Since the day she was "rejected" by Kanjuro, Mordred had transformed all her pain, resentment, and twisted affection into a kind of energy that almost burned through her life, throwing herself into the military field.
She was no longer satisfied with just improving her personal martial arts; she began to consciously extend her reach into Britain's armed forces.
She followed Morgan's advice—"If you want to obtain true power, you must first win the hearts of those who support your power"—and began to frequently visit the garrison camps outside the royal city.
At first, the soldiers maintained only a surface-level respect for this young Highness.
But Mordred quickly broke the barrier with her actions.
She didn't act aloof like other nobles; instead, she would walk among the soldiers, watch them train, and even personally step onto the field to spar.
Her swordsmanship had been directly inherited from Kanjuro and carried a desperate ruthlessness; ordinary soldiers were simply no match for her.
Even more surprising was her innate sharp intuition for tactics. She could often point out flaws in training with pinpoint accuracy and suggest improvement methods that even veterans admired. She didn't just talk; she could demonstrate in the most straightforward way how to swing a sword more effectively and how to coordinate more seamlessly.
"Look, if you strike like this, with the angle just three degrees sharper, you can bypass the shield's defense!"
"Your squad's charge is disjointed! Where is the flank protection?"
Her voice, clear yet carrying an unquestionable authority, gradually spread through the camps. The soldiers realized that this prince wasn't there to play; she truly understood and was willing to teach. After training, she would sit with the soldiers around the campfire, listening to their stories of the borders and sharing their wine and dry rations (though she ate very little). She had no airs, only a pure passion for military affairs and a steady composure beyond her years.
Gradually, admiration replaced distance, and affection replaced mere etiquette.
The soldiers began to sincerely call her "Highness Mordred." Some veterans who became close to her even affectionately called her "Little Lion" in private, because of her golden hair and her brave, fearless posture on the training ground.
This influence even spread to the Knights of the Round Table.
Initially, some knights who strictly adhered to tradition and were absolutely loyal to Artoria (such as Bedivere) held reservations about Mordred's involvement.
But Mordred did not directly challenge their authority; instead, she appeared in a posture of seeking advice and discussion.
The unique thinking she displayed in tactical simulations—a fusion of Kanjuro's cold calculations and her own spiritual inspiration—made many pragmatic knights, including Kay, look at her in a new light.
She would even humbly seek guidance from top knights like Lancelot regarding specific martial techniques, showing a sincere attitude and extremely strong comprehension.
Lancelot did not forget to return to Britain even during his flight. Although his heart was complicated because of the matter with Guinevere, he had to admit that Mordred's military talent was nothing short of brilliant.
A subtle voice began to emerge within the Round Table: King Arthur is peerless in bravery, but her heir seems born to command armies.
Just as Mordred's reputation in the army was rising daily, making people almost forget her status and only remember her titles of "Little Lion" and "Military Genius," Morgan appeared once again.
On a night with a dim moon, Morgan took Mordred to her secret workshop. There, a suit of armor tailored specifically for her was silently displayed in the dim magical glow.
The armor was a dull silver-gray throughout, with smooth yet sharp lines, full of a sense of power and aggression.
It was exquisitely designed; the breastplate, pauldrons, and other parts had special curved treatments and internal padding that could perfectly conceal the curves of a female body. After putting on the fully enclosed helmet shaped like a roaring lion's head, not only was her face completely hidden, but even her voice would become deep and gender-neutral with a metallic hum through the conduction of the faceplate.
"Put it on, Mordred," Morgan's voice carried a seductive quality. "From now on, in the eyes of the world, you are no longer someone who needs protection, but... a true warrior, a future commander. Let them see only your strength and talent, not your gender."
Mordred touched the cold, hard armor, her eyes flashing with excitement and determination. She put on the suit of armor without hesitation.
When the final lion-head helmet snapped shut, a "knight" with a tall stature, sharp aura, and an indistinguishable gender stood before Morgan.
From that day on, in the barracks and training grounds, there was a young knight who called himself "Modre," a person of few words but astonishing strength. He (she) possessed high martial skills and a sharp tactical eye, eating and living with the soldiers, quickly winning even greater respect and followers.
No one suspected the true identity of this knight "Modre"; everyone thought he was an anonymous noble youth who admired King Arthur and had come to serve. Even some Knights of the Round Table privately praised this young man's potential.
Kanjuro observed all this from the shadows, watching his daughter build her own power step by step under Morgan's influence while perfectly hiding her identity. He knew that the more successful Mordred was and the more she integrated into the army, the more staggering the impact and destructive power would be when her true identity and that twisted emotion finally erupted.
(Very good... my Little Lion, grow to your heart's content, seize power and people's hearts as much as you like.) Kanjuro's eyes were full of expectation. (When you think you are strong enough to challenge everything, that will be the most perfect moment of despair for you, your mother, and this kingdom.)
While Artoria was still fighting bloody battles for the borders of Britain on another front, a more powerful threat from the south—the resurrected Roman Empire's legions—invaded the southern coast of Britain like an iron-gray tide. They were well-equipped and strictly disciplined, far beyond the previous Saxon barbarians. They swept through everything in their path, with several coastal castles falling one after another, and the beacons of war nearing the heart of Camelot.
The court was shaken, and the people were in a panic. In this moment of crisis, the figure who had been accumulating prestige in the army under the name "Modre" stood forward.
Clad in the dark lion-head armor specially made by Morgan to hide her gender, Mordred took the initiative to volunteer, requesting to lead the army to meet the Romans. Her voice through the faceplate carried a metallic coldness and an unquestionable resolve. With the "support" of Kanjuro (Merlin) and the backing of some generals who were impressed by her talent, she obtained military command.
The battlefield became the outlet for the madness and pain within Mordred.
When she faced the Roman legions' stern shield walls and forest of javelins, what she saw in her eyes was not the enemy, but the figure of her mother Artoria, whom she could never surpass yet who had taken away everything she craved! Every swing of her sword carried long-accumulated jealousy, the resentment of being rejected, and the torment brought by that twisted love!
"Kill!!!"
She was like a true berserker, leading from the front and charging into the enemy ranks! Her swordsmanship was no longer a display of skill, but pure, violent destruction! Wherever the sword light passed, flesh and blood flew. Under her desperate charge and precise, ruthless strikes, the formations carefully constructed by the Roman soldiers were actually torn open! She seemed to know no pain or fatigue; her armor was soon covered in the enemy's blood, and the eyes beneath the lion-head faceplate must have been a solid crimson.
She wasn't fighting; she was enjoying the slaughter. Every enemy she killed felt like a silent challenge and accusation toward her mother far away. The surrounding screams, the clashing of weapons, and the warm sensation of splashing blood all gave her a morbid, liberating pleasure.
On a hill far from the battlefield, the figure of Kanjuro (Merlin) stood alone. He gazed down at the bloody Shura field, his eyes focused on that dark figure covered in blood, madly charging through the thousands of troops. The setting sun was like blood, dyeing the entire battlefield a tragic, beautiful red, and outlining his black-robed figure in a cold silhouette.
There was no worry on his face, only a pleasure and satisfaction akin to an artist admiring a masterpiece.
(Slaughter, my daughter.) He whispered in his heart, his gaze deep. (Let the blood soak your soul, let hatred and pain turn into your strength. For every person you kill, the darkness in your heart grows by another measure, bringing you one step closer to the final stage I have prepared for you and your mother... Only extreme hate can give birth to a destructive power sufficient to tear everything apart.)
He knew clearly that the more mad and powerful Mordred appeared in this war, the more destructive the impact she would bring to Artoria in the future.
Mordred did not fail Kanjuro's "expectations," nor did she disappoint Britain. Under her leadership, the British army, which was originally at a disadvantage, miraculously held off the Roman legions' fierce assault. In a key counter-charge, Mordred personally slew the Roman legion commander, leading to the total collapse of the enemy forces!
The news reached Camelot, and the whole country rejoiced!
The fame of "Knight Modre" spread to every corner of Britain like wildfire. He had turned the tide of the war single-handedly, repelling the invincible Roman legions! While the people celebrated the victory, they began to compare "Modre" with King Arthur, and some voices even began to appear in private:
"His Majesty King Arthur is certainly great, but she has been fighting for years and seems... to be showing some fatigue."
"Yes, Knight Modre is so young and brave, using troops like a god. Perhaps... he is the choice to lead Britain toward a more glorious future?"
"Her Majesty should consider... abdicating to someone more capable?"
Such talk, like a hidden toxic fungus, began to quietly grow and spread within the kingdom. Mordred's prestige in the army reached an unprecedented peak.
When Artoria finally resolved the threat on the other front and returned to Camelot covered in dust and fatigue, what she heard were the brilliant achievements of her daughter (she did not yet know "Modre's" true identity) and the faintly surging undercurrents regarding a "change" within the country.
She did not go to see her daughter first or handle the accumulated government affairs as usual. Instead, she dismissed her attendants and went alone to the high tower study where Kanjuro was. She took off her armor and wore only a plain white dress, her face carrying an unconcealable exhaustion—a weariness that went deep into her bones.
She walked to the window, looking down at the crowds celebrating the victory, and gently leaned into Kanjuro's arms.
"Merlin," her voice was very soft, carrying a hint of confusion and a longing for liberation, "our daughter... Mordred, she has actually grown to such an extent. She did... better than I did."
She looked up, and her green eyes no longer held the determination of a ruler, but instead revealed the vulnerability and hope of an ordinary woman: "I... I feel a bit tired. Truly tired. All these years, I have given everything for Britain, but now, seeing Mordred, I suddenly feel... perhaps, it is time."
She looked deeply at Kanjuro, as if he were her only lifeline. "I really want to lay down the crown, to set aside all these responsibilities and burdens... and just live a peaceful life with you and our daughter. Tell me... Mordred, can she inherit my position and shoulder the future of Britain?"
Kanjuro held her gently in his arms, his fingertips brushing through her golden hair. However, the gaze beneath his hood was filled with cold calculation and the pleasure of an impending harvest.
He remained silent for a moment, then spoke in a guiding tone, as if he were considering everything entirely from her perspective and that of the kingdom:
"Artoria, I feel your exhaustion as if it were my own. Mordred has indeed shown astonishing potential and prestige. But..." His tone shifted subtly, "The succession of the throne is no child's play. Britain needs more than just a brave commander; it needs a king with a mature mind and firm convictions, someone who can truly understand and carry the weight of this 'kings way'."
He cupped her face, his gaze appearing "sincere." "By now, you've long since developed inseparable feelings for Britain and this royal power, haven't you? If that's the case, why not... put her to the test?"
His voice carried a trace of imperceptible temptation. "Give her a true trial to see what choices she makes when faced with real decisions and the true burden of a king. If she can truly pass the test and prove herself capable of shouldering Britain, then you can pass the throne to her and step down with peace of mind to be with me. If she cannot... we also need to know what kind of guidance she still requires."
Listening to Kanjuro's words, a flicker of struggle passed through Artoria's eyes. Ultimately, her recognition of her daughter's abilities and the deep-seated desire to lay down her burdens made her nod.
"You're right, Merlin." She took a deep breath, her gaze becoming firm once more. "I was too impatient. The throne cannot be handed over so easily. I will... test her myself."
She did not know how cruel the "test" Kanjuro spoke of would be, nor how it would push her and the daughter she held high hopes for into an irredeemable abyss. This seemingly reasonable suggestion was precisely the final curtain Kanjuro was drawing for this long-brewing ultimate tragedy.
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