From behind the mirage veiled in sandy haze, a line of knights emerged. Dust and sand billowed high as their horses galloped forward, forming a wall of power that couldn't be ignored.
And at the very front was a familiar figure.
No words were needed. The pressure of his presence alone made their intentions clear: they were here to wipe us out.
Mash immediately raised her shield and stepped in front of Fujimaru. Da Vinci drew in a sharp breath and began counting the enemy's numbers.
Bedivere stepped forward, his body tense, and Astolfo gripped his weapon, still trying to smile despite the situation.
"I'll hold them off here," I said calmly, my eyes fixed on the approaching army.
Everyone turned toward me almost at once.
"What do you mean?" Bedivere asked sharply. "That's suicide. Let me be the one to stay. I know how to fight my former comrades."
I turned to him and slowly shook my head. "You have to go with them, Bedivere. You're the shield and moral guide for this group. If you fall here, it will shake everyone."
"But—"
"No buts. I know what I'm doing. And you still have things left unfinished, don't you?" My voice didn't rise, but it held enough strength to stop Bedivere in his tracks.
"I can hold them long enough. Long enough for all of you to lead the refugees far from here. Focus on reaching the mountain. We don't know if it's our only path, but we do know one thing—if they catch up, no one will survive."
Tension filled the air. No one responded.
Then—click. A soft sound from Fujimaru's communicator drew everyone's attention. A hologram flickered to life on his wrist, and the anxious yet firm face of Doctor Roman appeared.
"—I heard everything," he said quickly. "And I agree with 'Altria's' plan."
All eyes turned to him at once.
Roman looked directly at me through the hologram, as if peering across space and time. "I know you can hold them. The Noble Phantasm you used back then, when you all escaped from the Holy City… it should be enough to take out half of their current forces."
I gave a slight nod, listening closely.
Roman continued. "The rest will likely be forced to retreat or reorganize their formation. That'll give you a window. Use it to strike at their center—or to escape."
Bedivere fell silent. His gaze lingered on me, full of inner conflict and hesitation. But finally, slowly, he bowed his head.
"In that case… may the gods be on your side, Altria."
Mash still looked unsure. "But alone..."
"I'm not alone," I said with a small smile. "I carry all of your resolve with me."
Da Vinci gave a firm nod, then quickly barked orders to the refugees. "Everyone, move! Follow the formation we planned!"
One by one, the refugees began moving. Fujimaru turned with heavy reluctance, Mash stayed close by his side, and Bedivere brought up the rear to protect them. Astolfo paused for a moment, glancing back at me.
Distance slowly grew between us.
And before they disappeared completely, Astolfo shouted from afar, waving his arms wildly:
"Wait for me! We'll meet again, right!? So don't lose, okay!? I mean it!!"
I didn't reply with words. I simply raised a hand in a brief wave, then turned back to face forward.
The desert wind swept across my face, carrying with it the metallic scent of the knights' armor as they drew closer.
And there I stood. Alone, against the approaching storm. Not as a hero, not as a redeemer, but as the final wall of defense—while the others stepped forward toward hope.
Footsteps grew distant. The sound of sand crunching underfoot slowly faded, carried away by the desert wind. I remained, letting the wind sweep through my cloak as it billowed gently behind me.
In the distance, Fujimaru's group and the remaining refugees grew smaller, slowly vanishing beyond the waves of sand and the blinding light of the morning sun.
Before me, the sand trembled softly. The sound of hooves approached, pressing down on the cracked, arid earth. Dust rose. The wind carried the scent of metal, sweat, and death.
And finally, they appeared.
The long ranks of knights from the Holy City advanced. Their armor gleamed under the sunlight, and the gaze in their eyes was sharp behind the slits of their helmets.
Their synchronized steps echoed faintly, like the beat of war drums, awakening a sense of dread. They said nothing—only silence reigned, allowing the stillness to consume everything.
They halted not far from me—about twenty meters. The horses neighed quietly and shifted, as if even they knew that war was about to begin. Though calling it war was an Error. In fact, It's was one sided war.
And from among them, one figure slowly moved forward. His horse's steps were heavy and dignified. The figure dismounted with composed, commanding motion. Dust rose around his feet as he stepped ahead.
That person was Lancelot the knight of lake.
He stood still for a moment, gazing at me.
A weathered man's face—hardened, shaped by experience and pain. His eyes were calm, but deep within them lay exhaustion. Not just from war, but from guilt and the weight of the past.
We said nothing.
The wind whispered, brushing my cloak aside. My hair shifted, revealing part of my face from beneath the shadow of my hood.
Lancelot stared at me for a long moment, not with the eyes of a soldier, but of someone who sensed something strange... and familiar.
"Alone," he finally said, his voice deep and heavy. "Is this sacrifice, or merely desperation?"
I lifted my head slightly, meeting his gaze. "Think of it as a delay. You came too soon. They're not ready to die."
Lancelot blinked slowly, then glanced toward the desert where Fujimaru's group had disappeared. "You know, this won't stop us forever."
"Just long enough to give them time. That's all I need."
The wind stirred again. Stronger now. Dust and sand swirled, veiling the surroundings like a curtain before the play begins.
Lancelot looked back at me one more time before throwing his helmet to the ground. It hit the sand with a heavy thud, partially sinking in.
His hand reached back, gripping the hilt of his sword.
"…Very well, nameless Servant. Show me your resolve. If you choose to stand here, then you'll bear a weight that is no small thing."
I said nothing.
But even so, my mind was racing, thinking of ways to deal with Lancelot.
Should I just keep firing Excalibur and run away, like Roman suggested? But that feels cowardly. It goes against the code of knights.
…Though, since when did I ever care about that?
...
What should I do?
"Huft…"
I raised the invisible Excalibur and revealed its true form. A sword that looked just like the real thing—though it wasn't. It was a fake. An imitation.
At a glance, anyone would believe it was real. But sadly, it wasn't.
This sword only had half the true power of the real Excalibur.
Suddenly, a voice called out. A voice filled with recognition and disbelief.
"That sword… It looks familiar. Who... are you?"
The voice came from Lancelot, who stared at the blade in my hand with wide eyes.
I didn't answer. I was still thinking—should I really go through with this plan?
The plan was to convince him to join Fujimaru, just like what happened in the game and anime. But with me here… I might have already changed the story. Whether that's for better or worse depends on my next move.
Right. The plan.
It was simple: I'd imitate Artoria and try to make Lancelot stop obeying the madness Artoria of this Singularity.
Simple—but risky. If I failed, Lancelot's rage would be directed at me, and it might make things harder for Fujimaru and the others.
...
So, what should I choose?
Should I just do the first plan as I'm firing Excalibur and then ran away.
Or..
I convince Lancelot to stopped fighting and then convince him to stand against the madness Artoria?
...
After some time, I've decided, the plan I've chosen is—
***
Lancelot's POV.
A Servant stood before me. I didn't know her name, but something about her felt familiar.
It was the sword. The sword she carried… it should only belong to my King.
Could it be…? No. That's impossible. My King is in Camelot. So who is she?
The sword might be a fake, but why does she have something that looks exactly like Excalibur?
To copy that sword, one would have to know my King personally… but I have no memory of meeting her.
"Who are you?"
I asked again. Not because I cared that much… but because something about her intrigued me.
She stood there alone—willing to sacrifice herself so her allies could escape. That kind of resolve… was noble.
Whoever she was, she must be a great Heroic Spirit.
After a short silence, she finally spoke. Her voice was soft… and it reminded me of my King.
"Who am I? I'm just a wandering knight, trying to stop you from killing innocent people."
She stood tall, clearly and bravely declaring her intent.
"I see… Then our battle is unavoidable."
I raised my sword and charged forward. As I reached her, I swung my blade toward her.
She blocked it—impressive. Not only that, she had already prepared a counterattack as I pulled back.
She raised her sword to head level. For some reason… that stance felt familiar.
"Ex—Calibur!!"
She brought the blade down, unleashing a flash of blinding light.
Even though I knew the attack was coming, I didn't move.
My mind… froze.
…What? Did I hear that right? Did she just say…?
As confusion overtook me, my body still moved—just enough to dodge the attack.
My body moved on its own, barely avoiding the blinding light that crashed into the ground behind me. The wind pressure alone was enough to push me back, sliding across the dirt.
That light… that voice… that name…
I stood still for a moment, sword lowered slightly. My mind refused to believe what my eyes had just witnessed.
"Excalibur..." I muttered under my breath, my grip tightening. "That sword… it shouldn't be here. That technique—only my King can do that."
My eyes locked onto the figure before me. She was standing with heavy breaths, her hand still gripping the sword tightly. Her stance was calm… too calm.
"...Just who are you?"
Again, I asked. This time not with doubt—but desperation.
No answer.
She simply stared back at me with determined eyes. Her expression… it was not the same as my King, but it carried the same strength. The same weight. The same… sorrow?
"That technique… only someone who has truly stood beside the King could mimic it so perfectly."
My heart began to ache.
Was it… guilt? Regret? I didn't know.
But my hands trembled.
"You… you're not my King… and yet you carry her light."
I gritted my teeth. That light—why did it shine from her? Was it trickery? Magic? Or… was it something else?
No. I won't let this fool me. I must fight.
I roared and charged again, sword raised high. She didn't flinch. Instead, she stepped forward to meet me.
Our blades clashed—steel against steel, sparks flying around us.
Again.
And again.
I swing, she parries. She strikes, I block.
Her movements were clean. Her form—polished, yet not perfect.
Not like my King.
But it was close. Too close.
"Why do you bear her sword?!" I shouted between swings, our swords locking mid-air. "Why do you carry her light?!"
For the first time, she answered.
"Because someone has to remind you… of who you once were."
My eyes widened. Her voice—it struck deeper than steel ever could.
Remind me?
Of who I was…?
My sword wavered. She took the chance to push me back, her blade glowing faintly once more.
"I don't want to fight you, Sir Lancelot."
The way she said my name—softly, with respect.
Like how she used to call me...
My chest tightened.
"...Stop," I whispered.
I gritted my teeth, raising my sword again.
"Don't speak with her voice… don't pretend to understand!"
I rushed again.
My sword met hers once more—
But my vision blurred.
Why were my hands shaking?
Why did my blade feel heavier with every swing?
She didn't press forward.
She stood still, defending, never aiming to wound.
Always waiting… always watching.
Like she knew me.
Like she had known me for a long time.
Every strike I delivered, she answered with restraint.
She could've countered. She could've ended this.
But she didn't.
Why?
"Fight me!!" I shouted.
"Stop looking at me like that—!! Like I'm someone worth saving!"
I hated that look.
That pity.
That sorrow.
It was the same gaze my King gave me on that final day...
When I had lost everything.
She blocked again—barely.
My strength was pushing her back now, but she held her ground.
"You still carry her pain," she said softly, "but not her resolve."
"Silence!"
I brought my blade down—
But she didn't move.
Not even to defend.
She stood still.
My blade pierced her.
A clean thrust through the side.
Her body lurched—not from fear, but from the impact itself.
Her breath hitched, but she didn't scream.
She merely looked down at the crimson staining her armor.
She stumbled back.
And I let go of the sword.
It remained lodged in her, humming faintly from the mana I had poured into it.
I could still feel her warmth on my hands.
Why...?
Why did it feel like I had just struck down something sacred?
She knelt, but not in surrender.
It was as if her legs gave out—graceful, even in collapse.
And then—
She looked up at me.
Her face was pale.
Sweat clung to her brow.
Blood pooled beneath her, but her eyes… her eyes burned.
Not with hatred.
Not with fear.
But resolve.
"...You truly believed this was your path?" she said softly, her voice strained.
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't sure anymore.
She smiled. Faint, almost broken.
"…Then I've failed."
Those words—why did they cut deeper than any sword?
She reached forward. Her gauntleted hand trembled as it touched the hem of my ruined armor.
"Lancelot... Brave Knight of the Lake..."
My name.
Spoken not as a curse.
Not as a mockery.
But with grief.
"I don't hate you," she whispered, coughing as more blood escaped her lips. "Even now… even after this…"
My fingers clenched.
But I couldn't stop shaking.
"Your hands..." she murmured. "Still carry the weight of guilt… But not the will to be free from it."
"Enough."
I growled the word, but it sounded hollow.
Like something spoken from deep underwater.
"You're wrong," I said. "I serve the Lion King. That is my redemption."
Her eyes narrowed—not in defiance, but in clarity.
"No. That is your punishment."
I froze.
"You follow that king because you believe you deserve to suffer," she said. "Not because you believe in her."
Each word crushed against my chest like a hammer to rusted steel.
"You've forgotten the dream your King once held. Justice. Compassion. Hope. Not this… cold tyranny."
She coughed again, falling to her side.
I stepped forward instinctively—
Then stopped.
Why did I want to help her?
Why did my body move before my mind could command it?
"You're not a weapon," she rasped. "You're not a shade bound to guilt."
"Then what am I?" I asked hoarsely.
She looked up at me one last time, eyes glassy with pain, but still defiant.
"You are a knight," she whispered. "And I wanted you… to remember that."
She closed her eyes.
And the battlefield was silent.
Only the wind answered me.
Only the blood beneath my boots reminded me that I had won.
But it didn't feel like victory.
It felt like loss.
No—
It was loss.
I knelt beside her.
Slowly.
Silently.
And for the first time in many, many years—
I mourned.
Not for her.
But for the man I once was.
And the king I once swore to follow.
Because now…
Now I wasn't sure if I even remembered what her face looked like in the past.
And that—
That terrified me more than any blade ever could.
***
Somewhere else, in the Throne of Heroes.
Applause echoed—soft yet haunting—across a place where time held no meaning.
This was no ordinary realm. It was endless, a vast space suspended between stars that shimmered faintly in the distance. A realm of silence and reflection. The resting place of heroes.
Beneath my feet, the ground was indistinguishable from the rest—smooth, cold, and colorless, like polished obsidian touched by starlight.
And before me stood a person.
Or perhaps, it would be more accurate to say—something.
A presence.
A mimicry.
It wore my face.
Brown skin. Black hair falling softly over the shoulders. Golden eyes that seemed to pierce through everything. Even the white dress it wore was mine.
Yes... it was me.
Or rather, a perfect copy.
Alaya.
The collective will of humanity. The silent guardian of mankind's survival.
And right now, it had chosen to speak with my voice, using my form—perhaps for convenience, or perhaps to mock me.
As I stood still, arms crossed and unamused, the copy finished clapping, the sound of its applause dying into the void. Then, with an eerily gentle smile—too perfect, too practiced—it stepped closer.
"Your act… pretending to be Artoria, yet not quite her—" it began, voice silky and calm, "—was effective. Lancelot is beginning to question everything. The illusion of certainty is cracking."
It tilted its head, golden eyes never leaving mine.
"I was impressed. You played the part well."
I raised a brow, unmoved. My arms tightened slightly, fingers twitching. I could feel irritation bubbling beneath my calm.
"And?" I said curtly. "What's your point?"
It chuckled—my own laugh, thrown back at me in a way that felt alien and cold.
"No point. Just… observing," it said, turning away, hands clasped behind its back as it wandered a few steps across the empty space. "You wanted him to remember. And you succeeded. Even if it cost you your life."
I stared silently.
"...You knew he'd strike you down, didn't you?"
I didn't answer.
"You wanted him to feel it. The weight of his blade. The weight of killing someone who looked like her—someone who believed in him. And now, he's begun to remember who he really is."
I narrowed my eyes. "...He deserved the truth."
"Ah," Alaya turned back to me, smiling again—like a mother proud of her child. Or a scientist observing a successful experiment.
"And what truth was that, I wonder?" it asked. "That the King he serves now is not the same one? That the road he's on leads only to ruin?"
I didn't reply. I didn't need to.
It already knew.
"You're trying to save him," Alaya continued. "Even if it means deceiving him. Even if it means dying by his hand."
"I'm not trying to save him," I said finally, voice steady. "I'm trying to free him."
It tilted its head again.
"Oh?"
"He's bound to the ghost of a King that no longer exists. A vision twisted by obsession and regret," I said. "If that vision continues to rule him, there's no salvation. No end. Only madness."
"And you think he'll see that, just because you died in front of him?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "But he hesitated."
Alaya's eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued.
"His blade didn't stop—but his heart did. And that's enough for now."
Silence stretched between us again. Only the soft, ambient hum of the Throne remained.
Then, Alaya exhaled, as if satisfied.
"You're quite the anomaly," it said. "You were never supposed to intervene. You were never meant to act. And yet... you did. You stepped off your seat, and into the illusion."
"I won't stand by and watch people lose themselves," I replied. "Even in this so-called eternal rest."
Alaya smiled again. But this time... there was something almost real in it.
"Then perhaps," it said softly, "you are more like Artoria than you think."
I glanced to the side, toward the horizonless distance of the Throne.
"…Maybe," I whispered.
"But unlike her, I won't carry everything alone."
Alaya chuckled lightly, the sound echoing across the endless, star-speckled void like a whisper through glass.
"I'm merely here to congratulate you," Alaya said, clasping it hands behind its back as Alaya circled me with that same eerie grace. "Another Singularity resolved. The cycle continues. You're doing your part... admirably, as always."
I narrowed my eyes.
"Don't twist your words into compliments. I didn't do it for you."
Alaya paused. The glimmer in its golden eyes never faded. "Of course you didn't. You did it because you believed it needed to be done." Alaya turned its back on me, staring into the starfield that spread infinitely in all directions. "That leaves only one Singularity remaining. Once that's taken care of… our contract will be complete."
My gaze fell. Just one more. After everything. After all the names, faces, battles… it would be over.
But then, as expected, her voice cut through the silence again—calm, but with an undertone of inevitability.
"However… I wonder. Will that truly be the end for you?" it looked over its shoulder, smiling. "There's always more work to be done. The Human Order is fragile, you know. Collapse is inevitable unless someone like you keeps it stitched together."
I scoffed. "Don't even try."
"You haven't heard the offer yet."
"I don't need to," I snapped. "I'm not your tool."
Alaya smile didn't falter. "Ah, but weren't you always?"
I stepped forward without realizing it, fists clenched. But Alaya only raised a hand, gesturing calmly as if to say there's no need for anger. "Fine. Refuse if you like. You've always been defiant, after all. That's what makes you interesting."
Alaya form began to fade, the stars behind it bleeding through its silhouette like sunlight through mist.
"But remember this," Alaya said, it voice now echoing as its shape dissolved completely, "when the last Singularity ends… something else will begin. I wonder if you'll be ready for it."
And just like that, she was gone.
Leaving me in the silence. Alone again. In this place where time stood still, where the stars never moved, and where even the weight of choices echoed forever.
One Singularity left.
And yet… why did it feel like nothing had truly ended at all?
...
Time has no meaning here.
It could've been weeks. Months. Maybe years.
Or maybe mere moments. I've long stopped trying to measure it.
I sit, knees pulled close, eyes glazed as I stare out into the starless void where only glimmers of distant lights blink like forgotten memories. This was supposed to be a resting place… but rest never comes when your heart is still bound by unfinished stories.
Then—
A flicker.
A sound.
A low hum begins to vibrate beneath me, like the slow unfurling of a long-buried sigil. The void ripples, distorts, and I feel it—an unsettling pull in my chest.
Then the glow begins to take shape.
A magic circle. But not the kind I'm used to. Not the cold, clinical circle Alaya used to send me down into Singularities.
No… this is ritualistic.
Hand-drawn.
Ancient.
Blood-red lines burn into the blackness beneath my feet—layered with golden inscriptions and jagged, branching runes. I recognize the pattern immediately.
This is a true summoning circle.
The kind magus used during the Holy Grail Wars. The kind that shouldn't appear here.
A voice begins to chant.
Soft at first, distant—then growing louder with each word, filled with power and purpose:
"Let silver and steel be the essence."
"Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation."
"Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall."
"Let the four cardinal gates close, and let the three-forked road from the crown reach the Kingdom."
"Let it be filled. Again. Again. Again. Again."
My breath catches.
"Let it be filled fivefold for every turn, simply breaking asunder with every filling."
"I hereby propose:
Your body shall serve under me.
My fate shall be your sword."
I try to back away, but my feet are rooted to the ground.
"Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail."
"If you would obey this will and this reason… then answer me!"
A brilliant light erupts from the circle, searing and golden—engulfing everything around me.
"I make this oath—
I am the one who will become all the good of the world of the dead.
I am the one who will lay bare all the evils of the world of the living.
You, seven heavens—clad in the three great words, come forth from the circle of binding, Guardian of Balance!"
The void shatters like glass.
I scream without a voice as the light swallows me whole, tearing me from the Throne.
I'm falling.
Falling—
After some time, I stopped failing.
There was no struggle. No scream. No resistance.
Just a gradual stillness, like the world itself had forgotten to breathe.
My eyes fluttered open—not to the endless void, but to dim candlelight flickering in the corners of an old, dust-ridden basement. The air was heavy with the scent of iron and old stone, thick with age and forgotten rituals.
Before me, drawn across the cracked floor, was a summoning circle. But not just any circle—it was far more archaic, more primitive than the sleek, modern designs of Chaldea. No—it resembled the ones from the era of the Fuyuki Grail War: etched in blood and chalk, imperfect yet saturated with raw intent. A relic of desperation.
And within that circle, I stood.
In front of me, a girl—young, perhaps eighteen at most—was sitting on the ground, her back hunched, shoulders trembling as if the act of summoning had drained her completely. Her hands still glowed faintly with magical residue, She didn't look up. Not yet.
To her side, sprawled carelessly as if flung aside mid-summoning, lay a man. His presence was oddly familiar—his face half-shadowed—but I couldn't quite place him. Not now.
I stepped forward.
But just before I could speak, a soft crackle echoed through the air. A holographic interface shimmered into existence before me—out of place, far too modern for this rustic setting.
"…What—" My voice faltered as I stared at it. "Why am I… already in this form? Especially nictoris?"
As I wondered, The realization hit me like a cold splash of water.
In short.
There was no record of me in the Throne of Heroes. No foundation. No history to anchor my existence. I wasn't summoned from the Heroic Spirit system like other Servants.
I was created.
Fabricated by Alaya itself.
A mere concept wrapped in flesh and myth, shaped by need rather than legend.
So of course… there was no "True Name," no transformation. The moment I was summoned, my Noble Phantasm—the essence of my being—was already active.
This… was my default.
There would be time to think on that later. Right now—
I moved forward, stepping out of the circle.
And then my gaze fell upon a shattered mirror, lying half-buried under ritual dust and chalk fragments.
I paused.
Reflected in the fractured glass, I saw myself—no, not the self I expected.
Golden armor traced in red markings. Gleaming pauldrons shaped like feathers. Crimson and sapphire hues dancing along my ceremonial collar. Wings of a deity, twisted by something far less divine. My hair—white as bleached bone—framed a face too serene for a living girl, too unfeeling for a goddess. And in my eyes burned twin embers of gold, narrowed into slits like a jackal's gaze.
A divine spirit.
A funerary goddess.
But… wrong.
This wasn't the normal form of Nitocris.
This was something else.
An Alter.
Twisted. Refined. Perfected through wrath or divine will.
I looked down at my hands—one organic, the other blackened, mechanical, and almost skeletal, with traces of hieroglyphs running down the length of the arm like veins.
Strange… but I didn't flinch. I've seen worse. I've been worse.
Then I looked up at the girl sitting on the ground, I raised my voice as I began to speak.
"I ask of you… are you my contractor?"
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. That wasn't what I meant to say. I meant Master. So why—?
Another weirdness… It's only been six minutes, and things are already a mess, huh?
I stare at the girls as she looked up, eyes wide with surprise. There was a flicker of something—recognition?
"Y-Yes," she said quietly. "My name is Carela Pelham Codrington."
I smiled. Faintly. Just enough to calm her nerves.
"Very well, Nice to meet you. Contractor."
I stepped forward again as I'm reaching out to help her standing up. She hesitantly take my hand and standing up.
***
Author's Note:
Sorry for the slow update—it's been a tough month for me. On top of that, I got a little distracted working on another fanfic (you know how inspiration sometimes pulls you in unexpected directions).
Thanks for being patient, and I really appreciate everyone who's still reading. I'm back now, and I'll do my best to keep things going!
I decided not to write a side story this time—besides, this chapter is already long enough, don't you think?
Also, I want to apologize for how abruptly I ended the arc of Singularity Six. It's not that I was bored with it, but honestly… I got impatient. I've been really looking forward to writing the Holy Grail War arc. I just couldn't wait any longer.
So again, I'm sorry for the sudden shift.
I hope you still enjoyed this chapter! And if you noticed anything that feels off—like typos, strange wording, or characters acting out of place—feel free to let me know.
Thanks for reading!
(Nictoris alter Images)