(This chapter is from Artoria’s first-person perspective.)
It felt like I had taken a nap, and I opened my eyes.
My head was dizzy, and I had no strength in my body, just as if I had fallen asleep on an empty stomach.
But, after rubbing the corners of my eyes and seeing the environment I was currently in, I immediately woke up.
This was not the paradise known as Avalon, nor was it my bedroom in Camelot Castle, but a modern hotel—the room contained two single beds, the ceiling was low, and the cabinets and such were all very small, only able to hold some relatively small, temporary items.
The television hanging on the wall was not flush, and the brand was the Chinese characters “Changhong,” which looked quite cheap.
Aside from a very cheap hotel, I didn’t think anyone would renovate a place for resting in this manner.
On the bed on my other side, Mordred was lying down.
She was wearing loose white pajamas, lying on the bed in a “big” shape, breathing through her mouth, with drool flowing from the corner of her mouth onto the pillow, and her hair was messy; there was absolutely no sleeping posture to speak of.
I was also wearing pajamas now, the same style as Mordred’s, the material was poor, and it didn’t fit very well either.
I looked out the window—this place was located in the suburbs, the buildings were not high and looked slightly dilapidated.
Although there was the occasional sound of car engines, the frequency was low, and it was completely incomparable to a bustling city center.
The streets were very clean, and trees I didn’t recognize were planted everywhere.
The text on the signs was Japanese, and strangely, I could understand what was written in this Japanese, and it wasn’t translated into brittonic, as if Japanese were my native language.
I tried to recall what had happened before I fell asleep.
The story of King Arthur had ended, but the story of Artoria had not yet begun.
The wish power on my body allowed me to transcend time and space, and through my words, brought me to the modern era to fulfill my own wish.
Then, let me think carefully about the content of those words…
“…Like a fairy-tale dream, is it.”
I muttered to myself, unable to help but feel regret.
I shouldn’t have said those words; it would make my future very sad.
There is simply no such thing as a fairy-tale dream in this world—at least, that is the case for me.
Fairy tales mean childishness, and dreams mean unreal.
It is no longer possible for me to return to a childish age, nor can I accept unreal feelings.
There is no fiery passion in my mind, and there is no persistence or conviction in my heart.
Once a fairy tale passes through my mind, its realistic and cruel side is immediately revealed.
Once a dream passes through my consciousness, a sense of unrealistic absurdity lingers in my heart.
I am already an adult who can be called “elderly,” and I have passed the age where I can daydream.
“It’s just that, this time there is no script…
Could it be another Holy Grail War?
That shouldn’t be…
I should be a living person now, not a Servant, nor a Heroic Spirit…
What on earth is going on…”
I opened my right hand; it was definitely flesh and blood, not a semi-material body simulated by spirit particles.
There were no red Command Spells on the back of my hand.
However, despite being in the modern era, I, as an ancient brittonic person, felt no discomfort at all.
I could even feel my heart still producing a large amount of magical energy, like an energy furnace, rather than the Magic Circuits of a modern magus.
It is a pity that the holy sword and the holy spear have already been returned to the planet; otherwise, my strength would be almost exactly the same as when I was still King.
Is it really a Holy Grail War after all?
But even if it really were a Holy Grail War, it wouldn’t be normal.
“Forget it, I’ll just take it one step at a time.”
People must move forward after all; a healthy person cannot lie in bed forever without getting up.
Soldiers come, block them; water comes, cover it with earth.
If there are difficulties, solve them; if there are doubts, explore them.
If hungry, find food; if life is not going well, find a way to make it better—in short, lying in bed and sighing won’t solve anything.
Therefore, I reluctantly supported my body and sat on the edge of the bed, and then my right hand supported my repaired body, playing the new Artoria on a new stage and in a new script.
However, at the moment I got up, Mordred suddenly woke up.
She immediately got up and sat crouched on the bed, her whole body tense like a leopard ready to hunt, her golden vertical pupils vigilantly scanning the surroundings.
But upon seeing that the person who got up was me, she immediately relaxed—and then, a smile rose on the corner of her mouth, laughing just like a child of about ten years old, very clean, without a hint of falsehood.
“Good morning, Father…
Um, where have we arrived?”
“It should be the modern era, looking like the beginning of the twenty-first century, which is fifteen hundred years after our time.”
I answered truthfully.
“How is it, Mordred?
Do you have any special feelings?
For example, suddenly having some extra knowledge in your mind, or having mastered skills you didn’t have before?”
“Eh?
Mordred stood on the bed, blinking in confusion, very bewildered.
“Knowledge?
Skills?
This…
I don’t have any?”
I let go of the bathroom door handle with my right hand, approached Mordred, walked to the foot of the bed, and then pointed at the LCD TV hanging on the wall, asking: “Mordred, do you know what that thing is?”
Mordred looked blank.
After a long time, she carefully gave a guess.
“…Is it a mirror?”
“As expected, you don’t know…”
I crossed my left arm, my left hand holding my right elbow, my right hand holding my chin, and began to think.
After I had more or less figured out a train of thought, I checked the room to see if there were any clues or evidence.
There is usually a list on the hotel nightstand, which would write down what is in the room and what the price is.
This room was the same, but what I cared about was the text on it—as expected, it was the same as the signs in the stores outside, all in Japanese.
However, there was nothing worth looking at on it, and it couldn’t provide any information at all, so I continued to search.
Under my pillow, I found a wallet—no wonder I slept so uncomfortably; it was all this wallet’s fault.
Inside the wallet, besides bank cards and credit cards, there were also passports for me and Mordred.
The country the passports belonged to was the United Kingdom, and they were brand new, with no other records besides Japan.
The passports had our respective ID photos.
It showed my name as “Aria,” age 15.
Mordred’s name was “Pendragon Matori,” also age 15.
“Mordred, can you understand the text on this?” I asked her, holding her passport.
“Uh…
It seems I really can understand it.
It’s very strange.
And I can actually read it out…” Mordred answered unconfidently.
This passport had both English and Japanese, which easily caused confusion.
“Then let’s communicate in Japanese from now on.
brittonic is already a dead language; no one uses it anymore.”
I said emotionlessly, immediately switching the language mode to Japanese: “Although Welsh, Cornish, and Breton still exist, they don’t have much to do with the brittonic of fifteen hundred years ago.
To avoid trouble, Japanese is the best choice.”
“That is to say…
has Albion been destroyed after all?”
Mordred lowered her head, her eyes full of frustration and disappointment.
I didn’t have any particular feeling about this; after all, it was something that couldn’t be helped.
“Destruction was inevitable.
The composition of the brittonic people is different from ordinary humans; they are born with the blood of fairies in their bodies.
Thus, after the decline of mystery, they gradually became unable to adapt to the environment and could not survive and reproduce.”
“However, it cannot be considered a complete destruction; the current Wales, Southern Scotland, England, and Brittany can all be considered remnants of that Albion kingdom from back then.
They still have the blood of the brittonic people flowing in them, it is just a matter of the proportion.”
So-called nations have always been the result of constant fusion while maintaining relative independence.
And this is even more true for the current Britain.
The brittonic people, Angles, saxons, Norse, the Norse descendants known as Normans, Franks, the Frank descendants known as French, Frisians, and many other peoples fused together to form the current English people.
Moreover, they recognize the story of King Arthur, even regarding him as the ancestor of Britain; I do not have any particular hostility toward them.
“Then…
what about the story of King Arthur?” Mordred asked again.
“The story of King Arthur…
it can probably be considered a fabricated legend.”
“King Arthur himself was an existence similar to a divine child fabricated by the brittonic people after they came into contact with the White Church.
Because they were driven out, conquered, and assimilated by the Angles, saxons, and Norse, they retreated to the mountainous Wales to survive.”
“During the Plantagenet dynasty, due to the Crusades, the king attempted to unify the power within the country, so the legend of King Arthur spread widely, and it was even added with the political ambitions of the Plantagenet dynasty—subjugating Northern Europe, conquering France, and heavily damaging the so-called Roman Empire to become the most powerful king in Europe.”
“Thus, the kings of the Plantagenet Dynasty, who were themselves French and identified as such, modified their origins to claim King Arthur as their ancestor in order to suppress the local Anglo-Saxon nobility.
They, these Frenchmen, were not the outsiders; the locals were.
By the time of Richard I, known as ‘Lionheart,’ the promotion of the Arthurian legend became even more grandiose due to the King’s personal participation in the Crusades and his own disdain for England.
He even constructed a tomb specifically for King Arthur for commemoration and prayer.
The King himself believed he was the reincarnation of King Arthur, and his weapons, even his dining knives, were all bestowed with the name of the holy sword.”
“Ever since the Norman Conquest, the English throne has always followed a traceable bloodline. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
This recognition of inheritance and the pursuit of legitimacy meant that King Arthur’s story was not denied, but rather further passed down and developed.
However, with the end of the Hundred Years War, Britain completely lost all its continental territories, coinciding with the tail end of the Renaissance.
Thus, many concepts of chivalry were added to King Arthur, making him closer to a perfect knight than a perfect king.
In the era of rising humanism, numerous character flaws were added, transforming him from a perfect king into a great yet mortal one—much like Rama in India, the Yellow Emperor Xuanyuan in China, or Hachiman in this island nation.
These are all legendary figures who have integrated into their respective national identities to the point where it no longer matters if they are fictional.”
The more I spoke, the more Mordred’s expression became unsettled.
At first, it was the normal surprise one would expect, but later it turned into disbelief.
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe the content of what I said, but rather the fact that ‘these things were being said by me’ was what she found unbelievable.
Or rather—unacceptable.
“Does Father…
also think of the existence of ‘King Arthur’ in this way?”
“What is it, Mordred?
I…
don’t quite understand what you’re asking.”
“It’s just…
does Father have any dissatisfaction with this change?
Is…
is it just okay like this?”
“I am merely stating what the public’s perception of King Arthur is and how that image has changed,” I explained.
“The stories recorded in history books are not the reality of what happened at the time.
History summarized by later generations based on various historical evidence and clues is also quite far from the truth.
Not to mention, King Arthur didn’t even leave behind evidence, only legends that grew more exaggerated one after another.
People of later generations, living in a time where mystery has completely faded, certainly cannot understand these legends.
They inevitably speculate and judge the situation of that time by the standards of a world devoid of mystery—thus, King Arthur is no longer history, but a legend, a fantasy.
As such, what King Arthur’s image is in the modern era has nothing to do with King Arthur himself…
and nothing to do with us.”
“But…
but…” Mordred’s expression became increasingly resistant, as if my answer didn’t address her actual question.
“Mordred, you are my child.
If you want to ask something, just ask.
I won’t be angry.” At this point, the corners of my mouth curled up involuntarily.
“Besides, I haven’t actually been angry at all, right?
Whatever question you’ve raised, I’ve always answered it properly, haven’t I?”
“I…
actually don’t have anything to ask.” Mordred lowered her head, her voice growing fainter.
Her fists clenched instinctively, as if she were undergoing mental torment.
“I just…
I just…”
She couldn’t say it.
Was she afraid that saying it would make me feel sad?
I couldn’t quite understand—before the Battle of Camlann, Mordred had never been this hesitant.
Or perhaps, she is currently in great pain, unable to step out from the shadow of having killed me, and feels guilty just looking at me?
Thinking of this, I also became speechless—when dealing with someone full of guilt, words of guidance should not be spoken at all, as that is no different from reopening a wound.
Words of apology are even worse; that would be like rubbing salt in the wound.
The best way was still to move past this topic and start a new one.
“Let’s talk about our identities first.
The information on the passports is very clear; we are still blood relatives, but the relationship is no longer the father and son relationship distorted by Pendragon, but sisters—twin sisters.
You can read the text on them, so I don’t need to read it out…”
Mordred wasn’t listening at all; she was immersed in her own emotions, unable to extricate herself.
Looking at her lost and dejected appearance, I could only let out a heavy sigh.
“Forget it, let’s wash up first, then change out of these pajamas and go get something to eat.
I hope there are good shops nearby—preferably something with fried chicken and burgers, and it would be even better if there’s a place that’s good at spicy food.
These are all things we absolutely couldn’t eat back then.
Just like the pajamas we’re wearing now; they could indeed be made in our era, but the cost would be completely different.
Now, even the most ordinary person can afford them.”