Every word from Morgan was like a key, precisely opening the floodgates in Mordred's heart that locked away her negative emotions. The feeling of being ignored, the frustration of trying but always failing to surpass her, the jealousy of her mother's monopoly over her father (in her distorted perception)... all the accumulated emotions found a vent and an "understander" at this moment.
Mordred looked at Morgan, seeing in her eyes a complex hatred for Artoria that was identical to her own. A strange sense of closeness and alliance arose spontaneously. She was no longer enduring these painful emotions alone! "You... you really hate her too?" Mordred's voice carried a hint of a sob and a need for confirmation.
"I hate her to the bone," Morgan answered decisively. She took a step forward and reached out, her fingertips almost touching Mordred's cheek, her voice like a demon's whisper, "So, when I saw you, and saw that same pain and unwillingness in your eyes, I knew that we are of the same kind."
"Tell me, my dear niece," Morgan's voice was full of temptation, "Are you really content to live forever under her light, to forever be a shadow that isn't truly seen, a shadow that needs to work hard just to catch up? Don't you want... to possess the power to surpass her, or even... to take back everything that should have belonged to you?"
Under the moonlight, Mordred's pupils contracted slightly. Morgan's words were like the sweetest poison, flowing into her heart that thirsted for recognition and power. The seeds of hatred, at the moment of finding their own kind, began to take root and sprout wildly.
The moonlight was like frost, splashing across the forest clearing, outlining the whispering figures of Morgan and Mordred like a dark painting. On the silhouette of the distant mountains, a black-robed figure stood still as a statue. A large hood fluttered slightly in the night wind, concealing all expressions, save for a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of the mouth that seemed to pierce through the void, revealing its master's current mood.
Kanjuro's (Merlin's) gaze crossed the vast distance, landing precisely on the "aunt and niece" who were forging a dangerous alliance.
He saw the fire of hatred in Morgan's eyes that seemed to share a common enemy but was actually deep-seated calculation; he also saw the light on Mordred's face that was gradually ignited, a mixture of recognition, excitement, and dark determination.
(What a wonderful sight...) Kanjuro whispered in his heart, a cold and intense sense of pleasure surging in his chest, (My dear daughter Morgan, you indeed did not let me down. This clear-headed hatred, this decisiveness in seeking an ally, is exactly the catalyst needed to push this drama to its climax.)
He knew Morgan's true purpose clearly.
That eldest daughter he had abandoned had seen through part of his essence, yet she pinned her hopes of revenge on the "god-slaying sword" and the variable that was Mordred. She naively thought that when the truth was revealed, when Mordred knew that the source of all her pain came from him, her "father," the girl filled with jealousy and twisted love would not hesitate to plunge that blade capable of severing fate into his heart.
(Thinking I am the culprit? That's right, of course I am.)
Kanjuro almost laughed out loud, (But how can you be so sure that when that moment truly arrives, things will play out according to the script you've envisioned?)
He admired Morgan's self-righteous planning, just like admiring a caged bird trying to peck open an iron lock with its beak. She didn't understand at all that Mordred's pathological attachment and twisted affection for her "father" had already taken root so deeply under his years of "careful" irrigation.
That was not something that hatred could easily override.
When absolute worship and extreme hatred collided violently in the same heart, what would be produced wouldn't be a simple act of patricide, but a mental breakdown and soul-tearing that was more extreme, more insane, and more... in line with his aesthetics.
(Come, my dear Morgan, beguile her to your heart's content.)
(Instill your hatred, your plans, all into this perfect 'work' of mine.)
Kanjuro's thoughts were like cold tentacles spreading across the night sky, (You are polishing the sharpest double-edged sword for me, a sword that might wound me, but is even more destined to drag both herself and the mother she envies into the abyss together.)
He seemed to have already seen the final scene: the truth revealed, faith collapsed, Artoria witnessing her daughter holding the god-slaying sword, and in a chaos of extreme love and hate, stabbing herself or him... no matter which choice, it would be filled with suffocating despair and the beauty of destruction. That would be the grandest finale dedicated to him.
(Soon...) Kanjuro felt those two intertwined dark emotions in the distance, and the expectation in his heart was like fermenting poisoned wine, becoming more and more potent.
(All the chess pieces are in place, all the emotions are at their peak. All it needs is a suitable opportunity, a gentle push...)
He took one last look at the two figures still plotting under the moonlight, as if admiring the final fine carving on his masterpiece, then satisfied and silent, he turned away, his black robe merging into the deeper night, as if he had never appeared.
He looked forward to it, looking forward to the moment Morgan personally handed the "god-slaying sword" to Mordred, looking forward to the moment that flower of evil, which he had personally sown and nurtured, would bloom brilliantly before everyone.
That would surely be the most extreme... feast of despair he had ever tasted.
Meanwhile, in the forest clearing, Morgan was still whispering, painting a blueprint of revenge and power for Mordred, completely unaware that all her actions were still under the gaze and calculation of that demonic father, becoming an indispensable part of his grand tragedy. The threads of fate were quietly tightening in Kanjuro's fingertips.
Camelot once again welcomed its king—Artoria returned covered in dust and glory, but after a brief reunion, the beacons of war on the border rose again. She had to mount her horse once more, leaving the castle and her daughter to the person she trusted most. The city gates slowly closed behind her, also seeming to close the last faint glimmer of expectation in Mordred's heart.
The castle once again became a "paradise" where Kanjuro and Mordred were alone together.
Kanjuro almost dropped all pretenses (except for his identity as Merlin). He elevated his "care" for Mordred to a level that was nearly doting, yet subtly crossed the boundaries of a normal father-daughter relationship. He would personally teach her more profound magical knowledge, his fingertips lingering intentionally or unintentionally for a long time when guiding her to manipulate mana; he would accompany her on walks in the moonlit garden, telling ancient legends with ambiguous metaphors; when she was tired from sword practice, he would use a damp silk scarf to personally wipe the sweat from her brow, his movements gentle and slow, his gaze focused enough to make one's heart flutter.
This meticulous "care," carrying a sense of exclusivity, was like the strongest drug, causing Mordred's already twisted emotional dependence to quickly ferment into a deeper, more intense, and more dangerous obsession. She greedily absorbed this "tenderness" that belonged solely to her, regarding Kanjuro as the only light and meaning in her life. Her mother's figure became increasingly blurred in her heart, even becoming a hateful symbol that hindered her from monopolizing this "love."
Finally, on an evening filled with the scent of gardenias, Kanjuro was guiding her in deciphering an ancient star chart in the study. The distance between the two was so close they could feel each other's breath. Mordred looked at Kanjuro's profile, which was unrealistically handsome in the candlelight, and at his thin lips that moved slightly during his focused explanation. The emotions accumulated over a long time were like a flood breaking through a dam, washing away the levees of reason.
She suddenly grabbed Kanjuro's hand, pressing it tightly against her violently heaving chest, letting that rapid heartbeat convey her feelings. She looked up, an all-consuming fire burning in her emerald eyes, her voice trembling with excitement:
"Father... no, Kanjuro! I... I love you! Not the love of a daughter for a father! It's... it's the love of a woman for a man! I don't want to just be your daughter!"
The air seemed to freeze instantly.
The tenderness on Kanjuro's face receded like a tide, replaced by a mixture of "shock," "heartache," and an unquestionable "seriousness." He slowly, yet exceptionally firmly, withdrew his hand from Mordred's burning palm.
"Mordred," his voice was low, carrying a deliberately crafted calmness that seemed deeply hurt yet struggled to maintain restraint, "do you know what you are saying?"
"I know! Of course I know!" Mordred shouted urgently, tears welling up in her eyes, "You are so good to me... is it... isn't it because you also..."
"Enough!" Kanjuro interrupted her, his tone suddenly becoming stern, but deep in his eyes, a flash of cold pleasure from his plan succeeding flickered, "My feelings for you, from beginning to end, have been pure fatherly love." He deliberately emphasized those words, which were like ice picks piercing into Mordred's heart.
He looked at his daughter's instantly pale face and the shattered light in her eyes, continuing in that "pained" tone: "You are my daughter, and Artoria is your mother; this is a fact that can never be changed! I hope you put away these improper, absurd thoughts!"
He took a step forward, closing in on Mordred, his voice dropping even lower, carrying an invisible pressure and... a subtle threat: "Do not let me hear you say such things again. Otherwise... otherwise, I'm afraid you will lose even me as a father."
"Lose... Father?" These words were like a final judgment, completely crushing Mordred. She stumbled back, knocking over the chair behind her, looking in disbelief at Kanjuro's seemingly resolute and "disappointed" face.
Her heart felt like it was being cut by knives, and all hope was lost.
A huge wave of sadness and the shame of being rejected overwhelmed her. But at the bottom of that abyss of despair, a twisted thought also grew—it's because of Mother! It must be because of Mother Artoria! Father's heart has always only had Mother, so he would reject me; the one he loves has always been that radiant king of knights!
"It's because of Mother, right..." her voice was hoarse, filled with sobbing and bone-chilling jealousy, "The one you've liked all along is her! You don't love me at all... you don't love me as a daughter!" She almost roared the last sentence, then turned and ran out of the study crying.
Kanjuro did not go after her. He stood there, listening to his daughter's distant, broken cries. The "pained" expression on his face slowly dissipated, replaced by a near-cruel calmness and satisfaction.
(That's it, my dear Mordred. Turn all this pain of rejection, this resentment of not getting what you want, toward your mother. Let her become the scapegoat for all your misfortunes.)
From that day on, Mordred seemed like a different person. She no longer tried to get close to Kanjuro, even deliberately avoiding being alone with him. But that obsession and pain did not disappear; instead, they transformed into an even more insane internal driving force.
She threw all her energy into practicing the sword and studying military strategy. On the training grounds, her sword style became more ruthless and cunning, as if she wanted to vent all her emotions onto the blade. Even more surprising was that she began to actively approach the royal city's guards and lower-ranking officers, using her status as "Princess" and "Heir to the Throne" to offer "guidance" and "suggestions" on their training and defenses. Relying on her extraordinary talent and the cold-blooded military tactics taught by Kanjuro, she actually managed to improve the efficiency and combat effectiveness of some parts of the army.
She did all this not just to distract herself from the pain, but to bury a frantic goal deep within her heart—
To surpass her mother, Artoria Pendragon.
She wanted to prove that she was stronger and more excellent than her mother, and more worthy of her father's (Kanjuro's) "love" and recognition. She wanted to show her father that his choice of her mother was a mistake! She wanted to establish her own achievements, achievements great enough to overshadow all of her mother's glory!
Kanjuro observed all of this from the shadows. Watching his daughter transform through pain and seeing her turn her jealousy toward her mother into the drive to move forward, he knew that the final piece of the puzzle was now in place.
Mordred, this poisoned blade, had been polished to incredible sharpness by jealousy, pain, and twisted love, only waiting for the final moment to be unsheathed and strike its destined target.
The final act of despair was about to begin.
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