Another four years have passed. Time, it seems, flies when one is buried in labor. Yet, the swift passage of years has done nothing to alleviate the sheer mountain of work set before me.
It feels as though I have been in a state of perpetual overwork. Surely, it is merely a trick of the mind that I spend more time managing logistics than actually wielding a blade as a Knight of the Round Table? At least, I tell myself it must be.
If there is any mercy to be found, it is that by dismantling and rebuilding our archaic administrative systems, I have finally managed to carve out a single hour of free time each day.
None can truly know the sheer effort it took to secure that one hour. I had to uproot and reform every inefficient tradition and custom that plagued this kingdom. Should anyone attempt to rob me of even that small window of peace, I swear upon the Round Table that I will abandon my post and lead a general strike.
Nonetheless, the fruits of such labor are evident. Camelot thrives more with each passing day. Our ranks have swelled as Mordred, Gaheris, and Gareth have finally joined the Knights of the Round Table.
The city has expanded, and by welcoming outsiders and fostering trade, we have reaped immense profits. One might call this our second golden age. Surely, after all this, I am entitled to some rest. It is only fair, is it not?
And yet, life in Britain is rarely so kind. The Saxons have launched a fresh invasion. It seems that every time I dare to believe a respite is within reach, they appear on our shores. Do they harbor some personal vendetta against me? How do they always manage to strike with such impeccable, infuriating timing?
I can only press a hand to my brow in frustration. While Artoria successfully repels them every time they show their faces, these barbarians seem to possess no capacity for learning, returning again and again. Including the skirmish last week, this marks their seventh invasion since her ascension.
Because of this unending cycle, the transition I feared—Artoria's abandonment of her human heart—has only accelerated. During the fifth invasion, she still sought to minimize friendly casualties, even at the cost of tactical efficiency. By the sixth and seventh, however, such considerations had vanished from her calculations.
Her strategies are now terrifyingly efficient, yet they afford no thought to the lives of her own soldiers. Resentment has begun to fester among the knights, particularly Tristan. If not for my constant mediation, the friction between the King and her court would have surely boiled over into open conflict by now.
I must look after her. After all, that was the very reason I became a knight in the first place.
Recent investigations into these persistent incursions have confirmed my suspicions: as I recalled from the tales I knew, Rome is the unseen hand guiding them. However, we are in no position to strike back. Our kingdom has only just found stability, and the Mystery of the land is beginning to dry up. The earth is turning barren, and our people suffer for it.
The crops of the Age of Gods are dying as the environment shifts toward the Age of Man. To combat this, I have had to drain the treasury for welfare policies. I replenished those funds, of course, by squeezing the nobility. It was quite simple: I placed a heavy luxury tax on the trinkets they covet. Since they believe their honor is tied to the price of their possessions, there was no resistance. If anything, they flaunted their tax-burdened goods with even greater pride.
Haha, I have prepared for everything! For now, at least, the realm is secure.
"*Sigh*... Finally, I can close my eyes for a moment." I leaned back in my chair, exhaling a long breath.
*Rattle!*
"Sir Elius!"
"Gah!"
*Thud!*
Startled by Bedivere's sudden intrusion, I jerked back with such force that my chair toppled, sending me sprawling across the floor.
"An emergency... Sir Elius, are you unharmed?"
"I... yes, I am quite alright. Now, tell me, Sir Bedivere. What is it?"
"It is an emergency! The Saxons are invading again! They are marching upon the heart of Britain!"
"...Summon the Round Table. Immediately."
Watching Bedivere rush out, I felt a sharp, familiar ache in my stomach. I reached into my tunic for a vial of digestive medicine and swallowed it in one go. It seemed my rest would have to wait. Inwardly, I wept.
***
Tristan's voice, sharp and trembling with indignation, rang through the council chamber where the Round Table stood.
"—I cannot obey such an order! To use a village as bait? To use a knight who dared to object as a sacrificial lamb? I will not stand for this!"
Artoria had just proposed a strategy to annihilate the enemy with maximum efficiency and minimum casualties for the main host, regardless of the cost. Tristan shouted his defiance.
"I cannot follow this command! I refuse to sacrifice the villagers! I beg of you, Your Majesty, reconsider—"
"I will not."
Artoria's voice was a cold finality. She looked upon the disappointed Tristan and made her declaration.
"We must secure victory in this battle with minimal losses to our strength. Sacrificing a strategically advantageous village to achieve that end is the only rational course."
"But the villagers will perish!"
"It is a tragedy that cannot be helped. One must sacrifice the few to save the many."
"But—"
"Sir Knight."
As Tristan continued to protest, Artoria's voice turned icy.
"I have already issued the order, Sir Tristan. Further debate is a waste of time. I will entertain no more objections."
"...I cannot. I cannot follow such a king. Here and now, I withdraw the loyalty I once pledged to you."
At those words, I could no longer remain silent. Tristan was judging only the mask the King wore. He made no effort to understand why she arrived at such a conclusion, or the heavy burden that forced her hand.
He saw only right and wrong, black and white. While his chivalrous heart was not a bad thing, he remained ignorant. He did not know that the Mystery was fading, or that the fall of Britain was an inevitability they were desperately fighting to stall. His words were far too heavy to be thrown about so carelessly in his ignorance.
I slammed my palm down onto the Round Table.
*BOOM!*
The sound thundered through the hall, and every eye turned toward me. I locked gazes with Tristan.
"Cease this at once, Sir Tristan. The King has made this decision for the sake of the nation."
"Even so, Sir Elius, I cannot follow. The way the King speaks... it is not the way of a human being."
"You see but a fragment of the truth! You know nothing, Tristan. You know nothing of the reason behind this command, or the agony she endured before uttering it. I promise you this: when the day comes that you truly understand, you will regret the words you have spoken here."
It had happened that way in the original history. Only after becoming a Heroic Spirit did Tristan realize the weight of the burden Artoria carried and the grief she suppressed, leading him to spend eternity regretting his words. Yet even in that future regret, the poison of his ignorance would leave a deep wound upon Artoria's heart.
I could not tolerate it. His words were an insult to every sacrifice she had made. Out of our bond as comrades, I gave him this one final warning.
Despite my warning, Tristan merely shook his head.
"Be that as it may, I must speak my heart. The King's conduct is wrong. The King does not understand the hearts of men. I have no desire to serve such a ruler."
*CRACK!*
The moment he finished, a fissure spread across the section of the Round Table before him. Tristan glanced at the cracked stone, then turned his back and walked out of the council chamber.
The heavy doors closed with a dull thud, leaving the room in a suffocating silence.