had assembled a massive army and launched a brazen invasion, taking advantage of King Arthur's recovery from childbirth and the seemingly 'unstable' morale of the people! Iron hooves trampled border villages, and the flames of war were ignited once more.
Having just gone through childbirth, Artoria didn't even have the chance to properly hold her daughter before she was forced to don that heavy armor once again. In the mirror, she saw a face that was still weak but eyes that had regained their sharp edge. Her duty as a king, like an invisible shackle, locked onto her once more.
"I must go." She put on her breastplate in front of Kanjuro, her voice firm, yet she couldn't help but look back at Mordred sleeping in the cradle, a flash of maternal reluctance in her eyes.
Kanjuro considerately tied the straps of her cloak, his movements as gentle as those of the most loyal partner. "Go, my King. Britain needs you, just as you need it." His voice was full of support and understanding. "I will be here in the rear, and... our daughter will be here too."
He deliberately emphasized "our daughter," successfully equating the defense of the kingdom with the protection of the "crystallization" of their love in Artoria's heart, making her will to go to war even more unshakable.
"Wait for my return." Artoria gave Kanjuro a deep look, gazed at the cradle for a moment with lingering affection, and then resolutely turned away, leading her knights toward the smoke-filled border. She did not know if this 'perfectly timed' invasion also had that hand hidden in the shadows quietly pulling the strings.
The castle became quiet again, only this time, it was filled with the cries and murmurs of an infant.
Kanjuro remained in Camelot, nominally assisting in governance but actually wielding sole power. However, he left most of the tedious administrative tasks to his subordinates, while he devoted a vast amount of time to accompanying and 'educating' the young Mordred.
He did not face his daughter with Merlin's mysterious image, but appeared as a real, gentle, and omnipotent 'father.' He would personally feed Mordred a special milk porridge mixed with trace amounts of magic; he would hum ancient songs with hypnotic effects in a low, pleasant voice when she cried at night; he would hold her on the highest balcony of the castle, pointing at the distant mountains and rivers, telling carefully doctored 'legendary' stories about this land and her 'mother.'
Mordred, a child in whose veins flowed the Red Dragon's blood and Kanjuro's dark essence, was born with a magical affinity and intelligence far beyond ordinary people. She almost instinctively developed an extreme attachment and dependence on Kanjuro. Those clear green eyes would always burst with unreserved, brilliant light when they saw him. When she was learning to speak, the first word she clearly uttered was "Father"; when she was learning to walk, she would always totter into Kanjuro's embrace.
"Father..." Little Mordred hugged Kanjuro's leg, looking up and asking in a childish voice, "Mother... when is she coming back?"
Kanjuro gently picked her up, letting her sit on his arm, and pointed toward the border, saying in a seductive voice: "Mother has gone to forge a safer, broader future for you and for all of Britain. Mordred must grow up quickly and become strong, so that you can help Mother and protect everything she has won for you."
The young Mordred only half-understood, but she remembered one point firmly: she had to become strong for her father, and for that 'mother' who was a bit blurry in her memory but described by her father as incomparably great and glorious.
Kanjuro enjoyed this absolute dependence. He watched Mordred grow day by day at his knee, seeing the pure, untainted respect and attachment in her eyes, and a twisted sense of accomplishment grew in his heart. He took his dark ideologies and, wrapping them in the sweet cloak of fatherly love, instilled them bit by bit into this child.
Meanwhile, at the distant border, Artoria was fighting a bloody battle for the Britain in her heart, and to return sooner to the 'Merlin' she loved and her daughter. Occasionally, she would receive letters from Kanjuro sent via magic, describing Mordred's cute antics, expressing deep longing, and always ending with "all is well, do not worry." These letters became her only solace in the brutal war.
She did not know that while she was defending the kingdom with her life, the two people she loved most were in Camelot Castle, building a close and twisted bond that excluded her. The daughter she placed so much hope in was, under the guidance of her most trusted lover, growing in an unknown and dangerous direction.
Kanjuro stroked Mordred's soft blonde hair, looking at her features so similar to his own, a deep smile curling the corners of his mouth.
(Artoria, you have brought me the most perfect 'work.' Let me see, in the heart of our common 'daughter,' who is more important: you, the 'mother' fighting far away, or me, the 'father' who accompanies her day and night, carefully 'teaching' her... who is more worth her giving everything for?)
The threads of fate, due to Mordred's birth, became more complex and sinister. And the ignorant child, with her total dependence, was sowing the seeds of an even deeper tragedy for the future.
On the Training Grounds of Camelot, the sound of clashing metal was incessant. The young Mordred, holding a specially made, miniature knight's sword, was in a fierce exchange with a magic-driven training golem. Her movements were swift, her strength far exceeding children of her age; her golden hair clung to her forehead with sweat, and her emerald eyes flashed with a focus and ferocity unbefitting her years.
Kanjuro (not in his Merlin disguise but in his true appearance) stood quietly by the field in a simple black robe, his gaze calmly watching his daughter's training. Occasionally, he would speak to guide her, his tone gentle, yet he always managed to strike the sensitive chord in Mordred's heart at the crucial moment with the most precise words.
"Stop," Kanjuro suddenly spoke.
Mordred immediately halted her stance, looking at her father while panting slightly, her eyes filled with the hope of seeking approval.
Kanjuro stepped forward slowly, took the small sword from her hand, and his fingertips brushed over the cold blade as if feeling the residual warmth. He sighed slightly—a sigh that perfectly carried a hint of imperceptible 'regret.'
"Your progress is fast, Mordred; your swordsmanship foundation is very solid." He first gave her affirmation, then his tone shifted subtly, "However... compared to your mother when she was your age, you are still a bit behind."
"Mother?" Mordred's little face immediately tensed. To her, Artoria was more like a distant and blurry symbol—a 'king of knights' who existed in her father's stories, in portraits, and in the praise of the people, rather than a real, warm mother. She was away at war all year round, and Mordred's childhood memories were almost entirely filled with the figure of her father, Kanjuro.
"Yes," Kanjuro's gaze seemed to drift toward the distant border, his tone carrying a deliberate mix of nostalgia and comparison. "Your mother, Artoria, was born for the sword. When she was your age, her sword was already as fast as the wind, as precise as a falcon, and her understanding of combat was... an almost instinctive intuition." He described it, shaping Artoria's image into something incomparably brilliant, yet invisibly distancing her from Mordred.
He looked down at his daughter's emerald eyes, which were gradually clouding over, and continued in that gentle yet highly inflammatory voice: "She is the most powerful knight in the history of Britain, a king destined to be recorded in the annals of history. Her sword is for protecting the kingdom and expanding its borders. Therefore, she must be away at war all year round and cannot be by your side... You must understand her."
These words on the surface were defending Artoria, emphasizing her greatness and her lack of choice. But to the sensitive and precocious Mordred, they tasted completely different.
Understand her?
Why should I understand a 'mother' who has never held me, never stayed by my bed when I was sick, and never witnessed me falling and getting back up while practicing my sword time and again?
Protecting the kingdom? Expanding borders?
Are those cold lands and those strange subjects more important than her own daughter?
A sour, stinging emotion quietly coiled around Mordred's heart like a vine. It was the grievance of being neglected, the anxiety of being unable to measure up, and... under Kanjuro's long-term subtle influence and her own dark bloodline inherited from him, the poisonous sprout of jealousy began to grow.
She clenched her small fists until her knuckles turned white. Her father's unmasked admiration for her mother (even if it was just a narrative) acted like fine needles pricking her heart, which yearned for exclusive recognition.
"Father," Mordred's voice was a bit choked. She looked up and stared at Kanjuro stubbornly. "I will work harder! I will become stronger than Mother! My sword won't be just for protecting people I don't know... I..." She wanted to say "I will swing my sword for Father," but the words reached her lips and were swallowed back down because of that hazy sentiment that transcended simple father-daughter affection. She only bit her lower lip harder.
Kanjuro took in all of his daughter's reactions. Seeing the grievance, resentment, and the quietly spreading darkness in her eyes, a flash of cold satisfaction crossed his heart. He reached out and gently stroked the top of Mordred's head, his movements full of affection.
"I know, my little Mordred will definitely be the best." His encouragement was like rain, yet it watered that poisonous plant called jealousy. "You possess the finest bloodlines from both me and your mother; your potential is limitless. As long as you are willing, one day you will surpass everyone, including... your mother."
"Surpass... Mother..." Mordred murmured the words. In her emerald eyes, the original clarity was replaced by a flame mixed with ambition and darkness. That brilliant and distant image of her mother, 'Artoria,' began to twist in her heart, gradually becoming a target that needed to be surpassed and trampled underfoot—an 'enemy' who had stolen too much of her father's attention and praise.
From that day forth, jealousy toward her mother, Artoria, became like a maggot in the bone, deeply rooted in Mordred's soul. Under Kanjuro's "diligent" instruction, her training grew even more frenzied; every swing of her sword carried a sense of resentment and indignation. She craved power, craved to prove herself, and craved for the day when her father's gaze would rest solely on her, causing that so-called "strongest king of knights" mother to pale in comparison before her.
Kanjuro stood to the side, quietly watching it all. He had successfully planted a seed in his daughter's heart that was capable of one day completely tearing apart all of Artoria's convictions and hopes. Under twisted possessiveness and meticulously planned alienation, family bonds had become so fragile and brittle.
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