(This chapter is from Artoria’s first-person perspective.)
Mordred quietly watched King Arthur’s story.
I was by her side, looking at the same books.
Memories of my past life have become very blurred; it’s just that I played King Arthur before, so I barely remember King Arthur’s story.
But even King Arthur’s story is almost equally blurred, consisting mostly of the lies I told during the Holy Grail War.
Now, having actually read history of the kings of britain and King Arthur, I actually feel a sense of absurdity.
Although they both describe a king named “Arthur,” the themes of these two books are diametrically opposite.
In history of the kings of britain, what that King Arthur did was fundamentally no different from me.
Even if chivalry is emphasized repeatedly, that chivalry seems more in line with the definition of the time.
In other parts, King Arthur was a total tyrant.
Upon first ascending the throne, [^
No excuses, no claims; the King Arthur in history of the kings of britain conquered without reason, like a nomadic people.
His conquests were too smooth; he unified the British Isles in a very short period and conquered Northern Europe and Iceland in an even shorter time.
The continent feared his name; the nobles of Gaul built forts and strongholds regardless of cost, as if everyone felt they would be conquered by King Arthur, as if the word “conquest” were naturally bound to King Arthur.
In the Gallic Wars, he caused so much slaughter that after the nobles were wiped out, the bishop knelt before King Arthur, begging King Arthur to grant the people a small piece of land—even if they were enslaved, they just wanted to live.
As a “Wise King” championed in the book, King Arthur “mercifully” agreed to the bishop’s plea.
Thus, he conquered the whole of Gaul with thunderous means.
And because of the conquest of Gaul, the Roman Empire—known in modern history as the “Kingdom of the Lombards”—sent a letter demanding tribute.
King Arthur in turn demanded tribute from the Roman Empire, and thus a great war involving the whole of Europe broke out.
I stared in disbelief.
This is no longer just a “tyrant”; saying he’s a “barbarian” like Attila would be no problem at all.
It’s even more excessive than what I did, to the point where a doubt rose in my heart—
So King Arthur could actually be like this?
The story is already like this, and the details are even more weightily ridiculous.
The Orkney Islands are a string of desolate islands located in northern Scotland.
Due to erosion by seawater and sea breezes, and the year-round low temperatures, the land here is almost impossible to grow food on.
Moreover, the land is small, with only a few hundred people on a few islands relying on fishing and trade to survive.
But in this book, the Orkney Islands are actually treated as a kingdom, and they can even pull out ten thousand people, all of whom are heavy cavalry?
Is this Mr.
Oliver mentally ill, treating 5th-century Britain as a “primordial” fictional world?
How can it be so ridiculous?
And there are many more ridiculous parts in the whole book than this.
After finishing the King Arthur part of history of the kings of britain, I didn’t have time to read the saxons part and quickly switched to le morte darthur, wanting to cleanse my eyes.
Sure enough, le morte darthur is entirely the story of King Arthur as I know it.
That King of Knights only unified the island of Britain; based on the code of chivalry, he basically never invaded other countries and followed chivalry throughout, being more great, glorious, and correct than great, glorious, and correct, the kind that could blind one’s eyes.
Only at the end, because of Lancelot and Guinevere, did he have to launch a campaign against France—of course, King Arthur was ultimately betrayed by Mordred, and both died at Camlann.
Before dying, he passed the throne to Constantine and went to Avalon to recover.
In history of the kings of britain, King Arthur was only betrayed after returning from an expedition to Rome.
The story structure is very normal, and the descriptions within are also very interesting—but I’m still quite shocked.
Some things in this book also make my scalp tingle—Sir Lancelot, Sir Tristan, what is going on with you two?
Fighting is fine, and admiring each other after the fight is fine, but what’s with kissing each other a hundred times after taking off your helmets?
Not just this, the entire piece is also filled with a large number of similar ridiculous descriptions—I can only conclude that the author was a Frenchman from the late 15th century, overly romantic, and at that time France might, perhaps, probably really have had this custom, so it turned out like this?
In short, after reading these two books, I felt nothing but confusion.
My mind was empty, filled only with shock—medieval people were really bold when writing books; they didn’t care if it was reasonable or not, they just wrote it first.
I looked at Mordred.
She was reading le morte darthur with rapt attention.
Although her brow was slightly furrowed, she looked normal for the most part.
Unlike me—I, after all, lived King Arthur’s life, and reading it all the way through…
are you kidding me, I’m going to throw up!
Just a slight recollection, and my mind is full of images of Sir Lancelot and Sir Tristan kissing each other a hundred times!
All I can think about is how ten thousand heavy cavalry were raised in that god-forsaken place, the Orkney Islands!
Closing the book, I closed my eyes and relaxed for a good while before I could expel those strange thoughts from my mind.
When I opened my eyes again, Mordred was still reading le morte darthur.
Not until the minute and hour hands of the wall clock overlapped at the number 12 did she finally, finally close the book.
“Father…
is the legend of King Arthur like this?”
Considering she takes pride in being a Briton and brittonic is her mother tongue, I don’t really mind.
At worst, I’ll claim it’s a Welsh dialect.
Anyway, no one in this city could possibly understand Welsh.
After thinking for a moment, I answered Mordred in a very calm tone—
“No.
Most of the modifications and refinements were in the 19th century.
To counter the new ideology spread by France across the sea, the United Kingdom once again promoted the legend of King Arthur on a large scale to shape the English nation and place it under royal authority.
Remember what I told you in the hotel?
The legend of King Arthur has been promoted on a large scale with strong political purposes from the very beginning.
As times progress and ideologies and social relations become more complex, this political nature has also become stronger.”
“Then…
why these two books?
What did Father want me to know from these two books?”
“No special reason.
It’s just because these are the two most widely circulated versions.
The legend of King Arthur began with mystery and ended with mystery.
For mystery, the original versions are often the most accurate.
Other legends of King Arthur are modified and evolved based on these two versions.
Reading other versions would only cause you confusion.”
Mordred pursed her lips, her slight frown deepening.
After a long time, the child finally took a deep breath and asked—
“Of these two versions, which one does Father prefer?”
“Neither,” I said.
“They’re both overly exaggerated and lack a sense of reality.”
“…Lack a sense of reality?
Does Father also feel they lack a sense of reality?”
“Yes, they do indeed lack a sense of reality…
How should I put it?
It’s like watching a play where you are the protagonist from below the stage.
The things shown on stage are too limited.
No matter how hard the actors try to perform, it is ultimately just a performance.
The thoughts, pain, confusion, and hardships within cannot be expressed in a few words—the simplest example: how could King Arthur and Mordred both be female?”
To be honest, this explanation of mine was very poor; I was forcing an explanation.
But this was, after all, a question raised by Mordred; no matter how forced it was, I had to explain it properly.
Otherwise, with this child’s experience, she would probably let her imagination run wild again and reach a ridiculous conclusion.
But clearly, my explanation didn’t satisfy Mordred—or rather, it didn’t explain her doubts, but instead created more.
The current Mordred was trapped in her own confusion, unable to extricate herself.
“It’s getting late.
Time to eat, Mordred.
We agreed that any questions would wait until we get back to the hotel.”
After saying that, I stood up and put the four books back on the shelf.
Mordred and I left the Misaki Town Municipal Library without a word.
Not far from the door, I asked Mordred—
“Is there anything you want to eat?
Mordred used to like mutton soup with pepper, right?
Shall we have that today too?”
“What does Father want to eat?”
“I…
don’t know.
I don’t know what to eat.”
“Then let’s just find a small shop to fill our stomachs.”
Then, we really did find a small shop by the roadside that specialized in Japanese ramen.
However, before entering the shop, I specifically found another convenience store and bought a small jar of seasoning.
Modern industry is truly wonderful; as long as the item isn’t too obscure, it can be easily found in nearby shops.
“Father, what is this?” Mordred asked, looking at the seasoning container in my hand.
“The food in this country is quite bland.
That’s why I bought a bottle of pepper.
Mordred, you love mutton soup boiled with pepper and ginger, don’t you?
Besides, there wasn’t very good salt back then, so your palate is naturally accustomed to stronger flavors.
We’re having noodle soup this time, so adding pepper will make it taste much better.”
After all, even the global chain KFC has toned down its flavors to adapt to the local palate; traditional Japanese ramen is bound to be even blander, likely to the point where they don’t even use salt and rely solely on soy sauce for savoriness.
However, to my surprise, Mordred froze, tears welling up in her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Mordred?”
I blinked, not understanding why Mordred was reacting this way.
Mordred turned her head away, pretending to wipe the corner of her eye, and said to me in a choked voice—
“…It’s nothing.
Let’s eat, Father.”
I nodded gently and took her into the shop.
The shopkeeper was very enthusiastic, or perhaps it’s just that shopkeepers in this country are generally very enthusiastic.
It was lunchtime, and there were quite a few customers, so I just ordered two bowls of the most standard Japanese ramen.
Although it was crowded, since they were selling noodles, it took less than ten minutes for two bowls of ramen to be placed in front of Mordred and me.
The portion size of this bowl was very small, too little even for an office worker.
I tasted a spoonful, and as expected, it was very bland, completely lacking any saltiness.
There was no other way, so I had to ask the owner for some salt and added it to both bowls.
Then, I took out the pepper I bought at the convenience store and added an appropriate amount.
Such behavior is actually quite rude.
But since Mordred and I are both blond-haired and blue-eyed foreigners, the owner didn’t say anything.
Once the flavor is sufficient, the deliciousness of Japanese cuisine truly shines through.
The umami of the ramen broth, the delicate texture of the noodles, and the side dishes and mutton—it was indeed an experience like never before.
Fifth-century Britain didn’t have so many seasonings; even the best court cuisine couldn’t compare to roadside ramen made with industrialized table salt, spices from all over the world, and vegetables and meat provided by professional farming and animal husbandry.
However, the portion size of this bowl was really too small.
It wouldn’t even be enough to feed a ten-year-old child from Britain, let alone a soldier.
There was no help for it, so Mordred and I kept eating at this shop, consuming a total of six bowls of ramen each.
Although we couldn’t call ourselves full by the end, it was enough; at least it was much better than when we were on a military campaign.
After paying the bill, under the shopkeeper’s incredulous gaze, Mordred and I left.
On the way, I didn’t ask Mordred how the ramen was.
Because while eating, Mordred’s eyes were unfocused, her expression dazed.
She would often stop while eating, and I had to specifically remind her before she would notice, as if Mordred were sleepwalking, her thoughts drifting to some unknown place, with no attention on her meal at all.
If you aren’t enthusiastic about eating, there’s something wrong with your thinking.
This wasn’t just a problem for Mordred anymore.
I started to suspect if Mordred had developed a mental illness.
I had originally planned to buy her some well-fitting clothes, but now it seemed completely unnecessary.
If we went to a clothing store, Mordred wouldn’t be interested in the clothes; she would just wear whatever I bought, with no opinions of her own—that would be better off not buying anything at all.
Thus, I returned to the hotel directly with her.
Almost immediately, I placed the Coca-Cola I bought from the convenience store on the nightstand, turned on the air conditioning, and lay down on the soft bed, the modern music from the shop’s speakers lingering in my ears, the savory taste of the ramen still on my tongue—it felt as if everything familiar had returned.
I finally didn’t have to be locked on that throne anymore, and I could finally enjoy life freely.
Whether I’m a good-for-nothing or trash, as long as I can live comfortably in this modern jungle made of reinforced concrete, I absolutely do not want to be King Arthur ever again.
But Mordred still kept a straight face, sitting on the edge of the bed that belonged to her, wanting to look at me but not daring to, only stealing glances, looking like she had something to say but stopped—this silently told me that, at least in front of Mordred, I was still King Arthur.