The British Dynasty had lasted four years.
As the first snows melted and the air grew warm again, war finally came.
The Kings of Britain, with the Saxons as their main force, launched a sweeping offensive along the northern borders of the isles. Rome responded in kind, dispatching a fleet across the sea. With pressure mounting from two powerful hostile nations at once, no native kingdom or tribe in Britain could hope to withstand the storm.
But this time—it was King Arthur who stood at the helm of Britain.
And under his rule, the crisis of war remained curiously distant from the lives of ordinary people.
There was no panic. No tension in the streets. No urgent call to arms among the civilians.
In Camelot Castle, Arthur sat in quiet thought, pinching his chin.
"Why now?" he murmured. "Why would the King choose to attack now?"
A foolish question?
No.
According to the records Uther left behind—and the intelligence provided by Morgan—there was once a clear reason why the man now known as the Humble King turned against his homeland.
Vortigern, like Arthur, bore the Pendragon name. But unlike Arthur, he chose to abandon humanity, fusing with the Saxons to remake Britain through ruin. His goal was to restore the Age of Gods—to stabilize the magical environment of the island by force.
In essence, he too had sought to "save" Britain.
But where Arthur aimed to preserve its people, Vortigern sought to preserve its era.
Two kings. One land. Different definitions of salvation.
"But now," Arthur muttered, "the Age of Gods is returning. The aether levels are rising. Life has stabilized under my rule. If that was his goal, then… he's already achieved it. So why break the balance? Why start a full-scale war now?"
For years, Arthur had worked to reverse the decline. And the results were visible. The magical concentration on the isles—True Aether—had begun to climb again.
Even Vortigern had noticed this shift. Though he sent troops to test the northern borders each year, the attacks had been half-hearted—more like strategic pressure than serious campaigns.
It was almost as if the two kings had formed a silent pact—each shaping Britain's future from opposite sides.
Until now.
This year, the Humble King had moved with full force.
"Do you remember my prophecy?" said Merlin suddenly, lounging nearby with his usual languid smile. "The birth of the white dragon brings disaster. The birth of the red dragon brings hope. No matter what you and the Humble King try to do, prophecy is prophecy. What must come, will come."
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
"That's not an answer."
"It is," Merlin said cheerfully. "Pan-human history always guides the world back to its rightful shape."
"'Rightful shape'?" Arthur let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "You think this world, this history I'm building, doesn't belong?"
That stung. Because he knew it was true—on a cosmic scale. His Britain, his dynasty, his very existence… was not written into the canon of humanity.
If this was the will of "proper" history, then pan-human history was meaningless.
"That's not what the King is asking," Agravain cut in sharply. "He's asking about your position, not your riddles. If you don't know, then don't make things worse."
Merlin fell silent at that.
But he understood.
This was how Camelot always faced its problems: find the root, and fix it. No matter how small, no matter how vast.
But this time was different.
Even if they found the root—there might be no gentle way to pull it out.
The battle between red and white was inevitable.
Not prophecy.
History.
From the moment Vortigern turned his back on humanity, the course had been set. Even Arthur, who had changed fate before, could not rewind what had already begun.
And besides—
"…Explaining the white dragon is a bit beyond Merlin," Manaka said with a faint smile.
Merlin remained silent.
Because he couldn't explain.
Not fully.
He was one of the creators of this catastrophe.
"That white dragon…" Arthur murmured. "I know. I saw it with my own eyes."
He remembered his first encounter with Vortigern. The unnatural chill that clung to the man's body. The twisted flesh. The monstrous form that no longer resembled a human being.
He wasn't just possessed by a dragon.
He was a dragon now.
Not biologically—but fundamentally.
"A complete transformation," Arthur said. "Not even a subspecies of dragon… something entirely new."
Merlin sighed.
A rare sound from the ever-joking flower magician.
And not an act.
"When I say there are two dragons in Britain, I don't mean that as metaphor," Merlin said at last. "Hundreds of years ago, two true dragons slumbered in this land. The red dragon—guardian of the island—burrowed deep into the center. The white dragon, exiled, settled at the edge of the isles."
This was known to some.
A half-remembered myth. A half-truth spoken in whispers.
"As the loser, the white dragon was cast out. But exile didn't erase its power. Dragons are not like humans. Even in death, their hearts remain potent. Their corpses hum with magic. And when the Saxons landed on our shores… they found the white dragon."
Arthur listened in silence.
"The Saxons couldn't use that power fully. At best, they could craft relics, turn bones into blades, blood into enchantments. But then came Vortigern."
Merlin's voice dropped.
"In Camelot, we worship the red dragon. The Pendragon line is believed to carry its blood. Whether it's true or not doesn't matter. Vortigern twisted that legend. He turned my prophecy into a blueprint. He drank the white dragon's blood. Forced a transformation. Became a dragon himself."
"And he succeeded."
Arthur closed his eyes.
That was when Vortigern first won. When he led the Saxons to their earliest victories—empowered by his evolving body.
It had been more than a decade since then.
And now, the transformation was complete.
"He's no longer human," Merlin said. "Not in spirit. Not in flesh. He is the white dragon now."
Arthur didn't respond.
Because he knew.
He had always known.
This was Merlin's doing.
Merlin, the one who had first spoken the prophecy.
Merlin, whose vague warnings earned him a seat in Camelot.
Merlin, who watched the signs, glimpsed the future—and said nothing to Uther.
And so Vortigern rose. Uther fell. And Arthur was born in the wake of that disaster.
The red dragon and the white dragon.
Two opposing symbols.
Two weapons bound by fate.
And Merlin?
Merlin had woven both.
He was the creator of the battlefield. The weaver of prophecy. The one who claimed to see everything, but always left out what mattered most.
The magician who smiled at the fire he lit.
Arthur slowly opened his eyes.
The weight of truth hung heavy in the chamber.
-End Chapter-
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