pertwk Chapter 41 Choice
Chapter 41 Choice
Morgan stood across the round table, her icy blue eyes fixed on Arthur.
The candlelight flickered on her thorn crown, hiding half of her face in shadow.
"Do you know what 'severing the root cause' means?"
Arthur nodded.
"Say it." Morgan's voice suddenly turned sharp.
"I want to hear you say it yourself."
"Vortigern is the embodiment of the island's 'unwillingness to end,'" Arthur said calmly.
"If we sever that 'unwillingness,' Vortigern will lose its foundation for existence, and the white dragon will disappear."
"Then what."
"Then Britain will no longer be an isolated island, the Age of Gods will truly end, mystery will completely fade away, and this land will move forward along with the rest of the planet."
"And then what?"
Arthur fell silent.
Morgan spoke for him.
"And then, Britain no longer needs the 'Red Dragon,' your throne, your holy sword, your dragon's heart."
All these powers of the "mystical side" will decline with the end of the Age of Gods.
You are not severing Vortigern; you are severing the very foundation of yourself as 'King Arthur.'
The throne room was so quiet that you could hear the crackling of the candle wicks burning.
"I know," Arthur said.
"Knowing it, why did you still do it?"
"want."
Morgan's fingers clenched tightly on the parchment, his knuckles turning white.
"You're crazy."
"You just said that in all the versions you've seen, none of them can break the curse," Arthur said, looking at her.
"Did all the versions of Red Dragon use the 'Suppression' option?"
Morgan didn't say anything.
"How long can the suppression last? Ten years? Twenty years? A generation? Then Voodoo Gon awoke again, the gray mist seeped out again, and the stones reappeared."
The round table suppressed the opponent once, held on for a while, then suppressed them again, held on for a while longer. Each suppression was more strenuous than the last, and each awakening was harder to suppress than the last.
Arthur pressed his finger against the hole on the map.
"Until one day, it could no longer be suppressed. The white dragon fully awakened, Camelot burned, the Round Table shattered, and everyone..."
That's enough.
Morgan's voice wasn't loud, but the air in the entire throne room seemed to vibrate.
She lowered her eyes, her eyelashes casting very faint shadows in the candlelight.
"I've seen that ending." Her voice softened.
"I've seen it many times, different triggers, different sparks, but they all lead to the same scene."
In the burning Camelot, the sword in the stone broke, the sword in the lake shattered, the dragon's hearth went out, and everyone died.
Only you stood there... and then you fell down too.
She looked up.
"Every time I wake up, I tell myself that it was just a dream, just fragments of island memories and fantasies, not real."
But you said you saw fragments of the future when you drew your sword. Was what you saw the same scene as what I dreamed of?
Arthur recalled the image that flooded his consciousness the moment before the sword was in the stone.
The burning round table, Mordred lying in a pool of blood, Guinevere weeping by the window of the monastery, Morgan standing in the ruins, his eyes empty.
"Yes," he said.
Morgan smiled faintly, so faintly that it was almost imperceptible.
"Then I'm relieved."
"……rest assured?"
"Don't worry, you're not 'gambling'," Morgan said.
"You saw the worst possible outcome and still decided to take a different path. This isn't madness, this is..."
She paused for a moment.
"courage."
The words carried more weight coming from Morgan's mouth than from anyone else's.
She straightened up and placed her hands flat on the parchment. Icy blue magic surged from her palms and spread along the ley lines on the map.
Where the magic flowed, three-dimensional light and shadow appeared on the parchment.
Mountains rise, rivers meander, and forests stretch as far as the eye can see; the entire map transforms into a miniature Britain, suspended half a foot above the round table.
Morgan's hands moved slowly across the map.
"Vortigern's main body is located directly below the abandoned watchtower, at a depth of about three hundred feet."
That is the oldest point where the island's ley lines meet; before the end of the Age of Gods, the island's will radiated outwards from there.
Her finger touched that spot lightly.
A crack appears on the "surface" of miniature Britain.
The underground structures emerge layer by layer: soil, rock strata, underground water veins, and magical veins.
At the deepest point, about three hundred feet below the surface, there was a grayish-white, constantly wriggling mass.
It has no fixed shape; sometimes it resembles a coiled giant beast, sometimes a sprawling root system, and sometimes countless intertwined snakes.
Its surface is covered with dense gray-white patterns, which are exactly the same as the gray mist inside the stone, only a thousand times denser.
And in its very center, there is a pure black core.
The core was much larger than Arthur had imagined; it resembled a constantly beating, pure black heart.
With each jump, the gray-white patterns spread outwards in waves, and with each wave, a stone node on the miniature British surface lights up.
"This is him now," Morgan said.
Her fingers moved again, this time constructing a more complex structure, with six overlapping, translucent light membranes surrounding Vortigern's body.
Each layer of the light membrane was engraved with fairy script, densely packed, like a net woven from countless chains.
"This is a seal left by King Uther, with six layers in total, woven from his entire lifespan as the 'inheritor of the island's power'."
Each layer of the seal consumes Vortigern's power, suppressing the gray mist that seeps out.
Morgan's fingertips were on the outermost layer.
"This layer started to crack three months ago."
She clicked on them one by one.
"In this layer, the crack expanded to one-third of its original size two months ago."
"The first hole appeared on this floor a month ago."
"This layer." Her finger stopped on the fourth seal. "Ten days ago, the gray mist seeped through it."
Arthur stared at the six layers of light membrane. The outermost three layers were riddled with holes, and gray mist seeped out from the countless cracks and holes, like sand leaking from a tattered sack.
The fourth layer barely maintained its integrity, but its surface was already covered with fine cracks.
The fifth and sixth layers, the two closest to Vortigern's body, were still glowing, but their light was much dimmer than that of the outer layers.
"Half a month," Morgan said.
"At most half a month, the fourth layer will be completely shattered. At that time, the fifth and sixth layers will not last more than ten days. Within a month, the seal will definitely be completely broken."
Did the Picts know the specifics of the seal?
"They don't know, they only know that the white dragon is about to wake up."
Pickett’s old ballad goes, “The white dragon turns over, and the earth grows cold.”
They sensed the rate at which the land was cooling, so they sent scouts to find the awakening point. They wanted to find Vortigern and then, in their own way…
"In what way?"
Morgan lightly tapped the location of the northern permafrost on the map.
"The Picts are the oldest tribe in Britain; they lived on this island long before the end of the Age of Gods."
Their bloodline contains remnants of the divine era, a part of the island's will, which continues to live on within them.
"They can sense Vortigern's awakening, and they can also..."
Morgan paused for a moment.
"Sacrifice".
Arthur's pupils contracted slightly.
"The Picts have an ancient ritual in which the power left over from the divine era in their blood is injected back into Vortigern to 'appease' him."
"At the cost of the sacrificer's entire life force, the white dragon was plunged back into slumber."
"The sacrificer will die, and can only sleep for one more generation. Voodoo will awaken again after twenty years."
Morgan's voice was flat.
"That's what the Picketts are doing. They are not Britain's 'enemy,' they are the last guardians of this island."
Arthur remained silent for a long time.
The candlelight flickered across the miniature landscape of Britain's mountains and rivers, while Vortigern's heart beat slowly three hundred feet underground.
With each jump, the gray-white patterns spread outwards in a ring.
Arthur remained silent for a long time.
"I will not choose the path of sacrifice," he said.
Morgan nodded; she had expected him to say that.
"I will not choose the path of sealing."
Morgan nodded again.
"Then only..."
"Kill him," Arthur continued her words.
"It's not about sealing him away, it's not about appeasing him, it's about completely annihilating him."
A complex light flashed in Morgan's eyes.
"Do you know what Vortigern represents?"
"When the will of Britain itself mysteriously vanished, the island's final resistance against Vortigern was an enmity against the entire mystical side of Britain."
"So how are you going to win?"
Arthur placed his hand on the hilt of the sword in the stone, then released it, and placed it on the hilt of the sword in the lake.
"If one sword isn't enough, use two. If you can't beat them head-on, attack from the side. One person can't win..."
He looked towards the doorway.
"Take the people who can win with you."
Morgan's gaze fell on the two swords at his waist, one the Sword of the Chosen King, the other a holy sword forged by the spirits of the lake.
Two pure swords, waiting to be held in one's hand to slay the enemy.
"The Holy Sword is your advantage," Morgan said.
"That's also our only advantage," Arthur chimed in.
"You know that much." Morgan's fingers traced across the miniature Britain.
"Vortigern is the will of the island. You are the red dragon, he is the white dragon, and you are two branches that grew from the same tree."
The dragon's furnace within you, the red dragon's power in your blood, the forty-odd dragon power channels deep within your marrow—he has a 'mirror image' of all of these.
Her finger touched the pure black kernel of Vortigern.
"The closer you get to him, the stronger the resonance between you will be."
The gray fog can seep into your dragon power channels because your dragon power and his gray fog are essentially derived from the same source.
The chill within Arthur's body trembled violently.
"You felt it," Morgan said.
"Your red dragon power is responding to his white dragon power; they are resonating, like two strings tuned to the same frequency. When one is plucked, the other will also sound."
She walked up to Arthur, her icy blue eyes staring straight at him.
"The pure black mark inside your body was rubbed off from his core."
When you used your dragon power to trace back the gray fog passage, your red dragon power recognized his white dragon power.
I recognized it, and then I remembered it.
Arthur placed his hand on his chest, the four beats of the Dragon's Heart remained steady as usual.
That trace of coldness and that spot of pure blackness floated quietly in the depths of the Dragon Power River, like a pair of meshing gears.
"The resonance will get stronger and stronger," Morgan said.
"You are still a day away from him, and the resonance is strong enough that you can see the flow rate of the gray fog."
When you stand before him, when you draw the holy sword, the resonance will reach its peak.
At that point, it won't just be a question of whether you want to kill him or not; it will be whether you can distinguish between yourself and him.
Arthur remained silent for a moment.
What happens if you can't tell the difference?
"I can't tell. When your sword strikes, you're not just severing his karma, but also your own."
The throne room remained quiet for a long time.
The candlelight flickered on Morgan's thorn crown, and her face was even paler than before, like a thin layer of ice covering ivory.
"So you're not allowed to die," she said.
The voice was very soft, but every word seemed to be carved out of bone.
"If you die, the Round Table will be gone; if the Round Table is gone, Camelot will be gone; if Camelot is gone, Britain will be gone; Britain will be gone..."
"You're still here," Arthur said.
Morgan's fingers trembled slightly.
"You are the true inheritor of the island's power," Arthur said, looking at her.
"After Father, you are the only one who can sense the ley lines of the entire island."
Vortigern is dead, the Age of Gods has ended, the mystery of Britain has completely faded, but you will still be here.
You will no longer be "Morgan the Witch", but simply "Morgan LeFey".
A living person who can laugh, cry, and get angry.
He reached out his hand very gently, as if afraid of disturbing something.
His fingertips touched Morgan's clenched fist, and he pried her fingers open one by one.
My palms were icy cold, with a crescent-shaped nail mark deeply embedded in my flesh.
"You said you've dreamt many times of the red dragon dying in the burning Camelot, and every time you wake up, you tell yourself it's just a dream," Arthur said softly.
"This time it won't be a dream. This time I'm here. I won't die. I'll come back."
Morgan's eyes reddened.
She didn't cry, but a very faint red tinge appeared on the edges of her eyelids, like water about to melt beneath the ice.
"You said it."
"I said it."
Arthur released her hand and turned to walk towards the door.
"Votinggen, give me the round table..."
He pushed open the door.
Kay, Gawain, Tristan, Lancelot, Bedivere.
Five people were standing in the corridor.
Kay leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, Gawain crossed his arms, Tristan held a harp in his arms, Lancelot's sword was already three inches out of its sheath, and Bedivere's silver prosthetic arm was draped at his waist.
At the end of the corridor behind them, the Northern Lord sat against the wall, clutching a half-eaten piece of dry bread.
"The Round Table Room can't wait any longer," Kay said. "We'll come and wait here."
Arthur looked at them.
Kay was getting impatient, Gawain was waiting patiently, Tristan was like listening to an unfinished song, Lancelot was like a sword ready to be drawn, and Bedivere was like a book yet to be opened.
"Did you hear everything?" Arthur asked.
Kai shrugged. "The door panel isn't thick."
Gao Wen nodded.
Tristan played a single note.
Lancelot sheathed his sword.
Bedwell used his silver prosthetic arm to push up his non-existent glasses.
Arthur took a deep breath.
"Let's go then."