Chapter 306: What Are You Doing?

Months later, in Camelot Royal City, inside an unremarkable tavern.

The scent of ale mingled with smoke drifted through the noisy air.

Yet if one listens closely, the conversations are hushed, bearing an inescapable heaviness.

"It's been almost four months... still no news at all?" a farmer in a worn leather coat gulped a large mouthful of ale and asked in a low voice.

Opposite him, a scarred‑cheeked veteran shook his head, his rough fingers idly tracing the wood grain of the table: "None."

"The king vanished as if evaporated from the Human World, and even Merlin Master disappeared without a trace."

"Sigh..." a middle‑aged man dressed as a merchant sighed in the corner; his voice was soft, yet it quieted the nearby tables.

"Who could have imagined? That's Arthur King... who led us to countless victories, drove away countless monsters, and fed us all... could actually..."

He didn't utter the word "failure," but everyone present understood. The earth‑shaking battle against King Perinor of Raisenor had already spread through the kingdom like a winged rumor.

The invincible, radiant young sage‑king they revered had been defeated, and catastrophically so— even the Stone Sword, symbol of Destiny, was shattered!

"Defeat is defeat!" a young blacksmith apprentice raised his voice, a resentful flush on his face: "How old is the king? He's about the same age as my older brother! Who can go a lifetime without stumbling?"

"How many years has Perinor been famous for??!!"

"Next time, next time the king will surely win back! I believe in him!"

His words resonated with many.

"Exactly! One failure is nothing!"

"The king is still so young; the road ahead is long!"

"Right! We'll wait for the king to return!"

Among the crowd's voices there was no blame, only concern and earnest hope.

They revere Arthur not only for his martial prowess and achievements, but also for his sincere deeds for the people.

To them, Arthur is like a young son or brother of their own— occasionally erring, yet unquestionably excellent and responsible.

They are eager to find him, not to interrogate but to tell him: it's okay, just one failure; we still trust you, and we'll wait for you to lead us onward.

But they cannot find Arthur!

That is the most unsettling!

"But... where exactly is the king?" the old farmer gulped another drink, his clouded eyes full of worry: "The kingdom cannot lose a wise king..."

The atmosphere grew heavy again.

The veteran lowered his voice, wary: "The queen, Duke Bosite, and the elders of the Round Table Knights are still trying to hold things together; the market seems relatively calm... but think about it, those adults who already harbored ulterior motives were kept in check by the king and Merlin Master, and now..."

He said no more, but everyone shivered.

The queen mentioned is, of course, Guinevere, daughter of King Liao De Kuan.

A few days earlier, Guinevere became Arthur's queen through a political marriage, bringing the Round Table that symbolizes knight spirit.

Thanks to her, the Round Table Knights still have minor disputes, but overall can set aside personal grudges and carry out her orders.

Yet Arthur's rule and Merlin's unfathomable power are the sea‑stabilizing needles that deter all miscreants.

Now both needles have vanished; a short absence is tolerable, but if Arthur remains missing for long, the suppressed ambitious ones will inevitably stir.

By then, the hard‑won peace and prosperity may...

"King... where exactly are you?" the merchant muttered, staring at the gloomy sky outside.

This is not only the question of a few tavern patrons, but the deep‑seated confusion and outcry of the entire KaMeiLuo Kingdom, from nobles to commoners.

The kingdom's future seems, along with the vanished ruler, shrouded in dense fog.

But they do not know.

In the tavern's darkest corner, the figure curled on a bench, reeking of cheap sour ale, hair greasy and matted, beard tangled, face half‑hidden by a veil— the "drunkard" they have been longing for— is their king, Arthur Pandragong.

He kept his eyes tightly shut, as if dead drunk, his breath so faint it was barely audible.

Yet those worries, support, even tear‑tinged remarks— "We believe in you," "We'll wait for you"— pierced his numb ears like red‑hot needles, stabbing his riddled heart.

Each hopeful word added weight to the invisible shackles on his shoulders; each trust became a flame scorching his soul.

He could only force himself to "hear nothing."

He shut off all senses, drowning in the brief haze of alcohol and self‑exile.

He feared; feared drawing his sword again; feared standing before an opponent again; feared the nightmare‑like repeat that could shatter all his belief and pride— failure.

Time passed amid the tavern's clamor and stillness.

Night fell, and the earlier patrons returned home, each bearing worry.

New drinkers shouted and shoved into the tavern; seeing the mud‑like figure blocking the aisle, they all turned away with disgust, muttering unclean curses:

"Ugh! That damned drunk, how many days has he been lying here? Why hasn't anyone thrown him out?"

"What a nuisance, he reeks!"

"Hey, can't we get rid of this guy?"

Arthur turned a deaf ear to the harsh insults and contempt, or rather, he had already isolated himself from this world.

His body's filth and the surrounding revulsion seemed to become armor for self‑punishment and escape.

Until... sometime, the tavern's clamor seemed cut off by an unseen force.

A figure silently appeared before him, blocking the faint moonlight seeping through the window.

The newcomer emitted no strong aura, nor startled anyone in the tavern.

He simply stood there, head bowed, gazing at the wretched, abandoned shell on the bench.

Then a calm voice rose gently:

"Arthur,"

"What are you doing?"

Arthur snapped his head up, meeting the other's gaze, his tone trembling:

Elder, teacher, I........... failed.