[You are born. You are a JoJo-level lifeform.]
[You seem to have been born into a prominent noble house, an inhuman creation born from the condensed blood of Phantasmal Species from the Age of Gods. You are not welcomed by a warm swaddling cloth and the care of parents, but by a cold stone floor and a single, complicated gaze.]
"So, it actually succeeded..."
The flickering candlelight cast a dim glow. An inverted, wrought-iron chandelier adorned with thorns swayed gently overhead.
In the castle's secret basement, an enchanting beauty with alluring blue lipstick gazed at the newborn on the ritual circle. Her expression, hidden beneath a black veil, was a mixture of complex emotions.
Even though this was her own masterpiece, the moment she saw the result of her creation, even she, the Witch of Britain, felt a sense of bewilderment.
It had started as a mere whim. She never thought it would actually succeed...
He's born... so, what now?
She had never taken care of a child before.
"So quiet... Is it because he's a homunculus that he doesn't know how to cry?"
The enchanting beauty cautiously leaned closer. In the witch's eyes, the infant on the circle showed no signs of crying. Instead, he had opened a pair of clear, deep-gray eyes and seemed to be studying her with immense curiosity.
To be watched by my own creation... The feeling was, admittedly, rather strange.
"It seems he's quite fond of you, Morgan."
A tall, powerfully built old man emerged from the shadows, appearing behind the beauty as silently and mysteriously as a ghost. "Did he glimpse the witch's beauty and forget even how to cry?"
Witnessing the scene, the old man couldn't help but clap his hands and laugh. "Good lad, just as expected of my bloodline!"
"That joke isn't funny, Vortigern." The beauty called Morgan narrowed her piercing blue eyes. "He is a child of the Age of Gods, born from the collective blood of Britain's Phantasmal Species. I imagine he has no need for the weak cries of an ordinary infant."
The Witch of Britain stated flatly, "And please, do not bind my masterpiece with the logic of the mundane world."
"He is your masterpiece, but he is also my son."
Gazing at the silver-haired, gray-eyed infant in the ritual circle, the old man's face softened with an expression that could only be called tenderness. He tore a piece from his own long robe, wrapped it into a swaddling cloth, and carefully lifted the baby into his arms.
Lowering his gaze to the infant in his embrace, a smile unconsciously formed on Vortigern's lips, his usually sharp eyes softening.
"Incredible. I never thought you, of all people, could make such a face..." Morgan's gaze froze as she watched the harmonious scene of fatherly love.
This is wrong. Far too wrong!
Vortigern the Vile King. The White Dragon who devours light, the usurper of the Isle of Britain. His evil reputation was known to all across the land. In the rumors of the common folk, Vortiggen was a peerless tyrant of unparalleled cruelty, his fearsome name enough to make children stop crying at night.
Could a word like "gentle" have even the slightest connection to this man? Just imagining it was enough to make one's nerves feel scrambled. A demonic dragon smiling... how terrifying!
...Ignoring the witch's gaping expression of shock, Vortigern gazed at the silver-haired infant in his arms, who stared back at him with curious gray eyes. He felt an unspoken bond, a connection between them.
Without a doubt, even if he was an inhuman creation, he was his child. Even if he were to die one day, his bloodline would continue to flow in the world, an extension of his own hands.
Kinship. What a strange feeling...
"So this is what it feels like to be a parent? It's like having something in your heart to care for..." The old man's turbid, iron-gray eyes looked down, his voice filled with a hundred emotions. "I wonder if my foolish brother still remembers the bond we once shared..."
Hearing this, the witch beside him let out a sneer. "Hah... If my royal father truly valued kinship," Morgan said with biting sarcasm, "he wouldn't have created that ridiculous forgery to replace me."
"...You have a point." Vortigern shook his head, a dry laugh escaping him. "Uther... he always took winning and losing so seriously, even as a child."
The aged Vile King lowered his gaze to the infant, the flickering candlelight dancing in his pupils.
"To be honest," he said softly, "I am already beginning to regret allowing this child to be born into this world... As my son, he is fated to never have a peaceful end. Perhaps he, too, is destined for a conclusion filled with regret."
"Hey, Vortigern... can't that mouth of yours say anything nice?" Morgan said, deeply annoyed. What kind of talk was that? Giving up half your fighting spirit before the battle even begins? "This is the ultimate masterpiece I poured my heart and soul into creating to fight that forgery! The Son of the White Dragon, born from the blood of Britain's Phantasmal Species, is the final, brilliant afterglow of the fading Age of Gods. Forget that Red Dragon... even you might not be able to defeat him once he's fully grown!"
"Are you questioning my skill in magecraft? This time, we have truly created a monster..." As she spoke, a cold sneer of pure hatred appeared on the witch's enchanting face.
Morgan practically spat the words through gritted teeth. "But so what if I unleash a monster? My dear royal father and that Merlin fellow created that inhuman Son of the Red Dragon, planning to use that ridiculous tool to rule Britain and steal the throne that is rightfully mine... In that case, I will return the favor in kind! I will create the Son of the White Dragon from the Age of Gods and grind him into the dust!"
"If Merlin can do it, why can't I, Morgan?!"
With that, Morgan's burning gaze fixed on Vortigern. "When you first heard my idea, you praised it, offered your full support, and even provided your own precious White Dragon essence as a material. Why do you sound so defeated now before we've even fought? Could it be that you fear the Red Dragon's power and want to back out? Hah... Vile King Vortigern, is this the extent of your courage?"
Morgan's sharp words were highly aggressive, but against a man like Vortigern, they couldn't breach his defenses.
"Afraid?" The old man glanced at his niece, his expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "Uther and Merlin together are no match for me. They think a mere tool created from the Red Dragon's heart can defeat me? Utterly laughable."
As if he could see through her dark veil, Vortigern stared at Morgan, his voice laced with meaning. "I am not questioning your skill. In fact, the one who is truly afraid is you. That's why you came running to me in such a panic the moment you learned of the Red Dragon's birth, isn't it, Morgan?"
"You are afraid—afraid that your newborn sister will truly grow into a king worthy of the name of Britain. You're afraid the people's support for her will turn your righteous indignation into nothing more than ugly, impotent rage. So you want to prove it to Uther, don't you? You want to make him see how ridiculous his decision was. To the point that you would assist me, the one branded a traitor. Morgan, my dear... you could say you are betraying your own country..."
"You—!" Morgan's thin lips trembled. Guh—! I... I can't refute it...
Every word was a pearl of wisdom, every sentence a stab to the heart. Damn him, he's about to break my composure...
Vortigern remained unmoved by the witch's provocations. Instead, his psychological attack had left Morgan in disarray. Seeing his niece's crumbling expression, the aged Vile King shook his head, too tired to bicker with the younger generation any longer.
Lowering his iron-gray eyes to the silver-haired infant in his arms, Vortigern's expression grew distant.
"I, of course, do not fear some so-called Red Dragon. However, is a single, insignificant Red Dragon my only enemy?"
The flames on the candelabra flickered. They danced in the gloom, burning desperately yet unable to dispel the vast twilight. The night was still long, but the lamp oil seemed to be running out.
Standing amidst the flickering, dying embers, the old man spoke softly.
"My, Vortigern's, enemy is this entire era of Britain... When fortune favors, the world itself lends its strength. When fortune flees, even a hero is not free. The decline of the Age of Gods is an unstoppable tide, and the fortune of the entire era will be on the side of the Red Dragon. If he is to inherit my path, this child's future will be fraught with hardship. And the end of that path is nothing but a steep, broken cliff."
"In a Britain where True Aether is fading, there is no vast world for him to roam. Therefore, I do not fear the Red Dragon; I fear for his end. Perhaps it is because I now have something to care for that my heart can no longer be hard enough. I have undoubtedly gained... a weakness."
A gentle smile, a sigh of emotion... In the half-year they had spent together, this was the first time Morgan had ever seen the aged Vile King show such a sentimental side.
The Demonic Dragon who devours light? He's practically been sanctified into a Holy Dragon!
It's true what they say: turning evil makes you ten times stronger, but being redeemed nerfs you by a third.
It seems one should never have children. They make you miserable...
Watching the Vile King's flood of emotions, Morgan's blue eyes came to this very logical conclusion. This was perhaps a sentimentality unique to the old, something she couldn't empathize with at all. Thus, she merely shook her head at his concerns with a mocking tone.
"It's a pity, but as the afterglow of the Age of Gods, the Son of the White Dragon is fated to clash with the Red Dragon... Don't tell me you're afraid of losing him?"
After a moment of silence, Vortigern gave a noncommittal response.
"Perhaps."
"Tch..." This ambiguous answer made Morgan sneer. "Vile King Vortigern, the Demonic Dragon who would use even foreign barbarians to usurp Britain, actually cares about the life or death of a tool?"
"Once..." Vortigern shook his head gently. "I thought I wouldn't care either."
"Unfortunately, Morgan, everyone who lives in this world has a weakness." The old man smiled, tapping his chest. "The careless words we speak can only deceive our own hearts."
"I never knew you were someone who valued family so much, Uncle," the witch said, her voice dripping with cold sarcasm. "Such a model of brotherly love you are."
Vortigern burst into laughter. "I'm just glad you're still willing to call me Uncle, my dear niece!"
Watching the old man and the young woman bickering endlessly, a single thought crossed Su Shu's mind...
Are these two bickering fools supposed to be my nagging parents for this simulation?
Stop fighting. Why don't you two just throw down?
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