Within the workshop, the air was frozen with tension. Sion Eltnam Sokaris, the once-in-a-century genius of the Atlas Institute, stared intently at the man before her with eyes capable of dividing thought and processing billions of streams of information simultaneously.
As her fingertips traced through the void, threads of ether-formed light spun intricate computations and logical chains before her eyes—yet, just before reaching a conclusion, they would collapse and vanish.
Her entire plan had unraveled. Frustrated, she found herself at a loss. The very existence of the man who called himself "Caster" seemed to openly mock her entire knowledge system.
The summoning circle's light had long since faded, the holy relic lay silently on the ground, not even responding to magic. The Rider who was supposed to appear as hope to lead them across the Lostbelt's seas turned out to be a powerful and enigmatic Caster, connected to them through some strange twist of "causality."
For Sion, who always acted by rigorous calculation and optimal solutions, this was an unacceptable mistake.
"…I don't understand."
"The summoning spell was correct, and the artifact precise," she murmured.
"Where did the variable arise? Causal interference crossing worldlines… this level of connection even surpasses the function of the catalyst…"
"You…"
Her whisper was less an interrogation and more a cascade of uncontrollable thoughts overflowing from her rapidly spinning mind.
Sion needed a vessel that could survive the imaginary sea and the storms of the Lostbelt—an Ark, so to speak. But, no matter how powerful a Caster, what could he truly do before the boundless sea? Build a floating fortress? That would just be an easy target on the ever-changing battlefield.
Faced with her mounting agitation, the so-called Servant Steve maintained only a calm, gentle smile, as if he saw through all her anxieties and calculations. His dark, deep eyes were utterly still, reflecting only the turmoil on her face.
"If you want a Rider, I'll switch to a Rider Saint Graph for you."
His tone was as casual as if remarking on the weather, yet the words themselves overturned all established magical common sense.
For a full 0.1 seconds, Sion's mind went blank.
Switch Saint Graph?
A Servant was a projection recorded in the Throne of Heroes, their class was fixed by the Holy Grail system at the moment of summoning—an absolute, immutable concept.
To freely change Saint Graph? That was as absurd as a human freely swapping heart and brain at will.
But Steve allowed no more time for analysis or questions. As he stood straight, the typical intellectual and reserved aura of a magus began to change in its very nature.
It was not the surge of magical power, nor the interference of a powerful chant. It was something deeper—a fundamental reconstruction from his very existence.
The air seemed heavier around him. The light subtly distorted; countless minuscule specks, like stardust, emerged from nowhere and slowly circled his body, flowing like a miniature Milky Way.
His eyes changed. All academic curiosity and evaluation disappeared. In its place, absolute authority and a profound will—the presence of a supreme commander ruling over billions.
His demeanor was no longer that of a weaver of dream, but of a sovereign of the stars.
Under the pressure of this invisible presence, Sion unconsciously took a half-step back. For the first time in her life, her proud intellect sensed its limit.
She could not analyze this transformation, nor categorize it as any known thaumaturgy or psychic ability. This wasn't mere shapeshifting, nor a form of possession. It was a completely irrational self-definition performed at the most fundamental level of "who am I?"
In mere seconds, the Saint Graph change was complete. The man before her was still the same, but the atmosphere around him had transformed completely.
He was no longer a Caster—but a Rider.
This was not playing a role, but embodying the role itself.
"…It's true, I don't possess Captain Nemo's Nautilus," he said. "In my era, Imaginary Number Space submersible technology was not a priority for civilization's progress."
He stretched his shoulders, adapting to his new state with the composure of a ruler. "However… if another kind of sea is involved, I may be of greater help."
He snapped his fingers.
"Master, come with me."
"Today is the anniversary of our first meeting, and the final day before the Bleached Earth order. To celebrate, let me show you a rare spectacle."
Before he finished speaking, he had already turned and walked out of the workshop.
Sion's body reacted even faster than her thoughts. The boundless curiosity for unknown truths, written in the blood of Atlas alchemists, overwhelmed her rational wariness.
Almost on instinct, she hurried past the cold, empty hallways and stepped into the elevator leading up to the surface.
She wanted to know what he meant to show her. What exactly was this other kind of sea that he referred to…?
As the elevator doors opened, a cool, briny breeze brushed against her, and Sion found herself stepping onto the wavering surface of an endless ocean.
She looked about. It was a vast, secluded cavern, dim yellow sunlight filtering in from the world outside.
Beyond her, the horizon stretched out as far as the eye could see—endless blue sea blurring seamlessly into a clear blue sky.
This was the last remnant of the world, the final scene before everything would be covered in pure white.
But the very instant Sion looked up—expecting only sky and drifting clouds—her breath and thoughts stopped.
A colossal, crimson shadow shrouded half the sky.
It hovered silently, as if it had been there since the dawn of time.
It was not a cloud, nor a mirage.
It was physical, sharply outlined—a creation of iron and steel, unimaginably gigantic.
Its silhouette—sharp prow, elongated hull—resembled a titanic sword stabbing into the heavens. The dusk-red hull shimmered with the cold, dangerous sheen of polished metal. The structure was bristling with complex installations and gun turrets, yet it showed no propellers, no jet nozzles, no magic circles for propulsion.
It simply floated there, gravity seemingly just a concept to twist or ignore, declaring its existence in utter silence.
Sion's mind blanked out. Her Etherlite shot forth, analyzing the ship's structure, materials, and energy signals.
But the only feedback was a cascade of confused, unintelligible error codes.
This warship's existence was built on a set of physical laws and technological systems she had never even imagined.
Its size… like a moving city.
Its energy output… like a sleeping star.
The silent pressure it emitted was so immense that even the Wandering Sea—the world's sensory organ—was overcome with a kind of fearful silence.
"What is this? A Noble Phantasm? Impossible! No Heroic Spirit legend has ever performed such a feat!"
Alien technology? Or perhaps a relic of forgotten gods from ages past?
"Its name is the Asteria-class Space Battleship."
The man beside her, now a Rider, calmly revealed the answer. "This is the vessel I commanded in life—one of the flagship battleships of my fleet, and also a symbol of my Rider class."
"Though just one among many, with it I can cross any sea—be it a Lostbelt storm or the true sea of stars."
Hearing this, Sion stiffly turned to look at the man beside her once again.
At that moment, she finally understood the source of his composure and confidence.
Frustration and confusion faded away, replaced by a dizzying, trembling sense of awe, a vertigo called the unknown.
Her desperate gamble for hope had not brought an expected savior, but something far greater and more miraculous than any hope she could imagine.
…