Bavanzi shut herself away.
After waking and learning the village's fate—the graves of the villagers, especially those of the children—she left without a word, heading for the back mountain.
"Miss Bavanzi seems to be gathering flowers to place on the children's graves. I sent a clone to help, but she refused."
When Hundred Faces returned, she said this.
After a pause, she added:
"The few survivors of the village I've already taken to the Western Village. Luckily there's quite a distance between us, so the Round Table knights haven't found it yet… but who knows when they'll strike there. Arash, can I ask you to help defend the Western Village? No—wait. With only one arm, can you still fight?"
Looking at one-armed Arash, Hundred Faces' expression darkened.
"Without a Master, it would indeed be difficult. But after contracting with Chaldea and receiving mana supply, my wound will heal soon enough… but that's not the real problem."
Arash sighed:
"If we have to face multiple Round Table knights at once, even with both you and me, we can't win."
"Hm? It's not just us. Cursed Arm will also help—no, forget I said that."
Hundred Faces glanced at Cursed Arm, whose mask could not conceal his hatred, and sighed.
Just yesterday, they had all dug graves outside the village, working the whole day to bury everyone so their bodies would not be left to rot in the wild. During this, Cursed Arm had insisted on digging with his own hands, tearing them bloody without hesitation. The pain in his hands was nothing compared to the agony in his heart.
"So, Cursed Arm, you've decided to join Chaldea in taking revenge on the Holy City?" Hundred Faces asked.
"Yes. If I don't avenge them, I'm unworthy of being a Heroic Spirit." His voice was calm, but beneath it she could hear the rage and madness.
"Sariya is dead… She was rescued with such difficulty by Lord Guinevere, and yet she still died to Tristan's cursed strings… I swear I will make him pay."
"I'm sorry… Sir Cursed Arm."
At that moment, the door of a nearby house opened. Bedivere, pale and weak, stumbled out and dropped to his knees before Cursed Arm.
"It's my fault… I was useless. If only I had been stronger, I could've saved more. It was I who brought this disaster here."
"…Enough. Don't speak that way. We are all grown; we know well enough where the blame lies. The one who killed them was Tristan of the Round Table—not Bedivere. I will never confuse the two."
After a few seconds of silence, Cursed Arm spoke again:
"Rest and recover. When we march on the Holy City, that will be your time to act. Didn't you say you wanted to correct your comrades' mistakes?"
"No, wait. As for attacking the Holy City, I think we should reconsider," Hundred Faces said after sending Bedivere back inside.
"We failed to rescue Quiet. Our fighting strength is lacking. Charging into the Holy City now would be suicide."
"How are we lacking?" Cursed Arm argued. "Miss Bagst showed strength equal to Lancelot. And Lord Guinevere is clearly stronger than Gawain. With all of us together, can we not overcome the rest of the knights?"
"That's exactly the issue," Hundred Faces countered. "Even if we somehow could, you're ignoring the Holy City's army of soldiers and Enforcers. We can't field troops of our own. And the greatest threat is the Lion King herself. Did you forget the light pillar that destroyed entire villages?"
At that, Cursed Arm fell silent.
"And Guinevere is suspicious too. Didn't he have the chance to eliminate both Gawain and Agravain? Yet he let them go. Can we really trust such a man?"
"That's normal," Cursed Arm replied. "The spirit possessing him then was King Lot, Gawain and Agravain's father. Even a tiger spares its cubs. He could not kill his own children. What matters is that Lord Guinevere truly stands with us."
"You're right," Hundred Faces said, "but only if he can reliably wield Lot's strength. Lot was indeed Arthur's enemy. But can Guinevere really control that power?"
…
Listening from within, Guinevere froze mid-step. He had been about to come out after a night's rest but stopped. He could not deny it—Hundred Faces was right.
He opened his system interface:
\[Legendary Heroic Spirit Card used: "King of Champions" Lot (Three-Star).]
\[Card Usage: Heroic Spirit cards vary in duration by rarity. Upon use, you may summon the Heroic Spirit by possessing yourself or a character with the same name. If not using on yourself, you gain three Command Spells.]
\[Three-Star cards last one hour. Since the cardholder has relinquished Command Spell ownership and uses them as mana supply, you may summon Lot for one hour, up to three times. One use remaining twice.]
Closing the display, Guinevere fell into thought.
In short, he had two more chances to call Lot's possession, one hour each.
But that power came with limits. Beyond the time limit, the greatest restriction was Lot himself. During possession, Lot's personality and will affected his own. In that state, killing Gawain or Agravain was impossible. If he didn't use the possession at the right time, it might not weaken the Lion King's side at all.
—No, perhaps that wasn't the only issue.
Even now, would he truly kill Gawain and Agravain if given the chance?
He wasn't sure.
Through possession, he had gained fragments of Lot's memories. Short, dreamlike glimpses, but enough. Seeing Lot's first meeting with Morgan, and confirming through the system that he was Lot himself, left him unsettled.
—Was he really the father of Gawain and his siblings in Proper Human History?
That possibility raised more questions.
After all, he still had the identity of Uther. And now Lot too? Was Uther his past or future self? And how did Lot fit in?
He remembered the system message: "Simulation #777." Yet his current simulations all had IDs above 1000. He had thought the prefix was a version code. But now… had over a thousand simulations happened before?
If so, and the system always followed him through time, then those must have been past simulations. But why did he have no memory of them? Had he lost them?
The more he thought, the more confused he grew. Too many missing pieces, too little information. In the end, he could only blame amnesia.
So, to uncover the truth, he needed to find Morgan.
She, too, was a player of the simulator, and seemed to know both his Uther and Lot identities. She might know everything. If he could find her, he could finally understand.
And the only way to meet her…
—Was to attack the Holy City, and reach the Lion King.
For Morgan's sudden appearance in this simulation could only mean one thing: her obsession with Artoria. If they reached the Lion King, she would appear.
Thus, the problem circled back: they needed enough strength to march on the Holy City.
Outside, Cursed Arm and Hundred Faces continued their debate:
"So, I've already decided," Cursed Arm said suddenly.
"If our only issue is strength… then if we can call upon the First Hassan, everything will be solved."
"The First…? Are you insane? You know the price of summoning him!" Hundred Faces' voice trembled with shock.
But Cursed Arm's reply was unwavering:
"I am prepared. Even if it costs my own head, I will call upon the First Hassan. The Round Table knights will pay for their crimes in blood."