In the real Britannia—
"Little Mordred, what do you think of the 'you' in that video?"
After watching the full video, Artoria felt strangely hollow.
The Arthur in the video had lived a fundamentally different path.
She had also resisted fate, like Artoria herself—but unlike Artoria, she had the power to change everything.
She led Britannia not to ruin but to a brighter future.
Mordred grew into a splendid king, no longer shadowed by darkness, governing flawlessly.
Artoria felt Mordred in that world did everything better than her—more fit to be king than she ever was.
Maybe she should have spoken openly with Morgan, given Mordred a real childhood.
Maybe she should have loved her more.
As a king, as a father… she had failed. The other Arthur had done both better.
She truly was a failure.
Mordred stood up.
Her black suit displayed her figure perfectly, sharp and heroic.
Watching the "her" in the video so mighty, she felt a fierce pride.
That was her. Proof she could become that.
If only her father had been like that father… maybe she could have realized her dream.
She had lost. Completely. Lost to herself.
But she didn't feel despair.
The conditions weren't even comparable.
A childhood of play… how wonderful.
She was jealous, but more than that, she envied it.
"I'm not as good as her. In any way."
The once-proud Mordred admitted defeat.
Artoria rose in silence and left.
"W-wait, me…?"
Mordred pointed at herself.
Was her father finally going to train her?
She had thought becoming a Heroic Spirit meant she'd never touch the throne again.
After Camelot's fall, the knights had been burdened with guilt.
She too felt she didn't deserve to face Artoria.
But Artoria had forgiven her.
She was the king who could swallow a knight's sins for the nation.
Mordred had long since lost any right to the throne.
In truth, she had never had the right.
She had only been Mother's tool to push Father down.
Out of shame, she now served faithfully.
That night, when all was quiet—
Artoria, rare for her, slept.
As a Heroic Spirit, she shouldn't tire if mana flowed.
Yet today, an unusual exhaustion weighed on her.
She lay in silk gold-trimmed nightwear, eyes closed beneath moonlight like a true sleeping beauty.
She dreamed—a bizarre, vivid dream.
"Do you wish to save Britannia? Do you wish this land to endure?"
A voice kept asking inside her mind.
"Yes!"
Artoria answered without hesitation.
The scenery shifted.
She saw an impossible sight.
"Save Britannia… make the nation last? Interesting."
A white figure gazed down at Britannia with amused interest.
Then the scene changed again.
"Artoria" was born, prepared from birth to serve the nation.
Meticulous, flawless, never revealing her talent or strength.
"So this was the true life of the Arthur from the video…?"
Artoria saw more clearly than she ever had from the screen.
Missing details were filled in.
That Arthur was not "her"—perhaps a parallel world's version.
But she had lived perfectly.
As for that white figure… Artoria memorized the aura.
If she ever met him, she wanted to thank him.
Because of him, she saw how Britannia might survive.
She also sensed that the "other her" carried a similar aura, linked to that white figure, but was not the figure itself.
The next morning, the world blew up with news.
[Britannia will hold a press conference. King Arthur will personally respond to a certain video.]
Originally the video was only spreading in the Dragon Dynasty, but Arthur's move made it go global in an instant.
Everyone wondered:
Why hold a press conference for one video?
Was it real?
In France, inside the Louvre Palace—
After Jeanne d'Arc descended, she gained overwhelming support and took the throne.
To honor her, the government had her reside directly in the palace.
The staff were thrilled to serve a king inside one of the world's greatest art palaces.
In a lavish conference hall, officials discussed Britannia's announcement.
Jeanne d'Arc was the public ruler of France, but she was still culturally inexperienced.
As a Heroic Spirit, she had time to study and had only recently graduated, just beginning to take real control.
"Your Majesty, what is your opinion on Britannia's sudden press conference?"
A pale, handsome man seated to her right stared at her with manic devotion.
It was Gilles de Rais—Bluebeard—manifested this time as a Saber, sane and obedient to Jeanne.
On the throne, the blonde girl fidgeted with her papers, unsure how to answer.
Under the table, her snow-white thighs pressed together nervously, rubbing in blue stockings, the bare strip of skin between stocking and skirt creating a faintly obscene rustle.
Jeanne stared tensely at the documents.
She had learned the theory, but practice was another world.