The Isle of Britain, Kingdom of Wales, Ector's Domain.
More than a month had passed since the so-called "Day of Selection."
Under the witness of knights from across the land, the girl born with a noble destiny had finally become the king she always dreamed of being. The knights, having seen a miracle, rallied to her side, chanting her name with devotion and striving to build a glorious homeland together… Or so Artoria wished she could say.
In truth, her life had barely changed.
The knights who witnessed the divine pact between the god and the holy king did not, as one might expect, pledge their loyalty to Artoria, the "Chosen King." Most remained silent, slipping away from the village without a word.
"As Kay said, no one wants to be the 'Voice of God,' and no one wants to live under one either."
To the Celts, the Picts lurking in the northern highlands and the Saxons raiding from the southern coast were indeed grave threats. But for the kings and nobles of Britain, those foreign tribes combined posed less danger than a single king who would reign above them all.
The tribes only sought their grain and land, but Artoria… she threatened their power, their very lives.
What? You say Artoria had no intention of lording over these petty kings? That her goal was to unite them against Vortigern and rule the island together?
No, that was no longer possible.
Even if Artoria had once held such ideals, the moment Alaric forged the pact for the "Ideal Kingdom" with her, peaceful coexistence with the other lords became impossible.
"The grace of the divine spreads only within the king's ideal."
From that moment, there was only one true king acknowledged by the divine: Artoria Pendragon. The usurping false kings had two choices... surrender and swear fealty, or resist and face annihilation. There was no third path.
"So, what do you think the first visitor will choose?" Alaric asked.
"No need to guess... they'll resist, of course!" Kay replied.
"I'll wager a salmon they'll swear fealty."
"Deal!"
In their spare time, Alaric and Kay made a bet.
Compared to the king, who, despite having no land to her name, was already swamped with duties, the two of them had plenty of free time to squander.
"By the way, what do you think Artoria's up to right now?"
"Her? Probably being gawked at like some rare beast."
Artoria was recently quite troubled.
No, more than that... she was deeply vexed.
As a true king, she should be recruiting followers, expanding her territory, and raising her banner to conquer the land.
But her dream faltered at the first step.
Recruit followers? Here? In the village where she'd lived for ten years? Recruit the uncles and aunts who watched her grow up?
"Hey, isn't that Arthur? Look at you, all grown up and now king of Britain!"
"How about it? For old times' sake, when I slipped you some honey, make me a lord or something!"
"Oh, please, you boasting old codger, thinking you can be a big shot? You can't even manage your own livestock!"
"But, Arthur, I heard you've got a mighty fine dragon…"
The villagers crowded around her.
Some were enthusiastic, some curious, some lost in daydreams. Their chatter was so incessant that the strand of hair atop Artoria's head drooped listlessly.
Fortunately, the situation didn't last long.
As the young king stood at a loss, a commanding voice came to her rescue.
"What are you all doing here?"
"Is all your work done?"
To the villagers, this aging man held far more authority than the young king. Before Sir Ector could even raise his whip, they scattered like startled birds, leaving only chaos in their wake.
"Sir…" Artoria looked at her foster father with gratitude.
The old knight tried to maintain a stern face, as if to scold her as he once did... but he failed. He knew the girl before him was no longer his foster daughter. She was a true king.
A king must carry a king's dignity.
"Don't be too lenient with those people. Treat them like livestock... when it's time to use the whip, strike hard."
"And don't recruit your first followers here. They know you too well, which is never a good thing. Go to a new place for a fresh start."
"But you can take that rascal Kay along. He's got his faults, but he's capable and cunning enough to save you a lot of trouble."
Ector rambled on.
Merlin had already told Artoria much the same, but for some reason, the words carried a different weight coming from the old knight.
Artoria was surprised to notice that the knight, always so robust and spirited in her memory, suddenly seemed much older.
"Oh, and one more thing... take this." Ector said, as if remembering something. He led her to their family's "treasury."
It was called a treasury, but it held only three items: a spear, a suit of armor, and a deep blue knight's cloak.
"The spear and armor are for that scoundrel Kay. But this cloak... it's warm. Take it."
With an authoritative tone, Ector draped the cloak over Artoria's shoulders.
Truth be told, it was a bit large. At 154 cm, Artoria looked as if she'd wrapped herself in a blue blanket.
But she was deeply grateful for the old knight's gesture.
A cloak was a symbol of honor, a reward reserved for the bravest knights.
By giving her this cloak, Ector must have placed great hopes in her, she thought.
With that, the young king turned and set out on her new journey.
Watching her departing figure, the old knight, who moments ago seemed stooped with age, suddenly straightened. He raised his head slightly, clenched his right hand into a fist, and struck his chest.
No need for thought... the familiar oath was etched into his soul. The moment his fist met his heart, it became instinct, spilling forth:
"All Hail Britannia!"
"All Hail Pendragon!"
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