The first thing I noticed was the sky.
Not the artificial, unchanging sunset I'd created for the garden. Not the sterile white ceiling of Chaldea. But a real sky—deep blue, scattered with clouds that actually moved, sun that actually warmed my skin.
The second thing I noticed was the ground.
We were standing on grass, but it was wild grass. Uneven, dotted with dandelions and small white flowers I didn't know the names of. It hadn't been designed. It just was.
"Master," Mash breathed beside me. "Where are we?"
I turned around.
The door was gone.
Behind us was just more landscape—rolling hills that stretched toward a distant line of trees. No Chaldea. No garden. No safety net to retreat to.
"I don't know," I said, and felt that familiar god-awareness reaching out, trying to understand the space, trying to control it.
Nothing happened.
I tried again, focusing harder. Make a building appear. Change the sky. Create a path.
Still nothing.
"Master?" Cu was watching me, spear already in hand. "Something wrong?"
"I can't..." I gestured helplessly. "I can't feel it. The world. It's not responding to me."
Da Vinci walked a few paces ahead, kneeling to examine a small beetle crawling across a leaf. "Fascinating. Look at the detail. The individual segments of its carapace, the way its legs move independently. This isn't something you could have created unconsciously. It's too complex, too... autonomous."
Artoria turned in a slow circle, taking in the landscape. "This feels like the world I knew. The real one. Before Chaldea, before being summoned. There's weight to it. Consequence."
"Is that good or bad?" Emiya asked, appearing at my shoulder with his usual cautious awareness.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But we're here now. We should probably figure out where 'here' is."
We started walking.
It felt strange, moving through a space I hadn't created. Every step was unpredictable. The ground rose and fell naturally, forcing us to adjust our pace. The sun moved across the sky in real time, casting shadows that changed as we walked.
Mash stayed close to me, shield at the ready even though there was no apparent danger. "Does it feel different to you?" she asked quietly. "Being here?"
"Different how?"
"Heavier. Like I'm more... solid." She pressed a hand to her chest. "In Chaldea, I always felt like I could fade away at any moment. But here, I feel anchored. Real."
I understood what she meant. In Chaldea, I'd been a god moving through a dream. Here, I was just... a person. Walking across hills with other people. No special powers, no reality-bending abilities.
It should have been terrifying.
Instead, it was almost a relief.
We walked for hours, talking less as we went. There was something meditative about the movement, the shared silence, the simple act of putting one foot in front of another without knowing where we were going.
The sun was starting to sink toward the horizon when Cu stopped abruptly.
"You hear that?"
We all fell silent, listening.
At first, I heard nothing. Then, faintly—voices. And the sound of... water?
We crested the next hill and found a village.
It was small, maybe two dozen buildings clustered around a central well. Smoke rose from chimneys. People moved between houses, carrying buckets, herding small children, living their lives with the casual reality of those who'd never questioned whether they were real.
"Should we approach?" Medusa asked.
Before I could answer, a child spotted us.
She was maybe seven or eight, with tangled dark hair and a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She stared at us with wide eyes, then turned and shouted, "Mama! There's people!"
Too late to retreat now.
An older woman emerged from one of the houses, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked us over with the practiced wariness of someone used to strangers being trouble.
"Travelers?" she called out.
"Yes," I said, stepping forward. "We're just passing through. We don't mean any harm."
She studied us for a long moment—taking in our strange clothes, our too-perfect appearances, the way Mash held her shield like she'd forgotten she was carrying it.
Then she smiled. "You look lost. And it's getting dark. Come on, I'll get you something to eat."
Just like that.
No questions about where we'd come from or why we were wandering the countryside. Just simple hospitality, offered without hesitation.
The woman—she introduced herself as Mira—led us to what appeared to be the village's common house. It was warm inside, with a fire crackling in the hearth and rough wooden tables arranged in rows.
Other villagers trickled in as word spread of the strangers. They brought bread, cheese, a stew that smelled rich and earthy. They asked polite questions—where were we headed, had we traveled far—but didn't press when our answers were vague.
I sat at one of the tables with Mash on one side and Emiya on the other, eating food I hadn't created, surrounded by people I hadn't imagined into existence, and felt something unknot in my chest.
"This is nice," Mash said softly, tearing off a piece of bread. "Isn't it? Just... being here. With everyone."
"It is," I agreed.
Across the room, Cu was arm-wrestling with one of the village men, both of them laughing as they strained against each other. Artoria was talking seriously with an elderly farmer about crop rotation. Da Vinci had somehow acquired paper and was sketching one of the children while they posed proudly.
They fit here, I realized. Not as heroes or Servants or NPCs, but as people. Just people, sharing a meal and conversation with other people.
"Master," Emiya said quietly. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Do you think they're real?" He gestured subtly at the villagers. "These people. This place. Or is it another layer of the dream?"
I'd been wondering the same thing.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But does it matter? They feel real. They act real. Maybe that's enough."
He considered this, then nodded. "Maybe you're right. Maybe asking what's real and what isn't is the wrong question. Maybe the right question is—does it matter to us?"
"And does it?"
"Yeah," he said, looking around at the warm room, the laughing people, the simple reality of shared humanity. "Yeah, it does."
We stayed in the village that night.
Mira insisted, wouldn't hear of us trying to travel in the dark. She set us up in the common house with blankets and pillows that smelled like lavender and sunshine.
I lay awake for a long time, listening to the quiet breathing of my companions around me. Through the window, I could see stars—real stars, in patterns I didn't recognize but that felt ancient and true.
No ceiling humming overhead. No sense of control waiting at my fingertips. Just darkness, and stars, and the warmth of people sleeping nearby.
"Master?" Mash's whisper came from the darkness beside me. "Are you awake?"
"Yeah."
"I'm glad we came through the door."
"Me too," I said, and meant it.
"Even though you can't control things here? Even though we don't know what happens next?"
"Especially because of that."
She was quiet for a moment. Then I felt her hand find mine in the darkness, squeezing gently.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For letting us be real."
"Thank you," I whispered back. "For making me want to be."
We fell asleep like that, hands linked in the darkness, while the real world turned beneath us and the stars wheeled overhead in their ancient, uncontrolled dance.
Tomorrow we'd wake up and face whatever came next.
But tonight, we were here.
Together.
Real.
And that was everything.