"Master, I do not know why, but I feel you look like a male version of myself. To be precise, you resemble the guise I wore when Merlin cast his illusion upon me, allowing me to pose as the male King Arthur. It is the reason so few ever discerned my true gender, despite the fact I never bothered to conceal my dress or my hair." A petite blonde girl with striking green eyes and a face of heroic, ethereal beauty commented, studying Arthur Wayne as he stood before her.
She was Artoria Pendragon, summoned now as his Servant in this Holy Grail War.
Since Manaka had decided to conceal his original Servant nature, she had rewritten the rules so thoroughly that he was no longer registered as Saber, or even as a Servant at all.
He had achieved a flesh-and-blood existence, becoming a genuine Master—and in that capacity, he had just performed a summoning of his own, calling forth the true Saber.
Now, the strange logic of his initial summoning began to make a twisted kind of sense.
His future achievements—the infamy he would carve out as the undisputed King of Los Santos and Cartel Boss—were already recorded as a potential legend in the World's ledger, qualifying him as a nascent Heroic Spirit.
He also possessed one crucial, unique Skill that made his grand deception possible: Essence of the Thief.
This was not a Noble Phantasm of kings, but the crystallized expertise of a superlative criminal. It allowed him to steal more than objects; he could steal identities, concepts, even history itself.
Not only had he managed to steal the identity of King Arthur, but the Skill also cloaked his presence so perfectly it could fool the Akashic Records themselves, rewriting his entry to be genuinely recorded as the legendary king.
That was why Manaka, even with her omnipotent perception, had sensed no discrepancy when she edited his status from Servant to Master.
Despite its vast potential, Essence of the Thief had its limits, which Arthur instinctively understood.
He could not, for some reason, steal the powers of other Heroic Spirits directly, nor could he lay a finger on the reality-warping authority of someone like Manaka.
For now, the stolen identity was enough. After all, this power didn't stem from some metaphysical "Meta Essence," but was a Skill born purely from his own life's work: his feats as the King of Los Santos, the master robber, the ultimate thief.
His internal understanding of the Skill provided extra, instinctual clarifications. He could not steal what he could not perceive, comprehend, or physically touch.
The implication, however, was tantalizing: he could still steal the powers of other Heroic Spirits… if he could first understand them.
This identity of King Arthur had been the perfect confluence: his face was a match, he shared the name, he knew the legend, he was present at a summoning ritual, and he had a Master whose belief in him was absolute. Every condition was met.
As if remembering something, he shifted his gaze to meet Artoria's confused, searching eyes.
"Perhaps," Arthur Wayne said, his voice a model of calm, "I am your descendant."
"Is that so?" Artoria murmured, her brow furrowing. The logic troubled her.
Even in her lifetime as king, she had been wed in name only, a political facade.
She had never crossed that intimate line.
Mordred was a homunculus creation, not a product of union.
She could not recall any legitimate lineage stemming from herself.
But the War waited for no one's lineage debates.
With a shared, unspoken understanding, they turned from the quiet summoning chamber and stepped out onto the bustling street.
They moved with a synchronized, confident swagger—the King of Knights from a faded age, and the King of Crime from a future yet to be.
Side by side, they began their patrol, their senses sharp, scanning the mundane crowds and the magical ley lines alike, searching for the telltale signs of other Servants and the epic, violent battles that were their destiny in this twisted Grail War.
Before setting out, Arthur Wayne had already consulted with Manaka.
The plan was precision itself: he would locate and secure the Assassin-class Servant, while Manaka would seek out and convert a Caster to their cause.
He wasn't just aiming to win this Holy Grail War; he intended to blitzkrieg it.
Then, with the Grail's power, he and Manaka would leap back to the Arthurian Era itself.
His vision was clear: to conquer the distant past of Britannia and reign as the coolest, most ruthless, most badass King Arthur who ever lived.
The trail led him to a shadowy alcove in the modern city's underbelly.
And there she was.
Crouched against a damp wall was a girl wearing a sleek, asymmetrical black bodysuit.
The design was aggressively provocative: the bodice had a deep, vertical open cut down the front, exposing a scandalous portion of her chest and torso.
The fabric wrapped diagonally around her neck and shoulders in a halter style that was more elegant cage than clothing.
Her arms were completely bare, the outfit shamelessly exposing her armpits to the cool air—and to Arthur's feasting eyes. Her back, too, was laid open, a canvas of dark skin.
She had a petite stature, short, messy purple hair, and an exotic, almost doll-like beauty currently twisted by anguish.
As a man of refined taste and the undisputed King of Crime, Arthur Wayne felt a deep obligation. He would save her. He would bind her to him, make her dependent on his will and his vision, just as he had begun to do with Manaka.
More allies, more soldiers for his coming kingdom—that was the simple, brutal calculus of power. The more people who fought and bled for him, the better.
That was Arthur Wayne's creed, and he acted on it without hesitation.
He stepped forward, his silhouette blocking the faint light.
He extended a hand, not in challenge, but in an offer of salvation.
"Can you stand, girl?"
"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, the sound raw and hysterical.
She scrambled backward, pressing herself into the cold brick as if even a millimeter of contact would defile her.
At his side, Artoria—his Saber, a regal and deadly presence in her own armored glory—furrowed her brow, her hand drifting to the invisible hilt of her sword.
"Master," she said, her voice cool and analytical. "Should we simply cut her down? She may appear to need help, but do not forget her spiritual core. She is a Servant. An Assassin. Her nature is deceit."
"Oh, my Knight King," Arthur said, his tone one of gentle admonishment. "Look at her. She is not a threat. She is a lost lamb, terrified and alone. She needs to be saved."
He turned his full attention back to the trembling girl, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that demanded acknowledgment. "Become my Servant, Assassin. Your place is with me now."
The girl let out a short, sharp, ironic laugh that was more a sob. "Are you sure about that, oh Master of Saber? I poisoned my previous Master. I watched him writhe and dissolve from the inside out. And here you are, offering your hand. Do you truly possess the capability… the sheer courage… to try and tame me?"
"You are crying," Arthur Wayne stated, his voice devoid of judgment.
He didn't argue, didn't threaten. He simply stated a fact she was desperately trying to hide.
He crouched down to her level, ignoring Artoria's warning tension.
He stared into her eyes, unblinking, as if he could see straight through the layers of poison and paranoia to the shattered child within.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached out.
His thumb brushed against her cheek, wiping away a hot, bitter tear.
As his skin made contact, he felt it—the immediate, invasive sting of her passive poison. It wasn't a blade or a curse; it was a subtle, insidious venom that seeped from her very pores, meant to kill through the slightest touch.
A bitter, numbing sensation crawled up his arm, clawing at his nerves, threatening to seize his lungs.
He didn't flinch. He didn't pull his hand away. He welcomed it.
The pain was just another sensation, a price of admission.
His thumb continued its path, stroking her cheek with a terrifying, gentle insistence even as the poison flooded his system. His smile never wavered.
There was no flinch, no gasp of pain—only a calm, absorbing patience, as if he were drinking her darkness in and finding it merely… poignant.
"I said I wanted you to be my Servant. And you shall be my Servant, Assassin." His declaration was an overbearing claim of ownership, a tone that left no room for refusal.
It was the command of a king, and it made the Assassin flush with a confusing mix of indignation and something else entirely.
"Hey, stop it, Master of Saber! You're poisoned!" she cried out, genuine concern breaking through her hysterical fear as she watched his skin grow pale.
Artoria had seen it too.
Her warrior's instincts screamed in alarm. "Master! Step back from her at once! She is dangerous!"
As Artoria lunged forward to physically pull him to safety, the back of Arthur's hand flared with a searing, crimson light.
The Command Spell burned with absolute authority. "I command you to stand, Artoria. Do not move until I allow it."
The magical compulsion seized her. She froze mid-stride, her body locking into place as if encased in stone.
She could only glare at the Assassin, her eyes promising divine retribution for harming her master.
The killing intent radiating from the Saber was a palpable, chilling force.
The Assassin shrank back, too terrified to even meet Artoria's gaze.
Arthur smirked, a wild, defiant expression on his poison-bleached face. "What is your answer, Assassin?"
The sight of him standing his ground, commanding a legendary king while her venom coursed through his veins, broke her.
The walls of defiance crumbled. "Yes! I will be your Servant, Master of Saber! Please, just stop! I don't want you to die!"
The moment her pledge of allegiance left her lips, the metaphysical bond of Master and Servant snapped into place.
And with it, Arthur's unique essence—the Essence of the Thief, the core of his being as a criminal king—activated.
It was not a spell, but the fundamental principle of his soul: to take what he desired.
This essence permeated the newly formed connection. It did not ask. It did not request. It stole.
It reached into the very concept of her being and took her Living Poison body, the inherent curse that made her touch lethal.
There was no resistance. In her moment of submission, she had opened herself completely to him.
The venomous essence flowed out of her and into him, a dark, thrilling power settling into his core.
Instantly, the weakness vanished.
The paleness receded from his face.
He stood firm, solid, his posture radiating a vitality that shocked both Servants.
The poison that should have been killing him was now a part of him.
Before the Assassin could even process the strange, hollow feeling now pulsing within her—the absence of her lifelong curse—Arthur exercised his control.
With a thought, he returned the stolen property. The Living Poison flowed back into her, restoring her to her normal, toxic state.
For now, her poisoned body was of no use to him. In fact, it would be a hindrance. To walk the streets as a walking, talking mass-murder who killed with an accidental brush was not beneficial.
It would make the intimate contact he planned with others… complicated.
But the theft was not undone.
He had imprinted his ownership upon that aspect of her existence. He could take it back at any time, from any distance, and wield that concentrated lethality against anyone he chose.
It was a weapon now stored in her, but its trigger was in his soul.
"Master… how?" Artoria breathed, her voice thick with doubt and awe as the Command Spell's compulsion released her.
"That, my dear Knight King, is a business secret," Arthur said with a sly, triumphant smile.
He then turned his full attention to the trembling girl. "Come with us. Let's go win this Holy Grail War."
"Yes, Master," the Assassin whispered.
Her heart leapt with an emotion so foreign it was dizzying: pure, unadulterated happiness.
He was immune. She had seen it. For the first time in her existence, she could imagine close contact with another living person without the soul-crushing fear of harming them.
The last person who had tried had died weeping in her arms. This man, her new Master, had not only survived but had conquered her very nature.
With that, Arthur Wayne had successfully gathered his team.
He had a loyal, omnipotent princess and now a lethally grateful Assassin.
His survival rate in the Holy Grail War had just skyrocketed.
The pieces were moving into place for his ultimate ascension—not just as a winner of a ritual, but as the one true King Arthur, remade in his own ruthless image.
The day of his coronation was undoubtedly not far off.
And Arthur would make damn sure he was the one left standing to claim it.