"Huh?"
A look of confusion flashed across Artoria's face, soon replaced by an expression of dismay.
"Your Majesty the Queen, though I wish to obey your command... I already devote approximately nine hours daily to swordsmanship training. Doubling that would require eighteen hours of practice each day."
Eighteen hours—that would leave only six hours in a day.
As a knight, proper rest was essential.
That would leave no time for meals.
"I intend to deprive you of mealtime," thought the wicked Morgan.
Otherwise, my Knights of the Round Table would become the Knights of the Dining Table.
Morgan looked at Artoria and spoke solemnly: "Artoria, our enemies are not mere ordinary soldiers. We may face the savage Vortigern, the Tyrant King, or even the Romans from across the sea. It's entirely possible we'll encounter fantastical creatures you've never seen before. Under such circumstances, you must train with even greater diligence."
"...Yes, Your Majesty is correct."
Artoria nodded in agreement.
Yet, in her heart, she thought with grievance:
I still want to find time to eat!
"Therefore, to further your growth, you must redouble your efforts starting now."
Without giving Artoria a chance to rebut, Morgan promptly left.
Nearby, Kay observed Morgan's behavior and remarked, stroking his chin: "It seems Her Majesty Morgan holds some grievance against you?"
"What?" Artoria panicked. "Her Majesty... dislikes me?"
"No, not dislike," Kay replied. "But it appears you eat... excessively."
"Only a little..."
"'A little'..."
"Your definition of 'a little' is comparable to an entire squad of soldiers."
Kay spoke flatly.
"As a knight, replenishing nutrients is perfectly normal."
Artoria answered earnestly.
"..."
Fine. It's not my responsibility to feed her anyway.
...
From then on, Artoria's days of hardship began.
Sword training—relentless sword training.
Since she had acquiesced to Morgan's demand—however it had happened—and failed to refuse, she had no choice but to comply.
Swinging her sword aboard the ship, over ten hours daily.
The remaining time was spent desperately catching up on rest.
Morgan sought to curb her obsession with eating.
Alas, she had no idea just how far one would go for the sake of food.
Now, Artoria had mastered the art of sleeping with her eyes closed while simultaneously eating.
The entire crew watched in stunned silence.
You can do that?!
Even Morgan was left speechless.
At this point, she could only concede defeat.
Fine. You win. I can't compete with this.
Eat if you must.
As long as you train seriously, that's enough.
If you can become a proper knight and aid me against that sister of mine—wherever she may be—then so be it.
I give up on fixing you.
Morgan felt deeply wounded.
And so, she resolved to focus on another matter aboard the ship—
Studying those damned lemons.
Lot's idea had proven remarkably effective.
From what she gathered from the crew, incidents of scurvy, bad breath, and infected wounds had drastically decreased.
Non-combat casualties were minimal.
The sailors found this utterly baffling.
And thus, they expressed profound admiration for King Lot's brilliance.
As a result, Morgan decided to investigate further.
...
Yet after days of research, Morgan still reached no conclusion.
I've dissected these lemons down to the smallest components I can manage... so where is this "vitamin" hidden?
Can they be broken down further?
Pondering this, Morgan resolved to seek Lot for answers.
But just as she went to find him—
She spotted Lot standing by the ship's edge, gazing toward the distant shoreline.
Huh? Wait—
Shoreline?
They had been sailing across open waters until now. But if land was in sight—
Have we arrived?
"Lot, have we reached the Tyrant King's territory?"
Morgan asked Lot.
"Yes," Lot confirmed with a nod.
"Now, we must prepare for battle."
His tone was grave.
[The coming battle... will not be so simple.]
Morgan nodded silently in agreement.
In this era of Britain, the strongest force was not King Uther.
Nor was it Lot, who had been biding his time to develop his technological prowess.
The mightiest was Uther's own brother—
The one known as the Tyrant King, Vortigern.
His domain was vast and prosperous, his ranks filled with foreign warriors, their weapons and armor unmatched.
And most crucially—his personal combat prowess was overwhelming.
Morgan did not yet fully grasp this.
But Lot knew.
Vortigern had defeated Uther. Even after Artoria became the King of Camelot, he remained her greatest adversary in the early years. It took the combined efforts of Artoria and his own son, Gawain, to finally bring him down.
For Vortigern embodied the will of Britain itself.
At this point in time, not even Merlin could defeat him single-handedly.
Lot pondered—across England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, the only being in this world of TYPE-MOON who might stand a chance was the one residing in the Land of Shadows.
[At best, we can repel Vortigern—not kill him. A direct confrontation is out of the question. His defeat will only come when the King of Knights and Gawain join forces.]
Morgan agreed with the first half of his thoughts. But the latter gave her pause.
Of course my son would be strong—that's only natural.
My talents are peerless, after all.
And Horndog here—
Well, he's not bad either.
Just slightly inferior to me.
So it's only expected our son would be formidable.
But why must my sister be involved in defeating Vortigern?
What can she possibly contribute?
Still, if Horndog said so, she must have her merits. I'll have to keep an eye on her.
Vortigern must fall.
And the throne of Camelot must be mine.
Neither objective could be neglected.
With this resolve, their ship approached the shore—
Ready to make landfall.