Time's current flows by with irrational shapes. For long-lived beings, ten years may be a blink. But for ordinary people, it's enough to turn a pure child into a young woman and give a city a completely new face.
Spring, 2004.
The cherry blossoms of Fuyuki were in full bloom. In a luxury high-rise in the new city, sunlight like a golden veil slipped through the curtains, leaving dappled shadows on the floor.
In this peaceful scene, a voice as clear as an icy spring—yet tinged with laziness and sarcasm—pulled Steve's consciousness from sleep.
"Still asleep? Even stray dogs would be up, barking to mark their territory by now.
Early risers get the worm, old man—or are you content for your legendary 'retirement' to become 'eternal slumber,' foster father?"
Without raising her volume, the voice carried a honeyed gentleness that made it oddly pleasant. Yet the words themselves stabbed through even the toughest nerves like poisoned silver needles.
Steve opened his eyes, greeted by the flawless face of the girl right beside him.
Her long, white-silver hair draped smoothly over her shoulders like moonlight. Gold eyes sparkled in the morning light, as if able to see straight through people's souls. Her skin was porcelain pale, her features so delicate as to seem almost artificial.
At fifteen, Caren Hortensia had completely left behind her childlike innocence, blossoming into an elegant young lady. Her slender frame retained both the fragility of youth and the subtle traces of the curves she'll one day possess.
She softly leaned in, a faint, knowing smile on her face—a mix of the pleasure of watching a good show and a subtle intimacy easy to miss.
"Good morning, Caren."
Steve yawned and sat up, already long accustomed to these sarcastic morning calls.
"It's a bit late for 'good morning.' I thought the sun might just go back down out of boredom."
Straightening her posture, Caren replied with calm detachment, as if merely announcing facts.
"Yes, yes, it's all my fault."
With a helpless shrug, Steve shed the covers and headed for the bathroom, slipping into this familiar but complicated morning routine.
Ten years had passed. He had raised this girl for a decade—ten years of giving it his all.
He had used Cosmic Magecraft to optimize her body, suppressed the "Masochistic Spiritualist Constitution" so she was manageable and not merely passive, and completely hid the stigmata that should have appeared when she was nine, burying it so deep it couldn't be detected by any magecraft scrutiny.
He erased every trace of their departure from Italy, leaving the Church's pursuit a mystery. He gave her a normal education, sending her to Homurahara Academy.
By now, Caren was a first-year high schooler—a classmate, though not in the same class, as another girl he cared for deeply: Sakura Tohsaka.
As for Sakura: her fate had been rewritten in its entirety over the past decade. Ten years ago, Steve and a young Archer he summoned using a magic card, destroyed the Matou family's Worm storehouse and rescued the tormented girl.
He used magic to erase her traumatic memories and ensured she could return to her sister Rin, not as "Matou Sakura," but "Tohsaka Sakura."
Steve himself, naturally, became the sisters' part-time mage instructor, personally guiding Sakura's unique "imaginary number" magecraft.
Thus, Caren often met Sakura at their house for tutoring, and the two quiet girls developed a close friendship.
Everything seemed to be going well. Caren grew up healthy, never experiencing the inhuman suffering described in the original story. Her sense of taste was perfect; her right eye just as normal as anyone else's. Thanks to Steve's thorough care, she was in better health than most girls her age.
Yet fate's threads are always resilient. Despite all Steve did, Caren's longing to "serve God" never faded. But now, instead of becoming a tool moving from the shadows, she aspired to join a choir, praising God through song. Steve, of course, respected this will as entirely her own choice.
But here lay the problem.
As Steve brushed his teeth, he sighed inwardly. He had hoped the would-be saint could be raised more to his own liking—for instance, someone like Lalah Sune from the Gundam films: a perceptive newtype woman, radiating wisdom and motherly compassion, with a saintly healing aura.
...But reality was cruel.
After ten years, Caren had indeed grown. But her emotions, inherited from her father Kirei Kotomine, were broken from birth. Like stubborn genes, they stayed unchanged. She still seemed to relish watching people's happiness turn to disappointment, and delight in rubbing salt in others' wounds when they're at their lowest.
Her tastes were exactly like the "Prisma☆Illya" version—an unhealthy obsession with extreme sweetness and spiciness. Worst of all, the "saint-like qualities" Steve had counted on seemed, if anything, to have thinned over the years of a happy upbringing. Without those hardships, her faith became purer, but her traits settled into simply being... normal.
She was no longer destined to be a holy maiden in perpetual darkness—just a girl of faith with a rotten personality. She had no potential to be another Lalah Sune.
Now, in Steve's eyes, Caren was more like another troublesome Quess Paraya: precocious, sharp-tongued, looking up to him as a father, but with all the adolescent rebellion and distance that entails.
The bitter sense of "failed simulation" always gnawed at Steve's heart—the burdens of a century-old "father."
When he left the bathroom, Caren was already seated at the table. Two breakfasts: a typical Japanese meal, and beside it... a plate of toast drenched in bright red chili sauce and white icing—her own "hell toast."
"It was your turn to cook today, and you made something out of a 'hell's kitchen' challenge again?"
Steve sat and glared at the dish, his eye twitching at the culinary affront.
"It's a perfectly calculated blend to maximize flavor stimulation," Caren said elegantly, savoring a bite. "You just lack the advanced taste buds to appreciate it."
"And anyway... rather than be picky, you should be grateful to eat a breakfast your loving daughter made for you every morning."
"...Right, thank you so much," Steve replied listlessly, focusing on his own meal.
Father and daughter's daily bickering had become an unchanging melody over the years. Every unusually proper move Caren made—even her eating posture was as refined as an aristocratic lady—but those golden eyes were always searching for a new flaw to criticize.
She looked after him, would leave a light on when he came home late, and tried to make midnight porridge (oddly flavored) if he got hungry. But she never expressed concern directly—always using a stiff "I just want you to stop bothering me by dying, old man," kind of logic.
This was the daughter Steve had raised for ten years.
A tangle of frustration and warmth filled his chest. Perhaps this—watching your children grow into themselves, regardless of your plans—is what being a parent truly means.
He could only quietly observe...and get used to it.
He finished his miso soup, swallowing his regret.
…
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