(This chapter is from Artoria’s first-person perspective.)
I opened my eyes.
In my field of vision was a woman wearing a veil.
I was being held tightly, so tightly by her that breathing was somewhat difficult, as if I were being coiled by a python.
She was cold—not that she herself was cold, but rather that her whole body had been soaked by rain, making me feel only the cold.
I could not see her eyes, but just by her features, I could confirm her identity.
“…Royal Sister?”
Responding to the King, a drop fell onto her face.
Was it rain?
No…
This drop was very warm, not cold at all, completely different from rain.
—Then it could only be tears, and tears of sorrow at that.
This left me somewhat confused.
In my memory, she had never shed tears.
I truly could not connect “Morgan” and “tears,” to the point where I felt a dreamlike sensation, as if I were in a dream.
…Right, a dreamlike sensation?
I strained to turn my head, looking to the other side.
Could it be that I was truly dreaming?
“Let me explain instead.”
A voice like wind chimes rang in the King’s ears.
I recognized it; it was Merlin’s voice, her voice as melodious as a lark at any time.
The voice came from the other side; it seemed Morgan was deliberately avoiding Merlin, or did not want me to see her.
Considering the relationship between the two of them had always been terrible, I could understand this point.
“According to the prophecy, King Arthur and the rebel Mordred both fell at Camlann.
Afterwards, King Arthur would be taken by the three Ladies of the Lake to the paradise, Avalon.
There, the wounds on King Arthur’s body would be healed, gaining eternal life, becoming the ‘King of Past and Future.’ One day in the future, when Britain is once again plunged into the danger of destruction, King Arthur will leave Avalon and save his people once again—this is the final step of the prophecy; only when this is achieved will the King’s story be completely over.”
I blinked, feeling somewhat bewildered, listening in bewilderment.
However, I was not a particularly stupid person.
I quickly remembered that I had indeed died at Camlann, and had died under Mordred’s sword; this point was exactly the same as the legend of King Arthur, even the location of the fatal wound was exactly the same.
And the flowers here were blooming so vividly; it was clearly not the Britain in my memory.
Then it could only be as Merlin said, I had already come to Avalon, achieved resurrection, or even eternal life, to live here forever.
Understanding this point, my mood became not very good.
Death was not a terrifying thing.
At the moment death arrived, what I felt was no longer the pain in my head, but a thorough peace and sense of security, just like after not sleeping for thirty-six hours, finally being able to lie on a soft bed; I lost consciousness almost instantly, falling into a sleep with a duration of forever.
As a result, having only slept for two or three hours, I was called up by the person beside me, saying that my work was not yet finished, that the project was still one last step away from being handed over—if it were anyone else, their mood could not possibly be good, right?
Having hurt so many people, having caused so many people to die because of me, yet in the end, I still could not discard this superficial shell of “Artoria”…
I really did not want to face the reality of now.
What makes me feel even worse is that the person I hurt the most is holding me tightly at this very moment.
As a result, I can only gaze at the end of the flower sea, remaining silent, unable to say a single word.
Even in paradise, the atmosphere gradually becomes oppressive.
No one opens their mouth, and no one makes a sound.
However, Morgan is holding me far too tightly, and I am far too weak; I cannot struggle at all.
I sigh in my heart and give up struggling.
“…That request was asking for the impossible from the start; it’s only normal that it couldn’t be done.” I try to make my voice sound as energetic as possible, but my body is still weak, I can’t muster any strength, and my speaking speed is very slow.
“I thought too much…
I thought that this way fewer people would die, and at least things could get better first—”
The atmosphere falls into silence once again.
It seems no one can speak; it seems no one dares to speak.
It’s as if, even though I am dead, everyone still regards me as King Arthur, that aloof tyrant.
A sense of frustration gathers in my heart, making me feel even more miserable.
If that’s the case, then let’s continue…
The right to decide whether the work is finished usually doesn’t lie in the hands of the actor.
If the theater director and the script editor say the performance isn’t over, then one can only continue acting.
“…Royal Sister, please let me go.”
However, Morgan does not let go; instead, she holds on even tighter, to the point where I feel like my ribs are about to break.
She is still unwilling to let me go, as if if she let go, I would suddenly disappear and never be found again.
I have no choice.
I can only accept the reality with the mindset of “if she wants to hold me, let her, after all, she is my sister.”
“So…
Merlin, at this point, have you finally understood the essence of the prophecy?” I ask weakly.
“Future possibilities are infinite; both magi and scholars believe this because it is fundamentally a fact,” Merlin says softly.
“However, there is a prerequisite: the future must not yet be determined.
Once an existence truly observes information from ahead in the torrent of space-time, the possibilities of the future are stripped away, becoming a certainty.
Thus, no matter how hard Great God Odin tried or how well he prepared, Ragnarok would still come, and the world would still be destroyed because of it.”
Listening to Merlin’s words, knowledge from my past life surfaces in my mind.
“Collapse of probability?
The observer effect?” I say involuntarily.
Merlin freezes for a moment, seemingly trying to understand the meaning of my words.
As time progresses, words are endowed with new concepts and meanings—for example, ‘amber’ and ‘electricity’ are the same word in latin.
It is now the fifth century AD.
Merlin does not possess knowledge that transcends time and space.
Therefore, even she cannot understand modern physics terms in latin whose meanings have been highly refined and purified; at most, she can only try to understand them based on experience.
In the past, when Merlin and I were discussing things, this situation happened often.
After a long while, Merlin finally gives an answer.
“…Yes, my King.
An observer has observed a certain moment in the future, and he himself has become an anchor; as long as he still exists, that future moment is determined.
The endpoints of all roads that originally led in various directions are all fixed.
No matter how you switch paths, you will only arrive at the same place.” Merlin pauses again.
This is her habit.
Whenever she reaches a turning point in her speech, she pauses.
“However, the prophecy of ‘King Arthur’ is not like that.
This prophecy is composed of many nodes, and these nodes connect into a certain path.
No matter how the situation changes, even if King Arthur himself is completely reversed, this path still will not change at all…”
Looking back, these twenty-two years of my life seem to have been a recurrence of King Arthur.
Taking up the sword of selection, defeating the Usurper King, conquering a vast territory, and even being ‘betrayed’ at the end—the composition of the nodes was no different from King Arthur’s.
But outside of these nodes, my life was completely different—I am a replica of Vortigern, not a newly designed type of transcendent.
My nature is darkness, not light.
My relationship with Mordred is very good, and my relationship with Morgan is also very good; there is not a shred of hatred to speak of between us.
My relationship with Guinevere is terrible; we have hardly ever spoken properly.
I have never gained the support of the common people, only a deep-rooted fear.
Consequently, the frustration in my heart grew heavier, almost reaching the point of depression.
“But the prophecy of ‘King Arthur’ has one decisive difference from other prophecies: it has no ending.
No one knows what happens after entering Avalon.
Similarly, no one knows when King Arthur will return.
Thus, the story ends here—according to what the King said before, this story has an ‘open ending.’ That is to say, only when King Arthur comes to paradise does King Arthur regain possibilities…”
“…Merlin, what does this have to do with me?” I ask.
“Because the existence that made that prophecy wasn’t me, nor any other magus.” Merlin pauses again, this time for an unexpectedly long time, as if Merlin herself is very reluctant to say it.
“…The person who made the prophecy of ‘King Arthur’ was none other than you yourself, my King!
From the very beginning, from the moment you awakened as Artoria, you have been cursing yourself, determined to become the King no matter what, determined to complete the story of the King no matter what…”
I am stunned.
Because this has been my suspicion all along.
My life is indeed different from Artoria’s, yet it is exactly the same as the lies I told during the Holy Grail War.
Merlin is wrong; this is a locked trajectory, a pre-written background.
My actions and my words have all just been playing the role of the person named ‘Artoria.’ From beginning to end, I was not her; from beginning to end, I was just a commoner who had already passed away.
I cannot become the King, I should not become the King; the only person who can become the King is ‘Artoria.’
The air falls into silence for the third time.
An impulse wells up in my heart: since the story has ended, shouldn’t I introduce myself?
Aren’t stage plays all like that?
The end of the story doesn’t mean the end of the play; the actors will introduce themselves and thank the audience for their support, and the behind-the-scenes staff will come to the front to talk about the preparation and backstage work.
Only when the entire troupe bows to the audience on stage simultaneously, amidst the audience’s applause, does the stage play finally reach its conclusion.
Thinking this, I begin to follow this impulse in my heart.
“Actually…
I am not King Arthur at all…
nor am I Artoria at all.”
No one responds, and no one makes any extra movements.
The only thing I can feel is Morgan’s body suddenly trembling violently.
Then, I continue: “I am just an ordinary person, an extremely ordinary person.
I experienced death, and only after that did I become Artoria.
In the process, I touched the Holy Grail.
Perhaps it was precisely because of the power of the Holy Grail that my words became language and determined my life…
Just like that, lies became a reality that had to be fulfilled.
I am like an actor in a play, playing the King, playing Artoria…
But…”
At this point, I cannot go on.
As for who I was in the past, I have already forgotten.
I can’t remember my name, I can’t remember if I had parents, and I can’t remember if I had any pets.
In my memory, I only recall that I had a past life, and occasionally I can dream of it, but it’s limited to just that.
It seems my consciousness made a judgment long ago that those were all unimportant things, so it just deleted and cleared them away.
The air falls silent for the fourth time.
This silence is more oppressive than any before it, almost suffocating.
“But…
but…”
I want to break this silence, but unfortunately, I fail.
I am quite clumsy with words, and I easily fall into situations where I don’t know how to explain things.
This situation makes me very uncomfortable; I instinctively frown and try hard to think of how to explain, my heart feeling anxious.
But the more anxious I get, the more my brain fails to recall, leading to a vicious cycle until I clench my hands, somewhat angry.
“But…
but…”
I close my mouth and close my eyes.
Because she was soaked by the rain, Morgan’s body is very cold, and I feel a bit cold too. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
This cold sensation calms my anxiety slightly, or at least prevents it from swelling so rapidly.
During the fifth silence, the atmosphere becomes increasingly oppressive.
I take deep breaths, yet I feel as if I am suffocating.
“Arto…”
Morgan finally speaks.
Only, her voice is very raspy and not pleasant to hear at all.
Morgan only spoke half of the King’s name, unable to continue because of what I had said before.
She paused for a moment.
That pause made my heart ache for her—it seemed I had hurt her once again.
“…Do you hate being a King that much?
Do you hate being Artoria that much?”
After thinking for a while, I decided to tell the truth: “…Yes.”
“Have you hated it from the very beginning?”
“Yes.”
“Then…
why did you pull out the sword of selection?”
“I suppose there was a bit of wishful thinking in my heart, a feeling that I might not be able to pull it out.”
“…Why did you disregard the thoughts of your generals and face Vortigern all alone?”
“My nature is also darkness.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness.
If the generals had entered the city with me, they would have only died in vain…
If my nature were light, perhaps we could have gone together?
Unfortunately, I am not light; I have always been darkness.”
“…Why…
Mordred…?”
“Darkness must eventually be dispersed.
Besides, using dark magical energy is quite taxing on the body.
I developed many ailments as a child; for instance, my joints ache easily when it rains…
With all those reasons combined, I felt I couldn’t keep going.
Moreover, I am the King of Albion; I couldn’t exactly end my own life.
My reputation wasn’t great either.
And I trusted Mordred, and Mordred felt our relationship was good…
Having no other choice, I asked Mordred.”
“…Why did it have to be Mordred?”
“As long as one is King, a Pendragon is invincible.
This is part of the bloodline, both a blessing and a curse.
The only one who can kill a Pendragon who is King is another Pendragon.
Sir Gawain couldn’t do it, Sir Lancelot couldn’t do it, and Sir Galahad certainly couldn’t do it.
Only Mordred could…
I hesitated for over two years, unable to make up my mind.
Because the throne would be too cruel for Mordred, and I hoped the Pendragon lineage would end with me…
In the end, it turned out like this.
But it’s alright; after Mordred did what she did, she didn’t think of becoming King…
Even with an ending like this, it’s still better than becoming King, right?”
“…Was I…
not an option?”
“Royal Sister wouldn’t work.
You were the intended King before me.
It was only because of Vortigern’s appearance that I was born.
Besides, Royal Sister, you were a Divine Spirit before, weren’t you?
The famous Goddess of Death, Morgana.
Later, you became the Queen of the paradise, Avalon, gathering the entire mystery of Britain, so to speak.
If Royal Sister had done it, no one would have been able to break your shackles…
That would have caused many problems, like this history becoming a Lostbelt or something…
As expected, I still didn’t want Royal Sister to endure so much pain.”
Drip, drip…
Water droplets fell one after another onto my face.
I forced my eyes open, and as my vision cleared, I realized that Morgan was crying again.
This time she cried so sorrowfully, so intensely, her tears gushing out like a flood through an open gate.
Forcing my lips into a slight arc, I raised my heavy left hand to touch her face and wipe away her tears.
“Don’t cry…
Royal Sister.
If Royal Sister cries, she won’t be as beautiful…”
If the lies I once told were the wishes I made to the Holy Grail, and that tainted Grail would only grant the wisher’s desire in the most malicious way, I would much rather bear that malice myself than let anyone else suffer it.
The story of King Arthur only needs King Arthur as the protagonist.
The story of King Arthur only needs to end with King Arthur’s death.
I am the only one standing on the stage, the only one who can perform for everyone; as long as I play the role of King Arthur well, it is enough.
…That is what I have always believed.