Change
Fate's attire shifted seamlessly, transforming into his Lancer-Class Enkidu form, while Morgan followed suit, adopting the Archer-Class Oda Nobunaga.
As Fate knelt, both hands pressing into the earth, a golden ripple spread beneath him.
Morgan emerged beside him, now clad in a black military uniform adorned with intricate golden accents, a flowing crimson cape draping behind her. Atop her head, a black military cap gleamed under the light, decorated with a golden insignia shaped like a rising sun.
With a casual raise of her hand, countless matchlock rifles materialized, floating ominously in the air, their barrels aimed at the opposition.
The three Servants facing them exchanged uneasy glances.
A split second later, golden chains erupted from golden ripple, lashing out like living serpents toward their foes. At the same time, Morgan's matchlocks fired in unison, unleashing a relentless hailstorm of bullets.
Atalanta immediately attempted to create distance, but the chains pursued her relentlessly, twisting through the air like sentient predators. Bullets whizzed past her, forcing her to evade in a frantic dance of agility.
Gritting her teeth, she drew back her bowstring, aiming for the now Lancer Servant.
But before she could lose the arrow, a single well-placed bullet shattered her shot mid-air.
"Ughh!"
Pain flared through her leg as another bullet pierced her thigh, her momentum stuttering. Blood trickled down her skin as her movements slowed—just enough for one of Fate's golden chains to snap around her ankle.
She barely had time to react before she was yanked backward, her body slamming into the dirt with a pained grunt.
Meanwhile, Rider and Assassin weaved through the chaos, dodging the unrelenting barrage of chains and bullets. But their plan to rush Morgan backfired spectacularly.
Just as they closed in for the attack, a barrier of chains erupted from the ground, forming an impenetrable wall that stopped them cold.
Then—
Two arrows soared into the sky.
Moments later, a storm of thousands rained down upon them.
Atalanta had activated her Noble Phantasm, desperately attempting to break free of her bindings.
Fate's golden chains instantly retracted, forming a protective dome around himself and Morgan.
Morgan, unfazed, commanded her matchlocks to fire upwards, intercepting and neutralizing a portion of the deadly rain.
Inside their barrier, she cast a quick glance at Fate.
His breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Controlling hundreds of moving chains required immense focus, stamina, and magic energy—far more than simply firing them off. Morgan directly let the once-locked Magic Energy she held flow into his body, letting him recover some of his power.
He was actively directing their movements, ensuring they didn't destroy the city by recklessly manifesting golden chains everywhere in the middle of a public park.
It wasn't his specialty.
Unlike him, Morgan's control over multiple entities came naturally.
Her sense drifted toward Atalanta, still ensnared by Fate's chains.
With a slight twitch of his fingers, the sharp, golden tips of the chains twisted, impaling the Archer's body in multiple places.
A strangled gasp left Atalanta's lips as the chains tore through her, she struggled but it was useless. The sharp tip of his chains stabbed into her limbs before it tore her body apart, limb by limb. Her body fades into golden particles—a brutal and painful execution.
Bang! Bang!
Bullets pierced through Martha's leg and thigh, forcing her to collapse face-first onto the ground. Fate's chains coiled around her instantly, binding the Rider Servant.
Assassin barely had a second to react before a chain struck her side, throwing her off balance. In that same moment, a matchlock rifle hovered at her neck—
BANG!
Her body slumped, falling back as more matchlocks opened fire on her, each bullet pierced her body, leaving her no chance to survive. She fades back into the world, leaving behind a single Class Card.
As the golden chain dome unraveled, Fate and Morgan stood unscathed amidst the battlefield.
Fate casually extended his hand, the chains delivering the two fallen Class Cards to him:
Archer-Class: Atalanta
Assassin-Class: Huyan Zhuo
Morgan, meanwhile, strolled over to the downed Rider Servant, a matchlock in her hand.
Martha groaned, struggling against the chains.
Morgan smirked, pressing the gun's barrel against her head.
"Guess this is checkmate."
She pulled the trigger.
But just before the bullet could hit its mark, the space around Martha distorted, bending and warping unnaturally.
The bullet struck empty ground—her Master had used a Command Seal to extract her.
Morgan scoffed, lowering her firearm.
"Well, that's just annoying."
She turned to Fate, who was now examining the two newly acquired Class Cards in his hand.
"You seem happy," Morgan noted, approaching him.
She handed back the three cards she had borrowed earlier—Yubel, Medea, and Oda Nobunaga.
Then, her brow furrowed.
"How did they turn into Class Cards anyway?"
Fate exhaled, turning the Assassin and Archer cards over in his palm.
"I tried tweaking my skills… and ended up with this."
Morgan raised a brow, intrigued.
"Anyone I kill—directly or indirectly—if they have the potential to be recorded into the Throne of Heroes… I can turn them into Class Cards."
A smirk tugged at her lips.
"Interesting. So, basically, you're a walking summoning system?"
Fate rolled his eyes.
"Something like that."
Turning his focuse back on the cards.
Install
His form shifted, adopting the clothing of the fallen Assassin. Immediately, new information flooded his mind.
Condition Unlock: [Double Whip] [Sensitive Mental]
His gaze lifted, only to freeze when he saw Morgan grinning excitedly, experimenting with her new magic.
The sight sent his emotions into chaos.
That joyful expression—a stark contrast to the cold, calculating woman she once was.
Something inside him wavered.
No.
Foolishness.
With a sharp inhale, he activated [Clear Mind], cutting himself off from his emotions, suppressing the naive and ridiculous thoughts bubbling in his mind.
Install
His clothes shifted again, turning into green and light blue hunter attire. In his hands, he now wielded Phoebus Catastrophe, a copy of the divine bow manifesting inside his Reality Marble as well.
Condition Unlock: [Calydonian Hunt] [Feline Traits]
'Huh? Feline Traits?'
His confusion was short-lived as Morgan suddenly reached up—her fingers brushing against the soft cat ears now resting atop his head.
A shiver ran down his spine.
"Stop."
Morgan's eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Oh c'mon, a little touching won't hurt. Pspsps."
Fate's left eye twitched.
"I swear—"
She grinned wider.
"I think a belt would suit you. Or maybe…" she tapped her chin, eyes twinkling. "Do you want me to rub your belly?"
"WHY YOU—! GET OVER HERE!"
Morgan laughed, immediately turning on her heel to run as Fate charged after her, a new game of cat and witch unfolding.
After all, they can't harm each other, so Morgan finds it's better to enjoy her time with him than hate him like how she hates Artoria.
After three hours, Fate made his way back toward the Pendragon residence, carrying Morgan on his back.
"You are the worst," she muttered, arms draped around his neck, her head resting against his. "Doing me out in the open like that."
"I could've just left you lying there," he replied, unfazed by the sharp glare she shot at him.
Her gaze shifted, narrowing at the text only visible to her.
Trust: 21%
Loyalty: 7%
Love: 14%
"You do realize you could just shift into Astral form or rest inside my inner world, right?" Fate pointed out, raising an eyebrow.
Morgan tightened her hold around his neck, her expression unreadable. "And let you run off without taking responsibility? Hah! You can't get rid of me that easily." There was a hint of pride in her tone.
Fate rolled his eyes. "Please. I couldn't get rid of you even if I wanted to."
Which, considering she had bound their souls together, was completely true.
Morgan smirked, satisfied. "Exactly."
The next day, Fate continued working in the shadows as Artoria's servant, keeping a close eye on her. After yesterday's battle, it was already a given that her identity as the 8th Master had been exposed—too many Servants had gathered in an attempt to take them down.
An astral clone alone wasn't enough to keep her safe anymore.
"Can't you just go around and kill off all the magi here?" Morgan asked, irritation lacing her voice.
"No. That would cause more trouble than it would solve," Fate replied calmly. The two of them remained hidden, their presence suppressed to the point of near nonexistence.
Morgan rolled her eyes. "Like you actually care about keeping things in order."
Fate said nothing, merely continuing to observe Artoria from the shadows.
Time passed, and school ended without much trouble—aside from a few delinquents getting beaten up by the Lion of Fuyuki.
Later, in Artoria's Room
"Changer, could you teach me your magic?" Artoria asked, setting aside her homework and looking at him with expectant teal eyes.
"No." Fate's answer was immediate. His magic was beyond anything this world could handle—there was no point in teaching her something she'd never be able to use.
"Come on! I'm sure you're super strong. What's so difficult about teaching me a couple of spells?" She leaned in slightly, trying to act cute and girlish in an attempt to sway him.
"Not gonna work." Fate shut her down without hesitation. He had already decided—once this Holy Grail War ended, he would have her memories erased.
Stepping into the Moonlit World was a dangerous path. A path she shouldn't take.
Here, she wasn't the King of Britain. She wasn't burdened by duty. She wasn't shackled by the weight of responsibility.
She was just Artoria Pendragon—a normal girl, a descendant of King Arthur, born into a family that upheld the tradition of naming their children after the Knights of the Round Table. Her family had moved from London to Fuyuki, Japan, where she had lived an ordinary life.
Artoria might see herself as different from other girls her age, but in Fate's eyes, she was better off that way. Better off staying as she was—rather than stepping into a world she could never escape.
After all, he carried the Class Card imbued with the Spirit Origin of Artoria Pendragon—the King Arthur. Of course, he knew how her story ended.
Betrayed by her own child. Cut down by the very blood she once swore to protect. Forced to watch as the kingdom she had painstakingly built crumbled into ruin.
She did not die as a woman. Nor as a person with hopes and dreams of her own.
She died as a knight. A king. A warrior.
Never a human.
Night draped Fuyuki in a blanket of silence, broken only by the distant hum of the city. Fate moved effortlessly through the towering buildings, carrying Morgan in his arms like a phantom gliding through the shadows—much like Archer once carried Rin in Stay Night.
"With Archer and Assassin out, that leaves Saber, Lancer, Rider, Caster, and Berserker," Morgan murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Saber and Rider were already accounted for, but the others remained an enigma. Worse, they still didn't know the identities of the Masters who commanded Archer, Assassin, or Rider. Those unknown variables made them an immediate threat to Artoria's safety.
And then there was Ryuudou Temple—hostile territory. That place pulsed with an unnaturally strong leyline, layered with a powerful magic barrier. If a Servant had taken residence there, it could only be one: Caster.
Days passed in uneasy silence. The brutal extermination of Archer and Assassin had sent ripples through the war, forcing the remaining players into hiding. No battles. No movements. Just a tense, suffocating stillness as everyone waited for someone else to make the first move.
By the fourth day, Fate grew tired of waiting.
It was time to hunt.
Using his [Tracker] Mastery, he set his sights on the weakest link—one of the Masters, now Servantless. A cornered animal was dangerous, but a desperate magus without a Servant? That was prey waiting to be claimed.
Morgan smirked, watching as Fate's ability went to work. "That Mastery of yours is broken," she teased. "You're like a hunting hound—able to track anything as long as it exists."
He rolled his eyes but didn't argue.
Their relationship had long settled into this rhythm—a constant push and pull, teasing and challenging, yet completely in sync.
Tracking the magus was simple. They moved like all cornered prey—panicked, erratic, desperate. The more they tried to evade him, the easier it was to follow their patterns.
No matter where they ran, he could always find them.
But Fate didn't strike immediately.
A good hunter knew patience.
So he followed at a distance, always just out of reach, letting the magus exhaust themselves. He made no sound, left no presence—just a shadow lurking at the edges of their awareness, never fully seen but always felt.
The longer the chase went on, the more reckless his prey became. Their breathing grew heavier. Their movements more sluggish. Their fear more palpable.
Then, the moment came.
A sharp turn into a narrow alley. A dead end.
The magus skidded to a stop, chest heaving. They turned wildly, scanning the darkness. No exits. No salvation. Just silence pressing in from all sides.
That was when Fate finally revealed himself.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
The magus spun around, eyes wide in sheer terror. "No—no! Stay away from me!" They raised their hands, chanting a hurried incantation, but their shaking voice made it clear—this was the last gasp of someone who knew they had already lost.
Fate didn't rush.
Instead, he simply tilted his head, watching them with cold amusement. "Go on," he said softly. "Try."
The magus fired. A desperate burst of magic surged toward him.
Fate moved.
His short sword easily cut through the magic blast with a simple knock.
A blur of motion. A shift in air pressure.
The next moment, he was behind them.
The magus gasped as a cold blade pressed against their throat. Their body stiffened, their breath hitching in their throat. Fate leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.
"At least you try."
A sharp slash.
Blood splattered against the alley walls. The magus gurgled, their hands flying to their throat as they collapsed to their knees.
Fate simply stepped back, watching impassively as his prey bled out.
No struggle. No last words. Just the slow, inevitable fading of life.
Morgan, still perched nearby, let out a satisfied hum. "A clean kill."
Fate wiped his blade clean. "Sloppy prey."
Morgan chuckled. "Maybe. But watching you work?" She pauses deliberately. "It was... beautiful."
Fate said nothing. He simply turned away, disappearing back into the shadows.
Morgan vanished from her spot, reappearing effortlessly beside Fate as the two made their way back to the Pendragon residence. The night air was crisp, the streets nearly empty, save for the occasional distant sound of traffic.
Their steps were unhurried, the have time—until a voice called out behind them.
"Morgan?"
Both of them stopped. Slowly, they turned to face the speaker—a tall, broad-shouldered man with teal green eyes and golden hair.
Fate's mind worked quickly, analyzing the stranger before him. Strong build, knightly posture, familiar energy signature—this man was no ordinary bystander.
And then he spoke again.
"You should have called to let me know you were in town. I could have come and picked you up, dear."
Morgan stiffened. Fate blinked.
"Dear?" She murmured, her tone barely a whisper.
The man smiled warmly, completely oblivious to their shared confusion. "A simple phone call, and your old man would have dropped everything to come to you."
Fate and Morgan exchanged glances, their thoughts perfectly aligned.
'Wait… he's Morgan's—My father?!'
The realization struck like a bolt of lightning. This was Gawain. Not as the Knight of the Round Table, but in this world… as Morgan's father.
Before either of them could react, Gawain's sharp gaze landed on Fate. The warmth in his eyes faded, replaced by something colder. A quiet, assessing scrutiny. His jaw tightened, his posture shifting subtly—not aggressive, but unmistakably protective.
Fate felt it instantly.
"And who might you be?"
His tone was measured but carried an underlying challenge, the kind only a father could give when sizing up an unfamiliar man standing beside his daughter.
Fate tensed slightly. He knew this energy well. It reminded him of Makarov back in Fairy Tail—except this time, he was the one on the receiving end.
Well, at least this Gawain isn't powerful. He is just lightly stronger than a regular human, but weaker than a magus.
Before Fate could respond, Morgan took a step forward, her voice calm and unwavering.
"He's my boyfriend."
Fate: "..."
Silence.
Fate's expression darkened slightly. He wanted to protest, to shut this down immediately—but a single glance at Gawain told him that would be a very bad idea.
If he rejected Morgan's claim, Gawain would see it as a lack of commitment. That would not work in his favor.
Fate swallowed his frustration. 'Damn you, Morgan.'
With no better option, he forced himself to play along.
"…That's right," he muttered, keeping his expression neutral.
Morgan smirked slightly, clearly enjoying his predicament.
Meanwhile, Gawain's frown deepened, his protective instincts kicking in full force.
This… was going to be a problem.
After some time, the trio arrived at the Pendragon residence. Gawain, leading the way, pushed open the door and stepped inside with a booming voice.
"I'm home, kids! Come down—there's someone I'm sure you'll want to meet!"
His voice carried through the house, and the response was immediate.
Kay was the first to emerge, his footsteps heavy as he strode into the foyer. Lancelot and Bedivere peeked their heads out from the living room, curiosity in their eyes. Last was Artoria, who came sprinting down the stairs, her teal eyes wide with excitement.
And then they saw her.
Morgan. Their long-absent sister, supposedly studying in London.
For a moment, there was only stunned silence. Then—
"You've grown so much, Morgan! How are ya?" Kay was the first to speak, his tone warm and overflowing with joy at seeing his younger sister after so many years.
"Big sis is back!" Bedivere exclaimed, his voice filled with unrestrained happiness.
"Damn, you've turned into a fine-looking woman, Morgan," Lancelot added with a smirk—only for Kay to immediately smack him upside the head.
"Don't check out our sister, you damn degenerate!"
As their attention remained on Morgan, Artoria's gaze drifted to the unfamiliar white-haired figure standing beside her. She stiffened, recognition dawning in her eyes.
'Changer?'
Before she could say anything, Bedivere turned to Morgan, his curiosity piqued.
"Hey, big sis, who's the guy with you?"
That was all it took.
In an instant, every pair of eyes in the room locked onto Fate.
Gawain and Kay's expressions hardened, their gazes drilling into him like a pair of overprotective fathers. Lancelot looked amused, as if enjoying the sheer absurdity of the situation. Bedivere merely blinked in confusion.
Meanwhile, Artoria felt a rising sense of panic. She wanted to step in—to shield her Servant from whatever interrogation was about to unfold—but before she could do anything reckless—
"Father, brothers… and sister," Morgan spoke with deliberate calm, placing a hand on Fate's shoulder. "Meet my ser— I mean, boyfriend from London."
Fate suppressed the urge to sigh and instead put on his best performance.
With practiced grace, he placed a hand over his chest and bowed slightly.
"Greetings, Mr. Pendragon. I'm Fate Redgrave. It's an honor to meet you."
A tense silence followed.
Then, dinner happened.
Despite the initial tension, Fate's cooking had a miraculous effect.
Artoria hadn't stopped stuffing her face for ten minutes straight, her hands moving with such speed it was almost inhuman. Lancelot and Bedivere struggled to keep up, often losing their share of food to the ravenous blonde.
Kay, meanwhile, ate while crying.
His confidence as a cook had been utterly shattered. He had thought himself decent in the kitchen, but compared to Fate… his skills were nothing but dust in a vast desert.
Gawain, caught between pride and utter mortification, silently shed tears. Not from the food—though it was exquisite—but because his children were acting like starving wolves in front of their guest.
The only one who maintained any semblance of dignity was Morgan, who ate with practiced elegance, her posture stiff, her gaze focused solely on her plate. She pointedly ignored the chaos around her.
That didn't stop her father from noticing.
'My daughter came all the way across the world, bringing her boyfriend home, and what do my children do? They devour their food like barbarians. And Kay—stop crying! Morgan must be regretting ever introducing us!'
As he chewed on the soft, fluffy rice—paired with perfectly crispy salted fish and an unbelievably smooth egg roll—Gawain silently apologized to his daughter.
'I'm sorry, Morgan. Please forgive this useless old man.'
Meanwhile, Fate leaned slightly toward Morgan, smirking.
"Your family seems nice," he mused, thoroughly entertained by the spectacle before him.
Morgan, still eating at a measured pace, didn't even look up.
"I'm adopted," she deadpanned.
Fate's grin widened.
Before he could deliver a witty retort, Gawain suddenly cut in.
"She's the second child after Kay, before Lancelot," he corrected, completely undermining Morgan's attempt to disown herself.
Morgan scowled and looked away, her ears burning as Fate's smirk grew impossibly smug.
Gawain, meanwhile, watched the scene unfold and found himself thinking…
'Thank you, Redgrave-kun. You have my blessing to marry my daughter. Morgan, he's a keeper.'