[Unlike the Hundred Years' War in France, although that war also deeply influenced human history, its ultimate outcome was France's victory. No matter how many people died or how tragic the price paid, for the foundation of human existence—that is, Human Order—as long as the grand result was not derailed, history was not considered distorted.]
[Thus, although Lucan altered the course of the war, he did not distort Human Order. Even though he saved Jeanne, the existence of the Saint still remained, and she was canonized even earlier than in the original history.]
[This is what it means for the "grand trend" to remain unchanged.]
[But the Hunnic Empire's ultimate fate was failure. After the death of Attila, the "Scourge of God," the vast empire, lacking a designated heir, fell into civil war, swiftly collapsed, and eventually disappeared.]
[An ever-present and growing Hunnic Empire would inevitably cause distortion to Human Order, which would in turn bring about the corrective force of Alaya, the counterbalance of humanity itself against distortions to history.]
[So from the very beginning, you never truly intended for the Hunnic Empire to prosper endlessly.]
[From the start, it was only your way of venting frustration—mocking Human Order and the Counter Force.]
[Although after you left, the empire still collapsed as it was meant to,]
[you still succeeded.]
[—You fired an illusory shot.]
[And you took away the empire's most core clansmen, its most elite troops, sparing them from perishing in civil strife.]
[...]
"Good thing we left in time."
The English Channel. On the current flowing toward Britain, ships rocked upon the vast sea as the wind howled. Hundreds of massive sailing vessels surged across the waters, leaving white wakes in their path.
High above, seagulls streaked like pale lightning against the sunlit sky. At the stern of one ship, an old man stood gazing at the distant, fading European continent. He exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow.
The seventy-year-old North King of the Hunnic Empire, Oktar Ugur, said this as his grey beard fluttered like the sails in the wind. Looking to the boy beside him, scarcely ten years old, he could not help but speak.
"What kind of monster is watching us?" Oktar asked.
Under his gaze, the thirteen-year-old Subotai, though not tall or broad like typical Huns, had a leaner, refined build. His face was handsome, his skin fair and healthy, tinged with traces of a more distant Eastern lineage.
Beneath his martial garb, though still youthful, he exuded striking poise. Calmly, he replied to his father's question:"Of course we must leave."
"Otherwise… we'll be surrounded."
In fact, on the day of his coronation, he had already sensed the oppressive presence of outsiders.
Not one, but seven.Not a single person, but seven individuals!
The heavy sense of crisis that surrounded him—if not for Lucan's foresight—would have drenched him in cold sweat.
"As for what those monsters are… it's better you don't know. It's good they came."
For beings that could make even him feel this way, there was no need to explain.
They were the handiwork of Alaya, humanity's Counter Force.
Called forth by the collective unconscious of mankind—beings known as Guardians.
Not the same as Heroic Spirits summoned by the World, yet of the same origin—Heroic Spirits bound by contract with Alaya.
"The seven classes of Guardian Servants—heh, they really see me as a 'miniature version' of a Beast?"
Lucan understood. If not for the vast flood of faith and thought from the Hunnic people converging upon him during his coronation, enough to make the seven hesitant, they would have struck immediately.
Individually, they posed no threat to him. But seven together… even Lucan would have to tread carefully.
—Fortunately, he left before they could act. Losing their target, their actions faltered.
—Their presence was the perfect proof of his feint's success.
Even the Counter Force could not repeatedly summon complete Heroic Spirit-class beings in quick succession.
And of course, Lucan had no plans to taunt them again so soon.
This, after all, was exactly what he intended to attempt in the Holy Grail War of reality.
This time was simply a rehearsal.
His voyage to Britain was merely to enact his original plan: retreat, bide his time, and grow stronger.
The island nation of Britain—isolated to the north of Europe, its lands steeped in lingering mystery, traces of ancient gods still etched upon it—was the perfect place for him.
If the age of myth in continental Europe had already ended five centuries ago, with even the remnants now fading, then Britain was only just beginning its twilight.
Still remnants, yes.Still an age of gods long gone, only afterglow remaining.
But compared to the continent, Britain's mysteries were richer, denser.
Hearing Lucan's words, Oktar nodded without pressing further. He knew well the extraordinary nature of his late-born son and had always been one to "listen well."
The land behind them receded until it vanished.
Ahead, beyond the endless sea, a faint outline of another shore could already be glimpsed.
Jagged cliffs battered endlessly by the waves.
...
[Tens of thousands crossed the sea into Britain. Naturally, such an act could not escape the notice of the island's inhabitants.]
[At this time, Britain was in the early days of independence after Rome's withdrawal. Nominally, the island's king was Uther, descendant of Rome's former governor in Britannia and leader of the native Celtic people, head of House Pendragon.]
[But King Uther's actual control extended only over the southern part of the island.]
[His power centered on Camelot. To the east, the White Cliffs of Kent; to the west, Cornwall's mountains; to the north, the Thames Valley—barely keeping hold of Londinium and nearby roads.]
[The northern lands were dominated by his elder brother, Vortigern. The two factions clashed at the Cotswold Hills.]
[Your arrival point was thus the southern coast under Uther's control.]
[Your ships, laden with goods and treasure, had already exchanged letters with Uther in advance.]
[You concealed your true identity.]
[Still, Uther warmly welcomed you, inviting you to join the Celtic cause.]
[He claimed Vortigern had already enlisted Saxon invaders to defeat him.]
[Thus, he too needed your strength to maintain the island's balance.]
[He needed your wealth to sustain his kingdom.]
[And so, under prior agreement,]
[your fleet entered the Thames, gliding upriver to Camelot itself.]
[Your ships stretched for miles, hundreds of sails thick as a forest—a sight unmatched in decades of Britannia's trade.]
[You and your father led a hundred guards ashore, entering Camelot.]
[The city was called the "Chalk White City," its ten-meter walls gleaming like chalk.]
[At last, you laid eyes upon those walls.]
[And upon King Uther Pendragon.]
[And his "Court Magus."]
[The sage, famed through all ages—the Magus of Flowers, Merlin.]
[...]
Later generations would call the Arthurian legends the most famous knightly tales of Europe, even the world. At their heart was King Arthur, the first and greatest knight, ancestor of chivalry itself.
Though Uther's presence was dim in these stories, he was indispensable.And Merlin—the sage, Arthur's teacher and Uther's greatest advisor—was utterly unforgettable.
In this moonlit world, neither could be ordinary.
It was by their hands, through mysterious means, that the Red Dragon's heir, Arthur Pendragon, would one day draw the Sword from the Stone and become king.
Lucan knew this before meeting them.After meeting them, he was certain.
"Honored guest, Lord Equinus."
Within Camelot's white-walled palace, during a banquet brimming with wine and cheer, the burly old king raised his goblet. Though no younger than Oktar, his presence was that of a lion, radiating majesty.
He used the name Equinus—the Romanized form of the Hunnic royal clan.
Though Romanized, the sound bore no resemblance to its origin, making the connection near impossible to guess.
Oktar, unfazed by the lion-like pressure, met the toast evenly. After all, he was the North King of the Huns, no stranger to power. "Then perhaps soon, I'll no longer be a guest," he replied.
"Indeed!"
This time, it was not Uther but a handsome youth at his side who spoke. Silver hair fell messily about his shoulders, crimson eyes glimmered, and a white robe draped gracefully over his frame. He held a wooden staff, scholarly and refined—yet his airy tone gave him a dreamlike, unreal quality.
"Our king has already prepared the most fertile lands of Britain for you!"
"This is the sage, Merlin, my greatest and most loyal friend," Uther said.
"I've long heard of you," Oktar answered solemnly.
Amid the toasts and merriment… Lucan felt only boredom.
He had seen too many such scenes, played the game too often. For the first time, watching from the sidelines, he felt just how hollow and dull it was.
He was a master of using rules—but never one to enjoy them.
Though Uther's leonine aura stirred his curiosity…Though Merlin's unreal presence intrigued him…this was not the moment for such inquiry.
How tedious.
"Hmm?"
Bored, Lucan paused mid-step as he sensed an unusual gaze. Looking up, his brow lifted slightly.
What he saw—in the shadows of a Roman column—was a golden-haired girl, perhaps sixteen. She leaned against the cold marble pillar.
Moonlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting dappled light upon her silk gown.
The fabric hugged the curve of her chest, cinched at the waist, and slit to reveal long legs sheathed in black silk stockings. The cloth at her hips shifted with each movement, stretching and relaxing over her curves in interplay of shadow and shine.
A girl who should have shone brilliantly, yet here in shadow seemed overlooked.
This feeling…
"Authority over the island itself?"
Interesting.
[You saw the girl.]
[She noticed your gaze, and looked back.]
[Without needing to think,]
[you immediately understood her identity.]
[Her name was Morgan le Fay.]
[In Arthurian legend—half-sister to Arthur Pendragon.]
[At this time, still a young "witch."]