Putting Merlin back together is easier than I thought... though of course that's from an observer's perspective. Avalon's complete – my Avalon – so all I have to do is watch it work, while Pandora assists this time. Much like how I described the white-haired magus's body last time, it's just like assembling a simple puzzle, since Avalon basically acted as an automated computational algorithm which dealt with the much, MUCH smaller details. For example, which blood vessels to suture, which Magic Circuits to regrow - all without interfering with the still-healthy organs and systems to prevent cancerous growth.

"That was a magnificent show, little Sirius," Merlin smiles beatifically, having already captured my sluggish body for her to hug as a 'reward'. I'm pretty sure if Pandora isn't here and still glaring at her, she'll do MUCH more than that, my age and opinion be damned. Her eyes, normally so enchanting and captivating, are filled with an instinctive desire so ravenous I fear for my own safety. She's even using my 'official name'! "Thank you, my hero. You're my saviour."

"Then why do I feel unhappy right now, Master Merlin? I suspect you have something nefarious planned for me," I nervously asked. "Please, at least allow me to attend to our guest..." I gesture silently at Pandora with nothing but my gaze, but the worshipping gaze she held for me these past few days has evaporated into intense jealousy and hatred.

"Ah, you're going to be breaking a lot of hearts in the future…" Merlin comments, though she obediently does what I requested. "After all, you've already done so to mine…"

However, instead of looking indignant, Pandora looks… proud?

"Of course! He's a hero! Having multiple affairs is but to be expected!"

"Not the trouble they bring, though…" I mutter under my breath, clearly not quiet enough to evade the two women's ears, but they choose to selectively ignore my opinion on this. Typical.

Managing a Reality Marble full of souls – mostly women, strangely enough – has long eroded my resistance to conflict. If there's a relationship I can't mend quickly, or nip off its troubles from the bud, then it's a relationship not worth having. This applies even when I'm the third party, stuck in the middle of two bickering women. Fortunately, despite their lack of ability to grow – they're all dead, after all – the spirits residing within Unlimited Blade Works are all at least cordial with each other, seemingly having recognized they, as a mere copy – however close to the original – will have to spend eternity with each other.

May as well get friendly.

Much like the Throne of Heroes, where any new information earned by its members' copies won't pass directly onto those hallowed souls and improve them even after death, so too is my Possession limited. Yes, their information is stored just prior to their death, so each Noble Phantasm should contain their full might and experiences across their lives, but it's a shame they're unlike Divine Spirits, who can grow stronger just by existing, no matter if they're corporeally alive or technically dead. This is a regret born solely from the frustrations of my occasional limitations during missions, whether it's strength, skill, or knowledge – not to mention the inhibition of having to retrain every single vessel I've descended into from scratch, both physically and Thaumaturgically.

Merlin has been dragged away by Pandora when I was still musing just now, leaving me alone in the rudimentary forge to ponder things even further.

The timeline… is really messed up.

The key person to change this particular Quantum Time Lock is, without a doubt, Mordred Pendragon. Yet, she's still not born yet, while things need to change now. This is more than a hunch but less than a detailed analysis, so I can't really say why she's so important, but I highly suspect without her presence, anything I – or, technically, we – am trying to do will very easily be self-corrected by the universe. My deployment here is merely a wedge, while more permanent 'supporting structures' require the cooperation of various individuals.

…ah, I have to correct myself. Mordred is just one of the 'keys', since Morgan and Merlin are also one. This is a fact I still haven't told them, because regardless how sincerely I proclaim to care for them, what will women think of if I say I approached them with impure intentions from the start?

Even now, their Noble Phantasms – the original, and the likely-changed version with me around – are still being produced and reproduced inside Unlimited Blade Works, their 'completion percentage' rising the longer and more intimate I engage with them. This is the main feature behind the seemingly impossibly-perfect recreations of Unlimited Blade Works, and how I can 'install' complete experiences into my own body. An instant is still the only time period necessary to create inferior copies, but those very last percentages require lifetimes to acquire – one lifetime per wielder, not necessarily the weapon.

Let's go back to the timeline. Everything's clearly messed up the instant Boudica didn't perish all those centuries ago against Nero, when instead the Roman Empress took her as a mistress to conquer Britannia without bloodshed, then just a province. There's no mention of what happened to her husband when his original self perished against the soldiers of that very same person, but it's mentioned Boudica's already a widow when the first Roman invasions began. I grew suspicious when I read this, thinking the 'happy union' noted down in history was no different than any other propaganda by the winner, but various sources pointed out the couple likely did indeed live harmoniously with each other, to the point Nero wasn't toppled because of her insanity, but because people thought she favoured Boudica too much against Rome.

That event also happened much later than usual, despite her childish appearance inside Unlimited Blade Works, and she died well into adulthood. Boudica was heartbroken after losing the second love of her life, descending into unbreakable depression, though fortunately for her daughters, Rome was then too preoccupied in civil unrest to properly conquer Britannia fully again. By the time they've gotten their act together, it's been a few generations since the first usurper and they've long forgotten their unyielding ambition to expand their territories, merely content with the usual local corruption and drowning in pleasures.

Then, by this time… I am here. No one will set foot here and kill anybody under my watch.

- …

…tch, I have to wait until this body's grown up before I can really back that boast, as Anglo-Saxon raiders have been ravaging these islands as I speak. If my strength is enough, the first necessary thing is to decapitate all those petty kings' head and display it on the coast, much like Vlad, because they're the one letting those raiders into Britannia's borders in the first place. My patience is uber-thin for those who think of only their own profits while not only selling out their own people, but causing direct harm as well. They're the one responsible for everything, so rather than blaming the invaders, it's more prudent to do some in-house cleaning.

Then… the rise of the Celts, perhaps.

Merlin's wounds fit Gáe Bolg perfectly, so the question becomes who can incite Scáthach, who's long in retirement, to act? To my and Merlin's knowledge, there's no significant Celtic influence left in Britannia, with only the druids out west continuing some of their Thaumaturgy, so it's not like one can put her in a hostage situation. This fact includes the lack of 'new dead' following the Celtic faith, so she's usually bored out of her mind tending the static dimensional graveyards of her Land of Shadows. Still, according to what I know of her personality, she's not an impulsive person who does unpredictable things merely out of boredom.

Despite her immortal beauty, her personality is more akin to a cranky, grave-keeping grandmother… as far as I know.

I do have Gáe Bolg stored within Unlimited Blade Works, but it's the latest iteration wielded by Cú Chulainn. It's common knowledge older versions of the same weapon are stronger, even though that blue-haired man is perhaps an even more talented warrior than his teacher, who's more focused on magical martial arts than anything. It's a shame his [Luck] stat was truly terrible, or he would've grown into someone with an even greater stature. As it is now, Scáthach undoubtedly is the much stronger one, given she's, well… immortal, and had centuries more experience added to her belt after his demise. Which means my information is terribly out of date.

By comparison, Nero's changes are more acceptable, since her 'broad-mindedness' means just the slightest change in her life can have great impact. For example, the Nero recorded in current history was known as a fair, just, and beloved Roman Empress – her eccentricities are mostly viewed as just that, instead of signs of decline. Yes, people mocked and laughed behind her back at her displays of 'art', but at least she's respected as a leader and warrior, her name untarnished even decades later. It's completely possible a chance encounter with a loved one – Boudica, in this instance – to steer her [Fate] into a completely different direction.

The one residing within my Unlimited Blade Works gets absorbed there purely by accident, to be honest. That form of hers spanned both [Space] and [Time] – a perk associated with the [Beast] Servant Class, though indirectly – and I encountered her fragment in another mission. Lo and behold, it turned out to be her entire essence, which means I can channel all her strength – the strength far beyond her usual self, though I know it's not the highest form she could reach. At least, any amount of strength my current body can handle.

As a collector – a habit I picked up from Gilgamesh – I am genuinely looking forward to meeting the version of Nero merged with her patron goddess, the Divine Spirit Venus. That person should be more in-line with my own personality, since that merger can only be safely done when one is desperate to protect another – one she holds dearest to herself. To me, that must be the strongest way, regardless of how she fares in actual combat. Both of us should also have experience against Velber and its ilk, so I'm sure we'll get along well…

- Pinch…

Ah, I feel an intense-yet-familiar pain from my sides; surely from Gilgamesh materializing by herself and punishing me on a whim. Then, I can feel the malcontent spirits bubbling up to support her endeavour, all simmering inside Unlimited Blade Works.

[Where were all of you when I was accosted by those three kids back in the faeries' kindergarten?] I sweat-drop. [Picking and choosing who you support and who you condemn… How very much like me.]

Our small interaction is interrupted when Merlin returns, having seemingly dumped Pandora off somewhere, with someone surprising in tow. "Sirius! Morgan's back!"

"…Master Merlin, your Eyes are still active. That should be Lady Vivian, no?" I respond after a few seconds go by. "Though that can be a critique in and of itself, Miss."

"Hmph. Master is the same as always," the blonde-haired clone grumbles.

The succubus is genuinely shocked, taking several looks at both me and the newcomer. She blinks forcibly and repeatedly, her bright pink-violet eyes switching from her magical and mundane ones. "…oh," she finally realizes. "Sorry 'bout that."

What I meant by 'critique' is the fact this newest clone, the [Fairy], still has an unmerged core. It makes her look… 'too Morgan', to put it bluntly, especially when viewed from the lens of someone who's just recovered from severe dismemberment mere hours ago. The Vivian 'skin' is much too faint for even my Pure Eyes, signifying this body has been processed and awakened much too hastily, without the time she needs to adjust, merge, and become her own person, while still following the minute guidelines of the processing centre called 'Morgan Pendragon'.

Instead of her usual white-and-blue colour scheme, this one's much more fitting for the one who'll eventually be titled 'Lady of the Lake' – i.e. the blue-green coloration of Britannia's inland waters, owing to the lush growth of the aquatic vegetation in them. A long gown seemingly made of kelp, which is actually just ridiculously well-sewn dark green ribbons overlapping each other, covered her lower half, while a predominantly-blue thin open-shoulder shirt covered her blossoming breasts and flat stomach, with red trims all over. Vivian's golden hair is already considerably longer than Morgan, let loose and flowing down unto her knees, with only a shimmering green tiara keeping it in check around her forehead.

Most importantly – to me, at least – this is the body who's supposedly most skilled in weaponsmithing, as the original grantor of both Excalibur and Avalon. Of course, both of those artefacts are likely merely passed down from the very first Sub-Bells who forged them, with Vivian having no involvement in their creation whatsoever, but it's still a nice theory to believe.

It should be somewhat correct – after all, I helped design this particular clone, as its specialty. It's unfortunate she came too late… or, rather, Scáthach came too early, messing up all our schedules. Forging Avalon should be after Caliburn, according to the classical Arthurian timeline… and about the same time as Excalibur – certainly not now.

After her annoyance at her own teacher has passed, Vivian shows me her typical smile, which is somehow distinct from Morgan's own despite the two – or all 6 of them – having the same face. I chalk it up to the intangible thing people describe as 'aura', which is a combination of personal charisma, clothes, and mannerisms. Morgan is more than good enough to have her clones both equally independent and harmonious with one another, resulting in very different personalities.

For example, Morgan the [Maiden] is, sure enough, very maidenly, acting the part of the perfect older sister most capable of infatuating Altria. Regardless of how much she convinces herself it's all just an act, I know very well large parts of her performance are sincere. She's just as much a siscon as her little sister, after all – and the main reason she limits this attribute solely to that body, to prevent it from needlessly influencing the others.

Tonelico the [Warrior] is flighty, confident, and brash – traits necessary to survive alone in the field. I haven't spent a lot of time during her creation or personally know her that well before her destruction – as per Pandora's report – but I'm pretty sure she's a very different person as well. I should interview the companions she's picked up to know better, but I heard they're being held in a secure facility somewhere in the King Clan's realm. There, further clues about Merlin's attack should still exist, so that's next on the agenda.

"You've done an incredible job," she praises, seeing the gleaming blue-gold sheath lying by the side. "This is certainly something I can't make right now."

"I was actually hoping for your assistance when this project should start according to plan, but it's an emergency," I duck her glowing words. "There's still room for modifications later on, so please help me."

Avalon is… rather crude-looking, because I'm far from an artist. Instead of the elegant lines, colour combinations, and cursive writing of the original, it looks much more like a sheath I'll myself use when I'm older – i.e. very much a blunt force weapon shaped into a blade. A touch slimmer but thicker, instead of overlapping gold lines, chains of gold are chiselled into and around its main body, which has been covered by pure crystallized azure flame instead of simple deep blue dye beforehand. The tip is capped with mystical unalloyed gold so ancient it looks more like dark bronze, perfect for thrusting or clubbing an opponent. The mouth is carved specifically to lock onto a different Excalibur in a Japanese way, so the shoulder transitions between the two objects marry naturally together without any need for further securing.

To be honest, I also have Clarent in mind when I was forging the basic dimensions, because I anticipate I'll have to work with Mordred more often compared to Altria, considering our age differences. But it should still fit that Excalibur I forged all those millennia ago… or I should just reforge Clarent again into a different shape, because the weapon must match its intended wielder. Altria is obviously different than the one 'Shirō Emiya' knew, and Mordred should grow into a different person with all of us around.

"I'm the one who needs your help," she begins, having summoned several vines and kelps to bind and gag her pestering teacher. "Not just your project, but mine got pushed forwards significantly as well… Ah, it's not exactly 'mine', as you know, but the [Queen]'s."

For the first time in a while, I feel my jaw figuratively drop to the floor.

"…I've just been thinking of Mordred, to tell you the truth," I admit sheepishly. "What a coincidence."

What greets me next is the sight of a large vial filled with cloudy liquid, floating independently away from the flask around it in a perfect sphere, held amidst Vivian's fingers.

"I don't agree with this!"

Morgan shook her head at her little sister's outburst. She'd long cautioned her against such rude, barbarous acts such as slamming one's palms onto furniture, but it seemed Altria's etiquette training still needed to be reinforced.

"Does your opinion matter?" She replied back, choosing a weak, defeatist tone this time. "Neither do mine."

"But… B-But…!"

She shook her head, causing Altria to fall silent. "Should I explain the lay of the land once again to you? Once you've calmed down, you'll understand."

Sometimes, silence spoke the loudest. Morgan deliberately withheld her personal opinions, knowledge, and plans, so as to let Altria form her own, the latter not knowing she's being guided into thinking the very topics Morgan wished for her.

After all, she couldn't tell her little sister to go and assassinate their uncle, no? The most terrible thing which could happen was Altria actually doing it, because she's that obedient to her at this point. Most importantly, Morgan simply didn't like the man, but removing an influential figure like him at a time of chaos like this would have a negative effect on Britannia, to put it mildly.

To her, he was the epitome of a sleazy, yet competent politician – exactly the sort one needed when stability was of utmost importance. However, during times of change, like the one Morgan was trying to do now, he was nothing more than a burden at best and poison at worst.

The overall picture of Britannia was bleak. What Morgan considered 'home' was actually just the southwestern and middle parts of the main island, while enemies surrounded them everywhere. There's the Picts and Scots from the north, the Anglo-Saxon invaders from the east, and the indifferent-yet-unhelpful Celts across the western strait, perched comfortably upon their small Ireland. The first group was a classic case of tribal warfare, done among a group sharing a common origin. It should be a simple matter of uniting in front of a common enemy… but no, they – and to be honest, kingdoms like the Pendragon – insisted on fighting over who could have the final say. The latter was as unhelpful as always, even though an official inquiry's been posted to the Reverse Side over there regarding the unprovoked trespassing and attack on her teacher, seemingly eager to shut themselves off as per their habit in the last few centuries.

The second group was the easy enemy… yet Morgan couldn't help but feel there's another – or several, perhaps – driving forces behind them other than simple reasons like 'they're just evil' or 'they're forced by their home's situation'. Not to mention as the keyholder to Britannia's magical lands, she had to fight wars on two fronts: on the surface as Princess Morgan Pendragon, and the Reverse Side as Morgan le Fay.

Her failure on winning over Knocknarea was a major setback, as that pink-haired fairy was a direct rival to her claimant as Avalon le Fae. Meanwhile, Vortigern was as hindering as usual when she tried to expand her political strength independently, always whispering things to Uther – despite the distance between Camelot and the northern front – to stir up trouble.

So how could she send her beloved little sister – the cute, adorable, naïve, and gullible Altria – into such a jungle-like cesspit? She wouldn't last one day, surely!

As much as she'd like to use and grind Altria until the latter was dust, such destruction must be done when she'd extracted the maximum value from her little sister. Forcing her to burn out right now would just be a waste of a good pawn.

…right?

These days, she wasn't so sure herself.

The plan now was simple: put Altria on the throne. Morgan wanted it, Vortigern seemingly had accepted it and factored it into his plans, and Uther had secretly decreed it. However, the fundamental questions remained: how and when? Should she just allow what her parallel self did, passively waiting for Altria to pick up Caliburn among the presence of all nearby lords and kings? Should she figuratively cut the line, forcibly changing everything like what she initially impulsively wished to do when she gained the knowledge of that other reality? should she let Merlin and Sirius take charge, blindly following them because their promises were much sweeter?

…more so from the boy's part than her teacher's, admittedly.

'I'm glad she's fine…' Such traitorous thoughts filled her mind when information from Vivian arrived just now, even though she wanted nothing more than to play about Merlin's dismembered body like a girl would to her toy. Morgan was good at building castles out of blocks, just so everyone knew. 'But now I have to deal with her again…'

"You should be king," Altria said after composing herself. "Not married to some… some s-scum!"

'Finally!'

Morgan smiled, even though she's struggling to contain her excitement. "I agree. But you don't think you'll make just as fine a king as me?"

"Of course not!" Her little sister quickly denied. "As I've pledged, I'll be by your side! As a knight! Not a r-ruler!"

"Haaahhh…" Morgan exhaled lengthily, leaning back on her chair and stretching out her arms. "But in this world we're living in, that's just exactly that: thoughts, and nothing more. If we want to change things… you need to have the strength, Altria."

"But you already have! Your magical prowess is already on par with Master Merlin!" She exclaimed, still predictably not wanting to usurp her sister's position. "You're even strong enough to supplant Uncle-!"

"You should stop there."

Morgan's warning reminded her just in time, leading her to clasp her mouth shut.

Morgan's arranged marriage partner was exactly like her parallel self, which was the young and rising King of Orkney, Lot. At this time, Orkney was a powerful small kingdom on par with Camelot, though it's on the rise compared to Uther's decline in these past few years. Hence, a union via marriage was the perfectly-normal option to strengthen both sides against the everchanging and chaotic times. It's located far north, and one of the few Scottish fiefdoms not to have antagonistic aspirations against the south.

In a sense, she's going to be shipped up north to ensure Vortigern wouldn't be dealing with increased pressure on his frontline, and rejecting the marriage would mean exactly that. There's little doubt Lot would be the difference between the current stalemate and total Scottish invasion, breaching the walls and encampments Vortigern had already set up.

But of course that's exactly his plan, no? Get rid of a potential political rival, while at the same time earn honour and prestige by brokering a crucial peace treaty. Though he knew Altria wouldn't welcome his constant counsel, unlike Uther, her inexperience was enough of a weakness for Vortigern to take advantage of in the future.

Honestly, it's so easy to divine she's starting to question her father's intelligence.

She continued, "That's still isn't enough. Altria… do you know the limits of my ambition?"

She tapped her foot against the floor, causing a large holographic projection to erupt between them.

"Uwah!" Altria reeled back at the sudden bluish glow piercing her eyes. Blinking the shock away, yet another, even bigger surprise escaped from her lips. "Earth… is round?"

A virtual globe, perfectly mapping the current distribution of the continents and kingdoms. Soft, thin lines kept moving about, arousing Altria's interest, before she realized those were weather patterns forming live, real-time, on the fake planet.

"It's called a 'planet'," Morgan began. "The technicalities behind it, as well as why we never realized it, will be covered later on in the future. I only wish to show you how wide my sight is." She snapped her fingers, and a bright yellow dot erupted where Britannia was. "We are so… small, Altria. The world you've seen with your own eyes is a mere smidge of what's available out there."

Red lines – thicker than the wind-and-cloud ones – began to sail from various spots across Continental Europe's shore. "Our enemies have braved the oceans, conquered bodies and minds, succeeded far from their homelands… while we're here, bickering about small plots of lands and who should lead them. In the eyes of the past Roman Emperors – and our ancestor, Nero – we look no more than feuding village chiefs instead of a genuine international threat."

- …

'She's so cute…' Morgan observed.

Altria's eyes shone, very much like the times Morgan gifted her a new toy when she's but a child. The confusion quickly gave way to supreme curiosity, though she's well-mannered enough not to pepper Morgan with numerous questions. One might think revealing this much information was a risk, but that's an old-fashioned thinking originating from an era where the higher class deliberately withheld education from the lower one, in hopes no one would be wise and smart enough to raise against them. However, it's much harder guarding against true idiots than idiots who thought of themselves as smart – the former almost exclusively the result of the aforementioned class disparity – as they might take very irrational, yet incredibly damaging decisions.

It's much better to have control over what knowledge drip-fed onto the masses – in this case, from Morgan to Altria. Her reverence for her older sister only made it simpler and more fool-proof.

"I want the world, Altria."

Her little sister snapped to attention, fist bumping against her heart. "Your will be done, my queen!"

"You are giving up on Avalon le Fae, Your Highness?" Imina carefully asked.

As a mere human consort of his faerie wife, it's not in his right to address Knocknarea so directly. In other clans – except perhaps the Mirror Clan – this would be considered a criminal offense, with the Fang Clan being the strictest adherence to this unspoken rule. It's especially risky considering his wife wasn't here, though fortunately Knocknarea's much too busy to bother thinking up of a proper punishment.

As expected, though, she frowned at his impoliteness. Still, she answered curtly, "Yes."

"I see."

His equally-curt answer surprised her. "…that's all?"

He bowed. "It's not my place to question your intentions too deeply. And, Your Highness, you know very well what I care and do not care about."

Knocknarea flipped her pink hair. "Hmph. I appreciate your honesty."

To be honest, she was raging on the inside.

Since she was little, she thought the title 'Avalon le Fae' was something one could fight for. Something, if she put in enough effort, win enough hearts, become strong enough, she could achieve.

Unfortunately, reality wasn't that fair.

What's most important for choosing 'Avalon le Fae' was… whom Britannia chose.

Very much like the Reverse Side of the World, where mortal and modern logic were unimportant. Tyrants, despots, and villains ruled forever so long their respective Textures supported them, with their people suffering for eternity. Knocknarea, who had secretly fallen in love with the Outside World's lore and legends – especially about those heroic figures of old – tried her best to be their exact opposite.

Be the perfect leader. The perfect woman. The perfect faerie.

…only for her recently to know Britannia was no different than anywhere else, even if the Texture's representative, Cernunnos, was still alive and sentient.

She considered executing those two faeries who came with Tonelico, who was obviously the candidate Britannia preferred. It was 'old-fashioned' in a way 'it's been this way since the world's been created', such was the age of this custom.

So what did she think about this supposed political rival of hers?

…to be frank, not a lot.

Unlike the other faerie clan heads, of whom she had plenty of intel of, Tonelico was both an outsider and the purest faerie to ever been born.

"WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?!" Such was her outburst against Cernunnos, Britannia's sole representative, when she found out the circumstances of Tonelico's birth. Of course, the reply she received was unintelligible without Pandora – who's suspiciously missing at this crucial time – but the sentiment was properly conveyed.

[Nature].

It was almost as annoying as [Fate]. However, what's even more grating was [Nature] was always logical and understandable, instead of [Fate]. Hence, Knocknarea could blame more parts on it than if it's simply destined, starting a spiral of self-loathing and all-blaming.

Clearly, not a healthy mindset for a leader of people.

So she gave up.

…at least, gave up on directly leading the faeries from the front. Obviously, 'Avalon le Fae' didn't have unchallenged control over the domains, so whoever became one should need advisors, friends, trustees, and so on.

Why not Knocknarea?

Going back to what she thought of Tonelico, what she could read was the blonde girl was merely a powerful adventurer of mysterious origin. Obviously the kind of people rulers like her should apprehend and question to death, because suspicious people like Tonelico was always sources of trouble. What little conversation they had together wasn't enough for Knocknarea to peer deep into what constituted the individual called 'Tonelico', since the latter also had their guard up. It's only natural, she thought, since they were supposed to be rivals after all.

At least until Tonelico's apparent death.

…oh, no; Knocknarea didn't believe her demise for one second. For one, as the ruler of the land where the small war had just occurred, she was sensitive towards souls coming and going. Tonelico's soul certainly wasn't going to where faerie afterlife was, so the pink-haired ruler thought it simply went to one of previously-prepared soul jars, given that girl was an accomplished magus. It's certainly an aspect she's deficient in, so it wouldn't be a loss to faerie kind to have that amount of new knowledge and skill entering its society.

- Flip.

"Well, that's certainly a surprise."

The tent flap was opened, revealing a diminutive, cute white-haired faerie who's been listening in to their conversation since a while ago. A mischievous smile graced her lips, as she merely placed her head inside the room, clearly not eager to step inside fully and endure Knocknarea's incoming bullying. "You're never one to retreat from a challenge. What's going on?"

"Why don't you come in here and find out?" The pink-haired faerie growled, already coalescing her [Force] around Cheryl to prevent her escape.

However, the little faerie was slipperier than any eel, easily flickering to Knocknarea's blind spot behind her. Her movement was both smooth and sudden – a trademark of her family's Sorcery Trait.

The Primes was a major noble family residing in the King Clan's territory, though that was solely due to their status and strength. In fact, this family only had three members remaining: Cheryl's grandfather, herself, and her husband-consort Alma. The former was obviously the de facto patriarch, though due to his advanced age and currently rather unstable mentality, he left most of the family's running to her… which in reality was her delegating her duties to Alma instead, preferring to continuously train and fight to surpass her grandfather's strength.

Their Origin was [Elastic]. It granted them the abilities of [Extension] and [Contraction], applicable to both their physical attacks and any Thaumaturgy they executed, though what Cheryl did right now was applying it to her footwork and body control instead.

Still, Knocknarea's omnidirectional [Force] was as invincible as always.

Cheryl wanted to poke her on the cheek, but an invisible pair of hands had already pinched and grabbed her ears, pulling her into the air. "OWOWOWOWOWOW! ABUSE OF POWER! THIS IS ABUSE OF POWER, I SAY!"

"What do you think, Imina? Does her claim hold true? I am merely defending myself, no?"

Faced with such a demonic smile, Imina's hands uncontrollably trembled, but he managed to keep his voice steady. "Of course not, Your Highness. Your judgement is correct as always."

"TRAITOR!"

Ignoring the childish screams from across the table, the plain-looking young man bowed lightly. "If that's all, I'll excuse myself."

"DON'T YOU DARE RUN AWAY! I'LL TELL BIG SIS' ELLIS!"

He escaped faster than Cheryl could finish her threat, however, deliberately making a show of covering his ears as he exited the room.

…then Knocknarea turned around, still maintaining that beautiful, yet scary smile.

"Now, where was I?"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The guards stationed outside busied themselves by volunteering on assisting the ongoing construction of the castle, just as eager to step away as Imina was.

Would Uther come here, or somewhere else?

These days, that one person's death was whom Scáthach was most looking forward to, as it represented the turning point of this chapter of history.

Besides, the thing inside her was also getting bored.

She hadn't been herself lately, as her weakening meant this thing was able to seamlessly merge with her and control her body to do its bidding. She – or, she supposed, her 'original self' – was relegated to nothing more than an advising voice. It's not entirely new, as she had plenty of out-of-body experiences in her immortal lifetime, but this was the first time she fully lost control over whether she could return to her own body or not. Usually, when she was spirit-travelling like this, her enchanting beauty would mean men and women alike were tempted to do things to her unconscious body. There existed a spell which would automatically send her back if her real self was in danger… though she supposed it mattered little now.

The Celtic lands were dead. She, the person entrusted with the Celts' last generation after the decline of the Tuatha Dé Danann, was no more than a shadow of her peak self. Easily controlled like a puppet with no resistance. She didn't even have the chance to activate the Noble Phantasms left behind by her colleagues – those, at least, could slow down the takeover and give her a chance to warn others.

The Celts upheld one tradition above all: [Cycle]. Each generation recognized their time on this plane was limited, destined to be replaced by the next. They were one of the few groups who didn't resist the change between the Age of Gods and Age of Heroes, and the upcoming one between the Age of Heroes and the Age of Man. The transition between the primordial Divine Spirits – most notably Danu – to the Tuatha Dé Danann, then to the Milesians. It mirrored how the Celts' Outer World Texture behaved, as they're a race of immigrants, conquerors, and travellers. They began from the plains of Central Europe, spreading their civilization in all directions, occupying an area perhaps greater than the Roman Empire at their heyday. Alas, they were disunited tribes in the end, and thus said peak was as brief as it was great. The lands they conquered were now reconquered by others, who considered the Celts indigenous, just as much as they treated the previous inhabitants of their lands.

As of now, the last holdouts of the Celts were here, west of Britannia, and small localized blobs dotting the continent. As Christianity and other beliefs began to erode their culture – which was mostly oral – so too did she weaken.

At first, she didn't notice it terribly, as being a gravekeeper didn't require too much energy. Additionally, because of this [Cycle], her power level shouldn't sharply disappear like the Olympians or other past pantheons, because the acceptance things were limited, finite, mortal, and material ensured her survival in this chaotic world at the very least. For example, she could draw strength from [Death] anywhere and anytime, regardless of Thaumaturgical Foundation or Texture. This was even after the perversion of her nature, who was 'just' the ruler of the Land of Shadows, but when the Celts' afterlife was desolate, damaged beyond repair, and urgently needing replacement after everyone vanished, it fell upon her authority to manage this basic attribute.

The current Britannia was a mixture of old Celts, various local tribes like the Scots and Picts, Roman descendants, and the encroaching Anglo-Saxons. In this arena, who was indigenous, and who wasn't? Who came first before other 'firsts', and would the 'last' be the last? In fact, what was 'Britannia'? Who was 'Britons'? What were Divine Spirits, and what were humans? Were those terms mere predecessors of each other? Or completely separate evolutionary results?

Any magus desired to reach the 'ultimate truth', contained within the Akashic Records. Hence, Scáthach also dabbled in this pursuit when she wasn't bothered by her countless students and guests. However, despite her immense knowledge, strength, and talent, she was no closer to this goal than when she started.

In fact, she couldn't see any progress at all, even up to this moment.

Because the thing inhabiting her body also didn't know a jot more than her.

"I'm bored."

That's not her speaking; that's the thing which had inhabited and took control of her body. Yet, Scáthach couldn't agree more. She just chose to keep silent this time, like she had oftentimes even when it made her body do things she abhorred.

Attacking Merlin certainly wouldn't be her choice, though the undoubted impact on it scored high on her rating of military accomplishment. First of all, she's a personal friend, so Scáthach would've forced a third option open if it came down to it, instead of doing what this thing had just done and heartlessly attacked the opponent's weak spot. Second, 'weak spot' was a tad too much, considering Merlin's personal strength, but it was absolutely correct. The succubus was a mentor figure to a lot of important people in Britannia, and merely having her indisposed for a while forced many holes to open in its overall cohesion. For example, she heard Uther was getting physically weaker by the day, but his fated death was rushing in faster than what's fated because of Merlin's absence these past few days, impacting both Morgan's and Altria's fates as well.

She's not as skilled in reading the threads of [Fate] as others in her own pantheon, but since she's the only one left, she could suppose take that position. Certainly, compared to Merlin, who always appeared to have something planned behind the scenes, she's inferior in this aspect. The thing inhabiting her body was even worse, making Scáthach sure there's still somebody else behind this identity theft.

It's quite disappointing Gáe Bolg, the weapon which had been by her side throughout many mortals' and demigods' lifetimes, couldn't even tell the difference between her and that thing's souls, enabling itself to be used to enact evil. But perhaps that's her just desserts for deliberately making it non-sentient, unlike her pantheon chief's spear which had a degree of autonomy.

If some Scáthach one like Odin came and inhabited her body, then she wouldn't be so surprised, as he's a spear-wielder as well. This thing inside her now… had only lifted things as heavy as a steel magic wand its entire life.

Skadi, the Divine Spirit of [Skiing].

Let her followers laugh at Scáthach… who's defeated by someone who's famous for putting on a sledded boot and cruising around her snowy mountainous home.

Was this other person a warrior? …well, to be fair to her, she was descended from a warrior lineage, but that bloodline had long died out, which was why her father had to resort to trickery and kidnapping to threaten the Norse pantheon to do his bidding. He's certainly far from a gallant figure like Tyr or Surtr… and his daughter was just as much a weakling as her father.

Then what did that make her? Scáthach, the Queen of Shadows, taken down by, in all accounts, a civilian!

Of course, it's not like she's an expert of Norse mythology. For all she knew, Skadi could've been somebody secretly special, at the level of Odin's trump card or something. Of course, this could also be just her own pride speaking, not wanting others to know she got caught so pathetically.

"Hey, I'm pretty high on the pantheon ranking, you know?!" Her own voice – geez, that's quite weird – protested. The opposite of normality was happening, since it's the mind's voice was the real one, and the lips' voice was the fake one. "How dare you! …though, if I have to ask, how can I install some air conditioning around here? It's goddamn hot…"

Scáthach nearly chose self-destruction at her comment, and certainly not just because how banal Skadi's request was. They're living very, very far north of the Roman Empire's capital, with its corresponding wintry subtropical climate. And this girl wanted it even colder?! Putting that aside, she had more of an issue against Skadi's curse words, because every mention of any kind of 'god' through a Divine Spirit's mouth would immediately send a magical beacon to whoever the pantheon's chief was.

When Scáthach was still alive, that was Lugh. And with Skadi, it should've been Odin. She liked inviting that geezer over even less than having her own body hijacked.

Naturally, Skadi didn't seem to be aware of this, as their interactions over the past few weeks had proven. She might carry with her the bearings of a princess, yet her language and general knowledge were crass, uneducated.

'Hmm… My knowledge of Norse mythology is too scarce indeed…' Scáthach lamented. She should've been the one keeping up with the happenings everywhere, not just her own little, dying Celtic domain, yet here she was – as much a victim of her ignorance as of Skadi. 'Perhaps I should prioritize contacting someone who can extract this thing from me and have me dissect it…'

"Hey! I heard that! And stop calling me 'thing'!" Skadi raged. "I have a name, you know! A beautiful one my parents gave me!"

'Pitiful thing. Don't even know her parents are dead…'

Skadi stomped her feet childishly. "Of course I know! They're killed right in front of my eyes…!"

'[Death] comes differently for Divine Spirits, and even the shining stars above us are still alive. This thing doesn't even know that… Which school does it come from? What a disgrace of teachers…'

"LISTEN TO ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU!"

Compared to Morgan, Altria rarely came to Avalon. For one, she lacked the drive to learn the Thaumaturgic process behind its origins and current construction, and thus was already disallowed from entry. It's the most unique domain among the Reverse Side lands the faeries occupied, primarily because… well, there's usually just one person living there most of the time. Right now it's Merlin, and before was her ancient predecessor along the same ilk.

In the future, Merlin planned to hand it down to one of Morgan's clones – the one specifically designed to be her successor, as well as ruler of all faeries: Avalon le Fae. Even compared to the other domains, Avalon was one of unbelievably low turnover, and the position of its ruler was more akin to a curse than a badge of honour. Case in point: The Fang Clan usually replaced their leaders every 5 years or so, which was mere fractions of a faerie's lifetime. Knocknarea was incredibly ambitious in that regard, as she planned on ruling for a long time in the similarly-meritocratic King Clan.

In this aspect, the order should be: Fang, King, Wind, Rain, Wing, Earth, Mirror… then Avalon as the last 'hidden' area.

The Earth and Mirror Clan was also unique in this regard for completely different reasons. The former prized one's craftsmanship as one of the centres of blacksmithing in Europe, so its leader usually reigned for as long as their hands were capable. The latter was mostly hereditary, and since faerie lifetime was incredibly long when compared to mortals, so too did its leader rule for as long. The Mirror Clan leaders – Ainsel, in this generation – could also foretell their own deaths with eerie precision, and thus could prepare everything before their demise.

The Rain Clan, or the 'royal bodyguards', was also an incredibly meritocratic group, but because the winner of one particular contest would be paired with the Avalon le Fae of that generation, they usually got to keep their position until the Avalon le Fae retired… or was killed, then the 'captain' was challenged and defeated by others. Hence, its turnover rate was quite irregular.

All this… Altria had very little interest of. In fact, Merlin knew she soldiered through the succubus's lesson solely because Morgan was there. Altria, tomboyish as she was, would rather go out and play in the field as a 'boy', or challenge more experienced knights as a teenager – Merlin included, as she's quite an expert on longswords. Which was fitting for the role she envisioned for herself… but not the one both her mentors were manipulating her into taking now.

"Master Merlin! Are you alright?!" She rushed into Merlin's arms, having been briefed of Scáthach's attack on the succubus on the way here. "Tell me who did it! I swear I'll-"

"-do nothing, little one," Merlin immediately interrupted. Before Altria could act on her confused-yet-enraged expression, she quickly added, "The culprit will be taken care of, but you're certainly far weaker than them. I don't want you getting killed for nothing."

"Of course it's not 'nothing'!" She protested back. "You're Merlin! Britannia's most important magical figure! Attacking you is equivalent to attacking the crown!"

"And which crown is that, Altria? Hm?"

- …

Merlin's words had stunned the younger blonde, and she continued, "Crown of Pendragon? Of Essex? Of Orkney? Just like them, I am no more than yet another humble magus being accosted in her home. We are too numerous for me to claim I am anything special. All of us have to unite before what you claim is halfway true."

Altria mumbled. "…semantics."

A soft palm rustled her simply-ponytailed hair. "Enough of that. Can't you just be happy she's up-and-running?" Morgan cajoled. "Besides, we're here for a more important thi- Sirius!"

"Miss Morgan. Good morning."

- …!

This was the first time in her life Altria had been tossed aside by Morgan for somebody else. She sharply turned towards where Morgan was rushing, the fire of jealousy roaring in her heart, seeing a redheaded boy in her beloved sister's arms…!

'Ah.'

Having seen him in his entirety, something… something inside her instantly quenched the potential anger inside her.

Morgan, obviously, noticed her sister's rapidly-reddening face. "You have good taste. Of course; you're my sister, after all."

Sirius was then presented towards Altria as if Morgan was passing around a doll. His deadpan expression at his current treatment, having received all the plaudits for healing Merlin, fit the picture to a tee. "Miss Altria, hello. My name is Sirius," he stated matter-of-factly, almost as if he's a mindless homunculus than a bonafide human being. "But those close to me, if their tongue can pronounce it, call me 'Shirō'."

- Static.

Somehow, Altria swore she could hear her heart thumping inside her throat. Forget her chest, as it's long gone from there the instant she laid her eyes upon the boy.

"I ask of you, are you my Master?"

"There are no regrets. If one can be proud of one's life, one should not wish for another chance."

"Even if he is not a Master, our contract will not go away. I have sworn to protect him and to be his sword."

"You have grown strong, Shirō. ...No, that is wrong. You were strong from the start."

"I want the Holy Grail. But I cannot kill Shirō. Do you not understand, fool? I said I favor Shirō more than that thing."

Voices spoke into her mind, yet she couldn't fathom their words. There were tones of reverence, of coldness, of love, of declaration, of praise, and of defeat, yet Altria couldn't differentiate who spoke each one, how many words there were, and who were they spoken to. Flashes of images ran by faster than she could capture, but she could tell she – or some other version of herself – was present at each and every one of them.

The only thing she could recognize was the emotion she's now feeling so intensely for this boy – Sirius – because she felt it too, that time when her body first reacted to her own older sister.

Yet the heat her loins experienced was markedly different, and somewhat similar to what she felt at the end of Morgan's last… ministrations. Instead of her male part hardening to the point it hurt, she felt a gush of warmth spreading from the centre of her navel down to her loins, manifesting in an uncomfortably moist crotch. A flash of fear crossed her mind when she thought she'd wet herself, but she felt relief when the flow stopped just short from leaking out of her underwear and down her thighs, simply pooling right underneath her small-yet-plump testicles.

Looking at the boy, who's still protesting at Morgan while being held aloft like a doll, she felt a sense of trepidation permeating outwards from that warm spot in her belly.

'I have to stay here for a few months…?'