The Morning of Selection

"Come on, let's go. Hurry up."

"Move. Don't block the way."

"..."

Tch, what the hell was all that noise?

The clamor of voices filtered into the room, forcing the white-haired boy to open his eyes.

The cold Christmas wind slipped through a gap in the window and crept into his blankets at his neck.

The boy lay dazed for two seconds, then sat up and stuffed a strip of cloth into the gap.

He patted his cheeks to wake himself up a little.

Sovell tied his white hair into a ponytail and tucked it behind his head. That way, the hood of the White Robe could conceal as much of his unusual hair color as possible.

After washing up, Sovell bought three slices of bread and a cup of juice downstairs, giving one slice to Barghest.

Once the bartender had checked the room and its furnishings for damage, Sovell retrieved his deposit and left the tavern.

Out on the street, the only fitting description was probably a sea of people and traffic.

Hawkers' cries, conversations, horses neighing, and shouted curses... had something strange slipped into that list?

Whatever. No harm done.

It was Christmas, after all. Even if this town was not particularly large, there were bound to be preparations for a celebration.

Besides, to many people, this was the sacred place where they would witness the arrival of the New King from Merlin's prophecy, so the enormous crowds were hardly surprising.

Summoning the silver armor Merlin had given him, Sovell headed toward the training ground.

Along the way, plenty of people struck up conversations with him, and he learned what had happened the day before-or rather, what had been bound to happen:

Not a single knight or lord had drawn the Sword of Selection. They had not even managed to budge it.

A few particularly strong knights had even lifted the sword and stone together, but the sword simply would not come out.

It had left most people thoroughly dejected.

Of course, the people arriving today all looked radiant, their faces brimming with hopeful smiles.

But faced with that utterly immovable blade, the corners of their mouths, high enough to rival the sun, would soon plummet all the way to Tartarus.

Apparently, someone the day before had suspected the stone was the problem and decided to try smashing it with a hammer.

There had been nothing wrong with the stone-it had indeed shattered. But just before the man could take the sword, Merlin appeared and snatched it away.

He planted it in another square stone, where the sword remained just as immovable, then barred the man from any further attempts to draw it.

That made sense. After all, the rule was:

"Whosoever draws this sword from the stone is the born and destined king of Britain."

Not "whosoever causes this sword to leave the stone."

Sovell laughed without restraint when he heard that part.

That amusement-seeking Merlin must have been sitting in Avalon, enjoying the spectacle of all those knights failing to draw the sword, only to run into a genius who wanted to smash the stone.

Merlin had probably raced out of Avalon even faster than he had come to rescue Sovell.

After the previous challenger failed to draw the sword and left, Sovell stepped up to the Sword of Selection and its square stone, then took hold of the hilt.

Hmm... it didn't feel all that good. The hilt was a little thin for someone used to wielding Rhongomyniad.

He pulled upward.

The sword did not budge.

Sovell smiled. Then he found a tall oak and climbed it. The tree had lost nearly all its leaves, leaving him with an excellent view.

On one side was the Sword of Selection in its square stone; on the other was the field where the knights were holding their Lance contest.

Since no one had drawn the sword during the previous day's ceremony,

many pessimists had decided the country was beyond hope and left.

Lords, knights, and even commoners.

Thousands had tried, and without exception, the blade had not moved at all. It was hardly surprising that they had been so crushed.

Others questioned whether Merlin's prophecy was correct, believing that the country's hopes of salvation could not all rest on a single sword.

Even if it was correct, they could not simply sit and wait for doom!

So they decided to hold a Lance tournament, choosing a leader for the knights through an old-fashioned contest on horseback.

Sovell had to admit that, in his eyes, they were brave souls, daring to "defy" the Sword of Selection, which represented royal authority and mystery, and Merlin behind it.

After eight years of teaching and companionship, Sovell knew better than anyone how powerful Merlin was.

The world's only user of flower magecraft, he could wield nearly every mystery within that branch of magecraft.

The son of an incubus, one of the greatest magecraft prodigies in Human History, with hundreds of magic circuits and unique abilities to create illusions and render magical energy harmless.

And that was only a small portion of his magecraft abilities, not even counting other disciplines such as alchemy, medicine, and martial arts.

Of course, powerful as Merlin was, he would not stop their contest. Doing so would be pointless.

Because the person who could draw the Sword of Selection had already arrived.

Regret, distress, sorrow, anguish...

Those were the expressions Artoria had seen on Sir Ector's face over the past few days, right up until last night.

Last night, there had been her worry for Sovell, along with anticipation for the Sword of Selection-or perhaps hesitation.

In short, she had not slept well, so naturally, Artoria overslept that morning.

But from the moment she saw her foster father that morning, Artoria could clearly sense that something in his eyes had changed.

His usual firmness and composure, along with the anguish and sorrow of the past few days, had softened.

They had become something like the tenderness and reluctance of parting with something dearly loved.

It had been the same when she practiced swordsmanship with him after breakfast.

"Ector, if something's troubling you, please tell me. I can do anything except eat less. Is it your back after all?"

She had asked Ector that two days earlier.

Ector had been King Uther's closest friend during his lifetime, campaigning at his side far and wide.

He had played a part in reclaiming the throne usurped by the false king Vortigern, driving out foreign peoples, and conquering Ireland.

But those many battles had also left Ector with a permanent back injury, making him unable to fight on horseback any longer.

King Uther had therefore granted him an official post and a title, but Ector, who preferred peace and solitude, politely declined the post and chose to spend the rest of his days here.

Naturally, that same trust in his old friend had led King Uther to order Merlin to entrust Artoria to Ector when she was five.

"Hmm, you're overthinking things. I'll still be fit and healthy ten years from now.

But Lady Artoria, with that proposal of yours, you can hardly claim you'll do anything."

That had been Ector's reply at the time.

Today, the Old Knight picked up the wooden swords and shields as naturally as ever, keeping one set for himself and handing the other to the girl before him.

He gave it his all as always, his blows just as heavy and powerful, just as merciless.

Yet his eyes were no longer like a keen sword's edge, but like a gentle, warm spring breeze.

Indeed, in the eyes of this old knight, so utterly loyal to his country and king, Artoria had long since become more than the nation's heir and the incarnation of the Red Dragon.

She was also the daughter he had raised for ten full years, even if Ector would never allow Artoria to call him...

Father.

"Artoria, Kay seems to have forgotten something. You can still catch him if you leave now. Go into town and take it to him."