"A bumper harvest."
Ignoring whatever anyone else thought, Artoria—back in her original form—flopped happily onto her huge bed and rolled around in delight. Master's spear-craft was peerless: aim once, hit once. She had nailed the Destroyer to a hilltop, where runes now severed Odin's link to it. The weapon was hers; snatching loot under a mighty being's nose and escaping felt wonderful.
"You little rascal, always stirring up trouble."
As she wriggled in glee, a woman's voice startled her. Artoria leapt up and stared at the source, her instincts useless—who could sneak in like this?
"Who are you?"
Blinking away the sudden glare, Artoria found a woman in flowing white robes standing silently before her, head shaved, expression serene. The sight clicked: Sorcerer Supreme Ancient One.
"Relax, child. I'm a sorcerer, and judging by your face, you already know who I am."
Ancient One smiled. This was their first meeting, yet the girl had eluded her for years. This anomaly intrigued her; something here could twist the future. Yesterday's glimpse of Artoria had revealed staggering potential—however she borrowed that woman's power, the result was dazzling. Now, seeing her in person, Ancient One sensed even greater uniqueness; while others met her with wariness and curiosity, Artoria mixed wariness with surprise.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Even if a mighty being saw through her, she mustn't panic; saying the wrong thing would only worsen matters. Artoria actually admired those who greeted strangers with "I know you'll betray so-and-so in X year and kill Y," then got tortured until they spilled the plot—heroes of their own doom. Point at a villain's nose and claim, "You'll be beaten black-and-blue here and there," and the boss will arrange a grand execution right now.
"If you'd rather not speak, so be it. I came simply to meet you and share a cup."
Behind her a whirling portal opened, revealing antique tea-set. The invitation was issued; how could she refuse? Sighing inwardly, Artoria followed. When a titan personally calls, you go.
"A centuries-old fox indeed—nothing leaks."
Little fox and venerable fox sipped tea, probing for secrets, neither gaining ground. Yet Artoria gleaned something intriguing: Odin was far from simple, and Ancient One offered goodwill. The awakening of her dragon bloodline had brought trouble; Ancient One would help, provided she stood on Earth's side. Artoria agreed, feeling she'd struck a bargain—yet the seller always profits more than the buyer.
"The beings above and below grow restless again, as if I don't exist. Time to stretch my limbs."
After seeing Artoria off, Ancient One stood on the Himalayas' peak, gaze fixed on the horizon, expression calm, but her words pulsed with such power that space itself rippled. In a remote hamlet an old man's face changed; he melted into shadow and vanished.
"Cursed sorcerer, Earth will be mine one day."
Only a clone on Earth, Mephisto fled, yet his voice lingered, venomous. He had merely strolled out seeking Ghost Rider, only to be spotted by meddling mages—rotten luck. But he had time; he was immortal. One day he would outlast these wizards and burn their souls in hellfire.
"The world grows ever messier. Can I trust you, Artoria Stark?"
Back in her seat, she steadied herself with eastern tea. Her body and mind were frayed; she must find a successor soon. That heir should arrive before long. Calming herself, she reflected: a century earlier she might have stormed hell itself for a purge, but now Dormammu's darkness gnawed at her spirit. She must shed her mortal shell to be truly free.
"The big shot will always be the big shot—scared me half to death."
Back in her room, Artoria lay perfectly still on the bed. During that earlier meeting she'd kept every ounce of attention on the Ancient One; the moment anything felt off she'd planned to borrow Master's power and sprint for her life. Yet here she was, safe and sound, still drenched in cold sweat. She slipped out of her clothes, pale legs carrying her into the bathroom and straight into the hot spring. The exhaustion born of such intense tension was beyond imagining; she didn't want to move a muscle. Only the ahoge on her head happily twisted and twirled, as if it were having the time of its life.
"A salted-fish life really is best. If I'd known, I wouldn't have been so impulsive—though those two treasure chests are awfully nice.
Feeling the spring's warmth soak through her and soothe her mind, Artoria finally checked her haul. She cracked open both red chests; two bursts of seven-colored light flashed out, nearly blinding her. When the glare faded she examined the spoils, the corner of her mouth lifting. The take was excellent: several hundred holy grail stones plus two golden summoning talismans—loot from Thor's chest. The box dropped by the Destroyer made her even happier: it held a Holy Grail.
"Holy Grail, turn me into a man—now!"
She jubilantly voiced her deepest wish to the Grail, then waited… and waited. After a few minutes, nothing had happened.
"Trash!"
She lifted the Grail to hurl it into the trash, but the instant her skin touched it the cup melted into her body. A rush of heat surged through her; intricate red patterns crawled from her back to her lower abdomen, shifting by the second. Her eyes turned gold. A pure white ceremonial gown draped itself over her, the holy lance Rhongomyniad materialized in her grip, and a golden crown bound her flowing hair. Artoria had ascended from knight to goddess.
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