Chapter 83: The Battle with White Dragon Begins Amid the Princess’s Unease

Chapter 83: The Battle with White Dragon Begins Amid the Princess's Unease

[This is the decisive battle that will determine the fate of Britannia.]

[If Vortigern is defeated, Camelot will embark on a new beginning.]

[Yet, after all the trials that led you here, instead of excitement, you taste a faint bitterness.]

[This feeling is not what you had imagined.]

[Thinking back, before the decisive battle with Vortigern began, you wrote a letter to Morgan.]

[However, you were unaware that the letter carrying your emotions would have an irreversible effect on her.]

"Ian——!"

"I order you to return to me!"

A terrified scream echoed. Morgan bolted upright from her bed, panting heavily.

In the empty room, only moonlight streamed through the window.

Everything was bathed in pure white light, as if submerged in an endless sea of stars.

Princess Morgan, with cold sweat dripping from her forehead, glanced at the empty spot beside her. Instinctively, she reached for something on the round bedside table.

Her fingers touched two letters, opened and reread dozens of times, and she finally exhaled a small breath of relief.

One letter was Ian's request, written earlier, asking her to forgive Agravain.

The second was the one she had received today.

What was it again——

She remembered.

It was Ian saying there was finally an opportunity for that woman to defeat Vortigern, wasn't it?

Soon, as he had promised, she would ascend to the throne symbolizing ultimate power.

But——

Under the moonlight, Morgan stared at the letter written in neat handwriting in her hands, her fingers trembling uncontrollably.

Why did she feel so uneasy?

Clearly, everything was progressing as she had hoped——that woman would soon be removed from the throne.

And yet, there wasn't even a trace of joy in her heart.

The proud princess placed the letter back down.

Her slender fingers slid under the covers, a soft solo echoing in the darkness of the night.

She mimicked his ways to try and bring herself joy, but her body remained utterly indifferent.

Morgan stopped——she began to doubt her life.

Had it always been this difficult to find pleasure for oneself?

It seemed like she had never noticed this before.

So be it.

When he returns, she'll imprison him.

She'd use the strongest Magecraft to ensure he could never leave, severing all his ties with everyone else.

Then, she'd use her own body to turn him into someone utterly useless.

Every day, the only thought left in his mind would be to stand before her and bring her joy, with no room for any other thought.

That way, she wouldn't have to worry anymore.

Morgan thought so, but as expected, she couldn't sleep.

She began to long for the feeling of someone wrapping their arms around her waist and whispering sweet words into her ear.

[You are unaware of Morgan's emotions at this moment.]

[You only feel the dull pain of the wound on your back.]

[Artoria notices this.]

[But you know this isn't the time to tell her — doing so would make her halt Camelot's advance once again.]

[That isn't the outcome you desire.]

"Sir Ian, are you really okay?"

The naked king nestled in the knight embrace, her sapphire eyes reflecting only his figure.

"Your forehead is drenched with sweat."

"..."

Ian forced a smile and gently wiped the sweat from his brow.

"It's nothing, probably just lack of rest."

"Is that so?"

Artoria tilted her head upward and softly kissed Ian's lips.

"Then tonight, let me take the lead."

"Sir Ian… you only need to enjoy."

Watching the joyful girl seated upon him, Ian's heart was a storm of emotions.

He felt as if before him lay a crossroads leading to vastly different futures.

At the end of this battle, what choice would he ultimately make?

Ian placed his hands on her waist, yet deep inside, he found no foundation for his decision.

[The march of war would not halt because of this.]

[After crossing the river, your forces clashed with Vortigern's army.]

[Like you, these foreign invaders displayed an extraordinarily high military spirit.]

[No longer could you defeat the enemy as easily as before; each battle now demanded meticulous planning and execution.]

[However, that did not mean victory was beyond your reach.]

[With reinforcements from France brought by Lancelot, you gained tremendous support.]

[You increasingly felt fortunate that you had never treated him as an enemy.]

[Step by step, your forces advanced deeper into Vortigern's territory.]

["Final Honor" had given way to "The Eternal Glory of the Knight" — your exemplary military actions would be etched in history, and future generations would sing epic ballads to praise the title of the Knights of the Round Table.]

[Time passed in this tense atmosphere.]

[It was time to craft the final strategy.]

"Everyone."

Lancelot gently moved his finger across the map, pointing to three locations.

"I propose a simultaneous attack on these three positions. What do you think?"

"Yes." Artoria studied the points Lancelot indicated and nodded.

"I think this is a solid idea."

"And you?"

Lancelot turned to Ian.

"The king makes the decisions," Ian smiled, "I merely carry them out."

"Then it seems there are no objections."

Lancelot withdrew his hand from the map, his gaze brushing past Ian and Artoria.

"Since we're agreed, why not make a small wager while we're at it?"

"Let's see who encounters Vortigern first. What do you say?"

"..."

"..."

Though no one responded verbally, the simultaneous movement of all three placing their hands on their sword hilts spoke louder than words.

[You began implementing the planned strategy.]

[This was the most challenging phase — for Vortigern's forces knew that if they did not resist to the death, their fate would be grim.]

[However, it was nothing more than a desperate struggle.]

[The Sword of Promised Victory, the Sword of Revolving Victory, and The Unfading Light of the Lake unleashed immense power.]

[Your forces advanced like an unstoppable storm.]

[Vortigern's last army gradually fell apart.]

[Artoria, moving slightly faster, was the first to encounter Vortigern — it seemed she always had a bit of luck in these wagers.]

[Under the blazing sun, you arrived second.]

[Lancelot, though the last to arrive, wasn't far behind.]

[However, none of you had the mental capacity to care about the results of the wager.]

[Because before you sat Vortigern, perched atop a massive stone as though it were his throne.]

[No knights or guards flanked him.]

[He merely stared at you coldly, as though he were the one cornering you.]

"Hmm, faster than I expected,"

Vortigern said, sitting atop the massive rock. Beside him, a sword was embedded deep into the ground.

The fallen king, as always, maintained his calm gaze upon the three before him.

"But what a pity."

"It makes no difference — whether you arrive a minute early or a minute late, nothing changes."

"Stop spouting nonsense, Vortigern."

Artoria tightened her grip on the Sword of Promised Victory, the sharp blade pointed directly at the figure on the "throne."

"Your words won't make your death any grander."

Vortigern glanced at the sword in Artoria's hands and let out a cold laugh.

"Hmph, the sacred sword borrowed from the lake?"

"You think you can defeat me with that? Aren't you underestimating me?"

"What if we add this?"

Lancelot brandished Arondight: The Unfading Light of the Lake, the blade glowing with a dense azure light, aimed straight at Vortigern.

"Traitor of Britannia, do you still dare to be arrogant?"

"Oh?"

"Another sacred sword from the lake?" Vortigern adjusted his posture.

"This is getting interesting."

"But there's not just two."

Ian raised Excalibur Galatine: Sword of Revolving Victory, completing the formation of three sacred swords from the lake aimed at the enemy.

"Vortigern, now, can you still laugh?"

"..."

[Vortigern seemed to recognize your voice as strangely familiar.]

[He studied you closely for a long moment.]

[Then suddenly, he burst into a thunderous laugh.]

"Hahahahahahaha!"

Vortigern's maniacal laughter echoed, shaking the air around you.

"How amusing!"

"You so-called Knights of the Round Table are this united at such a time!"

Despite his age, Vortigern carried an arrogance rivaling that of youth.

He pulled his sword from the ground and, as the aggressor, charged at the three of you like a raging storm.

His ferocity belied his years.

But Ian and his companions were no fledgling warriors seeing their first battlefield.

Facing the bloodlust emanating from Vortigern, none among them showed fear.

On the contrary—

Each of them stood ready for battle, awaiting Vortigern's approach.

The outcome of the battle was inevitable.

First, Arondight created an absolute, silent domain, enveloping the fallen king within its bounds.

However, under the sun—

That domain could not entirely halt Vortigern's advance. His strength rivaled the destruction he had wrought upon Britannia.

But it didn't matter—

For the sacred swords of the lake were not alone.

Under the sunlight, Excalibur Galatine unleashed its full power.

Fiery crimson flames erupted within the serene space of moonlight, engulfing Vortigern's aged body in the scorching heat of the sun.

Thanks to their prior battles, Ian and Lancelot had honed their synergy.

This was the essence of the Round Table Knights—encircling the fallen king in a fusion of sunlight and moonlight.

In the confluence of flames and the radiance of the lake, another fierce tempest raged.

"Rest in peace, Vortigern!"

Artoria drove Excalibur straight into Vortigern's chest.

This was the combined strike of the three sacred swords of the lake!

With a gale piercing through sun and moon as the crescendo of the heroic saga!

However—

The moment of his demise did not come.

Vortigern looked at the Excalibur embedded deep within his heart and burst into another round of maniacal laughter.

"Hahahaha!"

"I told you, you cannot kill me!"

"Your identity is borrowed."

"Your sword is borrowed."

"Your knights are borrowed."

"Even your ideals are borrowed."

"You are nothing more than a puppet on strings, a knight both pitiful and loathsome."

"With all these counterfeit things, what will you use to defeat a symbol of truth like me?"

Vortigern roared, an immense power erupting from deep within his body.

The three sacred swords of the lake, which had been suppressing him, were repelled in an instant.

Ian and Lancelot were sent flying by the shockwave from this sudden burst of power.

Only Artoria, through sheer force of will, managed to remain standing.

In that moment of defiance, Vortigern revealed his true form, leaving all stunned—

A massive white dragon, as colossal as a mountain range.

With razor-sharp claws exuding overwhelming majesty, it radiated an endless stream of mana with every second.

This was the body formed through the long-hidden accumulation of the fallen king, tempered by Mystery.

The might of the dragon was on full display at this moment.

This was the form Merlin had foretold, without error!

Compared to the grandeur of the white dragon, Artoria standing before him seemed impossibly small.

The white dragon roared, sending whirlwinds spiraling across the battlefield, scattering earth and stone in its ferocious wake.

"Arthur!"

"You understand nothing!"

"Everything you have is borrowed! How can you hope to prolong the Age of Gods?"

"Only I have the power to do so!"

The sheer might of the white dragon seemed to dominate, an unstoppable force bearing down on all before it.

But—

Before the arrogant words of the dragon, Artoria stood resolute, not retreating an inch.

She gazed steadily at the colossal creature before her, and then, to everyone's surprise, she smiled.

"Yes, you're right."

"I understand nothing."

"If I had understood earlier, perhaps things would not have come to this."

"The throne, the holy sword, the knights."

"Indeed, all I possess is borrowed."

"But, Vortigern—"

Artoria raised her hand, as if reaching for the heavens themselves.

"Who says that a borrowed ideal cannot become a true one?"

"In distant dreams, I have seen countless people smiling because of it."

"Those visions—they cannot be wrong."

"Moreover—"

A tender light flickered in Artoria's eyes, revealing the gentleness of a maiden beneath her kingly resolve.

"Now, I have my own ideal."

The voice of the Knight King echoed across the battlefield, rising above the roar of the dragon, parting the white clouds that loomed overhead.

From the heavens, a golden pillar of light descended, piercing through the sky itself.

"Rhongomyniad: The Lance That Shines to the End of the World," the radiant golden lance, descended to earth with the unyielding resolve of the king!

The lance shimmered with unmatched brilliance, its presence a stark contrast to the overwhelming shadow of the dragon.

The air grew heavy with the clash of forces—of unrelenting ideals and ancient, destructive power.

Artoria grasped Rhongomyniad, its golden light intertwining with her unwavering determination.

The battlefield seemed to pause, the world holding its breath in anticipation of the final clash between light and darkness.

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