The Sage, Merlin. When he once traveled with the King and the King's sworn brother, the Knight Kay, he said:
"I once journeyed northward with the pinnacle of knightly spirit, and our travels bore witness to countless vestiges of the old days."
— The Court of Avalon
...
In truth, the moment he stepped into that "rainforest" lying along the borderlands of central Britain—between the lands of King Uther's Camelot and those ruled by Vortigern in the north—Lucan had already sensed the presence of unseen eyes in hiding.
And in this era, on this soil, if there was someone who could make him merely feel a "gaze" without leaving a trace to be captured, there would be no more than a handful. In fact—there was but one.
The First Court Magus of Camelot, advisor to King Uther, the "Sage" Merlin.
Lucan knew well that Merlin possessed the highest-ranked clairvoyance, one that could pierce through all things of the present age and "extrapolate" the vistas of ages to come.
The "Tale of the Knight King" he had deliberately spoken of earlier—was precisely to draw out this fellow, who had most likely already begun scheming with Uther to bring forth "Arthur."
Sure enough, the one who revealed himself within the rain-curtain was none other than Merlin. And the young lady by the campfire did not hesitate for a moment—
"Thorn Garden."
Morgan unleashed her signature "Garden" magecraft.
Trees swayed under the downpour like writhing serpents, their roots and crowns birthing dense thickets of thorned brambles. Razor-sharp spikes erupted, binding the phantom-like figure of the "Nightmare Magus" in an instant.
Yet Merlin made no move to resist—he only raised his hands with a wry grin.
"As I said, I was just passing by, purely by chance…"
Though the Nightmare's words seemed to plead with Morgan, his gaze was fixed far more intently upon Lucan—the young "Grand Duke of the Windmill City," whose renown had risen meteoric in recent years across southern and central Britain.
"If you don't speak the truth, you'll probably be stuck in this rainforest for two or three days," Lucan said flatly.
He placed no stock in this fellow's excuses. Deception was ever the forte of the Nightmare-kind.
"All right, all right!" Merlin sighed, though his face wore the same ever-false smile. "In truth, it was Her Highness Morgan's father—my King—who sent me. He heard of your journey northward with Lord Subotai, and bade me wait here to meet you, and then bring you back."
"I will not return!" Morgan declared at once.
Her adventure with Lucan was only halfway through—how could she possibly turn back?
Lucan shook his head as well. "I can understand King Uther's desire to keep us from provoking Vortigern, who has not led a southern raid in years. But strictly speaking, I am not Uther's vassal—he has no authority to command me. And you certainly won't be taking us back…"
"Ah, my mistake, my mistake," Merlin chuckled. "I actually had no intent of dragging you back. I told the King as much—that if I cannot bring you back, then at the very least I must ensure your safety. Thus, I will accompany you north."
"Spoken so nicely—but I suspect you're secretly eager for us to provoke Vortigern, aren't you?" Morgan snorted, her tone sharp.
Merlin only laughed. "Ahaha… how could that be?"
Lucan could see plainly that Merlin's words were half-truth, half-lie. He had been sent under Uther's orders—but the chance to see Uther's plans deliberately frustrated also seemed to please him greatly.
None of them spoke again of the "Knight King." A tacit understanding seemed to bind them—
"If you wish to follow us, fine," Lucan said with a smile. "But on one condition."
"Oh?" Merlin's smile faltered.
Lucan continued, "We both fight—without using offensive or defensive magecraft. Only body reinforcement and martial skill. A duel!"
"...?"
Merlin blinked in disbelief.
[In later ages, in another timeline, you once heard: in the Age of King Arthur, Britain was teeming with mighty heroes. If one were to name the foremost in martial prowess, it was without doubt the strongest of the Round Table Knights, the one who bore the Lake's unrepenting sword—Lancelot. The son of Ban, Gaul's greatest champion, Lancelot surpassed even his father, and in sheer combat strength—even outshone King Arthur himself.]
[But if one were to speak of swordsmanship alone—not overall martial prowess—the strongest in Britain would be none other than the Sage Merlin, who bestowed upon Arthur sword techniques verging on the divine.]
[Merlin was not only a magus, but also a Nightmare among fae.]
[And perhaps as well, a Western Sword Saint—one who had reached the realm of "Great Hero" through the way of the blade.]
[You have crossed blades with countless Celtic champions of the old age—yet among true "Great Heroes," your encounters have been few.]
[You had long desired a chance to witness Merlin's swordsmanship.]
[Though surprised by your sudden challenge, Merlin was cornered by your sharp gaze and the lip-read words "Knight King"—and with little choice, reluctantly accepted. Thus, the duel was joined beneath the rain-drenched canopy.]
[For your weapon, you naturally wielded your lifelong master's gift: the tri-colored spiral Sword of the War God, left to you by Attila, the Eastern God of War and "Scourge of God." Merlin's weapon, by contrast, was a sacred sword concealed within his staff, imbued with the exceedingly rare "Holy" attribute outside the common four elements.]
[You recognized it at once: the Sword in the Stone—the very symbol of kingship Arthur would one day draw forth. Not his strongest armament, but unmistakably iconic. And since it was Merlin himself who had once placed the blade into stone, it being in his hands now was only natural.]
[Steel met steel, and their duel soon reached its climax. As you had foreseen, Merlin's swordsmanship was formidable—technique refined to the very summit of the Great Heroic domain, rivaling even the threshold of the divine. Against such mastery, you relied on the omnivorous knowledge of your "Arsenal" to sustain yourself—an all-encompassing style born of countless combat records. Yet though versatile, it lacked the instinctive fluidity of true enlightenment. You fought by analysis and reaction, not pure intuition. Even so, you managed to hold him to a stalemate—not without aid from Morgan's watchful presence, which surely restrained Merlin from going all out.]
[Morgan, however, was clearly unsatisfied, her displeasure sharp at the idea of Merlin joining your travels. Yet under your persuasion, she grudgingly agreed.]
[The rain ceased. With its end, faint phantasmal fae emerged once more amid the dripping woods. The fae's lingering presence was Britain's strongest tie to the Age of Gods. Some among the greater fae still mingled with mortals—and indeed, it was only thus that Merlin could exist as both human and Nightmare.]
[But leaving the forest behind, traveling further north, you would soon reach the valley where Uther's legions of Camelot once met defeat: the Cotswold Hills.]
[This was the midlands of Britain. Beyond lay the territories seized by Vortigern and his Angles.]
[The scenery henceforth would change completely.]
[If the southern reaches of Britain, despite famine born of the island's rejection, could still be called prosperous under Uther and his court's protection—then the lands north of the Cotswolds were barren, lifeless. Vast forests and ley-lines consumed the land, rolling mountains carried the chill gales of the far north.]
[Yet unlike the south, there were no lingering fae here.]
[Instead, the land teemed with "beasts"—offspring of the White Dragon like Vortigern, lesser in rank but born of the island's toxic miasma, the spawn of magic's bile.]
[They were part of Vortigern's host.]
[And they were your next quarry—the targets from whom you would harvest "martial lore."]
[Combat skill is not the province of man alone. The ways of the beast can inspire human technique as well. You would not neglect this truth.]
[At the same time, witnessing the deepest mysteries of this age would further refine your "Triple Cycle."]
[Thus, day by day, you sparred with Merlin.]
[From being clearly outmatched, you grew until even his full strength could do no more than hold you at stalemate.]
[You succeeded in assimilating Merlin's swordsmanship into your Arsenal.]
[Moreover, you discovered Merlin's very presence seemed to provoke the monsters of the north.]
[And so, you and Morgan "conspired" to use him as bait—drawing out beasts to be slain piecemeal.]
[Merlin cursed his ill luck, but seemed oddly entertained.]
[Ever he slipped free of crisis—not through spells, but by illusion, the most basic of magecraft. Yet in his Nightmare bloodline, illusion had reached heights where even your full analysis, with all 272 Divine Thoughts of your mind, barely sufficed to pierce it.]
[Still, the sight of him flailing and fleeing in mock terror brought you and Morgan delight.]
[You even took to "increasing the difficulty" on purpose.]
[Those who enjoy spectacles… will one day become spectacles themselves.]
[So you mused.]
[Meeting Morgan's gaze, you both laughed together.]
[Merlin, you realized, was not such a bad companion after all.]
[In a month's time, you carved through Vortigern's beast legions.]
[Hundred-meter hounds of shadow. Flocks of sky-splitting raptors. Primitive giants towering dozens of meters high. Each spawned of draconic miasma, each mighty enough to match heroes of old. And each one, slain by your own hand through martial skill alone.]
[Their hunting instincts, their feral techniques—all were harvested into your Arsenal.]
[Your Triple Cycle inscribed their mysteries.]
[Your martial path, and your magecraft, advanced in tandem.]
[Like one who bore the strength of tens of thousands.]
[You now stood but a step away from the God-realm of Martial Refinement.]
[At last, you reached the northern heart of Britain: the fortress of Vortigern, perched high upon the mountain.]
On that day, the beast hordes fell into silence.
Vortigern roared.
"The White Dragon in Fury" (Oil Painting, 1501)
...
"Subotai, Morgan."
"Merlin—!"