The roads of Britain grew more treacherous with each passing day.
Not only monstrous beasts, but barbarian tribes from beyond the reach of civilization were eyeing travelers with hungry intent.
Strange rumors reached them, becoming more frequent the farther north they traveled.
"In Pictland, there dwell green devils without faces."
This referred to the Picts, an indigenous fantastical warrior race of Britain.
Originally inhabiting the regions around Ireland, they had gradually migrated into Britain toward the end of the Age of Gods. They were a fantastical race that bore a striking resemblance to humans.
Even during the era of Roman Britain, they had inadvertently served as a bulwark, preventing the Roman legions from conquering the northern territories—the region known today as Scotland.
Though they were fantastical creatures, their humanoid nature and their own distinct civilization allowed them to establish the realm of Pictland and resist the might of Rome.
They were, in every sense, a warrior race.
Of course, to the Picts, all Britons were enemies, but since Rome was the greater foe, they had existed in a state of de facto temporary alliance with the locals.
However, they had now fallen under the sway of an even more formidable presence: Vortigern. With the Romans gone, they had become a troublesome tribe in an entirely different sense.
“Brother, is this the right way?”
Artoria cocked her head, glancing doubtfully at the map.
“It is. Merlin said this way was a shortcut,” Kay answered, gently patting Gareth on the back.
Merlin was currently pretending to sleep in the corner of the carriage. In truth, the "shortcut" was merely a pretext; he intended to lure them into a Pictish nest to throw Kay into a panic—or, at the very least, ensure he was treated as a useless burden.
Kieeeeeek!
A grotesque shriek tore through the silence of the forest.
Green shadows rained down from the treetops like a storm.
“Ambush!”
Artoria Lancer shouted, drawing Rhongomyniad in one fluid motion.
The attackers were humanoid, yet far from human. Their bodies were encased in bulging green muscle, and their faces were hidden behind steel masks riddled with holes—the Picts.
“How revolting. I doubt they’d even be satisfying to cut,” Artoria Alter remarked with a look of pure disgust, swinging Excalibur Morgan.
Kwaaaang!
A flash of black light erupted, cleaving three or four Picts clean in half.
As Artoria X Alter extended her hand, the charging Picts were incinerated by bolts of crimson lightning.
The battle was utterly one-sided.
The Artoria sisters had already evolved into monsters that transcended the boundaries of humanity. No matter how resilient the Picts' physical forms were, they stood no chance against women armed with mythic Noble Phantasms.
However, the Picts' numbers were overwhelming, swarming forward like an endless colony of ants.
Unlike other fantastical races, they possessed a systematic military structure—the very reason the Roman legions had failed to subdue them.
And among them were those with cunning instincts.
They instinctively targeted the weakest point in the formation: the man carrying the baby—Kay.
Kiiiiik!
A Pict warrior lunged from the undergrowth, aiming for Kay’s blind spot. It was a cowardly strike intended to snatch Gareth.
“Brother!!”
“Kay!!”
Lily and Artoria Lancer Alter screamed simultaneously, but they were too far to intervene.
Kay had no time to look back, let alone draw his sword. But his body reacted before his mind could process the danger.
“Hup!”
Kay took a sharp breath, instantaneously contracting every muscle in his body.
His heart gave a heavy thud, pumping hot blood through his veins. Instead of reaching for his blade, he drove his bare right fist backward with explosive force.
Bbak!!
It wasn't a dull thud, but a violent rupture, like a boulder shattering. His fist slammed directly into the center of the Pict’s mask.
Crunch.
The mask disintegrated, followed by the sickening sound of a skull collapsing.
The Pict warrior couldn't even scream; he was launched backward like a cannonball, smashing into a distant tree. He died instantly.
“...Whew.”
Kay exhaled a ragged breath and shook out his hand. The skin on his knuckles was scraped and beaded with blood, but it was a trivial injury.
“Gareth, you okay? Did that scare you?”
Checking his back, he found Gareth staring wide-eyed before breaking into a giggle. It seemed the baby found her uncle's punch amusing.
The sisters, meanwhile, stood frozen, their mouths agape.
What was that?
It had been a simple, honest punch—no Mana Burst, no active skills. And yet, the sheer power of it had pulverized a Pict's skull?
“B-Brother... just now...”
“I knew he was strong, but that was beyond expectations.”
Once the battle subsided, the girls rushed to Kay's side.
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
“What are you doing, hitting things with your fists like a brute! What is the point of having a sword?!”
Alter scolded him while inspecting his scraped knuckles, while Artoria Caster hurriedly cast a healing spell.
“I’m fine. I just didn’t have time to draw my sword. Besides... these things look like they'd taste terrible.”
Kay frowned as he looked at the fallen corpses.
The humanoid appearance was off-putting, but more than that, the muscles looked far too tough and chewy to be palatable.
“Let’s move. This place is creepy.”
Leaving the corpses behind, the party resumed their journey.
Merlin watched the entire scene from the corner of the carriage, his expression twisting strangely.
...He's grown. He's using technique to compensate for his physical limits.
A man of mediocre talent who covers his shortcomings with sheer effort. In the future, while he might not reach the level of Gawain, he could certainly become a knight on par with those of Uther's original Round Table.
And that was the problem. Merlin wanted Kay to be naturally phased out of the picture as quickly as possible.
The journey continued.
Wherever Artoria's group passed, mountains of monster corpses were left in their wake, and the screams of bandits were scattered by the wind.
Their tales of valor spread across the barren lands of Britain like a wildfire.
The rumors took a specific shape:
A handsome, blond youth of a knight who appeared like a comet.
And the seven beautiful Valkyries who followed him.
The ideal King who would finally save Britain, and his elite guard.
The people were enthralled.
In a Britain dominated by despair and terror, the appearance of a successor claimed to be the legitimate heir of King Uther was salvation itself.
But the stronger the light, the deeper the shadow.
Behind the dazzling spotlight of glory stood a man who was forced to remain entirely in the dark.
One sunny afternoon, they arrived at the plaza of a great city called Glebeval, also known as Glastonbury.
Massive crowds gathered to catch a glimpse of the heroes.
Flower petals rained from the sky, and bards sang impromptu hymns of praise.
“Look! Behold the radiant light of the Holy Sword!”
“Ah, the tip of Rhongomyniad is more dazzling than the sun itself!”
The eight girls stood in their gleaming armor, bathed in the cheers of the crowd.
Artoria, disguised as a man, stood at the forefront, waving and greeting the citizens.
However, one step removed from the wave of adoration...
Kay stood in a secluded corner, shrouded by the shadow of the carriage.
He looked less like a hero and more like a refugee.
Instead of legendary armaments, a plain sword and a bag for baby bottles hung from his waist.
Instead of resplendent armor, he wore a leather apron stained with baby vomit.
Gareth, wrapped in a swaddle on his back, was whimpering. Kay, with practiced ease, soothed the baby while checking the temperature of the milk against his wrist.
The people's gazes eventually shifted toward him.
They were not looks of admiration, but cold stares mixed with contempt and bewilderment.
“Who is that man? A servant to the knights?”
“Tch, look at that hulking oaf. Not even wearing armor, just standing there babysitting.”
“The women are bleeding on the front lines, and that man isn't even ashamed of himself?”
“Is he a kept man? Probably just hiding under their skirts to get a free meal.”
“Tsk, what a sorry state of affairs. A man carrying a bottle instead of a blade.”
The whispers became thorns, pricking at Kay's eardrums.
Britain was a savage age ruled by the logic of strength—a world where the warrior's code was absolute.
While it was rare for women to enter the battlefield, for a healthy man to avoid combat and handle childcare in the rear was considered the ultimate disgrace.
They did not know that Kay spent his nights swinging his sword until he coughed up blood.
They did not know that he had crushed a Pict's skull with his bare fist.
They saw only the surface: an incompetent man hiding behind the backs of great warriors.
But Kay did not meet their eyes. In fact, he didn't care at all.
'Well, they're not wrong. I'm not a hero.'
Kay thought calmly as he used a handkerchief to wipe the milk from Gareth's chin.
'Who cares if I get cursed at? I couldn't care less about the opinions of strangers.'
He knew his place. He was not the protagonist; he was the staff working behind the scenes.
The play doesn't stop just because the audience insults the crew.
He would simply and silently carry the cross known as "big brother."
However, just because he was fine with it didn't mean those who loved him were.
Stop.
Alter, who had been maintaining a forced smile while surrounded by the crowd, came to a sudden halt.
Something grating had reached her ears.
The villagers who had spat those insults had no idea that their lives were now hanging by a thread.
Alter's golden pupils constricted. The air around her began to crackle as black mana surged upward.
“Hey.”
Her voice sounded as if it had been dragged up from the bottom of hell. Alter pushed through the crowd, stalking toward them.
“Y-yes? Sir Knight?”
The people blushed, confused. They mistakenly thought the beautiful knight was approaching them out of interest.
“What did you just say?”
Sring—
Excalibur Morgan slid halfway out of its scabbard. A suffocating aura of killing intent clamped down on the young man's throat.
“If you let that filthy mouth run one more time... I'll rip out your tongue and shove it into your eye sockets.”
“Hieeeek!!”
The young man at the front screamed and collapsed, his trousers quickly becoming damp.
He wasn't the only one.
Even Lancer, who never lost her elegance, cast a freezing glance at the villagers. Her voice was as sharp as a winter frost.
“Do you have any idea who the source of the power you worship is? We stand here because we ate the meals he prepared and slept in the shelter he provided.”
Lancer slammed the butt of Rhongomyniad into the ground.
“That man is... the most precious person to us. Do not dare speak of him lightly. He is someone we would not trade even for the entirety of Britain.”
Artoria looked toward Kay, who was soothing Gareth in the distance, her expression bittersweet.
Her heart ached.
The more they shone, the deeper and more miserable Kay's shadow became.
The more they became heroes, the more Kay was branded as a failure of a man.
Because their group was so small and elite, Kay—carrying a baby—couldn't help but stand out in the worst possible way.
'Brother... it's because of us...'
She held the lavish bouquet given to her by the people, but it felt like a tangle of thorns.
Their glory was a flower that bloomed upon the soil of their brother's sacrifice.
But Merlin, watching the scene from the shade of a tree, felt differently.
Leaning on his staff, he reveled in the twisted situation.
'Good, very good. The flow is perfect.'
Merlin's purple eyes gleamed. He knew that a bad reputation was sharper than a sword and more lethal than poison.
'A man's pride is more fragile than one might think. No matter how resilient Kay is, he won't be able to endure constant ridicule and contempt from the world.'
Merlin believed he had read Kay's psyche perfectly.
Kay pretended to be strong, but inside, he viewed himself as mediocre and suffered from an inferiority complex.
The world's condemnation, coupled with the misery of being protected by his younger sisters, would eventually break him.
'The more his sisters defend him, the more pathetic he will feel. He'll start to believe he is a stain on their path.'
A cruel smile played on Merlin's lips.
It was a cold, calculated design intended solely to perfect the ideal King.
'Just a little more... just isolate him a bit further. If the world continues to point fingers, he'll leave on his own. Because he loves you, he'll disappear to ensure your honor remains untarnished.'
Of course, Merlin had made one critical mistake.
While it was true that Kay knew his limits and struggled with low self-esteem...
'What should I make for dinner tonight? Maybe I'll make something Artoria X likes for a change.'
Merlin had overlooked the fact that Kay possessed an ironclad sense of responsibility as the eldest son and as a brother.
His schemes worked on ordinary humans, but a nightmare who lacked a human heart could not comprehend the depths of familial love and duty.
After all, even Uther—the king Merlin had served for a lifetime—was a man whose heart was essentially inhuman. It would have been strange if Merlin actually understood such things.
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