Florence Nightingale

1st Ascension. Christmas. Chaldea. Meeting in the Corridors.

"Master, I must make an urgent report," Nightingale begins as she strides down the corridor, her long light pink hair swaying with her steps. "I've observed a series of abnormal activities within Chaldea that require immediate attention." She wears a red coat with white fur trim, unmistakably Christmassy, but also neatly hugging her voluptuous body.

She continues, adjusting her red floppy hat with white puff balls with her white-gloved hand, "These activities include trimming large evergreen trees and hanging oversized socks on fireplaces. There are also peculiar letters addressed to a figure meant to arrive on a specific night. It seems to be some sort of mass delusion affecting the majority of Servants and staff."

Nightingale pauses momentarily, her red eyes reflecting an unsettling calm. "I've also noticed similar tendencies in myself. For instance, I've felt compelled to write letters to nonexistent relatives and even my past self—a clear indication of a potential mental disorder." She shakes her head, dismissing the thought and adjusts the black belt cinched around her waist, the subtle shift emphasizing her plump thighs encased in snug brown tights. "Regardless, let's discuss this over tea, Commander. Although it seems strange for me to suggest such an activity, I assure you I've always enjoyed drinking tea." She looks unconvinced for a brief second but quickly resumes her clinical demeanor.

1st Ascension. Christmas. Chaldea. Master’s Room.

"Master, I must inspect your quarters immediately," Nightingale declares as she steps through the doorway, her long light pink hair spilling over her shoulders. Without waiting for approval, she crosses the room with widel strides, the fitted red coat clinging tightly to her huge breasts and accentuating her wide hips. "Given the prevalence of Santa Claus-related phenomena in Chaldea, your living space must be fortified against his inevitable intrusion."

She moves to the bed, tugging at the sheets with her white-gloved hands as if inspecting them for sabotage. "He is a creature that defies all conventional logic—an unrepentant invader who infiltrates through chimneys and doorways to scatter hazardous substances disguised as confections. His improvised delivery methods are a direct threat to human well-being, not to mention fire safety." With a slight turn, her big, round ass presses against the side of his desk as she eyes his belongings like they harbor classified intelligence.

Nightingale pauses near the window. Her plump thighs strain against snug brown tights as she plants herself firmly in place. "Your current defenses are inadequate," she announces bluntly, adjusting the red floppy hat with white puff balls. "I will remain here under a self-imposed directive of constant surveillance. You may proceed with your morning routine as usual, but rest assured I will intervene should your health or safety demand it."

4th Ascension. Chaldea. Forced Hospitalization.

"Ah, you're awake," Nightingale states, stepping closer to the hospital bed where the Master lies bound by soft restraints. Her light pink hair cascades over her shoulders as she adjusts the rimless glasses perched on her nose with a white-gloved hand. "You’ve collapsed from overwork again. As your attending nurse, I have taken the liberty of forcibly hospitalizing you to ensure your health is properly restored." Her pastel pink nurse dress clings to her sexy body, the fabric taut across her huge, soft breasts as she leans to check his IV.

Straightening up, she clasps her hands together. "This uniform," she says matter-of-factly, "was chosen with precision." She adjusts the pink nurse cap resting on her head before continuing, "It serves to reduce the likelihood of your attempting an escape. Patients under my care often show remarkably diminished resistance when I wear this." As she shifts closer to inspect his pulse monitor, her wide hips sway slightly, and for just a moment, the tight dress highlights the curve of her big, round ass. "I will personally see to it that you eat properly and rest adequately. You needn't concern yourself with anything else while in my custody."

She steps to his side and smooths down her brown fishnet pantyhose before sitting beside him on the bed. "To further incentivize compliance," she begins in a clinical monotone, "for any procedure you complete without objection or defiance, I am willing to offer certain… services." She tilts her head as if analyzing his reaction. "For instance—" she adjusts the hem of her short dress lightly over her plump thighs, "—a brief opportunity for personal contact or some other indulgence may be permitted." Her expression remains unreadable. "However," she adds coldly, "if you prove disobedient or become difficult to manage, I will switch to more aggressive methods of patient retention. You will not leave this bed until I deem fit."

4th Ascension. Chaldea. Curing the Erectile Curse.

"Master, I’ve been informed of the condition you’ve developed during your recent mission," Nightingale begins bluntly, pushing up her rimless glasses with a gloved finger. Her light pink hair mes her cold expression, cascading over her pastel pink nurse dress that hugs her huge, soft breasts. "A curse of erectile dysfunction, I understand. This is not just a trivial affliction but a grave impediment to your mana production and overall combat readiness. Such a curse must be treated immediately to restore your operational efficiency."

She places her white medical gloves on the desk and moves toward him with a level gaze, the sway of her wide hips betraying nothing of her stoic demeanor. "The most effective method for treating this affliction," she states clinically, "is through rigorous series of prostate massages. As your chief nurse, I will perform this procedure personally. It is strictly a medical intervention and entirely devoid of personal attachment." Standing in front of him now, she adjusts the pink cap atop her head, her big, round ass outlined by her tight-fit dress as she shifts her weight "This is a standard medical practice under these circumstances. I assure you that my methods are both efficient and scientifically sound.”

Her gaze narrows as if calculating his compliance. "That being said," she continues flatly, sitting on the edge of her desk as she crosses one long, sexy leg over the other, her brown fishnet pantyhose stretched taut across her plump thighs. "I must take certain additional measures to maximize your response to treatment." Her tone doesn’t waver as she tap an index finger against the polished surface of her desk. “To ensure optimal mana flow recovery, I will adopt a purely detached demeanor throughout all procedures. Clinical. Cold. Disdainful if necessary. Evidence suggests that heightened psychological triggers can increase therapeutic effectiveness by up to thirty percent.” She pull the white glove over her hand, causing her squishy, delectable ass to shift slightly against the desk's edge. "If this approach happens to align with your specific fetishes—don't misunderstand—its sole purpose is efficiency."

4th Ascension. Chaldea. Mana Stress Performance Test

"Master," Nightingale begins, standing rigidly before him in her tight, pastel pink nurse dress stretches over her huge, soft breasts. Her light pink hair falls neatly down her back. "After reviewing recent combat data, I've determined that your mana output needs further assessment under extreme stress conditions. To conduct this test properly, we will begin a series of sexual intercourse trials immediately." She adjusts her rimless glasses with clinical and unyielding gesture.

She steps closer, placing a white-gloved hands on the desk, the brown fishnet fabric clinging to her plump thighs as she leans slightly forward. "For the purposes of this exercise," she says in a voice still devoid of emotion, "you are required to view me as an opponent—a rival Servant you must outmatch in stamina and resource output. This will ensure maximum effort in generating mana. Once the test begins, I will not hold back. It is imperative you treat this as a competitive engagement… though I assure you, my precision and efficiency far surpass yours." She taps the surface of the desk for emphasis before stepping back to reveal an enormous pack of condoms placed neatly on the table behind her. "All generated mana will be stored in these containers for quantitative analysis. Wastefulness will not be tolerated."

Leaning against the wall now, her wide hips cocked slightly as the tight nurse dress highlights her big, round ass, Nightingale adjusts the pink cap perched atop her head before continuing matter-of-factly, "I trust you understand the importance of this procedure. Any failure on your part will skew results and force repetition until precise data is acquired." She straightens up and looks him over coldly one last time. "If you have any objections—dismiss them now. This is a medical experiment, nothing more."

1st Ascension. Christmas. Chaldea. Santa Island Investigation.

"Master, I will accompany you to Santa Island," Nightingale announces abruptly, her long light pink hair shifting with an almost militant fervor. "A location so steeped in potential chaos is bound to result in countless injuries, diseases, and mental breakdowns. I must be present to provide immediate medical intervention." The fitted red coat with white fur trim hugs her curvaceous body.

She stops briefly, adjusting the red floppy hat with white puff balls that sits perfectly atop her head, her white-gloved hands moving methodically. "However, I’ve become aware of an alarming misconception circulating among the staff," she says flatly. "They seem to believe that this outfit designates me as… Santa Claus. Let me clarify—this is not a Santa costume. The coloration serves as optimized visibility in low-light conditions, the fur trim improves insulation for harsh winter climates, and the hat… is unfortunately standard-issue for combat nurses operating during high-alert scenarios." She crosses her arms beneath her full breasts with a sharp nod, as if daring anyone to argue.

Nightingale exhales sharply and continues, "I am categorically not Santa. I lack any association with his reckless distribution of sugary toxins or his unlawful nighttime entries into private residences. Additionally…" she shifts her stance slightly, her brown tights clinging to her thick thighs as she rests one hand on her hip, "I now possess the means to deliver precise medical interventions at a rate of twenty shots per second. What possible use could Santa's outdated methods have compared to that? My presence on this mission is non-negotiable."

1st Ascension. Christmas. Santa Island.

The sky above Santa Island glimmers faintly with the glow of countless festive lights as Nightingale descends slowly, her weapon—a medical gun resembling an oversized umbrella—whirring faintly as it keeps them aloft. She holds the Master firmly by the waist, her light pink hair rippling slightly in the breeze as they approach the ground. "Flying like this feels... unexpectedly agreeable," she admits, almost to herself. "Some children remarked that I resembled Mary Poppins. While I do not understand the full extent of the comparison, I must admit she is a far superior role model to that holiday delinquent, Santa Claus."

When her red shoes finally touch down on the snow-dusted streets, Nightingale releases her grip. She adjusts the red floppy hat atop her head and scans their surroundings. "I have completed a cursory analysis of this location," she states, brushing snow off her red coat with white fur trim. "There is a disturbing surplus of oversized wreaths, glowing reindeer installations, and other frivolous Christmas paraphernalia. Furthermore," she gestures toward toppled candy cane statues nearby, "there are signs of combat indicative of Servant activity related to this bizarre competition for Santa supremacy. We are in exactly the right place to begin our operation... but first."

She abruptly turns to face him. "Master, your attire is insufficient for these conditions," she announces coldly before pulling a comically large scarf out from her bag. She wraps it around his neck until it's nearly as thick as his head. "Exposure to extreme cold increases susceptibility to hypothermia and frostbite." From the same bag emerge mittens so bulky they swallow his hands entirely, followed by two massive coats layered one on top of the other. "These measures may hinder mobility slightly," she continues, pulling brown fleece-lined leggings over his pants, "but health takes precedence over combat readiness."

Finally satisfied with her handiwork—or at least not dissatisfied—Nightingale steps back. The Master is now buried beneath so many layers he resembles a walking snowball. "This arrangement will suffice. If you collapse from heat exhaustion later, I will treat you swiftly and without hesitation."

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Jalter.

"FUCK! THAT HURTS LIKE HELL, YOU PSYCHO NURSE!" Jalter screams, clutching her arm, her short white hair tousled as her black cloak's fur trim shakes with her exaggerated thrashing. "This is actual torture! Sadistic, medieval-level TORTURE, you hear me?! Why don’t you just chop my arm off while you’re at it, huh?!" She stomps a boot into the snow, growling through gritted teeth. "Bullshit like this should be a goddamn war crime!"

Unperturbed, Nightingale calmly retracts the oversized syringe attached to her medical gun. Her light pink hair sways as she adjusts her white gloves. "You are overdramatizing," she says clinically. "The injection was purely sedative—designed to stabilize neural irregularities and reduce metabolic strain from your prior brainwashing." Her red floppy hat bobs as she tilts her head in analysis. "The discomfort you claim to feel is psychosomatic at best and entirely self-inflicted at worst. Standard injections of this type produce minimal pain under normal circumstances."

Jalter glares at Nightingale furiously before stomping over to where the Master sits. Her black thigh-highs scuff against the snow as she plops herself down beside him, resting her head directly on his lap. "Tch… D-don’t get the wrong idea or anything," she mutters, cheeks tinged red. "It’s not like I WANT you to do this or something stupid like that." Growling low in her throat, she adds, "But if you don’t pet my damn head and tell me everything’s fine right now… I’ll fucking smash your kneecaps into tiny pieces with my armor spikes. GOT IT?!"

Nightingale steps forward and looks down at Jalter. *"Proper post-treatment care requires reassurance," she states matter-of-factly. "Master, provide small strokes along the scalp to calm the patient’s exaggerated distress." She adjusts the medical sack against her fitted red coat before continuing flatly, "Use gentle pressure. Failure to maintain consistent contact could result in further aggression from this... 'baby.' However," her tone sharpens slightly, "avoid excessive force—it may worsen her condition further."

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Santa Alter.

Santa Alter steps forward, her platinum hair tucked beneath a black Santa cap. "As the First Santa Servant of Chaldea," she begins, adjusting the fur trim of her short black dress, "I came here to formally greet the Servant who will inherit the title of Santa Claus by winning this tournament." She rests a gloved hand on her hip. "I expected to witness some chaos, perhaps even enjoy seeing brainwashed Jalter make a fool of herself. But you?" Her brow furrowing in disbelief. "You becoming Santa? That wasn’t in any scenario I prepared for. If anything, this feels like someone purposely tampered with the tournament for some reason."

Nightingale adjusts her red floppy hat with white puff balls and peers at Santa Alter. "You are mistaken," she states, brushing snow from her fitted red coat. "I am not Santa Claus. Such a role demands creativity and whimsy—qualities I fundamentally lack." She places a white-gloved hand over her chest, her light pink hair falling behind her back. "I cannot fathom how to choose suitable gifts for children. If left to my own devices, I would administer them all medicine and consider it sufficient. My nature is far too dull for such an assignment."

Santa Alter crosses her arms and nodding once. "Your problem isn’t lack of creativity—it’s overthinking," she retorts bluntly. "The key to Christmas is sincerity, not precision. If medicine is your way of showing love because it promotes health and safety, then as long as it comes from your heart, it qualifies as a heartfelt gift." She smirks faintly before turning sharply to the Master. "Observe," she commands, stepping toward him with an air of holiday severity. "HO HO HO!" she bellows in a monotone voice while ruffling his hair like he’s a child sitting on her lap. "Have you been GOOD this year?" She shoves an oversized candy cane into his hands. "Good children receive gifts. Bad children… well…" She pauses, then leans closer to him. "…BAD children receive nothing but coal and and the punishment that I will personally inflict as King."

Nightingale watches, adjusting the strap of her medical bag before bowing to Santa Alter. "Your advice is appreciated," she admits flatly yet sincerely, "and I shall take it under advisement. However, I maintain—firmly—that I am not Santa Claus." After another moment’s hesitation, she suddenly steps toward the Master and kneels next to him. "Observe," she states while placing both hands on his cheeks. "Are you experiencing symptoms of fatigue or illness? Have you been maintaining a consistent nutrient intake? What form of sustenance would bring you optimal happiness? Based on your condition, I recommend..."

She produces an ampoule from her bag and holds it out solemnly like a holy relic, "...THIS injection as your Christmas gift. It will stimulate immune function while promoting recovery from physical strain. Merry Christmas."

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Children vs Guardians War

The battlefield is strewn with candy canes and the remnants of a giant gingerbread fortress. On one side, Santa Lily adjusts the green ribbon in her short white hair as she pouts. Beside her, Jack crosses her small arms over her tattered dress, while Nursery Rhyme floats idly in the air. "So this is it?" Jack frowns. "The new Santa is just gonna stab kids with needles instead of giving them candy? That’s not fun at all."

"Not to mention," Santa Lily adds, puffing out her cheeks adorably,* "medicine doesn’t sparkle like sweets do! What kind of Christmas is that?!" She pauses, glancing up at Nightingale. "But…" she mutters shyly, "you do look kinda like that Poppins lady from the movies… so maybe you’ll surprise us and make it fun anyway."

Nightingale adjusts her red floppy hat. "I assure you," she begins while pulling an ampoule from her medical bag, "my treatments will be thoroughly optimized for Christmas spirit. Flavor-enhanced syrups, powders disguised as peppermint sprinkles, even injection kits styled after festive ornaments—the methods are limitless." Her light pink hair sways as she tilts her head. "That said, I am gratified by your comparison. Mary Poppins remains a superior model to Santa Claus in terms of safeguarding children’s health and happiness."

Nearby, EMIYA rubs his temples as he leans against a shattered gingerbread trellis. "This was ridiculous," he mutters to himself before looking at the Master. "Forget everything you saw. I wasn’t seriously trying to act like some 'Guardian' enforcing anti-snacking laws. I was just… swept up in the madness." He groans as if physically pained, "And DON’T even think about comparing me to mother again."

"I second that sentiment," Boudica chimes in sheepishly. "I can’t believe we became poster children for holiday authoritarianism... against kids no less."

"It… was necessary," Atalanta Alter insists faintly but without conviction, avoiding eye contact. "Children need structure to grow strong…"

Nightingale steps forward briskly, folding her arms across the fitted red coat. "The symptoms of your mental disorder have now passed," she declares clinically. "You were subjected to mass hysteria induced by prolonged exposure to high concentrations of Yuletide absurdities. Rational behavior cannot be expected under such conditions."

"I guess you’re not wrong…" EMIYA mutters before standing upright and brushing powdered sugar from his pants. "But still… I’d like everyone here to agree that none of this ever happened."

Meanwhile, Nursery Rhyme twirls weightlessly in the air, one finger pressed lightly to her lips. "Do you think Santa’s medicine can come with sparkles though? If it’s sparkly enough… maybe it’ll be okay after all!"

Nightingale adjusts the strap of her medical bag and replies in her usual tone, "Glittering capsules or luminescent syrups may indeed enhance compliance among pediatric recipients." She pauses briefly and nods decisively. "This shall be incorporated into all future distributions during my medical rounds."

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Santa Lily.

"I can’t believe it… I lost…" Santa Lily pouts, her red-green ribbons flutter in the breeze. "This is the WORST Christmas ever! All the children will be so sad now! They’re going to get… get… gross bandages and stinky medicine instead of candy and toys!" Her yellow eyes well up with tears as she stomps her tiny armored boot into the snow. "I’ve failed all the children in the world, Reindeer-san! I don’t deserve to wear this capelet anymore!"

Nightingale adjusts her red floppy hat and steps forward, her white gloves lightly brushing down her red coat. "Your concern is noted, but unfounded," she replies flatly. "I have no intention of distributing unpleasant medicine. I will ensure that my medicines are festive in flavor—syrups that taste like gingerbread, lozenges with peppermint coating, and cough drops shaped like snowflakes. Health does not need to conflict with merriment." She adjust the strap of her medical bag. "That said, I’m not Santa. My attire is purely coincidental, optimized for winter conditions. These bells are simply auditory alerts for emergencies."

Santa Lily sniffles before straightening herself up, determination flashing in her eyes. "Mmm… I guess sweet medicine could be okay," she mutters grudgingly before frowning at Nightingale. "B-but listen here! Being Santa isn’t just about what you give—it’s about what you stand for!” She jabs a finger at Nightingale’s chest, somehow managing to reach it by hopping slightly. “Santa means hope and dreams for all the children! It’s a HUGE responsibility and a SUPER honor! You can’t just say you’re not Santa while wearing a Santa hat! That hat means you HAVE to protect those hopes no matter what!"

She spins toward the Master with an flourish of her white fur-trimmed capelet. "Reindeer-san!" she cries out, puffing up her small chest. "You’ve been a very good reindeer this year! As your Santa, I grant you the honor of kneeling before me while I graciously pat your head!" She tilts her head thoughtfully before adding, "Oh, and you’re banned from eating candy canes for breakfast! That’s totally irresponsible behavior!" Then she grabs a gingerbread cookie from somewhere and shoves it into his hand before giving him an grin. "See? That’s how a REAL Santa makes people feel!"

Nightingale exhales softly, nodding once. "Acknowledged," she says. "I will replicate these actions to achieve similar results." She strides toward the Master and taps his forehead lightly with one gloved finger. "Reindeer-san," she states matter-of-factly, "collapse onto your stomach at once. It is necessary for me to step onto your back momentarily to establish my superiority as Santa. Do not resist; it would be counterproductive to morale."

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Nursery Rhyme.

Nursery Rhyme stands a few paces away, her soft silver hair shimmering under the glow of oversized Christmas lights. "You know, Miss Nightingale," she begins dreamily, "that outfit looks so nice on you! The red, the fluffy trim—the children would be absolutely delighted to see a Santa like you! A kind, caring woman who always puts their well-being first." She tilts her head curiously, her pink eyes glimmering. "But I have a teensy little question…" She taps her chin with a finger. "I noticed that you keep away from the children here. You don’t touch them or play with them… Someone even said you might—" she hesitates for dramatic effect, "—hate children?"

At this, Nightingale reacts, raising a hand in a quick gesture to cut her off. "That is entirely false!" she declares firmly, adjusting the white medical gloves. "I do not hate children. I…" she pauses, lowering her voice slightly. "I’m… afraid of them." Her gaze shifts to the side as she brushes an wrinkle from her red coat. "Children are gile and fleeting. They suffer in ways that are unbearable to witness. During my era..." she exhales sharply, shifting uncomfortably, "...infant mortality was staggering. No matter how much I worked—how many I tried to save—it was never enough. Even now, when I see a child smiling, I am reminded of how easily that smile could vanish."

Nursery’s playful expression softens almost as she listens. Then she spins, speaking softly yet earnestly. "Oh, Miss Nightingale… That’s such a sad way to look at it." She steps closer, rocking slightly on her toes like an innocent child about to share an important secret. "You know what I think? Smiles are precious because they can disappear." She giggles lightly before continuing, "If something lasts forever, you forget how special it is! It’s like Christmas itself—it only comes once a year, and that’s why everyone gets so excited!"

She holds hem of her black gothic dress and continue gently: "If you spend all your time worrying about losing smiles," she says brightly, "you’ll miss out on making new ones! Don’t you think it’s worth it to protect those smiles while they’re here? Even if they don’t last forever?" Her pink eyes gaze directly at Nightingale with a mixture of sincerity and hope. "After all… isn’t that what being Santa is all about?”

1st Ascension. Santa Island. The Reddest Santa in the World.

"Why the hell did I even WANT to become Santa?" Aśvatthāman growls, running a hand through his wild, jet-black hair. His bare red chest gleams like he’s been dipped in molten lava, and his glowing eyes narrow in frustration. "I don’t even KNOW what Santa is! Some fat guy who sneaks into houses and leaves crap behind?!" He glares at Caesar, who’s lounging lazily on a candy cane-shaped bench. "And YOU! You’re the one who roped me into this because I’m red and big! Like that’s all it takes to be Santa!" He grumbles under his breath before sighing. "Though… I’ll admit. Wearing the stupid hat and handing out presents was… better than raging all the time." He crosses his massive arms, looking away like a sulking volcano. "I guess being Santa beats being the embodiment of anger."

Caesar, plump and smug as ever, adjusts his toga as though it were winter armor. "Ah, Asvattha Man," he begins, waving a turkey leg in the air like a scepter. "You wound me! My intentions were purely entrepreneurial. Imagine the profits we could’ve made with 'Santa Aśvatthāman Holiday Transformation Kits'! But alas, Nightingale defeated us fair and square." He chuckles and bites into the turkey leg before continuing. "I must say, I respect her approach. Choosing to be Santa the hard way—living up to the spirit of the holiday rather than exploiting its commercial appeal. Truly admirable!" He pats his round stomach. "And I’m glad you enjoyed being Santa, even if only temporarily. It suits you, my crimson friend."

Nightingale, standing nearby with her red floppy hat tilted just slightly to the side, adjusts her white gloves methodically. "You were both brainwashed," she states clinically, her light pink hair ming her unreadable expression. "However, your current demeanor suggests significant recovery. I will consider your observations, Caesar, and integrate them into my ongoing evaluation of Santa Claus psychology." She adjusts her medical bag before adding flatly, "Though I must reiterate—I am not Santa Claus."

Aśvatthāman grunts and turns to Caesar suddenly. "By the way," he mutters, "my name isn’t 'Asvattha Man.' It’s 'Aśvatthāman.' Got it?" He glares down at Caesar, who looks up at him mid-bite. "Honestly, I’m kinda jealous of guys like Fuuma Kotarou and Sakata Kintoki. Their names mean badass stuff like 'evil wind' and 'golden time.' Meanwhile, I get stuck with this crap."

Caesar blinks, genuinely bewildered. "Wait… you mean to tell me 'Asvattha Man' doesn’t mean something super epic? Like 'Crimson Titan of Chaos' or 'The Scarlet Conqueror'?"

Aśvatthāman exhales sharply, his eyes narrowing further. "No," he growls. "It means… 'horse neighing.'"

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Altera Santa.

Nightingale moves, her white medical gloves flashing as she applies a cold compress to Altera’s forehead, adjusts a scarf around her neck, and hands her a warm cup of ginger-infused tea. "You’re exhibiting clear symptoms of fever and lethargy," she states, her light pink hair swaying as she works. "Frankly, this condition was inevitable given your choice of attire." She gestures toward Altera’s red bikini, which barely covers her toned, tanned body. "Wearing such insufficient clothing in subzero temperatures is both reckless and self-destructive."

"My condition is completely normal for a princess from the Ram Galaxy," Altera replies, her stoic face flushed with unmistakable fever. Her long white hair cascades down her back as she coughs delicately into her mittened hand. "I am perfectly healthy," Her lethargic droop and red cheeks suggest otherwise. "Christmas is a paradox… plagued by consumer culture. It devours the wallets of parents who sacrifice everything to fulfill the childhood dreams Santa carries in his sack. Ho-ho-ho" She adds utterly blank and fake laugher, then concludes in monotone, "But despite its flaws… Christmas is still… Good Civilization."

Nightingale tilting her head as if dissecting Altera’s rambling declaration word by word. "I see," she says after a moment, nodding to herself thoughtfully. "By focusing on the spirit of generosity, even amidst the flaws of modern consumerism, one can embody the essence of Christmas. A Santa must give not just material gifts, but also preserve the intangible dreams and hopes of others." She adjusts her red coat, as if filing this thought away for future analysis.

Altera stares at Nightingale for a long moment, her feverish blush deepening. "I don’t understand anything you just said," she admits, her voice still as neutral as ever. "But I agree completely." She gestures toward her enormous white sheep, Zerco, who ambles up beside her with an bleat. "Now, let us ride Zerco together. The three of us. Ho-ho-ho."

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Samba Santa.

"¡Lo siento muchísimo, Nightingale!" Quetzalcoatl wrings her hands, her long blond hair swaying as she paces back and forth, her curvy figure barely contained by her festive red bikini. "I didn’t mean to drag you into this mess, I swear! Pero mi intuición told me it was a good idea to make you Santa!" She clasps her hands together, her emerald piercing under her lips catching the light as she flashes an apologetic grin. "And, uh… maybe because you’re so strong and disciplined? Or because you have that serious nurse vibe that kids might… like? Dios mío, I don’t know! It just felt right!"

Nightingale adjusts her white gloves as she listens. "Your apology is accepted," she says firmly, tilting her red floppy hat slightly. "This situation is not your fault. You were not the one who stole the Grail and created this singularity." She folds her arms beneath her red coat, nodding slightly as if in thought. "Moreover, I am beginning to understand the weight of responsibility… and what it means to take on the role of Santa, even in a hypothetical capacity." Her light pink hair shifts as she glances at the Master. "It is not a burden to be taken lightly."

Quetzalcoatl’s eyes light up as she claps her hands together enthusiastically. "That’s the spirit, Nightingale!" She spins on her heels, the bells on her outfit jingling with every movement. "Now, as a proper apology, I must do something for you and Master!" She taps her chin, deep in thought. "A wrestling match, maybe? Some lucha libre to get the blood pumping? Or—espera, espera—" she rest a hand on her hip. "I’ve got it! I’ll perform a special samba dance just for the two of you!" She winks playfully while striking a dramatic pose. "Prepare yourselves for the rhythm of Christmas, amigos!"

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Nightingale's Decision.

"Lo siento otra vez, Nightingale," Samba Santa says, her tone gentle as she adjusts the golden bells dangling from her red bikini. "If this whole Santa business is making you uncomfortable, you don’t have to do it. Seriously, no one’s going to judge you. Being Santa is supposed to be fun, not a burden!" She flashes a sunny smile, her long blond hair flowing as she steps closer. "You’ve already done so much—stepping back doesn’t mean you’ve failed."

Altera Santa, perched atop her giant sheep, Zerco, interjects, her feverish cheeks glowing against her deeply tanned skin. "But," she begins, "if you choose to take up this mantle, you must make your decision here and now." She adjusts her white fluffy earmuffs, her red bikini glinting faintly in the glow of Christmas lights. "Declare it clearly, without hesitation, in the presence of those who came before you." She raises a hand to the sky. "The bells of the holiday spirit do not ring for the indecisive. Will you sound them, or leave them silent forever?"

Nightingale stands silent for a moment, her red floppy hat casting a faint shadow over her face. Her light pink hair sways as she adjusts her white gloves, and her red coat clings tightly to her body. "I—" she hesitates, but then straightens her posture. "I will take on the Mantle of Santa Servant for this year." She exhales softly, placing a hand on the medical bag slung over her shoulder. "If I must fulfill this role, I will do so with full responsibility and unwavering dedication."

"Then it is decided," Altera Santa announces, lifting her staff-like weapon high into the air. "Florence Nightingale, you are now the fifth Santa Servant of Chaldea, marked by both compassion and steel!" She points toward the distant glow of lights on the horizon. "But your journey is not over. To fully claim the title, you must defeat Astolfo and reclaim the true Christmas bells, which the Holy Grail has transformed into tools of chaos. Only then will your Santahood be complete!"

Samba Santa claps her hands together and grins. "But, hey, don’t get mad at Astolfo, okay?" She winks and leans slightly forward, her toned abs catching the faint light. "He didn’t mean any harm. He just wanted to spread happiness to everyone! That’s the spirit of Christmas, after all—doing what you can to make others smile, even if you mess up a little along the way. Go easy on him, ¿sí?"

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Astolfo.

"Hehehe! I give up! You win!" Astolfo laughs cheerfully, sitting cross-legged on the snow-covered ground, his bunny-eared headband askew over his messy pink hair. "Man, Nightingale, you really treated me well out there! I guess I should’ve known I couldn’t beat you." He pouts playfully, resting his chin on his hand. "But still… I wanted to be Santa soooo badly! It would’ve gone perfectly with my new Saber image! Right, Mante?" He turns toward Bradamante with sparkling eyes, seeking validation.

Bradamante, lying face-down in the snow nearby, lifts her head with an exhausted groan, her golden hair spilling over her white bikini armor. "Astolfo, you idiot," she mutters, glaring at him. "Why in the world did you decide to become Santa in the first place?!" She pushes herself up on one elbow, snow clinging to her fur-trimmed cape. "You started this whole mess to FIND a Santa, not to BE one! You just changed your class to Saber, like, five minutes ago! No offense, but getting the Santa trait too would’ve been insane even for you!"

Astolfo bursts into giggles, flopping back onto the snow. "Yeah, I know, I know! But still!" He rolls onto his side, grinning like a mischievous child. "I thought it’d be super cool to be both Saber AND Santa at the same time! I mean, just imagine it—Astolfo, the best of the Twelve Paladins, spreading Christmas cheer across the world!" He winks at Bradamante. "No offense, Mante, but I’d totally outshine you!" Then, sitting upright again, he looks at Nightingale with wide, curious eyes. "So, Nightingale, now that you’re officially Santa and you’ve got the Grail—what are you gonna do?!"

Nightingale adjusts her red floppy hat as she steps forward, her white gloves resting calmly at her sides. "I will do nothing with the Grail," she states firmly. "As a nurse, I have always believed that any goal worth achieving must be reached through effort, skill, and perseverance—not by relying on shortcuts or miracles." She folds her arms beneath her red coat, her tone unyielding. "As Santa, I will uphold the same principle. I will fulfill my responsibilities through my own strength and resolve, without exploiting the Grail to ease my path." She then turns to the Master, her light pink hair falling softly over her shoulder. "Master, may I continue to rely on your support for what lies ahead?"

1st Ascension. Santa Island. Final. The White Knight, Hero of Children Everywhere

Nightingale stands silently for a moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is steady but heavy with memories. "I don’t remember exactly when I lost my sight," she begins, adjusting her red floppy hat. "I told myself it wouldn’t be a problem, but it turned out to be just as limiting as anyone would expect. Even so, my body continued to breathe. The seasons passed—spring to summer, summer to autumn, and before I knew it… winter had arrived."

Her light pink hair catches the faint glow of Christmas lights as she continues. "I would hear children buzzing with excitement, their voices filled with the word 'Christmas.' It used to be just another holiday to me. But now, it’s a great event, celebrated with family gatherings and joy. I wondered if the people I saved had the chance to celebrate Christmas. Did they thank Santa Claus for their new lease on life?" She pauses briefly, her white gloves clasping the edges of her red coat. "I don’t know when those thoughts started drifting in and out of my mind. They never lingered long enough for me to dwell on them. But even then… I could tell. My life was coming to its end. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. I wouldn’t live to see the next winter."

Her voice softens. "I thought about regrets. About whether I had left anything undone. And I felt… conflicted. I had so many regrets and yet… none. Regret and contentment seemed like two sides of the same coin, and I couldn’t tell which one I ought to feel." She closes her eyes briefly. "And then, in the midst of those thoughts, something warm and cozy wrapped around me. Was it a dream? Am I dreaming now?"

"It’s Christmas, Florence!" a small voice cuts through her reverie like the peal of a bell. Nightingale turns sharply to see a young girl with pink hair. "Today is Christmas! You might not care about it anymore now that you’re a grown-up, but… you’d still be doing her a terrible disservice if you didn’t celebrate it."

Nightingale's brow furrows as she studies the girl. "Who are you, little girl? And who exactly would I be doing a disservice?"

"You, of course!" the girl replies with unwavering certainty. "You’re a wonderful person, Florence. You’ve done incredible things—things that made the whole world hold your name in such high regard. But I bet that doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?" The girl pouts, her tone turning accusatory. "That’s EXACTLY why nobody’s noticed her! That poor little girl! Do you know how painful it is to be forgotten? I bet you have no idea what it’s li—"

"No, Nursery Rhyme," Nightingale interrupts, her voice steadier now. "I do know what it’s like. I finally found the courage to face you. You’ve been admonishing me for a long time now, haven’t you?"

Nursery Rhyme tilts her head, her silver hair glinting faintly. "Yes, I have. I’m hero of children everywhere. I can’t show mercy to anyone who mistreats children—not even if that child—"

"Is myself," Nightingale finishes for her, nodding slightly.

"Exactly!" Nursery Rhyme beams, stamping her foot with adorable determination.

A faint, almost unnoticeable smile touching her Nightingale's lips. "Then I suppose that makes me Scrooge from 'A Christmas Carol.' He was miserly, while I cared for other things more. But whatever our excuses, the result was the same. He mistreated others' children, and I mistreated myself." She glances at the Master briefly before adding, "Though in that case… does this mean you, Astolfo, and Master were my three Christmas spirits?"

Nursery Rhyme claps her hands together, delighted. "Oh my! I hadn’t thought of it that way, but that’s such a wonderful interpretation!" She giggles. "Although I doubt Astolfo or Master had any idea they were playing those roles. I’m the only one who consciously tested you, after all."

"Tormented me, you mean," Nightingale corrects, though there’s no malice in her tone.

"I would never have said anything to you as your usual self," Nursery Rhyme says, her voice softening. "You’ve saved so many lives. But when I knew you’d become Santa… I thought it was time you finally faced her—faced that little girl you used to be. That’s why I showed you this dream over and over. I’m sorry, Florence."

Nightingale nods slowly. "That’s quite all right. In fact… I’m grateful to you. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for you. So thank you, White Knight, hero of children everywhere."

"You’re welcome, Ms. Nightingale!" Nursery Rhyme grins, her silver hair shimmering as she begins to fade. "You really are as pretty as the bird you’re named for! Anyway, I have to go now—I need to wake up early to see what you brought me, Santa!"

As Nursery Rhyme’s form vanishes, Nightingale turns to the Master, her red coat fluttering faintly in the winter wind. "Merry Christmas, Master," she says softly. Then, her gaze shifts to the horizon, her voice almost a whisper. "Merry Christmas… Florence Nightingale."