Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

The result was predictable.

Serenity's Noble Phantasm had no effect whatsoever—completely ignored. Against Tristan, of all people, it was the worst possible match-up. Anyone else might have had a chance. But not her.

Bai Mao barely escaped with half his clones, bringing back the news: Serenity had been taken. The civilians she had tried to protect were also captured, all destined to be transported to New Camelot for the sacred selection.

But strangely, Serenity had not been killed. The presence of so many captives, combined with her survival, made one thing glaringly obvious—it was a trap.

Morgan quickly deduced the truth. The knight responsible had clearly acted without authorization. That meant the Lion King hadn't orchestrated this in advance. The operation must've been a personal decision, a rogue move by one of the Round Table's own.

Which meant the trap had been prepared hastily.

So this time, they wouldn't passively respond—they would strike first.

Do you think we came to rescue her? No.

We came to fight you.

Aslan and the others didn't bother returning to the Little Holy City. They headed straight toward New Camelot. The time for waiting had passed.

In a chamber within the Little Holy City, a dense lattice of glowing fairy script pulsed with mana. In the center of the room stood a grand, plush bed.

A shame that the person bound to it couldn't enjoy any of its comforts.

Iron chains extended from all four corners of the bed, inscribed with the same radiant script. These were no ordinary chains. Forged from rare magical alloys and enchanted by Aslan himself, they were designed to restrain even a berserk Servant.

The prisoner? The youngest child of the Pendragon line—Mordred.

At the moment, Mordred sat rigidly on the bed, radiating frustration. Her face was twisted in fury. Across her mouth was a magical device—crafted by Morgan—resembling a muzzle more than a mask, designed to keep wild beasts from biting.

Around her neck was a collar, studded with gemstones inscribed in fairy text. Forged by Aslan and sealed by Morgan, it was enchanted to suppress the surging rage of a berserk state. To put it plainly: it kept Mordred, teetering on the brink of death and madness, in a forced state of clarity.

Heavy shackles bound her wrists and ankles, linked to the enchanted bedposts. At first glance, one might think they feared she'd escape. But that wasn't it.

When she'd first been brought back, she was still deep in a berserker's frenzy. This was the only way to keep her from destroying everything in reach.

Even now, the fury had not left her.

Her current posture? Less like a knight and more like a caged animal.

She grabbed the wooden cup by her bedside and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall.

Wooden cups were standard now—not just due to material scarcity, but because they were harder to break than ceramic. And someone like Mordred… well, they needed something that could withstand a few tantrums.

The door creaked open.

Morgan entered, glanced at the shattered cup, and sighed. "Do you have any idea how bad things are right now? And you're still acting like a brat, you unfilial child."

Mordred rattled her chains and jabbed a finger at her face. "Morgan! Take this crap off me! I'm not your dog! How dare you humiliate a Knight of the Round Table like this! I swear—I'll kill you!"

Morgan ignored the outburst and casually conjured a chair from shadowy flame, sitting down with a graceful sigh. "So much energy. Looks like you've finally calmed down a bit."

She crossed her legs, flipping open a glowing grimoire and continuing to record something.

"Since you're lucid now," she said without looking up, "do you even remember what you did?"

Mordred froze for a moment. Then her expression twisted again.

"You bastard… why did you take me from the King? Are you trying to make me hurt her again?!"

Morgan's pale blue eyes narrowed. "Still this stupid. I warned you, but you went and proved it yourself. Think, Mordred. Compare yourself to the person on that throne. Is she really Arturia?"

"…What?"

"That's not King Arthur. That's the goddess Rongomyniad. If you really respect your father—if you still love Arthur—then you'll put an end to that goddess. She's the one who stole her body."

Mordred jolted upright. Red lightning flared around her.

Her chains clinked taut.

A horrifying thought overtook her mind.

If Morgan was telling the truth…

Then the one she had sworn loyalty to—the one she almost killed herself for—was not Arthur. It was some goddess wearing her father's skin.

The implications were unbearable.

And yet—looking back—so much didn't make sense. Her father's coldness. Her unwavering, mechanical devotion. Her detachment from all things human.

Mordred had blamed herself, thinking Arthur had simply changed.

But now?

This wasn't change. This was possession.

Too much.

Far too much.

She grit her teeth. "That lying—goddess! I swore loyalty to her! I thought she was—my father! Aaaaaaaargh!!"

Magic burst from her body like a tempest.

Morgan calmly raised a hand and activated the enchantments.

The collar, the chains, the cuffs—they all flared with runes and locked Mordred's power back down. Her roar of fury was choked back into trembling silence.

"Calm yourself," Morgan said coolly. "We're on the verge of war. We'll need every hand we can get. If you truly want revenge, then finish your mission."

Mordred's eyes burned.

She trembled—not with rage now, but cold resolve.

"…I'll help you," she growled. "But only to kill that goddess."

-End Chapter-

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