On the Training Grounds of Camelot Castle, the sound of metal clashing rang out like rapid drumbeats. The young Mordred held a practice sword, launching one fierce strike after another against a hard oak training dummy.
Her movements possessed a ruthlessness and precision far beyond her years. Her golden braids flew wildly with her violent actions, and a flame of near-obsessive intensity burned within her emerald eyes.
These words were like the most potent spell, echoing in her mind day and night, driving her to squeeze out every drop of her potential. She remembered her father Kanjuro's sigh of "regret"—"Compared to your mother when she was your age, you're still a bit lacking." These words were like a thorn driven deep into her heart; every breath brought a secret pang of pain and resentment.
Whenever Artoria returned in triumph, covered in the dust of travel, the castle would fall into a brief period of bustle. The king of knights, having removed her armor, would always seek out her daughter's figure first. She would try to stroke Mordred's golden hair with hands that were calloused from years of gripping a sword yet remained gentle; she would bring strange gems or exquisite toys found at the borders, her eyes filled with obvious maternal love in an attempt to make amends.
"Mordred, my child, how have you been lately?" Artoria's voice was always so mild, carrying the raspiness and fatigue of battle.
However, Mordred's reaction was always cold, even carrying a hint of imperceptible resistance. She would turn slightly to avoid her mother's touch, keep her head down, and respond with vague grunts or "fine." It wasn't that she couldn't feel that warmth, or that she didn't like those gifts; deep down, she craved her mother's embrace and approval. But another stronger, darker emotion—jealousy—wrapped around her heart like poisonous vines, making it impossible for her to accept it openly.
She was jealous that her mother possessed such great power and could be so "admired" by her father (or so it sounded to her); she was jealous that her mother could spend years by her father's side (even if it was on the battlefield); and she was even more jealous that... whenever her mother returned, her father Kanjuro's attention would inevitably be mostly diverted away.
And what made her most uneasy and irritable was the night.
After Artoria returned, she naturally shared a bed with Kanjuro. The castle's soundproofing was not perfect, especially for Mordred, who had sharp senses and a special matter on her mind.
Those sounds were like little insects crawling into her ears, gnawing at her sanity. She lay in bed, covering her head tightly with the quilt, yet she could not block out the maddening imagination. She did not understand specifically what it meant...
On certain nights, when the castle had completely quieted down and only moonlight spilled into the room through the window lattices, the young Mordred would curl herself into a corner of the bed.
Her hands would involuntarily wander restlessly.
The next morning, when she saw the faint dark circles under her eyes in the mirror and the strange flush on her face that could not fully fade, a strong sense of self-loathing and shame would well up in her heart.
But when she walked out of her room and saw her father Kanjuro still looking at her with that gentle, encouraging gaze, and heard him say in that magnetic voice, "Good morning, my little Mordred, did you rest well last night?"
She was jealous of her mother, Artoria—jealous that she could possess her father openly and share those secret nights with him.
This feeling was a mixture of dependence on a powerful protector, a greedy desire for gentle care, and that quietly ignited, forbidden sentiment.
Thus, on the Training Grounds, she swung her sword even more desperately, pouring all her complex jealousy toward her mother and her twisted longing for her father into every slash and every thrust.
She fantasized that one day, she would become stronger than her mother and gain her father's unreserved, sole recognition and... "love."
Kanjuro took all of this in. Watching the growing darkness in his daughter's eyes, her awkward distance from Artoria, and feeling her increasingly abnormal dependence on him, he knew that the seed he had sown was growing robustly in this soil irrigated by jealousy and twisted love.
Occasionally, he would "unintentionally" mention a certain "heroic posture" of Artoria on the battlefield, or while instructing Mordred in swordsmanship, he would again "accidentally" compare her to the young Artoria. Each time was like adding a spoonful of oil to the fire in Mordred's heart.
(Soon...) Kanjuro watched his sweat-drenched, stubborn-eyed daughter and whispered in his heart, (When this twisted emotion reaches its peak, when jealousy and so-called "love" completely blind her eyes—that scene will surely be very... interesting.)
Under the sky of Camelot, the king of knights fought for the kingdom, while her daughter, under her husband's (Kanjuro's) careful "cultivation," was walking step by step into the abyss of becoming her enemy. Family, love, and ethics had all become tools to be played with and distorted at will in this magnificent castle.
The Training Grounds of Camelot once again became a silent battlefield. This time, it was not a sparring match, but a seemingly casual yet undercurrent-filled display of sword skills between mother and daughter.
Artoria had removed her armor and wore only simple hunting attire; the practice sword in her hand seemed to possess a life of its own. Her sword dance had reached a state of perfection, no longer mere slashes and stabs, but a fusion of countless battlefield experiences and exquisite control over power. Every strike was concise and efficient, containing majestic strength and a trajectory honed through a thousand trials, like a divine touch that left no trace, yet carried an overwhelming kingly aura. The sunlight fell upon her, gilding her in gold; in Mordred's eyes, that figure was both so dazzling it was impossible to look at directly and as distant as the stars in the sky.
It was Mordred's turn. She took a deep breath, displaying all the results of her years of frenzied training. Her sword was fast and ruthless, carrying a sharp edge that refused to lose and a deliberate imitation of severity; one could even faintly see the shadow of Kanjuro's teaching, which pursued ultimate efficiency and lethality. Among her peers, she was absolutely a peerless genius.
However, when she finished her stance and looked at Artoria and Kanjuro while slightly panting, even though both had approving smiles on their faces, she could clearly feel that invisible, massive chasm. Her sword was "practiced," while her mother's sword was "fought," a "Dao" forged through life and death and integrated into her very blood and bones. This fundamental gap could not be easily bridged by mere frenzied effort.
A cold, rust-tasting sense of defeat welled up from her heart, nearly suffocating her.
"You've already done wonderfully, Mordred!" Artoria stepped forward and praised her sincerely, reaching out to ruffle her hair with a gentle gaze. "Your talent is excellent; in time, you will surely become a powerful knight who surpasses me."
Kanjuro also nodded with a smile. "Indeed, how could our daughter be lacking? Don't put too much pressure on yourself."
Again! It was this kind of comfort that seemed like encouragement but actually placed her in the position of "one who needs to catch up"! Mordred was screaming and roaring inside, but her face struggled to squeeze out a well-behaved, even slightly shy smile. She leaned into Artoria's side as if enjoying her mother's closeness, while also quietly tugging at Kanjuro's sleeve, presenting a picture of parental harmony and a warm family.
"Thank you, Mother. Thank you, Father." Her voice was cloyingly sweet, carrying a deliberately crafted sense of admiration. "I will continue to work hard and definitely won't let you down!"
However, in the depths of her lowered eyes, the flames of resentment and jealousy burned even more fiercely. She hated this feeling of having to look up, hated her mother's natural strength, and hated even more the look that occasionally flickered in her father's eyes when he looked at her mother—a look like he was admiring a perfect masterpiece (she misunderstood the meaning of Kanjuro's gaze). Why? Why should she forever live in her mother's shadow? Why couldn't her father's love and praise belong to her alone?
This hypocritical "warm" scene, filled with suppressed emotions, happened to be taken in by a pair of eyes in the shadows of a distant tower.
Morgan lurked there silently like a ghost. Her gaze was as sharp as an eagle's, piercing through space to lock onto the "family of three" in the center of the Training Grounds. She saw Artoria's flawless strength and gentleness, saw Kanjuro's cold manipulation hidden behind a mild mask, and saw even more the surging dark emotions beneath Mordred's seemingly obedient exterior—the nearly overflowing defeat, resentment, and the twisted, intense possessiveness toward her parents (especially toward Kanjuro).
The corners of Morgan's mouth slowly curled into a cold, certain arc.
In her hand, she tightly gripped that strange holy sword crafted by the Lady of the Lake, Vivian, who had exhausted her divine power—a sword that surpassed the concept of the Sword of the Lake. It was the "god-slaying sword," flowing with star-sand and shadows, its runes writhing like living things, radiating the power of "negation" and "reshaping."
Since obtaining this sword, she had been searching for a "master" who could truly carry its power and fully unleash the fate-cutting force contained within. This sword was too eerie and powerful; ordinary knights could not even hold it for long without their minds being eroded by it.
But at this moment, looking at Mordred, Morgan's heart suddenly cleared.
This girl, who inherited Kanjuro's dark bloodline and Artoria's Red Dragon Power, who grew up in a twisted environment with a heart full of jealousy toward her closest kin, a near-insane craving for power, and that deformed love... her soul had long since been "cultivated" by Kanjuro to be full of cracks and shadows, full of primitive impulses for destruction and possession!
Her pure and blazing dark emotions, her strong will that refused to be beneath anyone, were exactly the most perfect fuel to activate and wield this "god-slaying sword"!
"I've found it..." Morgan whispered in a voice only she could hear, her purple eyes flashing with the excited light of a hunter locking onto prey. "The natural... master of the 'god-slaying sword.'"
She watched Mordred force a smile before her parents, watched the struggling, roaring darkness in the depths of her eyes, and saw the most suitable vessel.
"My dear 'niece'," a malicious smile appeared on Morgan's face, "it seems you and I both have... different 'expectations' for that 'loving' couple and that high-and-mighty 'father.'"
"Let me give you a hand. Help you release the beast in your heart, help you get everything you 'crave'... and incidentally, let my good father and good sister taste the bitter fruit they planted themselves."
Morgan's figure slowly merged into deeper shadows as a more dangerous plan centered around Mordred and the "god-slaying sword" quickly took shape in her mind. She realized that perhaps she didn't need to act herself; this girl filled with jealousy and twisted love was herself the sharpest, poisoned blade that could most hurt Kanjuro and Artoria.
And all she had to do was sharpen this blade even more and then hand it to the most appropriate position. It was another sleepless night.
Deep within Camelot Castle, those ambiguous, suppressed, and tantalizing sounds once again pierced through the stone walls like a nightmare, trickling into Mordred's ears. She lay in bed, pressing her head down hard with a pillow, yet her body trembled uncontrollably. A mixture of shame, anger, and a certain unspeakable heat crashed through her young body. She seemed to imagine the figures of her father (Kanjuro) and mother (Artoria) intimately intertwined in the next room; the image made her heart ache and inexplicably left her mouth dry.
"I can't stay here anymore!" She suddenly sat up in bed, her chest heaving. Hurriedly throwing on an outer robe, she slipped out of the castle silently like a startled fawn, running toward the silent wilderness outside the city shrouded in moonlight.
The cold night wind brushed against her burning cheeks but could not blow away the irritation and confusion in her heart. She walked aimlessly until she reached a forest clearing far from human habitation. The moonlight was like spilled mercury, stretching her shadow long and thin; around her were only the chirping of insects and the rustling of wind through the leaves. She sat on a cold boulder with her knees hugged to her chest, burying her face in her arms, trying to dispel those forbidden images and sounds from her mind.
"Even the night wind cannot blow away the heat in your heart? My dear... niece."
A cold woman's voice with a strange magnetic quality suddenly rang out behind her.
Mordred was startled, jumping up like a frightened rabbit and spinning around instantly, her hand already on the hilt of the short sword she carried. "Who's there?!" she shouted sharply, her emerald eyes flashing with vigilance and unease under the moonlight.
At the edge of the clearing, under the shadow of an ancient oak tree, an elegant and mysterious figure slowly stepped out. The moonlight illuminated her silver-white long hair, which seemed like flowing moonlight, and her face, which bore a striking resemblance to Artoria's but was colder and carried a hint of sinister beauty. She wore a deep purple dress over which was a cloak embroidered with dark runes; it was Morgan.
Morgan looked at the girl before her, who was like a bristling little beast, seeing the lingering confusion and deep-seated darkness in her eyes, and the corners of her mouth curled into an understanding, cold smile.
"Relax, child. I am not your enemy." Morgan's voice slowed, carrying a deliberately crafted gentleness that seemed to resonate with pain. "If we must speak of relations... I am your mother's elder sister. You may call me Morgan."
"Mother's... sister?" Mordred was stunned; she had never heard that her mother had a sister. She studied Morgan carefully, and indeed she could find a charm on the other's face similar to Artoria's, but the temperament was entirely different, filled with mystery and... a dark aura that made her feel a faint resonance.
"Yes, sister," Morgan repeated, walking closer slowly, her gaze seeming to pierce through Mordred's soul, "A sister who... just like you, doesn't like, or one could even say... hates Artoria."
"Hate?" This word was like a bolt of lightning, instantly striking the most hidden corner of Mordred's heart. She looked at Morgan in disbelief, yet her heart began to race uncontrollably. Hating her mother? This rebellious thought, which she didn't even dare to fully admit to herself, was actually spoken so easily by another blood relative!
"W-Why?" Mordred's voice carried a hint of trembling and... expectation that she hadn't even noticed herself.
Morgan stopped a few steps away from her. Under the moonlight, her smile carried a bitterness of shared suffering and a cold hatred.
"Why? Because she took everything away." Morgan's voice lowered, filled with allure, "She took the attention that should have belonged to me, took the right of succession to the throne (in her narrative), took... that man's gaze." She didn't explicitly say who "that man" was, but Mordred almost instantly thought of Mr. Kanjuro.
"She is always like that, high and mighty, glorious and great, as if all the good luck and favor naturally revolve around her. And what about us?" Morgan's gaze locked onto Mordred, "We who live in her shadow can only silently endure injustice, chewing on the pain of being ignored, watching her enjoy everything, can't we?"
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