The Evil of This World acknowledged that there were people capable of clinging to their hearts even while drowning in malice. The King of Conquerors and the King of Heroes were naturally among them. Perhaps Kiritsugu, too, belonged in that category — after all, that man would likely choose to shoot himself before ever surrendering.
In the original timeline, Kotomine's consciousness was dragged into illusion by this very evil, and his choice was to kill it when it appeared in the form of Irisviel. Or perhaps it was Illya's consciousness.
And if Illya had really chosen Irisviel's form… then wasn't that basically Illya in women's clothing? Sadly, such a spectacle would never happen in this timeline. If it did happen — if Illya really appeared before Aslan in Irisviel's likeness — Aslan would no doubt find a way to preserve that glorious scene forever on some enchanted videotape.
As for what was unfolding beneath Ryūdō Temple, Aslan knew nothing. At that moment, he was crouched over a workbench with tweezers, pliers, and modeling clay, carefully modifying figurines selected by Melusine. On each he inscribed fine fairy runes, his hands steady, his focus absolute.
He had no time or materials to forge specialized weapons for Melusine's true dragon form. But for her smaller appearance, Aslan could fashion model weapons imbued with illusory effects — little things with enough bite to bring her joy.
If he hadn't been a smith in ages past, there was no way he could have become a model-maker of this caliber in only a few days.
Sensing the magic in the air growing restless, Aslan exhaled and set down his carving knife. He opened the window, letting the wind's chill strike his face. His brow furrowed. His instincts whispered danger.
"Melusine, let's pause here. This place doesn't feel safe anymore. We'll head to the new city. Pack the tools — I'll go fetch Sakura."
In her room, Sakura sat at her desk, studying Aslan's ancient forging notes and the intricacies of fairy script. Scattered across her table were paper-crafted mock equipment, some already inscribed with fairy characters.
Her curiosity was unmistakable. She wasn't content with simply learning; she was already preparing to forge equipment herself. But her interests leaned in a different direction. Unlike the ancients, Sakura had no taste for archaic weapons. She was drawn instead to gear with a futuristic, almost sci-fi flair.
Conveniently, Aslan's late-life research had explored transformative equipment — perfectly aligned with Sakura's tastes. She slipped on a pair of snug, paper-crafted gloves. Because of the runes, the paper had transformed at a material level. They hugged her hands lightly as cloth, yet carried the resilience of metal.
Without Aslan's instructional texts, and without the fusion of fairy runes and forging techniques honed over fifteen centuries, it would have taken someone half a lifetime to master such skills. And yet Sakura had absorbed the basics in only two days.
She was a genius. A genius among geniuses.
Even Aslan hadn't expected her to pick up not just the runes themselves, but also their more intricate arrays, so swiftly. He had, admittedly, fallen prey to the same bias as many who lived during the Age of Gods: the assumption that modern magi were pale shadows of their forebears. But sheer numbers ensured that from time to time, true prodigies still emerged.
And Sakura was one of them.
Though the scars inside her had not yet healed, she was no longer wholly closed off. Her faint smile when she greeted Aslan at the door proved as much.
Yes — she had suffered. Yes — there were wounds time would never fully erase. But now, at least, those scars had become her strength. They were fuel to push her forward. Compared to the original tale, where she had already been consumed and broken within these two days, here she had been given something else: redemption.
Once Aslan, Melusine, and Sakura completed the hotel checkout, he politely warned the innkeeper that "something significant" might occur tonight. Almost on cue, a thunderous boom echoed from the direction of Ryūdō Temple.
A pillar of golden light pierced the mountain, shot into the heavens, then scattered into a rain of golden sparks that fell upon the earth.
Deep in the cavern below, Artoria had already charged ahead — only to be swarmed. More and more figures emerged from the black mud, barring the way. It was not so simple a matter to destroy the growing Grail vessel and strike down the young priest standing before it.
There was one small mercy: these mud-born puppets could not wield their true Noble Phantasms.
The blackened King of Heroes could not unleash the Sword of Creation. Even the chains he cast lacked their god-binding potency. Still, the barrage of blackened treasures that spewed forth like gunfire was no less troublesome.
And then came the blackened King of Conquerors. Not one — but ten, each riding chariots, charging endlessly like a tide. Were it not for Merlin's illusions, their group would already have been trampled.
But even Merlin could not hold such a grand-scale illusion forever. Concealing their movements while coordinating their counterattacks was a delicate, exhausting balance.
He muttered under his breath, "If I hadn't practiced this exact trick a thousand times over, I'd have slipped up already."
Still, it was clear: their current strength alone would not suffice. To turn the tide, they needed reinforcements. A Servant of the highest caliber.
Merlin sighed. "I suppose I have no choice…"
He raised his staff to the hole torn in the mountain and fired a burst of dazzling light into the sky, a flare and a plea combined:
"Aslan! Help us!!"
-End Chapter-
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