The halls of Chaldea were silent.
But not Gudao.
His stomach had other plans.
"Ugh... IknewI shouldn't have skipped dinner," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes as he padded through the dimly lit hallway in a pair of mismatched socks, pajama pants, and a hoodie that proudly read'GUDAGUDA WARS VETERAN'. "Just need something quick. Maybe those yakisoba buns Da Vinci hid behind the kale—"
He stopped dead in his tracks as he turned the corner toward the cafeteria.
There was...light.
Not the sterile, cold fluorescent glow that usually made the cafeteria feel like a hospital waiting room.
No, this was warm.
Flickering.
Almost candlelight.
What the... did someone light a fire in there?!
Gudao crept toward the open double doors, and the moment he peeked inside, he froze.
There, sprawled across a series of pushed-together tables and comfy chairs dragged from god-knew-where, were six knights in pajamas.
Real pajamas.
Monogrammed, silken, suspiciously coordinated pajamas.
Sir Gawain was attempting to toast marshmallows over what appeared to be a small enchanted firepit, looking far too dignified in a royal blue robe that shimmered like moonlight. Next to him, Gareth wore a lion-print onesie, her feet kicking in the air as she laughed at something Mordred—clad in an oversized hoodie that read "#1 Rebel"—had said.
Lancelot was calmly making tea. Because of course he was. His sleeves were rolled up, and he was carefully explaining to a dozing Bedivere the difference between oolong and jasmine like it was life or death. Tristan sat nearby strumming a harp softly, the haunting melody clashing hilariously with the glittery pink sleep mask pushed up on his forehead.
It was a full-on slumber party.
In the Chaldea cafeteria.
Gudao blinked.
Rubbed his eyes.
Looked again.
Nope.
Still there.
Stillreal.
"Should I... go back to bed?" he muttered.
That was when Gawain noticed him. "Ah! Master!" he said with that perfectly polished smile. "Come, come! You've arrived just in time."
Gudao stepped inside cautiously, as if approaching some sacred ritual. "Just in time... for what exactly?"
Mordred tossed him a bag of chips. "Midnight munchies, duh. What, you thought only you got them?"
"We've established a weekly tradition," Lancelot added, gesturing to the elaborate spread of snacks: cookies, sandwiches, sliced fruit, something that looked suspiciously like imported wine. "A modest gathering of camaraderie."
"Without Father," Mordred quickly clarified, biting into a marshmallow. "No offense, but she ruins the vibe."
"She is a bit too formal," Gareth whispered to Ritsuka, giggling. "Last time she brought a ledger to track our snack consumption."
"She also recited battle poetry instead of singing karaoke," Tristan added, sighing dramatically. "The mood never recovered."
"Wait," Gudao said, holding up his hands. "You guys do karaoke?"
"Oh yes," Gawain said, eyes lighting up with something dangerously earnest. "Would you like to hear my rendition of 'We Will Rock You'?"
"Please don't," Bedivere mumbled into his teacup, only half-awake. "I can still hear it in my dreams…"
Gudao slowly wandered closer, mind spinning. "So you guys just... hang out here? Secret sleepover club?"
"Secret?!" Mordred barked a laugh. "Pssh. This is just what we do when we're not slicing monsters in half or reliving traumatic backstories."
"It's about balance," Lancelot said seriously, setting down his teapot. "One cannot live by sword alone."
"Also," Gareth piped up, "we just like being around each other. Right, guys?"
There was a collective murmur of agreement, warm and sleepy.
"And no one else knows about this?" Gudao asked, accepting a blanket from Tristan without question.
"Only Mash," Gawain admitted. "She stumbled in once during our pancake duel. Swore an oath of silence in maple syrup."
Gudao just stared. "Pancake... duel."
"You had to be there," Mordred said.
He looked around, feeling strangely touched. It was surreal—seeing these legendary knights, each a myth in their own right, just being people.
Laughing.
Snacking.
Resting.
Being friends.
"Alright," he said finally, plopping into an empty beanbag chair with a sigh. "Hand me a marshmallow."
Gareth squealed and tossed him one. "Master joins the roundtable!"
"Roundbeanbag," Mordred corrected with a grin.
"I wondered...if I made the wrong choice..." Gudao muttered.
The next morning in Chaldea was bathed in the soft glow of artificial sunrise. The halls were slowly coming to life, filled with yawns, murmured greetings, and the occasional servant sprinting toward the showers after a late-night sparring match. Somewhere in the mess of it all, shuffled one very tired Gudao.
His hoodie was backwards.
His slippers were mismatched.
And his hair looked like it had lost a duel with static electricity.
"Why did I stay the whole night..." he mumbled, dragging his feet, arms stretching high above his head as he let out a cavernous yawn. "Marshmallow duels, Mordred's snack-fu... Tristan's harp cover of anime openings... What was last night?"
He turned the corner and nearly collided with Mash Kyrielight, who blinked at him in concern.
"Senpai?" she said gently. "You look... um... like you barely slept."
"Because I didn't," he replied groggily, before instantly remembering The Pact. "I mean—I was just, y'know, studying... Chaldean history... battle strategies... watching cooking tutorials."
Mash tilted her head. "...At 3 AM?"
"I multitask," he said, sweating.
Mash narrowed her eyes just slightly, but before she could press, a familiar regal voice echoed through the hallway.
"Master."
Gudao flinched so hard he almost jumped out of his slippers.
"G-Good morning, Artoria!" he said, trying to stand up straighter, despite his spine screaming for bed.
Saber herself approached with a noble stride, arms crossed, expression suspiciously calm.
She eyed him, then Mash, then back again.
"Have you noticed anything... odd about my knights recently?"
Mash blinked. "Odd?"
"They're hiding something. Gawain pretended not to hear me this morning. Lancelot fled mid-sentence. Tristan vanished entirely—I found his harp abandoned on a couch like a fallen soldier. And Mordred—Mordred was smiling."
"Th-that's not that weird...right?" Gudao said with a nervous chuckle, already sweating through his hoodie.
Artoria's gaze narrowed like a blade being unsheathed.
"Master. Are you hiding something?"
His mind went full red alert.
Remember the pinkie promise. Remember the pinkie promise.
Last night's warning echoed in his head:
"Swear on your soul, Master," Mordred had said, aggressively chewing chips. "You breathe a word to Father, and we'll tell everyone what you did during the popcorn incident."
"I DIDN'T MEAN TO—!"
"Nope! Pinkie promise. Or else."
Now, in the very presence of King Arthur herself, that sacred vow trembled under pressure.
"Uh, nope! Nothing weird! Haha! Your knights are totally normal. Super normal. Alarmingly normal!"
Artoria leaned in.
Her eyes gleamed with the intensity of divine judgment.
And just as Gudao was about to crack like a cheap teacup—
SLAP!
A heavy palm smacked him square on the back, nearly knocking him forward into Mash.
"Yo, Master!" Mordred yelled, grinning like she hadn't just saved him and also partially destroyed his spine. "C'mon, we gotta hit the training room, remember?"
Artoria's calm veneer cracked ever so slightly.
"Mordred," she said tightly. "I was speaking with our Master."
"Oh, were you?" Mordred said, dramatically cupping a hand to her ear. "Didn't hear ya. Weird. Maybe I caught Tristan's mysterious silence flu."
Artoria glared.
Mordred smirked wider, throwing a protective arm around Gudao's shoulders and dragging him away.
"He's busy! Knight stuff. Secret knight stuff. Later, 'Father'!"
"I am your King!" Artoria snapped, but Mordred was already halfway down the hall, cackling.
Gudao could only look back at Mash and Artoria with a helpless wave as he was bodily kidnapped.
Once they were out of sight and around a quiet corner, Mordred released him and turned, fists on hips.
"You almost blew it," she growled, stomping her foot. "You know what would happen if Father found out?"
Gudao raised a finger. "She'd... crash the slumber party?"
"She'd make a rules manual." Mordred's voice was full of horror. "And assign us official roles. Gawain would be on marshmallow duty for the rest of eternity. Tristan would have to file harp requests. You'd be dubbed 'Sir Pajama Coordinator.'"
He blanched. "That's... oddly specific."
"We've seen it happen," she said, dead serious. "Last year's Valentine's planning meeting? We're still not over it."
Gudao slumped against the wall, groaning. "Why did I agree to this secret life..."
Mordred smirked, arms crossed. "Because it was fun."
"…Yeah," he admitted. "It kinda was."
She clapped him on the back again—gentler this time—and said, "Welcome to the club, Master. Just remember: Snitches get demoted to snack sorting duty."
"…Noted."
And somewhere, not too far away, Artoria stood with crossed arms and narrowed eyes.
"…They're hiding something. I can smell the sugar."
It was 11:47 PM.
Most sane individuals were in bed.
But Gudao was not one of them.
He was being dragged—against his will, and by the sleeve—back toward the cafeteria by none other than Mordred Pendragon, Chaldea's resident Slumber Party Warlord.
"I'm not going," Ritsuka whined, heels skidding against the floor. "I just recovered from the last one. My back still hurts from the marshmallow jousting!"
"Too bad," Mordred grunted, yanking harder. "You're already sworn in, 'Sir Munch-a-lot.' You miss one meeting, you're out. Out means I stop pretending to care what happens to you."
"...You wouldn't."
"Oh, I would." She spun around dramatically, jabbing a finger into his chest. "And if you ever squeal to Father, I'll give her every juicy detail—including that time you said she looked cute in an apron."
"You promised you'd forget that!"
"I lied."
They reached the double doors of the cafeteria, and once again the soft glow of enchanted lights greeted them like a siren's call. Inside, the Roundtable Knights were already in position: Gawain polishing a teacup with ceremonial intensity, Gareth snuggled under a lion-printed blanket, Lancelot setting out plates of cucumber sandwiches like a butler in exile, and Tristan tuning his harp with the gravity of a man facing his fate.
Only Bedivere looked as though he was reconsidering all his life choices.
Again.
"Master," Gawain beamed. "Welcome back to—"
"I regret everything," Gudao muttered, slumping into a beanbag chair as someone handed him hot cocoa.
Lancelot nodded sympathetically. "We all do. That is why we eat sweets."
They had barely begun the first game of "Truth or Pie" (which involved literal pies) when it happened.
A sudden, chilling sound pierced the warm haze of merriment:
"Ahem."
Every motion in the room froze.
Tristan's harp let out a tragic twang. Gareth squeaked and burrowed into her blanket like a startled animal.
Even Mordred, mid-cookie, stopped cold.
Slowly—painfully—all eyes turned toward the source of the sound.
Standing in the doorway were two figures:
Artoria Pendragon, in her full armor, arms crossed, expression a storm of royal fury.
And Mash Kyrielight, holding a clipboard like it was a weapon of truth, eyes filled with crushing disappointment.
"…Well," Artoria said, her voice sharper than Excalibur. "This explains a lot."
"I knew it," Mash muttered, voice laced with betrayal. "Senpai, how could you?"
Gudao wanted to evaporate.
He slowly lowered the pie he was holding. "Mash... I can explain—"
"You said you were watching documentaries!"
"I was! …Briefly! Before Mordred threatened me!"
"Don't throw me under the bus, you idiot Master!" Mordred yelled.
"You threatened to kill me!"
"Metaphorically!"
"You said you'd use Joyeuse to shave my eyebrows off in my sleep!"
"That's how we bond!"
"ENOUGH!"
Artoria's voice cracked like thunder, silencing the cafeteria with a single word.
She stepped forward, eyes scanning the traitorous knights before her—her comrades, her Roundtable, her loyal knights—surrounded by pillows, snacks, and what appeared to be a half-finished group doodle of "Chaldea: The Animated Series."
"Explain.Now."
There was silence.
Then, a quiet clatter as Gawain accidentally dropped his spoon.
Bedivere cleared his throat. "My King, we simply… sought to strengthen our bonds."
"With hot cocoa and karaoke?" Artoria snapped.
Tristan raised a tentative finger. "We also explored the depths of modern emotional expression through horror films...?"
Artoria took a deep breath. Gudao could see the veins in her forehead.
"I can't believe you would exclude me from this. I am your king. I am fun."
No one dared speak.
She turned to Mash. "Kyrielight. Do you believe me to be fun?"
Mash coughed. "You... have admirable dedication to justice..."
Artoria's eye twitched.
"I will not tolerate treasonous fun. You will all attend a formal apology dinner tomorrow. With etiquette training. And I will host a proper gathering—with proper rules and assigned seating."
A collective groan echoed from the knights.
Mordred slapped her forehead. "Great, now she's gonna plan a Royal Pajama Conference."
"This isn't over," Artoria warned, spinning on her heel and marching out like the wrath of Camelot itself. "None of you are off the hook."
Mash gave Gudao one last deeply betrayed look before following Artoria.
"…I'm so dead," he muttered, facepalming.
The room sat in stunned silence.
Then, Gareth whispered, "We should run away."
Lancelot nodded. "To another Singularity, perhaps."
Tristan strummed a sad chord. "There is no fleeing royal paperwork."
Mordred flopped onto the floor, staring at the ceiling. "This is your fault, Master."
"MY fault?! You dragged me here!"
"You could've fought harder!"
"I'm a civilian!"