"I figured I'd call out to a familiar face, but that was a total flop," the Avenger sighed. "Isn't there a considerate hunk out there somewhere… Eek!"
"Whoa, my bad!" a voice said as she stumbled. "You're that Avenger gal, right?"
"Hey, watch where you're—Eep!" Her eyes widened.
"You okay to stand?" he asked, offering a hand. "Sorry for bumping into you."
"The strongest hound of the Celts…!" she gasped.
"What's with that over-the-top praise?! 'Hound' is where I draw the line—it's not an insult, but I can't let it slide!" he protested, grinning.
"…Rugged chest, hearty laugh, snappy banter," she murmured, sizing him up.
"Hey, you alright?" he asked, concerned.
"You… you must be a total lady-killer!" she declared.
"Uh, well, I do okay," he chuckled, scratching his head.
"Then teach me how to escort someone!" she pleaded. "Please!"
"…Girls' charm training, huh? Alright, I'm in," he said with a nod.
"For real?!"
"Don't let this face fool you—I was once Ulster's top heartthrob. I'm a pro at handling ladies."
"Leave it to me!" he boasted. "The 'Hound of Culann' ain't just a title—I'll show you the real deal!"
The Secret to Life
"Hey, Gilgamesh," Andersen called from the study doorway, his voice laced with purpose. "The lady's looking pale. If you're twiddling your thumbs, take her on patrol or something."
"What's this, out of nowhere?" the King retorted. "Learn some respect when addressing a king!"
"Respect? You're a king, I'm a writer. We both look down on people—equals, right? No need for pleasantries."
"Fuhahaha!" the King laughed. "Your sharp tongue and keen eye never fail!"
Are these two… actually getting along?
"Still, it's odd," the King mused. "You, worrying about someone? Where's that cursed body of yours hiding a shred of compassion? In your pocket, like that love letter?"
"—Drop it," Andersen muttered bitterly. "Keep that up, and I'll be exiled to the sofa again, catching flak from Jekyll."
"Drunk or concussed, are we?" the King teased. "Bold move, sending that letter, Andersen."
"I regret not seeing your reaction," the King continued. "It must've been a glorious embarrassment."
"You'd use your own True Name for amusement?" Andersen scoffed. "You're a colossal jerk."
"We're cut from the same rotten cloth, aren't we? Shall we share a drink?" the King offered.
"Don't get it twisted, Hero King," Andersen snapped. "My soul's just twisted—you're an enigma too deep to fathom. A writer's nightmare!"
"Oh? Then let me teach third-rate scribblers how to wield me," the King said, leaning in.
"—What's that?" Andersen leaned forward, grabbing pen and paper.
"Listen well," the King said, pausing dramatically.
Gulp…
"'Make me the star, revere me, exalt me, honor me, and write with adoration!' That's the golden path to making me shine! Post twice, thrice daily with ease! A simple truth! Praise me! Write! Back to your study!"
…Huh? That's… obvious, isn't it?
Respect is fundamental when handling a real-life hero like the King. Especially him.
Is the Hero King… beginner-friendly material?
"Fuhahahaha!" the King roared, delighted.
Andersen tucked the note away, eyes dead.
"What's wrong? Hurry and write The Little Match Girl Siduri, The Naked Me, or The Ugly Heavenly Mistress!" the King goaded.
"You're a walking disaster, Gilgamesh," Andersen groaned. "Respect matters, but it won't tame you. Thinking cheap drivel can be purified by respect? Fool!"
"That's your failure, writer!" the King shot back. "Review my epic a hundred times and try again! It takes a decade of studying me to do me justice! Fuhahahaha!"
"What a thick hide," Andersen sighed. "Is this the truth of humanity's first epic hero?"
I could watch this King's exploits forever.
His saga is thrilling, exhilarating, invincible. I'm certain I could read such a vivid, splendid story until the world ends.
"Fine," Andersen said. "If inspiration strikes, I'll write your tale. It'll be a straightforward blockbuster—never third-rate, I guarantee."
"Naturally," the King replied. "If it doesn't sell, snap your pen. Fail to hit the top daily ranking with me as your subject, and you're no writer."
"What, an editor-king now?" Andersen quipped. "Fine, one thing."
"Hm?"
"There's always someone above," Andersen said. "Someone tougher to write than you. Don't forget that."
A character trickier than the Hero King…?
"Interesting," the King said. "Who might that be?"
"Figure it out," Andersen teased, then relented. "You're a fan, so I'll give you a hint. Keywords: 'writer,' 'beard,' 'tragedy and comedy,' 'quotes,' 'search,' 'ruby text.'"
"—Shakespeare, huh?" the King guessed.
He nailed it…
"That's practically the answer," Andersen muttered.
"Yup, that's him," Andersen confirmed. "Even Kinoko and Higashide griped about him. I'm nothing compared to that guy. I just need clever words, but he loves quoting himself. Searching and adding ruby text makes daily posts a nightmare. If you're the sun, he's a black hole—equally untamable, but in a different way."
"Fine," the King said. "If I meet him, I'll silence him. A writer's nothing without their speed."
"Do it," Andersen agreed. "Oh, one more thing."
"What? Retracting or adding lore isn't praiseworthy, word-weaver."
Are they glimpsing another dimension? I'm lost…
"Cut me some slack on revisions," Andersen said. "I'll give you a tip to fire you up."
"After all that talk, you're holding back?" the King challenged.
"A writer's secrets are their lifeline," Andersen replied. "I'm no different, AUO."
…Huh?
"'From the mist, a Servant emerges,'" Andersen said. "Don't want to aid the enemy? Get to work."
With that, he retreated to his study.
"—What a revelation," the King said, shaking his head. "The mist comes from the Holy Grail—or rather, the 'mechanism embedded with it.' Of course it summons Servants."
He sighed, exasperated.
"Gil! Time for patrol!" the Master called.
"…A nighttime stroll isn't bad," the King mused. "The mist blends into the dark, slightly less irksome. Let's hope for an encounter that amuses me…"
What awaited the eager King was…
"Summoned by the mist, invited by the fog, I arrive!" a voice boomed. "I am Shakespeare! Will this tale unfold as tragedy or comedy?"
"…" The King's eyes widened, pupils dilating.
"Another writer?!" the Master exclaimed. "London's full of them!"
"Looks like a total weakling," Mordred scoffed. "Should we cut him down?"
"Hold it," another said. "He could be a meat shield."
"What! Noble knights, and you—fish-eyed or falcon-sharp, glaring with golden radiance!" Shakespeare proclaimed. "You are truly—"
A dagger sliced through Shakespeare's cheek.
"Shut up," the King snapped. "Your quotes are a hassle. Save it for an interlude."
"How cruel!" Shakespeare wailed. "Strip me of my words, and I'm a husk! Less than a cicada, just a nice middle-aged man!"
"You've got gestures," the King retorted.
"A sore spot!" Shakespeare admitted. "True, I dreamed of being an actor, but this injustice mirrors my life! Truly—"
Five more daggers grazed his skin.
"At least ease up on the quotes," the King warned. "You're too much for amateur writers. It kills motivation. Want to exit the stage? I'll drop the curtain."
"—Fine, I'll restrain myself," Shakespeare relented. "Better than losing words and life!"
The King snorted.
"Blame the writers' shortcomings," the King said. "They pour their hearts into my words—none to spare for you."
"Fair, fair!" Shakespeare agreed. "The Hero King's words are worth their weight in gold, deserving full attention!"
"And be quiet," the King growled. "Stop stealing lines."
"My apologies!" Shakespeare said, bowing.
"He's fun," the Master said cheerfully.
"From a distance," the King warned. "Get involved, and you'll have a headache."
"Hehe…" Mash giggled.
"Mash laughed!" the Master noted.
"Oh—sorry!" Mash said, flustered.
No need to apologize, Mash. Laugh if you're happy.
"Did that lift your spirits, Mash?" the King asked.
"Uh—"
"Taking that windbag seriously," Mordred grumbled. "He's so gloomy, it sours the food."
"British cuisine was never tasty," Artoria quipped.
"Not that! The apartment!" Mordred clarified.
"…Everyone's looking out for me?" Mash asked softly.
"Why else would we all go on patrol?" the King said. "Dense, aren't you?"
"You'd do it anyway, bored as you are," Artoria teased.
"Am I some wandering old man?" the King huffed. "Well… it's not entirely baseless."
No one here doesn't care for Mash or the Master. I guarantee it.
"Come on, Mash, smile!" the Master said, stretching her cheeks. "Nee!"
"Fweh, fenfai…" Mash mumbled.
"If you're gonna live, laugh," the Master said. "Sadness, pain, worries—they'll pile up. So at least keep smiling."
"…!" Mash's eyes widened.
"There's plenty in this world you can't fix, but there's just as much you can," the Master continued. "A smile's the spark! Laugh, laugh! Most things work out if you do!"
"Senpai…" Mash whispered.
"Let me show you!" the King roared. "Fuhahahahahaha!"
"Yeah, I got this!" Mordred joined in. "Hyahaa! Rebellion!"
"I'm regretting sparing you," Artoria muttered.
"Huh…?" Mordred faltered.
"If you don't get it, think it over," the Master said. "If you still don't, just say 'whatever!' and move on. Look forward, Mash."
She tilted her face up.
"You make your life fun!" the Master said.
"Yes, Senpai!" Mash nodded.
"Wise words, born of experience," Shakespeare mused. "I'd love to meet the one who taught you that."
Her friend… what kind of person were they?
"Now, friends!" Shakespeare declared, pointing dramatically. "That there is surely an uninvited guest!"
There stood…
"An early reunion," said a weary voice.
A mage, steeped in melancholy…
"Paracelsus…!?" the Master gasped.
"You've fallen far, mage," the King said coldly.
"…Indeed, I'm ashamed," Paracelsus replied.
His Spirit Core cracked, his body battered.
"Snappy banter, a dash of sleight-of-hand," Cú Chulainn said. "Toss in a gift, and most girls are smitten. I didn't earn my wife's heart—or avoid other suitors—for nothing."
"…!" The Avenger's face flushed.
"You good? You're all red," he noted.
"…T-thanks," she stammered. "That helps…"
Subtle distance, seamless care, matching their pace with respect…
"This is… the secret to escorting!" she exclaimed.
"…Wait, was this about charming girls or being more girly? Which was it?" Cú wondered.
"Thanks, Culann's Hound!" she beamed. "Tricks, dresses, dancing—I'll use it all!"
"Oi, just call me Cú Chulainn!" he protested.
"Apply this, and Master's sure to charm the guys…!" she said, eyes sparkling.
"She's gone…" Cú sighed.
'Throwing countless needles, threading them into a chain.'
"Good call not teaching that one," he muttered.
-------------------------------
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