(This chapter is from a third-person perspective.)
A noblewoman in a long blue dress walked across the battlefield under the setting sun, like a blooming blue rose.
She walked slowly; though she was clearly treading on this earth, she seemed like a distant phantom.
The lady walked to Mordred’s side and, ignoring the blood on the ground, knelt down.
The spear had already pierced the heart, blood circulation had long since ceased, and the individual named Mordred had completely died.
A black veil covered the noblewoman’s face, revealing neither sorrow nor joy.
She simply pulled the spear from Mordred’s body, used her slender right hand to stroke the wound, causing the void to heal and the armor to be repaired.
Then, she removed Mordred’s helmet, revealing that youthful face—at this moment, Mordred’s golden eyes were wide open, and in her dilated pupils, one could faintly see pain, unwillingness, and a sorrow that reached the deepest depths of her soul.
“It is alright, Mordred…
You have done well enough.
Everything…
is already over.”
The noblewoman gently closed Mordred’s eyes, wiped away Mordred’s tear stains, and then stood up and walked to the side of the King.
Her slender hands trembled.
The noblewoman knelt down as well, carefully holding the King’s body and letting her lie in her arms.
Then, she similarly removed the King’s helmet, revealing the original appearance that was covered in blood and gore, incomparably miserable.
The noblewoman lightly touched the King’s wound, but in that instant, as if struck by electricity, as if burned, her slender hand immediately retracted.
The noblewoman took two deep breaths, and her trembling right hand tried to touch the wound again.
Afterwards, healing magic flashed from her fingertips, and the noblewoman, following the appearance of the King in her memory, caused all the wounds to completely heal.
The King closed her eyes, a slight curve appearing at the corners of her mouth, quiet as if merely falling asleep, serene as if merely finding release.
The noblewoman opened her mouth.
A thousand words gathered in her chest, yet not a single word could be spoken.
It only transformed into a heavy exhale, then sobbing, her arms tightly wrapping around the King’s head, pulling her into her embrace, feeling the heart-piercing pain, feeling the sin like towering flames, groaning hoarsely, losing all ability to think, her whole body trembling violently from the pain.
Time passed slowly, the sunset gradually disappeared, the earth became dark, leaving only a final glimmer of afterglow on the horizon.
This pain, this pain of losing the King and also losing her child, continued to torture the noblewoman.
It was as if the noblewoman was savoring this pain, letting it fill her mind and spirit, transforming it into fuel for the karmic fire, keeping it merely as pain, and not letting it transform into bitter hatred and the madness that burns everything away—perhaps, it was just because the King did not like those two things?
Suddenly, after sensing something, the noblewoman used all her strength to suppress the pain and wiped the tears from her face.
A female was approaching—a Female Mage with long silver hair, white robes, and holding an ornate wooden staff.
At least in front of this Female Mage, the noblewoman believed she absolutely could not lose her composure.
“Merlin…
at this point in time, what more do you intend to do?”
The noblewoman’s voice was calm and gentle, like a lake as quiet as a mirror, carrying a distinct power.
The Female Mage, whom the noblewoman called “Merlin,” sighed heavily.
“What I intend to do, surely you understand, Morgan?
Although it is tragic, Artoria cannot die yet.
She must complete the prophecy, otherwise things will become very troublesome.
I think that if she were still conscious, she would surely do the same, right?”
“…Then step over my corpse first.”
The noblewoman kept her gaze fixed on the King’s face, refusing to look away even a fraction.
The Female Mage scratched her head, seemingly having anticipated this situation long ago, yet still appearing exceptionally troubled.
“Morgan, is this really okay?
The result of going against the prophecy is that this period of history will be pruned by the Root.
Everything she has done will become meaningless; this country, these people of Britain, all will be meaningless.
Even our feelings, each and every one of them, will become meaningless.
Even though she is covered in wounds and blood, Artoria has exhausted everything of herself to reach this day—what is this for?
What is worth such sacrifice from her?
Morgan, you who flow with the blood of Pendragon, you clearly know better than me, a half-incubus who does not understand what emotions are, right?”
“I understand all of this.
But I absolutely will not allow that to happen…” The noblewoman paused, trying to suppress the sorrow that was about to overflow and turn into hatred, and said: “She has suffered too much.
Whether it is true death or eternal sleep, these are the only things I can give her.
She no longer has to smile while spreading grease on herself, turning herself into a raging fire, just so that people in the cold winter can feel a real, truly existing warmth.
If she could truly continue walking, she would continue by her own will—but now, she has burned out completely.”
Morgan was calm; she did not refute, nor was there anything to refute, but instead stated her decision: “If this history is fated to be erased, then I will turn it into a Singularity.
If this history is fated to be burned, then I will turn it into a Lostbelt.
However, letting her continue to live is absolutely not allowed.
Forcing her to continue living is the greatest torture for her—look at this battlefield, Merlin.
If you still have even a shred of humanity in your spirit, you should be able to understand why both sides, who were originally brothers, view each other as enemies, and you should be able to understand why this island has become so mad.”
Does the Female Mage not understand the reason?
Of course she understands; she understands better than anyone, she even understands better than Morgan.
But it is precisely because she understands better than anyone that her spirit understands the King’s sacrifice, and her vision is not limited solely to the suffering the King experienced.
—At least, the Female Mage herself believes so.
Moreover, she possesses a pair of eyes that can see through eras.
These eyes allow her to understand many inside stories that others could not possibly know.
“…Although it sounds incredible, Morgan, what I am about to say is the truth.
I swear by my remaining humanity—the one who made those prophecies was not me, but Artoria herself.
Her birth, the fall of the Vile King, the rise of Britain, including this civil war that put her to death, were all prophecies she made based on her own will and judgment, for herself and this island.
Now, her prophecy has not yet ended; it is still missing the final step.
If this step is not completed, it is not as simple as history disappearing—some very bad things, which no one can bear, will happen.”
The noblewoman did not answer, did not respond.
She simply held the King’s corpse gently in her arms.
No movement, no expression, not even tears flowed.
The Female Mage thought the noblewoman did not understand what she was saying and decided to explain it completely.
“Artoria…
her traces will disappear—perhaps she will be replaced by another Artoria, that is, the Artoria of ‘pan-human history.’ Every time we recall this name, the face that appears in our minds will no longer be hers, but another person who is the same yet different.
Even though we both have non-human elements in our bloodlines, in this moment, occasionally there is a feeling that something important has been forgotten.
However, in the end, there is still a human part within our essence.
As long as one is human, one cannot avoid this subconscious replacement, and eventually, even her appearance will be completely forgotten.”
This is the manifestation of the Counter Force correcting history.
Alaya, one of the Counter Forces, is the gathering and condensation of humanity’s subconscious, the abstract entity of the existence known as “human civilization.” To maintain its own existence, Alaya acts upon humanity.
Either by forming contracts with great souls to make them Guardians, or by replacing the subconscious of humans to cover up things that should not have happened, but did indeed occur.
In the world of mages, at least among mages of Merlin and Morgan’s level, this is an open secret.
Does Morgan not believe this?
Does she not know this?
She knows, and she also believes.
But she had no expression, simply holding the King gently, gently, and tenderly.
Then, her lips, which had become nearly transparent from sorrow, moved slightly—
“…I will transform into a non-human existence.
I will transform the people of Britain into non-human existences.
Then, I will strip this history, this island, away from the planet’s concept—this way, no one will ever forget her.”
The Female Mage frowned deeply.
An emotion called anger burned in her chest.
What kind of selfish woman could make such an excessive decision?
What kind of twisted emotion could let things develop to this extent?
The Female Mage could not understand—in fact, the moment Morgan wove her conspiracy and decided to kill the King, she had already failed to understand.
She felt that Morgan had already gone mad, lost her rationality, had her ability to think logically stripped away, and was drowning in complex emotions.
“Once humanity is lost, those emotions will also vanish.
Guilt will turn into confusion, respect and love will transform into alienation, and passion will rapidly cool.
Furthermore, you, and those people of Britain, will all become like faeries, your spiritual existence no different from that of insects, lacking rationality and reason, existing only in chaos and instinct, merely alien entities resembling humans—perhaps, one day, you will even go mad, and you will hate Artoria, hate her more than anyone else…
Is this what you truly desire?”
“Artoria was able to sacrifice everything of her own…” At this point, Morgan paused, no longer so calm.
“…Perhaps I cannot do it, perhaps such an ending is even worse than destruction…
But, at least, I am willing to try.
I will act as the gravekeeper for Artoria, guarding everything she sacrificed and hoped for.”
“And then wait to be killed by another Pendragon?”
Morgan pressed her lips together, biting them tightly.
Blood welled up from the wounds on her lips, filling her mouth.
She knew it.
She understood it.
She grasped it.
Everyone knew who the “another Pendragon” the Female Mage spoke of was.
Everyone understood that the result of doing so would be meaningless.
Even the King could not escape her own prophecy; could Morgan do it?
Morgan did not know…
or rather, she did not want to know.
Morgan forced herself to calm down.
Even if there was a raging storm within, she had to maintain a calm exterior.
“Merlin, let me tell you a secret you do not know.” Morgan’s voice was very soft, having almost lost all its strength.
“The one who requested that Mordred kill Artoria…
was she herself.
She said…
if there ever came a day where she truly could not continue to fulfill the duties of a King, Mordred should, according to the curse of the Pendragon, kill her and ascend to the throne…
Mordred told me this and asked for my opinion…
I could only say to her, do as your heart desires…”
Brother kills brother, child kills parent…
Kin slaughtering kin, bloodlines killing bloodlines…
This was the fate that the Pendragon family could never escape, no matter what.
The King’s choice was not to escape, but to face it, even to actively embrace it.
However, Mordred’s final choice was to end the Pendragon, to end this curse.
Together with her most beloved father, together with this Albion kingdom destined for destruction, to welcome the established and fated ruin.
However, the Pendragon had not ended.
There was still Morgan remaining in the world.
She had once been a goddess, and later became the queen of the paradise.
She became Morgan, became a Pendragon, possessing the aptitude and qualification to become the Albion kingdom.
If she did not abandon this identity, the Pendragon would not end, and this curse would not end; it would continue to play out forever.
The Female Mage took a heavy breath, then exhaled heavily.
With such cursed blood flowing through her veins, anyone could understand that Morgan actually wanted to be with Mordred, with Artoria, to embrace the same fate, to obtain the same peace, to achieve the same liberation.
But understanding does not equal agreement.
Moreover, in the eyes of the Female Mage, this was simply stupid to the extreme.
“And then what?
You become a non-human existence, the people of Britain all become non-human existences, and then what?
What will happen then?
You know better than I do, Morgan.
You simply do not want to think about it, do not want to face it—then, I will tell you loudly.
Artoria will be resurrected under your stupidity and distortion, to crusade against you, to defeat you, and then…
and then!
She will once again ascend to the throne, wear the crown, and become a pathetic king of this pathetic land!
Oh, Morgan…
Oh, Morgan!
Just how stupid do you have to be, to be willing to let her continue to bear such a fate!
How do you expect her to face the life that follows!”
For a moment, tears blurred her vision.
The person in her arms was the one she loved most, yet her body only felt cold.
It was an extreme, bone-chilling cold.
But, before the tears had time to fall, the person in her arms moved.
Yes, she truly moved.
It was an action achieved by using the very last shred of strength, burning the very last shred of soul.
“…Sir Bedivere.”
The person in her arms did not open her eyes, because she could not.
She gently raised her right hand, her index finger pointing to the sword beside her, then pointing to the spear in the distance.
Words weak to the extreme came from her mouth.
“…The sword and the spear…
return them for me…
please…”
“I am sorry…
in the end…
I did not accomplish it…
really…
I am sorry…”