"Let me guess—this is the 'truth' you want to tell me. That Britain will inevitably fall, the so-called chosen king will rule a dying nation, and we'll all perish?" Arthur said with interest.
The "last look back" of the Age of Gods meant exactly that.
The era of human civilization was coming, unstoppable. The lingering divine aura of the Age of Gods that remained would vanish from the world's surface. The fifth century—the time Arthur lived—marked that fading mystery's end.
Though the British Isles were steeped in mystery, even as the outside world moved on and the human age arrived, the ether on the Isles still carried remnants of the Age of Gods. Fantastical beings, unheard of elsewhere, still dwelled there.
But that was only a fleeting glance backward—a brief flash in the planet's history.
One day, the final mysteries would vanish, absorbed by the wider world.
The creatures of the British Isles—fantasy beings, extraordinary magicians like Merlin, or seemingly normal humans—were all part of that Age of Gods. No matter what happened—disappearances, intermarriage, changes to culture—the Age of Gods would inevitably fade.
In other words, the people of the Age of Gods on the Isles were destined to become history.
Everyone would vanish, with or without a trace. No one would be spared—not Arthur, not Camelot.
This was Britain's eventual doom.
No matter how glorious the chosen king's deeds, he was only the one to bring the Age of Gods to an end.
A desperate, cruel truth that would never change.
"Yeah, that's true. Being king isn't a thankless job—it's worse. But if I don't do it, then who will? Artoria? Leave that heavy fate to her while I hide away like a coward, waiting quietly for death? That sounds nice and easy, but I'm sorry—I can't." Arthur's tone was serious.
He wasn't brave. By normal standards, he was timid, maybe even cowardly.
But being timid didn't mean losing one's nerve. Since he'd come to this era, he'd have to die like everyone else eventually—so why not face it head-on? If escape was impossible, maybe changing a few things was worth trying.
Besides, he had no choice.
"Don't worry, I don't know Artoria personally, but I've always been kind to her. I have no right to say this, but Merlin, you should reflect on this—has she ever truly had a moment to call her own?" Arthur said, then lost interest and turned back to his work.
Merlin was already shocked.
Shocked.
That expression—one Arthur expected to see when the truth was told—now appeared on his face instead.
How did Arthur know?
Morgan?
Impossible. Even with Morgan's special status, she hadn't inherited the memories tied to it. Her understanding of the truth was limited to the "last look back" of the Age of Gods. She still naively believed that as Britain developed, it would prosper despite the inevitable decline.
Yet Arthur knew secrets even Morgan didn't.
The same was true when Arthur revealed the truth about Artoria after drawing his sword. He was acting like another seer.
After a long silence, Merlin returned from his shock, eyes complicated as he watched Arthur fly through documents at lightning speed.
"I didn't expect such an answer. But Arthur, if you know nothing can be changed, and you possess such wisdom, why make such a foolish choice?"
Merlin smiled bitterly and answered himself, "No, that was a pointless question. Humans are foolish creatures. The fools by nature... that's you, Arthur. You always say you're not a knight, just an ordinary man. But to me, you're no different from those knights."
Is this Merlin?
Arthur didn't respond, burying himself in work.
If Merlin heard his thoughts, he'd realize Arthur knew everything.
Just then, a knock came at the door.
"My king, I have brought the documents for tomorrow's succession ceremony."
"Sir Draven, come in."
A young man entered, his face hard to describe.
His features were willful—horse-faced, with a long nose, narrow triangular eyes, and a small mouth. He looked treacherous and cunning, the very image of a natural-born traitor. Yet he was the first among the nobles to swear loyalty to Arthur and offer his help.
Arthur always suspected Draven was a hidden traitor—some noble spy infiltrating his circle. But Draven had proven honest and loyal.
Still, every time Arthur saw him, he couldn't help but think: what a waste of your traitorous face, Draven.
"Merlin? My lord, I didn't expect to see Lord Merlin here. I apologize for interrupting your important discussion," Draven said, nervously glancing at Merlin before hesitating.
"No need to apologize, Lord Draven. Merlin and I don't have a good relationship. We don't discuss important matters together. Don't think too much of it."
"But... but..." Draven glanced between them, uncertain. "King, are you really not on good terms with Lord Merlin?"
"Are you joking?" Arthur stared at Draven with deadpan eyes.
Do you think I'm some scumbag who's easily swayed? I was flirting with Lancelot earlier and tricked him into returning to France... Ahem, bah! No, this trash and I are enemies! Enemies!
Arthur's mind raced with strange thoughts before he coughed awkwardly and made his stance clear: "Merlin, you should leave now."
"Yes, yes. It's true. The King is cold to me, even though I like him very much." Merlin laughed and exited.
Good, that settles the misunderstanding.
"King, your relationship with Merlin is really—"
"No, shut up! That's the only thing I'm asking you not to mention again!"
Arthur pinched his temples, exasperated. "Forget it. You may go, Lord Draven. Tomorrow's trouble will be far worse than you expect."