For a brief moment, Uther’s expression softened with a strange mix of affection and guilt, but Kaelar dismissed it as a mere illusion. The king’s face quickly reverted to the cold resolve of a ruler.
“Though I still have a heart, I must make this decision. I must crush Morgan and claim the title of Britain’s ruler,” he declared, his eyes burning with fierce determination.
“I am the king of humanity, not of the fae. I must prioritize the Celts living on this land. I cannot allow the fae’s plans to come to fruition!”
“If I fail, what will become of my people? The Sea of Stars holds no place for humanity!”
Uther’s gaze bore into Kaelar’s own, his regal aura now fully revealed. “Kaelar, you must understand—only the firmest resolve can make the most painful decisions.”
“Just before dinner, I had a discussion with Arthur Pendragon on the topic of kingship.”
His use of “Arthur” instead of the familiar “Lily” marked a shift—Uther was speaking as a king, addressing a future ruler.
“…” Kaelar remained silent, gesturing for him to continue.
Uther scrutinized Kaelar’s expression, then couldn’t help but ask, “Aren’t you curious, Kaelar? About what I discussed with Arthur?”
“Not really, if I’m being honest…”
Kaelar’s expression was cold, his flawless, almost divine features betraying no emotion. There was a certain nobility, an aloof calmness, that made Uther feel as if he, the king, was being looked down upon.
Or perhaps… it wasn’t an illusion at all?
But the ethereal beauty of that moment was shattered when Kaelar’s lips twisted into a mocking smile, his perfect face breaking the tension.
“‘None of my business.’ ‘None of your business.’” Kaelar’s voice cut through the air, cold and sharp. “Remember, that’s my final interpretation of you British barbarians.”
“King Uther, you should already know my feelings towards you and all of Britain.”
Kaelar’s voice was icy, almost cruel, as he gave Uther a disdainful smile—a look that seemed to pierce not just the flesh, but the very soul.
It was terrifying.
If Artoria were present, she would have instantly recognized this rare, cold aspect of Kaelar—the “Saint Mode” she had seen only a few times before. In this state, even Artoria dared not speak, merely following silently behind him, awed by his unassailable presence.
Kaelar’s arrogance was unmistakable. Though he faced Uther, his gaze seemed to pass right through him, as if nothing stood in his path.
“Tell me, Uther, have you ever truly understood ‘humanity’?”
Kaelar’s tone was slow and deliberate. “And Artoria, the future Emperor Arthur, she is my finest creation. If she were so easily swayed by a fading king’s words, wouldn’t that be an insult to my abilities as a teacher?”
“If so, what right would I have to pursue my path of enlightenment?”
Kaelar’s laughter rang out, hearty and unrestrained. “King Uther, you’ve underestimated me, underestimated Artoria Pendragon… and, most of all, overestimated yourself!”
Had anyone else spoken such words, they would have been dragged away and executed without hesitation. But this was Kaelar, and Uther did not get angry. Words that were an affront from others carried a different weight when spoken by the Saint of Britain.
Uther shook his head, not out of fear for Kaelar’s severity or danger—he was a dying man, and there was nothing left in the world that could frighten him.
No, it was Kaelar’s arrogance that he couldn’t agree with—the Saint’s tendency to regard “all humanity” as a single entity, devoid of rank or strength, treating them as vessels to carry out his will.
But, oh, Saint…
Have you truly understood what humanity is?
Yet I will follow you, and I will trust you, because you are not ordinary. You are holy.
“Cough… Perhaps you are right, Kaelar.”
Uther’s voice trembled with a weak cough. Though he had been insulted, he only smiled in relief. “If Arthur truly can become the great ruler you describe, if she can bring a better future to Britain and the Celts, then there’s no need for her to remember my ways as king.”
Uther’s anxiety finally dissipated. From the beginning, Kaelar’s scorn had not bothered him.
His sole purpose in speaking with Kaelar had been to confirm one thing—that the Saint of Britain would remain loyal to the future King Arthur.
Now that he had received his answer, everything else was irrelevant.
With his doubts laid to rest, Uther’s trust in Kaelar was absolute. A man as resolute as Kaelar, once committed, would never waver.
Morgan would never be able to sway Kaelar’s loyalties. Having chosen Arthur, he would never support Morgan’s claim to the throne.
Kaelar raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. He knew this would be his last meeting with Uther.
After Uther left, Artoria’s face remained calm, showing no sign of sadness. Kaelar turned to her and said, “Lily, prepare your coronation speech. Your time is near.”
King Uther, you were truly a mortal ruler.
But you were not without worth. You used all your wisdom, your dying strength, to maintain stability in Britain, ensuring Lily’s seamless succession.
Your faith in the wisdom of those who follow…
Perhaps it was not misplaced after all.
—
“Cough… cough…”
Uther lay frail and weakened in the opulence of his grand palace, surrounded by the great Celtic lords under his reign. They were either the rulers of vast lands or relatives connected to him by blood or marriage.
“You’re… all here… my most loyal subjects.”
His voice was faint, almost gone, his life nearly spent.
But then Merlin entered, cradling a sword in his arms, and Uther’s eyes widened. With a sudden burst of strength, he pushed himself up, ignoring any offers of assistance, and took the sword from Merlin’s hands.
His clouded eyes gleamed with authority as he swept his gaze over those present. “Even now… will you still obey my commands?”
Every noble knelt on one knee before their dying king, answering as one. “King Uther, you are our king, the king of the Celts. We will always follow your commands.”
“I will relinquish the crown!”
Uther’s face glowed with a sudden vitality as he nodded. “Yes, the time to choose a new king is upon us. My final prophecy is as follows!”
He rose, staring at the sword in his hands with all the strength he could muster. “Whosoever pulls this sword shall be king of Britain!”
With those words, Uther used the last of his strength to cast the sword into the air. It shimmered with a radiant light as it flew across the skies of the Unconquered White City, Camelot, witnessed by all.
Finally, the sword landed, embedding itself in a great stone on the outskirts of the city.
On the stone was inscribed a single line:
“Only the true king can draw the sword from the stone.”
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