The chasm between the nobility and the common people was only growing wider.
Wayland had no intention of staying to watch the knighting ceremony. He turned and walked away.
The rain seemed to have stopped.
Wayland realized this as he looked out across the landscape.
The oppressive atmosphere was dissipating, and the sun was breaking through the black clouds, casting its warm glow over the earth once more.
He quickened his pace. A short while later, he arrived back at the farm.
The area was unrecognizable.
Around the edges, a series of deep, rhythmic trenches had been carved into the earth, layered at precise intervals. They were filled with the runoff from the earlier storm, looking from a distance like a series of circular, terraced fields that stretched for several meters before coming to an abrupt halt.
The raw energy of magecraft still hummed in the air.
Traces of blue and black prana were locked in a literal tug-of-war, occasionally erupting with a flurry of crackling sounds that echoed across the field.
Wayland carefully picked his way across the debris, searching for a path that wasn't choked with magical residue.
Irregular, deep fissures spanned the ground in every direction.
He took a deep breath, his imagination filling in the details of the battle that must have taken place--a whirlwind of sword strikes and high-intensity magecraft.
Wayland looked toward the center of the field, where a lone figure stood.
His white armor was shattered, stained with soot and several black scorch marks. His helmet was nowhere to be seen, and his face--weary yet determined--was caked in a mixture of rain and mud, punctuated by streaks of fresh blood. Only his broadsword remained pristine, its blade as translucent as a sapphire ocean, with the faint sound of flowing water still shimmering around it.
Wayland looked around the field. There was no one else nearby. In the far distance, he could see a group of knights in a forest to the east, their armor glinting in the sunlight. To the west, a few figures were scattered across the horizon, though they didn't seem to be together. Behind him, several squires who had finished the trials were approaching, but they stopped several meters away, clearly stunned by the devastation of the battlefield.
"How were the trials?" Kay asked, his voice thick with exhaustion.
"Ten people qualified. Including me."
Wayland spoke as he moved closer. He reached out to support Kay, but the man waved him off.
"I'm not that far gone yet," Kay said. "You did well. It reminds me of the first time I participated in a selection tournament in Londinium. That was also where I first met Merlin. At the time, he was King Uther's court mage, always holed up in his workshop tinkering with his experiments."
Wayland listened in silence.
Such ancient secrets were usually only known to the truly long-lived. For anyone else, these details were effectively lost to time.
'Ignorance truly is bliss.'
Sometimes Wayland felt a pang of envy, but then he wondered if knowing exactly how he was going to die might be more difficult than the alternative.
'Was Londinium the former Camelot?'
The current Camelot was under the control of the Usurper King, Vortigern. Later, Artoria would rebuild it and be crowned there.
A selection tournament held in the capital was undoubtedly the most significant and difficult of its kind.
After all, if you were sponsored by the King himself, it meant your future was effectively guaranteed.
As for Merlin's "experiments"... that was likely the project he and Uther had devised to create a new king who was fundamentally separate from humanity.
They had taken the Pendrago bloodline, the ideological form of Britain's Red Dragon, and a noble female lineage that could perfectly harmonize the two. Their intersection had resulted in the birth of Artoria.
'What a tragic life.'
Every detail had been decided before she was even born.
No matter how much she struggled, no matter how noble her ideals, her own will was like a speck of dust floating in a desert--unseen, unknown, and unregarded.
Kay continued to talk about the capital as they walked back toward the hillside outside of town.
In the fading amber light of the setting sun, a young boy stood before the stone that held the broadsword.
Kay stopped talking.
He stared at the solitary figure of Artoria.
Her golden hair was tied back with a slender blue ribbon. She wore a tunic of coarse, inexpensive hemp--aside from her delicate, striking features, she looked like any other common youth.
'Does an Ideal King really exist?'
Wayland remained silent. Perhaps this girl was exactly what Uther, Merlin, and the people of Britain desired. But since he already knew the ending, he found himself wondering... 'Is there really such a thing as an Ideal King?'
He almost wanted to walk up to her and tell her exactly what her future held.
'This is just a dream...'
But his logic held him back.
Artoria stepped into the pool of golden sunlight and arrived before the sword.
She slowly reached out and placed her hand upon the hilt.
It felt... right. As if the sword had been waiting for her touch.
The heart within her chest began to beat faster, pouring magical energy through her body.
The sword felt lighter and lighter. She knew that with a single, casual tug, she could pull it from the stone.
"You should think very carefully before you pull that sword."
Artoria turned her head. A familiar figure was standing before her.
Merlin--the mage who had appeared in her dreams every night for the last fifteen years.
"Once you pull that sword, you will no longer be human. You will leave your human self behind and become a monster of a different sort. You will be hated and loathed by all, and you will walk a path that leads to inevitable destruction. This is no mere warning; it is the path that has been preordained."
Artoria fell silent.
The Sword in the Stone shimmered like sunlight, radiating a gentle warmth. She thought of the fifteen years she had spent with Sir Ector, with her foster brother Kay, and with the people of this town.
If so many people were waiting for her... if so many smiles depended on her... then surely, this couldn't be wrong.
Even if what awaited her was an inescapable, solitary end.
The sword was pulled.
The warm sunlight followed the hilt, scattering the magical shroud that had hidden its true form to reveal a shimmering, golden blade.
An unimaginable power flooded through her body.
[Translated and Rewritten by Shika_Kagura]