Artificial humans are creations of mankind—there's no doubt about that.
Whether clones, artificial intelligence, or humanoid robots, as long as their creators don't foolishly allow them to self-learn or evolve uncontrollably, they should, in theory, remain under control.
By setting their core framework to "read-only"—able to receive but not modify or store—they would remain mere tools without consciousness.
Of course, all of that assumes they aren't influenced by external forces.
But this time—whether by coincidence or fate—something extraordinary happened. Deep beneath the Fortress of Millennia, within the magical workshop where homunculi were produced, one particular artificial being... awakened.
This was no possession by a wandering soul from beyond time and space, nor the result of any deliberate gift of consciousness from its creator. It was an impossibly rare anomaly—a homunculus that began to think for itself.
Though not a true human, it undeniably awakened the most primal instinct buried within all living things—the will to survive.
From the instant self-awareness bloomed within it, this unique homunculus began processing information at a staggering rate, absorbing and understanding everything around it.
Originally, "he" had been born as a mana-supplying homunculus, his body functioning as a living magical circuit. Yet somehow, his comprehension of information was remarkably fast.
He watched humans in white-plated uniforms pass by; he saw other homunculi—those bred not for mana supply, but for combat—march through the halls.
"This is the Yggdmillennia clan's trump card! Homunculi optimized with the maximum number of magical circuits! Though their lives are short, the mana they can provide in that time is immense!"
"With them, our Servants will never lack magical energy!"
In a fragmentary memory of unclear origin, the one speaking excitedly was a plump, middle-aged man with slicked-back golden hair and a bristling mustache. Beside him stood a tall, slender young man with dark teal hair and a handsome, expressionless face—watching him and his 'brothers and sisters' with the same detachment one might show toward livestock.
After that... he encountered more and more beings.
But the one that filled him with the greatest terror—was the monster born from his own mana.
Humans observed his suffering and that of his kin with indifferent eyes; the other homunculi moved mechanically, devoid of will. Yet that monster—that thing—was a butcher. (To homunculi like him, a butcher of their kind.)
"Teacher, none of the previous homunculi have been suitable," said a thin, pale boy standing before him. His tone was light, even cheerful—but his words were colder than steel. He was speaking to a strange magus wearing a golden mask.
That boy—Roche—and his teacher were regulars here. They were the monsters who took away countless of his brothers and sisters.
"Roche," the masked magus said, "Her Majesty has summoned me to deal with the Red Servants' intrusion. I have a feeling we'll need to accelerate our work... Try this next."
"Yes, Teacher," Roche replied promptly. "I understand. I'll see to all preparations for the core experiment. We'll begin as soon as you return!"
...
Suddenly, deep within the mana-supply chamber, one of the male homunculi floating in a glass cylinder opened his eyes.
Fragments of memory flashed through his mind—he'd been chosen. That realization struck him like a death sentence. His heart felt as though an invisible hand had wrapped around it, squeezing mercilessly.
Even without consciousness, he had been able to breathe peacefully before—but now, as awareness dawned, panic consumed him. Submerged in his cultivation fluid, he choked violently, thrashing as though drowning.
"No... No, I don't want to die..."
"Move... Move..."
"—Circuit, activate!"
Driven purely by instinct, the homunculus severed the connection to his external mana supply. The refined magical circuits embedded in his body flared to life, channeling energy outward to achieve the most efficient and destructive output possible.
Crack—BOOM!
The glass walls of the cultivation chamber, glowing with green luminescence, cracked and burst apart. The nutrient fluid that had sustained the homunculus spilled across the floor, mixed with shattered glass.
Collapsed on the ground, the homunculus gasped desperately for air. "Cough—cough... guh—ah..."
His throat burned as if seared by fire; the chemical scent of the air stung his lungs, making them convulse in pain. But still—he had to stand. He had to move.
He needed to get away from here. Quickly.
Remaining in this place meant certain death.
Only when he tried to move did he realize just how frail his newborn body truly was. Every breath was agony, every motion a battle against weakness. Yet driven by some nameless instinct, the newly awakened homunculus forced himself onward, step by step, emerging from the dark, silent mana-supply chamber.
But before he could even think, the sound of synchronized, heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor ahead. In an instant, his already drained body gave out, and he collapsed in the castle hallway.
"Avicebron, is this the core you've chosen?"
Turning her gaze toward the fallen figure struggling feebly on the floor, Selene smiled—a quiet, unsettling smile.
The homunculus lay there, wearing nothing but a pair of white shorts. His body was thin, almost androgynous, his skin slick with the viscous residue of the nutrient solution still dripping from him—proof he had only just escaped his cultivation pod.
"Hmm? Core? Your Divine Majesty, the special homunculus should be in the lower chamber just ahead... huh?! How did he get out?!"
Caster of Black—Avicebron—stared in shock. His eyes widened as his gaze followed Selene's, landing upon the collapsed homunculus.
"S-save... me..." The words came weakly, trembling. But when his eyes met Avicebron's behind Selene, terror overtook him. He didn't understand why—but cold dread surged up his spine, paralyzing him completely.
"Your castle's internal security is... problematic."
Selene's tone was calm—almost amused. She waved a hand casually, ignoring the homunculus' pleading cry. A golden-armored Royal Guard reached down and effortlessly lifted him into the air, as though plucking up a doll.
"Roche," Selene continued, turning toward Avicebron's bewildered Master, "is your homunculus workshop entirely without guards? No monitoring systems either?"
This homunculus' escape—and the later chain of miracles that would lead him to rebel against Yggdmillennia and free his fellow artificial beings—was, in truth, a coincidence of absurd proportions.
Leaving aside the pathetic state of Millennia Fortress' internal defenses—first, he would have to encounter someone like Astolfo: a Servant so pure-hearted and guileless that reason itself had evaporated.
Had he met anyone else—a rational Servant or one genuinely seeking victory—this "Sieg" would have been dead on the spot.
Second, he would need a powerful Servant to hear his desperate plea for life and, moved by compassion, grant him salvation—even at the cost of their own heart.
Third, he would have to meet a well-meaning but incompetent overseer willing to defy orders with empty justifications—only to later betray his own words without hesitation.
Three miracles. Miss one, and the story ends there.
Of course, if Selene were merely an observer rather than a member of the Black Faction, she wouldn't have cared at all. As long as they stayed out of her way, she wouldn't lift a finger. Their choices—their freedom—had nothing to do with her.
But position defines perspective. As a Servant of Yggdmillennia, Selene had a responsibility. Her methods and outlook had to align with her role.
Proud, aloof, yet bound by unshakable honor—Her Divine Majesty Selene still had to maintain her image.
And conveniently... she'd been having some new ideas—experiments that might just require this very homunculus.
After all, hadn't that Saint, Jeanne d'Arc, inexplicably shown compassion for this very being upon sight?
Then let's add some fuel to the fire... Selene thought. Let's see if the Saint will risk everything to save him. If she won't act, I'll create the chance myself. Whatever happens afterward... it should be quite entertaining.
Even if nothing came of it, Selene didn't mind. This was simply an extra amusement—she wanted to see whether the Ruler, as the arbiter of the Holy Grail War, would compromise her so-called "fairness" when confronted with tragedy and injustice.
"I... I don't know. The cultivation of the homunculi is overseen by Uncle Gordes," Roche stammered, stiff under the weight of Selene's crimson gaze.
"Your Divine Majesty, we should proce—"
Before he could finish, a soldier's voice rang out from the corridor. "Your Majesty! Captain Darlenst has returned... and he's brought the Ruler with him!"
"Oh? He didn't encounter the Lancer of Red, but managed to bring me something even more interesting..." Selene's lips curved slightly. "Come, Avicebron. Let's go see."
"The legendary French Saint—the Holy Maiden Jeanne d'Arc."
...
"Welcome back. Excellent work on the assault, my King."
At the gates of the Fortress of Millennia's grand courtyard, Darnic greeted Lancer of Black—Prince Vlad III—with a respectful bow. Behind him stood the petrified, unconscious form of the former Berserker of Red—Spartacus—sealed within a stone golem's binding field.
Spartacus' magical circuits had already been severed and rewritten, forcibly bound into a new contract under Darnic's control.
"To protect my people and my homeland—that is my duty as king," Vlad replied solemnly. His cold eyes swept across the captured Berserker. "So this is the Red Servant Her Majesty captured? And the other one?"
"Her Divine Majesty has her own plans for him. We dare not inquire further."
"Still..." Darnic shook his head, his composure finally breaking into a faint smile as he glanced over the unharmed figures of Vlad, Chiron, Frankenstein, and Siegfried. "A zero-for-two exchange, and the Reds have wasted multiple Command Spells. The advantage is ours!"
Then—boom, boom!—the sound of heavy armored footsteps echoed.
"Lord Darnic, by Her Majesty's command, I set out to eliminate the Lancer of Red—Karna. Unfortunately, I did not encounter him. However, I did find the Ruler, and brought her here."
At this, Darnic immediately turned. "Ruler? Where is she?"
A moment later, the unmistakable squeal of rolling wheels and scraping metal reached his ears.
From behind the towering form of the golden-armored guard, a young blonde girl emerged.
Though clad in a Servant's silver-white armor, she awkwardly dragged behind her a battered, scorched travel suitcase.
At present, the girl was trying in vain to hide the cracked edge of the luggage—clearly damaged by Karna's flames—by keeping it close to her side. But the sharp eyes of the magi and Servants around her instantly caught sight of the faint pink corner peeking out.
"Ahem." The group collectively turned their heads away in polite silence.
"Ahem... Well then, Ruler—welcome to Fortress of Millennia," Darnic said, clearing his throat as he bowed with impeccable etiquette. "I am Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia, the nominal leader of the Black Faction."
Blushing faintly, Jeanne forced herself to maintain composure. "Ruler—Jeanne d'Arc, adjudicator of this Holy Grail War. I look forward to working with you, Master of the Black Faction."
"Jeanne d'Arc—the French heroine who liberated Orléans during the Hundred Years' War... the Saint of France," someone whispered.
"Ruler—the arbiter who holds special privileges over Servants themselves."
"Wait, if she's a Servant, why is she dragging around a human's travel case? And inside it... is that...?"
"Does the Ruler have some unique condition compared to other Servants?"
Behind Darnic, Fiore, Gordes, and Celenike murmured among themselves in curiosity.
"That's because her current state is what you'd call a 'Pseudo-Servant.' In the terminology of the Holy Church, a 'Vessel of the Saint,'" came a cool, commanding voice.
"Your Divine Majesty."
At the sound, all the Black Servants—including Prince Vlad—bowed deeply in unison.
Beside Jeanne, Captain Darlenst dropped to one knee. "Your Majesty, I did not—"
"Stop. I know what you're about to say."
With a casual gesture, Selene released a pulse of gravity-manipulated mana, gently forcing everyone present back to their feet. Dressed in her silver-white divine armor, she stepped forward, towering over Jeanne as her crimson eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Pseudo-Servants like you do not manifest as pure spirit forms," Selene said, her tone carrying the authority of a sovereign. "Instead, you possess a host—one whose soul wavelength and compatibility perfectly align with yours, borrowing their body to act in the world."
"I am correct, am I not, Ruler—Jeanne?"
From those crimson diamond-shaped eyes, Jeanne felt a suffocating mixture of arrogance and curiosity—not malice, but the playful, almost mocking interest of a god observing something fragile.
"Yes, Your Divine Majesty," Jeanne replied softly.