Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

The old man who had suddenly appeared was moving slowly—painfully slowly. His every step lagged behind the crowd, and as a result, he was constantly jostled and shoved by the stern Knights of Rectification marching behind him. A few times, he even staggered as though he might collapse.

By the time he realized it, he had ended up beside the girl named Ritsuka—though everyone called her Gudako.

Another push came from behind, sending the old man stumbling forward. Without hesitation, Ritsuka reached out and caught him. Noticing the cracked lips and heavy breath, she unslung the water pouch from her waist and gently offered it.

"Old man, can you hold on a little longer?"

The old man glanced at her. She had an expression so calm, so concerned, that it looked like she might scoop him up in a princess carry and keep walking without breaking stride.

He shivered slightly.

She… she really would, wouldn't she?

Though his face remained impassive, the old man couldn't help but think: If you're going to help an old man, isn't a piggyback ride more appropriate?

Still, the old man—despite intending to test the girl in front of him—felt a strange sense of certainty.

She would pass his test.

He withdrew his gaze.

There was no longer any need to test. All he had to do now was watch.

If Aslan had been present, he likely would've sighed with deep emotion: "As expected of you, Gudako!"

Meanwhile, back in Camelot, Agravain slammed a sheaf of papers onto the floor. The letter from Tristan had just arrived—and the contents made his blood boil.

Tristan had gone completely rogue.

He'd left the city without informing anyone. He'd captured an enemy Servant without reporting it. He'd created a trap for the resistance—also without authorization.

It was like being hammered in the head three times in a row.

Even the Lion King herself hadn't expected such a brazen move from one of her own knights. Capturing an enemy Servant and baiting the rebels? This was bound to bring them charging through the gates.

The situation had spiraled well beyond what anyone had foreseen.

Agravain rubbed his aching temples, then hurried to deliver a counter-strategy to the Lion King.

First: fortify the dungeon and contain the captured Servant.

Second: prepare traps around Camelot.

Third: summon all the Knights of the Round Table for immediate deployment. If the enemy came, they must be annihilated in one fell swoop.

He also accounted for the possibility that the rebels might bring their full force to bear. In that case, the battle would be brutal. Victory would depend entirely on preparation and response speed.

Looking solemnly at the Lion King, Agravain took a deep breath.

"My king, no matter what happens, your long-cherished wish must be realized. If we face defeat, do not hesitate to draw upon the full power of the Holy Grail. Even if we are forced to withdraw, we will make sure to eliminate every last resistance fighter. When that's done, you can suppress the Holy Grail at your leisure."

As for the other Knights of the Round Table… if they survived, fine. If not, also fine. And if any of them dared to stand in the King's way—Agravain would deal with them personally.

"For now, let us continue with the Divine Selection. That remains the King's highest priority."

Once all the orders were issued, Agravain turned toward the staging area, where Tristan stood leaning lazily against a wall.

His expression twisted in disdain.

"Tristan. You acted recklessly. If there's a next time, don't expect our help. Whatever trouble you bring down on yourself, you'll face it alone."

Tristan simply spread his arms and gave a languid smile.

"Then I suppose I'll listen to your lecture when I get back. But for now, I have to prepare. If the rebels show up early, I won't get to savor the feeling of blood on my hands."

As dusk settled, the gates of Camelot creaked open.

The tall knight with crimson hair walked forward, his steps echoing ominously across the stone.

Before him stood a huddled group of refugees—faces full of dread, eyes wide with fear.

Tristan smiled.

"Welcome to Camelot, the city of knights. You have all been chosen to participate in the Sacred Selection. I'm sure you've heard of it—but allow me to explain."

His voice was smooth, refined—even elegant. But to Ritsuka, who stood among the crowd, that voice was suffocating. This was not a knight. Not anymore.

This was a murderer playing at nobility.

As the resistance approached from the distance—having passed through the ruined city and entered the wasteland—Tristan seemed to sense something. His speech accelerated, words growing more clipped and brutal.

"To dwell in the King's holy realm is a sacred privilege. Those who fail the selection are filth. Tainted. Unworthy. Thus, I will grant you mercy."

Above the city gate, the light of the Holy Selection swirled, then hovered… and hovered… and hovered.

It didn't descend.

Not a single person had passed the selection.

Tristan's smile deepened.

Wonderful.

He could finally cut loose.

"Do you remember what I said? You are filth. You carry sin and error. Now return to purity—by dying!"

He raised his longbow.

From within the crowd, Mash flinched. Her heart pounded—not with fear, but rage. A rage not entirely her own.

It surged up from the soul sleeping within her.

Before she realized it, her body moved.

The cloak flew from her shoulders, and she raised the black shield high.

"What did you just say?! Sir Tristan!"

-End Chapter-

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