Half a day earlier.
"Mother... I... I have a question I want to ask you."
After Morgan taught Bavanzi a new curse, she suddenly said there was someone she could barely call an old acquaintance and needed to leave for a while. At that moment, Bavanzi could no longer suppress the doubts in her heart and called out to her:
"When you made me into a Fairy Knight, why... why did you give me the name Tristan?"
Just recalling that red-haired knight who could smile calmly amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood filled Bavanzi with intense hatred.
But at the same time, she suddenly felt fear at being given such a name:
"Could it be... that in your eyes back then, I was the same as him—someone everyone despised, someone utterly detestable?"
Though her mother had told her directly that she was her most precious treasure—and Bavanzi truly believed Morgan would never lie to her—it was precisely because of that trust that she felt anxious and confused.
Why this name, of all names?
Morgan was silent for a moment before replying:
"Of course not. It was only because Tristan wasn't always like that."
After speaking, she turned, intending to leave and meet the Grand Assassin deep in the valley.
Eh?
Not like that? What does that mean?
Morgan's words stunned Bavanzi. Did she mean that Tristan wasn't originally such a loathsome figure? That he was merely an executioner? Could it be that, in the age of the Knights of the Round, even one who slaughtered commoners was not considered hateful?
Her expression darkened again.
So in the end, did her mother simply think she and Tristan were cut from the same cloth?
Perhaps she was.
She had always stood above others, never having a single friend. She truly was a selfish, detestable person.
And in that moment, Bavanzi realized why she hated Tristan so much.
Perhaps she hated him simply because he was as detestable as she once was.
The more she thought about it, the more self-loathing she felt.
Meanwhile, Morgan had barely taken two steps before hesitating.
By nature, she thought her earlier explanation had been sufficient. There was no need to elaborate further. Yet, remembering Gawain, Agravain, and the stark difference in how they treated her compared to Lot... remembering how Guinevere interacted with Bavanzi... she realized that perhaps both she and her Proper Human History counterpart had always struggled when it came to speaking with children.
She recalled how, in the other Morgan's memories, when she once asked Lot why he went to such lengths to explain every little thing to their children, his answer was:
"Because human language can never perfectly convey what we mean or feel."
"Language is limited. Emotions distort it. The listener interprets it differently than intended. So often, disagreements and arguments come down to a misunderstanding of words."
"I quarrel with friends all the time, but when we reflect afterward, we realize the fight was over nothing but a misinterpreted phrase."
"That's why if you don't take the time to explain yourself properly, your feelings may never reach the other person."
"It's like saying 'I love you.' No matter how many times you say it, it's never enough."
Morgan stopped walking.
Perhaps it was worth taking a moment to be clearer.
She turned back and said:
"Tristan was not always the butcher who slaughtered innocents. I can see it—this singularity's Artoria placed something like a curse upon him. He has been inverted. What you see now is the opposite of who he once was. If you truly want revenge, then after defeating him, strip away the inversion Artoria forced upon him. That would be far crueler than killing him."
"In my memories, even among the many heroes and legends of the Round Table, Tristan was especially brilliant. In Britain, he was one of the greatest knights—he was the crimson hero, his life shining as brightly as a ruby."
With those words, Morgan gently cupped Bavanzi's face and whispered:
"I gave you that name because I wished for you to become someone as remarkable as he once was. And to me, you are like the ruby in my crown. Without you, my crown has no meaning."
"In short, not long after you all left, Bavanzi came back briefly."
After Guinevere and the others returned to the village, exhausted from their journey, they asked Bagest about the situation. She explained:
"She said she would train diligently in the mountains to prepare for her next fight with Tristan. She insisted that when the time comes, leave Tristan to her. Only call her when you are ready to march on the Holy Capital."
"Judging by her face, she seemed to have shaken off some of the gloom. It was as if she had resolved herself."
"I see... that's good." Guinevere nodded slightly, relieved.
"So? How did your trip go? Did the First Hassan agree to help us?" Bagest asked.
"Well... not exactly, but we did achieve something." Guinevere smiled and pulled someone out from behind her. "Look who we brought back."
"Ah... it's Artoria." Bagest blinked in mild surprise, then smiled. "Good. Looks like you've finally stopped getting lost. And you've returned at just the right time."
"What do you mean?" Artoria tilted her head.
"Just last night, a master and disciple came to stay in the village. They said they were a great monk from the Tang dynasty and a disciple she picked up along the way. Both are Servants," Bagest explained. "The disciple's Noble Phantasm can produce endless rice. He solved our food crisis in an instant. Even you wouldn't be able to eat it all."
"Oh?" Guinevere's eyes lit with realization.
So, Xuanzang Sanzang and Biǎoténg Tai had arrived here, just as in the original events. With their strength, their force to retake the Holy Capital was nearly complete.
"Hey! What do you mean 'even me'!" Artoria leapt up angrily, swinging a fist at Bagest. But unexpectedly, Bagest didn't dodge, and Artoria only ended up clutching her own hand in pain.
"Perhaps, Miss Artoria, you should reflect a little," Fujimaru and Mash exchanged glances, unable to resist a jab.
As Artoria puffed her cheeks and muttered things like "This is slander!" and "How can you call it stealing when you're starving?" the lively mood was suddenly pierced by a shocked cry:
"My king? Is that you, my king?!"
A silver figure dashed forward, seizing Artoria's hand. Bedivere's eyes shone with tears as he trembled in excitement.
"It can't be mistaken. This form, this face—it's the very king I swore loyalty to!"
"Uh, you must be mistaken..." Artoria tried to protest, but Bedivere, overwhelmed, wasn't listening. He wiped his tears with one hand while clutching hers with the other.
"My king... have you finally returned to normal? Has the king I knew at last come back to us?"
"No, wait, hold on—"
"I haven't gone a day without thinking of you since you were gone..."
"I said wait!"
Bedivere grew more agitated with each word until Artoria could no longer stand it. She grabbed him, swung him over her shoulder, and slammed him to the ground.
"Listen when people are talking, damn it!"
Only after much explanation did the two of them finally sort things out, each learning who the other truly was. Bedivere then bowed again and again in apology:
"I'm sorry, I truly am. I knew it was impossible, that my past sins couldn't be undone, but I couldn't help hoping... hoping there was even the slightest chance..."
Watching him bow like a pecking bird, Guinevere almost felt like she was seeing Artoria after she had made a mistake.
Still, no one else present could make sense of what he meant.
"Uh... it's not that big of a deal," Artoria scratched her face awkwardly. "You just mistook me for someone else. I do it all the time myself. Hardly an unforgivable sin. No need to get so worked up. If you want, I could even use my Emperor Form to summon a Saber-version of me. She wouldn't have a mind of her own, but she'd look exactly like your king."
"No, please don't..." Bedivere cut her off immediately. "I've already understood the gravity of my sin. If I sought such an escape, I'd be truly beyond saving."
He shook his head firmly. "No, I must see my king face-to-face. Only then can I atone."
The mood began to sink, until Bagest spoke up to shift the subject:
"Bedivere, weren't you supposed to be scouting the Holy Capital's knights along the mountainside? Why did you suddenly return? Did something happen?"
"Ah—yes, forgive me. I nearly forgot my purpose." Bedivere straightened, his tone urgent. "I returned because Miss Hundred Faces sent word. Yesterday, a small knight from outside the land broke through Gawain alone, charged into the Holy Capital, and attempted to assassinate the Lion King. He was stopped and wounded by Lancelot and the other Round Table knights, then fled."
"There are rumors he was pursued into the desert... Miss Hundred Faces asked me to confirm with you. Do you know who that knight might be?"