Ryūdō Temple.
Outside a small meditation room.
At dawn, Ritsuka carried several freshly cooked dishes to Morgan's room. After a night of nonstop chaos, exhaustion weighed on his bones. He needed food—real food—before his brain could keep working.
"Breakfast, Morgan."
Servants didn't need to eat. But ever since he'd summoned this queen, she never missed a meal. Not once. And she ate with such obvious satisfaction that Ritsuka had stopped questioning it—especially since she'd made one condition painfully clear:
If he wanted her to eat, he had to cook.
If it were up to him—efficiency first—he'd be living off frozen meals and ration bars. Cooking every day was objectively a hassle.
But it only took a little time, and compared to Morgan's all-night workload, making breakfast was nothing.
"I'm coming, Ritsuka."
The door opened. Morgan stepped out as if she hadn't spent the night doing something that looked suspiciously like building a medieval witch's laboratory behind that door. She took the plates from him—then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, pulled him down beside her to eat outside.
Why not eat indoors?
Because Morgan knew exactly what "indoors" looked like right now: a room full of monster materials, reagents, and tools that would make cleanup a nightmare and meals feel nauseating.
So, beneath the quiet morning light of Ryūdō Temple, they sat side by side, eating warm food while thinking through what came next.
The old courtyard was still and clean—only the sound of chewing and the occasional clink of porcelain breaking the silence.
A place meant for meditation had become a postwar camp.
And since Morgan was very clearly not the "housekeeping" type of Servant, everything else—food, daily logistics, living arrangements—fell on Ritsuka.
He wasn't exactly great at it either. He could keep himself alive, sure, but the food he cooked was nowhere near restaurant level.
Morgan didn't seem to care.
She ate like it was a feast.
When they finished, Ritsuka felt some strength return. He stood, stretched toward the rising sun, and for one sweet second imagined crawling into bed.
Then reality returned with a cold smile.
There was too much left to do. Too much to decide. Too much information to process.
Being a Master wasn't "summon a Servant and let autopilot run."
A Master's job was to remove distractions, support their Servants, and make sure they could fight at peak performance—because coordination between Master and Servant was often the difference between victory and extinction.
And right now—
"I'm back, Master, and—Jeanne?!"
With daylight fully arrived, Gilles de Rais returned to the temple grounds. He'd followed Ritsuka's instructions, patrolling the area to make sure no stray Hassan of the Hundred Faces was still lurking nearby.
He landed, ready to report—
And froze.
Seated outside, head lowered, eating with unabashed focus, was a woman with Jeanne d'Arc's face.
The sight detonated something inside him.
For a heartbeat, he wasn't in Japan. He was back in France a century ago, after battle, when Jeanne would eat heavily to recover as quickly as possible.
She had told him:
"Hunger is an enemy too. After every battle, restore yourself immediately. That's how you survive the next one, Gilles."
The memory hit like a wave, dragging him into a dizzying reel of the past.
"Hm?"
Morgan noticed his stare. She lifted her head, expression mildly puzzled, and raised a still-untouched plate—Ritsuka's portion prepared for Gilles.
"You want some too?"
"I—I'm fine…"
The temptation was real, but Gilles forced himself to refuse.
He knew she wasn't Jeanne. He knew it.
And yet that identical face robbed him of the courage to sit beside her like nothing was wrong. Not when he understood better than anyone what kind of disgraceful state he'd shown last night.
He would not replace Jeanne with Morgan in his mind.
But he also knew this much: he would not allow anyone to harm a woman who wore Jeanne's face—no matter how irrational it was.
He had failed to protect Jeanne once.
This time, he would protect this Jeanne-faced woman with everything he had.
If he could do even that, perhaps he could forgive himself—just a little.
"If you're not eating, then fine."
Morgan didn't bother being polite about it. She lowered her head and began eating Gilles's portion as well.
Ritsuka could only stare, spoon paused midair, equal parts resigned and helpless.
His two contracted Servants were both… strange, in completely different ways.
He waited until Morgan was finished before interrupting her, then turned to Gilles.
"Marshal Gilles," Ritsuka said, "what's your read on the Servants we met last night?"
Gilles steadied himself, finally pulling his gaze away from Morgan's face. Once he slipped into analysis, his tone became crisp and professional—exactly as expected of a commander.
"Assassin appears to possess numerous bodies or duplicates. Troublesome in concept, but each individual is not strong. Their specialty is assassination—nothing more."
He continued without wasting words.
"Rider—Iskandar. Powerful. A top-tier Heroic Spirit. He revealed little, but I could feel what lay beneath the surface. A storm. Not to be underestimated."
"Cú Chulainn. Diarmuid. Neither showed their full hand, but as elites of Celtic myth, their strength is beyond question. Last night, only because of my Madness Enhancement—and the Caster's reinforcement—could I fight them at all. Without that, if we fought normally without releasing Noble Phantasms, I could not hold them."
As he spoke, Gilles looked down at the banner-spear in his hand, eyes sinking into quiet thought.
Thank you… for protecting me again, Jeanne.
"And the last two—Gilgamesh needs no explanation. He is likely the strongest Servant in this war. As for Arthur…"
At the name, Gilles glanced—almost involuntarily—at Morgan.
Trust had required honesty among them. True names had been revealed.
When Gilles first learned that the Jeanne-faced woman was Morgan, the "wicked sorceress queen" of legend, his worldview had nearly collapsed.
Jeanne looked English? Fine, he could choke that down.
But Jeanne looking like Morgan?
That was harder than any battlefield.
Yet as he watched her and Ritsuka together, Gilles realized his own bias. This Morgan was secretive, yes—but nothing like the monstrous caricature sung in legends.
Especially not when she was sitting there, eating like a perfectly normal woman.
Perhaps the legends had lied. Or perhaps history had been twisted.
Either way, he found himself calmer.
Because if Morgan had Jeanne's face and truly acted like a monster, he wasn't sure he could endure it.
He was grateful—quietly—that his Master and this Morgan were, by every measure that mattered, good people.
Still… Morgan and Arthur in the same war was a problem that could not be ignored.
Their legend was tangled, bitter, and deep.
Gilles worried Morgan might lose her composure and do something irrational.
Ritsuka had worried too.
He knew what obsession could do to a person—he'd seen enough of it in memories and in wars.
Last night, when he saw Arthur, he wasn't only shocked by the "Prototype" presence—he was also watching Morgan, measuring her reaction.
Because this Arthur wasn't exactly the one he'd anticipated, and unpredictability was poison in a Grail War.
Ritsuka was still trying to understand Morgan's stance toward this Arthur—an Arthur from another world.
"You're both staring at me. Why?"
Morgan set down her clean plate and dabbed her mouth with composed elegance.
Of course she understood their concern.
She also found it… faintly amusing.
"Yes, he's Arthur," she said calmly. "But he isn't my Arthur. He isn't my sister. Why would I feel anything beyond curiosity?"
She spoke as if it were obvious.
She had already let go of many things. Her hatred for Britain had been washed thin by time and distance.
And most importantly—
This Arthur was male.
The core of Morgan's resentment in her own history had never been "Arthur exists." It had been "why was she ignored in favor of her sister?"
If it had been a brother, she would have considered it the natural order of that era.
So no—she wasn't going to "go mad" over a stranger from another world.
If anything, she felt… lighter.
Because it meant she didn't have to face her own sister again.
"Stop looking at me like that, Ritsuka."
Morgan reached out and poked his cheek, expression flat.
"He's an enemy. That's all. Don't worry about my mood. Do what you need to do. I won't hold back against him."
Ritsuka exhaled, tension releasing from his shoulders.
"Good. Then I understand."
If it had been Artoria, there might have been room for psychological leverage—Britain, ideals, old wounds.
But against this Arthur, that same angle would only enrage him.
And if Morgan refused to strike, the situation would become genuinely dangerous.
But if Morgan herself said she'd treat him as an enemy, then the war remained winnable—at least strategically.
Ritsuka continued, moving the discussion back to the board as a whole.
"Then the top threats are clear. Archer Gilgamesh. Saber Arthur. Rider Iskandar. Those three are the strongest on the field besides us."
"Agreed," Gilles said. "Kings of great renown. Last night's clash between Gilgamesh and Arthur was terrifying. And the Conqueror King showed only a fraction of what he can do."
"The others aren't easy either," Morgan added. "Diarmuid of the Fianna. Cú Chulainn, the Hound of Ulster. Hassan of the Hundred Faces. None of them are simple."
Then Morgan's tone shifted slightly.
"But there is one more problem."
She looked at them both.
"There is an extra Servant."
Silence fell.
Ritsuka and Gilles both sank into thought.
Morgan had taken Caster. And yet a "Caster Cú Chulainn" still existed.
By the rules, there should be only seven.
But everyone knew the same truth:
A Holy Grail War had never been normal.
Illegal summons happened. Cheating happened. The system could be exploited.
What disturbed Ritsuka wasn't merely the existence of an eighth Servant—
It was who it was.
Cú Chulainn was meaningful to him in a way the others weren't.
The first time Ritsuka had ever fought to save the world—the very prologue, the burning winter of Fuyuki—Cú Chulainn had been there.
For a moment, the thought wouldn't leave him:
Is this the same place? A recurrence? A singularity?
But Morgan had encircled the Grail with a massive ritual array. Even if there was "evil" in the system, the leylines were being restrained. A citywide inferno like that should not be possible.
So what was this?
Coincidence? Or inevitability?
Who summoned this Cú Chulainn? And why?
Ritsuka couldn't answer yet—and he refused to gamble lives on secrecy.
He chose the only correct option:
He shared everything he knew.
He laid out every relevant legend, capability, and likely Noble Phantasm in plain terms, so Morgan and Gilles could plan with open eyes.
Iskandar's trump card: a massive Reality Marble—an army of tens of thousands, a Conqueror's host. If you're dragged inside without a counter to a Reality Marble, you die.
Cú Chulainn: terrifying spear technique and runes. Even as Caster, he is not "safe." His Noble Phantasm is believed to be a gigantic burning effigy—an overwhelming inferno that can erase positions and people alike.
Arthur: Excalibur. Possibly Avalon. A nightmare to finish.
Gilgamesh: in this case, the "flood-terminating" twin Ender swords—power on the level of a calamity, not a mere weapon.
Diarmuid: changed loadout—one spear, one sword. Danger increased. The yellow spear's curse makes wounds unhealable. The crimson demonic sword is likely the Sword of Furious Waves. Whether he retains the "first-battle sure victory" legend is uncertain—but last night's forced disengagement was correct either way. If that legend exists, breaking the "first battle" condition matters.
Ritsuka's information was detailed—but even he knew better than to treat it as absolute truth.
"Remember it," he warned them, "but don't worship it. Verify everything against what we see. Adjust."
Morgan merely smiled and accepted it without questioning where it came from.
She trusted Ritsuka.
That was enough.
Gilles, on the other hand, looked like his brain had been struck by lightning.
He'd met those Servants once—once—and Ritsuka was already describing their strengths as if he'd read their biographies and their armories cover to cover.
Even so, Gilles didn't argue.
Morgan's trust anchored the room. His own respect for Ritsuka forced his doubts into silence.
He memorized every word.
Because in a Holy Grail War, information this precise was not "useful."
It was an advantage so large it bordered on the unfair.
And after hours of discussion—cross-checking, replaying each encounter, and aligning their next steps—they finally formed a clear operational principle:
Gather intelligence. Build strategy. Accumulate strength. Break the enemy apart—one by one. Win.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 90)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 95)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League (Chapter 80)
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter70)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter70)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter50)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter60)
Can Playing Games Save the World? 30
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 30
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