Nobody knows how to be a villain better than me.

As the ship drew closer, the hatches opened, and familiar figures slowly emerged.

The six people who arrived stood quietly in two rows in front of the ship.

Mordred, Bavanshi, and Bagst are on the left; Melusin, Habartlot, and Freya are on the right.

But as Samael approached, he was shocked to discover...

Their clothes were stained with blood and dirt, their armor was covered with shocking scratches, and even their exposed skin was not spared from having several scars.

An ominous premonition arose in the ancient serpent's heart.

A deathly silence followed for a moment. Mordred lowered her head, her lips pressed tightly together. Finally, after a long struggle, she managed to utter a strained whisper.

"My mother... has come to keep her appointment..."

At the same time, the six people silently spread out a little, revealing the scene inside the cabin.

On the hardwood deck, flowers blooming at this time of year are carefully arranged all around, woven together with emerald green vines to form an exquisite and beautiful flower bed.

On the flower bed, a graceful figure dressed in an elegant blue-black evening gown placed her hands lightly on her lower abdomen, and a delicate crown, like ice crystals, tied up her cascading silver-white hair.

The magnificent and majestic silver spear was held quietly in his arms, but it no longer possessed its former glory.

Samael stepped past the six people, onto the cabin floor, bent down, and gently kneaded the witch's soft hand with his fingers, quietly examining her pale eyes and brows, remaining silent throughout.

The former witch, her eyes gently closed, slept peacefully, a trace of tranquility and peace still lingering on her exquisite face.

Yes, she just fell asleep...

If you're tired, just go to sleep...

Samael raised his hand and brushed the witch's cheek, tucking a few slightly messy strands of hair from her forehead into her crown. His gaze softened as he looked at the exquisitely crafted work of art, the most precious piece of art in the world.

Actually, I had a premonition about all of this.

The fairies of the six major clans, the more than one hundred Knights of the Round Table and the Knights of the Caesars of Camelot, the divine environment of Britain rich in ether, and the rapidly growing population and abundant resources of the Celtic races...

These things cannot be sustained by the power of the Holy Lance alone.

The situation will be even more dire after losing Artoria, the host of this god.

But Morgan still chose to take over the reins, using his own strength to fight against the constraints of human reason, and infusing the British mystique that he had been given since birth into the Holy Lance as fuel to sustain this distorted era.

If it were just a normal maintenance, it wouldn't have evolved to this state so quickly.

However, Morgan revitalized the earth's vitality, bringing Britain back to prosperity from its twilight years.

This level of complexity is beyond her control.

Therefore, whether it's an existence tax levied on fairies or a mineral tax levied on human lords.

All of these measures were taken for this purpose.

Even if the special tax burden is gradually increased, leading to sharp class contradictions, it will only be a temporary solution.

As the core of the normal functioning of this distorted era, Morgan's fate was already sealed.

From the moment she received the Holy Lance from Artoria and ascended the throne, she was constantly consuming her magic power and even her life force.

What awaits her is only the end, when her life force is exhausted and she is left with nothing.

I just didn't expect this moment to come so quickly.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't protect her..."

Compared to the out-of-control shouting and scolding, this silent rebuke was even more unbearable for Mordred.

The rebellious knight bit his lower lip with his sharp teeth and couldn't help but step forward to stand behind Samael, taking on the responsibility. His face was filled with guilt and self-reproach.

As Mordred's somber narration unfolded, the story of Queen Camelot's demise reached Samael's ears.

As the light at the end faded, the weakness of the gods was laid bare.

With war raging across Britain, the rebels quickly amassed a large force and, with the help of some Knights of the Round Table, stormed Camelot.

Although Morgan had already woken up by then.

Mordred and the others were confident that they could take the queen away from that chaotic place.

However, Morgan chose to stay, climb the tower, and activate the Light of the End of Rungomminiad, wiping out the rebels ravaging Camelot and protecting her city and her people one last time.

This was the end of the British Queen.

"This is none of your business. You've done your best."

Samael raised his fingers and gently stroked the drooping head, softly comforting it.

But before Mordred could feel any better from his shame, a figure rushed over, shoved the rebellious knight aside, roughly grabbed Samael by the collar, and glared hatefully at the man before him, his gray eyes filled with grief and anger.

"It's none of her business, but isn't it none of your business too?"

Where were you during the Oxford rebellion?

The light at the end has gone out, where are you?

Did you know that fairies have also joined the human race?

When Mother was weak, why didn't you, her guardian knight, come to her aid?

If you come back, perhaps Mother won't...

As Bavanshi's questioning intensified, the fairy girl's gray eyes filled with tears, and she pounded her fists on Samael's chest, venting her resentment.

The guardian knight whom the mother trusted most, the man who seemed omnipotent and whom she secretly admired, betrayed them in the most critical moment.

However, the pounding grew weaker and slower, and finally, under the silent gaze, the clenched fist could no longer strike.

Once Bavanshi had calmed down, Samael remained silent for a moment before slowly speaking.

"Because she has never asked me for help..."

In fact, he didn't want to face the inevitable end of Morgan's life.

He had given her chances time and time again, but the queen atop the tower never responded.

The girls couldn't help but recall the gifts they received every year during Samhain, and the letters they wrote to their mothers.

The person in the letter surely wanted to lead her out of that tower, out of that quagmire.

The group of fairy knights fell silent.

"Don't blame her..."

Samael sat on one side of the flower bed, holding the Queen's soft hand tightly, gently patting the cold back of her hand, a bitter and melancholy expression lingering between his lips.

"Actually, she just didn't want to put me in a difficult position..."

Abandoning the recovery of the Holy Lance, allowing the anomaly in Britain to worsen, and giving the former witch a complete country that belongs solely to her—this was already Samael's greatest selfish act.

Therefore, he will not break his vow on his own initiative.

However, Morgan, who had been accustomed to seeking his help time and again in times of trouble, never spoke again after their parting at the top of the tower.

Over the course of a decade, Morgan abandoned his search for his sister and the elite of the Round Table; Samael abandoned the retrieval of the Holy Lance, watching as Britain was swept up in a storm.

Over the course of ten years, Morgan donned her armor, forgetting herself, bearing both glory and infamy on her shoulders; Samael remained in Avalon, watching Britain's distortions intensify, silently observing the witch's descent into ruin, burning herself out in the process.

Over the course of ten years, one lived deep within a tower, the other confined to an isolated island, each drawing their own boundaries, yet upholding their vows and respecting each other's choices, which became the shackles binding them together.

Only when Morgan was exhausted and fell into eternal sleep did she put on her magnificent dress, set foot on the island of Avalon, bring the Holy Lance, and show her most beautiful self to her guardian knight.

Everything, though unspoken.

Everything is left unsaid.

Chapter 133 My body has been given to the country, and I can no longer give it to you.

The atmosphere on Avalon Island was oppressive and heavy.

In the brief silence, Mordred bit her cherry lips, looked at the pale face, lowered her head and murmured.

“I don’t understand why Mother is so fixated on that country that is destined to cease to exist. She had countless opportunities to simply leave…”

"Because she is Morgan, she is the queen chosen by this land and nature."

Protecting Britain and continuing Celtic civilization was her innate mission, but also the shackles she placed upon herself…

Samael, aboard the ship, gently grasped the witch's cold fingers and quietly answered.

Perhaps only he understands this kind of stubbornness.

Perhaps she and Artoria cannot defy fate, but they can choose how their story ends.

Ten years of perseverance have brought ten years of prosperity.

Even if it was just a fleeting beauty, the ideal world in the hearts of the Celts did exist on this land.

In the future, no matter how time changes or the sun and moon rise and set, even if they are no longer the masters of this land.

But the sacred realm of the Round Table, the pristine city of chalk, the eternal king of a thousand years... these will all become cultural symbols forged in the blood of the Celts, indelible, embodying that nation destined to be fragmented.

This is indeed the case in the future that Samael foresaw.

The epic of King Arthur, sung time and again, and the knightly code, have become the faith of this land.

Although the Saxons conquered this land time and again, they never managed to completely subdue the surviving Celts.

Britain is still alive!

(So, the true British legitimacy lies in Ireland and Wales? A logical loop, I understand. Supporting Irish and Welsh independence gives me another reason to create trouble for the British. How ridiculous.)

Samael's gentle gaze swept over those delicate features, etching that face deep into his memory, while a hint of helplessness and bitterness also surfaced in his eyes.

Morgan was a very proud person at heart, and also a very emotional one.

Although she never said it, there was no doubt that her feelings for this land were no less than Artoria's.

The ancient serpent vaguely remembered that in another possible future, the white giant destroyed humanity and the gods on earth, and the fairies committed an unforgivable original sin, rebuilding a distorted civilization on the ruins of Britain, which had been transformed into a pale sea.

Chosen by this land, Morgan, born of the will of nature, was meant to ascend to the surface as a messenger to destroy that era and bring an end to this distortion.

However, because of the gentleness bestowed upon her by the Rain Clan who adopted her during her upbringing, and her fondness for this land, she betrayed her mission, chose to suppress the calamity, and used force to unite the six fairy clans, thus becoming queen.

Throughout this process, she endured betrayal after betrayal, and repeatedly tried to save Britain from its self-destruction.

Ultimately, she was abandoned by the hopeless fairies and, unable to support the doomed kingdom, also perished from exhaustion.

At this moment, just as at that moment.

Even though the ending was already predetermined, she still resolutely followed the same path.

But why not say it?

Samael lowered his head, pursed his lips and murmured, his warm fingertips gently tracing the witch's face, filling in the outlines of that memory.

“My mother asked me to give this to you.”

After a brief silence, Mordred stepped forward and handed Samael a square box locked with cryptic runes.

The ancient serpent paused slightly, then removed the restrictions and opened it.

Packed tinder boxes were piled up inside.

There were exactly ten seeds, no more and no less.

Because Samael would send it every year during the Samun festival, waiting for the answer that was destined never to be received from the tower.

But now, what's the point of keeping these?

The ancient snake pursed its lips, turned the box over, and the accumulated small packets of fire fell out in a flurry.

At the same time, the sheets of snow-white letter paper, which had been covered by the fire and tucked at the bottom of the box, were revealed.

They were either broken and then glued back together, or crumpled and then flattened again, having gone through some kind of entanglement.

You can clearly rely on me...

As Samael took out the unanswered letters with mixed feelings, the uneven texture on his fingertips made him subconsciously turn his wrist.

In an instant, the ancient serpent lowered its gaze, and its pupils contracted sharply.

Because the back of every letter was covered with the same sentence.

—I do…

In a daze, a series of resounding and firm answers, penetrating the paper, kept repeating and echoing in Samael's mind.