The inn they had chosen was nothing special—just a modest three-story structure nestled between a bakery and an apothecary in a quiet back alley off the merchant quarter. Its sign, The Green Griffon, swayed gently with the evening breeze, casting long shadows on the cobblestones. The room they'd taken was small but clean, with a round wooden table, two beds pressed against opposite walls, and a single enchanted lantern that glowed with a soft amber hue above them.
Kurono sat cross-legged on one of the beds, a plate of roasted root vegetables and thick barley bread beside him, half-eaten. His expression was distant, but his voice was calm as he relayed everything he had heard that day—snippets and whispers woven together like a tapestry only someone like him could stitch.
"Twelve Apostles," he said, his voice a low murmur. "People say they're not human anymore. Avatars. Vessels of the White Lord's will."
Shirou, sitting at the table and cleaning his fingernails with a dull dagger, stilled for a moment. His brow furrowed.
"Strongest on the continent?"
Kurono nodded. "One of them destroyed a mountain. Another turned a plague back with a wave of light. People say their presence alone burns away sin."
Shirou's jaw tensed. Holy avatars. If that was true—and if the White Sacrament was actively moving into Pandora—then something far more dangerous was brewing. Purges and crusades never ended quietly.
"And then," Kurono added, his voice losing its usual flatness for a moment, "there's Arthur."
Shirou looked up sharply.
"The King?"
"King of Logres," Kurono confirmed. "They say he arrived three days ago. Has his knights with him. Sword of light at his hip."
Shirou leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled before his mouth. A flicker of memory surged through him—golden hair, determined green eyes, the weight of destiny. Artoria.
"And you're sure it's him?" Shirou asked, voice low.
"Everyone says he holds Excalibur," Kurono answered, then added with a trace of sardonicism, "The same as yours… but taller. Handsomer. Women swooning. Men writing songs."
Shirou couldn't help the dry exhale that passed for a laugh.
"Some don't like him," Kurono added. "Think he's trying to get close to the Duchess."
"Jealous?"
Kurono nodded. "Very."
They both fell into silence for a moment. The room was warm, the food untouched now. Outside, a street bard sang something mournful about stars and silver oaths. Distant laughter drifted up from the tavern floor below.
"This world..." Shirou said slowly, "has echoes of our own. The legends. The relics. Arthur, Excalibur… It's not a coincidence."
He didn't say what truly gnawed at him—that if Arthur existed here, then others might too. Other legends. Other beings with Noble Phantasms. Enemies that couldn't be beaten with sheer will alone.
"This raises the difficulty level," he muttered, barely audible.
Kurono looked up. "Hm?"
"Nothing," Shirou said quickly, then stood and stretched. "Just thinking aloud."
They couldn't stay idle. Shirou pulled a folded piece of parchment from his coat pocket and unrolled it on the table. A crude sketch of the city map—gates, markets, noble quarters, and the massive coliseum shaped like a lion's paw.
"The coliseum's off-limits," he muttered, pointing to the grand structure to the west. "Too exposed. Nobles. Guards. Foreign eyes."
Kurono nodded once.
"We'll start with the port. Then the slums. Pubs, information brokers, smugglers—anyone selling enchanted gear or alchemical components."
He paused, his fingers running thoughtfully over his chin. "I'll need to make us proper masks—alchemical ones. Something real. Illusion magic is fine for now, but it won't hold up under scrutiny."
Kurono tilted his head. "You can make them?"
"I was trained to." Shirou's voice darkened slightly. "They thought I'd need to hide myself someday."
A long silence followed.
Finally, Kurono reached for his bread again and bit down slowly. "Good training."
Shirou smiled faintly. "Not good. Just useful."
Outside, a trumpet blared faintly in the distance—the signal of a change in the city guard. Another patrol, another layer of eyes added to the already vigilant city. With a foreign king visiting, security would tighten further. Their time was running out.
"I'll get the ingredients tomorrow," Shirou said. "Tonight, we rest. And then we disappear."
--------------------
The forest bore scars of battle—broken trees, scorched earth, and the lingering scent of ozone that still clung to the leaves. The bodies had been cleared, but the signs of overwhelming power remained like phantom echoes in the wind.
Hooves touched down lightly upon the mossy ground as the Pegasus Squadron dismounted with discipline. Clad in silver-and-blue armor bearing the crest of the Holy Sigil, their leader—a sharp-eyed woman named Seraphina—surveyed the battlefield with a practiced gaze.
"A single force did this," she murmured.
"No spellstorm. No signs of a squad," another knight confirmed. "This was surgical."
Meanwhile, further beyond the tree line and hidden among high canopies, two pairs of eyes watched with hawk-like focus.
"Well, they're a bit late to the party," came a low chuckle.
Billy the Kid, dressed in worn leather with a wide-brimmed hat, leaned against the trunk of a tree. He toyed with a six-shooter—alchemical in make, its surface engraved with warding runes and outlaw poetry.
"Like always," Robin replied in a cool, musical tone. He crouched on a thick branch, one leg hanging lazily, the other foot braced. His emerald cloak blended perfectly with the foliage. The bow slung on his back shimmered faintly with the pulse of spiritwood—alive, sensing.
The elf's green eyes glinted. "But not worthless. We're not the only ones interested in these ghosts."
"Yeah…" Billy flipped a coin. "You think this Judas bastard's got a lead?"
Robin gave a slow nod. "He never moves without a reason. If he's paying attention, it means the scales are shifting."
The two had arrived before the knights, following a trail even the crows had trouble tracking. Billy had spotted the crow—strange for its black mana trail—and Robin's instincts had whispered of change.
They hadn't interfered. Not yet. Not until they knew who, or what, they were dealing with.
"Whoever did this," Billy said as he holstered his gun, "ain't normal. Not just in power. In mindset. Look at this place. Precision. Purpose."
"They're hiding something," Robin agreed. "And doing a good job of it. The river… that's where the trail ends."
They had inspected it already. A single tree, cleanly felled, dragged into the river. The soil disturbed near its roots. No more footprints. No broken branches. No residual mana surge. Just still water flowing east.
"They used the current," Robin said. "Smart. Only three ways to go from there."
Billy pointed, ticking off directions like a gunslinger calling out his hand.
"Port town. Left bend. Right bank."
"And too much time has passed," Robin said, a flicker of frustration in his voice. "Mana signatures have faded."
The Pegasus Knights were coming to the same conclusion. Seraphina gestured to her squad and gave orders to fan out. They weren't obligated to chase—their duty ended at reporting—but curiosity and ambition stirred in their ranks. Each knight took to the skies, rising like silver arrows into the night as wings of light flared beneath their steeds.
Billy watched them disappear. "Think they'll find our mystery man?"
Robin didn't answer immediately. He adjusted his bow, then said softly, "No. He's already changed masks."
Billy smirked. "Heh. Just like us."
There was a beat of silence. Then Robin spoke again, voice thoughtful, laced with the weight of ancient memory.
"I want him in Yggdrasil. If he stands against the Apostles… if he's not with Judas…"
Billy gave a slow nod, tipping his hat down. "We'll find him. Don't we always?"
They vanished into the treetops like ghosts, even before the last of the knights had cleared the forest.
-----------------
Perched on the edge of a jagged outcrop overlooking the distant shimmer of the sea, Robin's keen elven eyes narrowed as he spotted the bustling port town sprawled out like a patchwork quilt stitched with ships, sails, and the glimmer of lanterns. The scent of salt and smoke lingered faintly in the air, drifting up from the harbor like a whisper of secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Beside him, Billy the Kid leaned casually on the trunk of a wind-bent pine, his thumb hooked into the loop of his belt, one boot resting on a gnarled root. He chewed thoughtfully on a stem of grass, gaze drifting over the rooftops below, where steeples and ship masts competed for dominance beneath a sky painted in hues of fading amber.
"You think they went there?" Billy asked, flicking the stem into the wind. His voice was lazy, but his eyes were sharp. "The port?"
Robin gave a single nod, his cloak fluttering around him like the wing of a hawk. "A smart man with magic on his tail would choose chaos over solitude," he said, voice low and melodic. "Crowds are a cloak unto themselves—and that town's got plenty of corners to vanish into."
Billy shifted, arms folding as he leaned closer. "Want to follow, then?"
But Robin shook his head, his brow creasing in thought. "Not now," he murmured. "Arthur's still in Assyria."
At the mention of the name, the wind seemed to hesitate, as though it too were wary.
"We don't want to rely on him," Robin added, more to himself than Billy. "Not yet."
For a brief moment, they were both silent, listening to the wind rustling the trees below and the distant cry of gulls circling the docks like ghostly watchmen.
Billy scratched his chin. "So we just wait for 'em to come waltzing out the front gates, then?"
Robin smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "If they can get out," he said.
There was something odd about the way he said it, and Billy straightened slightly.
"You're thinking about the barrier," Billy guessed.
Robin inclined his head. "Assyria isn't a city like the others. It's got a mana filter woven right into its foundations—ancient magic, expensive and hungry. No foreign mana gets in without being catalogued and marked."
"Registered signatures only," Billy muttered, whistling low. "So they're in the lion's den without an invitation."
Robin's smile turned wry. "And with Arthur around, it's not a lion they're dealing with—it's a dragon in a crown."
Billy gave a soft chuckle. "I've heard worse odds. Though I admit, not many."
Robin turned from the cliffside, his green eyes catching the moonlight. "Let's see if they make it out. If they do, we'll know they're worth the investment."
Billy watched him for a moment, then nodded, his boots crunching softly on dry leaves as he followed. "You really think they've got what it takes to join Yggdrasil?"
Robin's voice was calm but resolute. "If they don't, they'll die in that city. If they do… they may just help change the world."
And with that, the pair slipped into the woods like shadows beneath moonlight, moving silently toward Assyria—watchful, waiting, and perhaps, even a little hopeful.