Camelot rarely enjoyed such a relatively peaceful afternoon. Artoria was not wearing her armor; she was in simple civilian clothes, walking through the city streets with Mordred, who was also dressed in simple warrior attire but already had an air of arrogance between her brows. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, spilling over the bustling marketplace, busy workshops, and the commoners who, despite their tired faces, were still working hard to live.
Artoria's gaze swept over her subjects, her expression complex. She stopped in front of a small stall selling pottery, picked up a coarse but practical clay bowl, and asked her daughter softly, "Mordred, tell me, in your view, how should a king treat these subjects?"
Mordred spoke almost without thinking. What surfaced in her mind were Kanjuro's years of "teachings" and the dark concepts instilled by Morgan. Her tone carried a cold sense of entitlement that was unbefitting of her age:
"Subjects? They are nothing more than tools and the foundation for building a powerful kingdom." Her voice was clear and cold, causing several commoners who overheard to look over in shock. "A king should be indifferent, with eyes only for the national interest! Those who achieve great things do not sweat the small stuff; necessary sacrifices are inevitable. Taxing them heavily is to fill the treasury and build a stronger army; making them perform forced labor is to build fortifications and pave roads. As long as the kingdom is strong, what do the minor sufferings of individuals matter?"
She became more excited as she spoke, as if reciting the dogmas Kanjuro had instilled in her, or perhaps venting her disdain for her mother's "pedantic" ideals. "We should take the initiative to attack and conquer everywhere! Use the blood and land of our enemies to nourish the glory of Britain! Let the entire continent tremble beneath our iron hooves! This is the path a powerful kingdom should take! Everything should center on the national interest!"
Artoria listened quietly without immediately rebuking her. She just silently put the clay bowl back, her fingers unconsciously stroking the rough texture of the rim. Her daughter's words were like cold daggers piercing her exhausted heart. She could clearly see the deep mark Kanjuro's cold 'kings way' had left on her daughter, which was completely incompatible with the chivalrous spirit she held onto—spirit that, while once distorted, had not yet completely vanished. She etched this shock and heartache into her memory, hiding it deep within her heart.
Seeing her mother's silence, Mordred asked with a hint of provocative pride, "Mother, am I right? This is the true path of a king that can make Britain stand tall, isn't it?"
Artoria slowly turned around and looked directly into her daughter's wild and obsessed eyes. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of experience and an unquestionable authority:
"You are half right, Mordred. For the sake of long-term stability, we sometimes do need to make difficult choices and sacrifice the few to exchange for the happiness of the many. War is also unavoidable at times, but it should be to protect our homes and our people, not for endless conquest and plunder."
Her tone became increasingly serious, carrying a profound warning: "But you must remember, the common people are the foundation of the state. We can make trade-offs for the sake of the big picture, but we must never stop treating the people as human beings! They are not cold tools; they are lives with flesh and blood, with joys, anger, and sorrows! A king may sometimes need to walk ahead in solitude, but they must never lose the most basic reverence and compassion for life!"
"Did you do that?!" Mordred abruptly interrupted her, her voice sharp and filled with long-accumulated resentment and accusation. "You speak so grandly! But look at the country now! Heavy taxes, labor, suppression... aren't those 'flesh and blood' subjects you talk about struggling bitterly under your rule?! Haven't you yourself treated them as tools to maintain your throne and expansionist ambitions?!"
This blunt, bloody accusation caused Artoria's body to sway almost imperceptibly. She closed her eyes, a look of profound pain and... guilt flashing across her face.
"Yes... I didn't do it." She opened her eyes and admitted it frankly, her voice raspy. "This is my fault, my failure as a king... and my loss of way."
She took a step forward, her eyes burning as she looked at Mordred—a gaze filled with a mother's final hope and a king's entrustment to a successor. "Precisely because I didn't fully achieve it, and because I know how difficult and easy it is to deviate from this path... that is why I hope even more that you, my child, if you sit in that position in the future, can... do better than me. That you can truly understand what it means to protect, rather than just to dominate."
However, this nearly repentant and earnest hope sounded like the most hypocritical performance and weakest preaching to Mordred, whose heart was already filled with jealousy and distorted ideals.
"Heh... that sounds so nice." Mordred snorted, her face full of mockery and disdain. "In the end, you're just a failure, a pathetic creature who can't even carry out her own ideals! Since you think my way is wrong, then let's let our swords do the talking!"
She suddenly drew the sword at her waist, pointing the tip directly at Artoria, her eyes burning with a frenzied fighting spirit and a desire to "prove herself."
"Come, King Arthur! Duel me! Let me see if your hypocritical mercy is stronger, or if the absolute power and supremacy of interest I believe in is the truth!"
Looking at her daughter's resolute and strange appearance, the last trace of hope in Artoria's heart completely shattered. She let out a deep sigh, one filled with endless exhaustion and sadness.
"As you wish."
She did not choose the powerful Sword of the Lake, but simply took an ordinary training sword from a nearby weapon rack.
The duel unfolded in an open space within the city.
Mordred's offensive was like a violent storm, filled with hostility and reckless madness. Every strike contained all her complex emotions toward her mother—jealousy, resentment, and that distorted desire to prove she was more worthy of everything.
However, Artoria's sword remained as steady as a towering mountain. Her movements seemed simple and unadorned, yet she always managed to neutralize all of Mordred's fierce attacks in the most precise and economical way. Her swordsmanship contained the steadiness forged through years of war and a persistence in the belief of "protection" that transcended mere technique. It was not just a gap in martial skill, but a chasm in state of mind and experience.
After dozens of moves, Artoria spotted an opening. Her training sword shot out like a spirit snake, lightly tapping Mordred's wrist.
With a "clack," Mordred's sword once again flew from her hand and hit the ground.
She stood there in a daze, looking at her empty hand and then at her mother, whose breathing was only slightly hurried. A massive sense of frustration and humiliation instantly overwhelmed her. She had lost again, at the moment she most wanted to prove herself, she had lost utterly.
Artoria said nothing. She simply put away the training sword and gave her daughter a deep look—one filled with disappointment and heartache, but also... a trace of extremely complex pity that Mordred could not understand.
Then, Artoria turned and left alone, leaving Mordred by herself in the empty field, her shadow stretched long, lonely, and distorted by the setting sun. The failure of the duel was like the final straw, completely crushing the last bit of hesitation in her heart toward her mother. The poisonous fire of hatred began to burn fiercely in her eyes. She knew that if she wanted to get everything and prove herself, perhaps... she would need more extreme methods. And all of this was joyfully recorded in his heart by Kanjuro, who was watching from the shadows.
In the dead of night, inside the highest bedchamber of Camelot Castle, the candlelight flickered, casting the shadows of two people onto the cold stone walls, intertwining and separating. Artoria had shed all her daytime strength and majesty, curling up in Kanjuro's (Merlin's) arms like a fragile child. Her face was buried against his broad chest, as if she could draw a trace of illusory peace from that steady heartbeat.
Kanjuro's hand occasionally stroked her smooth golden hair, his movements as gentle as if he were cherishing a rare treasure. Silence hung between them for a moment before he spoke in that deep, magnetic voice, as if casually bringing it up:
"Today... you took Mordred for a walk in the city. How did it feel? Our daughter, her 'kings way'—do you still approve of it?"
Artoria's body stiffened almost imperceptibly. She didn't answer immediately, but instead huddled deeper into his arms, as if she could escape that painful question. After a long time, she slowly raised her head, her emerald eyes looking somewhat blurred and tired in the candlelight, and she gently shook her head.
"Merlin..." Her voice carried a trace of raspiness and confusion. "You once told me that a king should put national interests first, understand how to sacrifice when necessary, and be cold and rational... all these years, I have also tried to do that, even... forced myself to do it."
She paused, as if organizing her words and sorting through her chaotic thoughts. "But today, when I heard Mordred use such a matter-of-fact tone to view the subjects as tools to be used at will, and view conquest and slaughter as glory... I suddenly realized that I cannot agree. Even if... even if what you told me might be 'right' on some level, a'shortcut' that can make the kingdom strong quickly..."
Her gaze became firm, carrying a clarity that was almost like a final moment of lucidity. "But having come this far, I am tired, and... I regret it. I don't want my successor to become an indifferent ruler. In what may be the nearing end of my career as a king, I hope to consider those living, breathing people of flesh and blood more. Even if I can only make up for a little bit, it would be good."
These words were her first explicit questioning and resistance to the ideals Kanjuro had long instilled in her. Although her tone was still weak, it carried an undeniable strength originating from her heart.
Kanjuro listened quietly, the shadows of his hood concealing all his expressions. Only the rhythm of his fingers stroking her hair remained unchanged. He did not argue, nor did he agree; he simply remained silent, as if thinking, or perhaps waiting.
A strange silence fell over the bedchamber, broken only by the slight crackling of the burning candles.
Suddenly, Kanjuro spoke. His voice was still gentle, but he threw out a question like a thunderclap that exploded right in Artoria's ear:
"Artoria," he called her name, his tone casual yet heavy as a thousand pounds, "if... I'm saying if, for my sake, could you give up this throne and give up Britain?"
Artoria suddenly straightened up from his arms and looked at him in disbelief. In the candlelight, her emerald eyes trembled violently, as if pierced through by this question. She stared at Kanjuro's face, which appeared blurred and mysterious in the shadows, trying to find even a trace of a joke, but she only saw a bottomless calm.
In that instant, countless images flashed through her mind—the light of the sword in the stone, the oath at her coronation, the shouts of soldiers on the battlefield, the expectant eyes of the commoners, Mordred's distorted and hate-filled face, and... this man before her, who had given her everything from their first meeting in the forest until now: guidance, support, warmth, and that omnipresent, reassuring yet faintly unsettling control...
Everything she had seemed to have truly been given to her by him.
Her power, her throne, her convictions (even the once-distorted ones), and even her current exhaustion and confusion.
A massive, cold wave of grief flooded over her like a tide. Tears burst from her eyes without warning, sliding down her pale cheeks and leaving crystalline trails in the candlelight.
"Merlin..." Her voice choked, carrying a broken sob, "After being King for so many years... everything I have was indeed given by you. Without you, there would be no Artoria today, let alone a unified Britain... I... I really want to promise you, to put all this down and just leave with you..."
She reached out, her hand trembling as she touched Mr. Kanjuro's cheek, her eyes filled with struggle and a near-desperate love.
"But... I'm sorry, Merlin." She closed her eyes, tears flowing even more fiercely, "I... I can't do it. I can't... stand by and watch Britain, a country that carries the hopes and lives of countless people, potentially meet its end because of my own selfish desires... I'm sorry... I'm truly sorry..."
She wept uncontrollably, like a child who had done something wrong, able only to apologize over and over. In her heart, her love and reliance on Mr. Kanjuro clashed in the most violent and painful conflict with her heavy responsibility to Britain, which had long since integrated into her very blood. And in the face of the ultimate choice, she still leaned toward the latter.
Mr. Kanjuro looked at her broken and weeping form, seeing the painful yet clear choice in her eyes. He did not get angry, nor was he disappointed; he only spoke in a low voice, slowly and with a tone that was almost like a sigh:
"I understand."
He reached out and pulled her back into his arms, letting her tears soak his robes. His movements remained gentle, as if soothing a wounded soul.
However, on his face, which was completely shrouded in shadow, and in a corner that Artoria could never see, a smile of extreme coldness mixed with immense pleasure and anticipation—like a poisonous flower blooming in the darkness—slowly emerged.
(Finally... I've waited for this moment.)
(You chose Britain instead of me. What a 'correct' and 'noble' choice, my dear Artoria.)
(Then, let me see... when the Britain you cherish, the subjects you cannot abandon, and your 'correct' kings way are utterly destroyed before your eyes—and the ones destroying it all are the me you trust most and the daughter you placed high hopes in... will that heart of yours that chose 'responsibility' be even more broken than it is now?)
He gently patted Artoria's back, which was trembling from her crying, like the most tender of companions. In his heart, however, he was counting down to the impending ultimate destruction he had personally directed. In his eyes, Artoria's tears were nothing more than the most appetizing appetizer before the start of the grand feast.
---------------------------------
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! If the story has you hooked and you can't wait to see what happens next, you can unlock 30 chapters in advance over on my Patreon: patreon.com/TLHimejima1
Every bit of support means the world to me so if you're loving the ride, don't forget to drop a Power Stone and let me know.