The flying kick was dodged—the magi evaded the attack with unexpectedly perfect agility.
No surprise there. That damned incubus had never lost when it ca to self-preservation. Even if the King’s regi collapsed and Britain was engulfed in flas, he would have long since retreated into his tower, savoring the spectacle of human suffering like it was so grand play.
"Ahahahaha! Really now, Sir Mordred, you never seem to improve at all. Just how much trouble do you intend to cause for Artoria?"
That slick, mocking tone—was it because it was all too familiar? I didn’t feel even a shred of joy at this reunion. Instead, my fists clenched instinctively.
"Ha! You’ve got so nerve, you bastard! Causing trouble for the King? So what! I’m the Knight of Treachery—Mordred, the Knight of Treachery! If anything, it’d be weird if I didn’t cause trouble for the King!"
"...Are you sure that’s how you truly feel?"
rlin suddenly stopped moving. The amused smirk on his face made Mordred tense up. She watched as the sadistic incubus pulled a pen from his pocket, pressed a button, and her own voice rang out:
"Give back the King I love the most!"
It was the cry Mordred had let out during her battle against the blackened Artoria after Sakatsuki had reversed her with a Command Spell (Alter). A genuine, unfiltered outburst.
Mordred froze. rlin pressed the button again.
"Give back the King I love the most!"
Click. "Give back the King I love the most!"
Watching Mordred’s face flush crimson with rage and humiliation, rlin twirled the recorder between his fingers and cheerfully said, "A once-in-a-millennium stroke of luck. Truly, opportunity favors the prepared."
Before Mordred could explode, rlin continued, "Don’t worry, I’ll keep it safe. I’ll gift it to Artoria at just the right mont."
"RLIN!!"
Mordred, now utterly humiliated and furious, instinctively reached for her sword to cut down the bastard before her. But after taking two steps forward, she suddenly felt sothing off about the weight in her hand. She looked down—
Clang! As if she’d touched a red-hot branding iron, Mordred dropped the sword countless people had dread of wielding. She stumbled back several steps, eyes wide with shock.
"Th-this... this... I... damn it all!"
"This has to be a fake Excalibur, right?!"
From a distance, rlin was doubled over with laughter. "It was just a simple trick, really. Congratulations on pulling the Sword of Selection! Oh my, why did you drop it? Could it be... you don’t want to be King after all?"
"Yet you used to cry and beg to let you pull this very sword!"
The sadistic incubus waved his hand, and countless dreamlike images appeared behind him—each one capturing Mordred’s various attempts to pull the sword. So showed her using both hands and feet, others showed her digging at it with rocks, kicking it, even dripping blood on it, chanting spells, or trying to bite it... Every possible embarrassing thod was on display.
"Even though you’ve only been in this world for a little over ten days, you’ve really put in the effort to pull this sword. You tried so many thods—even in your dreams!"
"...Was this a dream you set up for from the very beginning?" Mordred’s voice trembled, overwheld by imnse sha that nearly drowned her thoughts.
"Mhm~" rlin’s lilting tone was the final straw. Without hesitation, Mordred picked up the fallen Sword in the Stone from the ground—and drew it across her own neck.
Enough. Let it end.
With this thought, Mordred intended to terminate this absurd dream, swearing never to sleep again before death to avoid facing this old bastard. Yet before the blade touched her neck, she heard another voice in the dreamscape.
"Wait, Mordred. And you, rlin, stop tornting her."
It was a voice etched deep into Mordred’s soul. Her eyes widened as she gazed upon the holy figure appearing in the dream, murmuring:
"Am I dreaming... Father?"
"Yes, this is a dream rlin created for us." Artoria—golden-haired, snow-skinned, showing no signs of reversal—nodded. Her saintly blue eyes, shimring like a fairy lake reflecting the forest at noon, fell upon the Sword in the Stone in Mordred’s hand.
From sowhere ca the ancient lodies of Britain. In her dazed state, Mordred heard the question posed by the fallen king standing before the mont of selection:
"Now, let repeat that question from before. Since you’ve drawn this sword, what vow will you make upon it? What will you entrust to it?"
"Tell , what kind of king do you wish to beco?"
————
So dream, replaying past realities again and again, while others, to make dreams reality, choose to overturn the world itself.
"What are you saying? Is this Sakatsuki’s ideal?"
In the Hanging Gardens, within Shakespeare’s study—this great writer’s private sanctuary of tranquility had never witnessed such clamor. Amakusa, Sieg, Jeanne d’Arc, Karna, Lionheart...
All who opposed the Blue Faction, save the comatose Mordred, crowded into the small room, their eyes unanimously reflecting the sa emotion—
Utter disbelief.
When the Hanging Gardens reached the summit of the Fortress of Millennia, bringing the Black and Red Factions face-to-face again, their first act was to investigate Sakatsuki, who had already revealed his hand. Shakespeare, the sole remaining mber of the Blue Faction who hadn’t withdrawn, beca their breakthrough.
There could only be one question—what was Sakatsuki’s wish upon obtaining the Holy Grail?
This excessively prolonged war had laid bare Sakatsuki’s strength, intelligence, influence, and personality. Yet his motives remained as enigmatic as the origins of the youth himself, hidden in unfathomable azure shadows.
Without understanding Sakatsuki’s true intentions, they could never comprehend their own role.
Facing their interrogation, Shakespeare was unusually cooperative, almost delightedly so:
"It seems my concealnt has reached its limit. Then let speak boldly, speak without reservation! The truth witnessed by the seeker nad Sakatsuki—what is it?"
"It is the union of the Third Magic and the Holy Grail! The weaving of miracle upon miracle, until it becos a salvific net to gather all mankind!"
"I already know all that. That’s why he ca to for cooperation." Amakusa bluntly interrupted Shakespeare’s words, utterly lacking in romantic sensibility. "What I want to know isn’t the ’what,’ but the ’how.’"
"What exactly does Sakatsuki intend to do with the Third Magic and the Holy Grail to achieve his goal of saving humanity?"
"Why, exactly as you wish, Amakusa Shirou Tokisada!" Shakespeare exclaid excitedly. "By using the Holy Grail to elevate all human souls into a transient eternity! In this way, all suffering and all activity will cease, bringing the entire universe to a standstill!"
"And in the end, this record of destruction will beco precious experintal data for him to save another world!"
"Hahaha... Yes, precisely so! This world is but a grand sandbox, and that traveler who crossed the sea of stars is the scientist conducting the experint—the savior who pushes us toward our demise!"
"The throne of the seraphim for salvation has descended, but the path to the sanctuary does not belong to us! Our rciful and omnipotent Lord has abandoned us!"
"And that ans! One saint has fallen, while another steps over his corpse, attempting to reach for a higher throne, composing the finale of the old humanity!"
"Ahh, this is truly—magnificent!"
Enraptured by his own aria, Shakespeare spread his arms wide. But what filled his vision was Amakusa’s fist, rapidly growing larger until—
Thud!
Shakespeare collapsed to the ground. Without a word, Jeanne d’Arc stood up, pressed her lips together, and fled the study as if escaping.
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