"This country will fall—sooner or later. Even if it endures for another hundred years, it won't change the course of this island's history. In truth, it's already finished. Britannia ends here... If I said that to you, what would you do?"
Just as she reached out to draw the Sword of Selection as she had so many times before, those words echoed in Artoria's ears. Her hand froze midair, unsure of what to do.
They were the words of her teacher, the Magus of Flowers Merlin, spoken to her at the port when she set sail for her final campaign against Rome.
What had she said in reply back then?
Artoria closed her eyes, trying to remember.
"If you're just making one of your usual cruel jokes again, I'll be angry. Britannia won't fall. That's why I'm going—to do what must be done."
Yes, that was her answer.
Before setting sail, just as she had during the ten years of her reign, she hadn't once doubted or hesitated. She truly believed in victory—and in herself.
The undefeated King of Knights had always lived that way.
Even if she lost everything. Even if everyone came to hate her. She would still choose to fight. That was the oath of Artoria Pendragon as king.
She offered her own fate in exchange for the chance to protect her people.
But...
The end unfolded just as Merlin had said. It hadn't been one of his usual cruel jests, but a truth too painful to keep to himself—one she had failed to understand at the time.
When she returned from the Roman campaign, what awaited her was a rebellion—led by the knight Mordred.
And with it, the final battle of the undefeated king.
She had fought with everything she had. She had given her all. And still, Britannia fell.
Unable to accept that her efforts amounted to nothing, unable to accept such a cruel fate, she made a contract—offering her posthumous self in exchange for the chance, as a Servant, to seek the Holy Grail and find a way to save Britannia.
"Your sister never told you the full truth."
The hooded Magus, his face hidden in shadow, still sat before her.
"Human history has already reached its conclusion. Whether the Holy Grail is tainted or remains pure, no matter the outcome—nothing changes."
Artoria pressed forward, "Why? If it's the true Grail, then surely—"
"I've already said it. Human history has its answer. To the people of Britannia, its fall was a disaster. But to the continuity of human history, it was a necessary turning point." The white figure spoke with a sigh, revealing the truth to the King of Knights. "With your death—and with Britannia's destruction—the last vestiges of the Age of Gods will vanish from the world. What follows will be a new era, one that belongs solely to mankind."
No gods. No beings above humanity to guide them.
For better or worse, humanity must write its own history.
If you insist on rejecting that outcome—no matter how pure the Grail, no matter how noble the method—
If Britannia still stands, then the flow of completed history will be thrown into disarray.
And when that happens—
"Britannia will be stripped away, cast out as a foreign distortion of human history..."
Morgan's words at the church still echoed in her ears. Barely half a day had passed, yet they remained vivid.
So there was no need.
No need for Artoria to offer her soul after death as some costly sacrifice.
No need for Artoria to chase a miracle that might rewrite fate.
All that was required—was for her to accept the outcome.
As if in response to that realization, the world around her shifted.
The sunlit afternoon vanished in an instant, replaced by stormy skies thick with clouds.
A torrential downpour crashed down on her, soaking her to the bone. Yet the Sword of Selection still stood planted in the stone, unmoving amidst the wind and rain.
In the distance, the clash of battle echoed. Beyond that, the forest was ablaze.
She raised her rain-drenched face and looked toward the small town turned battlefield.
There were no townsfolk. No knights gathered for the selection.
Only monsters and warriors clashed.
Heroic Spirits from across the ages, summoned by the Counter Force, had arrived in Britannia to carry out their missions.
Faces familiar and unfamiliar filled the field—
Some fighting side by side, others as foes.
"So this is... the Britannia that became a Singularity in human history?"
Artoria's heart twisted with pain.
She no longer knew which ending was more cruel—and didn't want to decide.
"Even if you created a flourishing Britannia, ended the wars, brought happiness to its people... in the end, it would still lead to the same conclusion: 'Even so, Britannia was destroyed.' Because everything has already been etched into the quantum record. Tell me—do you really know how to reach a gentler ending?"
The Magus of Flowers stood beside her, flickering like a destabilized anomaly. In the span of just a few sentences, his appearance shifted several times—
Gawain, Lancelot, Tristan, Percival...
And finally, back to Merlin once more.
"Why... are you showing me this?" Artoria asked, her head lowered.
She wasn't sure if she was asking her teacher—or the knights of the Round Table she took such pride in.
All she knew was that this place was an illusion. Everything she saw, heard, touched—was crafted to push her toward surrender.
That's why she had to ask.
"You already know the reason, don't you, sorrowful Red Dragon—Artoria Pendragon?"
Morgan's figure emerged beside her, her voice cool and calm.
No one here had told her anything new. This was all knowledge Artoria had carried within her, now laid bare through this vision.
The answer had long been carved into Artoria Pendragon's mind. It was she who had chosen to turn away from it.
But it wasn't that nothing remained.
It meant accepting everything. Accepting Britannia's fall, and recognizing it as the final result of her struggle.
And then, just before the Knight King could make her choice, the surrounding illusion collapsed once more into darkness.
When the scene cleared, she found herself standing in one of the rooms within Einzbern Castle.
The only change—
The bed was empty.
The warmth of rain, the glow of sunlight, the rough comfort of simple clothing—gone.
She was once again clad in her dark, masculine armor, the elegant figure of a woman king.
"Iri...sviel?"
Realizing something was wrong, she whispered in shock.
And then—
A thunderous explosion rang out from outside.
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / PinkSnake