Three days had dragged on since the collapse of Avicebron's Golem.
Everyone still remembered Mordred's battle against an enemy that had seemed invincible, and, in the end, the blinding light of Ea's attack reducing the Caster's creation to dust.
Mordred, proud to the core, was furious for not being able to destroy the creature on her own. Her ferocious strikes, even with the full might of Clarent, were not enough against a construct that regenerated endlessly. It was only when Ea's roar descended upon the Earth that the Golem finally vanished.
After that, Mordred at least got to savor her revenge when she plunged her blade into Avicebron himself, ending the life of the traitor who had dared to hide behind his own creation.
But the result of that battle left deep scars.
Over the past three days, Atalanta had remained cold and distant. She refused to bow to Arthur's orders or show any intent to recognize him as her Master. Her distrust was clear in every icy glance, every stubborn silence.
The only reason she hadn't simply walked away was because of Chiron. The wise centaur—whom even Atalanta sincerely respected—had devoted himself to advising her. With patience, he tried to soothe the huntress's anger, reminding her that even amid the chaos of war, there were ideals that could only be defended together.
Thanks to that, Atalanta—albeit reluctantly—finally agreed to fight alongside the Black Faction. Yet her reluctance lingered: she still refused to obey Arthur directly.
And there was a crucial detail in that. Arthur possessed no Command Seals over her.
Of course, Jeanne could grant him one of hers, but using such a precious resource just to force obedience would be a senseless waste. A Command Seal was a last resort, something meant for critical moments. To spend it on mere discipline would be foolish.
Knowing this, Arthur never pressured Atalanta. He maintained an almost indifferent demeanor, as if her defiance was just another form of amusement. Though it might have seemed careless, there was strategy in his calmness: if she ever chose to rebel, he still had a final measure—but until then, he preferred not to create unnecessary friction.
And it was precisely for that reason that Atalanta's sudden change surprised everyone.
Without warning, she presented herself before Arthur and declared her loyalty.
Arthur had no idea why—and even the author couldn't explain how it happened. But he would be a fool to refuse such an advantageous alliance.
He rose from his seat, walking toward her with calm steps. When he stopped before the archer, he extended his right hand in a solemn gesture.
"Since you're finally willing to serve me... perfect, Atalanta."
The huntress stared at him seriously, her eyes gleaming with something between pride and conviction. She clasped his hand firmly and declared:
"I am willing to protect your ideals, Master."
The scene, however, did not go unnoticed.
From the side, a sarcastic laugh sliced through the air.
"Heh!" Mordred scoffed, resting Clarent on her shoulder. "So that's it, Master? Trying to collect Servants now?"
Arthur arched a brow, giving her a stern look without saying a word. The silence between them weighed heavily. Mordred crossed her arms and looked away with a scowl, though she didn't withdraw the provocation.
---
Atalanta's Ideals
Deep down, Arthur understood what drove the huntress. Her wish was simple—and impossible: to create a world where every child could be happy.
But such a world didn't exist. And, as cruel as it sounded, it never would.
Children—fragile and dependent—would always be at the mercy of adults. The behavior of adults—their vices, choices, and failures—inevitably determined the happiness or misery of a child.
Arthur understood that better than anyone. That was why he asked Chiron to guide Atalanta. To show her that, as beautiful as her dream was, it was unattainable. So that she wouldn't degrade herself as she had in the original timeline.
He didn't want to see her fall into that same tragic fate.
---
That night, alone, Arthur looked up at the sky.
He ended up voicing his thoughts in a low tone:
"Soon..."
With each passing day, the end of the war drew nearer. The inevitable conclusion loomed before him like a horizon of fire.
Arthur clenched his fists, his expression hardening.
"Tonight... it all ends."
Without further hesitation, he left his room—ready to take the next step toward the finale.
---
After a brief strategy meeting, Fiore, Caules, and Celenike, accompanied by the Black Faction's Servants, boarded three black sedans waiting before the mansion. The engines purred softly as the convoy departed toward the airport, gliding through the empty Romanian roads.
Inside one of the cars, the atmosphere was silent—almost suffocating.
Sitting by the window, Jeanne rested her chin on her hand, watching the rural scenery roll by. The green hills, the simple villages, and the winding roads all blended into a landscape that would soon be left behind. A sigh escaped her lips, heavy with melancholy that did not go unnoticed.
"So, this day has finally come..." she murmured, almost to herself.
Arthur, seated beside her, couldn't tell whether she was referring to the impending battle or the end of the peaceful routine they had briefly enjoyed.
"Don't think too much about it, Jeanne," he said firmly, placing his hand over hers. "I already told you—nothing will separate us."
Jeanne turned her gaze from the window to meet his eyes, a soft smile lighting her face.
"I know..." she replied.
The intimate atmosphere between the two was abruptly shattered by Mordred's impatient voice from the front seat, arms crossed and brow furrowed.
"Can you two stop with that pink, lovey-dovey stuff back there? I'm trying to focus!"
Arthur raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, another voice joined in:
"I hate to admit it... but I agree with her." Atalanta, seated beside Arthur, huffed, clearly irritated. "You two could at least try to be discreet."
Their synchronized complaint made Arthur chuckle. The light, unexpected sound broke the tension in the air for a fleeting moment.
---
The trip didn't take long, and soon the group arrived at their destination: the airport.
Jeanne frowned the moment she saw the facility. She had been there before when she first landed in Romania—but now, something felt off. Not that the place had changed structurally, but the atmosphere was completely different.
The space was deserted. Ghostly silent.
At the entrance, a group of men in suits stood waiting, motionless as statues. Fiore stepped forward and exchanged a few brief words with them. The guards nodded in unison and opened the gates, allowing everyone inside.
"A barrier was set up around the airport," Fiore explained calmly, adjusting her glasses. "It repels ordinary people and wards off any unwanted attention. No one will approach."
"Eh?" Astolfo leaned forward, eyes wide. "It's really empty! There's nobody in there!"
And he wasn't exaggerating. The vast airport seemed abandoned. The baggage conveyors were still, as if they had never run. The electronic flight boards were dark and blank, like dead eyes. No attendants, no passengers—nothing. Only the echo of their footsteps filled the vast, silent space.
Caules, guided by common sense, muttered in disbelief:
"Even for my sister... this is insane. How much did she spend to clear out an entire airport...?"
Fiore, however, remained composed as she explained without hesitation:
"Ten planes were purchased. All prepared for the Faction's transport."
"Ten?" Mordred raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"Yes," Fiore continued. "They'll be used as decoys. The likelihood of interception is high. If we only had one, it would be shot down immediately. With multiple targets, our chances of survival increase."
Arthur nodded slightly.
"A sensible decision. Wars aren't won with savings, but with strategy."
Celenike scoffed in disdain but said nothing.
---
As preparations continued, Arthur turned his attention to Caules.
"Come to think of it... you're really coming with us, Caules?"
The young man straightened, adjusting his glasses with determination.
"Yes. I'll go in my sister's place."
"Caules!" Fiore turned sharply, startled.
The shock in her voice echoed through the empty terminal. Unlike in the original story, Fiore here had not renounced her identity as a mage. She was no longer the Black Faction's last Master, but the acting leader of Yggdmilenia. And for that reason, she couldn't—and shouldn't—go to the battlefield.
Even if she wished to, no one would allow it. Her duty was to remain on the ground, holding the rear and awaiting their return.
Arthur placed a hand on her head, smiling gently.
"Don't worry, Fiore. Caules will come back safe and sound. I'll make sure of it."
Fiore lowered her eyes, biting her lip tightly. Finally, she murmured softly:
"...Thank you."
(End of Chapter)
"Hmph. If you really want to be useful, then entertain me, try to throw those pathetic power stones at me. Let's see if even your insolence can amuse a king."