The silence after my words felt heavy, but not with my own emotion. It was Jeanne's. I'd stated a fact from my past, a dark piece of data that explained the shape of my life, and now she was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite navigate. It wasn't pity, not exactly. It was a kind of shattered sorrow, as if I'd just shown her a wound she thought had healed but was actually still raw.
Wait, I thought, the realization dawning. She thinks it's recent. She sees this young body and thinks it happened to this me. She doesn't get that the guy it happened to is decades dead.
"I should clarify," I said, the words coming out fast, wanting to fix the misunderstanding. "Sexually assaulted. That's what I meant. By her. For years. My father knew. He didn't stop it." I laid it out plainly, no filter. The facts were what they were. Saying them softly didn't make them less true.
Jeanne's reaction was immediate. A sharp, pained inhalation. Her hand flew to her mouth, her blue eyes wide with a horror that seemed to reflect not just the act, but the casual way I'd said it. "Oh, Min-jun…" Her voice was a whisper, fractured. She was seeing a victim. I didn't feel like one. Not anymore.
"It was a lifetime ago," I said, trying to soften the blow. I meant it. The sharp edges had been worn down by time and a whole other life of emptiness. Now, in this new life, they were just… facts. Background noise. "I'm not… it's not an open wound. I've processed it." Processed it by dying and being reborn, but she doesn't need that part.
She wasn't hearing me. The 'lifetime ago' part didn't register. She saw my face—young, tired, but alive—and heard those words, and her saint's heart, built to protect the innocent, broke for the boy she thought was standing in front of her. With a sound that was half sob, half prayer, she stepped forward and wrapped me in a tight, engulfing hug.
I stiffened. Not with fear or flashbacks, but with a profound, awkward discomfort. The hug was warm, sincere, and completely overwhelming. It felt like being drowned in sympathy I hadn't asked for and didn't need. I wasn't that broken kid. I was the guy who fixed Siegfried's curse. I was Jack's Master. This… this was too much.
Gently, I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed. Not hard, but firmly. "Jeanne. Please." My voice was low, steady, but I could hear the strain. "I'm okay. Really. It happened a long time ago. I've moved past it." I meant it. The past was a locked room. I'd thrown away the key.
She let me push her back, stumbling a step. Her eyes, glistening, searched my face. She saw my sincerity, my lack of tears. But she also saw my resistance to her comfort, my desire to end this conversation. To her, that must have looked like a denial so deep it was pathological. The sorrow in her eyes deepened into something mournful, grieving for a healing she thought I was refusing.
"To speak of such a violation with such… calm," she whispered, her voice aching. "It is not moving past, Min-jun. It is burying it beneath something else. I can sense it. There is a weight in you, a… a structure built where that pain should be. It is strong, but it is not peace."
I blinked, confused. A structure? A weight? Is she sensing the Stands? The gear? She had to be misinterpreting the weird spiritual signature. "There's no structure," I said, shaking my head, frustration creeping in. "I'm just me. I've got some weird abilities, that's all. I'm not in pain." I tried a smile, hoping it looked reassuring. It felt stiff.
Her expression only grew more sorrowful. My attempt to reassure her had failed. I'd just convinced her I was in deeper denial. Talking is useless, I thought, a spike of irritation cutting through the awkwardness. She's decided what she sees, and facts don't matter.
I needed an escape. A distraction. I turned my focus inward, to the bright, chattering thread that was Jack. Jack. Status report. You okay?
The response was an instant, joyful explosion in my mind: the sensation of wind rushing past, the clean thwip of a blade, the hot, metallic smell of a wyvern's insides, and a bright, proud feeling like a puppy presenting a dead bird. 'Master! All clear! Stabby-stabby! The red meanie says to come back. We are coming! Did you miss me?'
The pure, uncomplicated violence of her thoughts was like a splash of cold water, washing away the cloying sentiment. A real, easy smile spread across my face. 'I always miss my best girl. Good work, Jack. Perfect. Hurry back.'
I felt her delighted wiggle through our link. 'Master called me best! Running now!'
The connection faded to a happy hum. I opened my eyes, the ghost of that smile still on my lips, and walked back toward the group without looking at Jeanne. She followed, a silent, troubled presence at my shoulder.
The scene we returned to was its own kind of chaos. Ritsuka was gesturing at a rough map drawn in the dirt, Siegfried listening with grave attention. Mozart was fiddling with a phantom violin, producing silent, dramatic sweeps of his bow. Marie was clapping softly, offering comments like "Oh, a direct approach! How bold!" And Kiyohime…
Kiyohime was a statue of devotion. She had positioned herself precisely three feet to Ritsuka's left and slightly behind him, a perfect guardian angle. Her fan was still, her eyes never leaving him. Every time Ritsuka voiced a thought, she validated it with absolute certainty.
"Anchin-sama's assessment of the enemy's disposition is, of course, correct."
"Well, I'm just guessing based on the flyover patterns—"
"The intuition of a true leader is beyond mere guesswork. Your instincts are divine."
Ritsuka looked like he was being gently smothered by a very beautiful, very flammable blanket.
A powerful, grateful warmth bloomed in my chest. I was profoundly glad I was not Fujimaru Ritsuka. Command was hard enough. Being someone's personal, eternal, and slightly terrifying destined idol was a nightmare I was happy to avoid. I'd take my ghostly entourage and my traumatic backstory over that any day of the week.
I lingered at the edge of the circle, content to be an observer. A few minutes later, movement at the tree line. Emiya emerged first, his red coat a stark contrast to the bleak forest, his expression one of long-suffering vigilance. And beside him, practically vibrating with energy, was Jack. Her white hair was a nest of twigs and leaves, her bandages were splattered with fresh, dark stains, and she was swinging a gore-covered knife like it was a toy.
"Master! We're back! The path is all… squishy now!" she announced, beaming with pride.
I couldn't help it. I laughed, a short, genuine sound. "I can see that. You did amazing, Jack. Both of you." I nodded to Emiya.
He returned the nod, his gaze sweeping the assembled group. "Perimeter's secure for now. They've battened down inside the castle. Expect concentrated resistance at the gate and heavy aerial patrols the second we step into the open."
His report snapped everyone to attention. The planning resumed with renewed seriousness, strategies weaving together. Siegfried would take point with Balmung. Mash would shield the Masters. The Casters would provide support. Our oddball alliance had a shape, a plan. As the discussion wound down, Ritsuka let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. He looked young and tired. "Alright. We move in five. Everyone, get ready."
It was then that Kiyohime moved. She glided smoothly away from Ritsuka's side—not toward him, but directly toward me. She stopped before me and offered a bow so perfectly measured it felt like a threat.
"Honored Technician," she began, her voice a silken purr. "Your contributions have been noted. The power you wield is admirably… focused. A most useful tool."
I just looked at her, my guard up. "It gets the job done."
"Of course," she continued, her smile not touching her cold, golden eyes. "And as we are now united in purpose, serving my Anchin-sama's glorious cause, it is only logical that all assets be properly organized for maximum efficiency." She gestured gracefully, her fan indicating Ritsuka, then me. "You possess tangible strength. He embodies destined authority. The synergy is evident. Therefore, you will now orient your service through him. Consider your capabilities an extension of his sovereign will. This is the natural order of things."
I stared at her. My brain tried to parse the sentence. Was she… reassigning me? Like I was a piece of equipment? A particularly useful sword to be placed in her master's armory?
Ritsuka's face went pale. "Kiyohime, you can't just—that's not how it works!"
She was impervious. Her fan snapped open, slicing the air between us. "Please, Anchin-sama, do not trouble yourself with modesty. A true lord must consolidate his resources. This one," she said, pointing the fan at me, "understands hierarchy. He will comply."
A dead, ringing silence fell over the entire clearing. Jeanne looked horrified. Mash's mouth was slightly open. Emiya had closed his eyes, as if praying for patience. Siegfried was suddenly intensely interested in the polish of his own sword arm. Mozart chuckled, a dry, amused sound.
Ritsuka's eyes, wide with utter panic, found mine. I saw the desperate calculation there, the frantic search for an exit from the possessive logic bearing down on him. He was drowning, and he was looking for a life preserver—any life preserver—to throw to her.
His gaze locked onto mine. He took a deep, shuddering breath.
Then, he pointed.
A single, trembling, unequivocal finger, aimed directly at the center of my chest.
"H-he's your Anchin-sama!" Ritsuka blurted out, the words a frantic, desperate, tactical sacrifice thrown into the void.
The silence that followed was absolute. The wind seemed to stop. The distant cries of wyverns paused.
My mind, which had been calmly managing Saint Graphs, spiritual wounds, paternal feelings for a small assassin, and the geopolitical nightmare of a Singularity, simply blue-screened.
Every single thing—the visceral memory of Fuyuki's ash, the crushing weight of Chaldeas, the golden spiral over my heart, the feel of Jack's small hand, the sound of Siegfried's grateful voice, the smell of ozone from a teleporting nail, the taste of Emiya's cooking, the sheer, mind-numbing noise of Elizabeth Báthory—all of it, every moment of terror, absurdity, hope, and confusion from two lifetimes, collapsed. It compressed into a single, white-hot point of pure, unadulterated, universe-rending disbelief.
WHAT THE HELL IS HE TALKING ABOUT?!
The finger remained pointed at my chest, steady as a compass needle finding North, while the accusation hung in the air like a guillotine blade that had dropped but refused to hit the bottom.
He's your Anchin-sama. I stared at Ritsuka. I saw the sweat beading on his forehead, glistening in the pale light of the Singularity.
I saw the sheer, unadulterated panic in his eyes—the look of a drowning man who had just climbed onto his friend's shoulders to breathe, not caring if he pushed that friend under.
'I trusted you, I thought, the betrayal cutting deeper than any wyvern claw I had faced in the last forty-eight hours. I gave you food when you were hungry. I fixed your conduits when they sparked. I punched a literal King of Knights in the chest for you. And this is how you repay me? You throw me to the yandere snake?'
The silence stretched, elastic and terrifying.
Then, Kiyohime went still. Her fan, which had been pointing accusatorily at Ritsuka a moment ago, slowly lowered.
Her head tilted to the side with a mechanical, bird-like twitch. I heard the audible crack of her neck vertebrae as she turned away from Ritsuka—the sun of her universe mere seconds ago—and locked her golden, slitted eyes onto me.
"Anchin... sama?" she whispered.
The air temperature around us spiked ten degrees in a heartbeat.
She drifted toward me. She didn't walk; she glided, a ghost in a teal kimono, ignoring the mud and the debris of the battlefield.
The air around her grew heavy and hot, smelling of sulfur, ash, and a cloying, heavy perfume that tasted like obsession on the back of my tongue.
I stood frozen. My mind ran the calculations of a coward and found zero solutions.
To run was to trigger the chase instinct of a predator. To deny it was to be a liar—and she burned liars inside bells. To accept it was... well, death by snu-snu, or just death by incineration.
She stopped inches from me. She was shorter than I was, forcing her to look up, her eyelashes fluttering. She leaned in, burying her face in the front of my uniform, her nose twitching delicately as she inhaled my scent.
"This scent..." she murmured, her voice vibrating against my chest. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating until the gold was almost swallowed by black. "It is not the scent of the temple. It is the scent of...My anchin"
Her hands came up, trembling, and cupped my face.
Her palms were fever-hot, like holding stones pulled from a fire.
"I see it now," she whispered, her voice trembling with a terrifying cocktail of adoration and madness.
"The disguise was perfect. You hid your brilliance behind the mask of a servant. You stood in the shadows, watching me, testing my devotion. Oh, how cruel you are, Anchin-sama. How wonderful."
She wasn't seeing me. I knew that. She was projecting the holographic image of her obsession onto the blank canvas Ritsuka had so kindly provided. She was rewriting reality in real-time to fit the narrative that allowed her to be right.
Then, her face crumpled. Tears, big and shimmering like liquid diamonds, welled up in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks.
"Oh... oh no."
She released my face and collapsed to her knees in the mud, bowing her head so low her forehead touched the tips of my boots.
"I... I am filth!" she wailed, clutching at her chest as if tearing her own heart out.
"I looked at another! I pledged myself to that boy! I thought he was you! I was unfaithful! I am a cheater! An adulteress! A worm!"
She grabbed the hem of my trousers, sobbing hysterically, her nails digging into the fabric.
"Please, Anchin-sama! Punish this foolish wife! Burn me! Step on me! How could I mistake your majestic soul for that... that generic protagonist over there?!"
From the sidelines, I heard Ritsuka flinch and whisper a quiet, hurt "Hey..."
I looked down at the sobbing Berserker clinging to my leg like a limpet mine.
I looked at the steam rising from the mud where her hot tears hit the ground.
I felt the weight of the narrative shift. I was no longer the support character.
I wasn't the mysterious technician turned Master. I was the Love Interest in a horror-romance.
I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the smoky air of France.
"Haaahhhhh..."
It was a sigh that came from the bottom of my boots. A sigh that mourned the death of my anonymity. A sigh that acknowledged that my life, which had already been weird, had just become exponentially more lethal.
"Wait a second!"
The screech cut through the sobbing like a rusty saw. Elizabeth Báthory stomped forward, her tail lashing angrily behind her, pink dress rustling with indignation. She pointed a clawed finger at the weeping Kiyohime.
"Are you serious right now?!" Elizabeth shouted, looking between me and the dragon-girl. "You spent the last three days composing haikus about the boy! You threatened to burn me alive if I looked at him! And now you just swap?"
Elizabeth put her hands on her hips, leaning forward with a sneer, channeling every ounce of her idol diva energy.
"You're not a devoted wife! You're just a fickle cheater! You'll latch onto anyone who—"
SNAP.
The sound was like a dry branch breaking, but louder. It echoed in the clearing.
Kiyohime's head snapped up. The tears were gone instantly.
Her face was no longer that of a weeping maiden; it was a mask of demonic serenity. Her eyes were not golden anymore; they were glowing, radioactive green slits. The air around her ignited with spiritual pressure.
"Silence, appetizer."
The voice wasn't human. It was the growl of a dragon vibrating inside a bronze bell.
Elizabeth squeaked, her tail fluffing up to three times its size in terror. She scrambled back, diving behind Emiya's red coat for cover.
Kiyohime turned back to me, the demon mask vanishing instantly, replaced by a teary, wet-dog expression of absolute adoration. "Ignore the noise, Anchin-sama. I am yours. Only yours. Forever."
I stared at her for a second longer. Then, very slowly, I reached down and peeled her hands off my leg, finger by finger.
"Stay." I commanded softly.
"Yes! I am staying! I am a rock!" She froze in her kneeling position, beaming up at me with terrifying intensity. I turned.
I walked straight up to Ritsuka Fujimaru.
He laughed nervously, taking a half-step back, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "H-hey, Min-jun. Look, it worked, right? She bought it! Tactical genius! We—"
I reached out.
I placed both hands firmly on Ritsuka's shoulders. My grip was iron. I felt his collarbone flex under my fingers.
I leaned in close.
My face was inches from his. I widened my eyes, ignoring the fatigue, ignoring the trauma, channeling every ounce of manic energy left in my body.
I gave him a smile—a terrifying, frozen, ear-to-ear smile that didn't reach my eyes. The kind of smile a boss gives an employee right before something terrible happens.
"Ritsuka," I said, my voice a soft, friendly, vibrating baritone that rumbled in my chest.
"Y-yeah?" Ritsuka squeaked, leaning back as far as my grip would allow.
My smile widened, just a fraction, into something truly unhinged.
"Ritsuka... we are SO fucked."