Vivian's gaze seemed to want to pierce through Mordred to look at the more distant shadow manipulating everything. "Once the effect wears off, the dream dissipates, and reality remains... Moreover, forcibly prying into the power of the soul will inevitably alert its master... Take care of yourself."
Mordred took the crystal bottle with trembling hands, yet the cold touch felt like a morbid heat to her. She gripped this potion of "hope" tightly, as if clutching a life-saving straw, turning a deaf ear to Vivian's cryptic warnings. She only heard "one hour of being the beloved."
"One hour... is enough..." she murmured to herself, a twisted light reigniting in her eyes. "As long as I can have one hour where he looks at me like that... it's enough!"
She hurriedly bowed to Morgan and Vivian, then turned impatiently, carrying the crystal bottle that held both immense risk and false hope, disappearing into the night once more to plan her doomed "love" dream.
Morgan watched her departing back with a cold smile on her face. Meanwhile, Vivian, the Lady of the Lake, slowly sank to the bottom of the lake, as if unwilling to witness the even more cruel truth that was destined to follow.
Kanjuro (Merlin) would soon "accidentally" learn of the existence of this bottle. He had already prepared how to guide this drama, offered up by Mordred herself, toward the desperate climax that best suited his desires.
Moonlight once again enveloped the bamboo forest that had become a turning point of fate, but this time, the air was no longer filled with the aura of slaughter. Instead, there was an unsettling tranquility, a mixture of despair and false tenderness. Mordred had carefully arranged the meeting place, with a soft blanket spread over the fallen leaves, a pot of wine, and two cups reflecting the desolate moonlight.
Kanjuro arrived as scheduled, still in his black robe, his gaze beneath the hood deep and unfathomable. He had already known of the potion's existence through his invisible network, understanding its origin and limitations even better than Mordred herself.
At this moment, he was like an actor walking onto a predetermined stage, prepared to perform the crucial scene of warmth before the final act.
Mordred forced herself to remain calm, but her slightly trembling fingers betrayed the stormy emotions within her. She poured wine for him, her fingertips inconspicuously sliding the liquid from the pink-purple crystal bottle into one of the cups. To her, the entire process was heart-pounding, but in Kanjuro's eyes, it was like a drama played in slow motion.
"Merlin..." her voice choked as she handed over the wine cup, her eyes filled with desperate supplication and love. "Please drink this cup. Consider it... consider it as forgiving my previous offense, alright?"
Kanjuro stared at her, his gaze lingering on her face for a long time. That look was so complex it broke Mordred's heart; she thought it was struggle and hesitation, not knowing it was merely the final scrutiny before a predator's prey fell into the trap.
Finally, he slowly raised his hand and took the wine cup. Without the slightest hesitation, he drank the cup of poison mixed with false hope in one gulp.
The effect took hold extremely quickly—or rather, Kanjuro allowed it to "take effect."
His body swayed slightly, and his gaze gradually became "blurred" and "deeply affectionate." The calmness and detachment that always shrouded him melted away like ice and snow. The look he gave Mordred was filled with the nearly burning tenderness and love she had dreamed of.
"Mordred..." he called softly, his voice carrying a tenderness she had never heard before as he reached out to caress her cheek.
This touch was like igniting all the emotions accumulated in Mordred's heart. Tears gushed out, but this time they were tears of joy and satisfaction. She threw herself into his arms, feeling that false yet real warmth.
(He finally sees me... He finally looks at me with such eyes!)
The events that followed took place amidst the hazy moonlight and swaying bamboo shadows.
Kanjuro perfectly played the role of a "deeply affectionate lover" controlled by the drug. Every time he drew close, he precisely fulfilled Mordred's fantasies while simultaneously executing it like the coldest program.
As for Mordred, she completely surrendered to this briefly stolen dream, feeling with all her heart the "possession" she had exchanged everything for.
The long night gradually faded, and the first light of dawn began to try and pierce through the dense bamboo leaves.
Just as the Lady of the Lake had said, the effect began to fade with precision.
The blurriness and deep affection in Kanjuro's eyes receded like a tide, returning to his usual clarity and unfathomable depth.
He looked at Mordred curled up beside him, her face still bearing traces of tears and a flush. There was no expression on his face—neither anger nor lingering attachment—only a tranquility that saw through everything.
Mordred woke up too, or rather, she had hardly slept all night.
She greedily remembered every moment. When she met Kanjuro's "normal" gaze, her heart felt as if it had been pierced again, but strangely, an unprecedented calm enveloped her.
She sat up and silently picked up her clothes, her movements slow and solemn, as if performing some ritual. She did not cry or make a scene, nor did she question him; she didn't even look into Kanjuro's eyes again.
"A one-hour beautiful dream... has already ended," she murmured softly, as if speaking to herself. Her voice was raspy yet exceptionally firm. "I... am satisfied."
She stood up and gave Kanjuro one last look. That gaze was incredibly complex, with the lingering warmth of love and the flickering sparks of pain, but ultimately, all emotions were covered by a bone-chilling resolve. On her tear-stained face, a nearly cruel smile bloomed.
"My wish has been fulfilled," she said softly, as if a thousand-pound burden had been lifted. "Now, it is time to fulfill my other wish."
She did not say "goodbye," for she knew that this parting was final. She turned around, straightened her back like a true warrior, and stepped onto the morning dew, leaving the bamboo forest that had given her both ultimate happiness and ultimate pain.
She did not look back.
Because from this moment on, the Mordred who craved love and was twistingly in love with Merlin was "dead."
The one who survived was an avenger whose wish was fulfilled, who had no more lingering attachments, and who was filled with pure hatred for the one who had taken everything from her—Artoria Pendragon.
She was about to begin her final and most frantic revenge.
Britain's ultimate tragedy was finally pushed to its irrevocable peak.
Meanwhile, Kanjuro still sat quietly in the bamboo forest, waiting for the final act of the mother-daughter mutual destruction he had personally guided to play out in the distance.
Before the smoke of the distant front lines had completely cleared, Artoria received news sent urgently via magic that struck like a bolt from the blue—a large-scale rebellion had broken out in the British Heartland, and the Royal City of Camelot was in grave danger! What made her heart stop even more was that the intelligence cryptically mentioned that the mastermind behind the scenes seemed to be related to "Merlin's" disappearance.
Worry, anxiety, and extreme fear for Kanjuro's (Merlin's) safety instantly overwhelmed her. She almost recklessly ordered the entire army to return at the fastest possible speed, traveling day and night, wishing she could fly back to that person's side immediately.
While the army was marching rapidly, an unexpected figure, covered in dust and wearing an extremely complex expression, appeared before Artoria—it was Lancelot.
He was not wearing rebel attire, nor was he leading an army. He stood alone, blocking the King's horse. His once handsome face was etched with exhaustion and struggle, and his eyes were bloodshot.
"Your Majesty!" Lancelot knelt on one knee, his voice raspy and urgent. "Please... please stop for a moment!"
Artoria pulled her warhorse to a halt. Looking at the knight who was once her most trusted but had now betrayed her, a flash of pain crossed her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by anxiety over the news from ahead. "Lancelot? You dare appear before me! Have you come to flaunt your victory, or to block my path back?"
"No! Your Majesty!" Lancelot looked up, his eyes filled with unprecedented seriousness and... a hint of fear. "I am here to warn you! The crisis currently facing Britain is far more terrifying than you imagine! The rebellion... the rebellion might only be the surface!"
He took a deep breath, as if having made a monumental decision, and lowered his voice: "Your Majesty, have you ever considered that all of this... all this chaos, betrayal, and even Mordred's loss of control, might... might be orchestrated by an invisible hand behind the scenes? And that hand is very likely..."
"Silence!" Artoria interrupted him sharply, her emerald eyes instantly igniting with the flames of anger—an instinctive defense of the absolute faith in her heart. "Lancelot! I allow you to report on military matters, but I will never allow you to slander Merlin! You can suspect anyone, including myself! But him—only Merlin is absolutely impossible! He is the guardian of Britain, my... my most trusted mentor and pillar! He has given everything for this country and may even be in grave danger now! If you dare utter another word of such nonsense, do not blame me for disregarding our old ties!"
Her voice trembled with agitation. Her absolute trust in Mr. Kanjuro (Merlin) was like the sturdiest fortress, isolating her from all doubt.
Lancelot looked at the King's unquestionable gaze, which even carried a hint of offended fury, and all the words at the tip of his tongue were choked back. A complex expression of despair, helplessness, and pity appeared on his face. He knew he could not wake someone immersed in a meticulously woven dream.
He eventually just lowered his head deeply and said bitterly, "...This subject understands. Please, Your Majesty... be careful in all things."
Artoria looked at him no longer. She jerked the reins and shouted to the army behind her: "All troops, heed my command! Advance at full speed! Return to Camelot!"
She had only one thought in her mind—faster, even faster! Return to Britain, return to... Merlin's side. She believed that as long as he was there, any crisis could be easily resolved.
Under her lead, the army was like a torrent of steel, sweeping across the fields and kicking up clouds of dust. When those familiar, towering walls of Britain finally appeared on the horizon, Artoria suddenly pulled her horse to a stop.
The setting sun was like blood, dyeing the sky and the earth a tragic crimson.
Beneath that blood-colored sunset, on the vast plains outside Camelot, a disciplined and murderous army had long been arrayed and waiting. Black rebel flags snapped in the evening wind, and the golden roaring lion's head embroidered upon them shimmered with a piercing light in the sunset.
And the figure standing at the very front of the rebel army caused Artoria's blood to almost freeze instantly!
It was a knight clad in ferocious, dark-colored lion-headed full-body armor, standing tall and exuding a heart-palpitating, sharp aura. Although the armor concealed the face, the brilliant golden hair leaking from the gaps in the helmet—identical to her own—and the innate bloodline resonance both pointed clearly to a fact Artoria absolutely could not and would not believe!
As if in response to her gaze, the knight at the front slowly raised a hand and removed the roaring lion-head helmet.
Beneath the helmet, what was revealed was a young, beautiful face, yet one filled with cold hatred and resolute madness.
—Mordred!
Artoria's pupils suddenly contracted, and her mind went blank as if struck by an invisible giant hammer. Her hand holding the reins trembled uncontrollably, and her emerald eyes were filled with unbelievable shock, searing pain, and a sense of loss as her worldview was completely overturned.
"...Mor...dred?"
She uttered the name almost soundlessly, her voice as light as a sleep-talker's.
She had gone to war and fought bloody battles to protect this country and the people she loved, including the daughter she had placed such high hopes in!
But now, standing before her in battle formation, having incited a nationwide civil war and placing everything she protected into the fires of war... was actually... actually her own biological daughter?!
The child she had taught with care, the one whose military talent she had been proud of, the child she had even considered entrusting the throne to!
The sunset sank, its blood-like light reflecting between the mother and daughter, appearing like an insurmountable chasm composed of blood and betrayal.
Looking at the strange and pure hatred in her daughter's eyes, Artoria finally realized clearly that Lancelot's warning might not have been baseless, but she had no time for deep thought now. What she faced was a blade from her closest kin—more cruel than any external enemy.
The final civil war of Britain, the most tragic page in the legend of King Arthur, began its final act under this blood-red twilight, initiated by this mother and daughter. And the eyes behind the scenes, manipulating everything, were watching this expected, despair-filled dramatic climax with satisfaction.
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