(This chapter is from Artoria’s first-person perspective.)
Mordred cried for a long time.
There was no clock in the living room, so I didn’t know how much time had passed, but it must have been at least half an hour.
Toward the end, I couldn’t quite tell if she was crying or if she simply didn’t want to leave.
It didn’t really matter to me; she could stay as long as she wanted.
At worst, we’d just go out to eat tonight and I wouldn’t cook dinner.
Eventually, however, she left my embrace.
Her eyes were terribly red, the whites bloodshot, and both her upper and lower eyelids were swollen from crying.
It was the first time she had cried this hard since the day I first took her in, and it made my heart ache for her.
“Mordred, do you feel a bit better?” I asked softly, reaching out to wipe the tears from her face.
“I…” She still couldn’t speak.
I just smiled like that, looking at her, gazing into her eyes.
This time, although she still wanted to look away, she ultimately steeled her heart, looking at me, looking at her reflection in my eyes, and then summoned the courage to ask, as if facing the rest of her life: “Does Father…
feel a bit better?”
“I have always been like this.
I can’t feel myself getting better, nor can I feel myself getting worse.”
“Father…
that…
I…
I…” She got stuck again for a long while.
Only after several deep breaths, and after her mind finally calmed down, did she say: “Sorry…
Father, I made you worry.”
“I wasn’t actually that worried.
After all, Mordred, your feelings and my feelings are things we both understand.
It’s just that past events caused us to have doubts.
But they were only doubts; they wouldn’t develop into anything else, right?”
“I have one more question…
it’s…
does Father really not hate me?”
This question left me a bit confused; I even blinked seven or eight times.
Did she not hear that long speech I gave earlier, or did she find it too rambling halfway through and stop paying attention?
I hadn’t been angry this whole time.
I didn’t expect that this question from Mordred would actually make me angry.
But I am not a reckless person; I decided to use some rhetoric to test Mordred.
“The answer to that question was actually explained quite clearly just now, wasn’t it?
Do you need me to repeat it?”
“I…
just…
I…”
Mordred lowered her head again.
Her eyes held not relief, but disappointment.
Seeing this reaction, I understood completely—it wasn’t that she thought I hated her, but that she believed I should hate her.
The source was likely those two books, especially ‘Le Morte d’Arthur.’ They had driven a wedge into her consciousness, making her feel that Mordred was the culprit who destroyed Britain and killed King Arthur—a true child of the devil who should never have been born.
Gently patting Mordred on the shoulder, I stood up from the sofa.
“Alright, Mordred, it’s getting late; I should start cooking.
This is my first time cooking, so I’ll have to learn as I go.
Otherwise, what I make will surely be inedible kitchen waste.
The ingredients were bought earlier, and the dinner menu was decided long ago: it’s your favorite, ‘Lamb, Mushroom, Wood Ear, and Tofu Hot and Sour Medley Soup.’ However, for balanced nutrition, I’m going to add some spinach.
You have to eat all the spinach; no being a picky eater, understood?”
“Uh…
that…
Father, don’t you need my help?”
“It’s just medley soup; no help needed.
I’ll take my time with it.”
It really was just medley soup, very simple to make.
I chopped the ingredients, tossed them into the pot in order and at the right times, gave it an occasional stir, and finally added salt, soy sauce, plenty of pepper, Zhenjiang Aromatic Vinegar, Thirteen-spice Powder, and the chopped spinach.
I thickened it with a flour slurry, and a flavorful bowl of ‘Lamb Hot and Sour Soup’ was complete.
I took a final taste.
To my great surprise, dinner was unexpectedly delicious.
The aroma of the lamb, the acidity of the vinegar, the heat of the pepper, and the savory saltiness blended into a wonderful balance.
Because it had simmered for a long time, the ingredients—other than the spinach—were soft and refreshing, with an excellent mouthfeel.
Due to the differences in salt, pepper, and seasonings, this pot of soup in the 21st century was far tastier than anything from the 5th century.
I believe even the picky Sir Tristan would find this soup delicious.
Thinking about it, maybe it’s because the way recipes are learned has changed?
In old recipes, how much seasoning or salt to put in would only be blurred by the term ‘appropriate amount.’
However, 2014 was already well into the internet age.
Even for an ‘appropriate amount,’ as long as you compare the quantities in a video and combine it with your own taste, you can generally reach a conclusion that makes the food taste good.
Besides, with a name like ‘medley soup,’ there clearly aren’t many difficult parts.
You don’t need to worry much about the heat or master the timing precisely; it just needs to simmer for a while.
It’s among the simplest types of meals, with almost zero technical requirement.
It would be quite rare to manage to make a medley soup like this taste bad.
Since both Mordred and I have large appetites, and since soup isn’t particularly filling, I made a whole pot—the kind of tall stockpot used for noodles or soup, weighing nearly twenty kilograms.
After ladling out the thick soup and setting it on the living room table, Mordred and I finally began dinner at seven in the evening.
Savoring the medley soup, my entire body relaxed.
I marveled at modern convenience and the advanced state of the food industry.
Even a complete novice like me could easily prepare delicious food.
Then, I glanced at Mordred.
I thought she would be immersed in the meal as well, but she still looked absent-minded, her attention not on the food—even though I had cooked it personally.
It seemed that even after crying for so long, various emotions still lingered in her heart.
My words had only temporarily suppressed the symptoms without curing the root cause—only when she truly grows up and takes on her own responsibilities will she be able to move on completely.
So, I didn’t speak, letting her remain in her absent-minded state.
I had finished most of the large pot of medley soup, eating a full eight bowls, while she was just starting her third.
Finally, she emerged from her daze, looked up at me, and asked a question.
“Father…
where do you think Mother is right now?”
“She should be in Avalon, shouldn’t she?
Setting aside the identity of Morgan, she is the Queen of Avalon.
It’s the twenty-first century now; the connection between the Sea of Stars and the physical world was severed long ago.
Perhaps Merlin has a way to leave Avalon, but as the Queen, she probably has no way to leave…
Sorry, Mordred, I don’t understand these mystical matters well, so I can only guess.”
“In other words, for the next few years, will it be just you and me living here together, Father?”
“Hard to say…
after all, our school isn’t exactly ordinary.”
Hearing me say this, Mordred’s eyes immediately lit up like a cat that had found a toy.
“What did Father discover?”
“Did you notice Katagiri Rie’s eyes?”
“The homeroom teacher?”
“That’s her.”
“…There didn’t seem to be anything special about them?”
“Pale blue irises are a physiological trait of Northern Europeans.
However, she is undoubtedly Japanese…”
Having put it that way, it was impossible for Mordred not to understand what I meant.
She paused for a moment and immediately offered a guess—
“Mystic Eyes?”
“Most likely,” I confirmed.
“And they are Mystic Eyes that cannot be deactivated, remaining permanently active.
As for their use…
they probably aren’t high-level Mystic Eyes; I didn’t sense anything abnormal, and neither did you.
They might just be ordinary ones for detecting traces of magical energy.
Otherwise, back in the office, you and I—as the Dragons of Britain—should have felt something.”
“Then…
what about the other students?
Are there other Magus?”
“I don’t know…
but it makes no difference whether there are Magus or not.
This is the twenty-first century; the Great Source is completely cut off, and the connection between the physical world and the Mystery has long been lost.
Even if there are modern Magus, their abilities and level cannot be compared to our era; the gap between them and Morgan or Merlin is like the moon compared to a firefly.
Currently, our physical fitness is still at the level of the fifth century, and we can still release magical energy.
Modern Magus pose no threat to us whatsoever.”
Hearing me say this, Mordred gave a disdainful smile: “Father is absolutely right; modern people are indeed very weak.
Those students eat so well every day, yet they’re gasping for air after running just fifteen hundred meters.
They’re pathetic.
Panting aside, they run so slowly; if they were in the wild, they probably couldn’t even catch a wild chicken!”
“Ahem…
they just have too good living conditions and lack exercise; it’s not that they’re really so weak they’d gasp for air just from a run.”
I wanted to defend modern people, but with a living example having occurred just today, I really had no evidence or basis for a defense—after all, what Mordred said was the truth.
Residents living in modern cities truly lack exercise and training.
Forget running; they probably couldn’t even handle basic manual labor like digging trenches or setting up camp.
However, seeing how well I’ve adapted to modern life, I suspect I was a modern person in my past life as well.
Based on this sense of identity, and to help Mordred integrate better into the modern era, I had to say a few more words.
“Actually, if they keep up with training, they can still reach the level of the ordinary commoners from our era.
If anything, the various abilities of ordinary humans haven’t changed significantly since the dawn of human history—or rather, they’ve become stronger, because modern diets are much better.
With just a month of training, the fitness of a modern commoner would surely be stronger than a fifth-century commoner who never had a full meal.” Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Mordred still had a look of disdain, clearly not taking my words to heart.
But even after saying all this, Mordred still seemed absent-minded, only just starting her fourth bowl.
Although there was still plenty of soup in the pot—
“Mordred, what were you thinking about just now?”
“…I miss Mother a little.”
“Morgan…
no wonder you asked that question.”
“It’s just…
I’m worried about Mother.
Her heart is actually very sensitive.
If she’s really been locked in Avalon for fifteen centuries, I really don’t know what she’ll have become…
it must be very painful and difficult, right?”
“So, what do you want to do?”
“I want to contact some modern Magus and see if there’s any way to find a path to Avalon.
Even if I can’t find one, at least I’ll have tried, right?
Maybe I could even help Mother by accident.”
“And what about the HEMA Club?
You can’t just propose starting a club and then give up on it immediately.”
“Father, then what do you think I should do?”
Being sealed in the paradise of Avalon for fifteen centuries would indeed be a very painful thing.
But I didn’t think that was the case.
Neither Morgan nor Merlin are weak beings.
Furthermore, the flow of time in the Sea of Stars is different from the physical world, and Avalon is Morgan’s domain.
Theoretically, it’s impossible for them to do nothing and just wait in Avalon for fifteen centuries—they are beings who take action, who have ties, and who have left their names in the legends of King Arthur.
Thinking of this, my phrasing changed from guidance to explanation: “I believe in Morgan.
And I believe in Merlin.
If they were acting alone, they might indeed fail to find us.
But if they cooperate, there is no problem in the world that can stump them—and as it happens, in this matter, I believe they will definitely cooperate.”
“But…
Mother and that witch have a terrible relationship, right?
Every time they meet, I feel like they’re about to start a fight.”
“Ahem…
They actually have already started fighting, just in a way that we can’t observe.”
Mordred froze for a moment, but quickly understood what I meant.
Morgan and Merlin’s feelings have already been expressed very clearly, and I understand them all.
In the past, there were many times when it was only a step away, and it even led to Mordred being born as a homunculus…
However, some things must ultimately end here; it is impossible, and it shouldn’t have a result.
It’s not that there’s a problem with anyone’s feelings, but rather that objective reality can only go this far.
Perhaps adolescents have unrealistic fantasies about such things, but for mature adults, especially for someone at my stage and position, there are too many things that require compromise rather than just blindly charging forward.
But as luck would have it, Mordred really wanted to dig deeper into this issue.
“Come to think of it, what are that witch’s feelings toward Father?”
“…Mordred, are you done eating?
You have the energy to pry into these kinds of things?
How long do you plan on eating?
Nine-thirty?
Or are you planning to save the soup in the pot for tomorrow’s breakfast?”
I still have quite a bit of authority.
Hearing this from me…
“…It’s the same feeling as your mother’s.” At this point, there’s nothing left to hide, and I felt it was better to just say it.
“It wasn’t like this at the beginning.
I’m not entirely sure when it turned into this.
It was just that before the expedition to Rome, she seemed to sense something and said some suggestive things to me.
That was when I finally understood her intentions.”
Mordred’s eyes widened, her face full of disbelief: “…Huh?
It’s actually true!
No wonder Mother always treated that witch as an enemy!
Mother really is amazing, she saw that the witch had designs on Father long ago!
Seriously, Guinevere was already enough of a headache for Mother; I didn’t expect Mother to have even more enemies than I imagined!”
“However, this kind of feeling will not have a result.
The same goes for Morgan’s feelings toward me.
We are both very clear about this.
So even though we came from Camlann to Avalon, and this feeling has become almost impossible to suppress, it still cannot be spoken aloud—which is why I say that no matter how hostile their relationship was before, they will certainly cooperate sincerely and spare no effort in finding us.
Given their abilities, they will discover us on the very first day we arrive in the 21st century…
So, Mordred, you don’t need to worry about them.
They are actually quite strong women.”