Within the light screen, Artoria Santa Alter stepped smoothly in front of Fujimaru Ritsuka, her heavy velvet cape swishing as she shielded her Master.
A dangerous, cold glint sharpened her crimson eyes.
“You rabid dog,” Artoria drawled, her voice dripping with icy mockery.
“Snapping at my Master and refusing to let go.
Need I remind you that you were the one who sent the letter in the first place?” Jalter clicked her tongue, turning her face away to hide the sudden tension in her jaw.
Her silver-gray eyes narrowed in sheer disdain.
“Hmph.
I was the one shocked when I saw the sender’s name.
I never expected a woman like you—someone who supposedly despises everything righteous—to actually harbor a wish.” In the lounge of New Chaldea, Kiyohime watched the broadcast with rapt attention.
A deeply satisfied smile curved her lips, and she fluttered her fan gently against her chin.
“Well said,” she murmured, her golden eyes gleaming with dark approval.
“I am quite satisfied with that defense.” Jalter, sitting nearby in the very same lounge, shot Kiyohime a withering glare.
Her brow twitched with mounting impatience.
“…That is quite enough out of you, snake.” On the screen, the broadcast continued.
Artoria tilted her head, a faint, playful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Setting your delusions aside for a moment, the handwriting on that letter was remarkably easy to identify.
Tell me…
didn’t you lack the ability to write?” Jalter stiffened.
The casual jab at her past struck a nerve, and a fierce scowl overtook her features.
“I learned how to write.
Is there a problem with that?” she snapped, her cheeks tight with stubborn pride.
“That old, squiggly, worm-like handwriting was a complete embarrassment.
It was practically nauseating to look at.” “Oh?
Eliminating everything you cannot stand.
That certainly sounds like your style,” Artoria mused, her knowing smile widening.
She paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat before delivering the follow-up strike.
“Though, I am curious.
Why would you find it embarrassing?
It hardly matters.
It is not as if you were planning to show your handwriting to anyone else.” Jalter blinked, caught off guard.
Then, a cunning, thoroughly arrogant smirk spread across her face.
She tossed her pale hair, her silver-gray eyes flashing with triumphant flamboyance.
“Hmph, you are far too short-sighted.
I am a perfectionist.
Just think about it—if I were to use such atrocious handwriting when forming a contract—” The words died in her throat.
Her arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid panic.
A fierce, unmistakable flush of red crept up her pale neck and settled squarely on her cheeks.
She averted her gaze, her voice dropping into a defensive, icy clip.
“…We are ending this topic right here.” Back in New Chaldea, Mash stared at the screen, her lilac eyes widening as the pieces clicked into place.
“So that is how it is,” she whispered, leaning forward.
“Speaking of which, Jalter forced Senpai to sign a contract the moment she was first summoned.
Does that mean…
she actually spent all that time learning to write just to prepare for Senpai summoning her?” Little Da Vinci, perched beside Mash, nodded brightly.
A knowing twinkle danced in her eyes.
“Exactly!
That is what we in the genius business call ‘planning ahead’.” On the broadcast, the past Jalter aggressively cleared her throat, desperate to bury the awkwardness.
She glared at Artoria, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
“Fine, whatever!
Why are you even parading around calling yourself a Saint?
Bring out the real Santa Claus.
I want the real one.” Artoria’s crimson eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
“Are your eyes merely hollow, or are they entirely clouded by filth?” she demanded, her voice ringing with absolute, unyielding authority.
“I am the one who has painstakingly delivered countless gifts up until this very moment.” She lifted her chin, the pompoms on her ridiculous yet imposing hat swaying with the motion.
“Even if I lack the title of a Saint, I am already a full-fledged Santa Claus.
Fujimaru Ritsuka’s trust in me is the only evidence I require.” Her harsh tone softened by a fraction.
A fleeting, almost imperceptible warmth thawed the ice in her gaze.
“What began as a mere excuse to pelt you with gifts has now completely evolved into one of my primary duties.” She turned her head to look at Ritsuka.
For a brief second, the imposing Alter shed her terrifying aura, seeking quiet validation.
“Although I did not become a Saint, I am no fake either.
I am right…
aren’t I, my reindeer?” Ritsuka did not hesitate.
He offered a bright, earnest smile, his eyes reflecting absolute sincerity.
“Santa Alter is a battle-hardened Santa Claus.” A faint, rosy tint dusted Artoria’s pale cheeks.
Her crimson eyes widened slightly before she quickly turned her face away, hiding behind the high collar of her cape.
“You are supposed to say ‘an amazing Santa Claus,’ you absolute fool,” she muttered under her breath, the harsh words entirely lacking their usual bite.
“…No.
I suppose your answer is not entirely wrong, either.” In the Observation Area of Chaldea, Mordred practically pressed her face against the glass.
She stared at the screen, her jaw hanging slack in sheer disbelief at the sight of her altered father’s bashfulness.
“Wait, hold on,” she sputtered, pointing a shaking finger at the broadcast.
“Why is the Black King blushing?
Is she…
is she actually acting shy?!” Beside her, Tristan stood with his harp resting elegantly against his side.
He kept his eyes serenely closed, a gentle, thoroughly amused smile playing on his lips.
“Sir Mordred,” he murmured, his voice smooth and teasing.
“You are still but a child.
It is perfectly normal for you not to understand the delicate affairs of adults.” “What the hell did you just say?!” Mordred exploded, whipping around to glare at the red-haired knight.
Her fists clenched, and a volatile, crackling aura of pure defiance erupted around her.
[Akarin’s Note: Enjoying the story?