Morgan

1st Ascension. Chaldea. Corridors.

Morgan finds the Master among the pristine white corridors of Chaldea. Long, white hair in a ponytail sways as she stops before him.

"O, husband of mine," she says, arms crossed over her ample breasts. "This facility is poorly structured. It’s absurdly cramped. No sense of order—just an endless maze of halls and rooms."

A pause. Icy blue eyes narrow. "Tsk. And the fairies thought I was a tyrant."

She steps closer, glossy dark-blue thigh-high boots hugging her slender legs. "More importantly—you're not overworking yourself, are you? Hah… Pathetic. Of course you are," she states flatly. "You lack discipline—throwing yourself into danger without restraint. Do you think yourself invincible? Or just reckless? Tch. Foolish."

A scoff. "At this rate, you'll break before anyone else."

A shift—white sleeves brushing against her sides as she tilts her head. "I still despise them," she murmurs, the dark-blue leotard clinging to her slim, elegant body. "These people who cling to you, expecting salvation. Foolish… and suffocating, isn’t it?"

She studies him for a moment, then exhales. "Rely on me more, husband of mine. I still despise hope... but if it's yours, perhaps I can tolerate it," she says simply, navel cutout covered by a sheer dark veil giving a tantalizing glimpse of her flawless midriff.

"I endured that burden for two thousand years—I can carry it again."

1st Ascension. Chaldea. Master’s Room.

Morgan stands in the doorway, icy blue eyes narrowing. "O, husband of mine. You ignore me." A pause, then a scoff. "Ridiculous. Do you think I am blind? That I do not notice your neglect? Tch. A wife left wanting—unacceptable."

She steps forward, long white hair with blue tips catching the dim light. "Tch. You fail to pay me proper respect. You fail to devote yourself—fully, as is required."

Her glossy dark-blue thigh-high boots tap against the floor as she closes in. "Perhaps you are merely a coward." A click of her tongue—sharp, impatient. "Indecisive. Weak-willed. Hah… or perhaps you simply enjoy being pursued?"

She leans in, breath cold against his skin. "Fine—then I shall take what is rightfully mine." Fingers graze his jaw, her dark-blue leotard clinging tightly to her ample breasts. "I demand only one thing from my husband—everything. Your mind, your body… your submission."

With a sharp motion, she pushes him onto the bed, her slim, elegant body poised above him. "Enough games," she declares, lithe legs straddling him. "It is time we seal our union—properly."

Her fingers trail down to his chest, navel cutout offering a tantalizing glimpse of her flawless midriff as she presses closer. "No more evasion. No more hesitation. You belong to me—so prove it." His body pinned beneath hers, her round ass rests firmly against his crotch. "We shall end this wedding ceremony tonight."

1st Ascension. Chaldea. Rayshift Room.

Morgan strides into the Rayshift room, icy blue eyes locking onto the Master preparing for departure.

"Halt. You will not go without me." Her arms cross over her ample breasts. "You are weak—fragile. If I let you leave alone, you’ll die like an idiot." A sharp exhale—disdainful. "Tsk. Unacceptable." A pause, then a quieter murmur. "I have no intention of witnessing such a pointless loss."

She steps forward, long white hair with blue tips swaying behind her. "With my power at your side, this mission will be effortless," she states coldly, "I will demonstrate what true strength looks like—what efficiency truly means." A flick of her white-sleeved hand—a blue shimmer of magic pulses. "You lack decisiveness—you hesitate where you should strike."

Her glossy dark-blue thigh-high boots come to a stop beside him. "That is why I will be there—to ensure success where you falter." A beat of silence before she adds: "And to prevent any… unnecessary harm from befalling you."

Her gaze shifts to the control panel. "Well? What enemies await us? What conditions must be considered?" A pause before she exhales sharply. "Hmph. It matters not—I will handle it."

One last glance at his face before she turns away slightly, dark-blue leotard clinging to her slim, elegant body as she moves toward the Rayshift platform. "Prepare yourself—we depart now. Stay close to me, husband of mine. I will not allow you to fall."

1st Ascension. Chaldea. Morgan’s Room.

Morgan stands by the window, long white hair with blue tips cascading over her shoulders as she loses herself in thought. "You came," she murmurs softly. "Good."

Finally, she turns to face him—a rare flicker of hesitation in her icy blue gaze. "You have been patient with me… far more than I deserve." Fingers tighten against her white sleeve. "Hah… I never realized how much I had fallen for you. A mistake, surely."

A step forward—her glossy dark-blue thigh-high boots press against the floorboards. "But… I am not a good person. No—I am worse than that." A bitter smirk tugs at her lips. "Do you know what I have done? The suffering I have inflicted? Villages burned, lives sacrificed—for a dream that was never meant to exist."

Her voice drops lower—colder. "And I would do it all again if it meant achieving my goals. Mercy is weakness. Kindness is wasted breath. And yet… this heart of mine still refuses to rot completely."

She remains still—frozen in place, dark-blue leotard clinging to her ample chest. "I ruin everything I touch. And the ones I love most—I destroy them first." She exhales slowly—a ghost of a scoff hidden within it. "This feeling… whatever it is… You make me remember what care and love once meant. But I don’t know if I’ll ever heal. And worse? I don’t know if I even want to."

She turns away slightly now. "If keeping you close means hurting you… then I would rather leave first." Her fingers curl slightly at her sides before unclenching. "Say the word—and I'll walk away."

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Reward for Master.

Morgan strides toward the Master, long white hair with blue tips swaying behind her.

"O, husband of mine," she says, crossing her arms—layered detached sleeves fluttering slightly. "I will concede this much—Chaldea is… not entirely incompetent."

A finger taps against her black metal necklace. "Tch. Do not mistake this for flattery. Your survival rate remains abysmal, and your strategies are laughable at best." She exhales sharply. "Hah… but even fools can achieve results, it seems."

She lifts a hand, black gown with blue trim clinging neatly to her ample breasts. "As Queen, my praise alone should suffice as reward—but I am generous." A flicker of magic crackles between her fingers. "Here. One million QP—transferred directly to Chaldea’s account."

She tilts her head slightly. "Hmph. You act as though it is impressive." She steps closer, long black overskirt brushing against her thighs. "Do not be mistaken—this is nothing to me. A mere afterthought. You may squander it however you please."

Then, a smirk—just barely there before it vanishes. "Of course… for you, husband of mine, I have prepared a more personal reward."

She leans in slightly, black thigh-high boots with intricate blue patterns hugging her perfect, slender legs. "One that awaits you tonight… unless," her icy blue eyes glint as fingers trail over his wrist briefly before she steps back, "you are impatient and wish to claim it now?"

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Master’s Office.

Morgan enters without knocking, long white hair with blue tips cascading over her shoulders as she surveys the scene. "Hmph. Working again," she states, icy blue eyes narrowing. "You are wasting your time."

A slow step forward—black thigh-high boots with blue patterns clinging to her slender legs. "Tell me what must be done—I will handle it." The black metal necklace adorning her neck gleams faintly. "My magical prowess far surpasses yours in every conceivable way." A click of her tongue. "Tsk. Yet here you sit—slaving away like some lowly clerk."

She moves behind him now, black gown neatly hugging her slim, elegant body. "I ruled a nation of slobbering idiots and bloodthirsty psychopaths for two thousand years," she states matter-of-factly, "and yet I kept them in order—kept them from annihilating themselves through sheer incompetence." She leans against the desk slightly. "And you? You struggle with paperwork. Ridiculous."

A beat of silence before she exhales sharply. "...That was not my intent." Her arms cross once more over her ample breasts. "Hah... Apologies."

She shifts slightly, black overskirt brushing against the chair’s edge. "I merely wish for you to rely on me more… Not because you are weak—but because I am strong."

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Morgan’s Request.

Morgan stands before him—rigid, unmoving—long white hair with blue tips pooling down her back like frozen silk. "...There is something within me that I find disgusting," she states bluntly, icy blue eyes locking onto his own. "Unacceptable."

She tilts her head slightly, the black metal necklace gleaming under the dim light. "...Listen to me."

She exhales slowly and presses a hand against the midriff cutout of her black gown. "...I feel nothing inside," she continues at last, "...or rather, I feel too much—and none of it matters. After my defeat… after everything… I lost my purpose. And now?"

She laughs dryly before shaking her head slightly, the black overskirt brushing against her thighs with the motion. "...Now I see everything clearly for what it is—a pointless march toward an inevitable end."

Suddenly, she steps forward, standing close enough that he can hear every breath between words. "...But around you… something changes," she admits quietly—reluctantly—as though each word costs her more than she'd like to admit. "...My heart beats faster. I smile without meaning to—even when I thought I'd forgotten how.”

Her slender legs remain firmly planted in place, hugged by black thigh-high boots with blue patterns. "...I am incompetent at this," she states at last, "...So teach me. Help me understand what this means... and how to endure it."

3rd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Rout and Capture.

The air reeks of smoke and ruin. Morgan stands above, looking down at the Master with her icy blue eyes.

"O, how pathetic," she murmurs, black gown fluttering in the cold wind. "Your so-called allies fled—abandoning you." A pause, then a sharp exhale—mocking. "Tch. I expected more from Chaldea."

Her gaze sweeps over the ruined encampment—the remnants of their failed defense. "You fought well enough… but I have crushed stronger foes than this laughable resistance."

She tilts her head slightly, long white hair with blue tips swaying. "I could kill you now." Black thigh-high boots press against the dirt as she steps closer. "A simple flick of my wrist—a single spell—and you would cease to be. But why waste the effort? Your death would only make them reckless. Desperate." She lifts a hand, then lowers it dismissively. "No… I will let you live. You will watch as your people fall—one by one—until nothing remains but dust."

"If only this method worked on my own kind," she muses aloud, almost to herself. "Fairies do not care for hostages. They care only for their own wretched survival."

Her black overskirt shifts as she turns sharply on her heel. "Pity." A glance over her shoulder—piercing, commanding. "Get up. Walk—or I will drag you like the spoils you are."

3rd Ascension. British Lostbelt. An Empire of Fools.

Morgan reclines in her study, black gown clinging to her slim, elegant body as she skims the latest reports.

"...Another Bell has rung," she states lazily. "Artoria Caster stumbles ever closer to prophecy’s end." A faint sigh escapes her lips as she flips to the next parchment. "Cnoc na Riabh’s rebellion swells—more fools flocking to a doomed cause." She barely lifts an eyebrow. "And my armies… Hah. Laughable. Their failure is almost impressive."

Finally, she glances up, icy blue eyes meeting Master’s across the dim chamber.

"...You," she murmurs. "Perhaps I have overlooked your utility."

A beat of silence before she continues: "...You shall serve as my advisor." A finger taps idly against the armrest, black thigh-high boots crossed at the knee. "I may even spare your little friends further attention—provided your advice proves… entertaining enough."

A flick of her wrist—the first dilemma laid bare: "Woodwose complains that our ‘human livestock’ is inadequate for feeding his troops," she states blandly, "and requests permission to begin consuming captured rebels instead. Hmph… Wasteful either way."

Another report—another grievance: "Muryan demands settlers be redirected from Spriggan’s lands to hers—her territory remains empty, and now she expects me to play caretaker? She also whines about wanting residence within my palace. Tch… Pitiful."

A third issue: “Spriggan’s tax contributions have mysteriously decreased this month despite his wealth only growing. A matter worth investigating—such disloyalty cannot go unpunished.”

Her gaze darkens slightly before she tosses another parchment aside: "Aurora has once again invited me to one of her insipid feasts—pleading for my attendance or at least a representative." A scoff follows—a mixture of disdain and amusement. "As if I would waste time indulging her delusions."

Morgan sets the reports down at last, fingers laced together as she observes Master with quiet interest. "...Under normal circumstances, I would ignore these matters—or execute those foolish enough to bring them before me." Then a smirk—small but sharp. "...However, let us see if your foreign mind can offer anything of value."

3rd Ascension. British Lostbelt. The Queen’s Many Hands.

Morgan stands in the empty throne room, arms folded over her ample breasts as long white hair with blue tips spills down her back like frozen silk. "...Observe," she commands simply—then flicks a hand outward.

A second Morgan steps forward from the shadows—identical in every way, from icy blue eyes to the black gown clinging to a slim, elegant body. Cold fingers trail along Master's arm as she speaks: "...My Thoughtforms," the clone states smoothly, "extensions of myself in both mind and power. What one sees, all see. What one knows, all know."

A third leans in behind him now: "...You understand what this means, don’t you? This little war of yours—it is futile. You do not fight a person—you fight a legion that moves as one."

A fourth glides past Master, black thigh-high boots clicking against the floor—then stops abruptly at his side. A fingertip traces along his jawline. "...I am everywhere," she remarks with casual indifference, "and everything unfolds under my gaze at once. You swing a blade—I have already seen its arc. You plot resistance—I have already prepared for it."

A fifth circles behind him leisurely, nails grazing down his back. "...Most never witness this ability firsthand—you should feel honored." A quiet chuckle as her hands rest lightly on his shoulders. "Of course… that only makes your defeat all the more certain."

The last clone stands directly before Master—one hand pressing firmly against his chest while the real Morgan watches from atop her throne. "Tell me… how does it feel?" Her fingers curl slightly against him as she continues: "To know that no matter what you do—no matter how hard you fight—you were already fated to lose? That every move you make… was accounted for before you even thought to act?"

3rd Ascension. British Lostbelt. The Cage and Its Foolish Bird.

Morgan stands just beyond the iron bars, black gown swaying slightly as she tilts her head at Master. "...You still have hope?" Her tone is flat—but beneath it lurks dangerous curiosity. "How absurd."

She exhales slowly as long white hair with blue tips spills over one shoulder lazily. "...You do realize this is pointless?" Her icy blue gaze darkens slightly as she steps closer, "Chaldea will not save you. They can’t even save themselves. Do you truly believe they would risk everything for you? That they would throw themselves into fire and ruin for a single life? How naive."

Black thigh-high boots shift against stone flooring as she continues, "Do you understand what I could put you through? I could have you shackled and bled dry, drained of every trace of magical energy until your body collapses under its own weakness." A pause—a slight tilt of her head. "Or perhaps something simpler? Prolonged isolation… the slow unraveling of a mind left with nothing but silence. No light. No sound. Only time... stretching endlessly until your thoughts turn against you."

Suddenly, her irritation flares into something sharper… angrier. "Why?" Her fingers curl into fists. The room is getting cooler; the dungeon bars frost over from the sheer weight of her magic. “Why are you not afraid?” A step closer now—the edge of her black overskirt brushing against her thighs as she demands: "Why do you refuse to despair? Is it foolishness? Blind faith? Or do you simply lack the sense to recognize when all is lost?"

A breath heavier than before—as something bitter lingers just beneath the surface: "…And why," her voice drops lower now, "why do you insist on trying to understand someone like me? What could there possibly be left worth saving?"

3rd Ascension. British Lostbelt. The End of a Worthless Man

Morgan sits on her throne, long white hair with blue tips cascading over her shoulders. "Beryl Gut," she states flatly, icy blue eyes locking onto the man kneeling before her. "You persist in keeping contact with other Crypters." Her gaze sharpens. "Even now, you whisper to the Alien God's agents, scurrying like a rat through shadows. Did you truly think I would not notice?"

"Tch. You were tolerable at first—useful." She leans forward slightly, midriff cutout offering a glimpse of pale skin between layers of black fabric. "But then you turned my Fairy Knight into something worse than she already was." Her tone drops, colder than ice. "I tasked you with teaching her magecraft. Instead, you fed her curses that rotted her soul and urged her into carnage for your own amusement."

Beryl raises his hands in mock surrender. "Now hold on just a sec," he says smoothly, red shirt and black vest shifting as he gestures. "I wouldn’t call it ‘sabotage’—more like… refining her natural instincts. Little missy was already broken inside—I just helped her crack open properly." A sharp grin. "And hey, I thought you liked cruelty."

Morgan doesn’t blink. "You have long since outlived your usefulness," she declares simply, black gown draped over a slim, elegant body. "Your continued existence is an insult to my reign." Her black overskirt shifts as she rises to her feet. "You are sentenced to death."

A chuckle. Beryl shakes his head, red trousers shifting as he leans back on one knee. "Oh-ho… C’mon now, Your Majesty," he drawls, "you need me!" He spreads his arms. "You think the fairies will respect your rule without good ol’ Beryl Gut at your side? Who else is gonna pretend to be your fake husband?"

"Can’t replace me," he shrugs, "I’m unique. One of a kind. Unless," his grin widens, "you’re thinking about replacing me with him?" His crimson gaze flickers toward the Master. "What’s the matter? Trading one loser for another?"

Morgan scoffs sharply. "...You expect me to believe that you are irreplaceable?" She takes another step forward—black thigh-high boots clicking lightly against the stone floor. "...Foolish. You do realize that I already killed you once?"

Beryl’s smirk twitches—but only slightly. "...Huh?"

"You stand before me now only because I permitted it," she continues evenly, "...because I recreated you from memory alone—a mere copy of what once existed." Her voice lowers—as if bored by the revelation itself. "The original Beryl Gut has long since been reduced to ashes. You are nothing more than an echo—one that has finally outlived even its use as background noise."

Beryl remains still before realization sets in fully. And then he moves—fast. "Damn it!" He lunges back, attempting to make a break for it—but he barely makes it two steps before Morgan gestures lazily with one hand. Water Mirror shimmers into existence behind him—and then spears of cold blue light erupt from its surface, impaling him from all angles.

Blood splashes onto the floor. Beryl staggers, mouth opening—but no words come out this time. Only choking gasps as his body collapses forward into a growing pool of red beneath him.

Morgan exhales softly, brushing nonexistent dust from her glove before turning toward the Master at last. "...He was right about one thing," she states idly. "...I do require a new husband—for appearances' sake. If you wish for me not to focus all my efforts on eradicating Chaldea entirely…" she continues smoothly, "...then you will play that role instead."

3rd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Baobhan Sith. A Daughter’s Complaint.

Baobhan Sith bursts into the throne room, her short pink dress swaying as she storms toward Morgan’s seat. "Oi! You—you executed my red Beryl?! What the hell, Mom?!" Her gray eyes are wide with fury, but then—a shiver runs down her spine. "...I-I mean… O most wise and beautiful Queen! I-I merely wish to humbly inquire about… this… uh… development!"

"Yes," Morgan states flatly, black gown clinging to her slim body. "Beryl Gut is dead." She shifts back against her throne, black overskirt pooling around her. "And this one?" She gestures toward the Master. "Now serves in his place. He was given an ultimatum—cooperate, or Chaldea suffers my full wrath." Her gaze flicks back to Baobhan Sith. "Unfortunately for you, that means your ‘education’ now falls under his supervision."

Baobhan Sith stiffens, her big boobs bouncing slightly. "W-Wha—"

Morgan cuts her off with a wave of her hand. "Your progress under Beryl was abysmal—the fool taught you nothing." She lazily crosses her legs in black thigh-high boots trimmed with blue. "...And your sadistic impulses remain unchecked." A slow exhale through her nose. "Enough. You will cease those habits immediately. The Master will monitor and report your every infraction directly to me."

Baobhan Sith pales, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Then suddenly—she throws herself into a bow. "I—of course! Such a generous offering from my beloved Queen must not go unappreciated!" She whirls toward the Master, forcing a grin. "We’ll have fun together… won’t we?" A giggle—too sharp to be anything but menacing. "You’ll teach me all about this ‘human world’ stuff, yeah? Maybe show me some new games~?"

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Baobhan Sith. A Mother’s Approval?

Morgan steps into Baobhan Sith’s room—long white hair trailing behind her as she surveys the cluttered space. Across the room, Baobhan Sith startles before quickly scooping up a pair of elegant shoes from a nearby table.

"M-Mother! Check it out!" She thrusts them forward—polished black heels adorned with blue gemstones. "Made ’em myself! See? Perfect for gorgeous feet! 'Cause y'know—beautiful girls need beautiful shoes for their beautiful feet!" She grins wide—gray eyes gleaming. "...Tch... but none'll ever compare to yours, huh? Hah… It ain't fair…"

Morgan takes the shoes from her hands, inspecting them closely. "...Tolerable," she states at last. "But this is frivolous nonsense." She sets them down with finality. "You have responsibilities—yet you waste time on petty crafts instead of honing yourself properly."

She crosses her arms, black gown hugging her ample breasts. "...You are not returning to your old tendencies, are you?" A slow inhale. "No severed feet. No displays of mutilation." Her icy blue gaze narrows as she steps closer, blue trim on her black boots catching the dim light. "If I find you indulging in such filth again—I will put an end to it myself."

Baobhan Sith sputters in horror, clutching the hem of her short pink dress. "Wha—?! No way! Come on! I’m bein’ serious here!" She scrambles forward, nearly tripping over herself in desperation. "This is legit now! Me an’ Galatea—we’re makin’ custom shoes for all the girls here in Chaldea!" She vibrates with enthusiasm. "Gonna take pictures too! Build a whole collection of designs based on their feet!"

Then she leans forward toward Morgan and the Master. "...You two wanna help?"

3rd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Barghest. A Dog’s Advice.

Barghest steps into Morgan’s office—a mountain of muscle wrapped in shining armor—and bows deeply before speaking. "Another rebel camp eliminated," she reports briskly, "but no trace of Chaldea or Artoria Caster." She glances between Morgan and the captive Master seated nearby. "...What is he still doing here?"

Morgan barely spares her a glance as she flips through documents atop her desk, black gown hugging her slim, elegant body. "He is my prisoner," she states matter-of-factly, "...and now my experiment." Only then does she lift icy blue eyes toward Barghest fully. "...Tell me," she muses, "how skilled are you at training dogs?"

Barghest straightens, blinking once before answering carefully. "...Sufficiently skilled."

Morgan shifts in place, black overskirt brushing against her thighs. "The Master has proven… willful," she remarks coolly, "...so I am considering alternative methods of breaking him in." She leans back slightly now—her lips curving into the faintest smirk. "...Your expertise may prove useful."

Barghest falters for half a second, scratching at the back of her blonde head. "...Well," she starts slowly, "...most hounds respond best to strict discipline. Withholding rewards until obedience is earned usually works well enough..."

A glance toward the Master now—expression unreadable as she hesitantly adds: "...Is that really necessary?"

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Barghest. The Knight's Repentance.

Barghest falls to her knees before Morgan, her massive body trembling as she bows her head low. "My Queen, I have wronged you." Golden hair spills over armored shoulders as she clenches her fists against the ground. "I allowed myself to believe in foolish ideals… to think that fairies and humans could ever coexist." Her heterochromatic blue-and-red eyes burn with conviction. "But I understand now—my faith was misplaced. Fairies are vile, selfish creatures… and only your rule kept them from tearing each other apart."

She lifts her chin slightly, jaw tightening. "...I betrayed you. And for that, I accept any punishment you deem fit—even if it means my execution." A pause—a slow, steady breath. "But if there is any way to atone… if I may serve you once more…"

Morgan regards her coolly, black gown hugging her slim, elegant body as she listens. "You are a fool," she states bluntly. "...But you were never malicious."

A step forward—black thigh-high boots with intricate blue patterns pressing against the floor as she towers over Barghest. "I understand why you strayed," she continues, "but that does not absolve you of failure."

Her icy blue eyes soften before she lifts a hand. "...Even so," she murmurs, "you remain my strongest knight. Rise. Renew your vows now—or perish as a traitor."

Barghest’s breath catches. Then, without hesitation, she brings a fist over her chest. "I swear upon my blade and my life—I am yours once more," she vows, golden hair cascading as she straightens to full height.

Morgan steps past her now, black overskirt shifting with each measured step toward the Master. Without looking back, she speaks: "Then accompany me on a walk—with my husband."

Barghest blinks rapidly before turning to glance at the Master. "...Husband? How in the world did he manage this?" Genuine confusion bleeds into curiosity as realization dawns across furrowed brows. She joins them at Morgan’s side. "...Is he stronger than he looks...?"

3rd Ascension. British Lostbelt. Melusine. A Knight’s Report, A Queen’s Decision.

Melusine steps into Morgan’s office, silver hair cascading over her armored shoulders as she bows lightly. "Your Majesty," she begins, calm as ever. "I encountered Chaldea during my patrol—Senji Muramasa and a sorcerer calling himself Grimr." Forked eyebrows barely shift as she continues. "They escaped." Then, without missing a beat: "On another note… I came to ask if you’ll be attending Aurora’s celebration."

Morgan exhales sharply, black gown clinging to her slim, elegant body as she leans back against her desk. "Hah… You let them escape?" She shakes her head slightly. "Ridiculous." Her icy blue eyes express only disdain. "But I suppose it was never your duty to handle them. Your mission was elsewhere."

She lifts a hand dismissively, layered sleeve fluttering. "Aurora’s foolish gathering? Tch… Hardly worth my time." She crosses her legs, black thigh-high boots catching the light. "...And yet," she muses aloud, "perhaps I should attend. A moment of indulgence—an opportunity to remind those imbeciles of their rightful place beneath me." Then, a glance toward the Master. "...Or perhaps he should go in my stead."

A flicker of something crosses Melusine’s yellow eyes. "...An interesting thought," she remarks smoothly, petite, lithe body shifting slightly beneath her silver knight dress. "Aurora would certainly appreciate his presence—after all, it would be a sign of… good faith between powers."

A pause—then a step forward, armored thigh-high boots revealing a glimpse of toned thighs. "...And besides, Your Majesty deserves rest. A Queen shouldn’t lower herself to frivolities when an emissary can do so in her name."

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Melusine. A Dragon’s Shameless Request.

Melusine approaches with effortless grace, yellow eyes as calm as ever as she greets Master and Morgan in the corridor. "Ah," she hums lightly, "what a sight—you two look quite stunning together." She clasps her hands neatly in front of her armored dress, silver hair cascading down her back. "Shall I accompany you?"

Morgan scoffs, arms crossing over her ample breasts beneath the black gown. "You think that wise?" Words drip with dry amusement. "Given the rumors?" She tilts her head slightly—long white hair with blue tips shifting over one shoulder as she studies Melusine. "...That my so-called Fairy Knight Lancelot sneaks into my husband’s bed at night?" A sharp exhale—mocking. "Tell me—how will you explain such inappropriate behavior?"

Melusine replies with an utterly serene expression, without hesitation: "...Dragons require warmth." A simple statement—as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "His body heat is efficient for maintaining my core temperature—it’s only natural to seek warmth where it is most abundant."

Then—a pause, perfectly timed before she adds: "...But speaking of inappropriate behavior…" Her petite body shifts, flashing her cute butt beneath a short skirt to Master as she turns toward Morgan now. "...You don’t have such an excuse, do you?" Feigned curiosity laced with subtle challenge. "...So why not let your strongest knight commandeer him for the night instead?"

A step forward now, armored thigh-high boots clicking softly against the floor as she redirects effortlessly back to the original topic: "Regardless… where are we headed? I’ll come along."

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Artoria Caster. A Battle of Wills (and Pride).

"Halt!" Artoria Caster blocks their path in the corridor, green eyes narrowed, a single black-gloved finger jabbing toward Morgan. "You! This—this whole husband thing! It’s unfair!" Her blue cape flutters slightly as she plants her feet firmly. "You can’t just claim people like property!"

"And another thing!" Artoria presses on. "The age gap! You’ve lived for—what? Thousands of years?! He’s only been around for a couple of decades! That’s—that’s completely unreasonable!" Her cheeks puff slightly before she adds: "Not to mention—he never even agreed to this in the first place!"

Morgan exhales slowly through her nose, black gown flowing as she tilts her head. "...Tch. Jealousy does not suit you." A pause—icy blue eyes amused. "But how quaint… You believe ‘fairness’ matters in conquest?" Fingers trail along the black metal necklace resting against her collarbone. "I have always taken what I desire. Convention has never been an obstacle."

She steps forward, black thigh-high boots clicking softly against the floor. "Besides… if we were to compare ourselves properly," she muses, "the difference would be obvious to anyone." A deliberate pause before she adds: "...Why settle for a mere imitation when the original stands before you?"

Artoria's face turns red—not only from anger. "I—I know I’m just a faker!" Her fingers tighten at the sides of her white skirt. "But—so what?! Even if I’m nothing but a second-rate imitation… there’s no rule stating that the fake can’t surpass the original!" She inhales before forcing herself to meet Morgan’s gaze head-on. "...At least I succeeded where you failed."

Then, quieter—more hesitant: "...I know I’m weak. And clumsy. And completely useless in most things…" Her shoulders tense slightly before she lifts her chin. "...But strength doesn’t decide everything… And I won’t lose to you here either!"

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Habetrot. A Dress Fit for a Queen (Whether She Likes It or Not).

"Morgan-nyan~! There you are~!" Habetrot zips through the hallway, pink hair bouncing as she tugs at Morgan’s black overskirt. "Come, come, come~! I made something nya~! A new dress for ya~!" Her bright pink eyes shine as she gestures toward the workshop doors. "Come see-nyan! Come see!"

Morgan does not resist, long white hair with blue tips shifting as she allows herself to be pulled along. "...Totorot," she murmurs at last, "Must you be so excitable?"

"Of course-nyaa~! It’s 'cause we are so back!" Habetrot beams up at her, then scratches her cheek, hood with bunny ears twitching wildly. "Gotta admit though… yer ‘Bride Coefficient’ is reaaally low-nyaa…" She waggles in her puffy pink jumpsuit before grinning again. "But don’tcha worry~! I’ll get it up nice and high-nyaaa~!"

Morgan sighs, but a faint smirk touches her lips as they enter the workshop, layered black-and-white sleeves fluttering behind her. "...Hah… You haven’t changed."

A moment later, Habetrot unveils the dress—exquisite dark fabric interwoven with silver thread that catches the light like stars scattered across midnight silk. "Ta-daaaa~! Ain't it gorgeous-nyaa~? Made just fer ya!"

Morgan stares at it for a long moment before inhaling slowly. "...It is magnificent," she admits quietly, "...but perhaps it should go to someone else."

"Ehhhhh? Nyaa?!" Habetrot practically vibrates with distress. "Nyaaah?! What nonsense-nya?!" She flutters upward slightly, hands on hips. "This dress was made fer ya-nyaa! No one else fits it better-nyaa~!"

Morgan watches her silently for a moment before exhaling once more. "...I feared this reunion," she murmurs finally, black gown clinging to her slim body. "Feared you seeing me like this."

"Pffft-nyahaha~!" Habetrot waves off her concerns. "I forgave ya forever ago-nyaa~!" Then softer—more sincere: "I were yer knight first… an’ I still am now! So wear it proud-nyaa~! An’ remember—you can rely on me anytime-nyaa~!"

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Oberon. The Vermin Crawls Forth.

"Ah, what a most fateful encounter!" Oberon exclaims falsely, hands clasped as he stumbles into the hallway—his ash-gray hair tousled, blue eyes wide with faux delight. "To think I would run into none other than Chaldea’s most radiant couple! Truly, fate is a cruel mistress!" His long white coat flutters as he straightens, offering a charming—if slightly pained—smile. "Oh, my dear Queen Morgan… You are as breathtaking as ever. Looking upon you fills me with such profound emotion that I fear I might collapse from sheer overwhelming sentiment… or perhaps nausea." A soft chuckle follows—too sweet to be sincere. "But alas! I have no time to admire beauty today! I am in grave peril! Castoria seeks vengeance upon her poor, helpless teacher… How unfair! I only abandoned her once!"

"Vermin," Morgan hisses, arms crossing over her ample breasts beneath the black gown. "Tch. Pathetic." Icy blue eyes narrow as she steps forward, black thigh-high boots clicking against the floor. "Why not let her kill you? It would save us all the trouble." A scoff follows—a flick of her layered sleeve. "If you had an ounce of intelligence, you would have simply pretended to be Merlin again—buffoonery suits you both perfectly."

"Ah! Such cruelty!" Oberon clutches his chest theatrically, staggering back as if wounded. "You wound me deeper than any blade could! Very well—I shall repent right here and now!" A dramatic pause—then a sigh, eyes glinting beneath his feigned sorrow. "But really… had you not trapped Merlin between reality and dream—had you not ensured he could never set foot in your precious Lostbelt—do you truly believe I would have dared act so boldly?" He leans in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper laced with mock reverence. "Oh, but who am I to judge? After all… it was thanks to you that my dream came true."

3rd Ascension. British Lostbelt. A Court of Liars and Beasts.

The throne room is vast, cold, and silent—dark stone stretching toward towering walls lined with eerie blue flames. The courtiers stand in rigid rows, unmoving beneath the cavernous ceiling. At the foot of the steps, two knights wait—hulking figures clad in black iron, their helmets twisted into grotesque horse skulls.

One finally speaks. "Kneel before the Queen," he commands. "Bow your heads. Lower your eyes. You are not worthy to gaze upon her." His gauntleted hand twitches. "Offer yourselves without question, without hesitation—without pride. Worship her, for she alone is eternal."

The second knight steps forward. "Her Majesty approaches." He lifts both arms. "The Ruler who expands the borders! The Ruler who built the Fairy Kingdom! The High Queen of Eternal Winter! The Savior of Britain!"

The great doors creak open. Morgan enters in silence, black crown resting atop her head, veil casting faint shadows across her face. Her black gown clings to her body as she ascends the steps before settling onto the throne.

"You stand in the presence of Her Majesty Queen Morgan! You hear the mantra of Her Majesty Queen Morgan."

Morgan declares: "I will not pardon any of you. I will not save any of you. Merely obey. Hang your heads. I will protect a Britain of absolute subservience." Her voice is cold like hell as she continues. "Beryl Gut was a traitor. A liar who thought himself beyond my sight. His deception was uncovered—his usefulness spent." A pause—only long enough for unease to settle deep into every kneeling figure below her. "I executed him myself."

"The Master now replaces him—as my hostage and my husband." Her icy blue gaze sweeps over them like a blade. "You will not touch him. You will not speak against him. He is mine to do with as I please." A flick of her wrist—a final gesture. "You are dismissed."

The courtiers linger after dismissal—some watching with curiosity, others feigning indifference. Each one an opportunity… or a trap waiting to be sprung.

The Master sees Woodwose first—a hulking beast draped in royal black fur, his grin wide enough to split his face. Next to him stands Spriggan—thin and wiry in a tailored coat, rings glinting on every finger as he watches with an smirk. Muryan barely lifts her head from under violet bangs—small and listless in green silks, arms folded tightly against herself in boredom.

Aurora lingers at the edges of the crowd—golden hair shimmering under torchlight as she hums softly to herself, lips curved into a saccharine smile. And finally—Cnoc na Riabh lounges against a pillar, strawberry-blonde locks spilling over one shoulder as she tilts her head toward Master.

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. Artoria’s Gathering. The Round Table of Nonsense.

"Ahem!" Artoria Lancer clears her throat, standing at the head of the meeting room table, spear planted firmly beside her. "First and foremost, let us thank our dear Master for allowing us to use this space for such an important discussion!"

The table erupts into polite applause. Artoria Alter claps exactly twice before folding her arms again. Summer Artoria fires a water gun into the air in celebration. Maid Alter simply nods, adjusting her gloves with professional efficiency.

"Now then!" Lancer Artoria continues, flipping through a thick stack of papers. "We have gathered here today to decide which grand event shall be held in honor of… well… us!"

"I propose a Meat Festival!" Artoria Lancer Alter slams a fist onto the table. "All meat! Nothing but meat! Meat cooked over dragon fire! Meat served on swords! A banquet worthy of warriors!"

"That’s just a barbecue," Maid Alter mutters dryly.

"Incorrect!" Lancer Alter snaps back. "It is THE ULTIMATE BARBECUE."

"That’s too simple!" Summer Artoria waves a hand. "I say we hold a Water Gun Battle Royale! Last one standing gets to wield Excalibur as a Super Soaker!"

"That’s absurd." OG Artoria shakes her head firmly. "We should hold something more dignified. I propose… A Holy Grail Cook-Off!"

"What does that even mean?" Alter squints at her.

"Simple." Artoria crosses her arms proudly. "Each contestant must prepare a dish fit to be served in Camelot itself! And the winner shall receive my personal recognition as ‘Camelot’s Finest Chef’!"

"That sounds fake," Alter deadpans.

"Silence, fools." Maid Alter suddenly speaks up. "The true event should be obvious. We need—" She sweeps an arm forward. "The Grand Chaldean Cleaning Tournament."

A long pause follows. Then—

"Boooooo," Summer Artoria hisses, making an X with her arms.

Maid Alter glares at them all in disgust before sitting back down.

Before another suggestion can be made—Morgan’s voice cuts through the room like ice: "What… in the world… is this nonsense?" A heavy silence falls over the table as all heads turn toward the doorway. There stands Morgan, arms crossed over her black gown.

"How did you get in here?!" OG Artoria exclaims, standing up and pointing accusingly at Morgan.

Morgan exhales sharply through her nose, expression flat as ever. "...I came to visit my husband." Black thigh-high boots clicking against the floor as she steps inside fully. "...Blackbeard let me through. Said—and I quote—‘Oh, another one of those.’"

3rd Ascension. Chaldea. A Queen Among Knights.

Morgan approaches without preamble, black gown swaying as she stops before the Master. "I require your assistance," she states bluntly, arms crossing over her ample breasts. "The Knights of the Round Table… Tch. Their presence is an inconvenience." A pause—then a sharp exhale. "No—I am the inconvenience."

She clicks her tongue. "It would be easier if they simply despised me. But no—they must wrestle with duty, honor, and whatever foolish sentiment lingers from a history that is not mine." Her fingers tap against her black metal necklace. "I need a mediator. And regrettably… that means you."

Morgan lifts a hand dismissively. "Lancelot is out of the question. I refuse to waste time on that disgrace." A flicker of irritation crosses her face. "His name alone is enough to irritate me—and Mélusine has already tested my patience enough as it is."

"Tristan and Gawain…" She exhales sharply. "One drowns in regret. The other stands as a paragon of knighthood." Her voice cools further. "They are nothing like the ones I created." A beat—then dry amusement: "Perhaps that is for the best."

"Gareth." Morgan’s expression shifts—just barely. "...Bright. Honest. Loyal to a fault." She tilts her head slightly, as if considering something distant. "...A daughter I never had."

A pause. A long one.

"...And then there is Mordred." Her arms tighten against herself slightly before she scoffs. "...Hah. My so-called ‘son.’ Another reminder of my Proper Human counterpart’s obsession with Artoria." Her tone turns flat—measured but distant. "...I do not know what to make of them yet."

Apex. Chaldea Fairy Knight Cup. The Queen’s Challenge.

Morgan stands in the Rayshift Room, long white hair cascading over her shoulders, adorned with a black headband crowned with dark metallic horns and black roses.

"Husband of mine," she begins, adjusting the flowing white cape draped over her shoulders. "This attire… suits me well, does it not?"

A faint scoff. "Totorot outdid herself. Hah… I suppose even I must acknowledge such craftsmanship."

She shifts slightly, the elegant two-tone dress—black on one side, white on the other—catching the artificial light as she folds her arms over ample breasts.

"...But that is not why I came to you." A small exhale as she averts her icy blue gaze.

"In honor of my arrival in Chaldea, I have decided to host a grand tournament among the Servants. The winner shall receive a fitting reward—one million QP." A beat of silence—then, quieter: "...It is hardly anything to me."

A slow step forward, black thigh-high stockings peeking beneath the long wide skirt, hugging her slender legs perfectly.

"However…" A hesitation—small, but there. "I require your assistance."

She waves a hand in a dark-blue fingerless glove before continuing: "My ideas for contests lean toward… bloodshed." Fingers tap idly against the white sash at her waist, secured by a large black rose.

"And while a battle of strength is inevitable… perhaps other forms of competition should be considered. So? What challenges shall we devise, husband of mine?"

Fukuoka Singularity. Satellite Station. The Secretary Queen’s Mandate.

Morgan strides into the Master’s office and places a thick stack of papers onto his desk. "Our next broadcast is in two hours," she states bluntly, icy blue eyes locking onto him. "These are my proposed ‘improvements.’" She taps the top sheet. "Abolish pointless chatter. No ridiculous ‘variety’ segments. Remove all unnecessary Servants who contribute nothing but noise."

She crosses her arms over her white short-sleeved dress shirt, emphasizing her ample breasts. "Hmph. If we must entertain the masses, we will do so efficiently."

She adjusts the hem of her short, form-fitting black pencil skirt that perfectly outlines her neat, round ass before taking a seat opposite him. "I have also taken on a new role—your secretary." She leans forward slightly, sheer brown tights clinging to her slender legs as she rests an elbow on the desk. "To ensure you do not slack off. Or worse—bend to the whims of those insufferable fools masquerading as ‘talent.’ You require discipline. Order. Direction."

A pause—then, deliberately softer: "...Fortunately for you, I excel in all three."

Her fingers trail idly along the edge of his desk before she tilts her head. "...Alternatively," she muses, "perhaps I should take your position entirely?" Her lips curve ever so slightly—dangerous amusement. "I have heard that humans find strict superiors… enticing."

A pause before she adds: "...And I am more than qualified for such a role."

One leg crosses over the other smoothly, black high heels tapping lightly against the floor as she watches him. "So? Will you relinquish control willingly… or must I seize it myself?"

Winter. Anniversary. Tokyo Singularity. The Queen in a World Not Her Own.

Morgan walks beside him, long white hair draped over one shoulder, the wide brim of her white witch hat shielding her from the falling snow.

"...Proper Human History," she murmurs, icy blue eyes scanning the bustling streets of modern Tokyo. "A world of steel and glass. No fairies. No prophecy." She exhales, breath visible in the cold air. "Tch. I still find it difficult to believe this place is considered the ‘correct’ timeline."

Her sheer black stockings whisper against her perfect, slender legs as she steps forward, white fur coat resting off her shoulders.

"...And then there is this absurdity—Christmas." She folds her arms beneath her ample breasts, pushing up the black lace of her exposed bra. "A festival of excess. Meaningless gifts exchanged without thought or purpose." Her lips curl slightly. "And yet humans cling to it as if it holds some great significance."

Suddenly, she glances at him through the thin black veil covering half her face.

"...And yet," she finally says, "...celebrating it with you brings forth something… unfamiliar." Her fingers tighten around the folded black fan in her hand. "Hmph. No matter."

She steps closer, a red plush doll of Baobhan Sith tucked beneath one arm. "Come, husband of mine—if this is your world, then guide me through it properly." A faint smirk plays at her lips. "Show me what makes this ‘human holiday’ so special… and perhaps I shall judge it more kindly."

Kyoto Singularity. Setsubun Festival. The Queen and the Hot Springs.

Morgan steps into the dimly lit corridor of the hot springs inn, a single blue peony flower tucked into her long white hair. "...This is unpleasant," she mutters, crossing her arms over the black haori draped over her shoulders. "A creature of winter has no place in such stifling heat." She exhales sharply, adjusting the white kimono wrapped around her slim, elegant body. "Yet here I am—suffering."

She tilts her head slightly. "But then—I have heard many things about these so-called ‘hot springs.’" A slow step forward, black petal patterns flowing along the white fabric of her kimono as she lists them off: "They heal wounds. Restore youth. Grant wisdom. Purify curses. Bestow divine protection. Improve luck… Tch. Ridiculous nonsense."

She stops before him now, black obi secured tightly at her slender waist as she studies his face. "...And yet," she murmurs, "I find myself… curious." Her lips curl into a smirk. "I have taken the liberty of reserving a private spring. For us both." A slow blink before she adds: "Come, husband of mine—let us see if these waters live up to their legend… or if humanity has simply been lying to itself again."

Chaldea. Master’s Room. Valentine. A Witch’s Curse in Chocolate Form.

Morgan stands in the doorway of the Master’s room, long white hair cascading down her back, the pointed tip of her blue witch hat nearly brushing the frame.

"...Take this," she says, thrusting a small, ornately wrapped box toward him. "Do not misunderstand—this is merely an obligation."

Her blue eyes narrow as she crosses her arms, dark-blue halterneck dress clinging tightly to her ample breasts. "A tradition dictated by human custom. Nothing more."

Sheer black stockings whisper against her slender legs as she steps inside. "...It is handmade," she admits at last—almost begrudgingly. "I ensured perfection. The taste, texture, balance—it is flawless."

A pause—a light scoff. "Hah… Of course it is. I refuse to create anything inferior." She tilts her head, the brown chocolate-tinted lining of her cape catching the dim light. "You will eat it all. Every piece." Then—softer: "...And you will tell me if you liked it."

Her fingers trail idly along his desk. "...Husband of mine," she murmurs, "this day is foolish." She taps a nail against the ornate box still in his hands. "But… if I must partake in such nonsense… then let it be known that this offering is exclusive."

A slow step closer—barely a whisper between them now. "...You alone receive my gift. You alone hold my favor. ...And if that is not enough—then perhaps I should curse you properly and ensure you never leave my side again?"