After suppressing Mordred with absolute power, Kanjuro constructed a sturdy cage out of dark magic, imprisoning the heavily injured Artoria, the mentally collapsing Mordred, and the unwilling Morgan within it. Above the ruins of the battlefield, a prison forged from shadows and pain quietly took shape.
Inside the cage, Morgan looked at the despondent Mordred and glanced at Artoria, who was semi-conscious yet still forcing herself to listen. Gritting her teeth, she finally tore open the deepest wound, her voice carrying bone-deep hatred and an imperceptible trace of sorrow:
"Mordred, and my 'dear' sister, did you think this was the whole truth? No, this twisted fate is even filthier than you imagine! We... the three of us are nothing but pieces on his chessboard, used to kill each other for his amusement! And he, our so-called 'father', is the sole source of all these tragedies!"
Just then, several graceful figures silently appeared behind Kanjuro, like loyal shadows. Leading them was none other than the late King Uther's queen, the nominal mother of Artoria and Morgan—Igraine. She still possessed her charm, her face calm, but her eyes were hollow, as if she had long ago lost herself. Beside her was Queen Guinevere, who kept her eyes lowered submissively, not daring to look at Artoria in the cage or the object of Lancelot's former infatuation; her very existence was the cruelest mockery of Artoria's kingship and marriage. There were also several other noble women, all standing quietly and submissively behind Kanjuro.
"Mo...ther?" Artoria struggled to lift her head, looking in disbelief at Igraine, the woman who was gentle but had died young in her memory.
A bizarre, almost pitying smirk appeared on Igraine's face. She spoke slowly, her voice devoid of any emotion, as if stating a fact that had nothing to do with her:
"King Arthur, my nominal daughter. You were indeed born from my womb; there is no doubt about that."
A faint glimmer of hope ignited in Artoria's eyes, but Igraine's next words crushed that hope completely.
"However, your father was not King Uther." Her gaze swept over Kanjuro with an awe that came from being completely tamed. "That man... Uther, he had unspeakable proclivities; he was obsessed with men and had no interest in women. To obtain an heir and stabilize the throne, he offered me as a sacrifice to the then court mage, Lord 'Merlin'."
Kanjuro, standing to the side, elegantly poured himself a glass of wine as crimson as blood, enjoying the revelation of the truth he had directed with great interest.
Igraine continued to speak hair-raising words in a flat tone: "And Lord Merlin... he found the legendary Red Dragon and, with supreme magic, fused himself with the essence of the Red Dragon and injected it into my body. So, Artoria, what flows in your veins is the bloodline of Lord Merlin and the Red Dragon. You and Morgan are both 'miracles' born this way." She pointedly ignored the fact that Morgan had been disliked and abandoned by 'Merlin' (Kanjuro), but this omission was itself like a sharp knife.
"No... that's impossible..." Artoria murmured to herself, her body trembling from shock and weakness. The foundation of her existence—being the daughter of King Uther and the heir to the Red Dragon bloodline—completely collapsed at this moment.
Kanjuro took a sip of the wine and smiled as he took over the conversation, his gaze falling on the pale-faced Morgan: "Morgan could sense my difference since she was a child. She craved power and my recognition, like a puppy desperately trying to perform to get its master's attention. Unfortunately, the 'Merlin' of that time felt she wasn't perfect enough, and her talent wasn't sufficient to carry more of my 'expectations', so he casually discarded her by the Lake of the Fairies." His words were like poisoned needles, piercing Morgan's already riddled heart. "All her subsequent efforts and all her schemes, rather than being out of hatred for you, Artoria, were more like... trying to prove to me that she, the discarded daughter, also had value." He then looked at Mordred, "And you, Mordred, this obsession is so similar."
Morgan clenched her fists tightly, her nails digging deep into her palms as blood dripped through her fingers, but she didn't refute him, because what Kanjuro said was exactly the deepest desire hidden in her heart that she didn't even want to admit to herself.
Igraine looked at the three daughters whose fates were linked yet who tormented each other, and finally let out a long sigh, one filled with endless fatigue and resignation:
"Now, do you understand? From beginning to end, your lives, your loves and hates, your pain... have all been just a meticulously arranged game in the hands of my master, Merlin. All of us are just... playthings he uses to pass eternal time."
The truth was like the coldest ice water, completely submerging the three in the cage. The light in Artoria's eyes went out completely, Mordred slumped to the ground, having lost even the strength to cry, and Morgan let out a suppressed whimper like that of a wounded beast.
Kanjuro watched this scene with satisfaction, draining his glass in one gulp. He was surrounded by the women he had conquered and manipulated, at his feet was the kingdom and family he had personally destroyed, and before him were his most perfect 'works' fallen into ultimate despair.
This was precisely the ultimate pleasure he had sought for a long time. Inside the cage, a suffocating despair permeated. Kanjuro's so-called 'family happiness' was the ultimate desecration of human relations, a pillar of shame nailed deep into the souls of Artoria, Morgan, and Mordred. Artoria's emerald eyes stared hollowly into the void. A single crystalline tear, carrying unspeakable pain and the void after the collapse of her faith, slowly slid down her pale cheek and dripped onto the cold ground, shattering into countless desolate points of light.
Where was her Avalon? That shore that once symbolized protection and eternity was now swallowed by endless darkness. The sword of promised victory? That holy sword symbolizing the king's way and justice had long ago lost all its brilliance under the truth Kanjuro revealed, becoming incredibly heavy, as if mocking the persistence of her entire life.
Kanjuro reached out, his fingertips cold, carrying a nearly tender cruelty as he gently wiped away the tear stains from Artoria's face. His voice was low, like a devil whispering in her ear:
"All of this long journey has been nothing more than a dream of your past to you. A dream woven personally by me, one that is incomparably real. Now..." He leaned down slightly, staring into her unfocused eyes, "Is it time to wake up from this dream?"
His words carried a strange magic, continuing to erode her final line of defense:
"Of course, you must understand that the wheels of history have long since shifted due to my Space-Time Authority. Everything you experienced—the rise and fall of Camelot, the establishment and shattering of the Round Table, the birth and entanglement between you and Mordred... everything that happened because of my manipulation is, on 'this' timeline, something that truly occurred. You, Artoria Pendragon, are indeed the protagonist of this tragedy, not a mere bystander."
"Ugh..." Artoria let out a whimper like a wounded little beast. A tearing pain shot through her heart, more unbearable than any physical wound. The sword in the stone? He was the one who guided her to pull it out. The sword of promised victory? He was the one who, by the Lake of the Fairies with that gentle smile that once made her feel so at ease, guided her to receive it from the Lady of the Lake! All the foundation that supported her becoming a king, all the glory she once viewed as a gift of fate—it was all just a prop meticulously designed by this demon!
Just then, an even more surging flood of memories broke through the final seal, like a river bursting its banks, and poured frantically into her mind—
Those were memory fragments belonging to the "Holy Grail War"!
She saw it: atop the burning ruins of Fuyuki City, Kanjuro (not in the image of Merlin) stood leisurely amidst the golden ripples of the eternal night treasury (Gate of Babylon), with the sharp edges of countless Noble Phantasms pointed at the city below. He nonchalantly commanded the army of Conqueror King Iskandar to carry out an indiscriminate massacre, while he himself watched the destruction he orchestrated as if admiring fireworks.
She saw how he used powerful magical energy to materialize and even distortingly replicate "Avalon"—which should have been her strongest protection—and after blackening it, forcibly bestowed it upon Irisviel. It was this tainted power that distorted her source of magical energy as a Servant, making her every step difficult and her heart suffer during that war!
Everything, all the misfortune and tragedy, pointed to the same source—Kanjuro!
Distant Avalon? It turned out it never existed, or rather, from the very beginning, it was built upon such desperate lies and manipulation!
More tears flowed silently. Artoria felt as if she were truly waking up from a long and painful dream. Her physical sensations, the pain in her heart, and the chaos of her memories all became incomparably clear and sharp.
Meanwhile, far beyond space and time, inside the Silent Cave.
The silver-haired Saint Jeanne d'Arc was quietly watching a light screen suspended in mid-air. The screen clearly reflected the image of Artoria in her cage, face covered in tears and curled up in pain. There was no expression on Jeanne's face, yet deep within those sky-blue eyes, an extremely complex glimmer flickered—seeming like pity, yet also like a long-accustomed indifference.
She whispered softly, as if stating an established fact:
"It seems Master has truly made her heart ache... This long dream should be coming to an end."
Her voice echoed in the Silent Cave, as if tolling the final bell for Artoria's tragedy. The cruelty of reality was about to completely replace the illusory dream, no matter how desperate that dream was.
Inside the Silent Cave, time seemed to freeze. Only Artoria's steady yet slightly uneasy breathing echoed softly against the empty rock walls.
Kanjuro's figure shifted from illusory to solid, as if stepping out from ripples of water, silently standing before Jeanne. That inscrutable, gentle smile still hung on his face, as if he had just returned from a stroll through Artoria's memory world of pain and betrayal, rather than having personally directed a tragedy of the soul.
"It seems," Jeanne broke the silence first, her voice calm and rippleless, her sky-blue eyes looking directly at Kanjuro like sharp swords, "you have done another atrocious thing." Her tone was not one of questioning, but a flat statement, carrying a trace of imperceptible coldness.
Hearing this, Kanjuro laughed out loud, the sound exceptionally clear in the cave. Instead of denying it, he looked at Jeanne with great interest, his eyes filled with provocation and a nearly cruel curiosity.
"Atrocious? Perhaps." He tilted his head slightly, his tone as relaxed as if discussing the weather. "So, Jeanne, would you like to try it yourself? To experience the taste of having your memories reshaped and being given a completely different life? Perhaps I could weave a... 'deeper' ending for you than the burning stake."
Jeanne's expression did not waver at all, as if she had already expected him to say this. She responded calmly, her voice carrying the resilience and clarity gained from passing through purgatory:
"If we speak of despair, I have already tasted it all. Betrayed by the people of my faith, consumed by raging flames—my flesh and soul have already undergone the most thorough burning and testing on that stake. The memory tampering you play with is nothing more than a hollow phantom to me; it cannot shake the truth I have recognized." Her gaze swept over the sleeping Artoria, a flash of pity appearing. "You cannot use the same methods to make me submit to the falsehoods you weave."
Following her gaze, Kanjuro also looked at Artoria lying on the ground. At this moment, she had shed the king's resolve and the warrior's sharpness, curling up like a helpless child, her brow slightly furrowed as if still enduring pain in her dreams. Kanjuro's gaze softened for a rare moment—it wasn't a pretense, but a genuine emotion immersed in memory.
"That is true," his voice lowered a bit, carrying an indescribable magnetism, "but, Jeanne, you must also admit. Before giving her hellish despair, I did... indeed, bring her warmth like the spring sun."
The "beauty" he had meticulously woven seemed to appear before his eyes—the patient guidance in the forest, the trusting entrustment by the lakeside, the gratified smile during the coronation... the emotions flowing in those moments were not entirely fake.
Hearing this, the corners of Jeanne's lips curled into a cold, nearly mocking arc.
"But," she said word by word, her voice clearly striking every inch of air in the cave, as if striking against Kanjuro's seemingly impregnable mental defenses, "wasn't it also after that that you personally pushed her into an abyss more cruel than any hell?"
Her gaze was sharp as a knife, pointing directly at the core.
"Giving hope only to thoroughly crush it, bestowing faith only to personally overturn it... Kanjuro, this so-called 'warmth' of yours is nothing more than a yardstick used to measure the depth of 'despair.' Compared to a pure hell, such actions are even more nauseating."
The cave fell into a brief silence, with only Artoria's unconscious, slight sobbing floating weakly in the air, as if it were the final cry of her soul in a nightmare, confirming Jeanne's words. The smile on Kanjuro's face remained unchanged, but deep in his eyes, something seemed to flicker slightly due to Jeanne's relentless exposure.
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