Morgan pressed a hand against her waist. Though the bleeding from the dagger wound had stopped and the surface had begun to heal, the pain still throbbed—sharp and unforgettable. And worse, the maddening voice inside her mind continued its relentless torment.
This can't go on.
Gritting her teeth, Morgan's cold eyes narrowed in thought. The curse clawing at her soul was making it impossible to think clearly. She needed a solution—something drastic. Otherwise, what difference was there between this and death?
I don't want to do this... but there's no choice. I need to suppress it. Just temporarily.
She cast a healing spell on her abdomen to accelerate recovery. Once she was sure the wound was no longer life-threatening, she placed a hand on her forehead. This next step was critical: she would create a simulated personality—a shell to operate in her place—while her true self retreated deep into the recesses of her soul.
If left undisturbed—free from stimulation or mortal peril—her core self could gradually erode the curse's influence. It would take time, but even a day or two in this state would be far more effective than battling the curse head-on while conscious.
She hadn't reached this decision lightly. Her situation was precarious, yes, but she wasn't in immediate danger. After all, she'd been rescued, hadn't she? Whoever had saved her clearly didn't mean her harm.
And that boy... Whatever his intentions, I'm alive. That's enough for now.
Besides, the simulated personality wouldn't render her powerless. If anything, without her true self's pain and anguish clouding her judgment, it might allow her to function with greater clarity—and greater strength.
I'll let this… "Aslan" protect me for now. Better him than leaving a personality shell to fend for itself.
She activated a magic circle over her head, its glowing runes dancing like a programmer's code. Fairy script spun rapidly, and before long, the simulated personality began to take shape. It was her, yet not her—an automaton molded in her image, forged without the weight of shadow or self.
The light in her eyes dimmed. What once shimmered with complexity—melancholy, suspicion, resolve—was now cold and flat, like a doll crafted too well.
"Ah, you're awake?" Melusine stepped into the carriage, balancing a tray of breakfast. Her steps slowed as she saw the woman in black seated stiffly inside. Long light-golden hair draped over her shoulders. Her gaze was vacant, cold, like porcelain behind glass.
Melusine's brows furrowed. Something's different.
She said nothing at first but turned with a sour tone toward Aslan, who was roasting meat outside the carriage. "Aslan, the woman you rescued is awake."
Aslan sighed and put down the skewer. "Don't get the wrong idea. We're relatives—of a sort. And whether I get the chance to study magic properly, or transform you sooner, depends entirely on her mood."
In truth, Morgan hadn't been his first choice for a teacher. In the history known to mankind, she was not exactly what one might call open-minded. She was infamous for her cunning schemes. Eventually, she would become a central figure in the legend of King Arthur.
And the more involved you became with people like that, the closer you danced to the edge of fate.
Aslan had no desire to entangle himself in Arthurian legend. The timeline was tight—barely over a decade. He had a much longer view. Once the legend played out, then he could rise to fame, stretch his influence across the island, and perhaps even the continent.
In the Age of Gods' aftermath, my rise should symbolize mankind's own path forward. As long as he didn't spread his knowledge recklessly or accelerate the world's development too fast, time and nature would do the rest.
But now…
Morgan had nearly died. If not for a hunch, for a sudden, unshakable intuition, he wouldn't have made it in time. Her death would have set the world veering off-course, beyond his ability to correct.
Her survival changed things.
He had to admit it—Morgan was powerful. She had, after all, created Mordred—a fully formed artificial being with a soul and will of its own. Her magical knowledge was unparalleled.
And now, because he had saved her, he was probably marked as an enemy by the very magicians who had tried to kill her.
If that's the case, then clinging to Morgan is not just strategy—it's survival. He had saved her. Surely, she owed him enough to teach him something.
He returned to the carriage.
"You're awake," he said. "How are you feeling?"
Morgan looked up. The simulated personality parsed the question, sifted through its parameters, and then responded as directly and unceremoniously as its programming allowed:
"Uther's bastard. I don't like owing people favors. If there's something you want, ask. But I suggest you not insult my patience."
Aslan blinked, stunned.
Wait… who's Uther's bastard? Me?! When did I change my father?