I didn't sleep that night.
How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them—my companions, my friends, struggling against invisible chains I'd wrapped around them. Chains I'd convinced myself were freedom.
By dawn, I'd made a decision.
"I'm leaving," I announced when they gathered for breakfast. "Not with her. Just... leaving. Going somewhere alone. You'll be free to do whatever you want."
"Master, no—" Mash started.
"I'm not your Master," I cut her off. "That's the problem. I've been acting like one even while pretending I wasn't. So I'm removing myself from the equation. Maybe without me here, you can actually choose."
"Choose what?" Cu demanded. "To cease existing? Because that's what'll happen, won't it? If what that woman said is true—"
"I don't know!" The words tore out of me. "I don't know what's true anymore! Maybe you'll be fine. Maybe you'll disappear. Maybe this whole world will collapse. But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep pretending we're all real people having real experiences when I might be the puppet master pulling every string."
"So your solution is to run away?" Artoria's voice was cold. "To abandon us because you're afraid of the responsibility?"
"I'm freeing you!"
"You're abandoning us," she repeated. "There's a difference."
We stared at each other, anger crackling between us.
"This isn't fair," Mash said quietly. Tears streamed down her face. "Whatever we are, whatever created us—these feelings are real. My fear right now is real. My love for you is real. You can't just decide it doesn't count because you don't like where it came from."
"But if I made you feel that way—"
"So what?" Medusa interrupted. "Parents create children. Does that make a child's love less real? Less valuable? Less worthy of being honored?"
"That's different."
"Is it?" She stood, walking toward me with purpose. "You gave us consciousness. Autonomy. The ability to grow and change. That's not creating puppets—that's creating life. And yes, it's terrifying and you might have done it wrong, but running away doesn't fix anything."
"Then what does?" I shouted. "How do I fix this? How do I make you really real?"
"Maybe," Da Vinci said softly, "you can't. Maybe we already are as real as we're going to get. And maybe that has to be enough."
I sank into a chair, head in my hands.
"I don't know how to live with this."
"Then learn," Emiya said. "Like we're all learning. Like every person learns to live with the uncomfortable truths about themselves and their world."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. It's just necessary."
We sat in heavy silence.
Outside, Argentium was waking up. I could hear the city coming to life—vendors setting up stalls, children laughing, the ordinary sounds of existence continuing regardless of my crisis.
"Tell me honestly," I said finally. "Do you resent me? For creating you, if that's what I did. For trapping you here."
They looked at each other, some silent communication passing between them.
"No," Mash said. "I resent that I can't be sure. I resent the uncertainty. But I don't resent existing. Even if my existence started with you, even if it depends on you—I'm grateful for it."
"I'm angry," Artoria admitted. "Not at you, but at the situation. At not being able to trust my own experiences. But..." She hesitated. "Even artificial experiences can become genuine ones. Given enough time, enough choices, enough growth. Maybe we started as your creations. But maybe we're becoming our own people anyway."
"And if we're not?" I asked. "If we're all just elaborate self-deceptions?"
"Then at least they're beautiful self-deceptions," Cu said with forced lightness. "I've lived in worse situations."
I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.
"I don't know what to do," I admitted.
"Start by not leaving," Medusa suggested. "Whatever we are, we're better together. Abandoning us doesn't solve anything—it just makes everyone miserable."
"But the woman was right. I am limiting myself. I am playing in a cage—"
"Then we'll help you expand the cage," Da Vinci said. "Or break it entirely. Or figure out if it's even really a cage. But we'll do it together."
"Why?" The question came out broken. "Why would you help me after learning what I might have done to you?"
"Because we love you," Mash said simply. "Real or artificial, chosen or created—we love you. And that has to count for something."
I looked around at all of them. These people who might be my creations. Or might be genuinely autonomous beings I'd accidentally brought into existence. Or might be something in between that defied easy categorization.
"Okay," I said finally. "Okay. I won't leave. But we need to figure this out. We need to know what's real."
"Agreed," Artoria said. "So where do we start?"
That was the question, wasn't it?
If this world was my creation, if they were my creations, how did we test it? How did we find the boundaries between reality and dream?
"The woman," I said slowly. "She implied there were others like me. Other dreamers. If that's true, maybe one of them has answers."
"Or maybe," Emiya suggested, "we test it ourselves. Try to do things you didn't anticipate. Make choices you couldn't have predicted. See if the world holds together or falls apart."
"That's risky."
"Everything's risky," Cu pointed out. "Might as well make it interesting."
We spent the day making plans.
If I was creating this world unconsciously, there should be limits. Things I didn't know about, places I'd never imagined. So we'd seek those out. Push boundaries. Try to find the edges of my creation—if it was a creation.
"We'll need to leave Argentium," Medusa said. "Travel to places you've never thought about. See if they exist before you imagine them."
"And we'll need to watch Master closely," Da Vinci added. "See if things change based on his expectations or remain independent."
"How do we know we're not just playing into his subconscious desires?" Artoria asked. "If he wants to prove we're real, won't he unconsciously create evidence of that?"
"That's the trap," I admitted. "How do you prove reality when reality bends to your thoughts?"
"One step at a time," Mash said firmly. "We start with what we can control. We make plans, we execute them, we observe results. Even if the results are ambiguous, at least we tried."
That evening, we began preparing for a journey.
Not the wandering exploration we'd done before, but a deliberate expedition into the unknown. We'd travel far from Argentium, to regions I'd never heard of, seeking anomalies or inconsistencies that might indicate the limits of my creation.
But first, I had to deal with the woman's offer.
She'd given me three days. Two had passed. Tomorrow, I'd have to face her again.
That night, I stood at my window, looking out at Argentium's lights.
"Can't sleep?" Medusa appeared beside me, quiet as always.
"Thinking."
"About?"
"Whether any of this is worth it. The truth, I mean. Is it better to know we're not real? Or better to live in comfortable uncertainty?"
She considered this. "I think... the truth is always worth it. Even painful truth. Because you can't build anything lasting on lies, even beautiful ones."
"What if the truth destroys us?"
"Then we'll deal with it. Together." She smiled. "You keep trying to protect us by taking responsibility for everything. But we're not fragile dolls. Even if we started as your creations, we're strong enough to handle reality. Whatever that reality turns out to be."
"I'm scared," I admitted.
"Good. That means this matters to you. That we matter to you." She squeezed my shoulder gently. "Now get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be difficult."
She was right about that.
The woman appeared at noon the next day, materializing in the middle of the market square where I'd been buying supplies.
"Decision time," she said without preamble. "What's it going to be? Transcendence? Or imprisonment?"
I looked at her—this being who claimed to be like me, who offered power and purpose and escape from uncertainty.
"Neither," I said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Neither?"
"I'm not coming with you. But I'm not staying in ignorance either. I'm going to figure out what I am, what this world is, what my companions are. And I'm going to do it without abandoning them and without running away from the question."
"That's not one of the options."
"Then I'm making a new option." I stepped closer. "You said I'm wasting my potential. Maybe you're right. But if I am a reality anchor, if I can create worlds and people, then I want to use that power responsibly. I want to understand it. And I can't do that by either hiding from it or letting you teach me whatever you think I should know."
She studied me for a long moment.
Then, surprisingly, she smiled. "Interesting. Most dreamers either reject their power completely or embrace it totally. You want balance."
"I want truth."
"Same thing, really." She began to fade. "Good luck, little god. You're going to need it."
"Wait—who are you really? Why did you come here?"
Her voice drifted back, already distant: "Someone who made the wrong choice once. Someone who wants to see if you'll do better."
Then she was gone.
Leaving me standing in the market square, surrounded by people who might be real or might be my dreams, in a world that might be solid or might be smoke.
But I wasn't alone.
My companions found me there, drawn by some instinct or connection or maybe just by habit.
"She's gone?" Mash asked.
"For now."
"What did you tell her?"
"That we're going to find our own answers." I looked around at all of them. "Together."
"Even if those answers are scary?" Cu asked.
"Especially then."
Artoria nodded approvingly. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow," I decided. "We'll travel north, beyond the mountains. Find places I've never imagined. Test the boundaries. Learn the truth."
"And if the truth is that we're all your creations?" Emiya asked quietly.
"Then we'll figure out what that means," I said. "And how to live with it. Together."
They exchanged glances, then nodded.
"Together," Mash echoed.
"Together," they all repeated.
And standing there in the market square of a city that might be real or might be my elaborate dream, surrounded by people who might be autonomous or might be my creations, I felt something settle in my chest.
Not certainty.
Not comfort.
But purpose.
We would find the truth.
Whatever it cost.
Whatever it revealed.
We would face it together.
And that—that had to be enough to build on.