Made some adjustments in the previous chapter to 'justify' EMIYA's performance.
I never intended to make him feel overpowered, just a bit competent. 'Power levels' isn't entirely straightforward in this series and more of setups and scenarios that gets exploited in one or another's favor.
But yeah. My bad.
Chapter 3:
The Knights of the Round Table sat in heavy silence, their expressions grim, weighed down by the bitter failure to apprehend the assassin who had infiltrated the King's chamber and escaped beyond Camelot's walls. Each knight wrestled with the sting of dishonor, while Queen Guinevere stood at the head of the Round Table, where King Arthur should have been seated, staring into the center with a calm yet unreadable expression.
Among those present were Gawain, Agravain, Kay, Palamedes, Lancelot, and Percival, while the other knights tended to their duties elsewhere.
"So, let me get this straight," Kay began, his tone low but biting. "Somehow, an intruder not only slipped past Camelot's walls and into the King's chambers, but by sheer luck, Queen Guinevere and Sir Lancelot stumbled upon him. And instead of apprehending this assassin, we were treated to a chaotic chase through the castle, ending with him escaping—after thoroughly thrashing Sir Mordred, whose armor was shattered in the process. Did I miss anything?"
The knights wore expressions of shame. They were the finest in the kingdom, yet they had failed to capture the would-be king slayer—outmaneuvered and outwitted by a foe wielding an array of weapons, allowing him to escape.
To make matters worse, the situation with Mordred had grown delicate, especially after the destruction of the knight's armor revealed a striking resemblance to King Arthur. That revelation raised a slew of troubling questions, and though both Kay and Sir Ector suspected Morgan's hand in this, there was no proof—yet.
"Well summarized," Merlin said brightly, standing beside Queen Guinevere with his usual mischievous grin. "Though I do wish you'd mentioned all the battles with the Knights of the Round Table and a few unlucky sentries. Especially Mordred! Their duel, though brief, was quite a spectacle. A real clash of-"
"Shut up, Merlin." Kay scowled, cutting him off. "We all know you were watching the entire thing, and you didn't lift a finger to help us."
"What? Me? Not help?" Merlin gasped in mock offense, placing a hand over his chest as though wounded by the accusation. "On the contrary! I chained him with my magic, keeping him grounded. If it weren't for my efforts, none of you would've even known where to find him!"
Kay's scowl deepened. "Oh, so that's why he managed to flee right under our noses after making a fool of us all. Great help, Merlin."
"Sounds like a skill issue," Merlin replied, still smiling. "Without my intervention, he would've disappeared before any of you even noticed. I did my part—ensuring our 'unwelcome' visitor stuck around. It was your job to catch him."
"And yet, he still escaped. Escaped, thrashed Mordred, and left us all scrambling to figure out what just happened."
"I have no excuses," Lancelot spoke up. His head was bowed and his hands clenched tightly on the table. "Allow me to embark on the quest to find this assassin who slipped through our grasp." His failure haunted him, a fresh burden to add to the many he carried in service to his king. "I will go alone, myself and my steed. I must atone for this disgrace. I know his tactics now, and should we meet again, he will not escape me."
Before any of the knights could voice their opinions, Merlin's let out an amused chuckle and appeared beside the knight. The Magus of Flowers reached out to lightly tap Lancelot's shoulder, sending a few flowers petals dancing in the air.
"I wouldn't recommend that," Merlin said with a wide, knowing grin. "Powerful as you are, Sir Lancelot, even the mightiest knight can fall when faced with the right tool at the right moment. If you ride out now, you might not even make it past Camelot's gates before he sets his sights on you."
"What do you mean?" asked Palamedes, the Knight of Inquiry, leaning forward as he spoke.
"Our elusive visitor may be far away by now, but he still has eyes on Camelot. He can see further than you might expect, even beyond the range of Sir Tristan's sight. His arrows—or swords, rather—will find their mark so long as he can see you. You see, he possesses a form of Clairvoyance that allows him to perceive great distances, though it's not quite like my own."
The knights exchanged glances. Merlin's Clairvoyance was known to allow him to observe events across the world as they unfolded, though even he was bound by the present and unable to glimpse into the future.
"You're saying he could strike us from afar, even now?" Palamedes narrowed his eyes, echoing the unspoken question that lingered in the minds of the others. "You know where he is. Why haven't you revealed this sooner, when a threat like him lingers just outside Camelot's walls?"
"A threat? Oh, I think not," Merlin replied with a casual wave of his hand, as though the very notion amused him. "Though the walls of Camelot remain protected by enchantments that block any attack made with malicious intent, it's clear our visitor harbors no desire to bring about such destruction. If he were truly intent on being a threat to Camelot, the lands around us would be nothing but ruins by now."
"Then his hostility is directed solely at our King," Agravain murmured, his sharp eyes studying Merlin.
"And that alone warrants a death sentence!" Lancelot growled, slamming his fist down onto the table, his frustration boiling over. "He infiltrated the King's chamber—King Arthur's chamber. His intent was clear, and I will not stand by while this intruder flaunts his defiance."
"Then what is his motivation against our King?" Palamedes asked.
"I care not for his motivations," Lancelot retorted, his anger not yet subsiding. "Only for the fact that he dared lay a hand against our King. That alone is unforgivable!"
"I am in full agreement with Sir Lancelot," Gawain nodded with a resolute expression. "Whether driven by personal vendetta or the whims of another, King Arthur had always acted for the greater good of this land and its people. To endanger our King is an act of treason, regardless of their reasons!"
"Not to mention, the intruder seriously wounded Sir Mordred. Even though he's not yet part of the Round Table, Mordred is still one of us, and his well-being matters." Percival added gravely. The tall knight had always been deeply caring, particularly toward his juniors.
"Mordred will recover soon," Merlin waved a dismissive hand. "The wounds are superficial at best. If the intruder had intended to finish off our little knight, he would have done so without hesitation."
"Yet his restraint does raise questions about his character," Percival mused, uncertainty clouding his features.
"Perhaps he adheres to some code of honor?" Palamedes speculated.
"Everyone has a line they won't cross," said Gawain, "but that doesn't excuse treason!"
"So, it would seem," Merlin said with a sly smile, "but you would do well to consider the consequences of rushing in headlong. Our escaped visitor is resourceful, and I suspect he's already prepared for every tactic the Knights of the Round Table might use."
Lancelot's tightened his fist, but he said nothing.
"Then what would you suggest?" Agravain asked coldly. "We cannot leave such a dangerous figure to roam freely."
"For now, I suggest patience." Merlin glanced toward the empty seat of the King. "He's watching, yes, but we're not without options. Our escaped guest is more than he seems. This intruder is more than he seems, and we must wait for King Arthur to awaken before making any decisions." The magus moved to stand beside Guinevere, his playful expression fading into something more serious. "Disregard my advice at your peril. Confronting him without a clear plan could lead to disastrous consequences and a very displeased king."
The knights stood in stunned silence. Merlin rarely took on such a grave tone, and when he did, it meant that something far greater was at stake than a mere threat to the throne.
"We shall follow Merlin's advice." Guinevere's voice broke the silence, calm and firm. "The safety of the King is paramount, and we cannot risk more lives without knowing what we're up against."
Lancelot nodded reluctantly. "Very well. But when the time comes, I will face him again," his eyes still filled with anger. "And this time, he will not escape."
Merlin smiled widely. "Oh, he may. But rest assured, Sir Lancelot—next time, you'll know what you're truly facing."
"Fine by me. I'll inform Sir Bedivere when we're finished here." Kay turned, his sharp eyes locking onto Merlin. "As for you, Merlin," he continued, voice thick with suspicion, "I don't know what kind of games you're playing or what strings you're pulling behind the scenes, but let me make one thing clear. If your carelessness causes another mess like it has in the past—I'm seriously considering expelling you from the court."
The other knights shifted uncomfortably. Kay's anger was no secret, but this open threat to one of the most powerful figures in Camelot was more than bold—it was dangerous. Yet, Kay's position as Arthur's foster brother gave him a unique standing. He wasn't just any knight; he had been with Arthur since the very beginning, and his words carried weight.
Merlin, however, seemed entirely unfazed.
"Expel me?" he mused, the corners of his mouth twitching as if holding back laughter. "Oh, Sir Kay, you do know how to make me smile." His gaze flickered with amusement, but beneath it, there was a spark of something sharper. "But let's not kid ourselves. You and I both know that would never happen. After all," he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to be ominous, "who would warn you of all the dangers lurking in the shadows of Camelot?"
/-/
Artoria stood frozen, her heart pounding as the scene played out before her eyes.
Shirou Emiya—a man driven by ideals as pure as his desire to save others—was being led to the gallows. The crowd's jeers echoed in the air, filled with contempt and misunderstanding, a seething mass of hatred for someone they simply couldn't comprehend.
Shirou had done nothing but give, sacrificing himself time and time again for the sake of others, asking for nothing in return. But here he was, bound and condemned by the very people he had sought to protect. The sight made Artoria's blood boil. Her hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of her sword; her knuckles white from the strain. She wanted to charge forward. She wanted to stand between Shirou and the injustice that was about to unfold.
But she couldn't.
This wasn't real.
It was a memory. A fragmented echo from the past. No matter how badly she wanted to intervene, to change what was unfolding before her eyes, she knew it was futile. She was merely an observer in this nightmare, powerless to alter the course of events.
The noose was placed around Shirou's neck, the ropes biting into his skin, but he showed no fear. His eyes, those determined eyes that had seen so much, remained calm, almost accepting. He had always been prepared to pay the price for his ideals. He stood there as if this was just another battle he couldn't walk away from, a trial he had to endure.
Artoria's fists trembled. 'How could they not see?'
How could they not see the goodness in this man? This wasn't justice. It was cruelty, pure and simple.
Her voice caught in her throat, wanting to shout for the madness to stop, but it was as if the air around her was suffocating, binding her in place.
The executioner reached for the lever, the crowd's cries rising to a fever pitch. Artoria's breath hitched, her heart lurching in her chest. The memory felt so real, the weight of it pressing down on her as if she were reliving the moment, feeling every second of it.
'Stop!' she wanted to shout. 'Stop this madness!'
But no sound came. Her voice was swallowed by the void of the past, a past she could never touch. She stood frozen, her heart hammering in her chest, as Shirou, bound and facing death, looked up towards her. In that fleeting moment, their eyes met.
He smiled.
It was a warm, disarmingly calm smile, one that should not have belonged to someone facing the end.
But Artoria knew better. That smile, that calm expression, cut deeper than any blade. It wasn't fine. None of this was fine.
Then came the sound—the cold, metallic clank of the lever being pulled.
Her breath caught as the platform beneath Shirou's feet gave way.
Time seemed to slow, each agonizing second stretching out as gravity claimed him. The rope snapped taut with a sharp crack, and the crowd fell silent. The jeers and curses that had filled the air moments before evaporated, leaving nothing but the grim finality of death in its wake.
The world grew still, and for a moment, all sound vanished.
The jeers of the crowd faded into a sickening, hollow silence. All that remained was the image of Shirou's lifeless form, suspended in the air, a hero unjustly condemned for daring to fight for those who could not understand him.
The world shifted.
She was no longer standing at the gallows.
Instead, she found herself on a hill—a hill of swords.
The sky above her was a dark, endless expanse of storm clouds, swirling with energy. The ground beneath her feet was littered with countless blades, their sharp edges gleaming in the dim light. Some were rusted and broken, others pristine and deadly, stretching endlessly into the horizon. The place felt familiar, achingly so.
Unlimited Blade Works.
Shirou's inner world. His Reality Marble. His afterlife.
But this time, there was no Shirou standing at the center of it. Only the swords, the empty sky, and the crushing silence. The hill was too quiet, too still. Even the wind seemed to have died, leaving only the weight of the swords to press against her.
"What a pitiful end... unjust."
The voice, soft but commanding, drifted from behind her, freezing Artoria in place. She knew that voice—familiar, yet distant, as though from another lifetime. Turning sharply, her heart hammered in her chest as her eyes locked onto a figure approaching through the mist, draped in regal armor that gleamed under the dim light. It was her—no, not her. A reflection twisted by fate.
The Lion King.
No longer a ruler bound by the weight of her people's dreams, this version of herself had become something more... and less. This was the version of herself that had forsaken everything she once held dear—stripped of the ideals that once defined Artoria Pendragon. The Lion King's cold, emotionless visage held a strange contrast to the noble form Artoria knew when looking at a mirror. And yet, in her piercing eyes now, there was something different, a glint of sorrow, as if the barren world around them weighed heavily on even her.
"You..." Artoria's voice wavered, taking a step back instinctively. Her hand went to the hilt of her invisible sword, though she knew it would do little good here.
She struggled to find words, but none came easily. How could they? How could she speak to this woman, this distorted reflection of who she might have become?
The Lion King's lips curved into a faint, bitter smile as she drew closer. Her gaze was heavy, detached, yet not without a trace of pity.
"Still so naive," she murmured. "Do you truly think you can stand before me with that blade? Or do you simply mimic him, as he faced his own reflection? When he and his younger self faced each other, with nothing but their broken ideals between them? You should know better than to pretend otherwise."
Artoria flinched. She knew precisely who the Lion King referred to. She had been there, had seen it herself—the confrontation between Shirou and his younger self, both determined to preserve their beliefs, even if it tore them apart. And there had been another—the younger Shirou standing before the future he could not yet fathom, before a version of himself who regretted the very ideals, he once held sacred.
"You're wrong," Artoria said, her voice steadier now. "I am not you. I won't—"
The Lion King raised a hand, silencing her. "Do not flatter yourself, child," she said coldly. "We are not so different. All of us. In the end, we are bound by similar threads. He and his younger self; you and I—each of us a variant of the same fate, mirroring one another's."
"That may be true in some twisted sense, but standing here before you," Artoria's eyes narrowed, "I refuse to accept that we are the same."
"You are mistaken. When Sir Bedivere returned Excalibur to me, I began to slowly regain the memories lost when this body perished and was resurrected. I possess your memories, and you possess mine, for this body of ours is the same. But I am growing weary of discussing such subtleties. Though I find myself perplexed, I am beginning to understand his frustration—the irritation at confronting a younger version of oneself."
"Whose mimicking whom now?" Artoria demanded, her eyes narrowing.
"You misunderstand," the Lion King said, her voice taking on a sharper edge. "It is not merely your defiance that irks me, but the reflection of my own past mistakes. His younger self once stood where you stand now, holding ideals that could not withstand the weight of reality. Just as neither of us held the power to create and enforce a reality based on those ideals—at least not in our current forms. And now, here I am, forced to confront the consequences of those very ideals through you."
A heavy silence fell between them.
"What do you want?" Artoria finally asked.
"I want nothing more than to see whether you can truly defy your fate," the Lion King said, her voice dropping to a low, almost reverent murmur. "To see if you are truly prepared to face the consequences of your ideals. Are you ready to confront the reality of your choices, or will you falter and become another shadow of what could have been?"
The Lion King raised her sword high, its edge catching the faint light that pierced through the desolate sky. Without a word, she moved, her form blurring into a streak of silver as she seemed to teleport directly in front of Artoria.
She barely had time to react as the Lion King's Excalibur came down with a force that made the ground tremble. She met the blow with her own sword, the impact sending a shockwave through the battlefield.
"K-kugh!" Artoria strained under the Lion King's overwhelming strength, their swords locked as the Lion King casually pressed down with one hand, gradually overpowering and crushing her.
Artoria's legs buckled slightly under the strain, her feet digging into the fractured earth as she fought to maintain her footing. Each second felt like an eternity as the Lion King's blade inched closer, threatening to drive Artoria's own sword into the dirt.
"Why do you resist so stubbornly?" the Lion King's voice was calm, almost thoughtful, despite the ferocity of her attack. Her eyes, cold and unfeeling, bore into Artoria with an intensity that seemed to strip away any pretense of hope or resolve.
Artoria's breathing was ragged, her mind racing to find a way out of the dire situation. "I fight... because I must," she forced out between gritted teeth. "I will not yield to despair. I will not become like you."
The Lion King's lips curled slightly, a hint of amusement—or perhaps disdain—flitting across her face. "So be it."
In an instant, the Lion King surged forward, her blade slicing through the air with blinding speed.
/-/
EMIYA stood alone atop a small, windswept hill; his gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of Camelot. The castle's silhouette was dimly illuminated by the flickering torches set about its battlements, providing him with just enough visibility to monitor any movement from his vantage point.
"I can't believe I managed to avoid getting jumped by the Round Table Knights," he mused with rare self-satisfaction. The sense of fortune was almost alien to him, a respite from his usual streak of misfortune.
Despite the small boost from his improved container, which enhanced his physical stats by a rank, EMIYA knew he would struggle against the full might of the Round Table Knights in close quarters. His odds of victory were slim against most of them, even with his experience from other realities and the resources at his disposal. These knights are living legends at their peak, and their skill in melee combat, combined with their strategic prowess, made them particularly dangerous. Only his deep reservoir of experience, both from Chaldea and his past battles, barely kept him in the game.
The knights had started to grasp his abilities, making any future encounters even more difficult. While he could hold his own at a range of up to four kilometers with relative confidence, the situation would drastically change if Galahad were among the Round Table. Galahad's presence would tilt the odds unfavorably, pushing him into a corner where even his extensive arsenal might not suffice.
'Galahad likely hasn't joined yet, hopefully… Not much I can do about that regardless.'
Gawain, in particular, would be an almost unbeatable opponent under the sun—a fact EMIYA couldn't ignore. The knight's skill and radiant strength would present a formidable challenge. While EMIYA had no intention of killing Gawain, forcing him to retreat was a viable strategy. Fortunately, EMIYA possessed a few Noble Phantasms that could potentially drive Gawain back or even incapacitate him.
'It's not just about survival; it's about making sure they can't reach me.' EMIYA's mind was already strategizing his next moves, calculating the best approach to avoid or confront the Knights of the Round Table should the need arise.
Avoiding direct confrontation with the Round Table Knights whenever possible was crucial, but if it came down to a fight, he needed to be prepared to confront them on his terms. He just has to restrain himself from using the more lethal Noble Phantasms if he could avoid it.
If the situation required a more drastic measure, EMIYA had a reliable escape plan. He could trace Mysterious Ranmaru X's Noble Phantasm, Orchid Rounds X. By wielding her sword, he could activate her Noble Phantasm to surf through the sky, allowing him to reposition swiftly or make a strategic retreat if things became too dire.
The pressing question, however, weighed heavily on his mind: why was he holding out?
It wasn't a matter of fear or a desire to avoid death—he was already dead, after all. The truth was more complex and personal. It stemmed from a deep-seated need to confront and make amends with his Artoria. There was something he had failed to resolve, a lingering regret tied to a memory that had faded beyond his reach. He was driven by the desire to reconcile with Artoria, to find closure for a failure he could no longer clearly recall.
He wanted to see her, yet found himself paralyzed by a sense of shame, a gnawing feeling that perhaps he had no right to confront her—or did he? The memories of his past life had eroded over time. This particular memory, a piece of his past he could barely recall, was one such fragment.
"... Whatever. It doesn't matter in the end, does it?" he muttered to himself, a sad smile touching his lips.
/-/
Artoria awoke alone, her surroundings shrouded in faint darkness.
The bed she occupied was nestled deep within the heart of Camelot, an imposing fortress that seemed to pulse with its own ancient energy. Her green eyes, sharp and observant, cut through the shadows as she silently rose from the bed with a stoic expression. She surveyed the room. The room was organized, her armor, outfit, and weapon were neatly arranged and secured nearby, while Avalon rested close by on the bedside.
Without a whisper or a sound, Artoria began the process of dressing and arming herself. Each piece of her armor was donned with care, her fingers deftly securing clasps and buckles. The sword she carried was a familiar weight in her hand, a trusted companion through countless trials.
As Artoria prepared herself, her mind reached out in search of a connection to a particular Counter Guardian—a figure bound by a contract that still tethered them together. Despite the distance, they were aware of each other's presence, a silent understanding passing between them.
Once she had completed her preparations, she moved toward the door, her footfalls barely audible on the cold stone floor. Pausing briefly at the threshold, Artoria cast a final glance around the room, her face emotionless. With one swift motion, she opened the door and stepped into the corridor beyond, where the faint light of dawn crept in through narrow windows, painting the walls with a soft, golden hue.
"M-my King!" a voice gasped, breaking the stillness. Bedivere, standing at the far end of the hallway, caught sight of her. His eyes widened with relief and his face brightening at the sight of his sovereign. "You're awake! Thank the heavens!" Without hesitation, he hurried to her side. "Do you need anything, my King? Should I prepare something for you? Or—perhaps I should alert the other knights, let them know you're well."
"Sir Bedivere."
He stood at attention, his smile faltering under her gaze. "My King?"
"Prepare my steed," she instructed, her tone steady. She then looked past him, toward the soft hues of dawn breaking through the castle's windows, the sky slowly brightening as the sun rose. "Only after that may you inform the others of my return."
Bedivere nodded obediently, though a knot of concern tightened in his chest.
"Of course, my King," he responded, though the worry in his heart remained unspoken. He hesitated for a brief moment, his curiosity getting the better of him. "If I may ask, my King... where are you heading?"
Artoria remained silent for a breath, her gaze distant, her mind elsewhere. Finally, she spoke.
"I have unfinished business."
