Half a month was enough time for news to spread to every corner of Britain. When King Arthur officially announced to the entire realm the appointment of Guinevere as the kingdom's sole Queen Consort, all of Britain was swept into a sea of jubilation. The people rushed to share the news, their faces radiant with genuine joy. They saw the 'completeness' of the royal family, saw hope for the kingdom's succession, and the long-standing doubts about the king's aloofness seemed to vanish into thin air. With its powerful national strength and now a 'blissful' royal family, Britain's future seemed brilliantly bright.
In a secluded attic of Camelot Castle, Kanjuro (Merlin) stood leaning against the railing, looking down at the grand celebration ceremony in the square below. He saw Artoria in solemn royal robes and Guinevere in magnificent wedding attire, hand in hand under the gaze of the masses, greeting the cheering crowds according to protocol. Both maintained proper smiles and elegant demeanor, like a perfect couple.
The corner of Kanjuro's mouth lifted into a profound, satisfied smile. This perfect facade was the masterpiece he had directed. He knew what complex and fragile truths lay hidden beneath that seemingly harmonious scene.
Just as he had anticipated, the relationship between Artoria and Guinevere was less like that of husband and wife and more like a tacit understanding, an 'alliance' or 'friendship' bound by a shared secret. They shared the same space but remained distinctly separate. They both clearly knew that the object of their true admiration was actually the same person—that mysterious and powerful mentor, Merlin.
However, for Artoria, this deeply buried affection had an insurmountable boundary. For the sake of the kingdom, she could accept this marriage of convenience arranged by Merlin, tolerate Guinevere's presence, and even harbor a subtle sympathy for her born from'sharing a secret.' But her innate pride and adherence to pure emotion made it absolutely impossible for her to accept, or even imagine,'sharing' Merlin's love with another woman. In her deeply ingrained beliefs, love must be unique, exclusive, a wholehearted devotion and possession. Merlin's 'indefinable' feelings for Guinevere remained a faintly painful thorn in her heart, suppressed only by her kingly duty and absolute dependence on Merlin.
Meanwhile, at the edge of the celebrating crowd, a tall figure stood out of place. Lancelot stood in the shadows, his handsome face somewhat distorted from suppressing intense pain. He stared fixedly at the 'affectionate' king and Queen Consort on the high platform, his gaze finally settling on Guinevere's forced smile. The woman he loved had now become the king's wife! Even though he knew this was likely a political marriage, witnessing it firsthand still felt like a red-hot dagger piercing his heart. Feelings of powerlessness, jealousy, and a rage at being mocked by fate churned and burned in his chest. His tightly clenched fists were white at the knuckles from excessive force. The knight's honor and his private emotions clashed violently at this moment, almost tearing him apart.
And in the hidden corners of this stage filled with false celebration and real pain, another pair of cold, sharp eyes watched everything quietly through the gaps in the crowd.
Morgan, Artoria's sister, whom Kanjuro had abandoned and who was raised by the Lady of the Lake, had somehow quietly infiltrated Camelot. She hid in the shadow of a pillar somewhere in the castle, like a lurking venomous snake. Her gaze first fell on the 'newlyweds' on the high platform, a mocking sneer curling at the corner of her mouth. This false spectacle seemed utterly ridiculous to her.
Then, her eyes turned to the agonized Lancelot in the crowd, a glint of calculation flashing in them. Finally, her gaze passed over everyone, landing precisely on that black-robed figure standing high in the attic, seemingly in control of everything—her 'father,' Kanjuro.
"What a... spectacular farce, my dear 'father.'" Morgan whispered in a voice only she could hear, her ice-blue eyes burning with vengeful fire and an all-seeing coldness. "You've woven such a splendid cage, playing everyone like pieces on a chessboard. But have you ever considered that a cornered beast, pushed to its limit, can also turn and bite?"
She saw Artoria's weariness and endurance, Guinevere's helplessness and infatuation, Lancelot's pain and struggle, and, more than anything, the cold pleasure hidden beneath Kanjuro's gentle mask. All these intertwined emotions, these latent conflicts, became weapons in her eyes—tools to shatter Kanjuro's perfect arrangement.
"Just wait and see..." Morgan's figure slowly melted into deeper darkness, leaving behind only a faint, almost imperceptible vow. "Everything you cherish (or rather, manipulate)... I will personally... turn it all upside down. Starting with my 'happy' sister..."
What a moving scene, Kanjuro murmured to himself, his fingertips lightly tapping the stone railing. He could see the exhaustion beneath Artoria's forced smile, the barely concealed infatuation in Guinevere's eyes, and that tormented figure in the distant crowd—Lancelot gripping his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles were white.
At that very moment, Kanjuro keenly caught a flash of silver hair among the shadows of the pillars. The appearance of Morgan brought a flicker of pleasure to his eyes, but he took no action. He knew this eldest daughter he had abandoned all too well; her jealousy, nurtured by hatred, was the most exquisite variable in this chess game.
(Let her go. Morgan will spare no effort in anything that can cause Artoria pain.)
Meanwhile, Lancelot stumbled into a tavern, slamming a full pouch of gold coins onto the counter. Wine! he rasped hoarsely. Bring me your strongest liquor!
In a dim corner, he downed cup after cup of amber liquid, his mind relentlessly flashing with images of Guinevere crowned as Queen Consort, recalling the faint smile she once gave him when turning her head while picking flowers in the woods. Those beautiful memories had now turned into sharp blades, repeatedly flaying his heart.
Why... why the King... he mumbled drunkenly, his fist slamming heavily onto the oak table, sending cups tumbling.
Just as he was about to be swallowed by drunkenness, a figure cloaked in black appeared silently opposite him. Morgan slowly lowered her hood, revealing a face startlingly similar to Artoria's yet colder and more alluring.
Would you like to deal with King Arthur? she asked casually, her voice as cold as a winter night's wind and snow.
Lancelot jerked his head up, his drunkenness instantly receding. Who are you? he asked warily, his hand gripping his sword hilt.
But Morgan had already pulled her hood back up, her form gradually melting into the shadows. I know you still have reservations. Her voice echoed in the tavern. The day you make up your mind, I will naturally appear.
Lancelot rushed out of the tavern, only to find an empty street stretching under the moonlight; the mysterious woman was long gone.
Time passed, and several years went by in the blink of an eye. On the surface, Britain enjoyed unprecedented prosperity. New trade routes opened, grain harvests were bountiful year after year, and castles were repaired to a resplendent brilliance. But beneath this glossy exterior, undercurrents were stirring.
In Camelot's poorest eastern district, emaciated children chased a tattered leather ball through the mud. Their parents were worrying about the newly imposed wall repair tax.
The King is raising taxes again, a blacksmith growled, slamming his hammer onto the anvil. The noble lord hasn't paid me for three months; now I can barely afford black bread.
I heard the King used three hundred gold plates at last night's banquet, a peasant woman sobbed, clutching a baby crying from hunger. But my husband had his leg broken by the tax collector because he couldn't pay the tax.
Resentment spread through the streets and alleys, finally erupting on a stormy night. An angry mob stormed the tax collector's Mansion, throwing the account books into the fountain. Soon, the riot spread like wildfire.
Artoria stood by the window of the throne room, watching the thick smoke rising from the city. Clad in armor, her fingers unconsciously stroked the hilt of her sword.
Your Majesty, please allow me to lead the knights to suppress the rioters, Bedivere knelt on one knee, his voice heavy.
Artoria closed her eyes. Kanjuro's words echoed in her ears: 'A qualified ruler must learn to be ruthless... sacrifice the few to protect the many.'
When she opened her eyes again, only cold resolve remained in her emerald gaze. Give the order: anyone participating in the riot is to be executed without mercy.
The iron hooves of the knightly order shattered the dawn's peace. Blood stained the cobblestones, cries and shouts rose one after another. Artoria personally led the charge; each swing of her sword drew a spray of blood. The very people who had once cheered for her now glared at her with hatred.
Tyrant! An old woman threw a stone at her. You are not worthy to be our King!
Artoria rode past expressionlessly. A flash of her sword, and the old woman fell. She bit her lower lip tightly until she tasted blood.
(This is a necessary sacrifice... for Britain's stability...)
Amidst the chaos, she failed to notice the robed figure on a distant high platform. Kanjuro watched it all with a smile, idly twirling a withered rose between his fingers.
Continue, my dear King Arthur, he murmured softly. Let this soil of despair nurture an even more beautiful flower of destruction.
As the sun set in the west, the riot was completely suppressed. Artoria stood alone in the square strewn with corpses, blood dripping from her armor. She looked up towards the high platform where Kanjuro stood, and in her daze, she seemed to see his approving smile.
When night fell, she dragged her exhausted body back to the castle and encountered Kanjuro, who had been waiting for some time, outside her chamber door.
Today... I killed many of my people, her voice was hoarse.
Kanjuro gently stroked her golden hair, just as he had when she was a child. You did well. Remember, the path of a ruler is destined to be lonely.
Artoria buried her face in his black robe, greedily inhaling that comforting scent. As long as you are by my side, I can keep going.
She did not see the triumphant sneer on Kanjuro's face above the chest she leaned against. Even less did she see, in the deep shadows of the castle, Morgan casting a spell over a crystal ball, its surface reflecting Lancelot's tormented face.
The seeds of tyranny had been sown, waiting only for the right moment to bear their sweet, bitter fruit. And Kanjuro was already looking forward to the harvest season. In the wilderness outside Camelot, a cold wind howled, whipping up withered grass and dust. Lancelot rode his horse alone at a frantic gallop until the steed was frothing at the mouth, then he tumbled from the saddle and knelt by a frozen stream. He scooped up the biting ice water and splashed it on his face, but it could not wash away the bloody scenes in his mind—Artoria's cold profile as she swung her sword to suppress the commoners, Guinevere's forced smile at the wedding, and the ever-present, inscrutable smile on Kanjuro's (Merlin's) lips.
This is not the King I swore to serve with my life... he whispered to the frozen stream surface, which reflected his pained, twisted face. And this is certainly not the Britain I wanted to protect!
Then, do you wish to change all this?
A cold female voice suddenly rang out. Lancelot spun around, his longsword already drawn. Morgan stood beneath a withered tree not far away, her silver-white hair flying in the wind like a ghost under the moon. Cloaked in black velvet, she toyed with a crystal that shimmered with an ominous purple light.
You again, Lancelot stared at her warily. Who are you? Why do you keep trying to tempt me?
Morgan let out a light laugh and slowly approached. Who I am is not important. What matters is that I know the pain in your heart—serving a King blinded by tyranny, while watching the woman you love become a sacrifice in this political marriage.
Her words struck Lancelot's weak spot like a poisoned arrow. The tip of his sword lowered slightly. Guinevere... Just think, Morgan's voice, like a serpent's hiss, whispered in his ear. If King Arthur no longer exists, Guinevere would no longer need to play the pitiful Queen. The two of you could flee far away, to a place where no one knows you, and live a life truly your own.
Lancelot's gaze wavered for a moment, but then hardened. You're asking me to betray my oath! To betray the glory of the Knights of the Round Table!
Glory? Morgan let out a sharp, cold laugh. Where was her glory when King Arthur ordered the slaughter of commoners? Where was the oath of the Round Table when she allowed the nobles to oppress the people?
She waved her hand, tracing a magical mirror in the air that displayed a series of shocking scenes: villages littered with starved corpses, farmers being whipped by tax collectors, and Artoria's cold expression in court as she spoke of 'necessary sacrifices.'
Look at these, Lancelot. What you serve is no longer the pure, holy king who pulled the sword from the stone, but a puppet manipulated by Merlin, a tyrant with the blood of her people on her hands!
Lancelot closed his eyes in agony. These images contrasted starkly with the Artoria in his memory—the golden-haired girl who had fought alongside him on the battlefield, shared food with soldiers by the campfire, and vowed to build a just kingdom.
But... rebellion... he forced out the word with difficulty.
This is not rebellion, but salvation, Morgan's voice suddenly softened, carrying a bewitching charm. Saving Britain from tyranny, saving Guinevere from her cage, and saving King Arthur from the demon who manipulates her. Sometimes, the deepest loyalty must be realized through the form of betrayal.
She placed a silver ring engraved with complex runes on the ground. When you have made your decision, wear this ring. I will know your choice and tell you the next step.
Morgan's figure began to dissipate into the air, leaving behind a final whisper: Remember, a knight who hesitates will ultimately lose everything.
Lancelot stood alone in the wilderness, staring at the ring for a long time. As night fell, images of Guinevere's tearful smile and Artoria's bloodstained armor alternated in his mind.
The next morning, when the first rays of sunlight illuminated Camelot's spires, Lancelot reached out a trembling hand and picked up the ring. The moment he slid it onto his finger, he seemed to hear the roaring sound of the wheel of fate beginning to turn.
At the same time, in the highest tower of the castle, Kanjuro watched all this through a crystal ball, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Excellent..." he murmured softly, "Let the flames of this rebellion burn even brighter. Only in the deepest betrayal can the most perfect despair be forged."
He turned to look out the window. Artoria was training new recruits in the square, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight. A glimmer of anticipation flashed in Kanjuro's eyes—he could hardly wait to see what wonderful expression would appear on that perpetually stoic face when the king of knights discovered that her most trusted Knight and her closest sister had betrayed her simultaneously.
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