Hiroki Sajyou, father to both Manaka and Ayaka Sajyou—the destined villainess and protagonist of Fate/Prototype—watched the scene with a heavy heart.
His gaze shifted between the Saber and his all-too-obedient daughter, Manaka.
A deep, paternal regret colored his voice as he finally voiced the anxiety gnawing at him.
"Manaka… are you certain you wish to participate in this Holy Grail War yourself? Why… Why must it be so cruel as to choose you, and not me?" Hiroki lamented, his words soft but laden with a helpless dread.
Manaka Sajyou, ever the picture of serene, unsettling sweetness, answered without a shadow of doubt. "Please don't worry, Father. I am the best possible Master. And my Saber… he is very, very strong."
Hiroki's eyes, still filled with concern, probed further.
He needed something, anything, to grasp onto. "Would it be an inconvenience… if I asked your Servant's True Name, Manaka?"
Manaka didn't answer him directly.
Instead, she turned her attention to Arthur, who was enthusiastically enjoying the bowl of soup she had prepared for him.
A gentle, possessive smile graced her lips as she watched him.
"I am glad if the soup is to your liking, my Prince," she said, her voice a soft caress.
Arthur, mid-slurp, flashed a confident grin, perfectly playing the part.
"It's excellent, Master. Despite being a king," a king of heists and car chases, he thought but didn't say, "I've never had the chance to taste Japanese cuisine. I sincerely hope for more."
His performance was flawless. He lounged with the ease of a ruler in his own hall, eating with gusto despite the looming shadow of a war to the death.
This casual, open-minded confidence only deepened Manaka's admiration.
To her, this was exactly how the Once and Future King should behave—undaunted, charismatic, and effortlessly regal, not some cautious, skittish creature.
So, Arthur acted according to the script he imagined for a real King Arthur, pouring on every ounce of natural charisma he used to command a crew during a robbery and drug dealing.
Even Hiroki, searching for any flaw or hint of deception, could find none.
The performance was that convincing.
Even Ayaka, Manaka's younger sister, watched from the doorway with sparkling, awestruck eyes.
"Ahem… Saber," Hiroki interjected awkwardly, clearing his throat. "That is actually Korean food. Kimchi jjigae. But… it is perfectly reasonable that you wouldn't know. You are a king from the distant past, after all. Even if the Grail grants you knowledge of the modern era, it does not mean you've had the time to absorb every trivial culinary detail."
Arthur didn't even have to stammer out an excuse. Hiroki was already weaving a dozen plausible explanations for why a legendary British king wouldn't recognize a dish of fermented cabbage. The cover was building itself.
"Master," Arthur said, turning his bright, approving smile back to Manaka. "You have a truly remarkable father."
Manaka's smile widened at their interaction, a flush of quiet pleasure on her cheeks. Arthur was careful. He didn't reach out to stroke her hair or touch her—not with her father right there.
But the restraint was purely tactical. He was, after all, a product of Los Santos. It would be a cardinal sin to leave such a pretty, utterly devoted girl untouched.
Just… not yet.
His plan was crystal clear. First, use the Grail to wish himself into becoming the real King Arthur, inheriting all that mythical power, the dragon's core, the very essence of the Heroic Spirit.
Then he would properly claim this sweet, dangerously powerful girl as his own. Right now, his body was just a muggle's—a fit criminal's, but still human.
The moment things got physically intimate, his lack of a Servant's supernatural endurance or the telltale signs of a Dragonheart would give him away instantly.
But that didn't mean other forms of intimacy were off the table. Oh, no. His mind, honed in the gutter of Los Santos, was already weaving vivid, explicit fantasies.
There were countless deliciously lewd things he could do to her, with her, that fell short of actual sex.
Ways to bind her devotion tighter, to savor her obsession, all while maintaining the pristine façade of the chivalrous king.
And through it all, as these graphic and possessive thoughts swirled behind his eyes, his face remained a calm, pleasant mask.
His smile stayed bright and charming, perfectly mirrored in Manaka's adoring gaze. The perfect prince, waiting for his crown.
"Of course, my Prince. My father is a great father." Manaka answered, her words smooth and practiced, a formulaic response that lacked the warmth of true sincerity.
It was a script. Of course, her father and sister couldn't see the void behind the performance.
Arthur, however, was a criminal. His life was built on reading people—spotting the lie in a teller's eyes, the nervous tic of a getaway driver, the false bravado of a rival.
He saw right through her sophisticated act.
Beneath that gentle smile was an abyss of profound, terrifying boredom. This girl was a pressure cooker of cosmic ennui, and he understood one thing with crystal clarity: once she finally snapped and decided to end it all, nothing and no one would be able to stop her.
So, Arthur decided to tame this girl and save the world.
Alaya and Gaia should fucking thank me in person, he thought with a mental smirk.
"I will be shy if you say that, Manaka," Hiroki said, puffing up with paternal pride before clapping his hands together with sudden resolve. "How about this? I shall fight this Holy Grail War in your stead! Let Saber come with me. It's the duty of a father to protect his daughter!"
Fuck. No.
Before Arthur could even summon a suitably sophisticated, knightly argument to dissuade the man from what was clearly a suicide mission, Manaka was the one who reacted first.
And her reaction was not gentle.
"No, Father!" Her voice wasn't raised; it was a low, guttural howl that vibrated with pure, possessive rage.
The sweet mask shattered completely. "Even if you are my father, I will never allow you to take my Prince from me."
Hiroki, taken aback by her ferocity, tried to regain a stern paternal tone. "Manaka! Have you forgotten what the Holy Grail War entails? The danger—"
"Ahem." Arthur interjected smoothly, his voice a calm, authoritative baritone that cut through the tension.
He stepped forward, placing himself physically between their escalating emotions. "Mister Hiroki, I believe we can achieve the best outcome for everyone. But first, I must speak with my Master. Privately."
Manaka's fury evaporated instantly, replaced by a radiant, beaming smile.
She immediately latched onto his arm, her grip possessive and tight. "Alright, my Prince. Let us talk in the garden. Just the two of us."
Hiroki sighed, the fight draining out of him, replaced by weary defeat. "Very well, Saber. Speak with her. Tell me your decision once you are finished."
"Do not worry, Mister Hiroki," Arthur said, offering a reassuring, noble smile that perfectly hid the web of conspiracy spinning in his mind. "I believe this path will offer your daughter the greatest protection."
And me the greatest survival rate, he added silently.
His goal was clear: to deceive—ahem, to convince—Manaka to adopt a strategy that heavily favored his own victory.
They moved to the secluded garden, the silence broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city.
Once alone, however, Arthur didn't launch into tactics or war plans.
He shifted his approach entirely. He looked at her, his expression softening with what appeared to be genuine concern.
"Master… are you lonely?" he asked, his voice gentle. "You seemed deeply unwilling to let your father take me away. It felt like more than just a strategic concern."
"I don't… think I am, my Prince," Manaka answered, her default gentle tone returning, but it was guarded.
Arthur reached out and began to stroke her blonde hair, a slow, encouraging motion. "Just let it out, little Princess. I am not here to judge you. I am here to understand you. You wish to know me better, yes? Is it not only fair that I be allowed to understand you in return, my Master?"
"Please…" she whispered, leaning into his touch, her eyes closing for a moment. "Please don't call me 'Master,' Prince. I like 'Princess' better."
She looked up at him, her gaze pleading and vulnerable.
"Alright," Arthur said, a fond smirk touching his lips. "I shall call you Princess, then."
He continued the gentle headpat, and she practically melted, a soft hum of pleasure escaping her.
"Thank you, my Prince," she murmured, nuzzling slightly against his hand. "Since you wish my honesty… then please, promise you will not abandon me after you hear it. Or I will be… very, very sad."
Arthur rolled his eyes playfully, the picture of confident, affectionate exasperation. "How could I ever abandon a cute girl like you?"
His tone was light, inviting her to continue, while his mind cataloged every word, every flicker of emotion, storing it all as vital intelligence on the most dangerous being in his new, surreal life.
"Actually… I am not lonely." She paused, the words hanging in the air, before correcting herself with unsettling honesty. "Well… perhaps 'lonely' is the right word, after all. You see, my Prince, I have never truly been enthusiastic about life. Everything… always unfolds precisely as I foresee it. I was born with this sight, this… clarity. It renders existence… predictable. Empty."
She was venting now, the words spilling out to the one person she believed would understand. "That is why I participated in this Holy Grail War. That is why I summoned you. I liked you. I loved your legend… I wished, more than anything, that I could have been your Princess Guinevere…"
Then, her voice twisted.
The soft yearning curdled into something dark and venomous as she spoke the name. "Yet… in the end, that woman cheated on you. How dare she?"
She gritted her teeth, her beautiful features contorted by a rage that was both possessive and unhinged. "I believe I would be better than her, my Prince. Infinitely better. Please… give me a chance. Give me this chance to fulfill your wish. Let us use this Holy Grail War as our stage… our dance."
She was begging.
The omnipotent girl, the Princess of Origin who could bend reality with a thought, was pleading with a fraudulent king from Los Santos.
The irony was so thick it threatened to choke him.
Despite his internal musings, Arthur kept his face a mask of solemn gravity.
He met her desperate gaze. "Do you truly wish to become my princess, Manaka? To bind your fate to mine, knowing the path will be drenched in the blood of a Holy War?"
"Yes, my Prince! I am willing! More than willing!" she answered, her voice trembling with an excitement that bordered on madness.
The devotion in her eyes was absolute, terrifying in its intensity.
His smile didn't falter. It was a gentle, accepting curve of his lips.
He continued to stroke her hair, then let his hand drift down to softly pinch her cheek in a gesture that was both fond and proprietary. "Then so be it. This shall be our contract. Our secret."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Now, let me share my wish with you, my Princess. I do not wish for a relic or a fleeting dream. I wish to become King Arthur once more. Not as a faded legend, but as a living, breathing sovereign. More powerful than the tales recall. More ruthless than history dares to write. More decisive than the knight who hesitated and lost his kingdom. I wish to be the king who wins."
Manaka's grin was radiant, ecstatic. He was confiding in her, sharing his deepest desire. She felt chosen. "It is a magnificent wish, my Prince. I will make certain it is fulfilled. I swear it to you."
"Of course you will," he said, his tone brimming with absolute faith in her. "But first, we must address your father. He wishes for the 'best of both worlds,' does he not? Very well. Let us grant him one."
"Tell me," she breathed, her entire being focused on him.
With that, Arthur leaned even closer, his lips nearly brushing the delicate shell of her ear.
She shivered, a blush spreading from her cheeks down her neck at the sudden, intimate proximity.
His breath was warm against her skin.
She held perfectly still, her face a portrait of rapt attention, listening with every fiber of her being as he began to outline his plan.
He whispered of strategies and deceptions, of how to appease her father's worries while maneuvering every other Master and Servant into a position where their victory—and his transformation—would be inevitable.
She absorbed every word, each syllable a sacred commandment, already plotting how to execute his vision perfectly.
This was their dance, and he was leading the first, crucial steps.
...
All sexually depicted characters in this story are 18 years old or older.