Merlin exhaled softly after giving his answer. Though many had suspected this truth fifteen hundred years ago, suspicions remained just that — uncertain. Now, however, Artoria knew with certainty that Aslan, her cousin, had also been chosen by the Sword of the King.
Yet prophecy had always spoken differently. It was Artoria who was destined to bear the name of King Arthur. And besides, her cousin valued freedom above all else; he had no desire to tread the path of kingship. Still, the fact remained: he had been acknowledged by the Sword before her. If he had taken that destiny, perhaps a new and different era would have dawned for Great Britain.
At that moment, as her doubts settled, Artoria's determination hardened. If fate allowed, she would see Aslan take her place as the true King of Britain.
Merlin wiped the cold sweat from his brow with a touch of magic, gave Artoria a final nod, and then dissolved into a cascade of petals. Akebab vanished with him, leaving no trace.
Alice surveyed the ruins before her. Upon hearing of her husband's fate, she chose to depart as well. Their objective had been achieved, and with the Hero King's retreat, the bounded field erected around the area had collapsed. The destruction had been noisy enough to attract unwanted attention — better to leave before others arrived.
Irisviel hurried with Artoria to their car, parked nearby. The moment they were inside, she pressed the accelerator to the floor. The commercial vehicle shot forward like a racing car, tires screeching against the pavement. Artoria fastened her seatbelt at once, one hand gripping the railing tightly. No matter how many times she had endured Irisviel's driving, it never failed to strike terror in her heart.
Fortunately, though terrifying, it was at least safe. Barely.
Before onlookers could gather, church agents had already cordoned off the area. The explanation was simple: a severe gas explosion in an aging house with outdated facilities. The story was credible enough. Annual inspections would have prevented it — a neat way to assure the public.
Poor Tokiomi, Artoria thought bitterly. If only he knew his own household was being paraded as a cautionary tale.
Meanwhile, in the basement of his ruined home, Tokiomi checked the clock. Dawn had broken, and the sounds of battle above had long since ceased. At last, he allowed himself a breath of relief. But then came the sound of stone shifting at the stairwell entrance.
Tokiomi rose at once, cane in hand, ready to unleash fire if necessary. A heavy crash followed — the warped wooden door splintering open. He froze, then exhaled in relief when he saw who stood there.
"Kirei… my disciple. I am glad it's you." He sank back into his seat, exhaustion etched across his face. "It seems we have lost this Holy Grail War. I did not expect that the overwhelming strength of a single Heroic Spirit would drive the others to unite. This outcome is far from what I foresaw. There is no way forward for us now."
Kirei's face was calm, almost serene. "I am glad you are unharmed, Sensei."
After all, he thought privately, your body must serve as the vessel. Without it, the descent of the Grail would be troublesome.
"My respected teacher," Kirei continued aloud, "you can still obtain the Holy Grail."
Tokiomi's eyes flickered with surprise, though he quickly forced composure. "Explain your plan. To reach the Grail without a Servant is no easy task. Better to wait sixty years for the next War than gamble everything here. Do you understand?"
Kirei's lips curved upward. The smile was subtle, but it unsettled his teacher. To Tokiomi, it looked merely awkward — the strained expression of a man unaccustomed to smiling.
"I assure you, Sensei," Kirei said softly. "You will obtain the Grail."
—Or rather, you will become the Grail. You will merge with your wish itself. Surely, that will make you happy.
"I promise you."
Black magical energy seeped from the cracks, thick and suffocating. Tokiomi's instincts screamed at him, but too late. Tendrils of darkness wrapped around him, dragging him down into the void.
His consciousness plummeted, spinning, his mind ground as if caught in the blades of a machine. Just as he was about to surrender to the abyss, a voice pierced the haze.
"Dad?"
Tokiomi's eyes opened. The world around him was distorted, like the flicker of an old film reel, though to him it seemed ordinary. A girl in a purple dress stood beside him, her face anxious.
"Sakura…" he whispered.
But no — impossible. He had given Sakura away. And hadn't there been a fire at the Matou estate? Her fate had been uncertain… perhaps even death.
The girl's figure suddenly ignited, flames racing across her dress. Her skin cracked, blackened, and the stench of charred flesh filled the air. From the ruin of her face, a twisted smile appeared.
"It seems you remember, Father. No… Uncle Tohsaka. It's because of you that I died in the fire."
Tokiomi stumbled back, shaking his head in denial. The burned figure lunged forward, skeletal fingers closing around his throat. He fell to the ground, choking as his vision dimmed. Consciousness slipped once more into darkness.
When he awoke again, the same soft voice whispered at his ear.
"Dad?"
He sat up, clutching his head, eyes falling on the girl beside him.
"Sakura?"
But the dream only deepened. The girl's form blackened and burned again, leaping toward him as he recoiled into yet another nightmare.
-End Chapter-
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