One day, after several more days had passed.
The quiet that had softly settled over the cabin deep in the forests of Tintagel was briskly shattered by a white-haired succubus kicking open the workshop door.
"It's finished! It's finally finished, Arthur!"
Merlin, her face scorched with sweat and the lingering traces of mana, none of her usual sly composure to be seen, shouted with a triumphant smile.
At her cry, the Servants who had been resting in the cabin or tending to their weapons all turned their eyes toward her at once.
"Good work, Merlin."
Arthur slowly rose from his seat.
"So it finally begins. Everyone, prepare your things for the campaign."
"Brother, are you going alone?"
When Artoria approached with clear concern, Arthur lightly stroked her blond hair and smiled.
"Yes. I'll go ahead and clean up that noisy stage prop first. You just tidy up the cabin and get ready to depart. It won't take long."
His voice held absolute certainty, without the slightest trace of doubt. Everyone nodded and silently saw off the first step of their new king.
At the same time, in the central square of Tintagel village.
The square, which would normally have been quiet, was now so crowded with people and heavily armed knights that there was hardly room to set foot.
Their gazes were fixed on a massive rock placed in the middle of the square, and on the radiant golden sword embedded deep in the anvil set atop it.
As the people murmured among themselves, a suspicious mage with a dark robe pulled low enough to hide the face stood beside the rock.
It was Merlin.
Facing the countless gathered crowds and knights in the square, she cried out in a clear voice steeped in mystery.
"Behold! This sword is the [Sword of Selection] that shall choose the true king of Britain!"
Merlin's voice carried with a magical resonance, ringing through every corner of the square.
"The late king, Uther Pendragon, has already chosen his successor! When the incarnation of the red dragon, the new king who will lead this Britain, appears... the Knights of the Round Table shall gather once more, and that vile white dragon shall at last be driven back!"
As the prophecy rang out across the square, greed and ambition flared in the eyes of the many strong men and knights who had come from all across Britain after hearing the rumors.
"I am surely the incarnation of that red dragon!"
"Out of my way! The throne of Britain belongs to me!"
From hulking warriors to famous knights, each one climbed onto the rock and seized the hilt of the golden sword, declaring that he would become king.
But the result was miserable.
No matter how hard they strained until their muscles looked ready to burst, no matter how much mana they poured into it, the [Sword of Selection] did not budge in the slightest, as though it had become one with the stone.
As dozens of knights failed one after another and stumbled away, sighs of disappointment and irritation gradually spread through the square.
"How is a king supposed to be decided by some sword stuck in a rock like this?!"
"We should hold a mounted joust among ourselves and decide a winner that way! Is it not only natural that the one with the greatest martial strength should become king?"
Unable to admit their own inadequacy, the knights began brandishing their weapons and making absurd demands. The mood in the square turned ugly, and just as they were about to force an agreement among themselves—
"Pathetic beyond words."
A low, heavy voice, like the growl of a beast, sliced through the uproar in the square at once.
The crowd's attention turned in unison toward the source of the voice.
The one walking forward through the crowd was a fifteen-year-old boy with blond hair and emerald eyes.
But no one there could call him a mere boy.
From his solid 181-centimeter frame poured overwhelming draconic mana, along with the absolute bearing of a ruler that seemed to crush even the air around him.
"To think you would decide a king with nothing more than riding horses and poking with lances. That is exactly why Vortigern stole your country and left you in this sorry state."
"W-What?! How dare this brat!"
The knights flared up and placed their hands on their sword hilts, but Arthur thoroughly ignored their burning stares and angry shouts.
He walked toward the stone with the easy stride of a man strolling through his own garden.
Pressed down by an inexplicable sense of intimidation, the people parted on their own.
At last, Arthur stood before the [Sword of Selection].
Merlin, her robe still drawn low, took a step back with a faint smile at the corner of her lips.
Without even needing to steady his breath, Arthur placed his right hand on the hilt of the golden sword embedded in the anvil, as naturally as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
The heart of the red dragon dwelling within his chest throbbed fiercely, beginning to resonate intensely with the star-forged mana sleeping within the sword.
Shing!
As though drawing a blade from its sheath, it came free with impossible ease and smoothness.
The [Sword of Selection], which had not twitched even when hundreds of grown men hung from it, soared into the air at Arthur's hand.
Fwaaaash!!
A blinding, splendid golden radiance exploded from the blade of Caliburn as it was pulled from the stone.
A pillar of brilliant light, enough to shame the midday sun, split the sky above Tintagel and shot upward.
"O-Ohhh...!"
"The sword... the sword was drawn!"
Everyone gathered in the square staggered back with cries mixed with shock and exultation. It was the moment legend became reality.
But that moment of awe was immediately torn apart by a chilling killing intent.
"It's Pendragon's heir! That bastard is the blood of Uther we've been searching for!!"
More than a dozen men who had hidden among the crowd disguised as ordinary commoners and mercenaries suddenly revealed themselves and drew their weapons.
Their eyes were slit vertically like beasts, and abnormal muscles writhed beneath their skin.
They were Vortigern's elite Saxon soldiers, mixed with the blood of Phantasmal Species, who had been secretly searching throughout Cornwall and Wales for Uther's successor.
"Kill him! For the white dragon!!"
More than ten half-man, half-beast monsters burst forth with killing intent and leaped at Arthur atop the rock like wild animals.
It was a fearsome speed and destructive power, enough to tear even knights apart in an instant.
The crowd screamed and scattered. But Arthur's eyes did not waver in the slightest.
He lightly raised the newly claimed golden sword.
"Filthy beasts. Do you know before whom you stand?"
Arthur's wrist turned lightly.
A sword strike made with nothing but pure physical strength and skill, without even the slightest release of mana.
One slash.
The instant he casually swung the sword, a brilliant golden arc carved itself through the air like a crescent moon.
"...Huh?"
A stupid sound slipped from the mouth of the Saxon elite who had leaped first.
That was the end of it.
Slice!
Booom!!
The upper and lower halves of the more than ten Saxon soldiers flying through the air were perfectly severed in two by that single slash, spraying a rain of blood.
Overwhelming, merciless slaughter that did not even leave them time for dying screams.
Amid the corpses of the monsters dropping in heaps and the pooling blood, Arthur stood with the golden sword lowered at an angle, not a single drop of blood staining it.
The square fell into a deathly silence.
The knights who had mocked him as a brat only moments ago, and the commoners who had stared in shock alike, were so crushed by that overwhelming might and divine majesty that they could scarcely even breathe.
Standing atop the anvil amid the drifting smell of blood, Arthur slowly opened his mouth.
His voice, borne by mana, echoed solemnly beneath the skies of Britain.
"My name is Arthur Pendragon."
At that declaration, the hearts of the people began to pound violently.
"The rightful heir to the great Uther Pendragon, and the one and only knight who will cut down the neck of that loathsome false king Vortigern and protect this Britain from foreign invasion."
Arthur raised the radiant Caliburn high into the air.
"And inheriting the will of Queen Boudica, who once made Rome tremble for trampling this land... I am your king, the one who will lead Britain to the glory of victory."
Swept up by the immense draconic presence and charisma pouring from him, the people in the square began to fall to their knees one by one.
The arrogant knights as well lowered their swords as if entranced and prostrated themselves at his feet.
"Ahh... Your Majesty!"
"The true king of Britain has descended!"
"Lead us, Pendragon!"
It was the moment when the despair and dark age that had blanketed this island kingdom for decades finally began to lift.
Above the skies of Tintagel, the roar of the red dragon rang out brilliantly, as though awakening a new dawn.
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