[Two years of traveling had long since made the girl, who bore the alias "Arthur," famous and widely known. Her return was what all had been waiting for—for even after time's reversal, Vortigern's power still loomed menacingly in the north. Save for the few who retained their previous memories, the majority still regarded Vortigern as that vile king who could not be so easily opposed.]
[Save for you and Morgan, none could drive him back.]
[And even if you and Morgan joined hands, few believed you could slay him outright—this was the "understanding" of most.]
[Only the child of the Red Dragon, foretold by the sage Merlin, could utterly slay Vortigern and drive out the Angles among the Germanic barbarians who had invaded Britain.]
[Only "King Arthur"—Artoria Pendragon—could accomplish this.]
[The first assumption was, of course, false. The marks of growth gained during those two years of reversed time had never vanished from either you or Morgan. In total, it amounted to four years of spiritual and magical development. By now, both you and Morgan could, by your own power, slay Vortigern in a short span of time. This was not merely a matter of strength, but because, as magi, you had already "decoded" the very nature of Vortigern's existence.]
[For the highest of magi, battle comes but once—only one victory is needed, and the rest is eternal.]
[But the fully armed Artoria, though not without difficulty, could also certainly slay Vortigern.]
[Such was the meaning of destiny.]
[Thus, on this day, Artoria's return naturally drew the gaze of the entire nation.]
[And alongside her return—]
[The sage Merlin also declared to the kingdom of Camelot, the return of the "King."]
That night.
Within Camelot, the holy city resounding with jubilation, atop the palace roof, Lucan stood beneath the dim starlight, gazing at the city alight with lanterns.
The night wind blew gently, and at his side, another figure appeared.
Moonlight traced the full, heavy swell of her chest, a waist tapered like a blade's edge, and hips whose curve, strained against fabric, was breathtaking.
Morgan stepped forward half a pace, her silver hair cascading like a waterfall beneath the thorned crown of a princess. The faint rasp of black stockings brushing against one another, her legs shifting, made even the shadows seem thick.
"What a farce before the mockery of fate."
She stood beside Lucan in the night breeze, giving a soft hum, her words as ever sharp and unapologetic:
"The great King Arthur... hah..."
"But this coronation is hardly as grand as yours—well, at least it lacks the 'wine' of the fairies." Lucan sighed a little in regret.
But was that the point?
Morgan fell silent. She knew well that her coronation had come only after she herself slew Vortigern.
Artoria's could only be called the focus of the people's gaze.
Yet she had not truly shown her power.
"You really are generous." Morgan shifted the topic: "You even gave that little girl the scabbard of the holy sword... What, afraid she'll die too quickly, not dramatic enough?"
"What else should I do with it? Save it for the new year?" Lucan gave a laugh. "Those things aren't for us to use—"
Whether the holy sword, the holy lance, Heracles' sword, or even the scabbard—being divine constructs, they chose their own wielder.
That was the choice of the will of the cosmos itself, of the Root's "mushroom."
"What is it then, regret? Or perhaps... are you actually worried for her?"
Lucan smiled sidelong at the silver-haired girl.
"Worried?"
Morgan gave a cold laugh. "I only find it laughable—that Merlin and King Uther left her in that rural backwater to grow up in such an environment, then mockingly raise her to the altar again, to burden her with Britain's destined ruin—"
She paused, her eyes flickering with complexity. "...Just as they did to me."
Morgan and Artoria were indeed two extremes of a scale.
Lucan turned his head. "But you're much stronger than her. At least you won't foolishly believe in 'destiny.'"
Morgan gave a sharp hum, but did not argue.
Her gaze fell upon the distant coronation, brilliant with lights. Her voice was clear, yet her tone low: "She will realize soon enough... that the glory of a 'King' is nothing more than another curse."
"She knows very well."
Lucan suddenly leaned close, his breath brushing her ear. "When that time comes, as her elder sister... will you be the one to shatter her illusions—or to pull her up?"
Morgan fell silent for a moment, then suddenly seized his collar, dragging him close. "That depends on which side you stand on."
Her tone was dangerous, laced with ambiguity, yet suddenly she smiled. "But you've already chosen, haven't you?"
Lucan laughed low, letting her pull him in, eyes locking with hers.
Their breaths mingled.
Through the fabric, their skin radiated heat.
The silver-haired woman gave a soft hum, her face flushed red beneath the moonlight.
She released him, turned into the shadows, but in that step, her fingertip subtly hooked his little finger—
Lucan watched her retreating back, his smile deepening. "Morgan."
"..."
She did not turn, but her steps faltered.
"Tonight's moon," he said, "is just right for that bottle of fairy-brewed red wine you've been hiding."
Morgan's back stiffened for an instant, then came a cold hum. "...Don't get drunk and start spouting nonsense."
Her voice was still feigned cold, but Lucan was certain—tonight, that bottle would appear in his chamber.
So many years had passed.
She was still this tsundere.
[But in truth, you never liked wine.]
[It was just an excuse, to have Morgan spend the night in your chamber.]
[You two had yet to marry, not even betrothed. Yet it was not only others who could see it—you both knew it in your hearts. Save for that final step, everything else had already been done.]
[What you lacked was only the chance.]
[The most fitting, the most proper moment to speak.]
"Tonight's moonlight really is fine."
Lucan looked up at the sky, down at the city's glow, thinking so.
"What I say is never nonsense."
All, too, should now—
Accelerate.
[That very night, you proposed to Morgan.]
[And that night, the sounds of breath from the depths of your chamber in Camelot did not cease until noon the next day.]
[...]
[On the third day after the King's return, Artoria formally declared the establishment of her own "Knights"—as King Uther had done.]
[In Uther's time, though there was no formal knightly order, he had gathered one hundred and fifty warriors bearing knightly titles at his side.]
[Artoria too would follow Uther's example, and with them, march to subdue Vortigern in the north.]
[The "King" appointed you as vice-commander of the Knights, Camelot's chief knight, commander of the royal guard, and chancellor of the kingdom—holding many posts, wielding great power.]
[If only she did not use this as an excuse to freeload meals from you so often.]
[The "King's" appetite was still as great as ever.]
[Beyond that, you only hoped she would not embrace the "Roman tradition."]
[You thought so to yourself.]
[After all, you had already committed regicide once.]
[The "King" then reappointed Merlin as First Court Magus, her counselor.]
[She tasked you with summoning the realm's most elite knights.]
[With the legitimacy of "King Arthur" and the renown of "Grand Duke of Knights" Subotai—you would surely summon the mighty to come in droves.]
[And so it was.]
The command of King and Grand Duke.
To every knight of that age, it was the highest honor.
Even foreign knights vied to answer.
The Story of King Arthur: Myth and Legend — Raymond Guest
...
[You summoned many fairies.]
[You formed a knightly order called the "Fairy Knights."]
[Artoria was greatly shocked, yet still granted the fairies the rank of royal knights, and thus the Fairy Knights were born.]
[The heavens surged, the shadows of the Counter Force's guardians intertwined.]
[Once more, you chose to "retrace"—]
[Retracing to three days before the appearance of the fairies.]
Merlin: "..."
The nightmare magician, the court sage, was too exhausted to complain.
"Is playing with the restraining force really fun?"
To this...
Lucan could only answer: "Yes."
"Very amusing!"
...
"Great King Vortigern... why do you tremble so?"
At the same time.
In the north of Britain, upon Hadrian's Wall.
Under the shimmer of radiance.
The white chalk dragon coiled atop the castle slowly opened its golden eyes, breathing a heavy, prolonged sigh.
Though it sounded unbelievable, the tribes of Angles that Vortigern had forcibly united upon Hadrian's Wall could all feel it during this time.
—They felt Vortigern's fear.
The white chalk dragon, meant to soar across the skies of Britain, remained hidden deep in its northern lair.
Even after King Uther's death, it dared not march south.
This was anything but normal.