Mobuseka: Rise of Camelot
Our MC dies and is reborn as Arthur Pendragon, becoming the brother of Olivia, one of the main heroines from the otome anime he once watched.
Armed with the Camelot System, he receives quests to recreate the legendary kingdom in a world dominated by bratty nobles and feminist.
As long as he can restore Camelot's former glory, he will gain the full strength of Arthur Pendragon from the Nasuverse, along with summoning tickets for the Knights of the Round Table plus Merlin, Artoria, and Morgan le Fay as his personal allies.
Now, witness how a man becomes a legend.
Chapter 1: The Birth of a Fucking Legend
Arthur…
That was his name.
His parents had named him Arthur because they had once dreamed he would become the greatest knight in the kingdom, a strong and honorable man who would bring pride to his family.
In the end, he had saved nothing. His village was ravaged by the Sky Pirates, the same scourge that currently wrecked havoc across the kingdoms. They were the most notorious bandits, so vicious and elusive that even the royal knights struggled to catch them.
His parents, along with every other adult in the village, had stood proudly on the front lines to protect their home, only to be ruthlessly slain by the pirates' overwhelming force.
"Arthur… Please protect Olivia."
Those were his parents' last words, a desperate plea for him to live and escape.
His younger sister, Olivia, clutched the ragged fabric of his tunic from behind, her small body trembling against his back.
He looked up at the sky, the tears threatening to spill from his eyes as the Sky Pirates' massive airship continued its merciless assault.
Laser beams scorched the air, obliterating villager's homes and setting the world ablaze.
Dozens of pirates rappelled down to the ground, their brutal laughter mixing with the screams of the dying as they slaughtered everyone in their path.
However, despite his own terror and the utter misery of their situation, Arthur firmly pushed Olivia behind him, shielding her with his own body. "Sister, you have to escape. Please, don't let our parents' sacrifice be for nothing. I will distract them."
"Brother, not you too…" Olivia's voice was a choked sob, her eyes wide with the horror of losing him as well.
"Please, sister, I am begging you…" He turned his head to look at her, his eyes swimming with tears and raw, desperate pleading.
He could not, would not, let his sister be harmed or, worse, captured by these pirates.
If he had to sacrifice himself in the process, then so be it.
Olivia met his gaze, and a flicker of the same fierce determination he felt ignited in her own eyes. "I will find the knights, brother. I will bring help. You have to be strong. You have to survive."
With a final, agonizing look, she turned and fled, her footsteps pounding a frantic rhythm as she escaped through the splintered back door of their wooden house.
Arthur turned to face the front, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He knew this was likely a fool's errand.
Their village was devastatingly poor; they couldn't afford firearms or even a single decent steel sword.
The weapon he held now was a wooden practice sword, one he had carved himself over many months for his training, a tangible piece of his dream to become a knight.
The front door of their house exploded inward, splintered into pieces by a heavy pirate's boot.
The invaders stood there, sneering at him.
Their leader, a hulking man with a scarred face, let out a cruel, mocking laugh. "What's this? It's just a fucking brat."
One of the other pirates, a wiry man with a greedy glint in his eye, looked Arthur up and down. "Boss, look at him. He's a handsome one. Think of the price he'd fetch. I've heard many noblewomen pay a fortune for pretty young slaves to warm their beds, especially ones with fight left in them."
The pirate captain chuckled darkly, a sound that promised nothing but pain. "I heard the Count's own daughter has a particular taste for breaking in spirited young men like him… Well, boys? What are you waiting for? Grab him!"
They unsheathed their real swords, the sharp, metallic rings a death knell in the small space.
They fanned out, forming a tight circle around the boy who stood against them with nothing but a crude, wooden blade.
Arthur did not retreat.
He could not.
His arms trembled under the weight of his fear.
His knees felt weak, threatening to buckle.
But his eyes, those burning blue eyes, remained sharp and unyielding.
For Olivia.
For his parents.
For the smoldering ruins of the village that had been his entire world.
"Come on, then, you wretches," Arthur whispered, his voice cracking with strain but his resolve steady. "Even if I fall here today, I swear I will drag some of you down to hell with me."
The pirates exchanged a series of amused, predatory looks, their grins widening at his defiance.
"Look at this little knight wannabe," one sneered.
Another laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Let's break his legs first! The Countess enjoys them more when they're helpless lambs; defiant yet broken!"
Metal flashed in the dim light of the crumbling house.
And Arthur moved.
A wooden sword was nothing against honed steel, but the boy's spirit was a weapon sharp enough to carve fate itself.
He deflected the first pirate's swing with pure, desperate instinct, the hard wood clacking against the blade.
Using the man's own momentum, Arthur twisted inside his guard and drove a sharp elbow straight into his jaw with a sickening crack.
The pirate crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he hit the ground.
"What the—?!"
"He just downed Jerek! With a fucking stick?!" another bandit yelled, his voice a mix of shock and rage.
Arthur didn't stop. He couldn't afford to.
He didn't think about technique or survival; he simply fought, his body moving on a primal, desperate fuel of pure adrenaline and the need to protect his sister's retreat.
Another pirate lunged at him, steel glinting.
Arthur dropped low, dodging under the sweeping blade, and brought his wooden sword hard across the man's throat. It wasn't a killing blow, but it was a brutal, stunning impact that crushed the pirate's windpipe and made him gag, his eyes bulging.
Before he could recover, Arthur drove his knee deep into the man's gut, forcing the air from his lungs in a pained whoosh.
The pirate folded over and collapsed, retching onto the dirt floor.
Two down.
But the circle of leering, murderous bandits remained unbroken, their initial amusement now curdling into vicious intent.
"Enough of this shit," the captain snarled, his patience evaporating.
The man stepped forward, his sheer size seeming to fill the room.
He was a mountain of muscle and menace, a jagged, ugly scar tearing down his left cheek.
The sword in his hand wasn't just metal; it hummed with a malevolent energy, the air around it crackling faintly with raw, violet mana.
This was no ordinary cutthroat.
This was a seasoned killer.
A blooded veteran.
A true monster.
Arthur felt that cold, sharp fear punch through his chest.
Yet, he still raised the shattered remains of his wooden sword.
"Still standing, you little shit?" the captain asked, a dark amusement in his eyes. "I'll admit, you've got guts. I'll give you one last choice. Drop the stick, swear to serve me, and I'll make sure your death is quick. You won't die screaming like the rest of this filth."
Arthur gathered the blood and saliva in his mouth and spat a crimson glob at the captain's boots.
"I'd rather die on my feet."
The captain's smile widened into a predator's grin.
"So be it."
He swung his mana-infused blade in a devastating, horizontal arc.
Arthur brought up what was left of his wooden sword to block.
The enchanted steel met the splintered wood.
There was a brilliant flash of violet light, and the wooden sword exploded, shattering into a thousand useless splinters that peppered the air.
The concussive force threw Arthur backward, his breath stolen, his hands torn and bleeding from the blast.
He landed hard on the floor, his body screaming in protest.
The captain advanced calmly, the tip of his glowing sword pointed directly at Arthur's heart.
"It's over, boy."
Arthur clenched his bloody fists, his vision swimming.
"No… I can still— I have to—"
The captain stabbed forward without another word.
Arthur's body seized, freezing in place as the lethal point drove toward him.
For a single, infinite moment, everything turned into a blinding, featureless white.
Was this… where his story ended?
He thought of Olivia's smile, so bright and full of life.
He heard his parents' last, desperate words echoing in his mind.
He saw the dream of knighthood, a future he would never reach, crumbling to dust.
"I'm so sorry… Olivia…"
The welcoming darkness rushed up to swallow him whole—
—
—
[Camelot System Activating…]
A voice, unlike any he had ever heard, rang across the void. It was calm, yet held immense, majestic power. It sounded ancient.
[Host: Arthur Pendragon. Detected.]
[Bloodline Compatibility: 99.89%]
[Situation: Imminent death.]
[Primary Directive: A King does not fall before his nation rises.]
A surge of warm, brilliant, golden light wrapped around his shattered spirit, pulling him back from the brink.
[Initiating emergency protocol: Awakening of the Once and Future King.]
Arthur gasped, a searing pain and power flooding his veins as his vision snapped back into horrifying, crystal-clear focus.
He wasn't dead.
Not yet.
Intricate, golden symbols glowed like molten fire just beneath his skin, and the phantom, shimmering outline of a magnificent crown flickered into existence above his head, casting a soft, regal light.
The captain, who had been moments from delivering the killing thrust, staggered backward, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and primal fear.
"What in the seven hells is this?! What kind of magic—?!"
Arthur rose slowly to his feet.
There was no more trembling. No more fear.
His body thrummed with a power that felt both alien and deeply, fundamentally his.
"My apologies," he said softly, but his voice was different now; deeper, steadier, resonating with an undeniable, commanding authority. "But a true king does not die on his knees."
Light exploded from his body.
[Skill Unlocked: Instinct (Rank: D)]
[Skill Unlocked: Mana Burst (Rank: E)]
[Temporary Authority Granted: Protection of Camelot]
Arthur's hand closed around nothing, but light coalesced into the shape of a blade.
Not steel.
Not wood.
Not yet Excalibur…
But a prototype, a "Beginning Sword" formed from pure mana.
The captain shouted, "Kill him!"
The pirates charged.
Arthur dashed forward.
The mana blade tore through the air, striking the captain's sword.
Mana clashed violently, sparks flying.
This time, steel shattered.
The captain's weapon broke apart like glass and Arthur's follow-up strike sent him flying into the dirt, coughing blood.
The other pirates froze.
"H-H-he's a monster!"
"Retreat! Retreat!"
But it was too late.
The System chimed again.
[Quest Complete: Protect Olivia]
[Rewards Granted: 1× Summon Ticket (Knight of the Round Table)]
[Warning: Host unconsciousness imminent]
Arthur exhaled, his mana flickering.
The temporary power was fading.
He fell to his knees…
…and collapsed face-first into the dirt as the pirates fled in terror.
The last thing he heard was Olivia's voice calling his name as knights arrived in the distance.
And the voice of the System whispering:
[Rise, Arthur Pendragon. Rebuild Camelot. Your legend begins now.]
Your plan had come to fruition.
Every step had been executed flawlessly—each piece moved into place exactly as you intended. Now, nothing could stand in your way. Absolutely nothing.
You, the very embodiment of darkness, had infiltrated the largest holy institution on Earth, embedding yourself within its highest echelon despite being the sworn enemy of light. The irony was almost poetic. With your position secured, you now held absolute control over the very force meant to oppose you.
And with that power came the right to wage Holy War.
At a mere command, you could cleanse the battlefield of all who opposed you—crush every force that so much as hinted at being a threat to your interests.
Even the Counter Force, the so-called will of the planet, whispering its desperate plans into the ears of its chosen heroes—it no longer mattered.
Because now… you were the one listening.
There was nothing they could plot that you wouldn't know. No schemes, no divine intervention, no last-ditch effort from the world itself could undo what you had set into motion.
You had already won.
You were simply operating on a different level now.
No longer a conqueror marching across battlefields—but a ruler pulling the strings from the shadows.
The world thought the Papacy remained untouched, that the great Holy See was still the pillar of faith, guiding its followers through divine will.
But behind its golden halls, behind its hallowed words of faith and salvation…
It was you.
You, controlling it all.
You, wearing the face of Pope Leo I, the gentle, benevolent shepherd of the people.
You, smiling with warmth, with kindness—the same expression the real Pope once wore.
The priest standing beside you had once been your disguise, the one who helped cement your place in the church. But now, his role was over.
He stood there silently, his presence nothing more than a loyal shadow, bound to you for eternity.
But there was no need for him to follow you any longer.
It was time to dismiss him.
Of course, you couldn't simply erase him without reason. That would draw unwanted suspicion from both the world and the Counter Force.
No—this required a performance.
A convincing act.
A solid, undeniable reason why you needed to remove him.
And so, with a knowing smirk, you prepared for the final move in this grand deception.
"Father John, I've heard you adopted a girl and placed her in our church as a nun. What exactly is your plan for her?"
Your voice was calm, measured, yet carrying an edge of curiosity that wasn't entirely innocent. The priest before you—Father John—smiled warmly in return, as if he had no recollection of the brutal fate you had bestowed upon him in the past. There was no sign that he had once died by your hands, no trace of the fact that he had been turned into an undead, now eternally bound as a soldier in your shadow legion.
"She will be our pillar of faith and light in the church. Or, if she desires, she may remain as an ordinary nun," Father John answered, his voice carrying the gentle weight of kindness.
A lie.
Or perhaps he truly believed it, despite what you knew about the girl in question.
"Let me speak with her, Father John," you said, a slow smirk playing at your lips. "Someone chosen by you could never be ordinary."
Father John nodded and led you through the church's dimly lit corridors, toward his humble residence. The scent of burning incense still lingered in the air, blending with the distant echoes of whispered prayers from the faithful. When you finally reached the chamber, the door creaked open, revealing a young girl seated inside, her delicate fingers tracing the edges of a holy scripture as she read.
She was beautiful in an unnatural way—silver hair cascading over her shoulders, skin pale as moonlight, eyes hollow yet haunting. There was something off about her, something that made even the flickering candlelight struggle to touch her properly.
Father John's expression softened with an almost fatherly affection as he turned to her.
"Prelati, meet Pope Leo." He gestured toward you with reverence before turning back to her. "Pope Leo, this is my daughter—Francesca Prelati."
At the sound of her name, the girl slowly lowered her book, her gaze lifting to meet yours.
Unlike the many believers and citizens of Rome who gazed at you in awe, their eyes filled with blind faith, hers held nothing.
No admiration. No reverence.
Just emptiness.
And then—one word left her lips, quiet yet piercing.
"Why...?"
She didn't introduce herself. She didn't bow. She didn't offer respect or even pretend to.
She simply asked—why.
A single word, yet layered with countless questions.
And you, of course, already knew what she truly wanted to ask.
"You will replace your father, my child," you said, your tone both gentle and absolute. "You have so much potential... so much power hidden inside you. A destiny greater than this—greater than these walls, greater than their prayers. I can train you. I can mold you into something far beyond what this place could ever offer."
You leaned in slightly, your hand brushing against her silver locks, stroking her hair with the kind of care that masked dangerous intentions.
"Or..." you mused, tilting your head slightly, "...are you truly content with this quiet little life?"
She didn't flinch at your touch. She didn't shy away.
Instead, she held your gaze—unwavering, unshaken.
Eyes as bottomless as the abyss.
Then she spoke, her voice cold, yet laced with understanding.
"You see through me, old man."
A small, almost amused smirk touched the corner of her lips—mocking, unafraid.
"You know I'm not the girl you're looking for."
There was no hesitation. No self-doubt. No belief that she was unworthy of your offer.
No—her rejection wasn't out of weakness, but out of something far more dangerous.
Because you had seen through her, through the carefully woven illusion she played for others.
She was never meant to be an obedient, gentle little nun.
Her eyes already told you the truth—she was the kind of girl who would let the world burn if it meant she wouldn't have to suffer.
A selfish creature. A dangerous one. A perfect candidate.
"The grace of God is vast as the sea, my child," you said, your voice laced with amusement. "We do not judge who you are. Only how firm your faith is. You pray to Him, you believe in His teachings, and that is enough."
Your smile widened ever so slightly.
"But tell me—will you come with me and face your destiny? Or do you wish to stay here, wasting yourself away in mediocrity?"
You chuckled, as if all of this was just an entertaining game to you.
"Or perhaps..." you mused, eyes gleaming with knowing, "you believe that becoming Merlin's disciple is the better choice?"
The moment you spoke his name, her entire body stiffened.
The flicker of disbelief in her eyes was brief, but it was there.
You had caught her off guard.
"How did you know?" she whispered, her voice no longer cold—but genuinely shaken.
"The God knows, my child. How could you ever hide from Him?"
Your voice was soft, almost fatherly, as your fingers moved through her hair—slow, deliberate strokes that carried the warmth of a gentle guardian. It was not a touch of force, nor of possession, but one that lingered with purpose, as if cherishing her.
Francesca stiffened beneath your touch. Her breath hitched, her body tensing as if her very soul was rejecting the affection you offered. Her eyes, once hollow and devoid of faith, flickered with something more conflicted—a question, a hesitation.
And yet—she did not pull away.
Your fingers continued to stroke through her hair, threading through the soft strands, cradling her like a child that had never known love.
Her lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What would happen if I refused?"
"You can refuse," you assured her, your tone unshaken, unwavering. "But remember, child—God always remembers. Even if you cannot see it now, even if the present blinds you, the future holds His judgment. He never forgets."
Slowly, deliberately, you released her. The weight of your touch disappeared, leaving behind the unmistakable sensation of freedom—a choice that was now hers alone.
You turned to Father John, your voice steady.
"Let's go, Father John. We shall give the child some space."
The priest nodded in solemn understanding, his movements calm and measured.
But before you could take a step, before you could walk away—
A desperate hand clutched at your robe.
Fingers trembled against the holy fabric, tightening as if the very act of letting go would tear something vital from her soul.
Her eyes—once empty, once dead—now burned with something else.
Hatred.
Not towards you. Not towards Father John.
Towards Him.
"Why?" Her voice wavered, but beneath it was rage. "Why doesn't God want me to leave?"
The venom in her tone was undeniable. This was not the lost, fragile girl who had once drifted through faith without question. This was someone awakening—someone realizing the chains that bound her, someone who did not accept her fate.
She had thought herself abandoned, unworthy. And yet, the moment she considered leaving, the weight of His memory choked her, reminding her that even in betrayal, even in defiance—
He would never forget.
And she hated it.
You gazed at her with patience, with understanding. But your words remained the same.
"It is not for me to suggest, my child. You are free to leave."
Gently, you took her hand, prying her fingers from your robe with the same tenderness as a father guiding a lost child. There was no force, no condemnation, only a quiet, unshaken faith.
But Francesca hesitated.
For the first time, she hesitated not because she was lost—but because she finally knew what she wanted.
Her eyelids dropped slightly, her breath coming out slow, measured.
"I hate Him," she whispered, her voice almost trembling.
Then, stronger, more certain: "I hate God."
She lifted her gaze to meet yours, eyes no longer empty—but filled with defiance, with rebellion, with a desperate hunger.
"Teach me, teacher," she pleaded, voice thick with something dark, something twisted. "Teach me how to take revenge on God."
But your voice did not waver.
"No, child. I will never teach you against Him."
She blinked. And then, without missing a beat, her tone shifted.
"Then teach me how to be free."
Her voice was like a blade—sharp, determined.
"Until I am strong enough," she continued, her grip tightening again, "to tear myself away from all of this."
For the first time, you smiled.
A true smile.
Not the hollow, hypocritical smile of the Church. Not the false warmth of empty faith.
A genuine, undeniable warmth.
"Come with me, child," you said, voice filled with promise. "I will show you the correct way."
Francesca stared at you, then slowly, obediently, she rose to her feet.
She followed you.
With unwavering submission and faith.