[At 18, after two years of traveling, you return to Secluded Peak with Artoria. Having grown into a strong and impressive young man, you've reached the limits of your power. Without a major opportunity, you might never grow further.]
[At 13, Artoria's strength has already surpassed most first-rate Heroic Spirits. She can likely take on three to four Sir Ectors at once. However, she was still defeated by a brown-haired man beside Sir Ector.]
['My name is Lancelot,' the man said with a smile, his skill in martial arts unparalleled. Even Artoria, with her A-Rank Instinct, couldn't match his transcendent abilities.]
[Though Artoria couldn't defeat Lancelot, it didn't matter. Coincidentally, she dragged you along to spar with Lancelot, determined to put his arrogance in check!]
[After all, challenging the future king in a duel without understanding basic manners—what do you intend to do next? Tear this kingdom apart?]
[You sighed, knowing this duel was pointless, but you couldn't refuse Artoria's request. So, you casually picked up a branch from the ground and prepared to spar with the knight hailed as the greatest of Britain in his era.]
[In five moves, you snapped Lancelot's sword—an unmatched treasure bestowed by the Lady of the Lake.]
["The Knight of the Lake, not bad," you mused, showing some appreciation. After all, even Merlin, known as the Sword Saint of Britain, only lasted three moves against you. Lancelot surviving five moves was a testament to his skill!]
["How is this possible?" Lancelot's disbelieving expression amused you. His sword, Arondight, is a divine relic just like Excalibur, gifted by the same faerie.]
[Sharing the same origin, Arondight's durability rivals Excalibur. Both blades bear inscriptions in faerie script, and Arondight gleams with a moonlit glow, a blade that will never break.]
[Merlin, who had appeared at some point, took the opportunity to explain the sword's history to both you and Artoria.]
[Purity? Does it matter?]
[You discarded the branch, glancing at the stunned Lancelot. You knew this man wouldn't pose any future threat to Artoria's kingdom.]
---
"Your Majesty Vortigern, Sir Ael seeks an audience," a court mage respectfully announced to the White Dragon.
Vortigern lazily opened his gray, slit-pupil eyes, his tone indifferent. "Ael? That worthless fool without a territory, driven out by his own people?"
"Tsk, this failure is even worse than Hengist!" Vortigern sneered. "Scared off by some wandering knight invoking Kaelar's name, running away like a rat. What? Are there no more warriors in Europe? Have they all sent cowards and weaklings?"
Just recently, Vortigern had thought Hengist was the epitome of failure, having lost seventy thousand men to Kaelar. But now, looking at Ael? At least Hengist put up a fight.
"Your Majesty, he has come to offer counsel and provide intelligence on the rebel forces," the court mage said, bowing. "According to Sir Ael, the peasant rabble has grown into a real threat. He isn't the only lord who's been driven out—over half of your lords have been killed or expelled…"
"Is that so?" Vortigern finally showed interest. He rose from his seat. "It seems Ael isn't the only coward seeking my audience, is he?"
The mage remained silent, confirming Vortigern's suspicion with his quiet.
"Fine, let these failures crawl before me," Vortigern commanded with a wave of his hand.
A short while later, several disheveled men entered Vortigern's grand hall, a far cry from their usual polished, noble appearances. They looked haggard, with Ael being the most pitiful—armed with nothing but scars and desperation.
"Your Majesty…" Ael began, his voice quivering, but a single glance from Vortigern silenced him. His hair stood on end, cold sweat beading on his skin as he dared not utter another word.
Vortigern's draconic, slitted eyes swept over the gathered men, sending shivers down their spines. "Ael, do you think bringing these other worthless lords before me will spare you from your punishment? Are you counting on there being too many of you for me to kill?"
"You're a cowardly fool. You're not even worthy of comparison to Hengist, who was no more than a hunting dog. At best, you're a stupid rabbit—too dumb to realize the danger until it's too late."
Vortigern's voice was icy. "Two wandering knights claimed to speak for Kaelar, and that alone was enough to break your spirit? You didn't even confirm their identity before fleeing your lands?"
"Do you know the punishment for such a crime under my rule?"
Vortigern hadn't planned to personally kill Ael. After all, why should someone of his stature bother with such a small fry? Granting Ael his direct attention would be too much of an honor.
That privilege was reserved for the likes of Kaelar.
But, now that Ael had come before him, begging for death, Vortigern might as well indulge. Ael, for his part, bitterly regretted not verifying the knights' identities. He hadn't questioned it when someone claimed to be Kaelar—he just fled, leaving everything behind in his panic…
Little did he know, this was all thanks to Fou's meddling. Though the little creature had been tamed under Kaelar's care, she was still the mischievous three-eyed cat capable of frustrating even King Arthur—the Beast of Comparison.
Fou had a unique ability: as long as someone spoke the truth, their words would become irresistibly believable. And in her presence, lying was nearly impossible. After all, her power was about comparing who was truly stronger, not about who could bluff better.
"Y-Your Majesty…" Ael stammered, attempting to justify himself, but Vortigern had already lost interest in listening. With a wave of his hand, a pitch-black ring appeared beneath Ael's feet, swallowing him whole.
As the White Dragon, Vortigern didn't possess extraordinary magical abilities, but the innate magic of dragons was far stronger than most human spells. Coupled with their vast reserves of mana and their ability to manipulate ether with every breath, even those well-versed in magic, such as the noble houses, would find opposing a dragon to be an exercise in despair.
Dragons, after all, were not mere legends but creatures as powerful as gods in Britain's mythos.
"You've nothing more to say?" After casually dispatching Ael, Vortigern turned his cold gaze on the other trembling lords. "Tell me, how were you driven from your lands by mere peasants?"
Silence.
Under the piercing gaze of the White Dragon, no one dared to speak.
Vortigern's laugh was low and menacing. "Why has no one answered me? Could it be that all my vassals have turned into a pack of insects?"