The Servant lounge aboard the Storm Border was steeped in a comfortable, golden warmth.
Plush sofas sat in casual, inviting clusters, while a few low tables remained cluttered with half-empty plates of pastries and cooling porcelain cups.
The rich, earthy aroma of freshly brewed black tea drifted through the air, occasionally broken by the quiet, relaxed murmurs of Servants enjoying their downtime.
Yet, despite the peaceful atmosphere, the corner occupied by the Knights of the Round Table drew more than a few sidelong glances.
Lancelot leaned forward on his seat, his gaze burning with absolute fixation as it locked onto the glowing light screen.
The teacup he had been holding moments prior now rested precariously on his knee, entirely forgotten.
A hint of his signature, flirtatious charm played at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes held nothing short of pure, undisguised reverence.
“Mm, My King…” Lancelot’s voice pitched upward, thrumming with excitement.
“Even in her blackened Christmas form, My King remains so utterly stunning that I cannot help but want to offer her a cheerleading routine right this very moment…” Judging by the rhythmic tapping of his foot, he had already choreographed the entire dance in his head and was a hair’s breadth away from leaping up to perform it for the broadcast.
Beside him, Gawain’s brow twitched.
He shot a hand out, seizing the fabric of Lancelot’s sleeve and giving it a sharp, grounding yank before the Knight of the Lake could embarrass them all.
Gawain’s back remained ramrod straight, his posture the very picture of chivalric discipline, though his tone carried a heavy dose of exasperation.
“Sir Lancelot, mind your manners,” Gawain scolded, clearing his throat to lower his register into something far more solemn.
“As the King’s knights, we must uphold the dignity of the Round Table at all times.
Do not make a spectacle of yourself.” Yet, the moment the reprimand left his lips, Gawain’s own gaze drifted helplessly back to the light screen.
The stern rigidity in his eyes melted away, and the tips of his ears quietly flushed a deep, traitorous red.
“…However,” Gawain murmured, his voice dropping into a hushed, irrepressible tone of praise, “the blackened version of My King truly does possess a distinctly captivating charm.” On the opposite sofa, Tristan leaned heavily against the backrest.
His eyes were closed, his chin resting delicately on the back of his hand as he affected an aura of deep, melancholic indifference.
His fingertips slowly stroked his jawline, as if the worldly desires of his fellow knights were entirely beneath him.
But the second the dark-clad figure on the screen shifted, Tristan’s lowered eyelashes fluttered.
Unable to restrain his own curiosity, he slowly opened his eyes.
A flash of deep admiration pierced through his usual calm facade.
“Someone in Chaldea once spoke a great truth: Men like darkness,” Tristan said softly.
He turned his head, fixing his gaze on the black-armored King of Knights.
The corners of his lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.
“After witnessing the blackened version of My King, I believe those words carry an immense amount of wisdom.” These three knights, who so often clashed in their personal philosophies yet shared an unbreakable, understated chemistry on the battlefield, were now entirely united in their absolute adoration for the King of Knights’ altered state.
Yet, when Artoria Santa Alter solemnly knelt on the screen and swore her knightly oath to Fujimaru Ritsuka, not a single trace of surprise crossed their faces.
Lancelot dropped his flirtatious grin, his expression settling into one of solemn, deep approval.
Gawain straightened his shoulders even further, nodding as if witnessing the most natural occurrence in the world.
Tristan simply closed his eyes again, a quiet hum of agreement vibrating in his chest.
After all, Fujimaru Ritsuka was their Master as well.
To the Knights of the Round Table, the mortal youth who shouldered the crushing weight of the world’s fate deserved every ounce of kindness the universe could offer.
He was more than worthy of any Servant swearing their blade—and their heart—to his cause.
However, across the boundaries of time and space, a completely different reaction was taking place.
In Fuyuki City, during the bloody throes of the Fourth Holy Grail War, the night was as black as spilled ink.
A biting, freezing wind howled through the silent streets, kicking up dead leaves and scraping them against the mottled, cracked walls of the alleyways.
The city felt deathly still, with only the sickly yellow flicker of a broken streetlamp offering any illumination.
Hidden deep within the suffocating shadows of an abandoned building, Emiya Kiritsugu stood perfectly still, his figure practically melting into the darkness.
His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his trench coat, his shoulders tensed, and his brow furrowed so deeply it looked carved from stone.
His dark, sunken eyes were heavy with cold calculation as he stared unblinking at the mysterious light screen suspended in the air.
“She can actually make even that inverted King of Knights acknowledge him to such an extent?” Kiritsugu murmured, his raspy voice laced with genuine shock.
He paused, his jaw locking as he recalled the King of Knights currently bound to his own Command Seals—a woman so hopelessly shackled by naive ideals and rigid chivalry that she fundamentally despised his very existence.
“The normal King of Knights is so hopelessly upright and inflexible,” Kiritsugu muttered, his tone turning bitter and complex.
“She cannot stomach my methods or my strategies in the slightest.” His thumb unconsciously rubbed against the coarse fabric inside his pocket.
His gaze sharpened, analyzing the screen with the ruthless precision of a Magus Killer.
“Then what exactly is this inverted King of Knights like?
If her personality is the absolute opposite, then for humanity’s last Master to effortlessly draw out the goodwill of such a ruthless, pragmatic weapon…” Kiritsugu’s eyes narrowed.
“He is not simple.
This Fujimaru Ritsuka is becoming harder and harder to see through.” Meanwhile, inside the pristine, brightly lit Control Room of New Chaldea, the atmosphere was entirely different.
The soft, rhythmic clicking of keyboards echoed across the room, illuminated by the faint blue and pale green glow of holographic monitors.
The Chaldean staff had already grown accustomed to the anomalous light screen, only occasionally glancing up from their diagnostics to check the broadcast.
Mash Kyrielight stood front and center at the main console.
She had her head tilted slightly, her clear lavender eyes locked onto the projection.
Her hands were steepled beneath her chin, her expression one of absolute, deadly seriousness.
Channeling the deductive spirit of her idol, Sherlock Holmes, Mash nodded to herself.
“I see.
It all makes sense now.
No wonder the so-called ML radar reacted so violently to Miss Artoria Alter.
The signs of her affection were already manifesting perfectly clear back then.” The moment her deduction finished, a primary instrument in the Control Room let out a soft, sharp beep.
Across the Storm Border lounge, the Fuyuki alleyways, and the Chaldean command center, all eyes snapped back to the broadcast.
The shifting light and shadows on the screen paused, rippled, and then brightened dramatically as a brand new scene began to unfold.
[The broadcast flickered, the shifting light and shadows resolving into a new image.
Appearing on the screen was a woman who possessed the exact, stunning beauty of the Mona Lisa.] [She boasted a slender, graceful figure, her entire being seemingly bathed in a hazy, ethereal glow.
Her facial features were as exquisite as a carefully carved Renaissance masterpiece.
A hint of inexplicable gentleness and deep mystery danced in her eyes, while her lips—neither fully smiling nor entirely unsmiling—curled into an iconic, perfect arc.
Her beauty was not aggressively ostentatious or blindingly dazzling; rather, it possessed a quiet, gravitational power that struck directly at the soul.
Standing there quietly, she was a living, breathing painting, making one involuntarily hold their breath for fear of disturbing such flawless elegance.] [Yet, this woman—who usually carried the serene, enigmatic grace of her famous portrait—was currently devoid of any peaceful self-possession.
Instead, her exquisite features were twisted into an expression of sheer, irrepressible panic.
She had clearly stumbled into a catastrophic problem and lacked any immediate solution.] [Her elegant brows knit tightly together.
The gentle light in her eyes fractured into overt anxiety.
Her lips, usually curved in that unreadable smile, were now pressed into a tight, helpless line as she frantically searched for a way out.
Even the soft, moving glow around her seemed to dim under the sheer weight of her emotional turmoil.] [The composed, untouchable aura that usually made hearts skip a beat was entirely shattered.
She was left looking completely at a loss—undoubtedly terrified of an impending, endless lecture from a certain Doctor.] [Akarin’s Note: 1.
Lancelot’s desire to do a “cheerleading dance” is a direct reference to the opening sequence of Fate/Grand Carnival, where the Servants perform a highly choreographed, comedic dance routine.
2.
“ML radar” stands for MasterLove radar, a meta-term referring to a Servant’s romantic affection or extreme dedication toward the Master (Fujimaru Ritsuka).] [Akarin’s Note: Enjoying the story?