"Sir Gawain, I am loyal only to the King of Britain. I hope you can understand that."
Even for the unyielding Iron Agravain, speaking to his closest brother stirred something within him, prompting a rare explanation: "Even familial bonds cannot interfere with my loyalty to Britain."
"Fine, very well, Agravain. You've done well."
Gawain shot him a look, then turned to say, "I understand. I am grateful for our King's mercy."
Though his title and honor were stripped, he retained his seat and past accolades. For a Celtic warrior, this was far from the worst outcome.
To a Celt, rank and honor mattered more than life itself. Stripping Gawain and Lancelot of their seat at the Round Table would be as good as a death sentence—enough to drive both men to rebellion. After all, to deny them their place was akin to cutting off their very lifeblood.
As to whether they could face Kaelar in battle, that was not their concern. For the Celtic warrior, pride eclipsed fear.
"…"
Sensing the tense silence, Gawain's younger sister, Gareth—the only daughter of Morgan's children and known as the "Lady of Beauty"—cautiously broke the ice, "Brother Gawain, Brother Agravain is only so strict because he cares deeply about the Kingdom of Britain."
"And if the King herself had uncovered your overreach, your punishment might have been much harsher."
Gawain's anger softened at her words. "What was the King's original stance?"
Agravain hesitated a moment before answering, "…The King initially intended to imprison you and Sir Lancelot in Dlyn Prison, stripping away all honors and titles, as punishment for your overreach in attempting to divide the Knights and act on the King's behalf."
"…Thank you, Agravain." Gawain cast him a long, contemplative look. "Although I still cannot forgive your betrayal, I am grateful for your efforts to lessen my sentence."
"Brother, it was my duty."
"Hmph, there's no need." Gawain let out a cold laugh. "Call yourself my brother all you like, but you've no problem making decisions for me, do you?"
With one last glare at Agravain and a quick glance at Lancelot, Gawain left his seat and exited.
Having been betrayed by his own blood, Gawain found that Lancelot didn't seem quite so insufferable anymore. After all, Lancelot had earned his rank and reputation through his own skill, fair and square.
Acknowledging Lancelot's merits had once felt impossible, but Gawain found himself reevaluating his past behavior. Perhaps he had been driven by pettiness after all. Comparison is a vice, but there are times when humans are defined by their need to compare.
And so, the Beast of Comparison became a hurdle humanity must cross.
Lancelot, rubbing his temples with a pained, melancholy expression, took up his holy sword, Arondight. "I'll go check on Galahad. If there's nothing else, I'll be on my way."
With that, he, too, departed. The remaining knights glanced around awkwardly, each aware of their own place in the recent tensions.
While Gawain and Lancelot had clashed, the rest had chosen sides, each making a personal decision. Now, with both men chastened by Artoria's judgment, they realized this had been a warning from the King, not just to Gawain and Lancelot but to all of them.
Not taking sides was one thing, but expecting true reconciliation among them was another matter entirely.
The Knights of the Round Table were extraordinary individuals, exceptional in both power and pride. Each valued honor and reputation too highly to easily lower themselves to reconcile with rivals.
This was precisely what Artoria intended. As long as her vassals did not allow personal grievances to disrupt the kingdom, it was enough. She didn't need harmony among them—healthy competition would serve her rule far better.
Several days later, Merlin finally returned, looking dusty and disheveled. Her usually flawless face bore a faint paw print that seemed oddly familiar—perhaps Fou's doing?
Well, good for Fou!
That little cat had long since snuck out while Kaelar and Artoria were occupied with matters of state. The soft-hearted Merlin had fed Fou treats for so long, only to be left unthanked…
Not that Fou even cared for those treats.
During her time near Artoria, Kaelar had kept a close watch on her, ensuring she didn't use her powers over the "Principle of Comparison." Stuck in Camelot, amidst tens of thousands of humans, Fou had nearly starved.
In the end, desperate for sustenance, Fou managed to slip away.
Though abstaining from feeding off human emotions wouldn't kill her, Fou—being a Beast bound to comparison—suffered intensely from the lack. It was like trying to quit an addiction, her very nature rooted in this need.
Merlin made no attempt to go to the Round Table, having left behind her dual prophecies knowing Artoria would resist hearing them directly. Instead, she'd allowed the words to spread through the Knights themselves.
So long as Arthur heard the prophecy, she'd done her job—there was no need for her to deliver the message in person.
In Merlin's eyes, the Round Table was just another piece on her chessboard. This heartless Dreamweaver cared little for anyone. In the Pan-Human History, the daft King of Knights had suffered immensely under her whims, doomed to a life of ceaseless toil and grief.
Even someone as devoid of human emotion as Merlin had felt a pang of remorse upon Arthur's death, evidence enough of how deeply the King had suffered—enough to stir sympathy in a creature who lacked it.
The female version of Merlin, however, was even more detached. She felt no regret and, with a carefree spirit, went back to Avalon without a hint of guilt—a truly despicable character!
"My dear student, Arthur! I've returned! I scoured all of Britain to find a weapon worthy of replacing the Sword of Promised Victory."
Merlin produced a radiant golden spear. The weapon gleamed with divine light, its shaft pure white and its tip a spiraling drill of gold, exuding an almost overflowing godly aura.
No, this wasn't merely divine—it was the embodiment of a god.
Covered in dust, Merlin explained, "The Holy Lance, Rhongomyniad, a weapon perfectly suited to you. When you chose the sword, it severed your fate with this lance. At the fork in the road, you could only choose one."
"But now that your sword is broken, this lance shall serve you well."
The Holy Lance Rhongomyniad was exceptionally powerful, acting as an anchor for the Earth's physical laws, pinning the laws of physics known to humankind to the surface of the Earth, preventing the world from unraveling.
In other words, all of human science is bound by Rhongomyniad to Earth; beyond it, one must adapt to other worlds' rules.
But despite the power of the Holy Lance, Artoria did not reach out to accept it. She gazed at Merlin coldly, saying, "The weapon can wait."
"Archmage Merlin, do you not owe me an explanation?"
"…Ah? So, you found out," Merlin's smile faded slightly, her gaze thoughtful. "Do I need to explain? Arthur, can't you simply accept that this is your destiny?"
"I won't accept it! I. Will. Not. Accept!"
Unable to contain her fury any longer, Artoria seized Merlin by the collar. "Merlin, who do you think you are? Are you some prophet of Britain? A god of fate from ancient Greece? Do you believe that even kings must heed your every word?"
"Let me make this clear. I reject this so-called prophecy. I do not acknowledge that fate!"
"Hehe~ Arthur, you're so agitated, so unsettled." Merlin, unfazed by the grasp on her collar, even pressed on, "You didn't even ask me what I saw before rejecting it all—could it be that deep down, you're afraid?"
"Nonsense. Why should I ask?" Artoria released her, scoffing. "All I need to know is that your prophecy will never come to pass."
Merlin adjusted her collar, her tone suddenly solemn. "But as your 'teacher,' the sage of Britain, I must fulfill my duty."
Teacher? As if.
Artoria felt nothing but disdain for Merlin's self-proclaimed title as "teacher of King Arthur." In her mind, she had but one true teacher.
But before she could voice her objection, Merlin struck first. She used her high-ranking magic to project her prophecy into Artoria's mind.
With Artoria fully on guard, the overwhelming magical power of the Red Dragon made it difficult for the Dreamweaver to complete her spell. However, unlike Vortigern, Artoria didn't possess the blessings of the ancient gods and wasn't completely immune to magic.
Once she possessed the Holy Lance, Merlin would no longer be able to use illusions on her.
The vision lasted only a moment before Avalon's scabbard dispelled Merlin's magic, rebuffing her power.
However, Merlin had achieved her goal—Artoria had seen the prophecy from her dreams.
No one can observe destiny fully or clearly, and Merlin saw only fragments.
In these glimpses, Kaelar stood before Artoria, with Morgan by his side. Surrounding Artoria were her Knights of the Round Table.
There were also many unfamiliar figures, noble and powerful in bearing, their presence reminiscent of Morgan's—likely faerie royalty of Avalon.
A fierce argument seemed to break out between Artoria and Kaelar. She saw herself pointing the Holy Lance at Kaelar's heart, her voice passionate, though the words remained unheard.
Yet Kaelar showed no resistance, looking at her with a steady but warm gaze.
Ultimately, they parted on bitter terms.
Desperate, Artoria strained to make out their words, but they remained an elusive echo.
In the next fragment, Kaelar held Morgan's hand, as though pleading. Morgan's expression was complex, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. In the end, she nodded, sorrowfully.
…
"This cannot be."
Artoria's face went pale as she murmured, "There's no way that could be my fate. I don't believe Kaelar would do such a thing…"
"No, no, and I wouldn't treat Kaelar like that either. This must be a lie."
Merlin collapsed onto the ground, her magic nearly spent. Cold sweat beaded her brow, and exhaustion weighed on her.
Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Merlin spoke with a weak smile, "See, Arthur? This is your fate with Kaelar, a destiny that cannot be changed."
"...Silence!" Artoria's composure returned in an instant, her voice firm. "Merlin, I am Britain's King. Do you think a king who rules over all lands would believe in such a fate?"
"Who doesn't know of your skill in illusions, Archmage Merlin?"
Artoria's gaze was sharp and unyielding as she spoke, "How do I know this is destiny, rather than your attempt to manipulate the King?"
"…No one can prove it. But I believe a wise king should have the capacity for independent judgment."
Merlin said, "I've spoken my piece. The prophecy is shown in full, and whether you believe it or not is up to you."
As Merlin dissolved into a shower of flowers, Artoria stood her ground, her voice unwavering. "I refuse to believe this prophecy."
Lifting the Holy Lance from the ground, she spoke aloud, "Is fate really so rigid, truly unchangeable?"
"You said it yourself—the sword was meant to cut off my connection to the lance, and yet here I am, wielding both."
With the divine power of the Holy Lance surging through her, Artoria felt strength filling her body, surpassing even the might she'd wielded with the Sword of Promised Victory.
Holy Lance Rhongomyniad + Avalon's Scabbard.
A truly invincible warrior had been born.
The Holy Lance held greater power than the sword, its ordinary strength far surpassing it. However, in the right conditions, the Sword of Promised Victory could unleash bursts of power that exceeded even the lance.
One weapon for extraordinary bursts, another for sustained power. It was hard to say which suited Artoria better.
Artoria's gaze was resolute as she thought to herself, If I can shatter the Sword of Promised Victory and claim the Holy Lance, then destiny can never control me.
---
"Kaelar! Look at my new weapon!"
Artoria stood before Kaelar, proudly displaying her newly acquired Holy Lance. She'd even commissioned an armor set to match the lance's divine aesthetic, along with a matching set of barding for her steed.
"The Holy Lance!" Kaelar recognized the gleaming weapon instantly, but a thought struck him. "Lily, how are you feeling?"
"Rhongomyniad may lack consciousness, but it does erode its wielder, transforming them into a divine being."
Holy Lance Rhongomyniad, while not as insidious as the Sword of Promised Victory, did not alter Artoria's mind. Instead, it slowly worked to transform her into the divine being Rhongomyniad itself.
To call her the Lion King devoid of emotions wasn't quite accurate. Rather, the Lion King had transcended into something wholly other—a goddess.
On another path of fate, where she had taken up the Holy Lance instead of the sword, the White Lance King had emerged as a mature ruler. Though even she couldn't save Britain from its inevitable destruction, she had come to terms with her fate, letting go with the dignity of a true king.
"I feel wonderful!" Artoria swirled the Holy Lance around with ease. "In fact, I've never felt better. This power… it really feels like divinity."
"..." Kaelar relaxed, his brow unfurrowing. The Lance's influence was gradual and subtle, imperceptible to its wielder. It would take centuries to fully transform Artoria into Rhongomyniad.
Artoria had only recently taken up the Lance, so she wouldn't feel any effects for decades, if not longer. Compared to that Sword, which lowered its wielder's intelligence, the Holy Lance had far fewer immediate drawbacks.
Sensing Kaelar's concern, Artoria asked, "Kaelar, are you worried about the Lance?"
Kaelar nodded, admitting, "Somewhat, but nothing serious. From what I remember, the Lance's transformation takes hundreds of years, so it's not an urgent concern."
"Well, if you say so, then it must be fine!"
Artoria's eyes sparkled as she gazed at him. "Kaelar, did you not notice anything else different about me?"
"…"
At her words, Kaelar scrutinized Artoria from head to toe.
They hadn't seen each other in a while, and this young lioness had grown taller, now well over five feet seven. She appeared more confident than the petite figure she had been.
Who knew she'd sprout up like this? Kaelar thought this kind of growth spurt was typical only for boys, but apparently, he'd been mistaken.
The old set of armor no longer fit her—she'd had a full suit remade, from boots to stirrups to the armor on her horse. Even her small feet had grown.
Looking down, Kaelar only saw a pair of iron boots. Ah, yes, she was wearing her Holy Lance armor.
Raising his gaze, he said, "Nothing seems amiss. You look great, Lily."
"Is that so…"
For some reason, Artoria's voice sounded a bit deflated.
Kaelar gave her a quick once-over but could not find any other differences. Artoria, clearly miffed, sat to one side, sulking.
Kaelar, oblivious to her mood, returned to his paperwork without a second thought.
"Kaelar is really dense, isn't he?" Artoria huffed. Couldn't he tell I've gotten taller? That my figure has improved? I'm practically Morgan's equal now—there's no way she can mock me over that anymore!
Remembering how Morgan used to tease her for her lack of "human understanding" with that smug grin, Artoria ground her teeth. She'd love nothing more than to give that irritating woman a solid thrashing.
But…
Artoria glanced down at her well-earned "human understanding," recalling her reflection in the mirror last night. A proud smile tugged at her lips.
A king, after all, must understand humanity.
Compared to this faerie queen, it's nothing!
But thinking of Kaelar's obliviousness, Artoria deflated, grumbling to herself. How did he miss it? Maybe this armor's too thick…
Morgan wears a gown… Hmm, perhaps I should consider a formal gown for myself?
Just as Artoria's mind drifted, Kaelar suddenly slammed the table. "There's trouble in Europe. Attila, the Hun King, was defeated. What kind of monster did Rome summon?"
Kaelar had maintained communication with the various European states. He and Artoria had always looked beyond Britain's borders, knowing that they would eventually need to retake Europe.
While Artoria worked to secure Britain, Kaelar meticulously gathered intelligence on Europe's political climate, knowing that Attila, the King of Huns, was wreaking havoc across the continent.
He'd worried about how to face such a formidable opponent, but now, it seemed, he wouldn't have to—the Romans had somehow dealt with the Hun King.
But how had Western Rome achieved this?
The details were shrouded in mystery, as if Rome itself had vanished from this plane. No one could find its location, yet the news of Attila's defeat reached him through magical channels.
In simpler terms, the high-energy disruption was impossible to miss.
"…" Artoria, still mulling over the ideal gown, replied absentmindedly, "Oh, oh, how terrifying…"
"Lily, if you don't want to answer, you don't have to." Kaelar sighed, rubbing his temple. "But you could at least try to hide the fact you're brushing me off."
Startled back to the present, Artoria asked, "Wait, Kaelar, is this Attila the Hun King you've always spoken so highly of?"
"Yes, Attila, the Scourge of God!"
Kaelar nodded gravely. "From what I know, Attila was incredibly powerful—even I can't be sure of victory against someone like that. And yet, she's fallen silently at Rome's doorstep."
"I refuse to advance on Rome without knowing what transpired there."
"The Scourge of God? Are we talking about the deity worshipped by the Anglo-Saxons, Romans, and Europeans?"
Recognizing the gravity of the situation, Artoria frowned. "Most European nations revere the Christian God. For someone to bear such a title, Attila must have been truly terrifying."
Britain alone had birthed heroes capable of decimating armies: Vortigern, Morgan, Merlin, Kaelar, Lancelot, and Artoria herself.
The expanse of continental Europe, with its own history and lineage of powerful figures, would surely contain many more.
Yet even with all this strength, Attila had struck terror into the heart of Europe, crushing the continent underfoot alone.
And now, this same Attila had met defeat outside Rome.
What had happened beneath Rome's walls?
"Rome must have summoned an ancient hero…" Kaelar mused aloud. "Could it be Romulus? No, Romulus alone wouldn't have stopped Attila. Mars' son would be at a natural disadvantage against her."
Romulus, the legendary son of the war god Mars and the founding king of Rome, was said to have been raised alongside a divine wolf, uniting nations around the Mediterranean and laying the foundations for Rome's lasting glory.
But even the progeny of Mars would have trouble against Attila, who had an inherent advantage against gods. Romulus alone couldn't counter Attila's anti-civilization nature.
Kaelar continued, "Seems Rome pulled an EX-rank card from their divine deck this time…"
"...Until we identify this wild card, we'll be confined to Britain."
After a moment of thought, Kaelar declared, "It looks like I'll have to visit Rome personally. I don't trust anyone else for this."
"No!" Artoria retorted instinctively. "Kaelar, it's too dangerous. You said yourself you weren't confident you could defeat Attila, and she fell without a sound in Rome."
"I don't want you risking yourself," she added, gripping his hand. "I'd rather we not invade Europe at all. Ruling Britain alone is enough for me."
"It's not enough for me." Kaelar's voice was calm but resolute. "We can't bury our heads in the sand and pretend reality will just disappear. Even if we don't march on Europe, I have to find out what happened in Rome…"
"If I don't know enough, I can't keep things under control. That uncertainty doesn't sit right with me."
Whenever Kaelar spoke with this tone, it meant the matter was non-negotiable. Artoria, knowing him well, lowered her gaze. "Very well, if you insist on going…"
"Kaelar, please stay safe. If there's any danger, return to Britain. We'll face it together."
Artoria raised her Holy Lance with conviction. "I'm strong now—strong enough to take on the world by your side!"
"Understood. If there's trouble, I'll return to you."
Kaelar agreed.
"Kaelar, remember—no throne is worth more to me than you. Come back safely to Britain."
Just as Kaelar was about to depart, Artoria's true feelings emerged.
The Artoria who now held the Holy Lance was a world away from the girl who'd wielded the sword—a more mature lioness in every sense.
"Of course. I promise."
---
Rome.
In the Golden Theater, Beast Nero's concert stretched endlessly, holding over a million Roman citizens captive for countless days.
In the Golden Theater, there was no hunger, no exhaustion—only the torture of relentless sound.
Even a heavenly melody, played day and night without pause, would eventually drive listeners mad. Like an overplayed song set as an alarm, even the best of tunes would become unbearable.
And with Nero's voice, it was even worse. A tyrant through and through, she'd gone so far as to post guards to trap citizens inside the theater, forcing them to endure her "performances."
This self-styled "musician" who fancied herself an equal—or superior—to Apollo was a notion only Nero herself could boast.
If Apollo, the god of music, knew that Nero was claiming such a comparison, he'd likely want to descend and reduce Rome to rubble.
But Beast Nero was blissfully unaware. To her, her voice matched Apollo's, a gift to be shared with all of Rome's citizens.
Nero: You're blessed to hear me!
Lost in her grandiose self-absorption, Emperor Nero sang on, ignoring her audience's despair. This twisted, self-centered "love" suited a Beast well.
Among the audience was a rather unique "spectator" who could have escaped the Golden Theater at any time but hadn't moved an inch.
The Pope of the Roman Diocese himself.
After the Son's ascension, Rome, once a fierce enemy, had eventually submitted, fusing with Christianity in its later years.
By 331 AD, Emperor Constantine decreed that Rome's Christianity would be divided into five dioceses, each overseen by an archbishop to manage its own district.
These dioceses included Alexandria, Jerusalem, Antioch, Constantinople, and Rome.
Of these, the first four remained within the Eastern Roman Empire, while only the Roman Diocese lay within the Western Empire.
When Rome was whole, all five dioceses cooperated. The Pope was elected by representatives from each, but when Rome split, the other four dioceses were bound to the East, making the Roman diocese an outsider.
Thus, the Archbishop of Rome eventually declared independence, establishing himself as the sole Pope of the Roman Church.
And as a result, every Christian Pope had been granted a power of their own: an EX-level Anti-Magic ability.
No one could guess where my story will go, thought Merlin. Her prophecy was only the beginning of something far, far greater.
---
T/N: I shouldn't say something like this but... Merlin needs some correcting
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you spot any mistakes or inconsistencies!
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