The nighttime city evoked dread. Residents, long hearing of strange incidents, dared not venture onto streets bathed in darkness. In their eyes, it hid humanity's greatest fear. The unknown. It oppressed, it terrified. Only a handful among people could step toward the uncharted. But even they risked vanishing, for what lurked there was... dangerous. It was what befell the unfortunate who recklessly ignored survival instinct's whisper. And now, they paid for their carelessness.
In a dimly lit alley, skyscraper concrete walls were splattered with blood. Fresh blood. Just hours ago, it flowed through veins, filling flesh with life's pulse. Now, the air reeked of iron. The perpetrator was quite cruel. Victims' bodies lay as shapeless heaps on cold stone, remotely resembling the planet's dominant species. Shreds of skin, bone shards, and gory meat scraps created the impression of exploded bodies. However, everything lay too close together for such hypotheses. The people had been deliberately torn apart.
A giant in purple armor stood nearby. He examined the scene using the advanced autosensory suite built into his upgraded armor. Tacitus tried to figure out who or what was behind this. There were scant traces. Only a few crimson outlines indicating the small shoe size of the sole survivor who escaped. And even those faded quickly. The blood scent, which he was clearly drenched in, cut off a few blocks away. As if something could cleanse even the tiniest particles of this liquid.
But the most horrifying—for a layman, at least—was that the remains of two adults had too little mass. Most likely, the maniac took trophies, but with the war between paranormal humans and summoned beings of varied abilities, the Techmarine proposed otherwise. Obviously, body parts were carried off, but possibly not as trophies—as stomach contents.
Footage from surveillance cameras scrolled across his helmet's internal display. One was well-positioned, showing those entering the alley. A pair of unremarkable people, as if in a trance, entered. Followed by a blurry silhouette. It was distorted by dark miasmas enveloping the body. All that could be done was estimate approximate dimensions, and they were small. Combined with shoe size, it suggested a woman or scrawny man. Too little data. Analysis of nearby cameras yielded nothing; the killer moved by other paths.
Finishing the investigation, Tacitus vanished like a ghost. He couldn't identify the culprit now, so observation must continue. Quite possibly one of the Servants with unusual tastes or abilities. Together or separately. His final conclusion on the matter: report everything to the Primarch. Then return to the workshop. The Phoenix's first priority was arming. This era's materials were sparse, but workable. A pair of melta bombs were already constructed. And they might leave no ash even from summoned heroes.
Shortly before the incident, the Servants and Masters alliance was at the estate grounds. The battle caused no issues, so no time or effort was needed for repairs. Except Rin was forced back into creating accumulator stones. The Primarch helped optimize the process, surpassing generations of Tohsaka labor. In hours, he grasped the magic circle's structure and sealing principle. Now, efficiency was near maximum, minimizing losses. Rin was glad to possess such advanced Mysteries, but that outsiders—not she or her ancestors—achieved them stung her pride.
During joint research, she could only marvel at how quickly and accurately Fulgrim mastered magus arts. He solved any difficulty in fractions of seconds, as if he already knew the right approach. With effort, the girl admitted his claims of mental superiority weren't boasting. At least inwardly. Meanwhile, her Servant managed to kickstart entirely new magic development. His natural science and physics knowledge let him lay foundations for recreating the physical phenomenon called plasma. Forming a blob of ionized gas with colossal molecular kinetic energy reserves. Its temperature rivaled solar prominences.
True, it was just a concept so far, but Rin was convinced of feasibility. The magic weave's framework was ready, thanks to the Primarch, and next was sufficient understanding of the process. After all, to recreate anything, one must comprehend it fully. The Age of Gods was long gone; magi couldn't create the impossible, only what exists. And with the Primarch's arrival came plasma weapon technology. So once Tohsaka exhausted her prana reserves, she'd study the massive manual written by her "consultant"... very massive. It would hurt—less magic meant more discomfort for a magus. But a trifle; research and grueling training were routine for the girl. Thus, she was even grateful for the help; her Servant justified the title bestowed on Chemos—Proselytizer—which Rin heard in dreams.
The Primarch himself was in the training hall. After a tasty dinner and Sakura's departure, time should be spent usefully. Fulgrim had overheard Rin casually say Servants' physical bodies couldn't change, being magical imitations of living flesh, so growth or degradation was unknown to her. However, right now, the Primarch noted it didn't apply to him. While Artoria sparred with Shirou, he did a simple workout. Simple for a Primarch. A couple dozen pebbles were tossed into the air at once, the goal being to alter their trajectories. For each. The wooden sword moved with incredible precision through space, creating the impression the Primarch had multiple pairs of arms. Though his speed wasn't enough to strike every target, he achieved the result. With glancing touches, the weapon sent some projectiles into others, reducing needed swings.
It was here Fulgrim noticed that the speed he'd shown in the Lancer battle and brief Artoria clash had increased. By negligible fractions of a percent, but the Primarch's mind detected it. Accounting for current state, weapon weight, and other factors. Brief calculations of baseline speed in the equation confirmed growth. This suggested Rin was wrong about Servants being static. Combined with Artoria's slightly increased speed—which Fulgrim noted when pondering it—the hypothesis strengthened. However, the Primarch had studied all materials available to his summoner, and they clearly explained summoned spirit bodies' mechanics. This fully refuted the hypothesis, as vessels were mere reflections of the deceased, incapable of change.
The Primarch briefly distracted from thoughts, seeing what happened in the room's other half. An interesting event unfolded there. Shirou trained with Saber, inwardly joyful. Unlike Fulgrim and Vergil, she was a true teacher. The King was used to dealing with ordinary people, not living embodiments of war, so she demanded no impossibilities from the youth. Though her strength rivaled Astartes, her style was gentler. The hardness Imperium warriors fought with wasn't hers. She was a knight, protector of common folk, not a blade of ruin for enemies.
Even so, the swordswoman was a fearsome foe, forcing the youth to go all out, and at one point he entered full concentration state again. If Fulgrim were her opponent, it'd take under two minutes with his methods, but even now Shirou achieved it. Mind discarded all excess, focusing only on two bodies and two swords. Slight anxiety inherent to the inexperienced vanished; movements sharpened, instincts honed. Battle trance, in two words. Even Artoria marveled at how much better her opponent fought.
Shirou seemed to forget who he was; his mind held only the goal—to strike the enemy. And he did everything possible. Strike directions increasingly and closer targeted vital organs. But none reached them. This spurred his pragmatic consciousness to use his full arsenal. In fractions of a second, his body underwent Reinforcement magic, exceeding human limits. The wood in his hands strengthened too, steel-like. Now Artoria saw not a green youth in Shirou, but a worthy foe. Even so, her defense was impregnable, and attacks often hit Emiya's body. But pain became mere warning of potential damage, causing no hindrance.
It was then Fulgrim watched the spar. The youth's Origin manifestation became obvious. Something, the soul's essence, guided him in battle. Movement errors nearly vanished, leaving only those fixable by prolonged practice. Like the minor evasion error the Phoenix's guardsman mentioned last training. Speed kept rising; Shirou learned on the fly, unconsciously correcting flaws that became vanishingly few. However, he couldn't do the unknown, so his style became honed basics rather than true mastery. But he approached it, as shown by mimicking several of the Queen's moves.
Cold was increasingly clouding the young man's mind; even the light from the street seemed to dim, and only darkness accompanied his enemy. Yes, his enemy. The enemy must be eliminated, and his current weapon wasn't powerful enough for that. He needed another. A fleeting scan of the surroundings yielded no acceptable results—just useless pieces of wood. If there was nothing suitable, then he had to create it. From the depths of his mind emerged two blades that could help in this battle. One of them, enveloped in dense fire, wasn't clear enough, so the choice fell on the remaining one. The one he had seen in his dream.
"Something's not right…," the Primarch noted when he saw Shirou toss the sword at a moment when it could be done without consequences. The gaze in his eyes was excessively cold. There was no movement in it at all, not even life. Only an unrelenting drive to fell the enemy. And when blue light began to gather in Emiya's hands, generated by his Magical Circuits, a premonition forced Fulgrim to rush to Artoria's defense. She herself realized something unusual was happening, but reacted a bit later and wouldn't have been able to protect herself. Excalibur wouldn't make it in time. The golden blade was already raised.
The queen's eyes widened, indicating unprecedented shock. Before her eyes was a familiar weapon. The one she had fought with for so long in the past. The sword of selection, the sword in the stone that was to choose the worthy ruler. Caliburn. The artfully decorated blade hurtled toward Artoria. From surprise, she froze for an extra moment, and even her speed now wouldn't suffice. The shinai in her hands wouldn't offer resistance, and a Servant's body could well be wounded by an ordinary magus if wielding such a weapon. But in the path of the blade radiating light like the sun stood the heat of the earth's depths. Firebrand, an unbreakable monolith, halted Caliburn.
"What are you doing?" Fulgrim said in a calm voice as he casually swept the youth aside with a light swing. "And what is that weapon?"
"...Caliburn." A barely audible whisper reached the Primarch's ears.
"What?"
"It's Caliburn, my sword." Artoria said it in some strange tone. Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the magnificent blade in Shirou's hands.
And the youth himself finally came to his senses. He blinked in confusion, looking now at the Servants before him, now at the projected weapon clutched in his palm. On the edge of his consciousness echoed the beautiful song emitted by the blade. Though the youth wasn't worthy to be king, he was linked to one who already possessed the symbol of such authority. Had it been otherwise, Shirou couldn't have manifested it, for it was a conceptual Noble Phantasm. One of the several swords of selection.
"Um… what happened?" Emiya asked, still not understanding what had occurred.
"You tried to kill Artie."
"I… what?!" Finally, the memories cleared, and Shirou was able to comprehend them. He really had seen Saber as an enemy. All his scant thoughts had been directed at eliminating her. Suddenly, his gaze caught on what was in his hands. "And this…"
"You materialized it. Care to explain how?"
"...Wish I knew."
"Where did you see it, Shirou?" This was now said by Artoria, who couldn't regain her composure.
"Where? Oh, right, it came to me in a dream!" the youth blurted out with the air of one who had grasped the truth.
"A dream?"
At that moment, the Primarch's mind sharply arrived at intriguing conclusions. A spiritual connection forms between Servant and Master, without which energy exchange is impossible. They adapt to each other, though Masters more so due to their lesser power. And in light of the revealed information, it became clear the bond had other effects. The Servant's memories open to the summoner, which meant… "How much has Rin seen?" The Primarch was distracted from this thought by the crash of a fall. Shirou had collapsed to the floor, and his breathing indicated loss of consciousness. Apparently, creating a weapon of such power had exhausted his body, unaccustomed to channeling such volume of output.
But despite its owner's unconscious state, the sword had no desire to leave this world. Though the Servants sensed the magic gradually draining from it, it would hold for a while yet. As if Caliburn sought to illuminate those who beheld it with its splendor. Fulgrim carried the boy closer to the wall and let him come to naturally, even if it took some time. Turning, he saw Artoria silently staring at the golden blade. Though outwardly calm, the turmoil in her emerald eyes didn't escape the Primarch. In their depths hid complex feelings, for it was with this artifact that her path as king had begun. And it hadn't ended as the girl would have wished.
"If you want to talk it out, I'll listen." The Primarch broke the silence with a light smile. Artoria started and shifted her gaze to him. The man looked on with clear concern. He really wanted to help.
"...Then answer… What do you think would have happened if I hadn't pulled it from the stone?" The conversation from several days ago repeated with mirror precision, only now the girl voiced her own turmoil.
"Artoria… do you really think you're unworthy of it?"
"...I don't know. Maybe that's no longer the case. No, it's definitely not."
With a quiet sigh, Fulgrim approached the sword lying on the floor. It came into the Primarch's hands without issue; though only the worthy could pull it from the stone, anyone could hold it. Without a word, the Primarch slowly headed outside. In the manor garden was what was needed now. The queen watched him, not understanding his intent. The owner of platinum hair had already exited the dojo when the girl finally followed.
Standing in the doorway, she gaped in surprise. The Primarch plunged the blade forcefully into one of the stones lying in the manor garden. The edge sank into the rock by a good half, now strongly resembling a scene from the distant past. A quiet field amid which stood a stone with a sword thrust into it. That moment when the palm of a young, inexperienced girl grasped the warm hilt and the point was directed to the heavens. Even now, Artoria remembered exactly how she had marveled at that magnificent weapon. At that instant, as Merlin had foretold, she ceased to be human and became king. Even her body was no longer subject to aging, so her appearance hadn't changed for many years. And she had been summoned exactly as she was at sixteen.
"Now you can know for sure." The Primarch's voice made Artoria start again. He stood beside Caliburn and gestured for her to approach.
The girl didn't understand how she moved forward. She felt no body, fully focused on the hilt with its golden inscriptions, reading the phrase engraved on it. "Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of England." Words heralding the start of the legend. With each step, doubts grew, and at one point, the girl froze a couple meters from the goal.
The sun was nearing sunset, tinged crimson. Its rays illuminated what lay before Artoria's eyes. The sword, dearer to her even than Excalibur, and the Primarch who still stood beside it, waiting for her to resolve. Yet though the girl deemed herself unworthy, a faint hope warmed deep in her soul. Hope that she was wrong, that she had the right to be king.
"Artoria…"
The Phoenix's voice pulled the girl from heavy thoughts. She shifted her gaze and met a noble purple eye. With one word and stern gaze, the man compelled Artoria's body to move. Finally standing before the sword in the stone, the queen tried to reach for the hilt, but it seemed unattainable. Her slender hand couldn't stretch to it, as if a whole mountain pressed with its weight. And in that instant, a warm palm rested atop her slender forearm.
Fulgrim gently guided Artoria's hand to the blade. He didn't rush, didn't press, but was inexorable. The faint resistance went unnoticed. Yet in pure strength, Saber surpassed Archer. And finally, the girl grasped the hilt. When she realized it, her hand trembled slightly, leading to an accidental tug at the golden blade. But it remained motionless. Artoria's heart skipped a beat, for her fears were confirmed.
The Primarch clearly saw what happened and didn't stand idle. His palm now covered the girl's hand. Squeezing it lightly, the man began pulling upward. Disbelief reflected in Artoria's eyes, for… she heard a faint scrape. The blade was moving. With each moment, it withdrew more strongly from its prison. Seconds stretched into seconds. The pair, hands clasped, didn't hurry. But with each instant, freeing more of the gleaming edge. Finally, the sword left the stone.
Golden radiance filled the surroundings. Particles of light began dancing in the air, creating a magical scene. But Artoria noticed none of it, staring unblinkingly at what she held. Caliburn sang, rejoicing at being back with its beloved master. Its song resounded in the minds of the two close to it. The majestic sound swelled until it manifested on the blade itself, shining like a thousand bright fires. And their light reflected off the locks of the one who had allowed this to happen.
"And what do you think now, Artoria?" He spoke these words in a quiet, even somewhat meek voice. The Primarch couldn't remain indifferent to the dance of golden particles swirling like snowflakes.
The maiden finally tore her gaze from the blade and turned it to Fulgrim. A light smile played on his lips—one that could be called sincere. He truly rejoiced that the queen had been given a chance to shed regrets, or at least doubts.
"I… don't understand. My reign ended in rebellion and bloodshed—how can such a king be worthy to rule?"
"You're not omnipotent, and neither Excalibur nor Avalon can fix that. What matters is that you ruled with a hot, brave heart and pure soul. Those very doubts of your worth are the best refutation."
At that, Caliburn began smoldering with flickering sparks. The magic reserves holding the projection intact were expended. Artoria's hand reached futilely for the emerging void. Fear appeared in the girl's eyes. As if with the sword of selection's disappearance, she would again be unworthy to wield it. Again wish never to have drawn it from the stone. The budding fears were dispelled by the Primarch's palm, once more squeezing the golden-haired girl's wrist.
"I think you should understand it's not Caliburn that makes you a worthy king. It's just a sword, useless without an owner. Everything you need is right here." A light but unexpected poke to the girl's chest made her sway slightly. "Stop seeking reasons for confidence—you don't need them. Certainly not one whose legend endures even into the thirtieth millennium. Only the worthiest heroes linger so long in human memory."
"I…" But words were cut off.
"Don't know what to say? It's obvious… Ow." Instead of speaking, Artoria preferred to give the insolent Primarch the deserved punishment for mocking a king.
"No, I know what to say. Now, I am in your debt, Fulgrim." At that, the Phoenix, rubbing his side in mock pain, widened his smile. He placed a hand on the queen's shoulder and said confidently.
"What debts can there be between friends?"
And only the tender crimson of the setting sun lit the smiles of two heroes whose fates had crossed, though one hailed from the past and the other from a distant future.
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: Granulan