Spring came to Argentium with unexpected gentleness.
I'd lived through seasons in Chaldea, but they'd been cosmetic—background changes that meant nothing. Here, spring arrived with intent. Flowers pushed through cobblestones. Trees that had been bare skeletons suddenly exploded with green. The air itself changed, becoming softer, sweeter, full of possibility.
"There's going to be a festival," Mash announced one morning at breakfast. She'd been helping plan community events and had insider information. "The Festival of New Beginnings. It celebrates the spring equinox and new ventures. Everyone who's started something new in the past year gets to present it."
"Present it how?" Cu asked through a mouthful of bread.
"However they want. Musicians perform new songs. Craftspeople display their work. Scholars present research. It's like..." She searched for words. "Like the whole city celebrates growth and change and becoming."
"Sounds exhausting," Emiya said, but he was smiling.
"Sounds perfect," I corrected.
The week leading up to the festival, Argentium transformed.
Banners appeared on buildings, colorful fabric rippling in the spring breeze. Market stalls began stocking special items—flower crowns, ceremonial candles, sweets made only during this time. Street performers practiced in squares, their music becoming the city's soundtrack.
My fellow students at the University were excited, chattering about what they'd present. Some had research projects. Others had written papers or developed new mathematical proofs. Aldric had composed a piece of music he wanted to perform.
"What about you?" he asked me one day. "You've been here for months now. You must have something you've been working on."
Did I?
I'd attended lectures, studied, learned. But I hadn't created anything. Hadn't produced work worth showing. I'd been consuming knowledge, not generating it.
"I'm still figuring things out," I said.
"That's fair," Aldric replied. "Though Professor Alicia mentioned you've been asking interesting questions about the nature of reality and observation. Maybe something there?"
That evening, I found Professor Alicia in her office, surrounded by papers and astronomical charts.
"Ritsuka," she greeted me. "Come in, come in. I'm trying to finish this model of planetary motion for the festival. What can I do for you?"
"Aldric said you mentioned I ask questions about reality."
She looked up, studying me over her spectacles. "You do. Unusual questions, too. About whether observation changes what's observed. About whether things exist independent of consciousness. About the relationship between the dreamer and the dream." She set down her pen. "Where do those questions come from?"
I couldn't tell her the truth.
But I could tell her a truth.
"I used to live somewhere where I had a lot of control," I said carefully. "Where reality bent to my will. And then I came here, where I don't have that control anymore. I'm trying to understand what that means. What's real, what matters, what makes something meaningful."
She nodded slowly. "Those are philosophical questions as much as scientific ones. Have you read Descartes? He wondered whether our entire existence might be a dream."
"What did he conclude?"
"'I think, therefore I am.' The act of questioning proves existence. Though," she added with a slight smile, "it doesn't tell us whose existence we're proving."
"Whose?"
"The observer's? The observed's? If you dream of me, am I real? Are you real? Are we both real in different ways?" She leaned back. "These aren't questions with answers, Ritsuka. But they're worth asking."
I left her office with thoughts swirling.
That night, I told the others about my conversation.
"She's asking the same questions we asked in the garden," Mash said. "About what makes us real."
"Except she's never been an NPC," Cu pointed out. "She's always been real, as far as we know. So why does she care?"
"Maybe everyone wonders," Medusa suggested. "Whether they're truly real or just responding to patterns. Whether their choices matter or if they're just following invisible scripts. It's not unique to us."
"That's both comforting and unsettling," Artoria said.
"Most truth is," Emiya added.
The night before the festival, I couldn't sleep.
I kept thinking about Professor Alicia's questions, about the garden where we'd first broken free from our patterns, about everything we'd experienced and learned since coming through that door.
What had I learned?
That powerlessness could be freedom. That being small could be meaningful. That ordinary life, lived with intention and connection, was more fulfilling than god-like control in isolation.
But how did I express that?
I got up, lit a candle, and started writing.
Not a scholarly paper. Not a mathematical proof. Just... thoughts. Observations. A record of transformation from dreamer to participant, from god to person, from isolation to connection.
I wrote about Chaldea and the garden and the village and the road and Argentium. About Mash learning to choose and Cu learning to lose and Medusa creating something new. About finding home not in a place but in the act of living with purpose alongside others.
I wrote until dawn, until my hand cramped and the candle had burned to a stub.
When I finished, I had something that wasn't quite an essay and wasn't quite a story. It was testimony. Evidence of change. Proof that transformation was possible, that meaning could be found, that realness was something you became rather than something you were born with.
I titled it: "On Becoming Real: Observations from a Former God."
The Festival of New Beginnings started at noon.
The entire city seemed to be out, flooding the streets in a river of color and music and laughter. Stages had been set up in various squares, each hosting different types of presentations. Artists displayed paintings and sculptures. Musicians performed. Scholars gave lectures to anyone who'd listen.
My companions had scattered to experience different parts of the festival.
Mash had helped organize a community project—a new garden for the neighborhood where she volunteered. She was presenting it with the families who'd helped build it, their pride and joy evident as they showed off vegetables already beginning to sprout.
Cu was fighting in an exhibition match, showing off techniques he'd learned from his months at the pits. The crowd roared approval as he danced through forms that were part combat, part performance art.
Artoria was presenting new training protocols to the garrison and any interested observers. She spoke with quiet authority about leadership and strategy, and people listened with respect they'd earned rather than demanded.
Da Vinci had created a series of designs for public works—fountains, bridges, aqueducts—that pushed the boundaries of the city's engineering while remaining buildable. She explained each one to crowds of fascinated craftspeople and city officials.
Medusa was giving a lecture on ancient poetry at the library, comparing texts from different cultures and time periods. Her small book club had grown to fill the entire reading room.
And Emiya... Emiya had set up a cooking demonstration in the market square, teaching techniques he'd learned and adapted. He moved with practiced grace, and the smells alone drew massive crowds.
I found myself at the University's presentation stage, clutching my pages, waiting my turn.
Professor Alicia was presenting her planetary motion model to appreciative murmurs. Aldric performed his composition, fingers flying over strings in patterns that made the audience sigh. Other students showcased their work—research on crop rotation, mathematical proofs, historical analyses.
Then it was my turn.
I stood before maybe fifty people, paper trembling slightly in my hands, and looked out at faces that expected... something. Entertainment, enlightenment, at least a reason to stay instead of moving to another stage.
"I want to talk about change," I began. "About what it means to transform from one thing into another. From powerful to ordinary. From isolated to connected. From dreaming to living."
I told my story.
Not the literal truth—I couldn't explain Chaldea or the game or being trapped in a lucid dream. But I told the emotional truth. About believing you're special, only to discover everyone is special. About thinking control equals happiness, only to find that surrender brings peace. About the terrifying, exhilarating process of becoming real.
I talked about my companions, though I didn't name them. About watching people break free from patterns and choose their own paths. About how witnessing transformation in others taught me how to transform myself.
"We spend so much time asking if we're real," I said, looking out at the crowd. "If we matter. If our choices mean anything. But I think we're asking the wrong question. The question isn't 'Am I real?' The question is 'Am I becoming more real?' And the answer to that is yes—every time we choose, every time we connect, every time we grow beyond what we were."
I paused, gathering my thoughts for the conclusion.
"I came here believing I was nobody. Believing I'd lost everything that made me special. But I've learned that being nobody is the most freeing thing in the world. Because when you're nobody, you can become anybody. You can choose who you are, moment by moment, day by day. And that choice—that constant, terrifying, beautiful choice—is what makes us real."
I finished and looked up, suddenly aware of the silence.
Then someone started clapping.
Then someone else.
Then the whole crowd was applauding, and Professor Alicia was smiling at me with something like pride, and Aldric was giving me an enthusiastic thumbs up, and I realized I was crying.
Not from sadness.
From relief.
From release.
From the profound joy of being seen, truly seen, and accepted.
After my presentation, people approached with questions, comments, shared stories of their own transformations. I talked with them, really talked, exchanging ideas and experiences like equals.
Like real people.
As the sun began to set, I found my companions in the central square, where the closing ceremony would take place.
"How did it go?" Mash asked eagerly.
"Good," I said. "Really good. How about you?"
They each shared their experiences—the joy of showing their work, the pride of accomplishment, the connection with people who appreciated what they'd created.
"I feel like I've earned something," Artoria said quietly. "Like I've proven myself not through destiny or birthright, but through effort and choice."
"That's because you have," I told her.
The closing ceremony was simple but moving. The city's mayor stood on a central platform and invited anyone who'd started something new to come forward. Hundreds of people did—presenting babies born in the past year, new businesses, recovered health, reconciled relationships, learned skills.
"The Festival of New Beginnings," the mayor said, "reminds us that we are always capable of change. Always capable of growth. Always becoming something new while honoring what we've been."
We stood together, my found family, listening to these words and feeling their truth.
We'd all begun something new.
Not just projects or pursuits, but ourselves.
Versions of ourselves that hadn't existed before we walked through that door.
As the ceremony ended and people began to disperse, Medusa turned to me.
"Are you glad we came through? That we left Chaldea?"
I thought about everything we'd experienced, learned, become.
"Yes," I said without hesitation. "Even with all the uncertainty and fear and powerlessness. Yes."
"Me too," she said. And looking around at the others' faces, I saw the same sentiment reflected.
We had been NPCs, following patterns in a controlled dream.
Now we were people, making choices in an uncontrolled reality.
The transformation wasn't complete—maybe it never would be. Maybe becoming real was an endless process, not a destination.
But we were on the path.
Together.
And that was enough.
That night, I fell asleep not in my room but in the common area of the inn, surrounded by my companions as we talked long into the night about everything and nothing. About the festival and the future and the thousand small moments that made up a life worth living.
I fell asleep mid-sentence, Mash's voice a gentle background hum, Cu's laughter punctuating stories, the warmth of connection wrapping around me like a blanket.
And I dreamed.
Not of Chaldea or control or power.
But of tomorrow.
Of spring turning to summer.
Of roads not yet traveled and choices not yet made.
Of becoming, endlessly becoming, the realest version of myself I could imagine.
With people who were doing the same.
Together.
Always together.
Real.