After a brief conversation with Da Vinci, Mash, and Fujimaru, I made my way back to my tent. My steps were light, yet felt heavy with thoughts still echoing from that earlier meeting.
The gentle night wind swept through the surrounding tents, making the fabric flutter softly, as if whispering into the silence.
I carefully pulled aside the flap of my tent, then closed it again slowly, not wanting to make a sound that could wake anyone.
Inside felt warmer, calmer—a small space detached from the chaotic and uncertain world outside.
I walked slowly to the corner where my spot was.
There, Astolfo was already asleep, his body wrapped in a light blanket, his breathing steady and calm. His face looked so innocent in sleep, almost childlike.
There was no trace of his usual wild joy, no sign of his signature energy. Only peace—peace that, for a moment, made the world feel harmless.
I looked at him for a moment, then without a word, removed the hood of my cloak—letting my hair fall freely, revealing my real face under the dim light of a small torch in the corner of the tent.
There was something relieving about shedding this disguise, even if only in front of someone who was fast asleep.
My gaze shifted from Astolfo's face to the gap in the tent flap. From there, I could see a faint shadow of the night and stars dimly hidden behind clouds.
The night breeze slipped through the seams of the fabric, brushing gently against my skin.
I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. The sound of my exhale almost blended with the rustling wind. There was much to think about.
About Roman, about his words, about truths that perhaps wouldn't stay hidden for much longer. But tonight… I was too tired to unearth them all.
At last, I sat cross-legged beside my bedding, letting my body lean slightly. I placed both hands on my lap, and slowly closed my eyes.
I tried to find a moment of peace, even though my mind still pulsed with unanswered questions.
Tonight, I would sleep not to forget—but to store up my strength. Because I knew that tomorrow… would come with new dangers.
And when that time comes, I must be ready.
.
.
.
"Wake up…"
"Wake up!!"
That loud voice echoed in my ears, shattering the last remnants of a vague dream I hadn't yet understood. The voice was so close, so loud, it made my ears ring slightly.
I groaned softly and slowly opened my eyes. Morning light slipped through the cracks in the tent, illuminating the small space with a warm golden hue.
It took me a moment to adjust my vision. I looked around, trying to make sense of things.
And there, right beside me, stood Astolfo—already fully dressed in his light armor and white cloak, which fluttered gently with each of his movements.
His long hair was slightly messy, but his eyes were as bright as ever, filled with his usual boundless energy that… well, never seemed to run out.
"Ah, finally awake!" he said with a small laugh, his voice bright and cheerful like a freshly started morning.
I took a deep breath and slowly sat up.
My throat felt a bit dry, and my voice came out hoarse when I finally spoke, "Why did you wake me up so early…?"
Astolfo tilted his head, his expression like someone who'd just been asked the weirdest question in the world.
"Eh? Well of course because it's already morning! The others have been up for a while and are getting ready! Da Vinci said we have to move soon!" he said, pointing toward the tent entrance, as if the world outside was already waiting.
I stared at him for a moment, then let out another soft sigh. Sleepiness hadn't completely left me, but seeing Astolfo's blazing enthusiasm… it felt too heavy to ask him to quiet down.
Without another word, I pulled my hood back over my head, hiding most of my face beneath the shadow of thick fabric. It felt more comfortable this way—safer, calmer.
"Let's go!" Astolfo suddenly exclaimed, then without warning, he grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet.
Though I could've easily stood up on my own, somehow, I just let him.
His grip was warm and light, full of that vibrant energy I'd never held in my own hands.
Once I was standing, Astolfo immediately let go of my hand and started patting me all over, as if making sure I was fully awake.
"You've got dust all over, hehe," he said, then giggled. I looked at him for a second, then calmly brushed the fine dust off my cloak, straightened the folds, and ensured my hood was properly in place again.
"Now you look like yourself again!" Astolfo said, giving me two enthusiastic thumbs-up.
I responded only with a small nod and a faint smile hidden beneath the hood. Then, without saying anything more, I walked toward the tent's entrance.
Astolfo followed behind me with light, cheerful steps, softly humming a song I didn't recognize.
And out there, the morning welcomed us—with a thin mist slowly lifting, the busy noise of tents being taken down, and a faint tension hanging in the air.
A new day had begun.
And we had to be ready for whatever was coming.
Some time had passed. The morning sky had begun to chase away the thin mist that blanketed the camp.
Gentle rays of sunlight pierced through the gaps between the trees and refracted over the dew-soaked grass.
The sounds of activity echoed among the half-dismantled tents, creating a morning rhythm all too familiar to those who had fled from one place to another too many times.
The refugees—those who had escaped the cruelty of the Holy City—moved with practiced efficiency. Their weary hands folded canvas, packed up meager supplies, and gathered food for the next leg of their journey.
Though their bodies looked exhausted, their eyes held a flicker of hope that refused to be extinguished.
They knew today could be even harder than yesterday—or perhaps their last day entirely—yet they kept moving forward, kept fighting.
From where I stood, I could clearly see everything in motion. Da Vinci, walking with her usual graceful yet commanding gait, was speaking with two or three adult survivors, occasionally nodding and offering a reassuring smile.
Nearby, Mash stood tall and calm as always, explaining something to a small child while pointing westward—the direction of our next destination.
Fujimaru stood among them, looking patient and kind, genuinely listening to every concern spoken to him.
There was no distance in his eyes, not even with the refugees he had only just met the day before. He was a leader—not from above, but from beside them.
Meanwhile, Astolfo was busily flitting between tents. He helped roll up the tent poles, organize sacks of supplies, and occasionally cheered up crying children by offering them wild plant or doing silly movements that made them laugh.
His signature lighthearted laughter, like the ringing of bells, occasionally floated through the air, softening the tension in the camp.
On the far side of the camp, Bedivere worked quietly and efficiently. He lifted heavy loads without complaint. His movements were disciplined and practiced, like a soldier long accustomed to war.
He spoke little, but his presence always brought a sense of calm.
And me? I merely stood still in the distance, silently watching them all.
The morning breeze blew gently, tugging at the ends of my long cloak. My hood still covered most of my face, hiding the expression they didn't need to see.
Maybe this was my way of keeping my distance, or maybe... because I wasn't yet ready to be part of the small world they were building together.
I didn't help, didn't greet anyone, didn't speak. It felt like watching a warm world through thick glass—close, yet still far away.
Not because I didn't care, but because something inside me hadn't fully connected to them.
Perhaps because I knew—my existence here… didn't entirely belong to this world.
I looked down briefly, staring at the ground beneath my feet. The damp earth, the grass crushed by footsteps constantly on the move, and the soft scent of morning dew reminding me that everything here was temporary.
Our journey wasn't over, and maybe… it never truly would be.
But for a moment—just a moment—I allowed myself to enjoy the peace of that morning. Who could say when a morning like this would come again?
In a place like this, peace felt like an illusion that could shatter in an instant.
The desert sun had just risen from the eastern horizon, casting a blinding golden light across the endless stretch of sand.
Hot winds began to blow gently, lifting fine grains of dust into the air. No trees, no shade—only us… and a sea of sand stretching in every direction.
There were no clear paths. No signs. No map.
Our only guide was the silhouette of the Mountain in the far west—a faint outline nearly swallowed by the shimmering heat. That mountain was our destination. And our only hope of survival.
A few minutes passed. The refugees had dismantled their tents and packed up their belongings. A formation had been established—orderly yet calm, as if they understood this journey would be long and exhausting.
Fujimaru, Mash, and Da Vinci stood at the front, discussing the route they would take. The rest of us—Astolfo, Bedivere, and myself—stood not far from them, forming a sort of escort.
"I observed the sun's direction and wind patterns last night," said Da Vinci, squinting her eyes as she gazed westward at the horizon. "If we keep following the shadows on the sand and maintain this angle, we'll continue heading toward the mountain. At least… in theory."
"The terrain is open," Mash added, her eyes sharply fixed on the faint silhouette of the mountain. "But that also means we're easily seen. There's no place to hide if we're attacked."
"That's why we need to move quickly," Fujimaru said with a quiet sigh. "We can't let the refugees get caught in a sandstorm or an ambush."
"There's one more thing we should consider…" Bedivere said calmly, his voice slightly lower. "We don't have much food left. Our supplies won't even last two full days of travel."
"Do you have a suggestion?" Fujimaru asked, looking at him seriously.
"We have to make use of what we find. This desert may be barren, but that doesn't mean it's empty. If we spot signs of wildlife—whether desert lizards, sand wolves, or birds of prey—we can hunt. I have some experience with that."
"In that case, I'll help!" Astolfo chimed in, raising his hand high. "I can scout from above, and—oh! I also brought a small net just in case we run into desert rabbits!"
"…Desert rabbits?" Da Vinci raised an eyebrow. "You actually brought a net?"
"Of course!"
I could only shake my head slowly, though a faint smile escaped me. These little conversations, for some reason, made the atmosphere feel lighter.
Even in the middle of a desert that could kill in days, their voices were like a soothing oasis.
But that peace shattered in an instant.
The world fell silent—not with a natural quiet, but a heavy silence, thick with pressure. The wind abruptly ceased, and the air around us grew stiff. My instincts flared.
I quickly turned to the east. And I saw it.
Emerging from behind a mirage and rising waves of sand came a line of knights.
They rode on horseback, their armor gleaming fiercely under the sun. Dust kicked up behind their horses' hooves, forming a thin wall that slowly approached.
And at the very front—with a sword at his hip and a commanding silhouette impossible to forget—was the Knight of the Lake.
Lancelot.
A knight who no longer fought for justice, but for the twisted will of his king.
Mash reacted instantly, raising her shield. "They found us faster than we expected!"
Fujimaru turned around, tension on his face. "Everyone, get ready! Protect the refugees!"
Da Vinci narrowed her eyes, trying to analyze the enemy's movements. "They didn't bring their whole force, but this is more than enough to slaughter us if we're careless."
I stepped forward slowly, staring straight at Lancelot. Only one thought crossed my mind in that moment:
The next battle… has begun.
***
Author's Note:
I'm back from the dead... again.
Sigh... Honestly, writing a new chapter isn't that hard. The real challenge is finding the motivation to actually sit down and do it. Sometimes I get distracted by games, and other times I'm just too deep into reading other fanfics to stop. You know how it is.
But anyway—thank you for sticking around, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
Oh, btw... some people might complain about why the MC doesn't just use her skill to recreate the same map she made in the previous chapter. But I think it's unnecessary this time, since they already have a clear direction: the silhouette of the mountains.
And besides, there's also Astolfo even if his memory can be a bit spotty at times, he still slightly remembers the path to the mountains.
***
– Stage, Puppet, Actor –
In the foggy corners of 18th-century London, there lived a small boy with a simple yet beautiful dream: he wanted to make everyone happy—in his own way.
But the boy had no magical powers, no wealth, and no noble status. The only thing he had were his tiny, skillful hands that could carve wooden puppets.
A talent passed down from his family, once renowned as puppet makers and storytellers, though now almost forgotten by time.
He lived with his uncle—the only family he had left. His uncle loved him dearly, but work kept him constantly busy, and they rarely spent time together. The boy's days were filled with solitude, but not loneliness.
He spent his time carving wood, threading strings, crafting characters, and most importantly—bringing stories to life.
One night, as candlelight danced softly across the walls of his small room, he sat in silence, gazing at a wooden puppet he had just completed. A thought crossed his mind:
"What if I performed a show? What if I told stories… not just with words, but with the movement and expressions of these puppets?"
Fueled by newfound excitement, he began preparing his little performance. He built a tiny stage from scraps of wood, stitched curtains from old fabric, and pieced together stories from his wild imagination.
And on one sunny afternoon, in a narrow alley of London, he held his very first puppet show. Only two elderly people and a small child stopped to watch—but that was enough for him.
Day after day, he performed tirelessly. Some days, no one would stop to watch. But he stood there still, with a smile and an unwavering spirit.
Weeks turned into months. People began to recognize him. Children waited eagerly for his shows every afternoon, and even adults would smile softly as they passed by the alley.
His stories touched hearts—tales of friendship, sacrifice, laughter, and dreams. His wooden puppets came alive for his audience. He became not just an entertainer, but a bearer of hope for those weary from their daily lives.
Then one day, as the soft spring sun lit the streets, an old nobleman happened to pass by and stopped to watch his show. He was captivated by the beauty of the tale—so sincere and original, brought to life by puppets that seemed to possess souls of their own.
The nobleman approached the boy and offered him a chance: to perform on a real stage.
No longer just a tiny platform in a narrow alley, but a grand theater at the heart of London.
The boy hesitated at first. But with encouragement from his uncle and support from his loyal audience, he raised his head and accepted the offer.
Weeks later, the entire city buzzed with excitement about the extraordinary puppet show in the grand theater. The red curtains opened slowly.
Spotlights bathed the stage in golden light. And there stood a young boy with a gentle smile, holding his wooden puppet. The audience fell silent, captivated by the miracle he brought.
There were no extravagant words, no flashy tricks. Only a heartfelt story, and puppets brought to life through the hands and soul of a small artist.
And that night, thunderous applause echoed, tears fell freely, and the world realized—a little boy had made his dream come true.
His name was Hart.
And from that grand stage… he had made the world smile.
.
.
.
Corridor – Chaldea
Small, measured steps, nearly silent, echoed along the pristine white corridor of Chaldea.
Under the pale white lights hanging from the ceiling, a small shadow followed the slow movements of a young boy. He wore classical 18th-century attire. In his hands, he held an unfinished wooden puppet—the puppet's head still blank, expression yet to be carved.
That boy's name was Hart—a Servant of the Caster class.
His face was calm, his eyes observing every detail around him. He could feel the subtle change in temperature at the end of the corridor, hear the faint electric hum from the wall panels, and notice the small shadow that did not belong to him.
Other footsteps. Two pairs of shoes—light, yet distinct. Hart immediately recognized the rhythm of their sound.
He turned slowly. There, walking side by side, were two familiar figures.
One moved with care, every step deliberate, as if each had been calculated beforehand. The other… more free, exaggerated, and noisy—in a way that was impossible to hate.
Hart lowered his head slightly, a faint smile on his lips. "…Charles I and Yuuki."
As usual, Charles I stood out. Dressed in a detective-style outfit with a long cape flowing behind him, his white hair neatly tied and his long hair in the back was tied into ponytail, his steps full of energy—as if he were walking across an opera stage.
Beside him was Kitahara Yuuki, calm and composed. His black hair was tied back, his dark purple eyes looked straight ahead. His samurai attire was simple but clean, well-kept. Nothing flashy, yet somehow impossible to ignore.
Before joining them, Hart remembered he was still holding the wooden puppet. He carefully stored it into his personal space (his Noble Phantasm), then quickened his pace, closing the distance without making a sound.
Yuuki was the first to notice. He merely glanced back and gave a small nod. That was enough.
Charles noticed a few seconds later. His smile widened, like a king welcoming his beloved subject.
"Oh? Isn't this my most talented subject—Hart!"
Hart stopped in his tracks, looking directly at Charles.
"…How many times do I have to say, I'm not your subject," he said with a sigh, voice never raised.
"Ah, don't be so stiff." Charles chuckled softly and—without permission—patted Hart casually on the shoulder. "We come from the same place, don't we? Glorious England… home of kings, puppetmasters, and five o'clock tea."
Hart sighed again and gave a small smile, as if resigned to Charles's ever-dramatic habits. He shifted half a step to the side—just enough to avoid another pat.
"…Are you two heading to the theater?" he asked, steering the conversation with the grace of a true stage performer.
"Exactly!" Charles replied enthusiastically, his voice and gestures far too grand for such a narrow hallway. "That empty theater is calling… or perhaps crying. We can't just leave it to mourn, can we? Maybe a small performance will lift its spirits!"
Yuuki, who had been quiet all this time, responded dryly, "In other words, Charles is bored and needs entertainment."
"Hmph, such unpoetic phrasing." Charles clicked his tongue. "But yes, that's the gist."
"…Wanna come along?" he added, this time looking at Hart directly.
Hart thought for a moment, then gave a slow nod.
"…I don't have anything else to do. I'll come."
"Ha, that's more like it!" Charles spun his pocket watch into the air with dramatic flair. "The stage of fate is about to rise! We three—stars from different eras—will shine beneath a single spotlight!"
Yuuki only shrugged and changed the subject as they began walking down the corridor together.
"By the way, odd not seeing you with that white-haired girl."
"Oh, you mean Jack?" Hart answered lightly. "She's out on a mission. Master took her along."
"I see." Yuuki gave a short reply, then fell silent again.
And just like that, the three of them slowly walked down the white corridor of Chaldea.
Three figures from three different worlds, heading toward a single empty stage.
Whatever they would perform today—
One thing was certain:
It wouldn't be boring.
...
Theater – Chaldea
The wooden door with golden handles creaked open slowly, greeted by fine dust dancing in the gentle light of the stage lamps—still unlit.
The room was quiet, silent… but not dead.
Rows of dusty red seats sat neatly aligned, heavy burgundy curtains covered the grand stage at the far end of the room. There was something… waiting, like a breath held in the middle of the space.
Charles I entered first, arms stretched wide as if welcoming the world in an embrace.
"Ah… the scent of nostalgia!" he exclaimed. "Old wood, tattered cloth, and endless possibilities! This is the true kingdom, my people!"
Yuuki followed in silence, heading straight to the front row seats. He sat calmly, one hand crossed, the other propping up his chin. His eyes fixed on the still-covered stage.
Hart came in last, more slowly, then walked to the side of the stage. His fingers moved gently, parting the curtains with a practiced motion, as if he'd done this a thousand times.
The automatic spotlight flickered on—some blinking faintly, some not at all. But it was enough. The light was enough to breathe life into the stage.
Without needing to speak much, they all knew the rules of the game.
Charles had already stepped onto the stage. With theatrical flair, he grabbed a long king's hat from the costume rack at the side. He turned, raising an eyebrow at Hart in silent question.
Hart nodded. He walked to the props section, retrieving a wooden puppet he had stored in his Noble Phantasm, then placed it on the set table.
"…We'll perform the tale of a fallen king," he said softly. "And the two followers who went with him to the ends of the world."
Yuuki, who heard this from below the stage, only said, "As long as it's not a bloody tragedy, I'll watch."
Charles laughed. "Tragedy or comedy… that depends on who writes the ending."
The performance began.
Hart sat at the side of the stage, manipulating his puppet. Its head was now complete—a calm face with closed eyes and a small crown atop it. With thin strings and delicate motion, he made the puppet 'king' walk across the table and ascend a wooden throne.
Charles played himself, with his usual over-the-top style. He spoke as if leading a battle—or perhaps arguing in the grand court of law.
"I am the king with no kingdom! A king with no people! But behold, I still stand!" He dropped the king's hat to the ground, then picked it up again. "For true power is not in the crown… but on the stage!"
Hart smiled faintly, saying nothing, his puppet now portraying the king sitting on the throne, slowly falling asleep.
"And who shall wake the king?" Charles pointed at the audience. "You!" he shouted, leaping off the stage and pointing at Yuuki.
Yuuki let out a long sigh, but rose from his seat and walked up to the stage, hands behind his back.
"…If we must…" He stood before Charles and Hart's puppet, speaking in a flat tone that somehow sounded like poetry.
"The king did not sleep from weariness… but from having no reason left to open his eyes."
Hart turned to Yuuki, slightly surprised. He hadn't expected Yuuki to be that poetic.
Charles tilted his head, then clapped his hands. "Excellent! This… is getting interesting. Improvisation!" he declared. "Now, the ending of our tale: Does the king awaken? Or is he forgotten by time?"
Hart made the puppet slowly rise, its head lifting.
"…He awakens. But not as a king." He gently set the puppet down. "He awakens… as a human."
Yuuki gave a small nod, then looked at Charles.
"…That means it's your turn to close the curtain."
Charles fell silent for a moment, then took the king's hat and put it on once more. But this time, he didn't stand tall. He bowed gently to Hart and Yuuki, hand on his chest and one foot back—like a true actor giving thanks.
"Then… the performance is over."
The stage lights slowly dimmed. The curtain closed, dragging dust and light away with the sound of heavy fabric.
Silence returned.
There was no applause. But none of them needed it.
The three of them simply stood there in the middle of the now-dark stage.
Then Charles said lightly, "Ah, wasn't that fun? Even if it's just an empty stage."
Yuuki sat at the edge of the stage. "Better than hearing your soliloquies echo through the hallway."
Hart smiled softly, hugging his puppet.
"…We could do it again. Next time, even better."
Charles turned and grinned wide, as always.
"Of course. Because as long as the stage remains… the story never truly ends."
And with that, the three of them left the now-dark and silent stage.
But in the middle of that space—amidst the dust and old wood—a silent sound echoed:
As if the stage itself… was smiling.
(A: I feel like this side story is a bit weaker than usual, but well, since I didn't have a better idea, I'll let it be)
***
[Servant Profile]
Name: Hart
Title: The Puppeter.
Gender: Male
Age: Unknown
Class: Caster
Alignment: Neutral-Good
Parameters:
Str: E
Agi: C
End: D
Mana: A
Luck: B+
Np: A
Class Skills:
- Territory Creation (C+)
- Item Construction (B)
Personal Skills:
- Puppeteer's Soul (A)
- Innocent Monster (False) (B-)
- Storyteller's Heart (A)
Noble Phantasm:
Wooden Stage of Forgotten Dreams
Rank: A
Type: Anti-Unit / Anti-Army
Description:
A grand, magical puppet theater manifests—either as a miniature stage or a full reality marble-like space. From its shadows, dozens of exquisitely crafted wooden puppets emerge, each resembling a different Servant the user has seen or heard of (canonically or in-universe folklore).
These puppets mimic the form, movements, and weapons of Servants they replicate, though without access to true Noble Phantasms or magical properties. However, their emotionally charged performance can momentarily confuse enemies or even disrupt their rhythm in battle.
Backstory:
In the shadowed alleyways of 18th-century London, there lived a nameless boy who was known only by the name he gave himself: Hart.
He was no noble. No mage. No warrior. Just a lonely child born into a family of forgotten artisans—puppet-makers who once entertained royalty, before time wore down their fame like old wood.
After losing his parents to sickness, Hart was raised by his peddler uncle in a cramped room behind a dusty workshop. His only companions were scraps of pine, threadbare cloth, and his father's rusted carving tools.
But in that quiet solitude, something magical stirred.
Hart possessed no magecraft in the traditional sense. No Command Spells, no circuits. And yet, his puppets… moved.
At first, only slightly. A twitch of the wrist. A tilt of the head. Some said it was a trick of light, or the trembling hand of a boy desperate for comfort.
But slowly—Impossibly—they danced. Smiled. Laughed. And as his stories grew more vivid, so too did his creations. Not from magecraft, but from something deeper.
Belief.
They called him The Puppet Ghost. Children whispered that his dolls had souls. That they mimicked the living. That his stage could summon characters never seen before. They claimed his puppets fought off pickpockets. That he spoke with them when no one else listened.
As years passed, Hart began to perform not just in alleys, but on corners, markets, and once, even the lobby of a noble's estate. People wept at his tragedies. Laughed at his comedies. And for those few fleeting minutes, the pain of life in industrial London faded.
But the world was not kind to those who give joy freely.
One night, the theater that had finally welcomed him burned to the ground in an unexplained fire. Hart was found amidst the smoke, clutching his puppet box, unmoving. His body unburnt… but his soul drained.
The newspapers said he died of smoke inhalation. Others said his heart simply stopped—not from fear or pain, but because he had nothing left to give.
But some believe Hart never truly died. That the dreams of the people—their memories of the boy who made wood smile—preserved him.
Not as a legend of war or conquest, but as something more fragile… and far more enduring.
A Heroic Spirit of Emotion.
A Caster of Stories.
A Puppeteer of Dreams.
Summoned not to fight, but to remind humanity of their heart.