I, Guinevere, am going to crush you, you curry stick, today!

"Your personality hasn't changed."

A smile flickered in Morgan's eyes. Even though there was no Scottish princess named Guinevere in reality, in her heart, the two memories were of different weights, but neither was real or fake. She generously extended her affection and goodwill to the girl in front of her, who was different in every way.

But Guinevere also understood that Merlin's special invitation to come over couldn't have been just to let her meet Morgan. She also knew a bit about King Lot's character and was aware of his decision to support North Wales. Given that they were now strangers, it was impossible for her to persuade him to change his mind, both emotionally and logically.

As expected, after a brief exchange of pleasantries, Morgan changed the subject and got to the main point of his call: "Actually, it's because of this."

She pointed to her eyes, and when Guinevere looked over, she saw that fierce, unusually intense flame again.

Upon closer examination, Morgan can be considered a true Druid, skilled in a wide range of spells, but most proficient in healing and polymorph, especially the latter. Despite rarely engaging in combat, when truly enraged, she can transform into an incredibly powerful giant bear, easily shattering half a city wall with a single blow.

Morgan usually assisted her husband and children with reconnaissance or military medical work, and rarely faced the enemy head-on. As a result, almost no one associated the giant bear that once shocked the enemy country with this gentle and beautiful Queen Orkney.

anyway.

She might use a sword, but she would never use a gun, nor should she be able to manipulate the flames so easily as she had just done—raging fire, domineering and difficult to control, has always been an anomaly among druid spells, and there has never been a druid who could simultaneously master fire and healing spells.

Furthermore, Guinevere has known the Queen for over a decade, and she can guarantee that Morgan has no interest in wearing colored contact lenses, nor would he be so immature as to put a burning flame illusion into his eyes at this age.

The flames, however, reminded her of someone else.

To be precise, she is a deity, a Danu goddess—the goddess of war, Morrigan—who is inextricably linked to Morgan le Fay.

"Judging from your expression, you must have guessed it."

Morgan's smile had vanished at some point, replaced by a rather complex expression, as if a mixture of joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness. She lowered her head, and their eyes met in the shadow of her wide-brimmed hat.

"If you still remember that dream, the contents of that illusion—which you certainly do—then you shouldn't forget the culprit in some sense."

“But the real Neman died under Barol’s demonic eye, and her dying phantom vanished with the collapse of the Cauldron. At least in the present Paradise, I can’t find any trace of her,” Guinevere replied.

Morgan simply shook his head.

“Nieman is indeed gone, and the Cauldron and Dirnano are history, but the shadow that lingers over this land has not disappeared.” Merlin spoke up from the side, “Guinevere, I only discovered something after I came here.”

"what's up?"

"The mother of that strange cat, the infamous divine boar Heneven, is dead." The female magician paused. "It was a mythical creature that had survived since the distant age of gods, and very few things could harm Heneven... It was killed by a sword. Although the wound was mixed with an aura of chaos and corruption, I could almost immediately tell the origin of the sword from that feeling."

Perhaps because the evening breeze was too cold, the three people standing there talking were unaware that the cloak wrapped around the girl shivered on its own. In the howling wind, Merlin's voice was somewhat muffled: "And just yesterday, the fairies of Avalon brought a message—"

"The last Star Sword left there, the Excalibur that was originally meant for Artoria... is gone."

……

Chapter Eleven: Illusion (Part 1)

A morning breeze swept through the treetops, creating a rustling sound like waves, and several birds took flight. A heavy rain had fallen the night before, and the air was filled with the fresh scent of earth. Water droplets rolled on the tips of leaves, shimmering like tiny mirrors reflecting a dazzling array of colors—skilled sorcerers used the first dewdrop of the morning to divine good and bad fortune, while the fairies and mermaids hidden in the lake used the wind and rain to send messages to distant lands.

A hand reached out, slender, snow-white fingers slowly opening, allowing the rolling water droplet to land precisely on its fingertip. Slightly cool, it pressed down, changing shape, and continued to flow. A pair of quiet eyes watched this scene. The girl pursed her lips, and several indistinct, strange sounds reached her ears: "—"

The Picts communicated with each other using a unique roar. Even after her return, she reopened the gates of Dirnano—the dream was false, but the "paradise" that had once held countless dreams and hopes of the Danu people was a real place—and moved most of the Picts in the Northland into it, thus eliminating a long-standing threat to Scotland and England.

Without Neman's scheming, the Pictish tribe would not have been wiped out, nor would the many sacrifices have led to Miss Guide's tragic end. However, fate intervened, and several wise Pictish individuals stepped forward to vouch for her. Ultimately, nearly 80% of her people moved to Paradise, leaving less than 20% in the mortal world. Some remained because they refused to trust outsiders, while others, just in case, acted as "eyes and ears."

Because of this favor, Guinevere still keeps in touch with the latter. After learning of the loss of the Holy Sword from Merlin and Morgan le Fay, she also wrote to them to inquire if there was any news. Now that the report has arrived, Pickett's side is also completely confused, obviously having never heard of this matter.

So... who stole the Holy Sword?

Even in Britain at this time, there weren't many people capable of going to Avalon. Excluding those magicians who hadn't received the witch's mark and whose achievements were limited, Merlin was one, and Neneanne and the Lake Fairies, who lived in Avalon, could also be included, but they had absolutely no reason to steal from their own homes.

As for Morgan... In the legends she remembered, there were several versions where Morgan le Fay devised a plan to steal King Arthur's sword from the stone. But at this moment, the sword was still safely with Artoria. And even if Morgan knew how to enter and leave Avalon, with her abilities, it would be difficult to deceive the eyes of the Lady of the Lake—a fairy entrusted with a holy sword by the will of a planet, no matter how unreliable, was not so easy to deal with.

"It's really... one problem after another. Headache..."

Guinevere couldn't help but sigh softly. That was the Holy Sword of the Stars, its power no less than that of the Holy Lance after its liberation. It was a weapon capable of turning an entire city into a wasteland with a single strike. If it fell into the hands of evil people, the consequences would be unimaginable. However, all the clues had almost completely disappeared. She knew she had to investigate, but she had no way of knowing where to start, which was truly distressing.

So much so that she and Merlin couldn't even care about the battle on Artoria's side. Anyway, with King Arthur's abilities, he probably wouldn't be defeated easily. Instead, they each relied on their own abilities to search for the Holy Sword. For nearly half a month, they traveled from north to south, covering almost the entire Britannia, but still didn't find any clues.

The holy sword seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. Merlin's side also seemed to have gained nothing. On the contrary, Artoria won two great victories in a row, fighting against overwhelming odds and almost killing the King of North Wales on the spot. This forced the brothers, Lanes and Nero, to gather their troops, presumably intending to defend the city to the death, wait for the heavy snow to fall, and prolong their lives until next spring.

Regardless, Guinevere flicked the remaining dew from her fingertips, straightened her cloak, and stepped out of the woods. The sunlight flowed like water, and her worries about the lost Holy Sword, mixed with her anxieties about Artoria's battle situation, caused her to furrow her brow slightly. But it was at this moment that a figure suddenly flashed past in front of her.

That figure looked strangely familiar.

"Al?"

Guinevere uttered the incredulous words, but then suddenly paused in shock.

Why did the other party appear here?

After hesitating for a moment, and once the two sides were some distance apart, she suppressed her doubts and followed.

……

when!

As the horse accelerated, the two cold glints suddenly intertwined and separated. A muffled gasp, deliberately suppressed, followed by a flash of blood in the sunlight. The horse let out a long neigh and galloped far away. Only then did the rider on the horse sway and fall off.

With a squeeze of his legs, even without holding the reins, his superb riding skills still made the warhorse obedient and slow its pace. Bedivere held the spear in one hand, flicked his wrist, and threw the trembling blood droplets from the spear tip onto the ground. He turned around and looked down at the North Wales scout who had been pierced through the chest by a spear.

The war lasted for more than a week. Initially, it was a conventional battle where both sides gathered their troops and attacked each other. The North Wales army was several times larger than their own. Even on King Arthur's side, many nobles did not have much hope. Given the disparity in troop strength, they only wanted to save their own lives.

But once the war began, people witnessed firsthand what it meant to fight against overwhelming odds, and what it truly meant to be a one-man army. Not only was King Arthur himself incredibly brave, his Holy Lance sweeping away all enemies, but his young subordinates, whether renowned or only showing their talents in this battle, all possessed astonishingly high strength. Gawain, the so-called Knight of the Sun, was also considered by many to be King Arthur's trump card, yet he had yet to make his move.

As the tide turned, North Wales suffered a crushing defeat in their first battle. Lines rallied his troops and launched another counterattack, but nearly perished under the Holy Lance. Helpless, he had no choice but to withdraw his army to the vicinity of the capital, ceding a large amount of territory. Clearly, he intended to take advantage of the time while King Arthur was annexing these lands to reorganize and recuperate in preparation for the inevitable final battle.

With various thoughts in mind, the two sides in the battle fell silent. However, even during this temporary truce, small-scale scout skirmishes continued to occur frequently. Bedivere, a young knight with little experience, volunteered to take on this "thankless" task in the eyes of some, leading a small group of scouts to patrol around the front line.

"Boom!"

A clear, melodious note from a piano abruptly interrupted his thoughts. Bedivere turned his gaze from the corpse, a faint sense of pity in his heart—he could never take death lightly, whether it be his own or the enemy's—to the distant figure of a lone rider slowly emerging from the woods.

The knight on horseback held neither a lance nor a sword, but carried a strangely shaped harp in his arms. His red hair was draped over his shoulders, his eyes were lowered, and a faint smile was on his face. He looked like a dissolute young man from some family, but the lingering killing intent and bloody smell on his body indicated that a thrilling and fierce battle was about to take place.

"Sir Tristan."

"Has it been resolved on your end as well?"

Bedivere nodded: "Their leader was a bit tricky; he almost didn't make it."

“The design of this armor… should be that of the Hundred Knights.” As the king’s nephew, Tristan was familiar with the more famous powers in Britain. He spurred his horse closer to the corpse, examined it carefully, and made his judgment.

"In these two battles, North Wales suffered far greater losses than we did, and many lost their will to fight. But apart from King Lanes, there are two other armies that are still incredibly powerful... One of them is Orkney. Although Sir Gawain doesn't fight during the day for some reason, his swordsmanship is still terrifyingly strong even without his blessing..."

"I'm afraid only our king, and a handful of others like King Perinoa, can fight him." Bedivere sighed softly. He and Tristan had once teamed up against Gawain, and the result was self-evident. This had sobered up the somewhat arrogant young man.

"As for the other one, he is the King of the Hundred Knights. It is said that they were originally a mercenary group, but later took advantage of the chaos in Britain to seize a territory. They have a total of one hundred knights under their command. The position is not hereditary, but rather a complete system of survival of the fittest. Anyone can challenge the King of the Hundred Knights at any time, and as long as they can kill the opponent, they can rightfully inherit his position and become one of the new Kings of the Hundred Knights..."

Tristan frowned: "It's sad to see a rule that treats human life and honor like beasts."

"But this also ensured their combat strength. In these two battles, the Hundred Knights did not suffer many losses. In the upcoming decisive battle, they will be a big problem."

"Trust in our king."

As the two were talking, soldiers naturally came over to clean up the battlefield. It was still early, and Bedivere was about to say something when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a figure flashing in the distance through the woods. When he turned his head, Tristan also looked in that direction, his hand already on the bowstring.

"who is it!?"

With a shout, the leaves in the forest shook violently, but the person vanished like a phantom behind several trees in an instant, disappearing without a trace, without making a sound.

For a fleeting moment, Bedivere even thought he was seeing a hallucination. However, he glanced at Tristan, who was equally wary, and shook his head. Lord Tristan's senses were far more acute than his own; the fact that he had also noticed it meant that the figure was indeed there.

Can……

"Lord Tristan, did you see that just now?" He spoke vaguely, but Tristan understood what he meant. After a moment of silence, he said in a low voice, though he himself was not quite sure, "That... it looked a bit like the King."

But King Arthur would certainly not appear in such a place.

The two exchanged a glance, both seeing deep confusion on each other's faces.

Chapter Twelve: Illusion (Part Two)

"According to the villagers... it should be around here."

The rustling sound was the cloak trailing on the ground, rubbing against the wild grass and tree roots.

Leather boots crunched on the mud, her steps light, her figure petite, almost entirely covered from head to toe in a dirty cloak, with only half a sword hilt and a single, "proud and unruly" golden ahoge showing.

His eyes darted left and right, his fingers hanging at his sides unconsciously clenching and unclenching, tense from knuckle to fingertip. At the slightest sound, he would reach for the sword at his waist—but then he would use immense willpower to suppress the impulse.

As a knight, one must always remain calm and composed.

Drawing your sword before encountering an enemy is not only useless, but it will also reveal a weakness, giving the opponent hiding in the shadows an opportunity to take advantage.

Several pieces of advice like these flashed through her mind. Even though she couldn't remember who said them, when, or where, she still chose to believe them. The other person was a real thief who had killed people; she couldn't let them see how nervous she was...

It's fine.

No matter what kind of enemy I face, I will surely win, because I am...

Swish!

"Wow, woohoo!"

As it turned out, all the self-reminders and encouragement he had been giving him were of no use. Just a soft rustling sound from the side was enough to make the figure jump up, and the look of panic on his face was just like that of a startled little rabbit—click!

With a forceful pull of his right hand, clad in arm armor, the sword he wore was drawn from its sheath and stood upright in front of him. The ahoge (cowlick) on his head swayed back and forth, like a radar for detecting enemies, while the blade, gleaming like water, was pointed directly at the direction from which the sound came.

"Who is it! Show yourself!"

The shouts came halfway through, but suddenly took a 180-degree turn.

Just because the bushes swayed for a moment, what emerged next were two long, white ears.

Then there were a pair of bright red eyes.

"??!!!"

If this were a comic book world, you'd probably see those punctuation marks expressing strong emotions above the poor little rabbit's head.

Unfortunately, reality didn't have this dramatic effect. The young female knight maintained her sword-wielding stance, facing off against the white rabbit that suddenly appeared from the side. They stared at each other, and with the leaves swirling in the wind, they somehow managed to create an atmosphere of masters exchanging blows, with their auras intertwined.

"You are……"

Her expression was serious, wary, and questioning, yet also revealed an involuntary delight at seeing something cute. After a long while, the young knight asked in a tone as if facing a formidable enemy, "What is it?"

"..."

"Are they accomplices of those evil people?"

"..."

“Why don’t you speak?”

"..."

"I'll ask you one more time, who are you, friend or foe—look, I have a weapon in my hand. For your life's sake, answer me now!"

"..."

"Forehead……"

Not far away, two knights who had followed the trail watched this scene in silence.

Being sent by King Arthur as scouts, these two are among the best in Arthur's camp in terms of skill, reconnaissance, and counter-reconnaissance. To avoid being discovered by their pursuers, they left their warhorses at a distance and crept closer, just in time to witness the other side drawing their swords and standing ready with the White Rabbit, threatening them with their voices.

The scene was so bizarre that even Bedivere, a man of considerable experience, couldn't find the right words to describe his feelings for a long time. After another long pause, he lowered his voice and asked, "Sir Tristan, did you see that person's appearance clearly...?"

“Exactly the same as the king,” the red-haired knight standing beside him answered softly.

"Could it be... that the king has brothers and sisters?"

"I have never heard of it."

"Me too."

As a dutiful knight who strictly adhered to the etiquette between king and subject, Bedivere swallowed back the witty remark that was on the tip of his tongue, even though he knew the person before him was definitely not the king he served. If it had been the king's sworn brother, Kai, or the leisurely mage Merlin, he might have blurted out without hesitation, "Whose little idiot is this who's been neglecting to watch over him and is causing trouble for the animals?"

But what caught his attention more than the bizarre sight before him was the weapon the girl was wielding.

"And her sword..."

Tristan seemed to share the same thought. Bedivere glanced at him and saw that his colleague, whose eyes were usually leisurely squinted, was now slightly open, his gaze sharp as he stared at the sword, which was clearly no ordinary item.

Unlike himself, who specializes in hand-to-hand combat, Tristan, in addition to the swordsmanship, spearmanship, archery and other skills required of knights, is also adept at using music to defeat enemies. His harp is not only a musical instrument, but also a weapon that can take lives from a hundred paces away.

It is said that this magic originated from the ancient druidic tradition of this island. As a prince of a small country, it is perfectly normal for Tristan to know how to use magic. Although he is far inferior to Merlin, magicians and sorcerers are extremely rare on King Arthur's side at present, so Tristan's "half-baked" skills are extremely valuable.

Even without magical knowledge, Bedivere could feel an immense power emanating from the sword that sent shivers down his spine. In some ways, this oppressive force was comparable to the King's Holy Lance…

"Who is it?!"

The sword in the distance changed direction. The girl, who looked almost exactly like King Arthur but dressed entirely in a feminine style, seemed to have noticed their presence. Her attention suddenly shifted from the white rabbit, and an undisguised killing intent swept over them.

"Not good..."

For a moment, Bedivere had the unsettling feeling of being targeted by a ferocious beast. Before his mind could process it, his body acted on instinct. In the instant the spear tip clashed with the sword, the spear, forged from fine iron, was easily cleaved in two like rotten wood!