"Haa, haa, haa…"
She panted, clutching her haul: 'Makeup Essentials,' 'Nail Art for Beginners,' 'Cooking for Newbies,' and 'The Joy of Embroidery.'
"For now, this is my loot…" she murmured, eyes gleaming with determination. "But there's more—there has to be more… This one!"
'Headband.'
"I'll wear it myself first!" she declared, tying it around her head with a flourish. "Just reading books or using tools won't teach me anything! I'll take the lead, show them how it's done, clear as day! Here I go!"
'—Why do you invest so much in this?' A voice, cold and probing, cut through her fervor.
"Uh, cooking starts with this…" she began, undeterred.
'—You are an Avenger. Your soul burns with the flames of resentment.'
"Knot-tying? Square knot, maybe?" she mused, ignoring the voice.
'Why devote yourself to a Master who seeks to save the world?'
"Shut up!" she snapped, her voice blazing. "Yeah, I'm an Avenger! A vengeful spirit who hates the world! I don't give a damn about it!"
'—'
"But if my Master wants to save it, that's a different story!" Her eyes softened, fierce yet tender. "My Master is the one who chose me—the only one in the world who did! Wanting them to be happy… isn't that just natural?"
'—'
"I'm not like other Servants, doing their bit and vanishing like cowards. I'll stay by my Master's side until they die. If they're dragged to hell, I'll follow them to its depths!"
"For my Master—for them alone—I'll wave their flag! The world can burn for all I care! If I'm a weak, pathetic Servant who can't win with strength, then I'll be the one who wishes for my Master's happiness more than anyone else!"
'—Rage and hatred toward all who harm what you love. Have you defined your existence, new Avenger?'
"Yeah, that's right!" she shouted. "And quit yapping! Who're you, any—"
"…Huh?"
'A Jet-Black Invitation.'
"What's this? It won't open!" she grumbled, tugging at it.
'The King's Reading.'
"Welcome back, brave heroes! Got any souvenirs?" Fran lounged on the apartment's sofa, greeting the returning Jekyll with a languid, almost bored air.
"Scones would be nice," she added.
"Here's what you wanted, Fumbler," a voice teased. "Mystical knight who drives men mad—take responsibility for messing with him!"
"What, me?!" Mordred protested, holding up a bag. "Fine, I got scones, alright!"
"Yay! Hurry, hurry!" Fran chirped, sprawling dramatically. "Fran's been lazily busy, and my stomach's starving. Dire situation. Sleepy, too."
"What's with this girl? Should we knock her out again?" Mordred muttered.
'I'm the Mysterious Hero X! Short tempers are a no-go! You take responsibility for the lives you pick up—it's a hero's promise!'
"There you go again, Hero X!" Mordred growled. "Because of you—huh?"
"No hallucinating, Mordred. Dinner time," a calm voice interrupted. "Put your stuff away."
"Me?! Dammit, everything's been off since Father showed up!" Mordred complained.
"Speaking of stuff," another voice piped up, "hey, muscle-headed Greek lady!"
"Sad how I know exactly who you mean," Penthesilea sighed. "What's up?"
"Take my luggage to the study. You're a woman brimming with love and courage—surely you can't refuse a helpless kid's request?"
"Helpless kids don't weaponize their helplessness!" she retorted, hoisting three trunks with ease. "Here we go!"
"…She actually lifted them," the requester marveled. "Your tale really is about helping the weak and crushing the strong. I half-joked about you being a Precure, but it's not far off!"
"Love Precure!" Penthesilea grinned. "They're all buddy-buddy, unlike Riders who bicker all year. But All-Stars must be a pain to draw. Rider gimmicks are cool, though—transforming mechs are more Sentai's thing, right?"
"Your girlish charm's long dead, yet your soul still sparkles with childlike wonder," he mused. "Maybe that's the secret to your magnetic appeal."
"Huh? Say something?"
"Nothing. Get to work. Time and deadlines are merciless."
"No knee-kicks or 'nee' stuff, please!"
In the apartment, the group let down their guard, each sinking into their own moment of respite. For once, no blood was spilled, and their faces carried a faint brightness.
…Alice and Alice. A phantom wandering in search of her master, met by the gentle ghost of a girl who came for her.
The King taught us: battle isn't just wielding a weapon or taking lives. It's about discerning your opponent's worth, understanding them, and delivering the 'end' they deserve.
That gentle conclusion was thanks to the Master and the kind King.
And Master, don't fret too much about your 'girlish charm.' You'll be fine.
Because you cried. When the two Alices departed, you shed real tears.
To be moved, to weep—that fleeting, beautiful moment was truly yours.
Thank you, Master.
The ending you chose for us… I believe it was truly wonderful.
May she find someone as wonderful as her.
"Now, will these humans prove their worth, or will she become a bride first? That'll be a sight," the Hero King mused.
"…Hero King?" Mash called.
"Just talking to myself. Time for a nap. This damp, foggy city and its dreary library sap my will with relentless precision."
Yawning, the Hero King headed to his room.
But Mash stopped him. "Hero King!"
"Hm? What's up?"
"Thank you for your hard work!" she blurted. "I… I really love fairy tales! Even if they're written by a cynical, world-weary, smooth-voiced shota!"
"Hold on, what radio signal are you picking up?" he quipped.
"I love fairy tales!" Mash continued, fidgeting. "Um, I mean…"
"Bathroom's that way."
"No, not that! If it's okay… could you…"
"Read them, you mean?" he guessed.
"Yes!" Mash beamed, handing him a collection. "Here's my recommended The Little Mermaid, The Emperor's New Clothes, and The Little Match Girl! Please, Hero King!"
"My followers are a diligent bunch, aren't they?" he said, taking the book. "Fine. For your usual efforts, I'll indulge. But don't expect a review."
"Yes! Good night, Hero King!"
"Rest well, Mash. Maybe you'll get a turn next time."
Waving lightly, the King returned to his room.
Sprawling on the sofa, feet propped on the table, the Hero King settled into his usual reading pose. "I won't spurn my subject's tribute. No book could outshine my epic, but this'll do for a break."
Propping his cheek with one hand, he balanced the book in the other—a deft, practiced pose. "Trying something new is part of a journey's thrill. Let's see what this tormented writer's fairy tales have in store."
With a faint smile, he opened the book.
…A little thrilling. I always meant to read someday, but so soon?
What worlds await?
'The Emperor's New Clothes'—that's me, isn't it? If the writer modeled it after me, he could've asked first.
By the flickering light of the fireplace and lamp, the King's reading began.
The Emperor's New Clothes: 'This is magical tailoring. To the foolish, it's gemlike; to the wise, worthless.'
A king, duped into parading in 'invisible clothes,' praised blindly by his people. Amid the deception, one honest voice pierces through.
"Why's the king naked?"
"That's because a bare body is the pinnacle of beauty," the King chuckled. "The writer gets it."
Perhaps a tale of truth and courage shining unyieldingly in a world of deceit.
He nodded, impressed by the boy's insight. "Conan's a good name for him."
"Intriguing depth. Let's try… the fish-woman next."
—The Little Mermaid, Hero King.
The Little Mermaid: A bitter tragedy of trading everything for shallow emotions, only to dissolve into foam.
"Typical," he scoffed. "Happy endings in cross-species romance? Even friendships don't work that way. Fuwawa taught us that. Writers, learn from the oldest bestseller—don't mock my epic. Most ideas stem from me."
She lost her voice, her graceful fins, her life—becoming foam. The mermaid could've killed him with a knife but chose to fade instead.
Her sad yet beautiful heart deserves respect. I wish I could have such a heart.
"These mongrels love selfless devotion," he muttered. "Just charm and conquer them—herbivores complicate everything."
And if my time to vanish comes…
I'll pity no one, compare myself to none, seek no return, and accept my end, cherishing only precious memories.
"Now, the main event."
The Little Match Girl: 'Someday, spring will come. Someday, happiness will arrive.'
…
He fell silent, closing the book.
"No salvation, huh?" he murmured. The girl's matches unsold, she burned them for warmth in her dying moments, seeing visions of hearths, feasts, laughing families…
"If she'd met me, I'd have bought her stock outright," he said, voice thick. "Such a devoted child could've been a fine aide. I'd have taken her in… called her Siduri."
His eyes glistened, a hand pressing his brow.
Andersen's worldview, perhaps: 'Happiness comes only in death.' A dying girl's visions were of unattainable joy.
What did I feel? Rage at her abandonment? Sorrow for a world that let her die?
…I felt beauty. The dignity in her existence.
A girl who lived fully, cursing nothing despite cruel reality. Even in her final moments, she found happiness in a match's warmth.
Her existence vividly captured the radiant beauty of humanity amid despair.
'Someday, spring will come.'
'Someday, happiness will arrive.'
…I heard the voice of a treasure not of this world.
He closed the book. "No false title here. A fine diversion."
Words carry such power.
If so… then perhaps I…
At 2 a.m., when all slept, a voice chirped, "Read anything good, Hero Princess?"
Fou, the beautiful beast, popped into view.
"Sorry for the late hour," she said.
The 'King' sleeps, and the 'Princess' emerges.
The golden, pure Hero Princess sat at a desk, pen in hand, facing paper.
"Night owls ruin their skin," Fou teased. "Hug me and sleep."
"Just a bit longer," she said. "I want to write a letter…"
"A letter?"
"To Andersen. A fan letter. His stories moved me, and I want to give something back, even a little."
With all her heart, believing her feelings would reach him.
"Teach me how to write it right," she said. "I don't want to sound rude—I want my feelings to shine through."
"Good call relying on me," Fou said.
"You're my dear friend," she smiled.
…
"I'll read to you sometime," she added, lifting Fou. "On my lap or wherever you like. It'll be even more special together. Maybe that's dramatic, but…"
"Don't leave me," she whispered. "I don't want any of my friends to disappear… not you, not the Hero King, not Master, not anyone in Chaldea."
I want this story to have a happy ending. That's my deepest wish.
"Fou—!?"
—Fou, once vanished, reappeared through solo manifestation.
"Leave it to me," Fou said. "I know words that'll make Andersen roll with joy."
"Really?"
"Your guardian beast's got this. I'll deliver a perfect fan letter. Here's how…"
Their quiet, playful exchange continued in the late night.
Morning chills are harsh on writers. Numb fingers fumble. A warm stew would be nice… hm?
'Freshly Made Stew.' 'A Letter.'
"…For me?" Andersen muttered.
'It says you read my stories.'
"…Who reads in times like these? A fan letter and stew? A thoughtful reader." He smirked. "Perfect timing—I'm freezing. Let's see the taste."
…Delicious.
"Damn it, I can't even critique this!" he groaned. "Temperature, portions, seasoning—did they read my tastes from last night's dinner? A stew made for me! The sincerity's a plot twist! Regretfully delicious—I can't stop!"
"…That was good. When's the last time I felt this satisfied? Not that barbarian or some Precure. Not even that blank-slate girl. When did Jekyll hire a Michelin chef? Whatever."
"Time for the fan letter. A raw voice beats the internet's trash. Let's see…"
"No name, huh? Not a bad sort, probably."
'By now, you've read my fan letter.'
"…"
'While you slept soundly, your stories touched me deeply, stirring my heart.'
'May you find happiness. And please, forget the one captivated by your tales.'
"Enough! I get it! I'm sorry—your feelings hit me!" Andersen cried. "Stop stabbing my heart with hot knives! What a fan, making me blush!"
A single sheet flutters down.
'I love your stories, Gilgamesh.'
"—!?!?"
Andersen tripped, crashed, and became one with the sofa.
"Welcome to NEET world," Fran drawled.
"Don't lump me with you… My world just flipped upside down…"
-------------------------------
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