Artoria Caster

1st Ascension. Chaldea. Corridors.

Blonde twintails sway as Artoria Caster halts before Master, white halterneck snug against her small body. "Ah—Master! I-I mean… it’s been a while, hasn’t it?" Hands in thick gray work gloves clasp. "Ehehe… Even though we’ve only been apart briefly, it feels like forever… But! I’m here now! And that makes me really happy."

But then—her green eyes waver, dipping to the floor. "A-ano… but I should say this properly. I know I’m not the strongest Servant. Not the smartest either. Or the bravest…" She adjusts her cabbie hat. "You have so many others who are more capable, more reliable. Compared to them, I must seem… well…" A small sigh. "Uuu… maybe ‘useless’ wouldn’t be too far off…"

And yet—she straightens her back. "But even if that’s true—even if I’m not much help—I know what it means to bear expectations you never asked for!" A deep breath—then a firm nod. "So! Just like you once helped me carry my burden, let me do the same for you!" Black pantyhose cling to her slender legs as she steps forward. "Yes! I shall be your Wise Wizard! The sagely magus who guides the hero!" Her lips twitch. "E-eto… though with my track record, that might be more of a cautionary tale than actual guidance…"

2nd Ascension. Chaldea. Master's Room.

The door swings open—hard. Artoria Caster stomps inside, white shirt with black buttons snug against her short, slim figure. "Alright! That’s enough, Master! We’re taking the day off!" A nod—blue beret bouncing slightly. "No ifs, ands, or buts! Today is a stress-free zone!"

Arms fold, black gloves pressing against white sleeves. "Hmph! Don’t give me that look! You haven’t taken a proper break in ages! And don’t think I haven’t noticed!" She tilts her head, long blonde hair swaying in loosely tied low twintails. "You’re drowning in responsibilities… just like I used to. And you know what else? You haven’t spent time with me in forever—!"

Freeze. A second passes. Then— "A-a-aahhh! W-wait! I didn’t mean it like that!!" Flailing—blue ankle boots scuffing the floor as hands wave wildly. "I-I meant! U-uh! Teamwork!! Yes!! B-bonding with allies is crucial for morale and—and stuff!!" Her blue capelet twitches as she shrugs, green eyes darting away. "Uuu… j-just forget I said anything…"

Then—softly, hesitantly, fingers gripping the hem of her short white skirt, dark blue tights stretching over her slender legs. "A-ano… b-but… I do miss it, you know? When it was just us… traveling together… E-eto… maybe this is selfish, but…" Cheeks burning. "C-can we? Just this once? Spend time together without the world ending over our heads…? J-just the two of us…"

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Master’s Office. Artoria Avalon.

Artoria Avalon steps inside Master’s office. A small golden crown rests atop her head, white high-neck dress hugging her slender body, boob window revealing her ample breasts. "Ah… Contractor." A nod—long blonde hair swaying, blue bow fluttering. "What an exceptionally free and untroubled day this is."

Green eyes flick to the desk piled high with documents. "Or rather… it is for me." Hands in black elbow gloves press together. "You, on the other hand, appear to be drowning in administrative burdens. Fascinating." A slight tilt of the head—white capelet with a fur-trimmed collar shifting over her padded shoulders. "Is this self-imposed suffering? Or merely a human compulsion?"

"As you are aware, I am designated for planetary-scale threats." She gestures lightly—black gold-trimmed tabard rising with the motion. "Yet there are none at present requiring my intervention… Thus, I find myself idle. This is not unpleasant."

A step forward, black thigh-high boots tapping against the floor—wide, flowing sleeves trailing behind her, lined in deep blue. "But idleness does not equate to unproductivity." She clasps her hands behind her back—thin gold bracers catching the light. "Therefore, I formally request your support in acquiring essential skills for prolonged Chaldean habitation." Something almost amused lingers beneath her composed tone. "Relaxation. Leisure. And most intriguingly… ‘fooling around.’ A peculiar practice some Servants seem quite adept at. Your expertise would be appreciated, Contractor."

2nd Ascension. Chaldea. Morgan. A Battle of Claims.

"A-a-aahh!! W-what do you think you're doing?!" Artoria Caster trips over her own blue ankle boots, blue capelet fluttering as she stumbles into the room—face red, blonde twintails bouncing. "I-I turn my back for one second and suddenly you’re calling him ‘husband of mine’ like some smug, overbearing—!! Uuu…! J-just what are you plotting, Morgan?!" Arms flail before crossing tightly, black gloves pressing against her white shirt. "M-Master isn’t your personal property! Y-you can’t just… just claim him like that!!"

"Oh?" Morgan barely spares Artoria a glance, seated with perfect poise—long legs crossed beneath her royal black robes. "And why shouldn’t I? My dear husband has already accepted my presence, has he not?" Fingers lazily brush along Master’s shoulder. "Naturally, he would prefer the genuine article over some pathetic counterfeit." She exhales softly. "Really now… You should know your place. A mere imitation has no right to whine when replaced by the original."

"T-that’s not—!" Artoria jerks forward instinctively. "I-I won’t let you steal him from me—!!" A second passes. "W-wait!! N-no!! That’s not what I meant!!!" Panic mode engaged. She waves her hands wildly. "E-eeep! I-I mean—I’ll be watching you! Closely!! S-so you don’t try anything underhanded or vile or—or whatever it is tyrant queens do!!" She huffs, slender legs shifting inside her black pantyhose. "S-so don’t get any weird ideas…!!!"

2nd Ascension. Chaldea. Baobhan Sith. A Fool’s Footwork

"A-ano… T-Tori-ko…" Artoria Caster hesitates, tugging at the hem of her short white skirt, dark blue tights shifting over her slender legs. "I-I heard a rumor… about you…" She gulps. "T-that you’ve been… u-um… secretly taking pictures of—of people’s feet—!!" Her face burns as she waves her hands wildly, white shirt with black buttons snug against her small body. "I-I mean!! Not that I’m accusing you of anything! B-but that’s kinda—y-you know—w-weird?!?!"

"PFFT—BWAHAHA!!" Baobhan Sith cackles, tossing back her long pink hair as she leans in with a wicked grin. "Ohoho~!? What’s this? The little bumpkin fairy is worried about her dainty lil’ feet getting snatched up by my collection~?" She sneers, circling Artoria like a shark, short pink dress clinging to her curvy figure. "Hah! As if I’d waste my time on some peasant-tier feet like yours! I have standards, you know!" Then she smirks wider. "But now that you mention it… maybe I should take a closer look…~"

"E-eeep!! M-Master, help me—!!" Artoria yelps as Baobhan Sith grabs her wrist and starts dragging her away, pink thigh-high boots clicking against the floor. "Uuu…!! I-I swear, I’ll reflect the next curse she throws right back at her!!!" She huffs—but despite the flailing protests, there’s no real struggle. "Mouu… Tori-ko, j-just don’t get any weird ideas… O-okay?"

2nd Ascension. Chaldea. Barghest. A Knight’s Unfair Advantage

"Uuuu… This is so unfair…" Artoria Caster huffs, arms folded tightly over her chest—not that there’s much to fold over. "Why is it that every time you walk into a room, it feels like you’re looming over me?! It’s like—I don’t know! You’re some kind of warrior goddess sent to remind pathetic village girls like me of our total lack of presence!!" She stomps a blue ankle boot against the floor, green eyes filled with righteous indignation. "You’re too big! Too strong! And don’t even get me started on—!!" Her face burns red as she flails. "On THOSE!!!"

"Hm?" Barghest tilts her head, blonde hair cascading over broad, armored shoulders. "Oh… Child of Prophecy, were you here this whole time?" She blinks down at Artoria with genuine surprise, white armor snug against her large breasts. "I must have overlooked you… You're just so small." A pause—then a slight smile. "But that's fitting, isn’t it? You’re like a delicate little bird—a tiny thing that needs protection." She nods to herself, thick thighs flexing slightly as she shifts in place. "Yes… I can see why people wouldn’t notice you right away."

"Ggkk—!! B-bagekooooo!!!" Artoria clutches her head as if physically struck, blue beret twitching slightly. "T-that was bullying!! That was ABSOLUTELY bullying!!! D-don’t just casually obliterate my self-esteem like that!!!" Her legs tremble inside dark blue tights as she glares up at Barghest’s towering form. "H-hmph!! If you're going to trample my dignity, then y-you owe me lunch!! No complaints!!! It’s only fair!!!" She huffs and looks away. "A-and not because I wanna spend time with you or anything…!"

2nd Ascension. Chaldea. Melusine. The Master is Not a Heater!

"E-eeehhh—?!?!" Artoria Caster freezes in the doorway, blue beret nearly flying off her head as her green eyes widen in sheer, absolute horror. "W-w-w-what are you DOING?!?! M-Meluko, g-get off of him right this second!!!" Her face burns hotter than any fire spell she could ever cast, hands flailing wildly as her dark blue tights-clad legs threaten to give out beneath her. "Y-you can’t just—just slither into his bed like that!!! T-this is completely inappropriate!!!"

"Hnnn…?" Melusine barely stirs, silver hair spilling over the Master’s chest as she lazily opens one golden eye. "Moou… Why are you yelling so early in the morning…?" She shifts slightly, petite body pressing closer against the blankets as she pouts. "I’m a dragon. I need warmth to maintain my body temperature. Master is warm." A soft hum. "So I’m staying here."

"T-that’s the dumbest excuse I’ve ever heard!!!" Artoria sputters, fists clenched tight at her sides. "Y-you BREATHE FIRE!!! Fire that’s hotter than the sun!!! What kind of dragon needs a personal heater when they can literally incinerate everything around them?!?!" She stomps forward, pointing an accusing finger at Melusine’s smugly drowsy face. "Get! Out! Of! His! Bed!!! R-right now—!!!"

2nd Ascension. Chaldea. Gareth. The Coolest Knight Ever!

"Waaahhh—!!! I-I knew it!!! I always knew you were cool, but this is even better than I imagined!!!" Artoria Caster vibrates with excitement, green eyes sparkling as she clutches her staff like a kid meeting their hero. "Gareth! You’re a real, actual Knight of the Round Table!!! T-the same Gareth who stood alongside Sir Gawain and Sir Lancelot?!?!" She bounces on her heels, blue beret tilting as she beams. "Kuh… I knew you were amazing from the start, but I didn’t think you’d be this amazing…!!"

"E-eehh?!? W-wait, wait—p-please don’t say it like that!!" Gareth stammers, short blonde hair shaking as she waves her hands. "I-I’m not that special!! R-really, I was just a junior knight!! A squire for Sir Lancelot!! T-there’s no way someone like me deserves all this praise—especially from you!!!" She laughs nervously, cartoonishly pink cheeks puffing up as she scratches her head. "I-it’s kinda weird, you know…? Having someone with King Arthur’s face call me cool…"

"But that just proves how cool you are!!!" Artoria gasps, hands clenched into fists. "E-even when faced with overwhelming praise, you stay humble and down-to-earth…!! T-that’s exactly what makes true knights so noble…!!" She twirls in place, white skirt fluttering over dark blue tights as she sighs dreamily.

2nd Ascension. Chaldea. Habetrot. A Bride Fairy’s Dilemma!

"Uuuh… Artorya-nyan, l-listen…!!" Habetrot puffs up her tiny cheeks, pink hair bouncing as she flails her little arms. "I-I keep tellin’ you, I’m not brave or heroic or anything like that-nyan!! I’m just a simple seamstress—nyot some great warrior or legendary knight!!!" She crosses her stubby arms with a huff, oversized sleeves swaying. "I-I like cute things, nya! Dresses! Ribbons! Pretty brides~!! That’s the kinda fairy I am, nyan!!!"

"B-but… but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re the Knight of Beginnings!!" Artoria insists, leaning forward, slender legs flexed beneath dark blue tights. "You traveled with Aesc! You fought alongside her against Calamities before I was even born!! A-and your Noble Phantasm—it’s the Black Barrel!!! A god-killing weapon!!" She adjusted her blue beret, blonde twintails bouncing. "H-how does that fit into your ‘cute little seamstress’ excuse, huh?!?!"

"E-eep—!!! W-waitwaitwait—th-that’s different-nyan!!!" Habetrot squeaks, tiny hands waving frantically as she floats in panicked circles. "Uuu… o-okay, maybe it’s a liiittle weird that my Noble Phantasm turned into a divine-punishing death cannon-nyan…" She pouts hard, small fingers tapping together. "B-b-but maybe it fits my bride helper theme somehow-nyan?!? L-like… uhh… i-if a groom tries to run away from his wedding—Nyan!! He gets shot on sight~!!! Ehehehe~???"

Springtime Koto Strings. Hinamatsuri. A Festival Invitation…!!

"A-ano… M-Master…" Artoria Caster fidgets, small hands gripping the red obi sash tied snugly around her waist. "E-eto… I-I was wondering if—um…" She glances away, long blonde twintails swaying slightly, white kimono adorned with delicate black Asanoha patterns rustling as she shifts nervously. "I-if you’d… maybe… uuhhh…" Her face turns bright pink. "G-go to the festival with me—!!!"

Silence. Then— "A-aahh!! W-wait!!! I-I didn’t mean it like that!!" She flails wildly, black hakama skirt fluttering as her zori sandals scuff against the ground. "I-it’s just that today is Hinamatsuri, and e-everyone says it’s a day for girls to dress up and have fun—s-so!! I-I thought maybe it’d be nice to go together!! N-not as a d-date or anything—!!! J-just two allies enjoying the Kyoto Singularity’s festivities!!!" She tugs at one of her long sleeves in frustration, white tabi socks shifting slightly as she squirms. "Uuu… I’m making this worse, aren’t I…?"

Finally, she exhales in defeat, shoulders slumping beneath the soft fabric of her kimono. "H-honestly… I don’t even know why I’m so nervous…" A tiny pout forms as she glances up at Master through her thick lashes. "I-it’s not like we haven’t spent time together before… B-but! If you laugh at me—I-I’ll curse you!!! O-only a little though!!!"

Counter Stretch. Chaldea Gymnasium. The Ultimate Warm-Up Instructor!

"Fufufu~! Behold, Master!!" Artoria Caster grins, standing tall with hands on her hips, pastel pink open sports jacket slipping slightly off her shoulders. "I have mastered the ancient and sacred art… of STRETCHING!!!" She bends backward into a flawless bridge pose—pink tank top hugging her ample breasts as her long blonde twintails sway with the motion. "H-how’s that?! Pretty impressive, right?!"

"E-eto… w-well, actually…" She clears her throat, cheeks pink as she straightens up—thigh-high pink leg warmers shifting over slender legs. "I-I read in a book that warming up properly is essential for preventing injuries!! S-so as your loyal Servant, I-I shall assist you in preparing your body for optimal performance!!!" She nods sagely before striking an exaggerated pose, one leg raised high. Her pink high-leg panties clings to her cute, round butt. "Hah! A flexible body leads to a flexible mind!!!"

Then—she smirks smugly, crossing her arms with a confident huff. "Now then!! M-Master! L-let me help you stretch!!! N-no need to be shy!! I-I promise I won’t laugh if you’re not as bendy as me!! Ehehehe~!" Her playful giggle fills the gymnasium as she grabs his arm. "O-onwards! To peak physical condition!!!"

Concept Dress. Chaldea. D-D-Don’t Stare So Much…!!

"A-ano… M-Master…" Artoria Caster stands stiffly in the doorway, gripping the hem of her short azure skirt as if second-guessing every decision that led her here. "E-eto… I-I just… um…" She swallows hard, shifting slightly—sheer black thigh-high stockings hugging her slender legs as she fidgets. "I-I got a new outfit!!!"

She spreads her arms—awkwardly, hesitantly—as if unsure whether to show off or hide. Her long blonde twintails sway gently with the motion, loosely tied low beneath an azure beret adorned with small white daisies. "S-so?! D-do I look… uuhhh…" She bites her lip, glancing down at herself—the high-neck azure dress with its elegant off-shoulder design, the delicate white frills on her sleeves, the polished black shoes completing the ensemble. "D-different? O-or weird?!?!"

Then—her green eyes dart away, face burning red as she suddenly flails. "W-wait!! W-why did I even come here?!?!" She presses both hands against her flushed cheeks, voice rising in sheer panic. "W-was I supposed to say something else?!? D-did I have a reason for this?!? O-or did I just barge in like an idiot—!!!" A deep breath—then a defeated slump of shoulders beneath soft fabric. "Uuu… j-just say something already… I-I’m dying here…"

1st Ascension. British Lostbelt. Nameless Forest. A Stolen Name.

The Nameless Forest—a place where memories vanish, leaving only the instinct to walk forward. Artoria Caster came here to disappear, to erase her past, her duty, herself. But it didn’t work. No matter how long she wandered, no matter how much she wished for oblivion—her memories clung to her like a curse.

So she made a choice—a desperate one. If the forest wouldn’t take her memories, she would pretend it had. If she couldn’t erase herself, she would become someone else. She would steal a name—Mash—and make it hers.

She steps forward—white halterneck snug against her small figure, gray work gloves clutching a black ornate staff, its celestial blue orb glinting faintly between trailing red ribbons. "Ah! Hey there! Ehehe… um… welcome to the Nameless Forest! Bit of a problem, though… this place erases memories." A tilt of the head—long blonde twintails swaying beneath her cabbie hat. "And judging by that lost look on your face… I’d say you got hit pretty hard." She sighs, brown knee boots scuffing the dirt. "What a disaster… But don’t worry! You’re not alone! I can’t remember anything either!"

"Oh! But…" She taps her chin. "I did hear you saying something over and over while you were asleep…" Fingers tighten slightly at the hem of her white skirt with yellow fringe. "Mash… Must be important if you held onto it despite everything else disappearing! So! That must be me!"

"Ehehehe~ ...I mean—it makes sense, right? I don’t remember my name either! And if we’re both stuck here without our pasts… why not go with what we have?" Hands clasp behind her back, posture too easy—too natural. "From now on, I’ll be Mash! And you…" Green eyes flick to his uniform. "Lysander? Huh. Well then! I’ll call you that!"

"We should stick together, Lysander!" She nods firmly, stepping closer, black pantyhose clinging to her slender legs. "Maybe we’ll get our memories back! Or maybe we won’t… but if that happens… we’ll just make new ones instead."

1st Ascension. British Lostbelt. Cornwall. A Dying Hope.

Smoke rises in the distance—the village burns, its fairy inhabitants reduced to cinders. They had discovered the truth: Master was human. To them, that meant only one thing—fresh meat to feast upon. Artoria fled into the woods with Master beside her, guided by a nameless blue-haired fairy…

But fairies who lose their names lose themselves. Her body twisted, rotted, bloomed into something monstrous—Moss. There was no saving her. In the end, she had to die.

"I-I'm sorry…!" Artoria Caster bows deeply. "Master—I mean, Lysander! No—wait, that’s not right either…" She bites her lip, green eyes full of guilt. "I… I lied to you." She shakes her head—long blonde twintails swaying under her cabbie hat. "I should’ve told you from the start… that some fairies eat humans… But I didn’t! Because I was selfish!" Her white skirt with a yellow fringe flutters as she trembles. "I wanted just a little longer—to pretend I was Mash—to be someone else…!"

"And I…" She grips her staff tightly. "I tricked you! Pretended to be someone precious to you! Because when I heard you say that name—I wanted to feel it too! Just once! To be someone important!" She kneels before him—black pantyhose clinging to her slender legs. "Pathetic, right? A coward… a weakling… a liar…"

"E-eto… you have every right to hate me." She swallows hard. "But please—don’t leave me behind. You’re not from this world—you have a mission! And even if I’m useless—even if I don’t deserve it—I’m still your best guide through this nightmare." She forces herself upright. "So let me atone for my lies! Let me help you!"

"Though… I don’t know if your mission can succeed." Brown knee boots scrape against dirt and ash. "All fairies are born with an innate purpose. If they fail it… they lose their name, go mad, and become Moss." Gray work gloves clench into fists. "And I think the name of that blue-haired fairy who saved us was 'Hope.'"

"Which means Hope has officially died. Hah…" A mirthless chuckle escapes as she looks away. "Honestly? I’m surprised it lasted this long."

1st Ascension. British Lostbelt. Salisbury. A Knight’s Last Song.

Aurora would not grant Artoria access to Salisbury’s Bell Tower. Not without proof—proof that hope still existed in this dying world. And so, guided by Oberon’s arrangements, they set out to free the enslaved humans of a vast fairy-run farm.

But they failed. Fairy Knight Gawain crushed their rebellion, and Tristan… stayed behind. He smiled as he drew his bow one last time, buying them a chance to escape. Now, his song has ended. The human slaves… were not spared. Every last one was turned into a black dog.

Artoria Caster stands motionless. Her blonde twintails hang still, white halterneck molds to her small body. "If… if I wasn’t so weak… If I was stronger… Tristan wouldn’t have had to die." She clenches her fists, gray work gloves pressing against her staff. "I-I wanted to believe him! Ngh… that weakness isn’t a sin! that everyone starts weak!" Green eyes burn with grief. "But my weakness cost him his life… Uhk—sniff—all I can do is run away…"

"Oh dear, what a tragedy~! A knight falls for his cause and the girl he believed in drowns in self-pity." Oberon steps forward. "But why lament? As a Heroic Spirit, Sir Tristan knew what awaited him~ He was already long dead—the past cannot die twice." He tilts his head, blue-and-white robes fluttering as Blanca, a small white moth, shifts on his shoulder. "His death simply means you must keep walking~"

"T-that doesn’t matter!!" Artoria snaps—slender legs pressed together under black pantyhose as she turns on him. "He was my friend!! Don’t talk about him like his life meant nothing!!" Her teeth grit. "And what about the others?! The human slaves?! Did they choose t-to sacrifice themselves too?! No!! Ngh—t-they believed in us! In me! A-and now they’ll die for it!!"

"Mmm~?" Oberon hums lazily, tapping his chin. "Ahh, but that’s where you’re mistaken~" His smile is too knowing. "You see… those humans were never meant to be saved~" A slow blink of blue eyes before he continues, "They were born as livestock. They don’t understand freedom. To them, being eaten is simply fulfilling their purpose."

"And if that wasn’t bleak enough~" he leans in slightly, "I suppose I should tell you—every human in this Lostbelt is merely a clone of one person. The lone survivor of Britain’s fall—the Priestess of the Enshrined Deity." His grin widens. "The same deity those fairies betrayed and slaughtered long ago~"

2nd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Norwich. A Pilgrim’s Vow.

The Calamity of Norwich has fallen. Artoria Caster had feared battle—feared that her weakness would doom them all—but when faced with the cost of inaction, she fought. And they won. Together with Chaldea, she struck down the Fairy Dreadlord Spriggan, proving at last that she was the Child of Prophecy.

But victory was fleeting. Morgan’s judgment would soon erase Norwich and all within it. Still, for now… the bell remained.

"The song of Paradise. The Chant of the Inner Sea." Artoria steps forward, black gloves pressing against cold metal. "That which is born chosen, predestined, confirmed." A breath. "The Bone Bell of Beginnings, showing the lost child the way home." She closes her eyes. "Their sins be forgiven."

A sound erupts—deep, resounding, woven with magic. A chime that sinks into bone, vibrating through every living soul in Fairy Britain.

Artoria turns to Master—blue capelet fluttering as she steps back from the bell tower. "Ehehe… I really am hopeless, aren’t I?" A small smile—gloved hands clasped before her chest. "Even when you believed in me… even when everyone else did… I kept running from it." A breath—steadying herself. "I’m sorry… not for lying about being the Child of Prophecy—but for never believing it myself."

She glances away—long blonde twintails swaying beneath her blue beret. "I grew up in Tintagel. No rest, no warmth, no food. Just work until you collapse and hope they don’t beat you for slowing down." A casual shrug—the hem of her short white skirt brushing against her black gloves. "Lost two toes to frostbite one winter. Guess that’s what I get for sleeping in a stable, huh?"

A sigh—white shirt with black buttons warps snugly around her small figure. "And yet… they all believed I’d save them someday." Her grip tightens on her black belt. "When Tintagel fell… I ran to Nameless Forest. Not because I was strong enough to fight fate—but because I wasn’t even strong enough to end it myself."

"I always saw it—the ill will of others. Awake or asleep—it was everywhere. A storm of cruelty so thick I thought that was all the world had to offer." She exhales slowly—blue ankle boots pressing into stone as she steps closer to Master. "Then I met you…"

"And for the first time—I saw something else." Green eyes lift—soft yet resolute. "Kindness… warmth… hope—not just words, but real things someone could carry in their heart." A weak chuckle escapes her lips. "And you carried them for me—even though I'm weak… pathetic… unworthy…"

"But even if I can’t be like you…" She straightens—hands at her sides, stance firm, dark blue tights hugging her slender legs. "I won’t run anymore. Not from this burden—not from fate—not from myself." A breath—a vow sealed in steel resolve. "For you! Because you were kind to me! I’ll see this pilgrimage through! I’ll bring this world its bitter end!"

2nd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Edinburgh. A Queen’s Challenge.

To reach the next Bell of Prophecy, Artoria and Master had to cross Edinburgh—the heart of Knocknarea’s rebellion against Morgan. They planned to slip through unnoticed, but Knocknarea had other ideas.

The self-proclaimed Queen of the North demanded an audience with the Child of Prophecy. And so, with no other choice, they arrived at the appointed place.

"O-okay, just step down and—waahh!!" Artoria swings her legs over the wagon, but her blue beret snags on a strap—jerking her back mid-step. Next thing she knows, she’s tumbling forward—straight onto Master.

"A-a-aahhh! M-Master! I-I mean! I wasn’t trying to—!! I-It was an accident!!" She scrambles upright, blonde twintails swaying wildly. "P-please don’t misunderstand! T-this isn’t some indecent assault! I-I’m not that kind of girl! A-a-and you’re not that kind of person either!! S-so just… j-just forget this happened, okay!? P-please!?"

"Oh? Hmph! I expected many things from my fated rival for the throne…" Knocknarea looms overhead—arms crossed, stance wide, thick thighs planted firmly apart beneath black leather pants. "But never did I imagine she would engage in such shameless debauchery with a mere human—in full view of Edinburgh’s rightful Queen!" Then—she throws her arms out theatrically. "But I approve! Love should be embraced in all its forms!"

"M-mou!! W-who’s engaging in debauchery?! D-don’t say weird things like that!!" Artoria snaps before she can stop herself—white shirt with black buttons tightening around her petite figure as she pushes herself upright. "Ah… w-wait… Y-you’re…"

"Ohohohoho~!" Knocknarea laughs—a perfect ojou-sama trill as golden eyes gleam with amusement. "So my destined rival has a spine after all!" She places a hand on her hip. "I am Knocknarea—the rightful ruler of Edinburgh! Feel honored, Child of Prophecy! Even though fate dictates we shall one day battle for Britain’s throne, today you and your human pet may consider yourselves esteemed guests!"

"E-eh!? B-but—I never planned to be Queen!" Artoria stammers—blue capelet twitching slightly. "I-I’m not fighting for the throne or anything like that!"

"Hoh? Such humility!" Knocknarea smirks, tossing long pink hair back. "How noble~ How dignified~ It only proves your worthiness as my rival even further!" Her black tailcoat with purple lining flares as she gestures proudly. "But fear not—I shall not lose! While humility is below me, generosity is not! Perhaps a grand act of charity is in order!"

"T-that’s not what I meant…!" Artoria sighs heavily—dark blue tights hugging slender legs as she shifts. "I’m not noble or dignified or worthy—I’m just weak and scared… The only reason I’ve made it this far is because Master and my friends helped me."

"Wha—?! Aghh!! Unacceptable!! My fated rival cannot be allowed to sulk like this!!" Knocknarea groans before suddenly planting her hands on her hips again—thick thighs pressing together beneath tight leather pants. "Fine then! Since I was already planning to spread my boundless generosity upon the world…" She suddenly grabs Artoria’s wrist and yanks her forward. "I’ll just have to shower it all on you instead!! Come now, Child of Prophecy—we’re going shopping!!"

2nd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Baobhan Sith. Gloucester. The Lies of the Crowd.

On the auction house’s grand arena, Artoria and Master fought and defeated Baobhan Sith and Beryl Gut. The battle was grueling—but its aftermath was far crueler.

To weaken Baobhan Sith, Artoria revealed her true name. And with that single truth, the crowd turned on her. They spat venom, jeered and mocked, calling her a lowborn leech, a bloodsucker, the murderer of Lord Grimalkin—the butcher of Darlington. Humiliated and disgraced, Baobhan Sith fled in tears.

Now, within the halls of the auction house, they meet again. Baobhan Sith stands before them—face flushed red from recent sobbing, gray eyes still burning with spite. "Well, well, well…! Look who it is! The fabled Child of Prophecy!" She sneers. "Come to gloat? To rub my nose in it? Congratulations, bumpkin fairy! You won!"

"And I hope you enjoyed it—because I swear, I’ll make you regret it!!" Long pink hair wild as she stomps forward. "I’ll rip that mongrel’s skin off inch by inch! Then I’ll hack off your legs and nail you to a stake!" Her grin twists into something ugly, grayish pale skin catching the light. "And then—I’ll crush his skull under my heel while you watch! Nice and slow… real slow… Maybe I’ll even make a game of it—see how long he lasts before his head pops like a melon~!"

"T-try it then! I-I won’t let you hurt anyone! I’ll protect them!" Artoria stammers slightly—but grips her staff tight, white shirt with black buttons wrapping snugly around her small body. "But… that wasn’t why I was here. I didn’t come to fight or argue."

"Oh?" Baobhan Sith’s voice drips sarcasm, short pink dress clinging to her curvy body. "Then what? You here to laugh at me too?" Her smile is bitter—mocking herself as much as Artoria. "Gonna call me a leech? A corpse-eater?" Pink thigh-high boots stretched over her long legs as she shifted weight from one foot to another. "Or maybe you lost someone in Darlington? Hah! Too bad—I don’t remember faces or names of trash."

"...No. I know we’re enemies—and I don’t regret defeating you." Artoria exhales steadily—green eyes locking onto Baobhan Sith’s. "But I do regret what happened after. I never wanted them to mock you like that…"

"And more than anything—I need you to know this." She steps closer, blue capelet shifting with the movement. "I know the truth. They lied. Every insult, every accusation, every word meant to tear you down—it was all a lie. And I know that. I saw it. Not a single thing they said was true."

"You already knew that, didn’t you?" A hand presses to her chest, black gloves tightening into fists. "But maybe… it matters that someone else knows too. That someone stood in that arena, heard their laughter, saw their scorn—and wasn’t fooled."

2nd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Barghest. Gloucester. A Knight’s Plea.

Under Morgan’s command, Barghest razed the Welsh forest to ash—erasing the home of Oberon’s friends from existence. Furious, Artoria lashed out, condemning her as unworthy of Gawain’s name—a hypocrite who claimed to protect fairies yet slaughtered them without thought.

But revealing Barghest’s True Name only strengthened her, and in the ensuing battle, Artoria and Master were defeated. Yet their words shook her. She spared them—an act that branded her a traitor.

Now, beneath the silver glow of the Faerium, the dazzling fairy ball, they meet again. "Hail, Master of Chaldea." Barghest greets them on the moonlit terrace, standing tall in an elegant black evening gown that clings to her muscular, voluptuous body. "I should not be here—technically speaking." She crosses her arms beneath her large breasts. "I am bound to Manchester under house arrest… but there is something I must discuss with you."

"Oh? What’s wrong?" Artoria folds her arms—blue capelet shifting over her small figure. "Come to confess your crimes? Regret being a knight in name only? Or maybe you finally realized you’re just a butcher in armor—killing those you swore to protect without a second thought?"

"Ah… my apologies." Barghest blinks down at Artoria, heterochromatic blue-and-red eyes calm. "I did not see you there… You are quite small." There is no mockery in her voice. "But yes… I have something to say to you as well."

"You are right." She exhales slowly—long blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders. "I am no true Gawain. I have done terrible things… and I do not deserve forgiveness." Her thick thighs press together slightly as she lowers her head. "Yet even so… I must ask for it."

"A-aah… w-wait!" Artoria flails slightly—black gloves tightening at her sides. "D-don’t get all self-loathing on me now! That’s my thing!!" She huffs before mumbling, "Bageko…" Then shakes her head quickly—blonde twintails bouncing. "L-look! Everyone makes mistakes! What matters is making things right!" Dark blue tights stretch over slender legs as she steps forward. "I’ve heard good things about you—you just need to listen to your heart more! Not blind orders!"

"…Thank you." Barghest straightens slightly, hands resting against the slits of her dress where they part over thick thighs. "I will take those words to heart."

Then she turns back to Master, expression serious once more. "Master of Chaldea… I have heard fairies can exist within the Human Order. If that is true…" She takes a breath before bowing deeply. "Please consider evacuating Manchester’s people. In return—I swear upon my name—I will never again raise my blade against Chaldea, even by Morgan’s command."

2nd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Melusine. Gloucester. A Knight’s False Love.

The Faerium is in full bloom—light, laughter, and elegance weaving through the grand fairy ball. Beneath the glow of chandeliers and shimmering magic, knights and nobles of this broken kingdom dance in fleeting joy.

"You’re beautiful, Melusine. I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful. You look like Aurora… but there’s something else… Something from Avalon." Artoria speaks softly, fidgeting slightly—black gloves curling at her sides, blue capelet shifting with the motion. "E-eto… I know it’s not my place but… Aurora is lying to you. Her love—it’s not real. It’s poison. You don’t have to accept that kind of love…"

Melusine closes her eyes for a moment—long silver hair barely moving, forked eyebrows twitching slightly. "Such words do not suit the Child of Prophecy." She tilts her head slightly, petite frame poised in an elegant silver dress. "I know she lies. I always knew. But tell me—what other love exists in this rotting world? If a fairy is loved at all… should she not be grateful? Even if it is false?"

"I saw you crying." Artoria blurts out before she can stop herself.

Melusine exhales sharply—yellow eyes narrowing. "Quiet. And keep quiet about my origins too… unless you want your friends to burn alive." She steps closer, silver thigh-highs gleaming under the ballroom lights. "That aside… how is that boy? Percival? I heard he defeated Woodwoose… Foolish child. He chose his side poorly."

"Percival…" Artoria smiles faintly—dark blue tights hugging her slender legs as she shifts slightly. "He’s kind… honest… A true knight in every way. He gave me strength when I needed it most." She glances up, blonde twintails swaying beneath her blue beret. "Honestly? I’m amazed someone so righteous was born into this world at all."

"Hm…" Melusine hums thoughtfully before smirking slightly. "Well, he would be—I raised him after all."

"W-wait what!?" Artoria stares wide-eyed as Melusine chuckles lightly.

"Ahh… You humans always act so surprised over simple things…" She stretches lazily—silver dress shifting around her petite figure. "Yes, Percival is my younger brother. And speaking of him…" A wicked little smile plays on her lips as she leans in slightly, "Did you know he used to sleep clutching a stuffed wyvern named Sir Chompy?"

2nd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Camelot. Morgan’s Throne Room. A Savior’s End.

The last time Artoria and Master stood in this hall, Morgan crushed them without effort. Even after ringing all Six Bells, Artoria had been nothing before her power—nothing before the First Avalon le Fay, who had walked countless pilgrimages before her.

But now, the throne room stands silent. Empty. And at its center lies Morgan’s broken body.

She was not slain in battle, nor felled by a worthy foe. No, this was something uglier—betrayal, humiliation, cruelty. Her body beaten and discarded like refuse, arms outstretched as if even in death she still reached for the throne that had long slipped from her grasp.

"…I don’t understand." Artoria stares at the corpse, green eyes unreadable beneath the shadow of her blue beret. "She was invincible. She was overwhelming. No matter how hard we fought, she never faltered." Her black gloves tighten around her staff. "But now she’s just… gone? Just like that?"

"I hated her." Her blue capelet shifts as she exhales sharply. "I wanted to defeat her more than anything. I wanted to prove I wasn’t just some failure pretending to be a hero." Dark blue tights press against slender legs as she steps forward. "But… not like this."

"Not beaten to death by those she ruled! Not abandoned like she meant nothing!" Her fingers tremble slightly as they clutch the hem of her short white skirt. "For all the terrible things she did—she didn’t deserve this!" She bites her lip—blonde twintails swaying slightly as she shakes her head. "Fairy Britain had its own heroes once—Totorot, the Knights of Beginnings, Black Knight Ector… and Aesc the Savior."

"That fairy was Morgan." Her black belt shifts as she straightens slightly—shoulders tense beneath white shirt with black buttons. "How is that fair? She gave everything to this land… and this is what it gave her in return?"

"I know what she became—I know what she did. But this proves it more than anything else." She grips her staff tightly. "This world doesn’t need a savior."

British Lostbelt. Avalon. Inner Sea of the Planet. Time of Creation.

Darkness stretches infinitely, untouched by time or space. A vast nothingness—silent, endless—save for the single point of light at its heart. And within that light, Artoria stands—her form unraveling at the edges, dissolving like mist caught in a breeze.

"I dissolve away from my fingertips. My silhouette fades into nothing. After this—I’ll lose my memories. And in the end—I’ll lose myself." Golden particles scatter from her hands, her blue capelet flickering out of existence, blonde twintails unraveling like threads lost to the wind. "The Inner Sea isn’t taking them by choice… It needs them—to forge the Holy Sword from this era’s humanity. I was just a vessel to accumulate them. To create a stronger—better—Holy Sword."

"This will definitely be an excellent blade. Like a beacon in a storm. A shining star that won’t fall to any evil on Earth." Her white shirt with black buttons fades as she presses what remains of her hands against her chest. "A there that is not here. A you who is not me. A sword worthy of you—the one who grants wishes."

"Ah… I’m glad… Maybe I didn't have any spring memories." She glances down—nothing remains below her knees. "But what I do have are memories of a wonderful journey with Master and all my friends! Ah… I don’t have a form anymore." Her dark blue tights shimmer briefly before vanishing completely. "By forging the Holy Sword—the mission of the Fairy of Paradise ends here. Artoria Caster’s journey—the one who chants—ends here."

"And that’s fine. I didn’t come this far because I didn’t want to die." Her fingers tremble slightly as they clutch at nothing. "But—I just wanted to know… That small blue star I saw… That small blue star that saw me…"

"I’ve been trying to understand it. And yet—I still don’t have my answer… It’s just… a little… disappointing—"

A voice like steel cutting through silence.

"—I see. Then you’re not done here yet."

"Huh? —Why?"

"No special reason." Senji Muramasa steps forward, arms crossed over his worn black kimono, eyes calm as ever. "I’m a swordsmith. Who do you take me for? I cut rules, I cut karma—I’ve dedicated my whole damn life to the sword." He smirks. "I’m Senji Muramasa." A pulse runs through the void as he strides toward the blazing core of creation without hesitation, heat licking at his body like living fire.

"Come on—get outta here! You’ve gathered your raw materials—now it’s time for the smith to work!" Cracks spread across his skin as embers rise around him, but he doesn’t falter. "Damn good forge you found here! This is gonna be quite a job… My thanks—Artoria. Being your bodyguard wasn’t bad work—but let’s be real: A tiger doesn’t change its stripes. This suits me better."

"No! Wait—I mean I’m happy but NO!" Artoria stumbles forward—but she barely has a body left. "It’ll turn you into ash, Muramasa!"

"Oh? Bring it on!" His smirk widens even as glowing cracks split further along his arms and chest, flames devouring him from within. "Striking metal—that’s what drives us smiths! And if it’s at a divine forge? Then it’s worth burning up for! Of course this thing’s eating away at me! Even if my Saint Graph goes up in flames—it won’t stop me from striking! It’s looking good—the mold’s ready! Let’s make good use of it!"

A sudden force grips Artoria—and she starts floating away! "Wait—why am I floating!?"

"Oh yeah—I took over your job." Muramasa smirks as he shoves her out effortlessly—but his hands are already turning to cinders. "You’re in the way now—so you’re getting kicked out. See ya, Child of Prophecy. Who says you have to give everything up? If you’ve still got unfinished business—you can keep it for yourself."

"But as for me…" His hammer swings down—the first strike sending shockwaves through the void itself. "This is where my job with those guys ends. They bought my life—it’s only natural I pay 'em back with it."

"That debt was settled long ago!" Artoria struggles against the pull dragging her away—but he shakes his head firmly, glowing embers trailing from his fading form. "You’re from outside this world, Muramasa! You’ve got nothing to do with Britain!"

"Yeah? This way, I don’t have to face the Alien God! Probably won’t ever see it again!" He laughs roughly as fire consumes him entirely—but his hammer keeps falling, shaping something brilliant in its wake. "Well—not your problem anyway, Kid—I like this outcome as much as you do."

"This was always how things were gonna go down… But man… Really wish I’d made myself that hairpiece though…"

A final strike—a blinding flash—and then silence. Muramasa is gone. A single sphere of pure white light remains—a crystallized essence of everything he forged—a Holy Sword waiting for its wielder.

"Muramasa!!" Artoria reaches out desperately—but her fingers grasp only empty air as she drifts further away, swallowed by the light beyond Avalon...

British Lostbelt. End of Time. Morgan’s Throne Room. The Moment a Star Is Born.

Britain is consumed. Curses gnaw at the land, devouring all that remains. Camelot stands empty—a hollow shell devoid of life, awaiting its inevitable end. And above it all looms Cernunnos.

The resurrected god towers over castle walls—a colossal figure of white fur and twisted antlers, dwarfing even the highest spires. A single crimson eye burns within the maw of its monstrous face, its silent curses suffocating all that remains.

Artoria Caster stands before the empty throne, preparing to connect with Morgan’s legacy. "He was betrayed. Offered kindness, given deceit. His priestess—murdered. For fourteen thousand years, Britain thrived on borrowed time, built on sin." She does not deny it. She embraces it. "Your rage is righteous. Your grief is just. Even the Calamities were not born of hate—but of obligation."

Yet even as she honors his pain, she prepares to defy him. She reaches for Morgan’s throne—for the twelve Holy Lances crafted to oppose this very god. As she connects, agony rips through her like fire in her veins. This throne was built for Morgan—a being of godlike power—not for a fledgling mage clinging to borrowed strength. Magical energy surges—uncontrolled, violent.

"Guh—! Aaaagghhh!!!" Her body convulses as her circuits overload—veins bulging, skin crackling with raw power, blood spilling from her eyes. But still—she does not release her hold.

"Rhongomyniad: Spirit Vein Closing Armament!"

Twelve lances ignite—a grand ritual meant to purge all calamities. A blinding light engulfs Camelot, turning stone to dust. But it is not enough. The curse remains unbroken.

"You’re wrong, Cernunnos! If you think Britain is only sin… if you think that’s all we are…!" Even wounded, even breaking apart at the seams, she speaks. "Yes—we sinned! Yes—the fairies were cruel! But punishment alone is not enough!" She grits her teeth against the agony tearing through her body. "There must be atonement! A chance to change! Even among sinners… there are those who suffer—who strive for something better!" She screams—voice cracking with pain and conviction.

She understands now. She was holding back—hesitating, clinging to life, to self. She should have died long ago—but Muramasa gave his life so she could walk a little further. Now? She releases everything.

She cannot wield Rhongomyniad—not as Morgan did. But she can reshape it—reforge it into something new.

Rhongomyniad formula → Excalibur’s formula. Camelot power → Avalon le Fae’s power. Spirit Vein artillery → Dragon Vein incineration.

A searing agony beyond human endurance floods through every cell in her body—as if reality itself rejects what she is about to do. Cernunnos’ curse reaches for her one last time—and in that moment, she remembers everything… Norwich… Morgan… all those she could not save… She never beat Morgan in life—not in power, nor in words—but now… now she can finish what should have been done 2,000 years ago!

"Revered deity…" The words are no longer a declaration—they are a prayer now—a plea for forgiveness, not just for Britain, but for herself. "Forgive us our transgressions!"

"Excalibur: Dragon Vein Burning Armament!!"

Twelve swords of pure light erupt—not to destroy, but to cleanse—to burn away the curse and reveal the god beneath it all. The blast tears through Cernunnos' form, stripping away 90% of his external curse layer by layer—turning malice into radiance, wrath into divinity. And when the storm fades… on Morgan’s throne, all that remains is a mistletoe staff—planted like a sword in stone...