Chapter 1: Artoria Concerto
My life sucks.
Seriously, it fucking sucks.
I thought having a face that practically matched the handsomeness of King Arthur from Fate/Prototype—except for my blue eyes—would make it easy to get girls. I mean, come on, just having a face like that should've been enough, right?
But reality decided to slap me in the face.
The moment I finally gathered the courage to confess to one of the most beautiful girls in my class, I got utterly, brutally, rejected. No hesitation. No sugarcoating. Just a straight-up no. Ever since that moment, my college life has been nothing but a downward spiral of frustration and disappointment. My confidence took a hit so bad that I started questioning my entire existence.
Was my face not handsome enough?
Did my so-called King Arthur-tier looks mean jack shit?
This was the question that haunted me for days, circling in my head like a goddamn vulture. And then, three days after my rejection, I saw something that made everything click into place.
That same girl—the one who so mercilessly shot me down—was laughing and chatting with the fat nerd from our class. And not just any fat nerd, but that fat nerd.
You see, this guy? His grandfather was basically the mayor of our city. He drove a flashy red sports car to college like he was some kind of rich young master straight out of a shitty Chinese novel. He was also famous for being a playboy despite his greasy hair, double chin, and thick-ass glasses that made him look like a bootleg otaku villain.
The moment I saw them together, everything just clicked.
It wasn't about me. It wasn't about my looks. It was never about my goddamn personality either. That girl? She was nothing but a gold-digging whore.
The realization hit me like a freight train.
I wasn't the problem. She was.
With that, my unhappiness evaporated, replaced by a twisted sense of relief. The illusion I had—the naive belief that love was about attraction or chemistry—was shattered beyond repair. The moment I understood that, I knew I'd never waste my time on girls like her ever again.
The class finally ended, and I was more than ready to get the hell out of there.
As I walked down the hallway, I reached into my bag, pulled out my Samsung Galaxy, and started scrolling through Webnovel.
And immediately, I let out a sigh.
Fanfiction these days was absolute dogshit.
Chinese translations. Stolen stories. The whole damn platform had turned into a wasteland.
Back in 2019, things were different. Sure, most of the stories had terrible grammar, cringe-worthy writing, and were prone to being dropped without warning. But despite all that, they had heart. They had originality.
Those stories didn't waste time with meaningless filler. They weren't masterpieces, but they were entertaining.
Now?
Now, all I saw were bloated chapters full of unnecessary shit.
The golden age of fanfiction was dead.
And nothing pissed me off more than seeing how nearly 99% of Fate fanfics—especially anything related to the Pendragons—were nothing but garbage Chinese stories.
It made my blood boil. I hated that shit with a passion.
So, I made a decision right then and there.
If Webnovel was going to be flooded with trash, then fuck it—I'd write my own fanfic. I'd flood the damn site with my stories instead. If nobody else was going to raise the quality, then I'd do it myself.
But first, I needed research.
I needed to dive deep into the Nasuverse, reread the original Pendragon stories, check out some decent fanfics, and even ask ChatGPT for information.
Before I knew it, I was completely sucked into Arthurian legends, drowning myself in lore, theories, and possibilities.
And as I read, a thought kept creeping into my mind.
What if I really was King Arthur?
What if... I had been born as the one true King of Britain?
When I finally snapped out of my delusion, a girl's voice rudely interrupted my thoughts.
"You… You… You are King Arthur!"
The moment I turned to see who was making such a fuss, my eyes landed on a nun, her face frozen in shock.
Her wide, disbelieving eyes were locked onto me as if she were witnessing something that should never have existed in this place.
I frowned slightly, staring at her in mild confusion.
Was this girl out of her damn mind? Calling me King Arthur out of nowhere—did she hit her head or something?
"Are you talking about me, girl?" I asked, jabbing a finger at my own chest before flashing her a teasing smirk. "And what about you, then? You look exactly like Francesca Prelati—the genderbent version of some shady magician dude from Fate/Strange Fake. Nice cosplay, I gotta say. Though, I was kinda hoping you'd be a femboy rather than a girl. That would've been more fun."
The nun—no, Francesca Prelati—blinked at me, her expression a mix of surprise and cautious curiosity.
"But, Your Majesty… I am a girl. And… how do you know my name?" she asked warily.
I scowled, my mood dampening in an instant. Dammit, she really wasn't a femboy. What a disappointment. But that wasn't even the biggest issue right now.
I finally took a proper look at my surroundings, and a cold sense of unease settled in my gut.
My scowl deepened as I scanned the place, my mind racing.
How the hell did I end up in this run-down church?
Why was this girl dressed like a nun while cosplaying as Francesca Prelati?
More importantly… when the fuck did night fall?
Had I really been so absorbed in reading e-books that I completely lost track of time and reality itself?
Something wasn't right.
I refocused on the nun, my voice firm as I asked, "Where am I?"
"You don't know?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, doubt flickering across her delicate features. "This is Camelot, Your Highness."
Camelot?
I let out a short, amused chuckle, unable to help myself.
Was this chick for real?
"So you're telling me I'm King Arthur, right? And since this is Camelot, that means this church belongs to me. Hell, every place in this kingdom should be mine, isn't that right?" I smirked, completely entertained by the sheer absurdity of this whole situation.
"That is correct, my king," she replied without hesitation, nodding as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
That made me stop.
The way she said it. That unwavering, absolute certainty in her tone—it sent an uncomfortable chill down my spine.
I stopped laughing.
Narrowing my eyes, I studied her face more carefully.
"If everything here belongs to me… then what about you?" I asked, my tone more challenging now.
Francesca didn't even hesitate.
"If that is what you wish," she murmured, her voice steady, her expression unreadable.
And then—to my absolute fucking shock—she started reaching for her robes, fingers moving to strip herself bare right then and there.
My body reacted before my mind could process the insanity unfolding before me. My hand shot out, gripping her wrist firmly just as she was about to pull off her clothes.
"Alright, that's enough, girl. Playtime's over." My voice was firm, no longer playing along with whatever weird-ass logic she was following. "I believe you, okay? You don't need to go that far. Save your chastity for your damn husband or something."
Francesca stared at me, clearly thrown off by my words. "But you said—"
I cut her off before she could finish, my gaze sharpening. "I don't know what kind of fucked-up logic you're working with, but let me make one thing clear. If you want something, you should truly want it—from your heart. Not just because someone told you to."
My grip on her wrist loosened slightly, but I didn't let go until I was sure she got the message.
For the first time since this ridiculous exchange started, her expression softened.
A genuine, almost wistful smile curved her lips as she looked at me in a way that made me uncomfortable for reasons I couldn't quite place.
"Now, I understand why so many people admire you, King Arthur," she murmured, voice gentle, almost affectionate. "You are… different from most knights and nobles."
I wasn't sure whether to take that as a compliment or not.
She took a step back, lowering her head in a deep, respectful bow. "For now, please allow me to take my leave. May you find happiness in the future."
And with that, she turned around and walked away, leaving me standing there, staring after her retreating form, lost in my own thoughts.
What the actual fuck had I just gotten myself into?
"I never would have thought I'd encounter such a surprise when I walked into this place," the voice echoed throughout the dilapidated church.
It was filled with amusement, as if the speaker was entertained by the scene before him. Yet, despite the voice's presence, I couldn't see anyone around.
The eerie emptiness of the space made me hyper-alert, fearing the voice belonged to a robber lying in ambush, waiting to pounce.
"Who are you? Show yourself!" I demanded, scanning the area for any signs of movement.
Suddenly, a flower bloomed right in front of me, and there, standing before me, was the owner of the voice.
"You... You... You're Dick Merlin!" I stammered in shock, recognizing the infamous figure. Merlin's expression immediately darkened.
"What?! Shouldn't you be praising me as the great Sage Merlin?" he retorted, clearly annoyed by my choice of words.
"Ahem... Forget about that," he waved his hand dismissively. "We don't have time for trivialities. I met you here because I want you to meet someone. Now, tell me, lad, do you wish to become king?"
"Nah," I shrugged.
"There are far better kings out there already, right, Merlin? Why would you want to pick me when you've got Artoria?" I refused outright. I had no interest in taking her place or even thinking about replacing her.
Merlin's eyes narrowed, clearly intrigued.
"How do you even know about Artoria?" he asked. But then, with a dismissive shake of his head, he muttered, "No matter. I don't have time for that question right now. Let's go meet her first. Once you see her, you can decide whether you accept or refuse my offer. Shall we go now?"
He extended his hand toward me. I hesitated, eyeing him cautiously, but eventually, I nodded. With a deep breath, I reached out and took his hand. As soon as I did, flowers bloomed around us, and we were teleported away in a flurry of petals.
When we arrived at our destination, I was stunned by the sight that awaited me. Artoria lay before me, her face pale and sickly, her body clearly in a weakened state, as if gravely injured.
Shouldn't she have Avalon?
I thought, my mind racing.
I remember she chose Excalibur over Avalon, but before the Battle of Camlann, it was suggested she already had Avalon.
So if that's true, why is she like this?
And if Avalon really exist, how was she so easily drugged by Morgan in the canon, leading to her being raped by Morgan and giving birth to Mordred?
None of it made sense.
This situation was confusing as hell.
"As you can see, lad, the king is in a dire state—grievously wounded and unfit to rule in her current condition," Merlin said, his hand resting heavily on my shoulder.
His sudden touch startled me, breaking my thoughts, and I found myself growing more irritated.
"Did you make this decision on your own? Or was it Artoria's?" I asked, not trusting Merlin's intentions.
"And honestly, I find it hard to believe that someone like you, with all your power, can't heal the king," I added with a roll of my eyes, refusing to swallow his bullshit.
"Things would be much simpler if that were the case," Merlin sighed, looking wearier than ever.
"You may not realize it, lad, but this world has a will of its own, and that will certainly doesn't favor the divergence we've created. As long as Artoria returns to her throne, she will no longer only face Britannia, but the entire world. That's why we need someone the world's will perceives as harmless and non-threatening. That someone, I've determined, is you. You appear to be just an ordinary human, and they will surely not take you seriously."
"Don't force him, Merlin. If he doesn't want this, we shouldn't push him," Artoria spoke softly, sitting down at the edge of her chamber with great difficulty, her body wracked by violent coughs.
"I can handle this myself," she insisted.
"You're as stubborn as ever, Artoria, but I won't heal you. Let's see how you make it back to your throne on your own," Merlin refused without a moment's hesitation, then added, "Hate me if you want, but I refuse to watch you die because you're too prideful to admit defeat, or because you believe you can defeat Alaya and Gaia on your own."
I stood by silently, watching the two of them exchange cold glances, neither willing to back down.
Finally, Artoria sighed, a reluctant compromise in her eyes, as she turned her attention toward me.
"Your name?" she asked.
"Khan," I introduced myself.
"I apologize for putting you in this position, Khan," she said, bowing slightly. "Merlin, please, let's not involve an outsider or endanger his life."
Just as Merlin was about to explain further, I interrupted with a firm tone.
"I'm fine with it. I'm willing to become king."
"Are you certain, Khan?" Artoria asked, her voice tinged with hesitation.
"I am."
"Let me help you, Artoria. Like Merlin, I don't want your legend to end here. I want to witness this beautiful era until its very end. I want to be part of it. I want to see your journey to the end, Merlin's as well, and that of everyone in the Knights of the Round Table, even Morgan le Fay. I don't want to merely read about them in books—I want to be one of them. Please, grant me this opportunity, King of Knights," I bowed deeply, my tone full of earnestness.
Artoria's gaze softened, and she nodded.
"Take this, Khan. With this sword, you will become King Arthur," Artoria said as she handed me her Caliburn.
My hands trembled as I took hold of it.
But then, my grip became steadier, and I declared, "I will conquer Britannia for you, Artoria. This is my promise as King Arthur."
Kneeling before her, I made my vow with the gesture of a knight sworn to his liege.
"There's no need to be so serious, Khan. All I ask is that you protect Camelot," Artoria blushed, her face flushing red at my determination.
Even in the canon of her story, she had never harbored ambitions to unite or conquer Britannia—only to protect it.
"I will," I vowed once more.
Her expression softened further, and with a grateful nod, she said.
"Thank you, Khan."
Chapter 2: Is this heaven?
"Merlin, don't ever do that again. Artoria's life is already difficult enough as it is; don't make her life even harder," I reminded him sternly.
"What exactly do you mean by that, Your Highness?" Merlin inquired, feigning ignorance as if he didn't understand the weight of my words.
I silently clenched my fist, feeling anger bubble up inside me at his blatant pretense.
Is this the legendary Sage in the story?
Is this how he truly treats Artoria?
He shows her no respect, nor does he obey her as his rightful king. Instead, he treats her as nothing more than a puppet under his control.
Is this Merlin's true face?
Why did he even bother to crown Artoria as king if he never trusted her in the first place?
Why did he go to such lengths—setting up the Sword in the Stone, training her from infancy as a savior and king—if he could never place his faith in her?
What is the point of all of this?
As the thoughts swirled in my head, I suddenly loosened my clenched fist, recalling something that made me pause.
"You wanted entertainment, didn't you, Merlin?" I spat, my voice sharp with resentment. "Well then, I'll give you the grand performance you want. But don't you dare treat her like that again! She is neither your puppet nor your toy! She is your king!"
In a fit of anger, I grabbed his collar, pulling him close, my fury palpable.
Yet, despite my outburst, Merlin simply grinned—a grin so unsettling it bordered on predatory.
"So be it, then," he replied, his tone infuriatingly calm. "I'll be looking forward to this grand performance of yours, King Arthur."
With effortless ease, he loosened my grip from his collar, his grin never faltering. "But for now, let's focus on more pressing matters, shall we? Your knights must be worried by now. We've been gone for nearly a week, and no doubt they've been searching for us everywhere."
His voice, so calm and composed, irked me, but I nodded in agreement, as if pretending the previous confrontation had never happened.
Side by side, we walked under the night sky, admiring the beauty of the stars.
They didn't appear in the future, after all—where the sky was masked by the dull veil of pollution.
The air was purer here, fresher, a stark contrast to the toxic atmosphere of modern times.
I could have enjoyed this peaceful night much more, if not for Merlin's presence beside me, his smug expression still plastered across his face. There was no guilt, no shame, no hint of regret for what had happened—only that insufferable grin.
His smugness made me realize just how dangerous and depraved this man truly was.
How could I trust someone like him?
He was supposed to assist Artoria, not control her.
Yet here he was, showing no remorse for his past actions.
If he could treat Artoria this way—Artoria, whom he had raised since she was a child—what might he do to me, a mere stranger in his eyes?
Would he toy with me as well? Make me his puppet, just like her?
There was a high possibility of that, especially considering he didn't even treat Artoria, the rightful king, with any respect.
No matter the answer, I would never allow Merlin to overstep his bounds when it came to Artoria or the crown.
Even though the atmosphere around us seemed serene, there was no denying the lingering tension.
It hadn't dissipated—it was merely lying beneath the surface, waiting to erupt again.
Just as I found myself thinking that this would last forever, the rhythmic sound of horse hooves abruptly interrupted my thoughts, drawing my attention as the knights dismounted gracefully from their steeds.
Then came the pretty boy with green eyes and pale platinum, or maybe blonde hair—I couldn't quite tell. It was already midnight, and I couldn't clearly make out his appearance. The only thing I could see was that the man had suddenly knelt before me.
"My king, where have you been lately? We have searched for you everywhere, but found nothing. I'm glad that we've finally found you."
I couldn't help but feel suspicious. Could they really not distinguish between Artoria and me? My eyes were blue, not green like Artoria's.
"His name is Bedivere, my king," Merlin whispered to me.
I nodded and extended my hand to help him rise.
"Stand up, Sir Bedivere. I've simply been taking a walk with Merlin and encountered a nun. She's someone I'm quite interested in hiring at the castle," I said, making up an excuse without missing a beat.
"Where is your horse, my king?" Bedivere asked cautiously, scanning the area but finding nothing. His gaze returned to me, filled with concern.
"Stolen," I replied nonchalantly.
"How could that be? Who would dare steal the king's horse?" Bedivere's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, his expression filled with anger.
I took a step back, slightly startled by his overreaction.
Of course, I quickly gathered myself and calmed down when I realized Bedivere mean no harm.
"We'll deal with the horse thief later, Sir Bedivere," I said, patting his shoulder to signal him to calm down. "For now, I'm hungry, thirsty, and in dire need of a nice hot bath."
Whether he understood or not, I left it to fate to decide.
"Oh, and let me share something good with you. After all, I really do appreciate your coming."
At that moment, I began rummaging through my bag for the potato chips I had. Opening the bag, I picked up a chip and offered it to Bedivere. He eyed it warily, his calm composure faltering. He gulped as the aroma of barbeque-flavored chips filled the air around us. I couldn't help but smile as the growling of our stomachs echoed in the silence of the night.
"My king... Are you absolutely sure this is safe?" Benivere hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on the potato chip with drooling anticipation.
"If you don't want it, then I'll eat it myself." I said. Without giving Benivere a chance to react or snatch it from me, I hurriedly shoved the potato chip into my mouth, my growing hunger and uncontrollable craving for the crispy snack overwhelming any sense of patience.
Benivere awkwardly stepped back, trying to mask his discomfort. He glanced at the nearby knight and, with a subtle wink, signaled him.
The knight nodded and reached for the horse's reins.
"Since there's no other horse available, how about using this one for now, my king?"
"Thanks, Benivere," I replied with a nod.
As a playful gesture, I tossed the last remaining potato chip at him, mounted the horse, and seized control of the reins.
"Think of it as a reward. Woah—! What the hell?!"
Without warning, the horse took off, galloping uncontrollably as I clung desperately to its neck.
"My king!" Benivere's voice echoed behind me, laced with genuine concern.
The wind whipped against my face with such intensity that it nearly knocked the breath out of me.
Over the roar of the wind, I could barely hear the sound of hooves thundering behind me, and Benivere's frantic shouts grew louder.
No matter how hard I pulled on the reins, the horse refused to slow down, galloping faster and faster as if possessed. It seemed like it had no intention of stopping anytime soon.
Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, the horse reared up, lifting its front hooves high into the air, attempting to throw me off.
But I clung desperately to its neck, refusing to let go. I wouldn't give in so easily. With every ounce of strength I had, I kept choking the reins, determined not to fall.
Despite my efforts, we both eventually crashed to the ground, the force of the fall knocking the wind out of me.
My head slammed hard against the cold hard ground, and in that moment, everything faded to black.
.
.
.
When I awoke from my fall, it felt as if I had ascended to the heavens themselves.
A profound sense of peace enveloped me, especially in my head, despite the recent fall from my horse.
I can't quite find the perfect words to describe this sensation, but it was as though my mind had been unshackled from a heavy burden.
The constant, throbbing headache that had plagued me for so long had vanished, replaced by an extraordinary lightness, a weightlessness I had never before experienced in my life.
Instinctively, I let out a groan of satisfaction, unable to contain the relief coursing through me.
"Are you awake, Your Highness?"
The soft voice of a woman reached my ears, and I blinked, trying to clear the fog from my vision.
"You are...?" I asked, my voice groggy as I struggled to focus.
My vision was blurred, and I found it difficult to make out the identity of the girl who cradled my head on her lap, gently massaging my temples with her soft, tender hands.
"Do you not remember who I am, Your Highness?" she asked, a hint of playful amusement in her tone. "I am Francesca Prelati."
"Francesca Prelati... Francesca Prelati... Ah, yes! I remember now," I exclaimed, surprise flashing across my face as I finally recognized her. "You're that nun!"
I tried to sit up, but the moment I moved, a wave of pain swept through my body, making me wince in discomfort. It felt like every muscle and bone in my body was screaming in protest, aching from the fall.
Sensing my pain, Francesca Prelati spoke again, her voice filled with calm reassurance.
"You should rest for a little longer, Your Highness. Allow me to take care of you."
With those words, her hands began to glow with a soft, white light that spread warmth throughout my body. As the light swept over my head and down my shoulders, the tension and pain melted away, and my muscles relaxed.
The sensation was so overwhelming, I nearly moaned again from the sheer pleasure of it. It was as if I were on the verge of an otherworldly release, like I could ascend to heaven itself, but it was merely a feeling. What I truly meant was that, after her healing touch, I felt comfortable and at peace, as though I had been reborn.
Unknowingly, I found myself rest on her thigh once again.
"Thank you, Francesca Prelati," I murmured, gratitude in my voice. "Are you not tired from letting my head rest on your lap for so long? Help me sit up; I don't want you to become uncomfortable on my behalf."
"It's no trouble at all, my king," she responded gently. "I could do this for half a day without tiring. Besides, it's only been two hours."
Two hours, and she's not even tired?
I was astonished. In the past, whenever I rested my head on my childhood friend's thigh, she would start complaining after just five minutes, insisting that she was both tired and uncomfortable.
Is this truly heaven?
A place where women are not only likable and gentle, but also possess incredible endurance and far better attitudes?
This must be heaven.
Yes, that had to be the explanation for my current circumstances.
"Hmm... You seem quite pleased about something, King Arthur," Francesca chuckled softly, her hands still working their magic on my temples, massaging with delicate precision.
"If you enjoy this, you may rest as much as you want," she added with a smile in her voice.
Yes, this must be heaven.
I couldn't help but accept her suggestion as I closed my eyes and rested on her soft thigh once again. Her hand continued to massage me gently, and she let out a soothing, unknown humming tone that filled the air around us.
The unfamiliar melody was one I had never heard before, yet it brought me a sense of peace the moment I heard it. It felt as if the song itself was a lullaby meant only for me.
She was no longer massaging my head, but instead, she began caressing my hairs, stroking them delicately as if she were handling something incredibly precious.
I couldn't understand why she went to such lengths just to ease my burdens, but her tenderness was undeniable.
Regardless of my confusion, I accepted her kindness.
With my eyes closed, I drifted off into a deep, comfortable sleep in her lap, feeling completely at ease.
Chapter 3: Welcome to the Game of Thrones
Sir Bedivere POV
"It's tasty! Do you want some, Sir Bedivere?" Merlin teased, taking a bite of the potato chip in his hand and waving it in front of me, letting the rich barbeque aroma waft through the air and tickle my senses.
"How can you sit there and have the heart to eat, Sir Merlin, while the king remains in such a dire state?" I couldn't help but express my annoyance.
The sight of the Sage Merlin, so carefree and indulging in food while our king suffered inside the church, grated on my nerves.
At present, we stood guarding the entrance to the church, while the king was being tended to by the nuns inside. We placed our full trust in the church's healing methods—whether it be through holy water, holy light, or any other sacred technique they possessed.
The church's reputation for miraculous healing was beyond question.
That's why we harbored no doubts about the process, and Merlin himself vouched for the nun's reliability. The king had also mentioned that over the past week, he had grown quite fond of her. Who was I to question the king's judgment?
If both the king and Merlin deemed her trustworthy, then she must be.
"Not really," Merlin added with a sly smirk, his face twisted in that mischievous, wretched grin of his. "If you only knew what was happening inside."
He said, his tone filled with a kind of playful malice as he continued to crunch on his potato chips.
"Since you don't seem interested," he added with a mock shrug, "I suppose I'll finish the rest myself."
He flashed the snack in my direction, as if expecting me to reconsider, but I merely remained silent, keeping my focus on the door.
His words were bait, tempting me to lose focus. But I would not give in. My responsibility to our king outweighed any fleeting amusement Merlin could offer. I was not here to engage in frivolous banter with a half-incubus. I was here to ensure that, should the king call upon me, I would be ready to serve, no matter what condition he emerged in.
But Merlin was not so easily dissuaded.
He pranced around the courtyard, waving the bag of chips at the other knights who stood guard. Each of them mirrored my stern expression, their faces tight with controlled frustration. Merlin was a thorn in all of our sides, though none of us would dare voice it aloud.
His power was undeniable, and his importance to the king's cause was unquestionable.
Still, in moments like these, it was difficult not to resent his carefree nature.
He pouted in response, clearly displeased that none of us entertained his antics.
Perhaps, in his mind, we were just no fun at all.
"You'll regret it, Sir Bedivere," Merlin chimed again, clearly unable to let the matter go. "The taste is divine! I don't think even the King will get anything as delicious as this again!"
Once again, I found myself deadpanning at Merlin's endless chattering.
Yet, despite his constant goading, not a single one of us responded.
Eventually, realizing his playful prodding was falling on deaf ears, Merlin resigned himself to finishing the chips in silence, though the crunching sounds still echoed in the air.
"Hah, the king will probably not be pleased that everything has ended like this, Sir Bedivere. But don't trouble yourself with matters beyond your control. Besides, the king is fine. You should at least try to trust him," Merlin murmured, his voice just loud enough for me to catch. I sighed in resignation, feeling the weight of his words.
"Are you finished, Merlin? What's the point of all this?"
"Nothing really. It just feels like everything is irritating me," he replied dismissively, refusing to elaborate.
With a frustrated gesture, he threw whatever was in his hands to the ground, then reclined lazily, staring up at the stars as though he were waiting for something. Just then, the doors of the church creaked open.
"How is the king?" I asked, my voice filled with concern.
"He's fine," the nun replied, though there was a subtle glance in Merlin's direction, as if she wanted to say more but held back.
After a brief pause, she added, "Come inside."
I nodded, readying myself to follow her into the church.
"Not all of you. Only one may enter as a representative. The king needs his rest," she warned firmly.
"You should go, Sage Merlin," I suggested, having noticed the way the nun's eyes lingered on him.
It was clear she had something to discuss with him, and I, recognizing my place in this unfolding drama, reluctantly conceded.
There was no point in rushing to the king when others had already decided the course of action.
The nun looked at me with an expression of approval before turning to lead Merlin inside.
He followed her, arms casually crossed behind his head, wearing that carefree expression of his as he hummed a tune, completely at ease with the situation.
.
.
.
Francesca Prelati's POV
"I have already done what you asked of me, Lord Merlin," I said, my voice steady but tinged with unease.
King Arthur was indeed a pitiful figure in many ways.
Not only did his supposed mentor insist on constantly monitoring him, but it seemed Merlin also desired to keep him under strict control at all times, as though Arthur were nothing more than a puppet on strings.
Is this the true face of Lord Merlin?
He had promised to teach me the ways of a proper magus, to instruct me in the art of alchemy, if I could succeed in gaining King Arthur's trust and report every detail of his movements back to Merlin.
As much as it sickened me to act as a spy, betraying both the Church and my current liege for the sake of gaining power, but I had never gone this far because of so-called kindness. After all, what kindness was ever shown to an orphan like me?
I was given this tiny, dilapidated church not out of charity, but because I had proven myself useful and obedient—more so than any of the other nuns, clergies, or priests in our community. I stole for them. I gathered information for them. I did whatever they asked because they offered me shelter, a place to call home, this meager home.
I've always done whatever it takes to climb higher, even if that means exploiting King Arthur's kindness.
Compared to King Arthur, or even Merlin, I am nothing. I wasn't born into a life of privilege, with silver spoons laid out on golden platters. I was just an orphan, a lowly peasant, and it was a pipe dream for someone like me to even think of standing alongside nobles.
Yes, what I've done to King Arthur is wrong—there's no denying that. But I don't justify my actions or pretend I'm in the right. I know full well that I'm in the wrong, but I've never had a real choice in the matter. Not from the very beginning.
"Excellent," Lord Merlin praised, his voice devoid of any true warmth.
"So, where is he now?"
"He is asleep," I replied, bowing slightly. "I brought him to my room, and I've already earned his trust."
"Good. Continue what you've been doing," Merlin said with a careless wave of his hand, not even bothering to open his eyes. "I think Bedivere has been waiting outside for long enough. Tell him he may come in, and assure him the king is well."
Without waiting for my response, Merlin sat down on the bench, closing his eyes as he immediately began to snore loudly, indifferent to my presence or my thoughts about him.
With nothing more to say, I retreated humbly, as unnoticed as ever, my mind weighed down by the burden of the role I played.
.
.
.
Merlin's POV:
"Great news, Lord Merlin. Sir Kay will be happy when he hears his brother has finally awakened," Sir Bedivere said, his voice brimming with joy upon learning that false King Arthur was safe and sound.
"Kay... Yes, Kay... How could I have possibly forgotten about him? Thank you, Sir Bedivere. I'll make sure to inform him immediately," I replied, smirking as I patted his shoulder.
With a sly grin, I vanished from his field of vision, only to reappear moments later in front of Kay, who looked startled by my sudden presence.
Our current location was within the grand Castle of Camelot. To be more precise, we found ourselves in one of the many chambers of the castle, specifically the one that served as the residence of Sir Kay.
"Have you found Artoria already, Merlin? Where on earth have you two been all this time?" Kay's voice trembled with worry as he grabbed my shoulders, his face pale and gaunt, clearly sick from waiting for news of his sister's whereabouts—news that had yet to be delivered.
It was only natural that he'd be worried sick. Artoria had left without telling him where she was going or what she planned to do.
His concern originally stemmed from the fact that Artoria was raised in the household of his father, Sir Ector, a former knight of King Uther.
Sir Ector had been entrusted with the task of not only training Artoria but also becoming a father figure in her life.
His role was to ensure that she remained morally upright and virtuous, qualities that Sir Ector himself embodied with his own character.
Known for his integrity and trustworthy nature, Sir Ector diligently raised Artoria to be a well-rounded individual—a virtuous girl who would grow into a great knight, one who held honor and virtues above all else.
In simpler terms, Artoria was the adopted daughter of Sir Ector, and she was also the rightful daughter of King Uther, the former ruler of Camelot, making her the true heir to the throne as King Arthur.
As Artoria's brother, Kay naturally had every right to be concerned about her, especially considering the heavy burden that came with her lineage.
Even though they weren't siblings by blood, their bond as family was strong, and that familial connection fueled Kay's protective instincts over her, regardless of the lack of blood relation.
I hadn't considered Kay's concerns, but now he was becoming a threat, a potential danger that needed to be dealt with.
Artoria's secret was in his hands, and everything I was working toward would crumble if he decided to spread the truth—that the King Arthur currently ruling Camelot wasn't truly King Arthur.
"Kay... How about we visit your father first? It's been ages since you visited his grave or returned to his home. You haven't set foot there since his passing," I suggested cautiously, careful not to arouse suspicion.
"Since when did you become so sentimental, Merlin? Hah... Fine, let's visit my father's home," Kay grinned, though his eyes betrayed a deep sadness, hidden behind the cheerful façade he wore for others.
"Let's go, then," I said, grabbing his hand as we instantly teleported to Sir Ector's home, appearing right in the courtyard.
I followed Kay from behind as he approached the house, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen.
In a swift, calculated motion, I drove a sword deep into his back, piercing his gut with deadly precision.
Kay let out a pained grunt, collapsing to the ground.
His eyes filled with confusion and sorrow as he turned his face toward me, struggling to understand the betrayal.
"Why, Merlin? Why?!" he gasped, barely able to speak through the agony.
"I cannot allow you to hurt Artoria, Kay. And that man... That man promised Artoria Britannia. I want him to succeed, not only for himself, but for me and for Artoria as well. He must achieve his goal. Failure is not an option, and I will not let you ruin everything we've worked for." I said coldly.
Without hesitation or mercy, I raised my sword and aimed it directly at his throat.
Kay's eyes widened in disbelief, but it was too late.
The sound of steel slicing through flesh echoed in the courtyard as my blade silenced him forever.
He fell lifeless to the ground, his eyes closing as his final breath escaped him.
I sighed heavily.
"I'm sorry, Kay..."
Chapter 4: Welcome to Camelot
Khan's POV
"You don't need to go to such lengths, Prelati. I can bathe myself. Besides, isn't there a bathroom in this place?" I asked, my voice tinged with embarrassment as my upper body—still exposed—was gently wiped down by the nun before me.
She squeezed the towel to wring out the water before dipping it back in, then slowly, deliberately, wiped my skin again with soft, careful strokes.
"We cannot afford such luxuries, Your Highness," Francesca Prelati sighed, replacing the damp towel with a fresh one and continuing to wipe away the remaining moisture from my skin.
Once satisfied, she began helping me dress.
I stood as she assisted me into my modern attire.
The ensemble was a formal white suit adorned with striking blue and gold accents. The outer coat featured a long tailcoat design, with the inside lined in a distinctive blue checkerboard pattern. Gold and black trimmings framed the edges, providing an elegant contrast. The inner vest, also white, was fastened with blue buttons and had a sharp, formal appearance.
The trousers were tailored to match the pristine white of the suit and fitted neatly. Beneath the vest, I wore a blue and white striped shirt, adding a layer of stylish refinement to the overall look. A deep blue necktie, adorned with a small gold cross-like accessory, completed the attire. The cuffs of the suit bore intricate blue and gold detailing, consistent with the accents throughout the outfit. Even the pockets of the jacket were lined with blue trim.
With the sword Caliburn now firmly in my grip, I finally looked the like a proper king.
I couldn't help but notice the envious glint in Francesca Prelati's eyes as she observed me. Her simple attire, by contrast, lacked the grandeur and luxury of mine.
Noticing this, I gently patted her on the shoulder and spoke with warmth.
"You will wear the same dress as I do, Prelati. Follow me, and I will let you experience the conquest of Britannia by my side. I will unite this nation, and perhaps, in time, everyone will wear such a dress in the future."
"Do you truly intend to conquer Britannia, King Arthur?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered with a resolute nod.
"Then I shall look forward to witnessing your journey, Your Highness," she said with a respectful bow.
I nodded in return and prepared to depart.
As I opened the heavy doors of the church, I was met by the concerned faces of Bedivere and the knights.
They quickly gathered around, their expressions filled with worry as they inquired about my condition.
"My king, are you feeling well?" Bedivere asked, his tone laced with a noticeable hint of concern.
"I'm fine, Sir Bedivere," I responded, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, hoping to ease his worry.
"My king, we deeply apologize. We had no idea that the horse would cause such an issue." The knights, in unison, knelt down before me, bowing their heads in genuine remorse as they offered their heartfelt apology.
Soon after, they began to blame themselves for their supposed negligence, their self-reproach seemingly endless.
The scene dragged on to the point where I could no longer bear this repetitive charade.
"That's enough, everyone. I appreciate your concern, truly, but there's no need for you to blame yourselves or to apologize any further," I declared, clapping my hands to signal that this matter should no longer be a source of fuss.
"Did you hear that, everyone? The king has spoken. We must respect his wishes." Bedivere's voice rang out with firm authority, and the knights instantly fell silent, their mouths closing in perfect unison as they heeded his command.
Bedivere then stepped forward, his expression becoming more serious as he addressed me directly. "Your Highness, what are your orders now?"
The knights stood before me, one by one, their faces filled with anticipation as they waited for my next command.
I couldn't help but chuckle, a carefree smile spreading across my face as I observed their loyalty and eagerness.
"We shall return home, Bedivere," I said, my voice warm with the promise of respite. "I believe there is not a single one among you who doesn't miss the comfort of home, am I right?"
"All hail, King Arthur!" they shouted in unison.
"All hail, King Arthur!" their voices grew louder, echoing through the air.
"All hail, King Arthur!" They unsheathed their swords, raising them triumphantly to the sky, their joyous cries filling the atmosphere as the realization dawned on them—they were finally going home.
After many long and grueling weeks spent searching for me or to be precise, Artoria, they could now return to the embrace of their families, leaving behind the hardships of their long boring journey.
.
.
.
Riding atop my horse, I skillfully reigned them in, a skill honed through the grueling and relentless training sessions administered by Merlin—though only within the realm of dreams whenever I slept.
From an outside perspective, it would appear that I was merely resting in the church, in the nun's bedroom.
But in truth, my consciousness was repeatedly pulled into Merlin's dream realm, where I was subjected to intensive lessons in basic swordsmanship and horseback riding.
It was through these arduous trials that I no longer floundered as I once did, no longer the novice who would fall from his horse at the slightest provocation.
"My king, I offer my deepest apologies," Bedivere spoke with a voice heavy with guilt, his tone filled with remorse as he rode his horse alongside me. "I had no idea that the horse would run wild and become uncontrollable at that moment. It was a grievous negligence on my part as a knight."
"Ah, Sir Bedivere, there is no need for such an apology. The matter was less a fault of yours and more a simple issue of my lack of skill," I responded with a grin, adopting a casual, nonchalant expression.
"No, Your Highness, I cannot accept that. It was my duty as a knight to protect you, and I failed miserably. Not only did I betray your trust, but I also caused you great embarrassment. I should have thoroughly inspected the horse before offering it to you." Bedivere, ever insistent, kept blaming himself for the incident, his guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders.
His persistence left me speechless.
The more I spoke, the more I became convinced that there was something amiss in Bedivere's thought process—perhaps a faulty circuit in his brain, for he simply refused to acknowledge that it was my lack of skill, not his negligence.
I had already made it clear that it wasn't his fault but rather a matter of my inexperience, yet he continued to berate himself.
At this point, I was at a loss for words.
We rode in silence, accompanied by our entourage. Merlin rode just behind us, followed by Francesca Prelati and a retinue of knights who maintained a tight guard around our group.
Our path took us along the outskirts of Camelot as we approached the city gates.
The grandeur of Camelot's fortress revealed itself in the distance—its towering white walls and majestic spires stretching toward the heavens, a beacon of hope and glory.
The sun cast a warm, golden glow over the land, illuminating the intricate carvings and vibrant stained glass windows that adorned the castle's facade.
Massive stone structures spanned the landscape, connected by gracefully arching bridges, while the central fortress, with its grand halls and ancient banners, emanated an aura of both sanctity and might.
Honestly, I was taken aback by the magnificence of such an ancient city. Camelot, with all its grandeur, surpassed any architectural marvel I had ever witnessed in my modern life.
Is this truly Camelot?
The legendary realm where King Arthur's tale began?
It undoubtedly lived up to its name.
From the fortress alone, it was clear that Camelot was an impregnetable bastion, its solid walls and intricate defensive structures making it a fortress that seemed impossible to breach.
However, when we ventured into the city, I was completely taken aback by the state of the people living in Camelot.
Why are they so painfully thin? Why are the clothes they wear so ragged and riddled with holes, resembling those of refugees rather than proper citizens?
How could this have ever happened?
Isn't Camelot supposed to be the most prosperous capital and kingdom of the Arthurian era, as all the tales tell us?
If that were truly the case, why are the people here gripped by such overwhelming hunger and poverty?
When I looked down at the fine, luxurious clothing I wore—and saw the same on my knights, even on Merlin—I began to feel a growing sense of guilt.
I spurred my horse to move faster, followed closely by my knights, hoping to escape the pitiful sight.
No one showed any enthusiasm in greeting us or even bothered to look in our direction.
The prophecy of a savior was nothing more than a cruel joke in their eyes.
Their lives had not improved in the slightest, so how could I possibly hope to earn their respect through mere prophecy alone, a prophecy spun by Merlin like some clever scam?
The more I observed the dire state of the civilians, the more resolute I became.
Camelot must change.
Chapter 5: King & Queen
"Wow, Bedivere, who is that beautiful young lady?" I couldn't help but express my surprise.
Right there, in my future residence, specifically in the courtyard, stood a beautiful blonde-haired girl.
She was petite, with soft, delicate features, and her attire resembled that of a princess.
She sat serenely, surrounded by servants, as she enjoyed a cup of tea in the cool breeze of the garden.
My voice had been loud enough for them to hear, and I noticed the whispers that followed, with no intention of hiding them from me.
"How cruel."
"Is that King Arthur?"
"How could he not recognize his own wife, Lady Guinevere?!"
"She's my wife? Me? Lucky me, indeed," I thought as I nonchalantly approached her.
Guinevere, hearing my approach, looked at me with a brightened expression, signaling the servants to give us privacy.
"Leave me alone with the king," she commanded softly, and the servants, along with Bedivere, bowed and left us to the peaceful cool breeze of the morning.
I took a seat across from my future wife, feeling the gentle wind on my skin.
"Hey, beautiful, how about we go on a date?" I asked, cringing inwardly at my attempt at flirting, but I endured it as I offered the beauty before me a chance to go out together.
She was, after all, my wife—wasn't she?
I didn't think she would mind.
"What is a date, King Arthur?" Guinevere asked, her voice curious, her eyes gleaming with interest.
"A date? Well, it's when we go outside together, have fun, play, spend time together as a couple, eat a meal, and share stories to get to know one another better. I've never really been on one, but I think that's what a date is supposed to be."
"Then, how about telling me a story, King Arthur?" Her eyes sparkled with excitement at the mention of a story.
It seemed Guinevere truly loved stories, as most men and women do.
They all love a good tale.
Feeling confident in my storytelling abilities, I cleared my throat and smiled.
"How about I tell you the story of the Three Founders of Japan, Guinevere? It's a tale of how Nobunaga, Hideyoshi, and Ieyasu conquered the world, told from the perspective of a cuckoo."
"What is Japan, and who are Nobunaga, Hideyoshi, and Ieyasu, my king? I have never heard of them before," she asked, her face marked with a clear hint of confusion as she awaited my response.
"Japan," I began, "is best imagined as something akin to our very own Britannia, Princess. However, it lies far beyond the horizon, a distant island situated far to the East. Those three figures—Nobunaga, Hideyoshi, and Ieyasu—are comparable to figures like me, Vortigern, and King Lot, for they, too, were men who thrived on ambition. They dreamed of uniting and conquering their land, just as we dream of uniting and ruling over Britannia."
I explained this in a way that was simple and easy to understand, and I noticed how her eyes brightened in comprehension as she nodded gratefully.
"I understand, my king," Guinevere replied with a glint of admiration in her eyes. "It seems you are about to tell me a tale of great importance, one that you've clearly studied in depth."
Studied? Researched? What in the world?
That tale wasn't something I painstakingly researched.
It was simply told to me by my old history teacher.
Anyone who doesn't know this must have had terrible grades in school.
"Ahem..." I cleared my throat, brushing aside her assumption. "Let's begin the story, Guinevere."
I coughed lightly and set the scene.
"In a faraway land, isolated on the distant island of Japan, there existed a time before the unification of the nation by three great founders, who sought to conquer and rule over Japan. These three powerful leaders gathered before a bird trapped in a cage—a bird called the cuckoo. The cuckoo was renowned for its beautiful singing, but on that day, it refused to sing, and the leaders grew disappointed. Do you know what each of the three founders suggested when asked by their retainers how to make the cuckoo sing, Princess?"
She shook her head, intrigued.
"Nobunaga," I continued, "was the first to respond. His answer was simple and brutal: 'Kill it.' This was the essence of Nobunaga's approach to conquest—direct, ruthless, and without mercy. Just as he would show no compassion to the cuckoo, so too would he crush anyone who dared to oppose him. That is the kind of man Nobunaga was—aggressive, warlike, and utterly unforgiving in his pursuit of power. And that is how he began his conquest of Japan."
"Then what about Hideyoshi and Ieyasu, my king?" Guinevere's interest was greatly aroused as she eagerly inquired, her voice filled with a hopeful tone.
"Hideyoshi wanted to force the cuckoo to sing, while Ieyasu preferred to wait for the cuckoo to sing on its own. When compared to Nobunaga, Hideyoshi was more inclined to use threats and force, while Ieyasu was patient, choosing to bide his time and strike when the moment was right. This is the fundamental difference between the two of them," I responded vaguely.
In truth, I knew far less about Hideyoshi and Ieyasu compared to Nobunaga, and I was too embarrassed to provide any detailed explanation, so I kept my words intentionally vague.
"And what about you, my king?" Guinevere asked again, her curiosity clearly piqued. "If you were in the presence of these three men, how would you handle the situation with the cuckoo?"
"Me?" I paused before answering.
"I would release the cuckoo and set it free. It should be allowed to soar to greater heights and enjoy its freedom. If the cuckoo does not wish to sing for me, I will not force it to do so." I said nonchalantly, as though the matter were of no great concern to me.
"You will make a truly great king, my husband." Guinevere knelt gracefully at my feet in response to my words, kissing my hand in a display of deep reverence, leaving me momentarily at a loss for words due to her sudden, tender gesture.
"I will ensure that my father offers his full support to your cause," she continued, her eyes filled with determination. "This is my vow as your wife, my promise to you as your queen and your partner."
"You will conquer Britannia, husband. I, as your wife, will make certain that your path to victory is smooth, and I will stand by you every step of the way."
"I hope that Britannia will be like the cuckoo—set free, allowed to fly higher, and to sing its song freely in the skies." She added.
"They will, my lady," I vowed, feeling the weight of my promise deep within me.
"I will never let anyone down," I continued, determination surging through my veins. "I will fight, fight, and fight again until we secure the future we want."
"Just like the cuckoo in the sky," Guinevere added with a soft chuckle, her laughter warm and reassuring.
"Yes," I agreed, my laughter joining hers, "just like the cuckoo in the sky."
Together, we laughed, and the garden was filled with the sound of our shared joy and unspoken understanding.
Chapter 1: Magic, Occultism and Madame Blavatsky
"Lord Barthomeloi, what is the meaning of this?" The enforcer of the law fixed me with a venomous glare, as if his eyes alone could strike me down a thousand times over.
Yet, despite his seething fury, he and his comrades knew better than to act on it; the consequences of my death would be dire.
Not even Jesus could save them if I perished here.
Who is Bartholomeloi to modern magi? It was the highest hierarchy of existence for them, and unreachable.
The Barthomeloi family is one of the Twelve Lords families and one of the Three Great Noble Families of the Clock Tower, one of its most notable Magus lineages.
Under ordinary circumstances, they would have greeted me with the utmost respect, but this was anything but ordinary.
I had undeniably interfered with their mission, earning their hostility in process.
The opportunity to killed the girl before us was a chance for glory, a sure path to honors and promotions from their superiors—particularly my sister.
Yet, I had ambushed them from behind, thwarting their efforts just as they were about to strike the final blow.
"I understand your anger, gentlemen," I began, my voice laced with cold confidence. "But do you truly believe my sister would praise you for this? No, she would silence you—and you know well why she would do so."
A triumphant smirk curled my lips as I callously kicked the girl sprawled on the ground before me.
"Get up, girl. I know you're still alive."
A guttural sound of fury escaped her as she reacted to my harsh treatment.
"You... you're not with them, right? Then why are you treating me like this?" The violet-haired girl sprang to her feet, the dust and bloodied wounds that should have been accompanied her was vanishing in an instant.
The sight shocked the enforcers, who had been sent by my sister.
Wariness crept into their eyes as they instinctively distanced themselves from her.
Before they could utter a spell, I interjected.
"Hold yourself, gentleman. You are no match for her. She merely feigned defeat, allowing you to believe you had won."
They hesitated, glancing between the girl and me, but when they saw that she made no further move to attack, they reluctantly complied.
"Argh...! You ruined my plan, you bastard!" she spat, her voice laced with accusation.
Yet, she made no move to strike, understanding that I was likely aiming for a resolution that would serve both our interests.
"Ahem... Lord Barthomeloi, it appears we have misjudged you. Indeed, she had held back against us. I am unsure where your allegiance lies in this confrontation," the enforcer finally conceded, a note of apology in his voice as he acknowledged the truth.
"I align myself with no one. I owe neither you nor her anything—only myself," I declared firmly.
"Now, gentlemen, step aside. I wish to speak with her alone. Inform my sister that I will handle this matter personally, and she will see the results for herself."
They nodded, accepting my resolve to take responsibility, and withdrew from the scene.
For someone who know Aleister Crowley might recognize the woman standing before me.
As someone who has previously engaged with cult organizations and participated in their practices, including the esoteric arts of Sex Magick, divination, and tarot reading, I am no stranger to the supernatural realms of my past life, nor to the existence of Helena Blavatsky.
Indeed, in my past life—though not in this one—I was deeply involved in occult activities to gain insight into how to communicate with Guardian Angels, practice astral projection, and much more.
This familiarity with the supernatural is precisely why I recognize the woman before me, even though this is our first meeting.
On the global stage, both she and Aleister Crowley are renowned figures. She is the founder of the Theosophical Society and a leading figure in modern occultism, with her influence persisting to this day. She is widely known as Madame Blavatsky.
In the 19th century, specifically in 1891, she was believed to have faked her own death. Despite her loli appearance, her true age was far more advanced than it seemed.
Her achievements in revolutionizing occultism and magic within Western society posed a direct threat to the Mage Association, making her a significant target in their eyes.
While this is the official narrative, I am aware that such a superficial excuse is insufficient to explain why the Mage Association would want her eliminated.
It is her connection with the Mahatma—believed by many to be the root—that incited the Mage Association's hostility and fueled my sister's desire to assassinate her.
Though they may wish for her demise, I understand that her death would only serve their interests, not mine.
This is the moment for me to act—to ensure that this woman becomes wholly dependent on me, and me alone.
"Helena Blavatsky..." I addressed her softly, letting her name roll off my tongue with deliberate care.
"I believe I've pronounced your name correctly, but perhaps I'm mistaken?"
"No, you're correct," she responded with a sharp edge in her tone.
"But don't expect my gratitude just because you intervened, magus. I would have faked my death if you hadn't interfered. I assume you already know what I had planned, as evidenced by your conversation with them."
She snorted dismissively, her contempt barely concealed.
"I have no interest in your gratitude or your schemes, Helena Blavatsky," I replied, my tone hardening with an underlying note of disdain. There's nothing I despise more than those who believe they can overstep me.
"Choose your words wisely," I continued, my voice laced with warning. "I have no desire to waste any more time on your whines or your rants."
She merely snorted again, saying nothing as she moved with a casual grace to the park bench, settling herself with a leisurely air.
"Mahatma did say your presence was unnecessary, Barthomeloi. I could have handled everything myself. My plan was to go to the Himalayas under a different name and live in seclusion without needing your intervention. So, tell me, why did you interfere with the plan that Mahatma had laid out for me?"
"It's no wonder my sister wants to capture you," I remarked, a knowing smile playing on my lips.
"She likely believes that Mahatma, who always whispers sweet words and promises in your ear, is the root she seeks. But both you and she have made a mistake—it's quite probable that Mahatma is the Alien God."
"You have no evidence to accuse Mahatma of being such," Helena retorted with disdain, her eyes narrowing.
"Do as you will," I shrugged nonchalantly.
"By the way, would you mind if I sat beside you?" I inquired, my tone now gentlemanly.
She blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in my demeanor.
"I thought you would act rudely," she said, her voice tinged with surprise. "Of course, I don't mind."
"It's not my intention to be rude to you, young lady," I explained as I took a seat beside her.
"But I must assert my authority. I hope you understand—I only value pragmatism, not sentimentality."
"I understand your point," she acknowledged, her tone softening as she began to see me in a new light.
"You kicked me to assert your dominance over the hound and me, to take control of the conversation, to make it clear that you are stronger than both of us. And yet, in the blink of an eye, you've turned gentle toward me after that rude gesture. You are indeed a man who is both difficult to understand and yet, somehow, easy to comprehend at the same time," she mused, her voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration.
"I never would have thought that among the magi, there would be someone so good at playing the game. If I had someone like you in the Theosophical Society, would I even need to come to this place?"
"Emotion and gesture are mere tools in the grand scheme of things, Helena," I sighed, my voice taking on a philosophical tone. "If one can master them and wield them with precision, nothing can stand in the way of that person achieving greatness."
"Nevertheless," I continued, "I thoroughly enjoy conversing with a woman of your intellect. It has been far too long since I've had the pleasure of engaging in a philosophical conversation."
"Hahaha... Indeed, it has been a very, very long time since I last discussed philosophy with anyone," she chuckled, the sound softening the air between us.
There is no better way to make a woman happy than by praising her. Naturally, this method is particularly effective with narcissists, but is there truly any woman who is not at least somewhat narcissistic?
When self-centeredness, a massive ego, and narcissism blend into the characteristics of a woman, it becomes easy to conquer her by feeding her ego, inflating it to the point where she cannot live without that validation.
This is how I effortlessly eased Helena's hostility towards me, even making her forget how I had essentially disrespected her Mahatma.
"Well, Helena, I believe even if you plan to escape, you would never stoop to such a cowardly choice, would you?" I asked deliberately.
"But, Mahatma..." She hesitated at my question.
"No, 'but.'" I interrupted her firmly.
"You can choose to escape, or you can come with me. I will show you the way."
I rose from my seat and left without a backward glance.
What choice would she make?
Would she follow me, or stick to her plan and head to the Himalayas as she originally intended?
Whatever her decision will be, it was bound to be in one destination, it's me and me alone.
Chapter 2: Denial of Nothingness
Helena Blavatsky POV
If he truly believes I would follow him, he has made a mistake.
I was curious to see how his confident expression would change once he realized I didn't trail behind him but chose my own path instead.
I noticed the fog in London growing denser, suffocating my vision, making everything around me blur into obscurity.
A violent cough escaped me as small figures emerged from the thick mist, accompanied by the eerie laughter of a young girl.
This is not good...
No wonder that man was so confident; it seems that whatever choice I made was of little consequence to him.
When I attempted to chant a spell to disperse the fog, a blade suddenly plunged deep into my flesh, my eyes widening in shock.
Is this how it all ends?
The knife twisted inside me, and my body screamed in pain. Blood seeped from the wound, staining the fog with the scent of death.
The small figure of a girl drew closer, whispering words that left me utterly astonished.
"Mother..."
"Mother..."
As she prepared to deliver the final blow, the very atmosphere seemed to tremble, and a commanding voice resonated through the thick mist.
"O' Imperium Aegis!"
The fog around me pulsed, a wave of dense mana surging through it, and I felt a sudden force wrapping around my body.
The knife was forced back, the murderous intent of Jack the Ripper halted in its tracks. A golden barrier shimmered into existence around me, radiant and impenetrable.
My wound healed rapidly, and with newfound strength, I repelled the assassin's figure with the aid of Barthomeloi.
Chanting quickly, a grimoire appeared behind me, unleashing a stream of Ether towards the small figure.
Realizing that she was no match for me, or for Barthomeloi, she retreated into the thick smoke of the fog and vanished without a trace.
I inspected my wound in disbelief, then turned to Barthomeloi, my eyes filled with doubt.
"How?"
"It's like how you heal your own wounds, Helena. You may deceive the hounds with your powerful illusions, but I can reject reality itself. The shield I cast did more than just nullify her harm—it rejected the very concept of harm," he replied, his voice dripping with smug amusement.
"You should have noticed by now, Mahatma has forsaken you. A sneak attack from a mere assassin would never have been able to harm you, not with your divination. But guess what? You're no longer of use to your God."
I remained silent for a moment, then let out a long sigh in response to his words.
"I will follow you, Barthomeloi. It seems that nothing is safer than by your side."
"You were mistaken to believe that my place is the safest, Helena. I think your reliance on Mahatma has dulled your instincts. Never trust me—especially not me, among all the other scum in this cesspool called Earth." He laughed with a chilling certainty, as if he had just heard the most amusing joke when I described him as the safest option.
To his ears, my words were nothing more than a joke, but I was dead serious when I said this man was her safest bet.
Despite his warning not to trust him, I found myself drawn to him even more.
My impression of him only improved rather than decreased.
At the very least, he was honest.
From the beginning, he never claimed to have saved me out of goodwill; he did so as part of a calculated manipulation.
He never deceived me from start to finish.
Unlike the snakes and conspirators who skulk in the shadows, he made no effort to hide his intentions from me.
He wanted something from me, and he never pretended otherwise.
This honesty earned my trust; I admired it.
"Well, if you believe I shouldn't trust you, so be it," I replied firmly. "But I have my own judgment, Barthomeloi."
He blinked at my response, then simply added,
"So be it, then."
...
Lorelei Barthomeloi's POV
"Lord Zelretch, what do you think my brother intends to do with Helena Blavatsky? It is in the best interest of all magi—myself, you, and everyone else included—for her to be eliminated. Yet, my brother has chosen to intervene. Could it be that he wishes to side with her against us?"
After my subordinates reported the details of their mission, I posed my question to the venerable figure before me—Zelretch, to be precise. An immortal vampire and a wielder of the Second Magic, he is also a close friend of Brishisan, the founder of the Mage's Association.
Were it not for his reluctance to assume the mantle of Head of the Mage's Association, that position would have long been his.
However, even without the official title of leader, he commands the respect of us all, including Brishisan.
"What else could he seek, if not the knowledge and experiences she possesses concerning the Root?" Zelretch replied with a nonchalant tone.
Is that so?
"If she no longer serves any purpose, will he cease to obstruct us in eliminating her?" I asked, seeking confirmation.
"Don't ask me. You're the one who knows him best," Zelretch responded with a casual shrug.
I scrutinized him with suspicion.
I know that my brother would never act without first securing either Zelretch's neutrality or his support.
After all, no matter how powerful he is, even when combined with my own abilities, we are no match for Zelretch.
The only plausible reason for his audacity is the assumption that Zelretch is backing him.
But without concrete evidence, it would be unwise to consider Zelretch an enemy.
The question remains: what do my brother and Zelretch stand to gain from this?
Why are they intervening in that woman's affairs?
I let my thoughts delve deeply in search of an answer.
Zelretch, unperturbed, left quietly, as if he had never been there in the first place.
Chapter 3: Will you take it?
Barthomeloi POV
"I don't recall asking you on a date, Barthomeloi," Helena complained.
It's easy to see why she might think otherwise. Upon arriving at my villa, I arranged a lavish evening banquet for her, complete with an array of luxurious dishes spread across the table and an assortment of fine wines from my classic collection.
The entire scene might suggest an air of romantic intent.
However, I merely rolled my eyes at her complaints.
"This is just my standard meal, Helena. If it doesn't suit your taste, you're welcome to order takeout for yourself."
"Your lifestyle is a bit excessive," she remarked, giving me a pointed look.
From her perspective, it was natural to see my actions as a frivolous waste of resources. To her, money that should have been channeled into magical research was instead squandered on indulgent luxuries, which she considered impractical. Yet, I couldn't help but hold a different view.
"Well, that's the distinction between the rich and the poor. Considering your aristocratic background, I would have thought you understood what I was implying," I chuckled.
"I believe you have a serious misunderstanding of aristocratic families, Barthomeloi. Their greatness doesn't stem from their wealth but from the strength of their connections across all walks of life," she reminded me.
"When it comes to money, I would never dare squander it as you do."
I nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words.
Indeed, the power of aristocratic families lies more in their networks than their wealth. Many magi come from such circles, but most of them are far from wealthy, often to the point where they resort to selling their own bodily fluids—the crude term for this being 'their white seed'—just to afford the materials necessary for their research, which are notoriously expensive. The truly wealthy ones are more often found among capitalist families rather than the nobility.
Of course, this reality doesn't apply to the Barthomeloi family. We are the elite in the magi hierarchy, reigning supreme in wealth, connections, and influence. We dominate every foundational aspect of this world.
Initially, I didn't fully grasp this distinction, but after Helena's reminder, I realized that I shouldn't impose the Barthomeloi's privileges as if other families shared the same foundation.
"I've heard you're married, Helena. So, who's this fortunate man?" I inquired, steering the conversation to a different subject.
"Regrettably, it's the very reason I fled from home and decided to reinvent myself in North America," she replied, shaking her head in response to my question.
"Then I suppose he wasn't so fortunate after all," I quipped, nearly breaking into laughter as I imagined the poor guy's plight—humiliated and abandoned by his own fiancée. Well, I must admit, I do have a slightly sadistic streak.
"That's highly inappropriate, Barthomeloi," she retorted, her eyes narrowing.
"Just because I don't agree with the arranged marriage my family imposed on me doesn't mean I would go out of my way to humiliate him or make him feel insignificant by broadcasting my displeasure. From start to finish, I maintained the marriage in name only, allowing him to take as many lovers as he wished as a form of compensation."
"That's quite considerate of you, Helena. Let's raise a toast to that," I commended, offering her a toast with my glass of wine.
She reciprocated the gesture, and we both sipped the rich red wine in our hands.
Although I disagreed with the way she chose to compensate her fiancé, who is now her husband, I refrained from imposing my will upon her or aggressively inserting myself into her personal affairs. If my memory serves me correctly, at the time of their marriage, her husband was 40 years old, while she was merely 17. The age disparity between them is indeed quite significant, especially when viewed from a human perspective.
The differences between us are stark and unmistakable. While she managed to retain her innate kindness and humanity, I, on the other hand, was inherently self-centered. Growing up in a family deeply entrenched in nepotism from a very early age, whether in my past life or in this one, molded me into someone who treated strangers with a certain level of cold detachment, reserving my warmth and care only for those who were close to me or to myself.
It's a well-known truth that many powerful politicians and capitalists practice nepotism, despite their public declarations that they value talent above all else. Such slogans are often nothing more than hollow rhetoric.
While lower or mid-level positions might be offered to outsiders, the most coveted and influential roles are typically reserved for those within their inner circle. This doesn't necessarily mean they are limited to family members; it extends to anyone who can leave a favorable impression and possesses exceptional talent.
In my previous life, I constructed a political dynasty heavily reliant on my relatives, a decision that ultimately led to my downfall. I was demoted, exiled, and eventually met my end, succumbing to the consequences of my prolonged and excessive indulgence in hedonism.
From the beginning to the end, my life was steeped in corruption and unrestrained indulgence. On the surface, I was a powerful businessman and politician, but beneath that veneer, I was a cult leader guiding a fanatical following in the pursuit of mystical knowledge.
In my past life, I acquired a vast array of esoteric skills—summoning guardian angels, mastering hypnosis, telepathy, and much more.
These were not mere myths, but tangible realities. Even divination techniques, often dismissed as fiction, are real. In fact, governments would discreetly recruit individuals with exceptional divination talents; one of my closest friends was among those chosen.
The reason these practices remain shrouded in secrecy is simple: they lack overtly powerful offensive capabilities or magic that can be easily demonstrated.
Many of the lower-level techniques are complex and elusive, and those who master them are far too wise to expose themselves.
I understand all too well the grueling effort required to learn these arts. To achieve control over lucid dreaming, I had to endure countless lucid nightmares, repeatedly confronting and overcoming the fear and instability that plagued my imagination, preventing me from fully mastering my dreams.
Even astral projection was an arduous task. I struggled to move my soul out of my body, often finding myself trapped in the same room, in the same place, only to have my floating soul inevitably return to my physical form, no matter how far I attempted to drift.
This is why those who truly understand these practices remain silent. After enduring so much hardship to master them, why would we share our techniques with outsiders? It's not a matter of pettiness, but rather a reflection of the spiritual torment we endure—torment far beyond what others can imagine.
Only those with an unbreakable mentality and willpower can persevere, especially when one must constantly guard against other entities seeking to take over our bodies during practices like lucid dreaming or astral projection, when we are most vulnerable to supernatural forces.
In the end, my deep contemplation distracted me from my glass of wine.
When I finally came to my sense, I saw Helena—intoxicated, her face flushed red, her attire disheveled and exposed before me.
I paused, swallowing hard, as thoughts raced through my mind.
Should I seize this moment and fucking her brain out? Or should I act as a gentleman?
Decisions... Decisions...