"For the British Isles today, the White Dragon is not just a dragon, but a god," Merlin said quietly, his voice tinged with rare melancholy. "He has become the embodiment of fear—a symbol of ruin and catastrophe."
"No, perhaps it's more accurate to say that the White Dragon has always represented destruction. From centuries past, the Red Dragon established itself as Britain's guardian only by driving out the White. Therefore, only by truly defeating the Red Dragon and plunging Britain into devastation can Vortigern complete his transformation—not simply from man to dragon, but from dragon to god. Only then can he invert the meaning of the 'dragon' itself, turning it into a divine concept of disaster."
Destruction and disaster...
Nidhogg.
That name rose in Agravain's mind like a curse. The great wyrm said to gnaw at the roots of the World Tree. A herald of despair, a countdown to Ragnarok—the very image of apocalypse.
"Is he trying to dye white into black? To become the world-destroying dragon himself?" Agravain's eyes widened in horror.
If that were true, then Vortigern—the humble king—was far more dangerous than any of them had imagined. Should his transformation into a black dragon succeed, it would no longer be just Britain at risk. It would be a global, even cosmic, crisis.
"For power alone? For personal ambition?" Arthur murmured, then gave a short, bitter laugh. "No. If it were merely the White Dragon, perhaps. But not Vortigern."
"Oh? It seems my king holds him in high regard." Merlin nodded slowly. "Indeed—godhood is merely a means to him, not the goal. As far as he's concerned, it doesn't matter what kind of god he becomes. When he discovered the White Dragon, he chose to become it. Had he found the Red Dragon first, he might have chosen that instead."
"How absurd!" Gawain rose to his feet, fury blazing in his eyes. "That despicable traitor dares aspire to become the Red Dragon?!"
Though Arturia may be the symbolic heir to the dragon's bloodline, to the people of Britain, the one who truly bears the Red Dragon's mantle—who protects the island—is none other than King Arthur.
To suggest another might replace him—especially Vortigern—was nothing short of blasphemy.
"Calm down, Sir Gawain," Arthur said, raising a hand. "Merlin is only speaking hypothetically."
He turned to the mage. "Continue."
"Yes." Merlin's expression sobered. "Back in Camelot, Vortigern once read in a tome that gods are connected to the Root—that most sacred of mysteries. And since the Root transcends even the planetary will of Gaia, he believed that by becoming a god, he could escape the constraints of the present world and resurrect the Age of Gods."
"Unfortunately for him," Arthur said, glancing at Manaka, "he misunderstood."
The Root.
It sounded miraculous, unfathomable. But Arthur, through what he had learned from Manaka, had come to understand a few truths.
The Root was the origin of all things—the wellspring of knowledge, law, and causality.
Gods, while linked to the Root, could only access slivers of that infinite archive. A god of [fire] might possess perfect knowledge of all fire. A god of [death] would understand death completely. But none of them were omnipotent. Their divinity granted domain—not totality.
They were fragments.
No god held all the permissions.
What Vortigern truly desired, then, was not godhood, but something else entirely. He wanted what Manaka had: direct access to the Root itself—not just a single domain, but everything.
The ability to touch all knowledge, all concepts, all history.
A desire born of misunderstanding—and from that misunderstanding came a path of no return.
"I see," Arthur said at last. "I understand now."
Vortigern sought to oppose Gaia—the restraining force of the planet itself. But in his ambition, he did exactly what Gaia would demand.
He tried to become a god.
And now, though he has not yet fully succeeded, his path has already been claimed.
He is no longer Vortigern.
He is a pawn of Gaia.
An incarnation of planetary will.
And Arthur understood something more: that the moment the balance shifted—when the other sovereign of the British Isles, the red dragon's line, lost their strength—Vortigern acted. Not out of malice, but caution.
A rival king. A tentative truce. A mutual goal. But also, a deep, inevitable distrust.
Even among intelligent life—whether human or not—cooperation born of convenience always carries risk.
So Vortigern hedged his bets.
He overlapped his own identity with that of the British Isles themselves. With the power granted by singular dominion, he became more than king. He fused his very concept with the land. He became a symbol of the island.
A living Gaia.
But this path was doomed from the beginning.
Though steeped in magic, ancient mystery, and divine legacy, the British Isles are still part of the earth—still part of Gaia's surface.
And one does not usurp Gaia.
No, such ambitions only invite assimilation.
At the end of his journey, Vortigern found not godhood—but possession.
He became Gaia's avatar. The force of restraint incarnate, walking the earth in human shape.
His will, his soul, his thoughts—slowly eroded, overwritten.
Until now—
"The Humble King is dead," Arthur said quietly. "What stands against us is no longer the White Dragon. It is Gaia. The Counter Force itself."
"You are correct," Merlin said, bowing his head.
"My king..." one of the knights began.
But no one spoke further.
They could feel it—that strange regret beneath Arthur's calm.
Morgan, most of all, sensed it.
She knew the weight he carried. That Arthur had never truly wanted the throne. That the war, the blood, the burden—it was all a duty he had taken up out of necessity.
She knew that he still bore guilt for what the Pendragon family had done to Vortigern.
Little Arthur, the boy from years ago, would never have wanted to kill his uncle.
But now—
There was no other choice.
Arthur had made his decision.
"The time is not yet upon us," he said. "So there's no need to lament the future. We'll shape it ourselves."
His eyes hardened.
His will ignited.
Then, calmly and with authority, he gave his next command.
"The Humble King must be slain in a single blow. Weakening the Saxons alone is meaningless."
For Britain already had the strength to crush the Saxons.
They had merely held back—out of principle, or pity.
But now that Rome had intervened, the reasons for restraint no longer applied.
And so, Arthur declared the truth:
"The Saxons are not the enemy."
It sounded absurd.
But it was true.
The enemy was never the army. Never the tribe.
The enemy… was the King.
Defeat him, and the Saxons would fall apart like mist.
They would become little more than a footnote.
But that begged the final question—
Can the Humble King still be defeated?
-End Chapter-
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