The Grand Line was in the most bizarre state when it happened, a state considered almost impossible and seldom seen.
For any ordinary sea, such a state might have meant an ongoing tempest, an omen of nature's wrath manifesting through howling winds, dark clouds and waves so titanic they could be mistaken for the mountains. The sky would darken with fury, lightning would dance in jagged arcs across the heavens, and the winds would scream, tearing through sails and splitting masts with ruthless efficiency. Ships would shatter, their desperate crews dragged beneath the churning abyss, swallowed by the cold, merciless embrace of the deep.
Yes, such would be the case for any of the lesser seas, neutered cousins futilely trying to prove their worth.
But this was the Grand Line.
Here, such violent chaos was the norm. That's why it was so unusual for the sea to be so utterly tranquil.
The sea lay calm, its waves gentle and subdued, rising and falling in lazy undulations. Absent were the harsh winds and treacherous currents, the vast expanse of deep blue unmarred. Gone was the danger, the threat, the promise that lured pirates and marines alike. Even the sea kings- those gargantuan, ancient beasts of immense power- seemed reluctant to disturb the scene, all of them lazing in the hidden depths of the sea.
The sky was a flawless shade of blue, unbroken by clouds, the sun's golden light shimmering across the water's surface like scattered jewels. A soft breeze carried only the pure, salty scent of the ocean, while the horizon stretched endlessly, an unbroken expanse of blue meeting blue, where sky and sea became one in perfect harmony.
Today, the Grand Line was at peace.
Then, as if the world itself had decided this idyllic state was too disturbing to witness, the serenity was broken by a piercing scream that suddenly tore through the sky.
"CRAP! CRAP! CRAAAAAAAP! SCREW THE COUNTER FORCE! IT CAN EAT A BAG OF—!"
Had there been anyone in the vicinity to look up, they would have seen the mot peculiar sign- a lone figure plummeting from the sky, his descent anything but graceful, with limbs flailing in frantic, erratic motions and his entire being radiating sheer, unadulterated panic.
The man's torso was mostly bare, save for a dark chest piece with intricate golden detailing that left much of his midriff exposed. His arms were adorned with golden bracers, intricately designed yet at that moment serving as nothing more than additional load, pulling the man down towards the sea. Rings decorated his fingers, catching the light as they reflected his panicked gestures, while golden pauldrons sat atop his shoulders, grand yet utterly useless in the current situation.
His lower attire was an even greater testament to questionable fashion choices. Green and gold cloth panels hung from an ornate belt, giving the illusion of regal elegance, but this illusion was immediately shattered by the fact that his upper thighs were completely bare, save for a speedo covering his most vulnerable area. Meanwhile, pristine white trousers clung to his lower legs, neatly tucked into golden greaves, the sudden normalcy only increasing the oddity of the picture.
The golden hair on his head, a wild mess of lock that would normally look quite striking, was now an unkempt storm around his panicked face, his green eyes wide with terror as he rapidly approached the inevitable impact below. His extravagant ensemble, probably meant to evoke an air of heroism, now served only to make his frantic, uncoordinated descent even more ridiculous, the man's crazed flailing and twisting utterly failing to control his descent.
Another Tuesday at the Grand Line, some would say.
"AAAAAHHHH! SAVE ME, HERACLES! WAIT, NO! CATCH ME, CAENIS! DAMN IT, I WILL EVEN TAKE MED—!" Fueled by fear, the man was about to say something he could never unsay. Fortunately he was cut off by the impact, the figure finally reaching the surface and meeting his fate with a deafening splash.
The ocean responded to the cowardly blow with a massive column of water shooting into the air, seemingly offended by the sheer indignity of the intrusion. Waves rippled outward from the impact, scattering a nearby school of fish, who collectively decided that whatever was happening here was above their pay grade and promptly swam away. The sky, having borne witness to the absurdity of it all, simply shrugged and resumed its regularly scheduled sunshine.
And then… silence.
The water settled, the waves smoothed, and for a moment, it seemed as though the Grand Line had simply swallowed the intruder whole, deeming him unworthy of further involvement in its affairs.
But then—
BLOOP!
A head of wet, dishevelled blonde hair broke the surface, followed by an undignified series of splutters and coughs. Golden bangles jingled noisily as their owner thrashed about, gasping for breath, spitting out seawater in furious bursts.
"BLAGH—! What kind of sick joke is this?!" the man bellowed, his expression contorted and his voice full of outrage. "That was not a proper hero's descent! Why was I summoned in the sky?! What kind of third-rate summoning was that?! If I ever get my hands on whoever thought that was acceptable—!"
His furious tirade was cut short by another round of sputtering as he struggled to stay afloat. As the water calmed around him, however, his identity became clear— this man, this floundering, dramatic mess, was none other than Jason, the famed captain of the Argonauts and a (one star) Heroic Spirit of the highest calibre.
Jason, the legendary leader who once commanded the greatest crew of heroes in history—the mighty Heracles, the (scaryterrifyingcrazyunhinged) unpredictable Medea, the miraculous Asclepius— all of them and many more had sailed under his command in search of the fabled Golden Fleece. His name had been immortalized in legend, his deeds sung across the ages, his cunning and leadership the stuff of myth.
In addition to all of that, he was also a Servant- a legend given form, a spirit called forth by the world itself to correct disturbances beyond mortal comprehension. He had proven his worth time and time again—in the harrowing battles of the Atlantic Lostbelt, where he stood against gods and men alike (while constantly shitting himself in fear)without any fear in his heart, and in Okeanos, where…
Anyway, his story was a tale of heroism, an awe-inspiring poem worthy of the greatest rhapsodists!
Yes, that grand and previously spotless image might have been perhaps a little tarnished by his…unconventional fall just a seconds before, but (if no one saw it, it didn't happen) now Jason was ready.
Because the world was unsurprisingly a huge asshole, Jason was apparently once again summoned by the world's will to fight against some impossible threat that wanted to kill/conquer/save/love/protect everyone (incorrect answers to be crossed).
Taught by his previous experiences, Jason knew exactly what to do! He would start by finding out the identity of the enemy. Then, he would learn everything he could about his adversary, uncovering their strengths and weaknesses. Finally—and this was the most important part—he would stay as far away from danger as possible and wait for Chaldea to clean the entire mess by themselves!
Brilliant, he was simply brilliant!
Regaining some composure, Jason ran a hand through his wet hair, flashing a smug grin as he took stock of his surroundings. The self-satisfied smirk lasted all of three seconds before his expression contorted into one of rapidly growing concern.
Water. Nothing but water.
No matter how hard he stared into a distance, there was no land, no ships, no sign of civilization in sight. He was surrounded by an endless blue stretching out in every direction, the horizon an unbroken line where the sky met the sea. He was utterly alone in the middle of the ocean or the sea or wherever he was at the moment.
Jason was well and truly (fucked)stranded.
"...Alright. No problem. No problem at all…" Jason muttered to himself, smoothing back his damp hair in a show of forced confidence, the air of feigned nonchalance as thin as paper. His voice wavered only slightly—which was already a victory. "I just need to summon the Argo. Simple solution, right? My glorious vessel, my pride and joy. Because it would only make sense for the greatest captain in history to be able to summon the greatest ship in history, right? Especially if said captain was summoned in the middle of the sea, right?!"
With each passing word, his forced composure cracked further, anger bubbling up with every syllable. His last sentence came out as more of a growl than actual speech, his frustrations reaching their boiling point before finally—
"DAMN IT ALL! WHY IN THE NAME OF TARTARUS WAS I SUMMONED AS A SABER AGAIN?!" Jason howled, his voice echoing across the empty ocean. "I CAN'T SUMMON THE ARGO AS A SABER! I'M STRANDED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SEA AND I CAN'T SUMMON A SHIP! DAMN IT!"
His frustration won, and he lashed out at the water with reckless abandon, his Servant-strength sending powerful waves rippling outward. He flailed violently, thrashing like a drowning man fighting against the inevitable, every splash a defiant rejection of the sheer idiocy of his situation.
It was, by all definitions, a spectacular tantrum—fit for a (spoiled child denied dessert) hero of legend.
Eventually, however, his rage ran its course, and Jason, tired and disheartened, simply allowed himself to float on water, arms spread wide, his eyes locked onto the vast sky above. He drifted in silence for almost an hour, resigned to the absurdity of it all, with occasional twitch of his eye as the only proof he was still alive.
And then, as if receiving a bolt of divine inspiration, the answer came to him. He instantly raised his arm high in the air, a declaration of triumph.
"Of course! It's so obvious!" Jason's mood flipped in an instant, his face lighting up with giddy excitement. "If I can't summon Greece's greatest ship… then all I need to do is summon Greece's greatest hero!"
While Jason himself was (trash in actual fight) perhaps not the most combat-capable Servant, he possessed something that more than compensated for his relative weakness- his Noble Phantasm. The legend of the Argonauts was not just about him. It was also a story of countless heroes, Greece's finest warriors banding together under his command. They all converged on Argo during their own journeys, their stories becoming part of Jason's own.
His noble phantasm reflected that- Jason's bond with his crew allowed him to once again summon his beloved argonauts, allowing all these valiant heroes to permanently return to the world of living as Jason's (minions)comrades!
Sure, each of the argonauts could refuse the summons if they deemed Jason's cause unworthy. And sure, a not insignificant part of Jason's crew (like Atalanta) hated his guts for petty reasons. And maybe there was even a chance that some of them would refuse to appear just because it was Jason who tried to summon them.
It didn't matter.
After all, there (were two argonauts) was one argonaut who would never turn him down. Who was ready to follow Jason to the end of the world and above, regardless of reason. Who would answer his call no matter what: Heracles (and Medea)!
Now that Jason thought about it, he really didn't need anyone else, as long as Heracles joined him! He was his best friend, his strongest warrior, his most dependable ally. With Heracles around, there was no problem they couldn't solve together. Yes! Jason didn't even need a ship! He would simply hop on Heracles' back and allow his friend to swim until they found some land!
Jason puffed up his chest with newfound confidence, extending his arms with purpose. Energy surged around him, golden light gathering as his Noble Phantasm activated, illuminating the vast emptiness of the ocean with divine radiance. He opened his mouth and spoke the words.
"The Radiant Ship that Tears the Heavens—Astrápste Argo!"
The ocean itself seemed to tremble as the blinding glow consumed everything.
Jason blinked rapidly, eyes still struggling to recover from the overwhelming brilliance of his Noble Phantasm. The golden light clung to his vision like a haze, distorting shapes and shadows in the vast blue around him. But amidst the blinding glow, one figure stood out—tall, broad, muscular.
A silhouette of absolute power.
Jason's heart soared.
Heracles!
Of course it was him! That titanic frame, that mountain of muscle—it could only be his best friend, the greatest of the Greek heroes! Without a moment's hesitation, Jason kicked through the water with all the speed and grace of a drowning otter, arms outstretched as he closed the distance.
"Heracles!" he cried, nearly sobbing with relief, his life once again worth living. "You came! I knew you would! My most loyal comrade—come here, you big lug!"
With all the warmth of a brotherly reunion, he wrapped his arms around the figure's leg (Hmm, leg?) in a dramatic, soaking wet hug.
Everything was fine. Everything was finally fine.
There was a long, awkward pause, as the muscular frame squirmed a little in Jason's embrace.
"Uhh…" a voice rumbled above him. "I mean, I'm flattered and all, Jason, but I'm really more into pretty girls."
Jason froze.
That…wasn't right. Heracles didn't sound like that. More importantly, now that Jason calmed down a bit, Heracles didn't feel like what he was feeling right now. The proportions were off, the musculature less perfect.
He slowly looked up, his arms still locked in place around a very solid, very not-Heracles leg.
"Oh no…" Jason muttered, face twisting as realization dawned.
His vision finally cleared—and he found himself face-to-face with a grinning man, whose body was a mountain of muscles and whose face belonged to the lowest-level grunt.
Jason recoiled as if he'd grabbed a hot coal with bare hands, thrashing backward with a splash and nearly swallowing a mouthful of seawater. He coughed and sputtered as he flailed his way to a safe distance, blinking furiously in confusion and mild embarrassment. The unfortunate recipient of his overenthusiastic hug floated nearby, his expression caught somewhere between awkwardness and vague amusement.
As Jason regained his bearings, he looked around, only to see the most peculiar sight.
Surrounding him on every side, bobbing gently with the rhythm of the waves, was a vibrant and wildly mismatched assembly of figures. A kaleidoscope of colors, weapons, and historical contradictions. And yet, despite the absurdity of it all, Jason immediately recognized them.
They were all Servants. And not just any Servants—ones he knew very well.
The first to catch his eye was a young woman, who floated in the water with eerie serenity, her eyes bright with a calm, radiant kindness. The woman's voluminous white dress floated like a ghostly bell around her in the water, weighted slightly by the black roses sewn into its many layered frills, while a black hat was perched atop her chestnut-brown hair, a single red rose blooming defiantly from its brim. Drifting close beside her was a peculiar golden cherub—its wings fluttering despite the lack of wind, its eyeless head crowned with a glowing halo, and its only feature a pair of puckered lips locked in an eternal kiss.
She was Charlotte Corday, Assassin—a girl who once bathed her hands in blood for the sake of peace. Known as the "Angel of Assassination," she murdered Jean-Paul Marat in his bathtub during the early days of the French Revolution, convinced it was the only way to stop the further bloodshed. She was a kindness and tragedy intertwined in human form.
Nearby, paddling in awkward strokes, was a man in strikingly ornate armor—a blend of silver and gold plates and cloth that gave him a mismatched, slightly disheveled appearance. His black hair, streaked with pure white at the bangs, clung wetly to his forehead, and his tired eyes—wide, slightly blank, and lacking any real spark—resembled those of a dead fish. Slung across his back was a massive wooden sword, its hilt just barely above the water's surface, and beside it, a silver shield bounced with each ripple. It was clear the weight of his equipment should've pulled him straight to the ocean floor. Only his strength as a Servant kept him afloat.
He was Mandricardo, Rider—a reluctant king of the Tatars and a bitter rival to the Twelve Paladins of Charlemagne. Clad in the legendary armor of Hector of Troy, he swore an oath never to wield a sword unless it was Durindana, the spear-turned-blade once held by Hector that ended in the hands of Roland as Durendal. His fate had become one of obsession, turning him into a wandering warrior constantly tested by pride, destiny, and the weight of promises made long ago.
Floating nearby with the ease of a man who knew he looked good doing it, was a flamboyant figure whose very presence screamed charisma. His white shirt, though soaked and clinging to his frame, still managed to puff elegantly at the sleeves and collar, tucked beneath a fitted black waistcoat. His crimson trousers matched the flowing red sash at his hip, which held a pair of finely crafted cutlasses—clearly for both fashion and function. A red fur plume rested lazily over his shoulder, looking more dramatic than practical. His emerald eyes sparkled with mischief, and his tousled dark hair gave him the windswept look of a man who he'd just stepped out of a romance novel.
He was Bartholomew Roberts, Rider—one of the most successful pirates in recorded history. Captain of the largest pirate fleet ever seen, he became a legend not through cruelty, but through discipline and order, his greatest accomplishment a pirate code of conduct. His death marked the end of the Golden Age of Piracy.
Not far from Bartholomew, a figure drifted with effortless poise, as if the sea itself dared not disturb him. Refined muscle peeked through gaps in his silver armor, the metal gleaming under the midday sun. His sea-green hair clung slick to his brow, and his vibrant eyes locked onto Jason with the smug assurance of a man who knew he was the fastest, the strongest, and the most indestructible on the battlefield. A long, deadly spear rested across his back, and an orange cape clung to his broad shoulders like a war banner too proud to fall, even when soaked.
He was Achilles, Rider—a demigod son of Thetis, trained by the wise centaur Chiron, and lauded as the greatest warrior of the Trojan War. Greece's final and brightest flame. With a body blessed by divine protection, Achilles was the ultimate embodiment of heroism and recklessness. A whirlwind on the battlefield, he killed Hector and nearly brought Troy to its knees on his own. Ultimately, Achilles met his end from an arrow to his heel, fired by Paris, prince of Troy and Hector's younger brother.
And speaking of which, Jason spotted a smaller figure floating quietly a short distance away, almost like a mirage on the water. The boy's presence was soft, Barely disturbing the waves. He was clad in a shimmering white robe that glittered like moonlight, with flowing teal ribbons adorning every edge. His golden hair curled into cherubic locks, with two braided tufts shaped like the horns of a lamb, gently sticking to the sides of his head. His features were delicate and pale, almost porcelain-like, yet in his eyes burned a quiet intensity that defied his gentle appearance. Resting atop his head was perhaps the most unusual detail—a tiny, fluffy sheep, its eyes glowing yellow like embers, seemingly perched there to avoid the touch of seawater.
This was Paris, Archer—the younger prince of Troy. A youth whose beauty and charm (and a golden apple) led to him kidnapping Helen and igniting the war that doomed his homeland. Though often dismissed as a lesser hero compared to his brother, it was Paris who brought about the fall of Achilles, his arrow piercing the one vulnerable spot of the invincible hero. The sheep, of course, was Apollo himself—or at least, a bizarre manifestation of the god who called himself Paris' guardian… even if his "guidance" often caused more harm than good.
The next person in the group was a presence like a breath of cold wind in the midst of the sunlit waves. Jason turned his head to see a woman floating silently in the water, observing him with a single, sharp eye, while her long black hair fanned out around her like ink bleeding across parchment. Despite being drenched, her kunoichi garb retained a certain pristine grace—layered whites and blacks blending together in a storm of cloth and shadows. On her head sat a strange hat: black and circular with white discs, resembling a peculiar flower blooming on still water.
She was Mochizuki Chiyome, Assassin—a kunoichi of Japan's Warring States period. Once a noblewoman, she became a legend among the shadows, founding a covert school for female ninja, trained in assassination and sabotage. Her body was marked by a divine curse and she was one and only shrine maiden of the giant serpent Orochi.
And finally, there was the man Jason had embraced by mistake—the only one not submerged in the water like the others. Instead, he stood confidently on the surface of the sea itself, as if water was simply another road beneath his feet. His massive frame loomed over the group, a hulking figure of absurd strength wrapped in a fur-lined belt ensemble, with a colossal club strapped to his back and a small bow attached to his wrist. His wild mane of brown hair billowed with every sea breeze, and his physique looked carved by divine hand—each muscle a monument.
And then there was his face. Comically average. Grossly ordinary. It looked like it belonged on a lazy uncle, not on a body that could wrestle whales.
This was Orion, Archer—the hunter of legend, a demigod son of Poseidon. It was said that he could hunt any creature, no matter how divine. Due to his skills, he became Artemis' lover, the two of them forming a dysfunctional yet loving couple. And yet it was this very love that doomed Orion, as it was Artemis, tricked by her brother Apollo, who struck him down with her own arrow.
These were the Servants who stood beside Jason during the Atlantic Lostbelt. Heroes who had laid down their lives—one after another—so that the Last Master of Humanity could reach Olympus. Comrades with whom Jason had faced gods and legends alike. The ones who outwitted Odysseus and Chiron. The ones who shot Artemis out of the sky.
They were the new Argonauts.
Though all of them (except Orion) bobbed half-submerged in water, the space between them radiated warmth—brimming with camaraderie and shared purpose. Jason could feel it—their eyes on him, filled with expectation and confidence. As if the moment they appeared, they were already ready for their next journey.
It was a beautiful moment. The kind that proved bonds forged in battle that could never break.
Jason looked around at them all. At his crew and comrades, who supported and helped him at his worst. And after he did so, he opened his mouth.
"WHAT?! WHERE IS HERACLES?! I WANTED HERACLES! NOT SOME BUNCH OF REJECTS AND USELESS ONE-STAR SERVANTS! DAMN IT!"
The magical atmosphere shattered like glass.
Bartholomew raised an eyebrow. Mandricardo looked away and muttered something under his breath. Charlotte's ever-gentle smile turned politely strained. Even Achilles looked mildly insulted.
Only Orion roared with laughter, as if Jason's outrage was the best thing he'd heard all day.