Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

Of course, Mordred had her own little thoughts.

She only agreed to cooperate with Morgan and the others to confront the goddess Rongomyniad. If, in the end, the goddess reverted back into King Arthur, Mordred had no intention of continuing to support the rebellion—and might even turn her sword against them.

Her intentions weren't exactly subtle. Morgan, naturally, could read them loud and clear.

Still, at least for now, their goals aligned. And if, by some miracle, the goddess truly did revert to being the Arturia they once knew—if that Arturia woke up—then she would surely make the right decision.

And if she didn't…

Then Morgan, as both sister and judge, would issue the final order.

The Round Table would be broken—again.

Whether by fate or folly, Morgan had to admit one grim truth: destroying the Round Table was, unfortunately, something she had a talent for.

"Very well," she said. "Your words are enough."

Morgan rose to her feet and snapped her fingers. The shackles binding Mordred's limbs shattered in an instant.

"Don't overdo it," she warned. "Use your Noble Phantasm too many times, and even the collar and shackles won't suppress your rampage. You go too far, and no one will be able to pull you back."

She then released her familiar into the skies.

Everything was ready. If the enemy launched a large-scale assault with a rushed trap, they'd have no time to prepare. In that case—Morgan would call on the legendary Archer from the mountain village.

If you counted the full team forming around this operation, it was quite the balanced party:

A magician (Morgan), a berserker (Mordred), an archer (Arash), two assassins (Cursed Arm and Hundred Faces), a frontline warrior (Gareth), a versatile hybrid (Aslan), and a summoned powerhouse (Melusine). If they had a healer too, they'd be a textbook, full-class team.

What Morgan didn't yet know was that another unexpected attacker—Bedivere—was quietly targeting the goddess as well.

Put this roster into an RPG, and they'd look like a max-level raid party preparing for a final boss battle. The goddess, in this singularity, may as well be the Demon Lord.

While Morgan moved behind the scenes, elsewhere, in the depths of a ruined temple, a towering figure stirred.

Blue flames flickered in his eyes as he opened them for the first time in ages.

The Abyss of Death had already sensed the arrival of the fated one. Though the timeline was deviating from expectation, it didn't matter.

He would observe. And if the chosen one was worthy, he would lend his aid.

He would also judge the Hassans.

If any among them failed to live up to the ideals of the Hidden Ones—if any faltered, showed weakness, or shamed the name of Hassan—he would sever their head without mercy.

The man of destiny had arrived.

Among the group of refugees being transported to New Camelot for the so-called "Sacred Selection," hope was in short supply. Ragged cloaks, dirty faces, eyes dulled with dread. No one wanted to die. But few dared to speak up.

A few paces ahead, a cage of reinforced metal rattled on wheels.

Inside, Serenity lay slumped on the floor, her body bruised and bloodied—but still breathing. The wounds were not fatal, but they were enough to weaken her, enough to ensure she couldn't resist.

In the crowd, a frightened voice muttered under his breath.

"…What do we do? I don't wanna die. Maybe we should run…"

His whispers were desperate, half-hoping someone would agree—give him the courage to act.

But another man replied coldly, "If you want to die now, don't drag us with you. You think you can outrun warriors twice our size? Let alone that red-haired devil…"

The refugees' fear was palpable.

Yet among them, three figures stood out.

They didn't look particularly strong or imposing, but something about them seemed… out of place.

Not afraid—just confused.

And if one looked closer, they'd notice that beneath their dusty cloaks, their skin was far too fair, too unweathered for people who'd been living on the run.

A pink-haired girl with violet eyes leaned over and whispered politely to one of the nearby refugees, "Excuse me… we're from another region. Could you explain why this 'Sacred Selection' is considered a death sentence?"

Though startled that anyone could be so ignorant, the refugee still answered, explaining the horrors of the selection process with a grim expression.

Behind the girl, an orange-haired young woman frowned and turned to the third figure in their trio. "Da Vinci… what do you think? Do we run now, or wait to see what this Sacred Selection really is?"

The final member of the trio lifted their head slightly. Beneath the hood, a familiar face smiled—the unmistakable features of the Mona Lisa.

"Based on what we've seen so far," said Leonardo da Vinci, "our enemy here is most likely the so-called Lion King. Interestingly, this singularity seems to have stronger allied forces than we expected. Let's call them 'friendly' for now."

They had prepared to fight alone, assuming minimal local support.

But they hadn't expected such an organized, determined resistance. It was almost encouraging.

Though—Da Vinci thought grimly—she'd felt the same way about North America. And in the end, both factions there had become targets for Chaldea's correction.

Still… maybe this time would be different.

"We know the Lion King is the enemy," Da Vinci continued. "And since these people are resisting her, we cannot allow their strength to be depleted. That Servant they captured—she's likely part of the resistance. If we follow this convoy, we may get the chance to save both her and the others. What do you say, Ritsuka?"

The orange-haired girl—Ritsuka Fujimaru—nodded firmly.

She adjusted her hood, tightening it around her face, and melted silently into the crowd.

No one noticed that someone else had joined them.

An old man in a black robe, leaning on a cane, walked with deliberate calm.

No one had seen when he arrived.

But his presence was undeniable.

-End Chapter-

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