Despite Merlin’s question, Nimue’s eyes remained lifeless. Her gripped hair must have been painful, yet she didn’t even flinch, merely listening to his anger with indifference.
Merlin was an imperfect being, born between a demon father and a human mother.
He had never seen his father, and his mother was a commoner with striking beauty. He inherited only his father’s dark magic and his mother’s exceptional looks—but for a commoner, beauty was a curse.
Merlin spat out his words harshly, as if cursing.
“Hate it all you want, but it doesn’t matter. I’d rather die than mingle with those worthless humans who look down on me.”
Had Merlin not possessed dark magic, he would have been enslaved long ago. His mother, powerless, had already been enslaved and worked to death years prior.
The only reason he survived such an environment was entirely thanks to this dark sorcery.
With a bright smile, Merlin forced Nimue—who tried to avert her gaze—to meet his eyes.
“If I just cast a curse, they can’t even defy me. No matter what you say, people will move according to my will.”
Posing as divine power, he had risen to this position.
Those who doubted him were all cursed, and when necessary, they were used as proof of his divine authority.
Those who once eyed him for enslavement now couldn’t even lift their heads in his presence.
Yet Nimue ignored him, choosing silence.
Merlin gritted his teeth and hurled another question at her.
“What else are you hiding?”
“…Nothing.”
“Don’t lie! Do you think I wouldn’t notice you haven’t properly deciphered the ancient texts?”
“…”
Nimue kept her lips tightly sealed, as if she had never spoken at all.
No matter how much he threatened her, he wouldn’t get the answer he wanted.
Merlin had tried everything—coaxing, pleading, intimidating. How many times had he seized Nimue like a trapped animal just to decipher those texts?
“Playing the saint, are we?”
“You’re saying you can’t speak to a half-devil?”
Unlike Merlin, Nimue possessed divine power.
The prophecies known to the world were believed to be revelations she received on the continent, but in truth, they were his share.
Merlin had simply stolen them and announced them as if they were given to her.
‘Not like you can run away anyway. Don’t forget, even your position as a saint was something I created for you.’
Merlin let go of her hair, tossing it aside as if discarding something.
Staggering back a step, Nimue’s expression remained devoid of any emotion—like a person whose soul had left their body.
Frowning as she glared at him, Merlin turned his head away in clear displeasure. He strode briskly across the hallway, gnashing his teeth.
‘Damn it. First, I need to reclaim that divine beast.’
💫
“You’re about to receive a knighthood. Should you really be staying here like this?”
While Morgana went upstairs, Raon stood leaning to the side with his arms crossed, tossing out the question.
Ignoring him, Arthur simply stared fixedly at the tightly shut door on the second floor.
When no answer came, Raon, seemingly awkward, sniffed and struck up a conversation with the maid who had accompanied them.
“You’re the lady’s maid?”
“Yes!”
“So, uh… do you have some kind of letter of introduction?”
At the probing question, Olivia jumped.
“Are you doubting me right now? I may look like this, but I’ve served in noble houses across Avalon—I’ve got my fair share of experience, you know?”
At the mention of Avalon, Raon’s eyebrows twitched as if struck. He stroked his chin and muttered under his breath.
“Tsk, what a mess of a group. A Britain mercenary, a maid from Avalon, a knight who was once a holy order commander…”
Finally, Raon’s gaze landed on the puppy growling and nestled in Arthur’s arms.
“King!”
“Yeah. And even a little fluffball whose origins are a mystery. You didn’t leave anyone out.”
As the puppy bared its teeth, Raon tossed it a dried anchovy from the table as if offering a treat. But the puppy just kept growling, wary of everyone present.
Left in an awkward position, Raon ended up chewing on the anchovy himself and grumbled.
“Dogs don’t eat anchovies? Skinny little thing has refined tastes.’”
In the tavern, Raon was the only one speaking.
Amid the silence, the first to break it was Bedivere.
“Did you say your name was Arthur?”
Arthur, still staring at the second-floor door, answered gruffly and briefly.
“Yes.”
“From what I saw at the temple festival, your swordsmanship resembles that of House Pendragon.”
The moment the name of a house too feared to even mention in Britain was spoken, the dried anchovy Raon had been chewing fell from his mouth.
“Wh-what swordsmanship?”
Only then did Arthur furrow his brow and turn his head toward Bedivere.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I was one of the knights of House Pendragon, so don’t bother lying. Who trained you?”
It was a question asked with certainty.
Arthur’s eyes, unusually fierce, bore into Bedivere as if trying to pierce through him.
With a hollow laugh, Bedivere continued.
“If you doubt me, pass my name to the one who taught you swordsmanship. I stayed by my lord’s side until the end before fleeing to the temple, so I have no regrets.”
“…Were you the knight who stayed by my father’s side until the end?”
After a brief pause, Arthur tossed the question back.
At that, Raon sprang up from his seat as if jolted, his chair clattering, and shouted.
“F-father?! Who? Duke Uther Pendragon?!”
Bedivere, who had likely expected this to some degree, merely nodded calmly.
“I thought so. I did say your frown reminded me of my lord. So you’re his bastard son.”
“Bastard?!”
Raon looked on the verge of fainting.
Olivia, being from Avalon and unfamiliar with the situation, only stepped back hesitantly, as if watching strange people.
Awkwardly, Bedivere stared into empty space for a moment and rubbed the back of his neck. Then, as if offering a handshake, he extended his remaining hand to Arthur.
“Bedivere. It’s an honor to meet my lord’s son like this.”
“Arthur.”
As Arthur clasped his hand, Bedivere smiled in satisfaction.
“I never thought any knights of House Pendragon would still be alive. It brings me joy to hear news like this.”
“I had no idea you had fled to the temple.”
As the exchange flowed naturally, Raon impatiently wedged himself between them in a fluster.
“Hey, introductions are fine and all… but this is Britain, not the temple. You can’t just casually drop the name of a house wiped out for treason like that—what’ll happen to my tavern?”
“Well, isn’t Britain going to be ruled by Lady Morgana anyway?”
Bedivere stood firm, as if asking what the problem was.
In truth, his words weren’t wrong according to the prophecy, which made Raon’s expression turn subtly complicated.
“Uh, is that so?”
“It was King Vortigern who unjustly drove Pendragon to his death. Not Lady Morgana.”
“W-well, that may be true! But His Majesty hasn’t yet relinquished the throne!”
“That’s exactly why…”
Bedivere’s eyes flicked briefly as he scanned their surroundings.
After confirming no one was listening, he lowered his voice to a whisper for the first time.
“Lord Arthur. Will you join me in killing King Vortigern?”
“Ack—”
Unlike Raon, who barely stifled a scream, Arthur asked without hesitation,
“And if I refuse? What do you intend to do after proposing such a thing?”
“Even if I must act alone, I will cut down the king. Do not worry. I will restore my lord’s honor and reclaim my place in the land of Britain.”
In fact, now was the perfect time.
With Morgana destined to become king, losing Vortigern would hardly be an issue.
Even Guinevere seemed welcoming of the prophecy, didn’t she?
Arthur, too, had always intended to one day cut down Vortigern—the man who had wrongfully killed his parents—with his own blade.
‘The time has come.’
For the first time, the corners of Arthur’s lips faintly curved upward.
“I will gladly join you.”
“W-wait, hold on. Should we really decide this so quickly? Shouldn’t we all think it over a bit more?”
Raon stomped his feet in protest, trying to dissuade the two, but neither paid him any mind.
Just then—click—the second-floor door opened, and Morgana stepped out.
“Have you all been waiting long? I hope your discussion went well!”
Supporting the unwell Herzel, she descended the stairs and blinked in confusion at the strange tension lingering in the tavern’s first floor.
“…Why does the atmosphere feel so off?”
Unlike Raon, who awkwardly stared at the ceiling without answering, Bedivere and Arthur responded quickly and nonchalantly.
“What do you mean?”
“What?”
Seeing their indifferent expressions, Morgana wondered if it was just her imagination. She tilted her head slightly.
“Hmm, never mind. Must’ve been my mistake. We’re heading to my estate now—will you all be joining us?”
At Morgana’s question, Arthur and Bedivere answered simultaneously again.
“I have some matters to attend to with Sir Bedivere for now.”
“I have a few more things to discuss with Lord Arthur.”
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