Chapter 523: [523] What Kind of King Do You Want to Be?

Facing Kairi’s pointed question, what had been her response?

"...I’m sorry, but I don’t know either."

Yes, that’s what she had said. To Mordred’s Master, she chose to answer honestly, because some instinct told her this rough-looking magus would understand her complicated feelings.

While attempting to teach Mordred, images kept flashing through Artoria’s mind—the fog-shrouded London that had become a hellscape of children’s vengeful spirits when little Jack went berserk under the interference of Jeanne d’Arc and Atalanta.

Though her expression remained composed, the shock she’d experienced in that illusion was no less profound than what Atalanta—or even Sieg in the original story—had endured. Merlin had repeatedly warned her that darkness always follows light like two sides of the same coin, yet this was the first time Artoria had personally witnessed how terrifying human wickedness could become.

Compared to such profound despair, even war-torn, impoverished Britain seemed gentle by contrast. If the kingdom she built ever became like that, she would destroy it all, even if it meant becoming evil herself.

—Inevitably, she recalled her naive words from long ago.

"If many people are smiling, I believe that cannot be wrong."

To live for her people, to live alongside them, to leave them a future—the girl who drew that sword had killed herself in that moment. Now, Artoria had to admit there had been an element of self-indulgence in that ideal. A king stands too far above—no matter how fervently her heart beat, people could only see her solitary figure against the cold heights.

That was why Britain fell—overthrown by her nominal child, Mordred.

During her time in Avalon, she’d pondered countless reasons for the Knight of Treachery’s rebellion, yet found no answers. But now, she faintly understood.

What if, in the eyes of that homunculus born mere years ago—created in imitation of her—the Britain forged by her father-king appeared like foggy London: the bottom of purgatory overflowing with sin and punishment?

What if the king reflected in those eyes was the very source and vessel of all those sins and sorrows?

If so, drawing a sword in anger became perfectly justified. What right did she have to condemn Mordred’s successful destruction of that "hell"?

It was precisely these thoughts that allowed Artoria to stand calmly beside Mordred now and voice her doubts:

"Tell me, Mordred... do you think humans are fundamentally good or evil?"

She didn’t call me "my knight"? That form of address...

Mordred’s hand tightened slightly, her whole body tensing as she forced her voice into its usual rough impatience:

"Are you stupid? Humans are just humans—a bunch of beasts who choose good or evil based on the situation."

"...Why?"

"Because when food and clothing are insufficient, all manners and righteousness vanish without a trace. To put it bluntly, people just become slightly smarter beasts!" Recalling the past, Mordred grew visibly agitated. "In my eyes, others are utterly insignificant—only my own excellence matters!"

Even though the King sacrificed so much for the kingdom, even though the King’s wisdom was flawless... Yet with just a simple drought and the flames of war, those foolish people would cast aside shame and morality, kneading their fear into rage and directing it at that supreme sovereign...

"Do you despise humanity?"

Faced with Artoria’s direct question, Mordred didn’t hesitate to affirm:

"Of course I despise them. They never forget grudges yet easily forget kindness. If something threatens their own interests, they’ll sacrifice everything to avoid it. For trivial matters, they might perform meaningless good deeds, but when faced with real trouble, they turn a blind eye to great evils. Always driven by selfish desires, they shift blame onto others when they fail—utterly worthless to protect!"

Like someone declaring a final verdict, the girl bit into her pancake with a sharp twist of her neck, tearing off a piece of filling. Her movements were fierce yet graceful, like a magnificent lion.

"What a tragic conclusion," Artoria murmured before continuing: "Then was this also the reason for your rebellion in life?"

The air froze instantly. The candlelight in the church stilled, and the faint outlines beyond the windows became motionless, as if constrained by some invisible pressure that nearly suffocated them.

"...No. My view of humanity and my rebellion are entirely separate matters. Are you looking for an excuse to punish me, King Arthur?"

Mordred’s eyes instantly filled with killing intent. One more word, and she might truly draw her sword.

"Then let’s set aside the rebellion itself—but many people followed you, didn’t they?"

Just when Mordred thought the topic would end, Artoria pressed forward relentlessly. Caught off guard by the continued questioning, Mordred’s eyes widened.

King Arthur, the holy monarch she’d rebelled against, was casually asking the rebel leader for details about that very rebellion?

This had to be some mistake. They were both dead—what was the point of discussing this now!

"Weren’t there many who respected you, who were willing to crown you as their king? Would you scorn them too?"

The holy sword unsheathed, the holy spear raised—in a daze, Mordred saw the fully armored king charging at her. Her nerves tightened instantly, and almost reflexively, the girl who’d been revered as king by rebels responded with words as sharp as blades:

"They only followed me out of their own necessity, forced to place their bets on me. They had their reasons for rebelling against the King. I neither scorn those who opposed me nor consider those who supported me my equals."

"So you scorn everyone, then?"

"——I am one who should become a king. How can a king regard humans as equals? Could a king save people merely by sharing their laughter and tears? That’s utterly impossible. A true king must never become such an existence."

Facing the legendary King Arthur, Mordred spoke quietly in a tone devoid of any emotion.

Confronted by Mordred’s solemnity, Artoria held her breath. In her saintly blue eyes, this familiar figure overlapped with several other kings she had encountered—and crossed blades with.

Moonlight, courtyard, monarchs, banquet.

Memories of the past compelled Artoria to voice the question:

"What—what kind of path of kingship will you walk? Do you intend to be a tyrant or a virtuous king?"

!!!

The moment she comprehended those words, Mordred distinctly heard the rush of blood through her veins and the pounding of her heart like war drums.

She knew this was a question she could never evade, for Artoria was now interrogating another king’s heart in her capacity as the Holy King.

—Her father, the king, acknowledged her.

Mordred’s expression twisted slightly, even revealing uncontrolled anger. Yet this emotion was not directed at Artoria, but at herself—at the foolish would-be king whose mind remained blank even now.

She was currently fighting to become king. Given the chance to challenge the Sword of Selection, she had absolute confidence she could draw it.

So—what kind of king did she wish to be?

She wanted to be an ideal king. A king who could protect all that needed protecting, one recognized by everyone.

To achieve that, should she become a king like her father—an idealized symbol for the people? Or should she be a king of greed, dragging everything into the vortex to realize her own dreams?

Being an ideal king would surely feel suffocating. Being a greedy king would surely draw the people’s hatred.

Mordred gazed blankly at the streets outside the window. According to the knowledge granted by the Holy Grail, this nation still bore the scars of tyranny.

A despot who enforced twisted delusions, forcing people to build meaningless palaces of extravagance—only to be overthrown in rebellion. She would never become such a king—

Then would it be better to be a perfect king like her father, martyred for ideals? Yet even her father had fallen midway.

"...Damn it."

The question she had always avoided confronting was now laid bare before her by the very person she despised.

She wanted to be king—but that simple aspiration carried no vision for what came after.

Had other kings ever considered this? The tyrants, wise rulers, and fools who left their names in history—did they ever envision the future of their reigns?

Her father, Artoria Pendragon—what expectations had she held for the kingdom she ruled?

"...After I destroyed it all with my own hands, what future is there to speak of?"

Before Artoria, Mordred suddenly wore a self-mocking smile. Indeed, it was King Arthur who brought peace to Britain—but the one who utterly shattered it was none other than herself.

If asked what the worst part was—she had never once regretted that incident to this day.

Receiving no one’s acknowledgment, no one’s concern, no one’s love, nor loving anyone in return. The peaceful world was truly wonderful, and those who risked their lives for it were equally marvelous.

But why couldn’t even the slightest emotion be spared for those who devoted everything to such beauty?

She hadn’t even dared to hope for her love. At the very least, if she could have granted her a little attention, just followed her figure with her gaze for a moment, that alone would have been enough.

"Don’t spout nonsense. You would never have been satisfied. You would have endlessly demanded her love, her affection, and in the end, even the throne—ultimately destroying her reign all the same."

That was the whisper from the depths of her heart. Feeling irritated, Mordred nonetheless accepted this reasoning.

Perhaps it was true—after all, she didn’t understand love at all. Was it something sweet? Bitter? Sour? Or something utterly tasteless and odorless?

How could a knight who didn’t even know what love was brazenly declare before King Arthur what kind of king she would become?

Bitterness welled up in her chest, but before the girl could hang her head in dejection, a pair of hands cupped her cheeks, forcing her to lift her face and meet those earnest, saintly blue eyes.

"Don’t lose heart, Mordred. It’s alright if you can’t answer yet." Artoria spoke solemnly, leaving Mordred wide-eyed and stunned. "Just like tonight’s question, I believe you will complete it one day."

As if finally realizing the contradiction, Artoria lowered her hands, cleared her throat lightly, and turned to leave.

"I hope the next time we meet, I can hear your answer from the heart."

Mordred didn’t speak. Her mind had short-circuited the moment Artoria touched her, leaving her dumbly staring as her father walked away, a single phrase looping endlessly in her head:

She encouraged me she encouraged me she encouraged me...

Father—she cares about me!

"Ehehe, ehehehe..."

Outside the church, Jeanne d’Arc watched Mordred’s foolish grin and shook her head, unable to bear the sight. "This child has lost her mind."

"Hmm, I never expected things to unfold like this."

"Oh, inspiration strikes me!"

"Has King Arthur finally acknowledged Mordred...?"

"Do you think Mordred will choose to be a virtuous king or a wicked one?"

"Master, let’s have barbecue tonight!"

Behind her, a group of individuals showed no intention of returning to rest, instead eagerly discussing the scene. Some even had magical screens—clearly, a certain empress was abusing her magical energy to broadcast the spectacle from afar. Despite belonging to different factions, despite the brutal battles awaiting them the next day, in this moment, the heroes unanimously set aside their conflicts, conversing as if they were old friends.

Those capable of becoming heroes were, by nature, extraordinary figures standing above the masses. When they cast aside their reservations and attempted to understand and communicate, the warmth and harmony they created could effortlessly infect all who witnessed—or joined—their gathering.

"King Arthur left without noticing us. It seems Sakatsuki’s imitation of Presence Concealment worked perfectly... Sakatsuki? Sakatsuki!"

Jeanne called several times before turning back in surprise, only to find the black-clad assassin smiling silently. Reflected in his eyes were the noisy crowd and Mordred’s foolish grin inside the church.

The warm light from the chapel blended into his handsome features. The young man gazed with such tenderness and reluctance, as if watching his most precious treasure about to slip away.

"Sakatsuki...?"