I, Guinevere, am going to crush you, you curry stick, today!

At dusk in winter, the sky is tinged with a faint white, and even the dark curtain of night that is falling seems rather pale. At this time, there are not many stars to be seen, only the hazy outline of the mountains and fields, like a silhouette in a painting.

Guinevere closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, a grayish-white mist had silently filled the surroundings.

The white fog churned and shifted, and every second, countless buildings and figures of all shapes and sizes appeared. Sometimes they were modern skyscrapers with neon lights and bustling traffic, and sometimes they were antique and charming, with a wooden house deep in the woods, a few acres of fertile land, and a farmer wiping away sweat as he straightened his back. His hunched figure then suddenly dissipated into countless plumes of smoke. Within seconds, the wooden house and the woods disappeared, replaced by birds flying across the vast sky.

Like fleeting clouds and changing dogs, like a dream.

She looked back and saw that all the furnishings in the room and the little demonic pig that was still sleeping had disappeared. Only the cloak that was still "playing" with the demonic pig remained. It spun in the air, as if it had just realized what was happening, and then flew over with a whoosh. The hem of the cloak brushed against the girl's cheek and flipped over to cover her body.

Guinevere reached out again, and the crystal cane by the wall flew into her palm. With her other free hand, she patted the restless fellow: "Don't move. Honestly, you seemed quite well-behaved back then..."

The crystal at the tip of the staff flashed, and the mist changed again. This time, however, it did not disappear like a phantom, but remained fixed.

This time, a dilapidated palace is on display. It should have been magnificent and majestic, but the passage of time has truly taken its toll on this palace. Thick dust and cobwebs can be seen everywhere. The central steps above where the throne should normally be placed are empty, with only a few broken pieces lying on the ground.

As for the most noticeable feature, it is probably the hole on the right wall of the palace that takes up almost half of the space.

At first glance, the back of the cave seems to be pitch black, but upon closer inspection, one will find that it is actually a chaotic mix of colors, intertwined and twisted together, which in turn makes it appear as pure black.

This is the dreamland once constructed from the Cauldron of Wishes, and the land of immortality that so many Danu people have longed for, Dirnano.

Now that the cauldron no longer exists, the phantoms that once graced our dreams have vanished with them. This false "paradise" should have ended its mission and come to a close.

However, in order to stop the final mysterious attacker's powerful attack, which was enough to destroy the entire dream, including her and Artoria who had not yet left, Guinevere had no choice but to rely on the power of the dream. As a "sacrifice" intentionally cultivated by the Cauldron, after destroying the Cauldron, the girl instinctively understood how to mobilize the power of the dream. However, once she used it, she also became the master of the unclaimed dream, and could no longer leave safely as the Magic King had originally planned.

Later, after being awakened by that voice, it took her quite a long time and many twists and turns before she finally returned to the real world with the help of an Irish brother and sister.

The so-called shortcut is precisely the path taken by the heroes.

Strictly speaking, Guinevere at this point cannot be considered a true Heroic Spirit. Neither Alaya nor Gaia extended an olive branch to her, but the "Dirnano" constructed by the cauldron is, in a sense, equivalent to a small Valhalla, except that those inside are not Heroic Spirits, but rather phantoms like puppets manipulated by strings.

The girl herself was one of these phantoms, so as long as the conditions and prerequisites for summoning were met, Fujimaru Ritsuka was able to successfully summon Guinevere as a Heroic Spirit.

This is because this action, in essence, is the same as the other phantoms and the ultimate purpose of the cauldron: to make a wish and then have it fulfilled.

After taking control of the dream and understanding the essence of this small space-time, Guinevere was pleasantly surprised to find that she was not only a Heroic Spirit, but also the master of this Hall of Heroes.

In terms of absolute status alone, it is almost on par with Alaya and Gaia.

The only drawback is that she is currently the only spirit in this "vast" Valhalla.

in other words.

If Valhalla were a company, she would be both her own boss and her only employee, handling everything from issuing orders to actually running herself ragged.

It was much more shabby than the other two "bosses".

……

P.S.: I started writing at 5 AM and have only written a little over 1000 words so far (°ー°〃). I stayed up all night last night and am so tired now that I'm going to rest to avoid collapsing. I'll continue writing tomorrow. Remember to vote!

Chapter Six: A Lone Hero's Hall (Part Two)

With a tap of the cane on the ground, a loud "bang" rang out, dust billowed, and light shimmered, gradually coalescing in the air into a stone slab exuding an ancient aura.

The pattern on the stone slab was blurry and indistinct. Only a vague outline of what appeared to be an eye drawn with hasty strokes could be made. It was half-open and half-closed, as if it were in a state of half-sleep and half-awake. But upon closer inspection, it could be seen that the eye was actually drawn with countless mysterious characters, as if it contained endless wisdom.

At the same time, the same half-closed eyes appeared on Guinevere's forehead. She stretched out her free left hand, her five fingers slightly spread, and drew to the side. The messy lines on the stone slab suddenly "came to life," quickly transforming into completely different scenes—sometimes a sword covered in cracks yet radiating brilliance, sometimes a pitch-black dragon soaring in the sky. A pair of crossed, ferocious claws paused for a moment, then transformed into a majestic crown after a jumbled mess of things that were indistinguishable.

With each pattern that appeared, the object on the girl's forehead changed accordingly, along with the crystal staff in her hand and the tattered cloak, which also changed appearance, sometimes as heavy armor, sometimes as a gorgeous dress, and the black dragon scales on her neck flashed by. This cycle repeated several times, and finally settled on her half-open eyes.

"As expected... this job is still the most convenient to use normally." She muttered to herself, and the cloak leaning on her shoulder happily came over and rubbed against her cheek, only to be slapped away with a look of disgust.

While a one-person "company" is certainly extremely shabby, on the other hand, it also allows for unrestricted access to all sorts of conveniences. As the master of this small Hall of Heroes, Guinevere has virtually no secrets about its operation, including the Spirit Origin, which serves as the foundation for the Heroic Spirits' manifestation in the world. After nearly half a year of exploration and experimentation, she has begun to understand the underlying principles.

Currently, there are six Spirit Origins who are compatible with her and can be summoned to descend into the mortal world, which seems to be related to her earlier experiences.

For example, Saber. If Kratos were still alive, this would probably be the most suitable class for her. Unfortunately, she fell into a deep sleep to resist the devastating beam of light, and the Sword of Light was lost in the spacetime turbulence, which is still being searched for.

"I hope it's alright..." Guinevere sighed inwardly and continued looking at them one by one. Because of Fafnir, she seemed to have the compatibility of both Rider and Berserker. The former was roughly similar to a Dragon Knight, while the latter, after trying it once, had already blacklisted the girl and made up her mind never to use this "weapon of mass destruction" that was so complicated in every sense of the word again unless absolutely necessary.

That crown represented a class that was quite unfamiliar to her: Ruler. In the game of her previous life, the girl had never seen this class, but from its name and effects, it was not difficult to deduce its function. It was roughly different from the normal seven classes. Even if the Servant had an affinity with it, it would only be granted this special class on certain specific occasions.

Of course, she is now the master of the Little Hall of Heroes. Guinevere can descend into reality in this class whenever she wants. However, in some ways, the Ruler is even more troublesome and difficult to use than the Berserker. Therefore, she usually uses the Caster class, which mainly uses runes.

Even with the limitations imposed by Caster, which somewhat weakened her swordsmanship and other abilities, her comprehensive primordial runes—even though she currently only possesses seventeen runes and has yet to learn the final, most crucial core rune—are enough to handle most troubles. Another reason is due to her different Spirit Origin; not only are her abilities affected, but even her personality is impacted. Even if the changes aren't significant, they always leave her with some embarrassing moments in retrospect.

Comparatively speaking, the Saber and Caster classes have the least impact on personality, followed by Rider, and the remaining two are not worth mentioning. However, what Guinevere finds most unbearable to recall is the sixth special class.

That was another name she had never heard before: Avenger. Unlike the madness of the Berserker, it was a hatred and rage that almost burned the depths of her soul to ashes, something she never wanted to experience again.

Her thoughts raced for a long time before she came to her senses. She released her hand, and the stone slab vanished like dust. The palace returned to its initial desolate atmosphere. Then, leaning on her cane, she slowly walked to the huge hole in the wall.

From a distance, it appears as a deep black expanse, but as you get closer, a dazzling array of colors gradually emerges, like a swirling kaleidoscope, with thousands of scenes flashing by in the blink of an eye, leaving you breathless.

This is also a relic left behind by that battle. After the Great Cauldron collapsed, this false paradise was no longer as grand as it once was. The final blow from the mysterious enemy that crossed time and space made this small Hall of Heroes even more precarious. The concrete manifestation of this is the large hole left in the wall. Of course, this palace is actually no different from the illusion created by the gray mist. They are all fictional landscapes. This large hole is not actually caused by the incredibly powerful beam of light shooting in from the outside and blasting open the wall. Rather, it is more blurred and resembles a conceptual projection.

As the core creation at the deepest part of the dream, the Lesser Hall of Heroes was originally an existence independent of time and space, akin to a country within a country, a city within a city, unaffected by any rules of the mortal world. But that person's attack shattered the edge of this spacetime, forcibly breaking down the barrier between the inside and outside. These ever-changing, vibrant colors represent the truly chaotic and disordered turbulent currents of spacetime. Each color is a world, an era, filled with numerous heroes, ambitious figures, and countless ordinary people who lived and died in obscurity.

Here, time and space lose their meaning; the future and the past are tangled and indistinguishable. Therefore, theoretically, unless an attack can simultaneously transcend both—past and future—it should be impossible to reach this place. Guinevere didn't know where the attack came from or who the attacker was, but in any case, the person clearly had ill intentions and was a formidable adversary. She worried that the attacker might return, even using this small Valhalla as a springboard to reach into the real world, which would be an unimaginable catastrophe for everyone.

She had been sitting there for a long time but hadn't observed anything strange. The person seemed to have given up and remained silent. Although she wasn't completely relieved, the girl still breathed a slight sigh of relief. These days, apart from being busy with various things in the real world, heroic spirits didn't need to sleep, and they spent most of their nights in this "colorful blackness".

"About three minutes. If things go wrong, remember to pull me back quickly..."

She gestured to the cloak, which mimicked a human gesture by waving its hem and patting itself vigorously, seemingly imitating a human patting their chest. It then changed its posture several times, the hem swishing through the air with a series of powerful "whoosh" sounds. Guinevere twitched her lips, then suddenly felt a burning pain in her cheek: "Oh, be gentle."

……

"A little lighter."

……

"almost."

Having finally managed to control the cloak's force appropriately, preventing both physical and mental anguish from escaping, she exhaled softly, pointed forward, and the fleeting colors instantly froze. The next moment, Guinevere seemed to lose her support, her head suddenly slumping downwards, standing there motionless like a soulless doll.

The cloak remained still for a few seconds, then suddenly took flight, circling the ceiling several times before swatting away a spider weaving its web in a corner. Before the spider could bump into anything, it rushed over, letting the spider land on itself, watching its frantic flailing and the entire cloak swaying back and forth, thoroughly amused. After playing like this for a few minutes, it suddenly remembered its master's instructions, quickly flew back, and cautiously reached out a corner of its cloak to touch the girl's cheek. The fabric was all wrinkled, and it hesitated, unsure whether it should wake her as instructed.

But at that moment, the cloak suddenly jolted, the wrinkled fabric loosening again and wrapping itself around Guinevere with lightning speed, while cautiously "looking" in a certain direction.

There, the first flower quietly bloomed on the dusty ground. Then came the second, the third, and in an instant, a small flower field appeared, its fragrance filling the air with a sweet and pleasant aroma.

If it were one of those naive human girls, they would probably be cheering with joy right now. But it is not that kind of fool. It is a cloak that has experienced countless events and is full of vicissitudes from the outside to the inside. It is one of its master's most "favored" treasures. How could it be fooled by such a clumsy trick!

Therefore, the cloak remained vigilantly watching that direction, ready to pounce and entangle any villain who appeared—this unwavering resolve continued until, amidst the sea of ​​flowers, a snow-white robe appeared out of thin air. A beautiful female magician lifted her hood, revealing a smiling expression, and nodded at it: "It seems I've arrived at a slightly inopportune time?"

no answer.

The cloak trembled and curled up into a ball as if it had seen a terrifying demon, trying desperately to hide behind the girl's body. But no matter how it tried to hide, Merlin followed it to both sides, his smiling face lingering in its mind. Finally, after much deliberation, it made up its mind and "smack—" the corner of the cloak whistled up and landed squarely on the girl's left cheek.

An incredibly crisp sound, an incredibly vivid red mark.

The cloak froze in mid-air. Merlin blinked and mouthed, "Oh dear, you've messed up..." Before it could react, a palpable rage had already begun to burn silently behind him.

"I won't call you out again for three days... no, five days... half a month. You'd better reflect on your actions!"

Accompanied by the girl's somewhat muffled roar as she covered her face, the cloak with extraordinary power, and even the Caster class that had awakened self-awareness, were locked in the small dark room.

……

"Well, little princess, still haven't found your beloved sword?"

Her staff and cloak were gone, and Guinevere was now dressed only in a simple swordsman's outfit, her white hair flowing down her back. Since the Sword of Light had not yet been retrieved, this Saber-class beauty had no Noble Phantasm at hand, her hands empty, giving her the appearance of a noble lady about to participate in a horse riding competition. Hearing Merlin's question, she shook her head: "No. I don't know where Krauss fell. I can only vaguely sense its existence, but I don't know its exact location. I can only continue searching like this, one place after another, like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"This is really bad news."

The female magician shrugged, her tone as flippant as ever, yet unable to conceal the deep weariness on her face. Merlin, always shrouded in mystery, had been able to cooperate with the Magic King and his group in their plans. Now, somehow, even after the cauldron shattered and the dream vanished, he still retained those memories, and was now the only one who still called her "Little Princess."

As a half-nightmare, entering dreams is almost instinctive for Merlin. If necessary, he would come here directly to find Guinevere. The two have become increasingly familiar with each other. Now, understanding the implication in her words, Guinevere couldn't help but look at Merlin with some curiosity.

"What, do you need my help?"

According to Artoria, Merlin apparently went to Orkney in the north to persuade King Loth not to get involved in their battle with North Wales. Judging from the sorceress's expression, the result was probably... not ideal.

as predicted.

Merlin paused for a moment, then sighed, "It's nothing, I just wanted you to help keep Gawain occupied for a while. If we find the Sword of Light, our chances of success will be much greater."

The girl's expression changed slightly: "You mean..."

“I couldn’t dissuade Lott; he’s still decided to help North Wales and has already begun reorganizing his troops.” Merlin pressed his temples. “I’m temporarily trapped by Morgan’s strange magic and can’t get away for a while. Please tell Artoria for me—”

"...Let's prepare for war."

P.S.: On New Year's Eve, some people are watching new anime, some are playing games, and some are strolling around with their girlfriends, while Qingbai is eating cookies and typing all alone!

Anyway, Happy New Year! Remember to vote in the new year!

Chapter Seven: Changes (Part 1)

The weather is getting colder day by day.

Although this British Isles is more developed than the girl remembered from her previous life due to magic and the will of the world, and the existence of crops such as potatoes allows people to live relatively well and the number of people who starve to death each year is not high, people have still not been able to overcome the harsh winters.

Ordinary people without supernatural powers can only stay at home all day long during the cold weather, relying on pre-stored food and fuel to survive for three months. Even for those from wealthy families or those with supernatural powers, winter is a major threat.

More accurately, what they fear is the heavy snow that falls in winter.

Perhaps the island's mystique hasn't completely faded, because every year when the snow falls, the magic in Britain grows increasingly intense, becoming incredibly chaotic due to the loss of balance. At this time, mages who normally command the elements can no longer easily manipulate the magic of the air or ley lines, becoming almost indistinguishable from ordinary mortals—which is why spellcasters, including Merlin, have all honed their close-combat skills to a formidable degree.

Because native British sorcerers cannot use magic for a full quarter of the year.

Without the enhancement of magic, and with temperatures dropping to minus forty or fifty degrees Celsius even in broad daylight, even the bravest knights would find it difficult to remain completely unaffected. Thus, with the first snow of winter approaching, both Arthur and North Wales, who were engaged in battle, took action in unison, striving to launch a decisive battle before the environment became even more severe.

As for King Arthur, there's no need to mention him.

First of all, Artoria, the strongest among them, is only a girl of about ten years old. Although the Dragon Heart can still provide her with a continuous source of magic power, once the external source of magic power is disrupted, the power of her trump cards, the Holy Lance and the Sword in the Stone, will be greatly reduced. Apart from her, there is currently no one in Carion who can fight against King Lyons of North Wales.

On the other hand, the current situation in South Wales does not allow them to leisurely endure the entire winter.

Three months is enough time for the entire situation to change dramatically. King Vortigern was hiding behind the scenes, and no one knew what he was planning. The seven Saxon kings were fighting each other, but they never gave up their desire to expand and invade. And one winter was enough for the northern kingdoms to initially annex the lands after the Picts disappeared. For most Britons, what actions the Kingdom of Scotland, ruled by Prince Pat, would take afterward, and which side it would support, were all unknown. No one could afford to be careless.

As for more remote areas, Ireland, which has not yet received much attention, and France, on the other side of the sea, are both embroiled in civil wars, while Rome is constantly at war with other countries. The final outcome of these battles will also have intricate connections with the situation in Britain.

Compared to those powerful and established feudal lords, King Arthur has only been in power for a little over a year. His position is unstable and his military strength is insufficient. He previously only caught North Wales off guard by relying on the astonishing power of the Holy Lance. If the enemy is allowed to recover during this winter, their chances of victory will be slim.

The situation is similar for North Wales. If the war cannot be ended in time and that “bold little man” is not defeated, even if the outcome is a Pyrrhic victory, the prestige and reputation that Lines has accumulated over the years will be greatly damaged. Other kings who have been holding back will likely take action one after another to test the waters, and the already consolidated territory will be thrown into turmoil again.

As time went by, all the forces became increasingly busy. Merlin visited Orkney, who was the most likely ally of Lyons, several times in an attempt to persuade King Lot not to participate in the war. However, it seems that she not only failed but was also imprisoned.

After receiving the message directly from her dream, Artoria took it very seriously and immediately sent someone to summon her trusted confidants for a meeting. However, it was only the early hours of the morning, and it would take some time for them to get ready and arrive. So she wasn't in a hurry and slowly got up. After a while, she looked out the window.

Beyond the square window lies an almost endless expanse of night sky, dotted with stars that resemble a dazzling galaxy from afar. Yet, due to the winter season, this scene carries an air of solitude.

Artoria simply looked up and quietly watched this scene.

She was still in her bedroom, with no one else around, so she didn't try to hide anything. She was wearing a simple light-colored bathrobe, barefoot, with her long golden hair draped over her shoulders. Her ahoge (cowlick) swayed slightly in the evening breeze blowing in from outside the window. Her hand rested on the windowsill, and a slight chill seeped into her fingertips, making her shiver involuntarily.

Just then, a slight magical fluctuation rippled behind her, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a red cloak hanging on a rack rise into the air and fly in a certain direction. Then, footsteps approached, and the heavy cloak landed on her.

"You'll catch a cold."

"I'm not that weak."

She replied, then reached out and tightened the sides of her cloak, squinted her eyes, and chuckled softly.

"Thank you."

"Actually, I just wanted to take advantage of the situation, but your sincere thanks make me feel... a little awkward."

Guinevere smiled and shook her head. The beautiful blonde hair swayed in front of her. Artoria turned around and leaned against the window. Her petite body, wrapped in a cloak, looked even more frail. In comparison, she looked rather pitiful standing there.

"Take advantage?"

“I wouldn’t dare touch your red cloak if anyone else were here.”

"Oh—so that's why it's cheap."

"if not?"

Artoria didn't answer, but just smiled with her eyes narrowed. Guinevere shook her head: "Artoria... you've become impure. You're no longer the good child I used to know."

"People are going to change."

Moreover, as for purity, in that "dream" that only a handful of people remember, they were... Several images suddenly flashed through her mind, and Artoria blushed slightly, looking away.

Once, she thought that the two of them were just ordinary friends. Even after knowing Guinevere's thoughts, Artoria was only seriously thinking about how to reject this feeling that should not exist—especially for King Arthur—in order to minimize the damage to their relationship. But when she woke up from her dream and realized that she might never see Guinevere again, she suddenly felt... a little lost.

Guinevere once told a story called "The Dream of the Yellow Millet" in casual conversation. There is a similar story in British legend. However, hearing about it and experiencing it firsthand are two completely different feelings. Once you wake up from the dream, all the things you were once so attached to seem to have suddenly become much lighter.

In reality, she was led by Merlin to obtain the Holy Lance from the Fairy Queen of the Lake, a process that was thrilling yet safe. However, in that bizarre dream, obtaining the Holy Lance was far more dangerous, and she even had a conversation with the spirit of the Holy Lance. At that time, Artoria firmly believed that to become a qualified king who met everyone's expectations, the prerequisite was to relinquish—the suppression of her own existence.

But now.