The chill of the stone floor bit hard into the soles of her bare feet, sending a sharp, icy prickle traveling right up her ankles.
The herbal alcohol in her veins ran thick and sluggish, making the stone vault tilt slightly to the left whenever she tried to focus her eyes.
She hovered in a low crouch in front of the kneeling homunculus, her toes gripping the frost-dusted flagstones just to keep her balance while her ears twitched, picking up the low, rhythmic hum of the basement’s ancient ley-lines.
Irisviel’s eyes were wide, crimson, and entirely fixed on Mordred’s face.
Her gaze darted from the sharp line of Mordred’s jaw down to her collarbones, taking in the baffling reality of the summons.
The girl standing in front of her was unmistakably female, and unmistakably naked, with not even the armor, boots, or protective clothing that should have accompanied a Saber manifestation.
The realization lasted only a heartbeat before the attack came.
Mordred barely noticed the awkwardness.
She had already learned through bitter experience that being cold was considerably less important than not being decapitated.
The air behind her split with the violent whistle of compressed air.
Every fine hair on Mordred’s bare arms stood on end as the invisible blade moved before the sound even hit the damp walls—a horizontal sweep aimed straight at her throat.
‘Oh, you want to do this right now?’ Mordred thought, her teeth grinding together as her instincts surged over the sluggish fog of the alcohol.
She pivoted sharply on her left heel, her bare skin skidding over the frost-dusted flagstones with a harsh, raspy scrape.
Her right arm whipped upward in a sharp, sweeping arc, and the standing stone mark on the back of her hand flared with a blinding, emerald intensity.
CRACK.
Jagged slabs of black bedrock ripped through the cellar floor, pulled upward by the raw, unrefined pull of her Druidic stone manipulation.
Green lightning surged out of her fingertips, wrapping around the rising stone pillars like coiling, hissing snakes.
The invisible blade slammed directly into the hastily raised barrier with a thunderous impact that sent stone shrapnel flying in every direction, showering the dark cellar arches in sparks and gravel.
The shockwave blew Irisviel’s white fur-trimmed cloak straight back, catching the homunculus off-guard and knocking her onto her hip against the broken stone.
Through the shower of shattered granite and green sparks, Artoria’s face emerged, sharp, lethal, and pale with pure fury.
Artoria’s eyes swept over her opponent in the instant between attacks.
No breastplate.
No gauntlets.
No greaves.
Not even the usual protective tunic or linen undershirt that rested beneath a Saber’s equipment.
Yet the girl had just stopped a direct, weighted blow from Excalibur with nothing but improvised stone and raw magecraft.
‘She is fighting me like this?’
Artoria’s grip tightened around her invisible sword until her steel gauntlets creaked.
Whatever this creature was, she was not the Mordred Artoria remembered laying dead at Camlann.
Her green eyes locked onto Mordred’s flushed, stubborn face.
“You…” Artoria’s voice vibrated with raw, ancient malice, cutting through the settling dust.
The invisible wind surrounding her sword tore away the lingering smoke as her Dragon Core churned beneath her plate armor.
“The traitor of Camlann.
Even here, in this distant land, the Grail dares to manifest your filth?”
Mordred planted her bare feet firmly on the stone, bracing her stance among the rubble as green light pulsed bright across her bare shoulders.
‘She thinks I’m the one from her graveyard,’ Mordred thought, her eyes narrowing as a dark, feral satisfaction surged in her chest.
‘She died at Camlann.
She has no idea.’
“Traitor?” Mordred let out a short, sharp laugh, her bare toes digging into the cracked floor for leverage.
She thrust her right palm forward, unleashing her magic directly through her open hand.
Expelliarmus.
A concentrated blast of emerald light and pure kinetic force exploded from her open palm, driving straight into the invisible guard of Artoria’s sword.
The sheer force of the impact drove Artoria back three full paces, her steel sabatons screeching violently against the frozen stone as she carved two long, smoking grooves into the floor to arrest her momentum.
Artoria brought her invisible blade back up into a high guard, her breath coming in tight, controlled bursts of white frost that misted against the cold air.
“How do you wield the ancient magecraft of Britannia without an incantation?
What manner of phantom are you?”
“I’m the one who crushed the rebellion at Bristol right by your side before I got yanked into this freezing basement!” Mordred yelled, her voice echoing loudly off the vaulted ceiling.
She wiped a stray strand of golden hair out of her eyes with the back of her forearm, swaying slightly as the herbal alcohol gave another heavy, dull throb behind her temples.
“I was literally in bed five seconds ago!”
Irisviel scrambled back onto her knees among the gravel, her white skirts catching on the jagged edges of the floor as she looked back and forth between the two golden-haired figures standing among the smoking ruins of the circle.
Her hand pressed hard against the glowing, stinging Command Seals on her skin.
“Saber, stop!” Irisviel cried out, her voice ringing clear and authoritative through the vault.
“She…
she is bound to me!
The Grail chose her!”
Near the iron staircase, Kiritsugu Emiya stood completely still in the shadows.
He noted the absence of a pact link between himself and the girl, confirmed Irisviel’s ownership of the Command Seals, and simply turned on his heel, his heavy leather boots clicking rhythmically against the iron risers as he walked up the stairs, leaving the heavy oak-and-iron door swinging slowly open behind him.
Artoria stared at the dark doorway for a fraction of a second, her jaw tightening until the muscle in her cheek twitched with suppressed irritation.
The invisible sword lowered slightly toward the floor, though her posture remained as rigid as iron.
“He turns his back on his own Servant,” Artoria muttered, her voice dropping into a cold, bitter register that barely carried across the room.
She turned her sharp gaze back to Mordred.
“And you…
you claim you fought at Bristol?”
“I did,” Mordred snapped back, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as a sharp draft blew through the shattered cellar door, making her goosebumps spike across her skin.
“And if someone doesn’t get me a blanket or a coat right now, I’m going to burn this entire basement down just to stay warm.”
Irisviel let out a soft, breathless sound that was half a gasp and half a quiet laugh.
Only after the immediate danger had passed did Irisviel seem to notice the other problem standing directly in front of her: Mordred was still completely naked, and the Einzbern castle was buried beneath an Austrian winter.
Irisviel unclasped the heavy, white fur-trimmed cloak from her shoulders and held it out, her hands still trembling slightly from the raw volume of mana that had just passed through her body during the dual summons.
“Here,” Irisviel said softly, stepping around the broken stone pillars.
Take this before you freeze.”
Mordred stepped forward, her bare soles slapping against the flagstones.
She took the heavy fur cloak from Irisviel’s hands and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders.
The thick wool and soft fur instantly cut through the subterranean chill, though because of her height, it barely reached past her upper thighs.
‘Much better,’ Mordred thought, pulling the fur collar tight around her throat and gathering the edges in front of her chest.
‘Now then.’
“Now,” Irisviel stood up, smoothing down her white skirts with quick, graceful motions, her gaze darting between Artoria and Mordred with burning interest.
“We need to go upstairs.
Both of you.
We have a war to discuss, and…
I think you have a great deal to explain, Mordred.”
The trek up the spiral iron staircase was cold and awkward.
Mordred went first, her bare feet slapping against the frozen metal risers, while Irisviel followed closely behind her.
Artoria brought up the rear, her heavy steel armor clanking with every step, her unseen blade held low as her eyes stayed glued to Mordred’s unprotected back.
“Keep staring at my back like that, and I might think you’re admiring the view,” Mordred grumbled over her shoulder as they hit the landing.
Artoria’s jaw tightened, but she remained silent, refusing to take the bait.
They moved into the grand sitting room on the upper floor of the Einzbern castle, which was lit by a roaring stone hearth that cast long, amber shadows across the dark oak paneling.
Outside the high stained-glass windows, a blizzard howled against the stone turrets, coating the glass in thick, milky sheets of white frost.
Mordred sat sprawled on a plush velvet sofa directly in front of the fire, her bare legs stretched out toward the heat, letting her cold toes soak in the warmth.
The white fur cloak was wrapped loosely around her torso, and she held a hot porcelain cup of tea between her hands, taking a loud, impolite gulp that made Artoria’s jaw tighten from across the low wooden table.
Artoria sat on a straight-backed wooden chair, her blue-and-silver armor gleaming in the firelight.
Her hands rested flat on her knees, her back as straight as a lance, her eyes fixed on the flames in the hearth.
Artoria’s gaze settled briefly on Mordred’s improvised attire before returning to the fire—the fact that this girl stood against her without a single piece of steel bothering her far more than the impropriety.
“So,” Irisviel began, setting a silver teapot down on the low table before sitting gracefully on the edge of the adjoining sofa with a leather-bound journal resting on her lap.
Her eyes were wide, bright, and practically dancing with curiosity as she looked at Mordred.
“You really aren’t from the legend as we know it?
You didn’t fight at Camlann?”
“I came from Bristol,” Mordred said, setting the tea cup down on the saucer with a sharp clatter that vibrated through the porcelain.
“We broke the siege, killed the rebel commanders, and I was taking a well-deserved rest in my quarters when this ridiculous ritual yanked me through space.”
‘Look at her listening to all this gossip,’ Mordred thought, catching the spark in Irisviel’s eyes.
‘She’s eating this up.’
Artoria’s voice cut through the room like a cold knife.
“The history recorded in the World states clearly that Mordred turned against the crown during the Roman campaign.
The battle of Camlann ended the Kingdom of Knights.”
“Your history belongs to your world,” Mordred fired back, leaning her elbow on the padded armrest and resting her chin in her hand.
“My King isn’t an unfeeling wall of stone.
We fought together.
We won.”
Artoria’s hands clenched into tight fists against her armored knees.
Her eyes flickered with a strange, turbulent emotion—a mixture of disbelief and something dangerously close to envy—before she forced her face back into a cold mask.
“A parallel timeline,” Artoria said, the words heavy and deliberate.
“A branch where the tragedy was averted.”
“Whatever you want to call it,” Mordred muttered, stretching her bare toes toward the hearth fire.
“I’m here now.”
She had no better explanation herself.
As far as Mordred knew, there had never been another version of her life.
Bristol had happened.
Her King had fought beside her.
The rebellion had been crushed, and Camlann was nothing more than an unfamiliar word in a cold room.
She had no reason to suspect that the World around her violently disagreed.
Irisviel closed her eyes for a moment, leaning back into the sofa cushions as she focused her internal vision on the contract link binding the strange girl to her.
“That’s…
impossible.”
Mordred looked over at her.
“What?”
Irisviel’s breath caught as she traced the raw, heavy telemetry flowing through the Command Seals on her hand.
She stared blankly into space, trying to parse the glitched, obscured stream of data coming back across the bond.
[Class]: Saber
[True Name]: ???
[Saint Graph]: Complete (Integrated Armament into Body & Soul)
[Contract Synchronization]: Partial
[Parameters]: ???
[Class Skills]: ???
[Personal Skills]: ???
[Noble Phantasm]: ???
[Conceptual Trait]: Absolute Concealment Active
[Spiritual Signature]: Inconsistent
[Origin Analysis]: Contradictory New chapters come out on g.com first.
[Identity Resolution]: Failed
“The contract telemetry…” Irisviel whispered, staring down at the glowing Command Seals on the back of her hand.
“I can feel the tremendous volume of mana passing from the Grail through to you, but your parameters…
your True Name, your skills, even your basic attributes—they are entirely obscured.
It’s just blank.”
Artoria’s eyes narrowed instantly, her posture stiffening on the wooden chair.
“A concealment skill?
But she wears no helm.
Secret of Pedigree was tied to the helm that hid her face.”
“It isn’t the helm,” Irisviel said, tracing the faint silver pulse in her crest.
“The skill isn’t a piece of steel—it’s a conceptual defense woven directly into her body and soul.
As long as her identity and weapon remain unmanifested, the information simply doesn’t exist to the Master’s observation.”
Mordred smirked over the rim of her teacup, wiggling her bare toes toward the hearth fire.
“Told you.
You don’t get to read my stats for free just because I’m sitting here in a blanket.”
‘Let them stare at question marks,’ Mordred thought.
‘It’s better if they stay guessing anyway.’
“Then how do we verify your Class?” Artoria pressed, her green eyes fixed sharply on Mordred.
“If your parameters are hidden, you could be an Assassin, a Berserker, or an anomaly entirely.”
“Watch,” Mordred said, setting the porcelain teacup down on the saucer with a sharp clatter.
She raised her right hand over the low tea table.
Green lightning crawled between her fingers, snapping against the warm air of the sitting room with a sharp ozonic pop.
The air around her distorted, a heavy, ancient pressure dropping into the room as something massive shifted deep within her sternum.
A beam of blinding emerald light erupted from her open palm, coalescing into the gold-and-crimson crossguard of the heavy greatsword.
The heat of the manifestation blew the porcelain tea cups back an inch on the wooden table, the sheer volume of raw Dragon Core mana filling the sitting room and making the fire in the hearth flare bright green.
As Mordred’s fingers wrapped tightly around the leather-bound hilt of Leocorna, the blade materialized fully—broad, ancient, and humming with a rhythmic, tide-like pulse that mirrored her heartbeat.
The Command Seals on Irisviel’s hand flared violently as the raw mana forced a partial synchronization across the contract link.
“Her specs…
they resolved!” Irisviel said, her eyes tracking the fluctuating contract metrics in real-time.
“Saber Class…
but her internal Mana and Magic Resistance are both A-Rank!
The weapon is bound directly into her body and soul!
But…
even now, the Grail won’t reveal her True Name!”
[Class]: Saber
[True Name]: ???
[Saint Graph]: Complete (Integrated Armament into Body & Soul)
[Contract Synchronization]: Partial
[Primary Armament]: Roaring Lion — Leocorna
[Alignment]: Chaotic Neutral
[Parameters]:
– Strength: A
– Endurance: A
– Agility: B
– Mana: A (Integrated into Body & Soul)
– Luck: C
[Class Skills]:
– Magic Resistance: A (Integrated into Body & Soul)
– Riding: B
[Personal Skills]:
– Intuition: B
– Mana Burst: A
– Battle Continuation: B
– Charisma: ???
[Noble Phantasms]:
– Secret of Pedigree: C-Rank (Active — Identity Concealed)
– ???: A+ Rank (Anti-Army — Active)
[Spiritual Signature]: Inconsistent
[Origin Analysis]: Contradictory
[Identity Resolution]: Failed
Artoria stared at her face, tracking the flush of heat rising along Mordred’s skin, the steady pulse in her throat, and the clear absence of a Servant’s spiritual body.
“You aren’t a heroic spirit,” Artoria said, her voice dropping into a low, cold register as the realization took hold.
“You cannot enter spirit form.
You stand here in actual flesh.”
Mordred grinned, the white fur cloak slipping slightly down her shoulder as she leaned back against the cushions, resting one hand casually on Leocorna’s hilt.
“Told you,” Mordred said, her eyes flashing green in the firelight.
“I was literally in bed five seconds ago.
No grave, no spirit form.
Just me, your daughter in the flesh, Mommy.”