Chapter 68: Mordred (cont.)

She knew this person. She could never forget her.

Artoria.

Artoria, still a young girl, reached out with her right hand, gripped the hilt, and took a deep breath.

Just then—

"I mean you no harm, so don't do it.

Once you take up that sword, you will no longer be human until the very end. Not only that, once you take it up, all mankind will despise you until your death."

Mordred's pupils contracted slightly as he stared ahead in horror.

The scene before him began to distort.

The magician's words became an image, and Mordred saw that scene with his own eyes.

It was a prophecy.

Once she took up the sword, no matter how she struggled, she would only leave in loneliness and misery.

The magician had already foreseen it.

Mordred had foreseen it as well. He saw all of Artoria's efforts ultimately come to nothing, and the one who brought all of Artoria's efforts to an end was none other than him.

"No."

The fear on the young girl's face soon faded, replaced by determination.

The people of Britain had struggled desperately through the dark ages for far too long. They were all awaiting the king foretold by the magician, and that king could only be her.

"Are you sure about this?" the magician asked.

Her golden, sand-like hair drifted in the wind as she nodded.

Mordred instinctively shook his head, wanting to stop her.

He had seen it too—the miserable sight of Artoria struggling again and again, only for all her efforts to be shattered by him in the end.

He did not want to draw the sword, and he wanted even less for Artoria to draw it.

Even in the countryside, many boys would have regarded her as the girl of their dreams. Even