Chapter 311: Witch Morgan

"Arthur, where is your sword sheath?"

Yu Lin's gaze passed over Arthur and fell on the King's Sword, suspended nearby, its brilliance flowing yet lacking a sword sheath.

Arthur heard this, and a heavy shame and self‑reproach immediately flashed across his face; he lowered his head, his voice carrying a trace of unspeakable difficulty:

"Teacher... it was, it was stolen by my sister Morgan... she used a trick to take it."

"It was my negligence, I failed to guard it..."

Yu Lin showed no surprise on his face, merely nodding calmly:

"Hmm, I understand."

Then, under Arthur's astonished and bewildered stare, Yu Lin, as if performing a trick, flicked his wrist, and the sword sheath—supposed to have been stolen by Morgan and said to protect its wearer from harm—suddenly appeared in his hand!

He handed the sword sheath to Arthur:

"This time, you must keep it yourself."

He paused, watching Arthur take the sheath, and added:

"I look forward... to seeing a different outcome."

After speaking, he lightly patted Arthur's shoulder; his figure, like a reflection on water, began to fade slowly, eventually vanishing completely from the air as if he had never been there.

Arthur held the recovered sword sheath, feeling its familiar warm aura, and a wave of warmth rose in his heart.

He recalled the recent imperial edict from Rome's Emperor Lucius, arrogantly demanding tribute from Britain, and his own secret discussions with the core Round Table Knights about the forthcoming expedition to Rome, and naturally thought.

He believed the teacher's act foresaw the perils of the expedition, deliberately returning this life‑saving holy relic to him to help repel strong foes.

"Teacher..." Arthur felt deeply moved, gripping the sheath tightly, and silently vowed:

"Rest assured, I will never disappoint you! I shall return with a great victory!"

He took a deep breath, suppressing the surging emotions, turned and sat back on the throne, ready to continue handling the mountain of state affairs and make the final preparations for the expedition.

However, this time he still did not warm the seat—

Clomp clomp clomp!

A rapid, forceful footstep echoed from outside the Great Hall, breaking the brief silence.

A sturdy‑faced, steady‑eyed middle‑aged courtier hurried in, approached the throne, bowed, and reported in a voice only the two of them could hear:

"Sire, Morgan... she has given birth to a child."

Upon hearing this, Arthur's eyes, which had been slightly calm from the sheath's return, instantly sharpened like a drawn sword! A cold glint flashed from the depths of his gaze.

He suddenly recalled the prophecy Merlin had solemnly told him before his disappearance—

"Morgan's first child will cast a shadow of destruction over Britain..."

That curse‑like prophecy now thundered in his mind like a sudden lightning strike!

Arthur's voice dropped to a terrifying depth, carrying a barely perceptible murderous intent:

"What... is his name?"

The courtier sensed the king's icy aura, bowed his head even lower, and answered cautiously:

"He has no name yet... moreover, the child was just born and was sent away by Lady Morgan's men, whereabouts unknown."

"Sent away... whereabouts unknown?"

Arthur heard this and was taken aback.

The cold thought that had just risen in his heart—to snuff out this potential threat to the kingdom in its cradle—suddenly dissipated by half upon hearing of its being "sent away".

Because it reminded him of himself.

Back then, wasn't he the same? At a naive, unknown age, he was taken away from his birth mother Igraine, raised in anonymity in a strange environment...

A complex, empathetic emotion quietly diluted that pure murderous intent.

To strike a newborn child who, like him, was forced to leave its mother... he ultimately could not be so decisive.

He fell silent for a moment, the sharpness in his eyes gradually giving way to a heavy helplessness, and finally spoke:

"Since we can't find... then let it be."

He paused, then added a relatively gentle order: "Send people to discreetly investigate recently born, unknown‑origin infants; no need for a major campaign."

The courtier, hearing this decision, moved his lips as if to speak, reminding Arthur to consider the prophecy and the necessity of "Eternal Elimination of Future Trouble".

But when he looked up and saw Arthur had lowered his head again, returning his attention to the paperwork on the desk, with a determined, unwilling-to-discuss expression, he forced the words at his lips back down.

"Enough," the courtier thought inwardly, "Since the king has already decided, I shall obey."

He said no more, bowed respectfully, turned quietly, and exited the Great Hall.

Night fell on the outskirts of the Royal Capital.

A delicately elegant castle stood silently beneath the moonlight.

Occasionally, late‑returning pedestrians passed by, only glancing briefly before instinctively quickening their steps away, their eyes bearing a hint of awe and distance, as if some ominous thing dwelled within the beautiful structure.

In fact, no clawed monsters inhabited the castle, but it did house a figure who unsettled ordinary people—Morgan Pandragon.

At this moment, deep within the castle, a brightly lit laboratory saw Morgan concentrating on the work at hand.

She wore a deep‑purple gown, her long hair loosely draped, her expression focused.

As an exceptionally gifted witch, her mastery of Magic and alchemy was in no way inferior to any orthodox Dharma Master.

On the experimental table before her lay various crystal vessels, dried Exotic Herbs, and some mineral powder shimmering with an ominous glow.

Witches, because of those black witchcraft practices—created by unknown hands or sourced from evil lands, harming other beings to strengthen themselves—and the historical fact that many witches have abused such powers, have seen their reputation plunge to the bottom, almost to the point of being universally reviled.

Morgan's relatively stable residence here was largely thanks to her Pandragon bloodline.

Moreover, she kept a low profile and committed no shocking misdeeds within Camelot, so the populace barely tolerated her presence.

Of course, such acceptance was extremely fragile.

If the people learned she had orchestrated many of Arthur's affairs... even with Bloodline Protection, the angry crowd would likely still raise torches.

"Ding"—a light sound—Morgan carefully sealed a crystal bottle containing a pale blue liquid with a stopper and placed it on the shelf.

She completed tonight's potion preparation.

After doing all that, she finally lifted her eyes, her gaze turning to the other side of the room.

There, in a comfortable armchair near the fireplace, sat a man.

He sat relaxed, as if at home, casually leafing through a black‑covered volume that clearly recorded the Witch Secret Technique, seeming quite interested.

Morgan watched him, her face showing no surprise, as if she had already known of his arrival.

Her clear voice rang in the quiet laboratory, carrying a hint of inquiry and confirmation:

"You are... Arthur's teacher?"