The trip to France was quick and easy; not only was France right next to Albion, but an underwater tunnel had even connected it.
Not that we used that, after all, it was heavily watched from both sides.
So, instead, we used the Tempad to create a hole through time and space, or something like that.
I honestly hadn't bothered listening much when Phastos gave me his analysis on it, because he had started out by telling me that it was far beyond anything humanity should possess, so he wouldn't help.
So yeah, I hadn't paid much attention to his rambling after that.
Even without understanding how it worked, it still functioned effectively and was a great tool, though not one I used frequently. I never allowed anyone to use it without my supervision.
The TVA wasn't to be underestimated, while my particular nature made me their bane, the same couldn't be said for anyone else. So, if they were to try something, I wanted and needed to be there to make sure their traps blow up in their faces.
This just happened to be one of those rare situations where I could use it, so after getting the coordinates to a safehouse, the Veiled Hand arranged for us, and we all stepped through the glowing hole in space.
"Ugh, I can already smell the foulness in the air. France, disgusting." Mordred wasted no time in insulting the nation as soon as we set foot in it.
"Please, Mordred, the air outside of Camelot might be foul, but it is no different from here or back in London," I said as I closed the portal behind us.
"Bahh, I said it's disgusting, then it's disgusting, can't you just agree with me for once, Father?" She complained as she looked around the room.
Lancelot said nothing at first. He was already moving through the safehouse, scanning the perimeter like he'd done it a hundred times.
He was all work no play that one, while Mordred was pretty much all play, unless the work was beating up someone.
The place didn't scream safehouse, but maybe that was the point. It was a large, stylish house outside of Orléans.
The location made me think of the Maiden of Orléans, Joan of Arc, also known as Jeanne d'Arc, a saint and Ruler. The original Ruler servant, someone who shared my class as Ruler, though less divine than I, a Goddess.
She was from here, or did she die here? I honestly couldn't remember, but she was without a doubt someone I respected. One of the few people of France I could respect, then again, many who became servants were the best of the best, people whom I could respect.
Sadly, I didn't think I would be running into either Jeanne or Napoleon while here, a shame for sure, but I had to be realistic.
"I can't agree with what isn't true, Mordred. Now go make yourself at home, just don't leave the house for now, I don't want you to start a war." I said as I left the two of them to explore the house.
The house was tastefully decorated, it had a feeling of being a home, yet beyond a casual glance, one could see that the house was dead, without a soul, no life in it. The place was simply cold.
Which was no surprise, because no one lived here.
Yet, now more life had entered the house than it could handle.
Because while I slowly explored it room by room, I heard things breaking from other rooms, and a few times I even saw the aftermath of Mordred's excitement.
She seemed to have taken a liking to Clarent II and liked shooting at every reflective surface. Though at least she didn't shoot at the windows. And she was still smart enough to keep the power setting on low.
Because no brick outside of the stones of Camelot could withstand the power of her newest toy.
"Sir Lancelot, it is not often you and I get to spend time together. I hope I didn't cause you trouble by bringing you along." I said as I found the Knight of the Lake looking at a picture of none other than the patron saint of France, Jeanne.
Lancelot didn't turn to face me at once. His gaze lingered on the painting — a classical depiction of Jeanne d'Arc in radiant white and gold, her gaze fixed heavenward, sword raised, flames licking the background.
"She looks... so young," he said at last. His voice was calm, but there was something heavy under the words. "Too young for the burden she carried."
"She was," I agreed softly, stepping beside him. "But she bore it with grace. Greater than many kings."
He nodded. "And died for it. Burned by the very people she saved."
There was a pause.
"You need not blame yourself for what happened, sir Lancelot; I forgive you for what you did; you did it to save Guinevere from a cruel fate. She did not deserve to be married to me; she, too, deserved to be happy." I said with a sigh, almost starting to wonder if Lancelot might be the new knight of lamentation.
Lancelot's jaw tightened. "Your mercy humbles me, my King... but I cannot forgive myself as easily."
I looked at him — at the sorrow carved into every line of his face, the silent weight he carried like heavy chains bound around his soul. "You…" I didn't know what I could say.
No words from me would lessen the guilt he felt, everything I could say, I had said many times already.
If he could not forgive himself, then nothing could be done.
He finally turned toward me. "Then let me repay it. Let me be the sword in your shadow, no matter where it takes us — even into hell itself."
"It might," I said truthfully. "France is close enough."
That earned me a flicker of a smile. Brief, but genuine.
Just then, the unmistakable thum-thum-thum of Clarent II discharging rang through the house, followed by a triumphant shout from another room. "Haha! Take that, you Frenchy!"
Lancelot blinked, deadpan. "Shall I confiscate it?"
"No," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. "She might treat it like a toy, but that is her weapon, and no knight is allowed to take another's weapon."
"Understood."
"Thankfully, I didn't plan for us to stay around here, so we needn't worry about how she tests Clarent II. Instead, I wish to hear your thoughts about our task here." I shifted the focus away from Mordred's destructive nature and towards our mission.
Lancelot inclined his head. "You said we will root out evil until the witch reveals herself. A strategy of attrition and provocation."
"Precisely," I confirmed. "I want the eyes of the nation on us. None shall know it is us, but I want her attention, I know that I can never find her, so we must make her find us instead."
Lancelot folded his arms. "Then we should begin with information. I can head into the city, start asking questions under a cover identity." He carefully explained his plan to me, step by step. I was impressed; he hadn't had much time to come up with it, but here he was, with a full and detailed plan.
I stepped past him and stood before the painting of the saint, and gently placed my hand on it, and instantly the painting changed, the face instantly morphed into one that was nearly identical to my own and Mordred's.
The saint I knew.
"A good plan, Sir Lancelot, but I'm afraid you have thought of it in vain; this time, the planning will be done by Mordred."
Lancelot's expression didn't change, but I felt the shift in him — a pause, a hesitation. Not doubt, not protest… just silent recalibration.
"Mordred?" he asked after a beat.
"Yes," I said, still staring at the image of Jeanne d'Arc. "She's reckless, loud, impulsive — but she's also the only one here who can come up with a plan that can let us deal with this witch."
Lancelot lowered his head slightly. "I see."
I felt his hesitation; he wanted to question that wisdom, question Mordred's ability, and more so, my decision.
He wasn't wrong to do so, Mordred was many things, but a master of strategy, she was not.
That wasn't to say Mordred couldn't be smart, that she couldn't make great plans and come up with masterful strategies. However, to go so far as to call her a strategist was a bit of a stretch.
She often preferred to smash things, to just charge and swing her sword rather than think about the hows and whys.
I was disappointed with Lancelot; he should have questioned my decision. I didn't want my Round Table to be filled with mindless yesmen; I wanted wise advisors who would work to ensure my path was always the best one and would question me, but always obey.
I wanted loyalty, yes, but not blind obedience.
Still, he said nothing. Just that ever-stoic nod of his, as if to signal that even if he disagreed, he'd already accepted it.
That wasn't good enough.
"Sir Lancelot," I said, my voice soft but firm, "do you disagree with the order?"
He hesitated.
I turned fully toward him, forcing him to look me in the eye. "Speak plainly."
A breath. Then he bowed his head, not as a knight to a queen, but as a man lowering a burden too long held.
"I do not believe Lady Mordred is ready to lead an operation like this. She has the strength, the passion, but not the... discipline." He paused. "That does not mean she cannot rise to the occasion. Only that if this is to work, she must take it seriously."
"A good observation, now explain to me what you think Mordred will do, and why it would be unwise." I asked, pushing him to express his opinion.
Lancelot didn't answer right away. He rarely did when asked to criticize someone else — especially someone he saw as both peer and problem.
Eventually, he exhaled, slow and measured.
"She will treat it like a game," he said. "A test she can ace by brute force. She will charge ahead, chase noise instead of signs, and draw attention before we're ready. Subtlety is not her strength."
I nodded slowly, letting him continue.
"She is brilliant in battle," he went on, "but this is not battle. Not yet. This is a hunt. We need patience. We need caution. And Mordred… she is not known for either."
"Fair points," I said. "And yet, I am still placing this in her hands."
Lancelot didn't flinch, but I could tell he didn't understand. Not fully.
"This age has this saying, to fight fire with fire. And France is burning, much of the world is, but France is among those hit the worst." I paused and looked back at the saint who shared my face. "I do not want patience, I want chaos, I want Mordred to take us out there, and throw us into every fight she can start."
"Heck yeah, Father! That's what I want to hear! We are gonna have so much fun!" Mordred shouted, she had snuck up to the room, though neither Lancelot nor I was surprised by her presence.
Lancelot turned slightly, giving Mordred a long, unreadable look. "This is not fun, Lady Mordred. It is war. Cloaked, yes, but war nonetheless."
Mordred grinned, resting Clarent II over her shoulder like it weighed nothing. "War is fun. Especially when we get to win."
"Indeed, this mission is one where fun is important, because it is the one thing someone planning won't expect, someone doing something just for fun." I said, finally telling them the true reason for everything.
I didn't want to try to outsmart a witch that had been alive for countless years, no, whatever schemes she had going, her plans, none of that mattered.
I slowly held out my hand, and a glow manifested in my sword, Secace Morgan.
"This is gonna be awesome!" Mordred shouted and fired Clarent II into the ceiling at the sight of the weapon in my hand.
(End of chapter)
Secace Morgan is the main driving force behind this entire arc. I love the idea about it, and for those who aren't aware.
Secace Morgan: a short sword, meant to only be used when in a fight to the death, it might look like a gun… and it might work like a gun… but it's a sword!
Next chapter will have some pictures of Arthuria and her outfit