"What a strange world."

  In Camelot's palace, an old man stood beneath King Arthur's throne, clad in a loose, light - blue robe that hugged his form.

  The passage of years had etched deep lines across his face; his wrinkled skin resembled dry, cracked tree bark.

  Grizzled hair protruded from the dark - brown turban wrapped around his forehead, framing a long, hooked nose and a handlebar mustache.

  Yet, age had not dimmed his eyes. Instead, they sparkled with a blend of the wisdom that comes with time and the clarity of youth.

  Indeed, three generations of British kings—Aurelius, Uther, and now Arthur—had heeded his counsel, regarding him as their most trusted advisor.

  "Yes, Merlin," the girl said, sitting upright on the throne.

  When facing this man, who was over a hundred years old, she saw more than just an advisor. Merlin was her mentor, her prophet, and her closest friend.

  Merlin had been aiding the girl even before she ascended to the throne. After she became king, he provided countless important suggestions and used his magic to assist her in battles.

  Time and again, the elderly magician had repaired damaged city walls during wars and repelled soldiers who tried to scale them and attack the young king.

  Once, King Arthur dueled with King Pelinore. Pelinore had repeatedly refused sword combat, insisting on using lances instead.

  In the first two lance duels, the two were evenly matched, but in the third, Arthur was defeated. When the determined girl drew the Sword in the Stone she carried, it broke.

  Thanks to Merlin's intervention, she escaped danger and obtained the Holy Sword Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake.

  "We know so little. But at least we can be certain that people from another world won't be interested in our kingdom and land. The threat of the Anglo - Saxons remains our top priority," Merlin said in a low voice, his words gradually grew faint，until the girl could no longer hear them.

  The magician often lapsed into deep thought, whether alone or in the presence of the King of Camelot.

  The girl didn't mind; she simply waited patiently. After a few minutes, Merlin snapped out of his reverie.

  "Oh, Your Majesty, my apologies. Where were we?"

  "I returned to Camelot with the help of a magician from that world," the girl replied.

  "Ah, yes, the magician, and the... Watcher who protected you on the journey?" Merlin struggled to pronounce the unfamiliar term.

  As the offspring of an incubus and a mortal woman, while Merlin had a longer lifespan than most, time was still taking a toll on his health.

  Even magic couldn't halt the aging process, as evidenced by his difficulty with certain words.

  "What an odd name. The people from other worlds must have very different views from ours..."

  "It's Witcher," the girl corrected him firmly. Then, her voice filled with worry, she said, "He told me that creatures called the Wild Hunt have entered Britain. They caused the snowstorm half a month ago. I'm afraid they haven't left the British Isles yet."

  The girl had witnessed numerous monsters and the anonymous corpses of those who had fallen prey to them alongside Zelin.

  She dreaded the thought of such creatures ravaging Britain.

  "Anything that can cause a snowstorm is a grave threat," Merlin shook his head.

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  He understood all too well how supernatural forces could devastate an ordinary kingdom.

  A sudden snowstorm during the harvest season could leave the grain fields barren, making it nearly impossible for Camelot to withstand an Anglo - Saxon invasion.

  Nobles dissatisfied with Altria's rule in certain regions might even seize the opportunity to rebel.

  When facing rebellions and foreign enemies, the girl would lead her knights into battle.

  But she often failed to realize that building a country was far more challenging than winning wars.

  "My king, now that you're back, I'll return to Wales for a while to study the information you've brought. Also, I suggest you consult that Witcher about..."

  "The Wild Hunt."

  "Yes, the Wild Hunt," Merlin coughed a few times to clear his throat.

  "He surely knows more about them than this old man. After I confer with Vivian, perhaps we'll uncover something valuable. My king, what's your impression of the Witcher?"

  "He is a knight, in spirit if not in title. His actions more than earn him that honor," the girl said, reminiscing about her days with Zelin. "I consider it a privilege to have met him."

  "If he's a knight, Your Majesty, you should reward him for his assistance," Merlin adjusted his turban.

  He had long hoped to teach the girl to live more like an ordinary person.

  Since she'd drawn the Sword in the Stone, she'd become the epitome of a perfect king, but in the process, she'd distanced herself from her humanity.

  People were willing to follow a king, but when that king was seen as a saint, only the most devout knights would follow unwaveringly.

  In this regard, the girl's father, King Uther, had been more adept. He knew when and how to reward his nobles and knights, as well as when to punish or forgive.

  Unfortunately, in the girl's worldview, there were only black and white.

  "Yes, I should. You once said a king should never overlook the kindness of others," the girl nodded.

  Her eyes lit up as she began to ponder what reward to give Zelin. As she thought, the tuft of hair on top of her head spun like a top.

  Gold would surely not impress Zelin, and conferring a knighthood was out of the question; he was not the type to be bound in service to a king, even one as remarkable as Altria.

  But what else could be a worthy reward?

  After a few minutes, she clenched her left fist and struck her right palm. The spinning tuft of hair came to an abrupt stop.

  "I've got it! I'll throw him a feast! A grand banquet is sure to please Zelin. I'll need to prepare plenty of food, wine, and meat."

  Altria was clearly lost in the vision of the banquet. Merlin beside her shook his head in resignation; only she could be so excited about a simple feast.

  Unaware of Merlin's reaction, the girl began counting off the dishes on her fingers.

  "Roasted bear meat with a sprinkle of salt, roasted sardines. It's finally time to bring out the fine wine from the cellar."

  " Guinevere won't have any grounds to object this time. It'll be an intimate banquet just for me and Zelin, so we won't have to worry about others eating all the food. "

  "Oh, and I can't forget the main course! Since the fishing season is almost here, I'll serve 'Stargazy Pie'! Merlin, what do you think?"

  "…As long as you're happy, Your Majesty."

  At that moment, Zelin, strolling down the street with Bedivere, suddenly sneezed.

  A chill seemed to emanate from the direction of the castle, making him shiver. He rubbed his nose.

  "The coastal wind is brutal. I should probably add an extra layer," Zelin said.

  Meeting Bedivere's curious gaze, Zelin brought the conversation back to their previous topic.

  "Knight Bedivere, you mentioned some rumors about the king. What were they?"

  After Zelin won their duel, Bedivere was finally willing to share some information about the girl. Zelin was surprised that as a knight, Bedivere took an interest in common gossip.

  Zelin had seen nobles either dismiss rumors with a laugh or lash out at those who repeated them. But he knew that rumors often reflected what the people truly thought of their nobles and king.

  There were things they dared not say openly but couldn't keep to themselves, so they spread as whispers in taverns and alleys.

  "It's been over ten years. Since my king drew the Sword in the Stone as a teenager, she hasn't aged a day. It defies common sense. "

  "During the war, people believed she was sent by heaven to save Britain. But after the war, rumors started circulating in Camelot that she's actually a demon in disguise."

  When speaking of the rumor - mongers, Bedivere's face showed not anger but concern.

  "Some of those rumors hold a grain of truth. Ten years have passed, and the king has become... more of a symbol, just a figurehead, or rather, an entity named the king who wields the Holy Sword, not... a human. "

  "I know it's bold of me to say, but she shouldn't be like this. I wish she could have a life of her own, instead of..." Bedivere bit his lip, unable to finish.

  "Instead of becoming a symbol of Britain, to be either worshipped like a god or torn down?" Zelin finished for him.

  He had no such qualms about speaking his mind. In the distance, seabirds cried out from the riverbank port.

  The setting sun cast its final rays over Camelot. Farmers, done with their day's work outside the city, made their way back to town.

  Everything seemed so orderly, but it all rested on the girl's invincible prestige and strength. If the country lost her, it would be like a mighty building losing its foundation, destined to crumble.

  Strength attracts admiration, but it also breeds jealousy and suspicion, which can eventually turn into fear and hatred.

  Zelin knew this all too well.