Incest Pendragon

Afterward, he continued to indulge in pleasure, drawing immense power from the Ero System by relentlessly fucking every woman of worth in Camelot.

Each night, his strength grew as he claimed more bodies, feeding off the very essence of their submission and pleasure.

He didn't bother to go out of his way to challenge Rome directly. Instead, he focused on silently amassing his strength, growing more powerful with each passing night as he devoured the lust of his conquests.

The Ero System fed off his insatiable hunger, refining his body, sharpening his mind, and turning him into something beyond mortal comprehension.

With the help of Morgan le Fay, who intercepted Gareth's escape route, he successfully corrupted the young knight.

She resisted at first, her sense of honor keeping her defiant, but her will wavered the moment he revealed the truth—that the man violating her mother was none other than her grandfather.

Her disbelieving eyes remained locked onto his face, even as he thrust into her tight, unwilling cunt, forcing her body to betray her.

Her protests turned to ragged moans, her trembling legs eventually wrapping around him as her mind shattered under the overwhelming pleasure.

He relished the way she broke beneath him, her once-proud demeanor reduced to a helpless mess of pleasure and shame as he filled her with his seed.

Once he had conquered her completely, he set his sights on his next prize—Queen Medb.

Unlike Gareth, she required no corruption; she was a willing participant from the very beginning.

Under his and Morgan's ruthless training, she had been reduced to nothing more than a loyal bitch in heat, crawling on all fours the moment he stepped into her prison cell.

She wagged her hips, her bare ass raised eagerly for him as she panted, waiting for her master to take her.

Without hesitation, he grabbed her by the hair and rammed his cock deep inside her dripping cunt, fucking her like the obedient animal she had become.

She barked and whined, her body moving in perfect sync with his brutal thrusts. She didn't just take him; she embraced every thrust, every brutal pound of his cock slamming into her.

Her tongue lolled out, drool dripping onto the stone floor as she submitted completely to be nothing more than a fuck-toy for her master's pleasure.

When all was said and done, there remained one final conquest—the most precious, most delectable of them all.

Artoria.

The shining King of Knights, the beacon of Camelot, was his last and greatest prize.

He did what any true man of culture would do—he took her, claimed her, bred her.

Alongside Morgan, he reveled in a sinful, decadent threesome, their bodies entwined in a sea of sweat and lust.

Artoria, despite all her strength, could do nothing but submit to his overwhelming dominance, her walls tightening around his cock as he filled her over and over again.

With each thrust, he asserted his rule, his ownership, his absolute control over the bloodline of Camelot itself.

His power grew with every conquest, strengthening beyond human comprehension.

Day by day, he ascended further, until he stood on the precipice of godhood itself.

But with the power of a god came the inevitable curse—boredom.

Two years passed, and the once-mighty Roman Empire fell from grace.

Emperor Lucius was slain, and Pope Leo I the Great seized control in a desperate attempt to salvage what remained.

His reign, however, was short-lived. In a final, desperate battle against Attila the Hun, the Pope unleashed the full power of the Holy Sword, but even that was not enough to secure victory.

Uther, ever the opportunist, struck from the shadows.

While the world believed Attila had fallen in battle, Uther kidnapped the warlord in her weakened, unconscious state.

There was no need for seduction, no need for coercion—she was helpless, completely at his mercy.

He took what he wanted, plunging his cock into her limp, battle-worn body, breeding her as she lay defenseless.

The Ero System rewarded him generously for the act, feeding off the raw dominance he exerted over one of history's greatest conquerors.

And when he was done, he simply discarded her, leaving her broken and defiled in the vast, empty grasslands.

He did not look back.

When Attila finally awoke, pain coursing through her sore, used body, confusion filled her mind.

She was alive, yet she did not understand why.

Her empire was gone—reduced to nothing but ashes, its glory erased while she slept in darkness.

She had no answers, only the lingering sensation of violation and the bitter realization that the world she once ruled had abandoned her.

Meanwhile, Uther, having taken everything he desired from Camelot, left the kingdom in Artoria's hands. His thirst for conquest had not yet been sated.

With his divine strength, he turned his gaze toward the heart of the crumbling Roman Empire.

He would claim Rome as his own.

With his divine power unleashed, Uther Pendragon walked through the heart of Rome, his feet pounding the ancient stones of the empire's capital.

There were no legions marching behind him, no vast army to back his claim, only his own strength, his own presence.

Yet, as he stood at the very center of the Western Empire, Rome seemed to shrink before him, as if the city itself understood the power that now moved within him.

The Senate, ever so sure of their control, saw him and murmured among themselves.

The air was thick with doubt, fear, and uncertainty.

"Uther Pendragon, what do you mean by this?" they whispered in panic.

Despite the fact that he was alone, a single man, Uther's very name struck terror in the hearts of those who had once wielded power.

They could not deny the legends that preceded him. Who among them did not know how Uther had slain dragons, tamed a queen of warriors, trapped the shadow queen, broken Emperor Lucius, and shattered the mighty Roman legions?

Even without an army, he had left Rome broken and ruined.

A single man, yet his very presence was enough to make the mighty tremble.

"From this day forward, I will take control of the empire," Uther declared, his voice resounding through the grand halls.

"You may resist me, fight against me, defy me if you wish, Senators. But will you? Will you truly throw away your last chance at restoring Rome's former glory? Will you waste this opportunity to reclaim the power that has slipped through your fingers?"

He chuckled, stepping forward with an air of absolute authority.

The praetorian guards, sworn protectors of the Senate, rushed to block his path, but with a mere push of his hand, they were cast aside like ragdolls.

He strode past them, unchallenged, and lowered himself onto the throne of Rome—no, his throne.

The Senate chamber fell into stunned silence. The senators turned to one another, whispering in hushed voices, their expressions a mix of intrigue and fear.

Even the praetorian guard who had been cast aside did not rise in defiance.

Instead, he remained on the floor, looking up at Uther with uncertainty clouding his gaze.

"Why would you help us, Uther Pendragon?" one of the Senators finally asked, his voice trembling.

"You have your own empire to rule. It thrives under your command. What need have you for ours? We have nothing left to offer. Gaul betrayed us. The East takes what remains of our lands. They've formed their own empires, as have the others."

The Senate was lost, confused by Uther's motives.

Rome was no longer what it had once been. It had fractured, splintered into three warring factions: the Gallic Empire, the Roman Empire, and the Palymere Empire.

It was a far cry from the unified might it once commanded.

Uther stood from the throne, looking down upon them with a gaze that burned like the sun itself.

Slowly, he raised the golden mask in his hand, pressing it against his face as he spoke with absolute finality:

"You shall not address me as Uther Pendragon. I am your Emperor. And I shall live as one."

The chamber trembled as the divine power within him surged forth. The senators gasped, their foreheads slick with cold sweat as they felt the overwhelming force of his presence wash over them.

No—this was no mere man standing before them. He was beyond that now.

He was a God.

"Emperor." The word left their lips in unison, the once-proud Senate now humbled, bowing in submission to the figure before them.

Uther Pendragon, once a king, now ascended to something greater. Rome was his, the Empire was his to command, but his conquest was far from over.

There were still territories to reclaim, enemies to crush, and his divine wrath would not be satisfied until the world was remade in his image.

The Senate had chosen submission, but the real battle was just beginning.

Afterward, he marched forward—not as an individual, not as the King of Camelot, but as the Emperor of Rome. He was no longer Uther Pendragon.

To the world, he had transcended his mortal name. Everyone hailed him as the God-Emperor. His legions did not see him as a mere man but as a divine being made flesh.

The Senate did not view him as an emperor to serve but as a god to whom they must submit.

His enemies trembled before him, and before long, they were given only two choices—annihilation or submission.

When he set his sights upon the Palmyrene Empire, he issued a decree with chilling finality: "Let not a single dog remain in the cities we march upon."

The message was clear—there would be no mercy. Faced with such overwhelming might, the Palmyrene forces surrendered without a fight, their spirits broken before the first blade had even been drawn.

Yet, among his legions, there was unrest. His soldiers, bloodthirsty and eager for plunder, protested. They accused him of breaking his word—he had said no dog would remain, yet he spared the citizens.

Their hunger for violence and conquest burned like an unquenched flame, and they murmured in defiance, demanding blood to sate their desires.

The Emperor's response was swift and absolute. Without hesitation, he ordered every dog in the city to be slaughtered, their corpses displayed as a grim warning to all who would question his will.

The message was clear: his word was law, his decree absolute, and defiance would be met with ruthless retribution.

Silence fell over the legions. Their murmurs ceased. They bowed their heads, acknowledging his authority, understanding that they had overstepped their bounds.

With the matter settled, he turned his gaze eastward, his ambition unshaken.

He marched onward with his unstoppable Roman legions, setting his sights on Mesopotamia, Syria, and beyond.

City after city fell before him as he carved a path of conquest deeper into the East, until at last, he stood face-to-face with Queen Zenobia.

She was defiant—like all women who dared to stand against him. But defiance meant nothing before absolute power.

Her armies were crushed, her empire reduced to ashes, and her throne cast down. Yet, even in chains, she held her head high, her spirit refusing to break.

He would change that.

Paraded through the streets of Rome, Zenobia was not just a captured queen—she was his trophy, his personal conquest.

She was stripped of her dignity, her pride, and finally, her body.

Locked away in his personal chambers, he took his time breaking her.

Night after night, he ravaged her, breaking her body, her pride, her spirit. He took her as he pleased, bending her beneath him, forcing her to submit in ways no battlefield ever could.

Her once regal form was reduced to nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, her womb flooded with his seed, her cries echoing in the vast halls of his palace.

Yet, despite everything, her eyes never lost their fire.

Even as her body betrayed her, even as her mind shattered beneath the relentless pleasure, she never once uttered a word of surrender.

Even in her remaining years, she defied him—not with swords or armies, but with that unyielding glare, that silent rebellion that refused to die.

And he enjoyed that.

But she was just one conquest among many. His ambitions did not end with the East.

After claiming his rewards from the Ero System, he turned his gaze to the Gallic Empire, the last bastion of resistance against his rule.

It fell to him effortlessly, shattered beneath his might. With Rome now at its greatest height, he returned victorious, basking in the adoration of his empire.

Zenobia's once proud form was pressed into his sheets, her body trembling as he took her once again.

Her once regal voice, the same that had commanded armies, was now reduced to breathless moans and muffled cries as he pounded into her from behind, her tight, defeated body offering no resistance.

He did not stop until she collapsed in exhaustion, her mind blank, her body wasted and used beneath him.

Rome was his. The world was his. And so was she.

Now, he wanted to take a look at what had become of his Camelot.

And he had already guessed the answer the moment his eyes fell upon the fallen empire before him.

"You failed, Artoria."

The voice echoed through the battlefield, carrying a weight that made Artoria's breath hitch.

She lifted her gaze, her body trembling as she knelt amidst the mountain of corpses beneath her.

Blood soaked the once-proud banners of Camelot, and the stench of death lingered in the air like a curse that refused to fade.

Standing above her was a man clad in regal armor, his golden mask reflecting the dying light of the setting sun. His presence was suffocating, an overwhelming force pressing down on her already broken spirit.

Her mind swirled with confusion and doubt. She recognized that voice. She knew it.

But from where?

More than that, she knew who the man before her truly was.

The restorer of the Roman Empire. The one hailed as the God Emperor by many.

The one who had brought order where only ruin remained.

"What do you want from me, Roman Emperor?" she asked, her voice hoarse, weary from battles fought and lost.

A soft chuckle escaped the man's lips.

"Hah… The mask must be too good if you don't recognize me as your father."

With that, he reached up and removed the golden mask, lowering it to reveal his face fully in the dimming light.

Artoria's eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat.

"Y-You… You didn't abandon us?"

"I never did." Uther's voice was steady, unshaken. "I knew long ago that Camelot would fall. That's why I wanted you on the throne—not Morgan."

"But you could have fought for it until your last breath!" Artoria's voice cracked with grief as she clenched her lance tightly, her knuckles turning white.

She was exposing her vulnerability, but in that moment, she didn't care. "Why did you leave, Father?"

"I fought, Artoria," he said simply. "But my battle was unseen and unchallenged. You didn't see what I fought against, just as I didn't see how you defended Camelot. But it no longer matters."

He stepped forward, placing a hand on her trembling shoulder.

"Everything that has happened… it's enough, my dear daughter." His voice softened, almost gentle. "Let me rebuild what has already been ruined. I won't ask you to explain how things came to this. Tell me when you're ready."

"Father…"

Artoria's strength crumbled as she threw herself into his arms, her composure shattering like glass. She clung to him, her tears spilling freely as she sobbed—like a child who had made a terrible mistake.

Uther said nothing. He simply held her, one hand resting on her back as he comforted her in silence.

And afterward, as he had promised, Uther did what no one thought possible.

He rebuilt Camelot from its ashes.

With Roman discipline and strategy, he brought Britannia under the rule of the Empire, mending the scars left behind by war—the war that had begun with Camelot and the Counter Force's desire to end the era of gods once and for all.

Yet no one had foreseen that Uther, the once-forgotten king, would stand undefeated.

No one had expected him to remain unchallenged.

By slipping through the loopholes of history, by taking the place of Aurelian, he had saved Britannia through legitimate means—without triggering the defensive mechanisms of the Counter Force.

He resurrected every person who had fought for Camelot, bringing them back to life and transforming them into new, powerful forces for his growing empire.

The once fallen knights, soldiers, and allies of Camelot, now reanimated and more formidable than ever, became the backbone of his newfound rule, ready to fight once more under his banner.

Morgan and Merlin, who had long operated in the shadows, their hands stained with the secretive deeds of the past, were once again brought before him.

No longer were they hidden in the dark corners of his plans, executing his dirty work behind the scenes. They were no longer mere whispers in the wind.

Now, they stood at the forefront, no longer as covert agents, but as powerful figures in his court, working openly and proudly at his side.

And thus, where Camelot had once stood in ruin, a new empire rose.

The Roman Empire ruled by the House of Pendragon.

All hail the God Emperor!

[End]

A/N: Yes, my friends, this is it—the end and my final farewell for this story.

I hope you enjoyed the ending. I know I left a lot of details in the background, but I don't believe the conclusion was rushed. This outcome had been well thought out from the very beginning, ever since I first started writing this story.

To be precise, this ending was originally intended for my other fic, House of Pendragon, but instead, I decided to rewrite that old work here, incorporating the original script that was meant for House of Pendragon into this fic. In a way, this story became the ultimate version of that concept, and I have no regrets about how it turned out.

It may have ended for us, but Uther's journey is far from over. He still has battles to fight, wars to win, and an empire to carve out with his own hands.

It's better to leave things to him, to let this world and these characters shape their own fate rather than have me dictate every outcome.

They live and breathe beyond my words now.

That said, this isn't a complete goodbye. I might come back now and then to write extra chapters, adding more details that I didn't get around to, particularly from Merlin's or Morgan's perspectives—after all, they played a crucial role in helping Uther conquer the East and the Gallic Empire, and they were always scheming behind the scenes.

Even the battles Artoria fought in Camelot, the reasons behind Camelot's downfall, and all the mysteries left vague in the main story will eventually be revealed in these extra chapters—if and when I find the time for it.

We might even get a chapter from Altrouge Brunestud's perspective, or Attila the Hun's.

Who knows?

The possibilities are endless.

But for now, it's time for me to take my final rest.

The story has come to an end, but life keeps moving forward, doesn't it?

As for my next project, I will definitely start a new fanfic after this. Maybe I'll continue my COTE fic, or perhaps King of Vampires—who knows?

Let fate decide. Or better yet—let my whims dictate the outcome.

If you have any suggestions for what I should write next, feel free to drop a comment.

I can write just about anything if I put my mind to it. Merlin? Easy. Vortigern? Piece of cake. How about being Scáthach's son, or maybe Lancelot, and banging Artoria's queen? Yeah, everything's fair game.

This is my afterword as an author.

And with this, I've done what many fail to do—I finished my damn story. One of the few authors who actually see their work through to the end.

This story may have ended, but as an author, my journey is only just beginning.

Farewell. Have a good one, everyone.