Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

Tristan hadn't expected a Servant to be hiding among the group of commoners—much less one that was, in his eyes, a very familiar face.

The instant he saw the black shield gleaming in the dusk, the knight's expression twisted slightly.

That unmistakable shield…

That fighting stance…

That spiritual signature…

Sir Galahad.

Or rather… what should have been Galahad.

Now, it was a little girl.

A very angry little girl.

For a moment, confusion, surprise, and just a hint of wicked pleasure rippled across Tristan's face. The reversal he had undergone had already unraveled his morality, and seeing an "old friend" turned into a petite girl only made his bloodlust deepen.

Still, the shock of recognition didn't last long—because Mash was already moving.

The next second, her shield smashed into his raised arm with a sickening crunch. Bone cracked. Tristan's cheek jerked to the side from the impact. His entire body spun 360 degrees in the air like a ragdoll caught in a hurricane before he slammed into the ground, skidding across the cobblestones and leaving a trail of blood behind him.

For a few seconds, silence.

Then Tristan slowly rose to his feet, spitting out a mouthful of blood with a grimace. Another gulp brought blood into his throat again, and his expression twisted with fury. The elegance that usually hung on his face had vanished, replaced by barely restrained rage.

He—a Knight of the Round Table—had just been humiliated.

In front of commoners.

By a girl.

By Galahad's daughter?!

"Unforgivable!"

He gritted his teeth.

"Even if you're Galahad… even you won't be spared!"

Mash stayed alert, gripping her shield tightly. But she couldn't help the little spark of satisfaction bubbling in her chest. Tristan had recognized her—not as Mash, but as Galahad.

That was proof.

Proof that she was growing. That her training was working. That her path as a heroic spirit was taking shape.

She was starting to become the shield-bearing knight.

But she wasn't naïve. This recognition came with risk.

Tristan was dangerous. He knew her—or at least the version of her spirit's origin. That meant he'd anticipate her moves. Her instincts. Her weaknesses. She'd have to stay one step ahead.

Still, no matter what—

She had to protect her Master and the civilians behind her.

Just as Tristan readied his bow, Leonardo da Vinci cast off her own cloak and raised her mechanical staff.

Don't be fooled by her beautiful, scholarly appearance—this genius among geniuses had muscle. Her modified automaton armor crackled with magic, and the moment she leapt into battle, one of her oversized fists exploded into a Knight of Rectification's gut with a BOOM, sending him flying like a missile.

"Don't think you can ignore me just because I'm an artist!"

Da Vinci spun her staff and fired a light beam straight at Tristan.

Tristan scowled, shifting his aim again. He wanted to focus on Galahad, yes. But the resistance fighters, the civilians—they were like flies, buzzing around the edge of his consciousness, begging to be crushed.

His reversal had made bloodshed intoxicating.

Logic told him: Focus. Target Galahad.

But his twisted instincts whispered: More blood. More screams. Everyone must fall.

He nocked another arrow.

"Mash! Don't hold back! Use the back of your shield to call him back to his senses—with force!"

Ritsuka's voice rang out.

Mash nodded sharply. She charged, her shield glowing with magical light, and swung it toward Tristan once again. He leapt back, narrowly avoiding the crushing impact, which created a crater in the street.

But Mash didn't stop.

With practiced precision, she kicked her shield forward like a flying discus.

The round mass of steel and magic spun at Tristan like a sawblade.

Panicking, he dropped an arrow at his own feet and detonated it, causing a fiery explosion that knocked the shield slightly off-course. He sidestepped, barely avoiding a direct hit, and sneered with frustration.

He was being toyed with.

Da Vinci followed up with a brilliant flash of light from her staff, forcing Tristan to retreat even further. The positioning was bad. The crowd was slipping away behind him. And Galahad—the girl version, no less—was still pressing forward.

It was all going wrong.

"I'LL KILL YOU, GALAHAD!!" Tristan roared.

That furious shout echoed across the battlefield—and was heard by someone racing through the city's shadows.

Lancelot.

The black knight skidded to a halt.

His face paled.

He hadn't expected to hear that name. Not here. Not now.

His son.

His noble, too-pure-for-this-world son. The one who had spoken final words of warning before departing. Words Lancelot hadn't understood at the time.

He had hoped… desperately hoped… that Galahad wouldn't appear in this world. Because if he did, there would only be one conclusion: father and son, drawn into opposite sides, swords raised against each other.

But now—

His son was here.

Fighting.

And judging by the furious scream just now, fighting Tristan, no less.

Lancelot sucked in a breath and broke into a sprint. He had to get there—fast.

He arrived just as Tristan began preparing another volley of arrows.

Without hesitation, Lancelot threw himself between them.

"Stop! Sir Tristan! I will deal with Galahad. You go pursue the other survivors."

Tristan blinked.

Then narrowed his eyes.

But Lancelot was already walking forward, hand raised. The signal was clear: stand down.

For once, Tristan obeyed, sneering as he turned toward the fleeing civilians.

Lancelot turned around… and froze.

There, standing not ten paces away, was his child.

Galahad.

But not as he remembered.

Not the son he had abandoned. Not the boy who wielded the shield of salvation with divine grace.

No.

A… daughter?

He stared blankly.

The same hairstyle. The same slight frown. The same judgmental eyes that seemed to say "Father, you disappoint me again."

Only this time, it didn't feel like condemnation.

It felt like… a daughter's pout.

Lancelot staggered backward a step, heart pounding.

In that instant, his brain short-circuited.

The only thought that registered was:

"My son… turned into a daughter… and somehow I'm less terrified?"

How? How?!

Same expression. Same attitude.

But when it came from her, it was kind of… cute?!

He was completely, utterly, catastrophically defeated.

Not by sword.

Not by magic.

But by a single glance from his daughter.

-End Chapter-

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