(This chapter is from Artoria’s first-person perspective.)
“Traditional European martial arts?
Rapier?
Longsword?” Katagiri Rie had no contact with this circle and didn’t understand these terms at all.
After thinking it over, she asked instead, “Wouldn’t joining the Kendo Club work?
They both use swords, so it should be about the same, right?”
Mordred explained, “Teacher, in the definition of HEMA, the weapon used in Kendo is a katana, not a sword.
The form and techniques of the two are very different, roughly like the difference between badminton and tennis.
You wouldn’t say to someone who wants to join the Tennis Club, ‘Tennis and badminton aren’t that different, why not join the Badminton Club instead?’ right?”
“I see…
then the difference really is quite large.” Katagiri Rie nodded and then looked at me, asking, “Aria-kun, what are your thoughts?
Is it also this HEMA?”
I glanced at Mordred.
She smiled at me, not looking like she was feeling guilty for playing tricks.
In that case, I nodded to Katagiri Rie and replied, “Teacher, I have been studying longsword swordsmanship for a long time, and many movements have become habits.
If I were to join the Kendo Club, many habits would have to be modified or even started over.
This would not only stall my Kendo studies but also ruin the longsword swordsmanship I have already mastered.
If that’s the case, I won’t join the Kendo Club.”
After four or five seconds, the Class 1-C homeroom teacher finally said, “Establishing a new club is possible…
however, including the club president, five people are needed to submit an application together before the school can approve it.
There’s only one week left.
If you want to start a new club this semester, Aria-kun and Matori-kun will have to work very hard.”
“In other words, Teacher, you agree?” Mordred’s voice carried unmistakable joy.
“I have no reason to refuse on my end.
However, the vast majority of students already have their own clubs.
To establish a new one, Aria-kun and Matori-kun will have to convince students who haven’t joined any clubs yet.
Those students usually don’t intend to join any club from the start.
And since this is a sports club, it will be even harder to get enough people.”
“Teacher, can the school provide a list?
Of which students haven’t joined a club,” I said.
“If possible, I’d like to convince them one-on-one.
If it really can’t be done, Matori and I will temporarily join the Anime Club, Game Club, Literature Club, or some other similar non-athletic club.”
“I see…
come find me tomorrow at noon.”
“Alright, thank you, Teacher.”
Mordred and I gave a polite bow and left the teacher’s office.
I hadn’t even gone a few steps before my excellent hearing let me know the teachers were talking about Mordred and me.
I paused slightly, wanting to hear the teachers’ topic—but, as expected, it was just curious remarks, normal chatter between colleagues, with no ‘abnormal’ parts like I had anticipated.
The rest of the time was for club activities.
Mordred and I returned home early.
The new residence was a three-bedroom apartment in a 33-story building constructed twenty years ago.
At that time, during the height of the bubble economy, the decoration and furnishings were done to quite high standards.
However, with the bursting of the bubble, combined with the continuous population outflow from Misaki Town and the blow of a new round of economic crisis six years ago, this 85-square-meter three-bedroom apartment (Author’s note: No shared area in Japan) had been vacant for a long time.
The rent had become quite cheap, enough for Mordred and me to stay for a long time.
Putting the ingredients I bought on the way in the kitchen, I sat on the living room sofa.
At this time, Mordred had already impatiently gone to her room, turned on the computer, and put on headphones.
However, her door was open; she should be able to hear what I said.
“Mordred, why?”
Immediately, Mordred took off her headphones and turned her chair 180 degrees to face me.
Her face was beaming with a smile, but this smile betrayed a hint of guilt; she clearly had her own little scheme.
“That…
Father, if we want to practice swordsmanship in this city, it will definitely be troublesome, right?
Whether it’s the open space below the apartment complex or the nearby park, it’s all very troublesome.
It’s much more convenient to just start a new club.
And since the first semester is about to end, the club won’t have many people, so it won’t attract trouble, right?”
“I mean, why didn’t you discuss it with me?”
Mordred’s smile became even more guilty, almost impossible to maintain.
I let out a breath and gave her a look, gesturing for her to sit beside me.
She obediently stood up
“…Because I thought Father definitely wouldn’t agree.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Father doesn’t want to be a king, nor a student.
Father doesn’t want anything; any kindness or gifts will be rejected by Father.
Because…
the only thing Father wants is eternal sleep, right?
Actually, Father wanted to end all this a long time ago, didn’t you?
But, for various reasons, you’ve barely made it to today, isn’t that right?”
I raised an eyebrow.
I was a bit surprised.
Not surprised by the questions Mordred raised, but that these questions, which should have been asked the day before yesterday afternoon, had been delayed by her until today.
Not only that, the atmosphere was different.
Back then, the atmosphere was extremely heavy and oppressive.
But today, after a day of school life, the atmosphere had instead become much more relaxed and pleasant.
It was as if both she and I had walked out of the Battle of Camlann, welcoming a new life and stepping into a new stage of existence—Mordred said these words with a rather guilty smile, and there were no tears of sorrow or flames of anger in her golden eyes.
This caught me off guard, to the point where my brain momentarily fell into disarray.
“Who told you these things?”
As soon as I said it, I regretted it.
The answer was obvious; it didn’t even require thought to know.
“Father, in these past few days, have I spoken to anyone else besides you?”
“…I don’t remember saying those words.”
I had only said that I didn’t want to be King, that I didn’t want to be Artoria.
As for saying something like “All I want is total, eternal sleep,” I wouldn’t say that, and it’s impossible that I would—because that isn’t what I truly want.
I stopped looking at Mordred and instead gazed at the pitch-black wall-mounted television directly in front of me.
When we first arrived in this era, Mordred mistook the TV for a mirror.
But now, I was truly using it as one.
The dark screen reflected both Mordred and me, but because it was black, our reflections looked as if we were standing in the darkness, or like we were performing a play on an empty stage; there was no sense of reality to it at all.
In the screen, Mordred lowered her head, thinking about how to answer, thinking about how to ask.
Thinking takes time.
For an adolescent child like Mordred, whose consciousness is easily distracted by unrelated things, thinking only takes longer.
So, I didn’t rush her, nor did I stare at her; that would only pressure her, causing her to blurt out words impulsively and fall into a state of agitation and excitement, completely ruining this talk between father and son.
“I figured it out myself, Father.
These past few days, I’ve been reminiscing.
Recalling why you asked me to kill you.
Recalling why you were always in such pain—pain so intense you seemed on the verge of going mad, almost…
almost like you were becoming a vengeful spirit that could never find rest…”
That was an interesting way to put it.
Following that logic, I suppose I really was like that.
Doing the job called ‘King,’ playing another role, my body battered and broken due to the experiences of my childhood.
Moreover, I had indeed turned from a dead soul into a Servant, and then from a Servant back into a living person; in a way, I really was a lingering spirit.
I didn’t make a sound.
Instead, I waited for Mordred to continue speaking.
“On the battlefield of Camlann, when my sword killed you, I still didn’t understand.
I wondered if I had done something wrong, I wondered if the retirement of so many Knights of the Round Table had hurt you, I wondered if this country had pushed you to that point—but the day before yesterday, just the day before yesterday, you let me read those two books, and you told me you’ve always had an old illness, and you said the reason you became King wasn’t to seize the power you deserved, but simply because you didn’t want to starve to death.
Only then did I finally understand…”
Mordred paused; she was organizing her thoughts, trying to translate all the emotions in her heart into the right words.
It’s difficult.
When a person is in an excited or agitated state, it’s almost impossible to express thoughts accurately.
In such moments, requests turn into commands, inquiries turn into interrogations, vocabulary tends toward the harsh, and descriptions tend toward exaggeration.
So I still didn’t make a sound, waiting quietly for Mordred.
This wait lasted for three minutes.
“That’s right…
yes!
I finally understand!
I only just realized it recently!
You never wanted to live in the first place; you wanted to die long ago, but for some reason, you just couldn’t die no matter what, and so you became like this…
Every one of us—every subject, every soldier, every knight, me, Mother, Merlin, those who have died, and those who haven’t—we all forced you to live, made you have to live, kept you locked onto the throne so you could go nowhere!
You could only…
only become ‘King Arthur’ in everyone’s eyes, become that cursed King!
Just like that cursed island…
Isn’t that right, Father?”
The corners of my mouth turned up into a smile—yes, a genuine smile, not just a slight curve.
The former comes from heartfelt joy, while the latter is merely a fake smile put on for the sake of etiquette.
I was happy that Mordred could say these things so completely; for that alone, I was proud.
It showed my education was successful; she could clearly articulate the thoughts in her heart, and her trust in me far outweighed the fear she felt.
Perhaps because I was smiling so happily, Mordred’s reflection seemed to relax quite a bit.
“Mordred, of everything you just said, one sentence is correct.
Do you know which one?”
“I…
I don’t know.”
“You said I am a vengeful spirit who cannot find rest.
That part is correct.
However, only half of that sentence is true.
I am a dead spirit, yes, but I am not a vengeful one.
There is no resentment in my heart; I have never truly hated anyone.”
“Then what about the rest?
Were all my other guesses…
wrong?”
That was a broad question; I would need to explain it word by word, sentence by sentence.
But after thinking for a moment, I decided not to answer that question directly, but rather to address Mordred’s underlying confusion.
Yes, I already knew why Mordred was in such pain, and why she didn’t dare to speak of it.
However, Mordred was not like me; my state of mind was calm, while she was still agitated and excited.
Even for me, answering Mordred’s doubts would take time.
And so, I had no choice but to use a very slow, almost reminiscent tone to bare my heart to her.
“Mordred, living is a very painful thing.
But that doesn’t mean a person’s life consists only of pain.
Since you’ve read Le Morte d’Arthur carefully, you should have noticed a detail, right?
A detail regarding ‘Mordred.’ In that book, Merlin made a prophecy that a child born on the first of May would destroy Britain.
So King Arthur actually put the children born on that day onto a ship and let it drift with the wind in the North Sea.
Mordred, why do you think I didn’t do that?
Merlin indeed told me about it, and I was a tyrannical monarch; it would have been perfectly logical for me to do so, wouldn’t it?
Why did that noble Knight King do such a cruel thing, while the tyrannical Evil Dragon King did the opposite?
Do you know the reason?”
Mordred didn’t answer.
With her life experience still so short, it was impossible for her to know my reasons.
Since the start of the Battle of Camlann, she had lived in self-hatred.
Since coming to the modern era, she had lived in hatred of Britain, feeling that she and Britain were the causes of my pain.
Was I in pain?
Spiritually, I was exhausted; physically, my old ailments often flared up; consciously, I felt like I was performing on a stage; and in my soul, I considered myself a dead spirit—but to be honest, while Artoria’s life from age eight to sixteen might have been painful, after that, as more and more people gathered around me, that pain could no longer be felt.
It wasn’t that I was so pained I became numb; I truly just couldn’t feel it anymore.
However, I couldn’t say that directly to Mordred.
What I should explain are my feelings, not my experiences.
These two are very similar during a conversation, but they are worlds apart for the listener.
Therefore, I could only change my perspective and direction to explain it to Mordred.
Mordred remained silent.
This allowed her to calm down and properly ponder my words, and it also gave me time to think, allowing me to find the right angle to explain things to her properly.
“Mordred, you are still young and have experienced too little; trying to understand this is beyond your current knowledge and ability—so, let me tell you, Mordred.
It’s actually quite simple—living in this world is painful, and living in this world as a dead spirit is even more painful.
But pain is not everything; the illnesses and scars on one’s body are not everything.
The reason a person lives is for those they love, and for those who love them.
A person’s life never belongs solely to themselves; it belongs to everyone who loves them and everyone they love.
It’s true that before Camlann, I felt very tired and wanted to rest, which is why I asked you to end it all—but, waking up from Avalon, seeing Morgan washing her face with tears, seeing Merlin enduring his guilt, and seeing you hating yourself to the extreme, how could I possibly say ‘Please let me rest in peace’ again?”
I seemed to have said it wrong; it felt like these words hadn’t correctly conveyed my true feelings.
Consequently, my emotions instinctively became impatient.
But I suppressed that surge of impatience.
I inhaled calmly, exhaled calmly, then calmly organized my words and spoke calmly—
“Mordred, I love you all.
I love every one of you—every subject, every soldier, every knight, you, Morgan, Merlin, those who have died, and those who have not; I love you all deeply.
It was you who gave me the strength to turn from an ordinary person with no ability into a King Arthur who could conquer half of Europe.
It was you who gave me the determination to become a monarch who could suppress all discontent and rebellion.
It was you who gave me the perseverance to keep going even when my heart was weary and my body was in pain.
I didn’t want to be King Arthur, that’s true.
I never wanted to live on, that’s also true.
But for the sake of you, whom I love so dearly, I can become anyone—and even someone like me was actually able to become King Arthur and achieve greater deeds than those in those two books.” This chapter is updated first at novelping.com.
Because, even though it was twisted, my life was complete; there is nothing in my life that I regret.
Even that battle at Camlann, I do not regret—the curse of the bloodline continued to act, the will of Britain forced itself upon every Pendragon, and at the very least, the Battle of Camlann was within my control.
If it had been dragged out any longer, I truly wouldn’t dare imagine what Mordred would have become.
Of course, such thoughts could not be told to Mordred, as they concerned her directly.
I had no choice but to shift the topic again—
“…Ah, sorry, Mordred.
I seem to have digressed—so let me answer your question from just now.
Why am I the opposite of that King Arthur when it comes to you?
Because, compared to the brilliant sun in the sky, I can only be a torch burning in the dark of night.
The sun treats everything on the earth equally, but a torch can only illuminate those closest to it.
Therefore, I love you all, but this love has an order of priority, levels of intensity, and is not equal.
Even if I did not witness your birth, even if your birth originated from Morgan’s plot against me, you are my child, and I still love you—just like my true father, Vortigern.
Even though I killed her, even though we never met, she still loved me and wanted me to leave; she didn’t want me to become the King of Britain, preferring to be locked upon the throne herself, witnessing the Britain she loved turn to ash.”
The memories have blurred, but I vaguely remember what Vortigern said before that.
As the Pendragon who was the King of Britain, one could only be killed by another Pendragon—this looks like a curse, but in reality, the tenderness unique to a Pendragon revealed within it is something only those of House Pendragon can understand.
This kind of tenderness cannot be described in words, and there are no similar examples in the world, but it truly exists; it is not false.
Just like the night before I set out for Rome, when I asked Mordred to kill me one day in the future, this was a tenderness belonging only to me, a tenderness that only I and Mordred could understand.
But…
in the end, I still have no way to express it in words.
“Mordred, reality is complicated.
You haven’t fully grown up, so it’s hard for me to explain these things clearly in a few words.
It’s true that I am a King, but I am not omniscient, nor am I omnipotent.
Many things and many details require you to understand and realize them for yourself.
I can only give you advice or use past examples as a reference…”
I paused.
I felt it was still necessary to say—
“At Camlann, you asked me why I wouldn’t let you inherit the throne, right?
Actually, my thoughts weren’t that complicated.
Think about it, you are a homunculus created by magecraft; your life has only spanned eight years.
Regarding responsibility, duty, love, hatred, fear, courage, and many other things, you completely lacked understanding and were not mature enough.
How could I let you experience the pain that only a King feels so early?”
“The glory of Albion was built upon oppression and slavery.
If there had been a peaceful transition, you would have surely experienced all kinds of betrayals and painful events; you would have had no relatives to turn to, eventually becoming a solitary soul before being killed by an enemy’s sword or by poison.
Furthermore, since you are a homunculus, your lifespan is limited; there wouldn’t have been enough time to make changes, much less shape Albion into the form you desired.”
“So…
since I felt so tired and truly felt I had reached my limit, I thought it better to use my life for one last thing: to let people know that you were the one who killed the Evil Dragon King of Albion, making them feel that you were someone worth following.
That way, after you seized the throne, you might still be killed by another Pendragon due to the bloodline’s curse, but it would be better than total ruin and despair, wouldn’t it?
Uther understood this logic, Vortigern understood this logic, and I understood this logic.
So the Pendragons chose such a path of succession—but, since you finally decided not to be a King anymore, I respect your decision and am even happy for you.
Do you know, Mordred?
I was truly happy then, knowing you wouldn’t be killed by your children or sisters, and that you wouldn’t need to instigate your children or sisters to kill you.
Though it’s a short life, you don’t need to experience the painful parts…”
I found myself unable to continue.
I really couldn’t go on.
I felt somewhat discouraged because I felt I still hadn’t conveyed my true feelings.
There were too many parts here that could be misunderstood, too many parts that could be perceived as lies.
The logic before and after
I even wanted to tear out my heart just so Mordred could properly understand my true feelings and true thoughts.
After thinking about it, thinking about it carefully and seriously, I could ultimately only say the most helpless words of my life—
“If there are words you can’t understand, then wait until later to understand them.
Perhaps after experiencing enough, you will be able to.
However, I can guarantee that what I say is what I truly want to say in my heart; I don’t want to deceive you…
It’s just that the power of words is limited, and I can’t express it clearly…
Anyway…”
Having said this much, I really had nothing left to say.
On the screen, Mordred still had her head lowered.
Her bangs covered her face, preventing me from seeing her eyes.
What is she thinking now?
Will she resent me for only saying this now?
Will she misunderstand certain sentences or words?
Will she think that by not telling her before the expedition to Rome and only saying it now, I’m actually just placating her?
Will she be unable to reconcile this with the situation on the battlefield of Camlann and treat my words as mere perfunctory compromise?
Will she believe she is already mature enough and think the premise of these explanations is wrong?
Will the point she’s fixated on not even be my feelings at all?
I don’t know, I don’t understand, I can’t figure it out.
I have never been this nervous; no difficulty, however great, was harder than explaining these words clearly.
Time passed bit by bit, and for me, it was absolute torture, as if every second were a century.
After an unknown amount of time, I faced my final judgment.
Mordred looked up.
Her eyes were incredibly red, as if she had cried the whole night through.
Looking at her on the screen, I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten something very, very important.
—I seemed to have completely failed to explain why I said those things in Avalon before being taken away by the power of the prophecy.
If one carefully savors those words, it’s equivalent to telling the other three present that I had never loved anyone in my life, had never been loved, and that my life was filled with such massive suffering that I couldn’t hold on until the end no matter what…
I didn’t even dare imagine if those words implied a hatred for Britain, or if they could be misconstrued as something else.
But it was too late now…
My speech was over, and it was too late to explain those words.
Almost instantly, for the first time in twenty-two years, an emotion called “fear” filled my heart.
Yet in the next moment, Mordred opened her mouth, and words came out—
“Actually…
Father…
I…”
She seemed unable to put the feelings in her heart into words.
Yes, I held her; I pulled her into my embrace.
Tears quickly soaked my shirt.
She trembled violently, her breathing was rapid, yet she never let her vocal cords produce a sound.
Then, I smiled again—this time it was a real smile, not just a curve of the lips.
I wasn’t actually that happy; one could even say I wasn’t happy at all—all those words I said couldn’t express feelings as well as the actions of the person in my arms.
This made me feel a bit frustrated; after all, I had spent a great deal of effort and went through intense brainstorming to say those things.
But…
Mordred’s feelings were indeed conveyed to me without the slightest discount.
At least for a considerable time in the future, I wouldn’t need to worry about Mordred’s psychological state anymore.
In this way, my goal was completely achieved.