Sleep is always accompanied by dreams; to go without them is a rarity.
Whether in the past, the present, or the far-flung future—be they humans, "human species" adapted to harsh environments, or even the various A-Rays—all dream during their slumber. These dreams take on a myriad of forms: some vivid, some blurred, though most fade from memory shortly after waking.
Despite this, Ludwig could clearly sense that the dream he was experiencing now was fundamentally different.
He stood upon a verdant field he had never trodden, in a peaceful town he had never visited, feeling a warm spring breeze brush against his cheeks.
"Lord Merlin said it yesterday! Whoever pulls the sword thrust into this stone shall be the King of Britain!"
The villagers were shouting in excitement.
The sword thrust into the stone was a blade that called forth victory—a proof of kingship more definitive than mere bloodline. In the eyes of a magus, lineage was meaningless; only one who possessed power and the ability to save Britain would be acknowledged by the sword.
Merlin?
Ludwig stood amidst the rushing tide of villagers, watching them with surprise, as if he were witnessing a hyper-realistic virtual reality film. The bustling crowd occasionally collided with him, but they passed through him as if he weren't there, entirely oblivious to his presence.
"Thanks to this, every famous knight in the country is running over here, shouting 'I am the King!'"
The snatches of conversation drifted into his ears. Despite the cacophony, Ludwig was able to capture the clearest threads of information.
So that's how it is, he realized.
Merlin had told him that once a Master and Servant formed a contract, the Servant relied on the Master's magical energy to maintain their existence in the world. However, this magical pathway came with side effects. For instance, while one's consciousness was submerged in deep sleep, they might glimpse each other's memories.
And this place was the dream of his Servant, Saber—Artoria Pendragon.
The conversation they hadn't finished on the rooftop was now continuing here, unfolding before his eyes.
He saw the knights who yearned for Britain's restoration, those who held the throne as their ultimate ambition, gathering in this town. He saw the sword thrust into the stone and the knights who attempted to pull it, only to leave in dejected failure, one after another.
Ludwig stood in the center of the crowd, joining them as they gathered around the selection ceremony. He watched as knights, faces set with grim determination, placed their hands on the hilt, only to walk away with slumped shoulders.
There were knights who refused to give up and tried multiple times. There were those who shouted that there must be some mistake. There were even those who prided themselves on their strength, looking as though they intended to lift the entire rock along with the sword.
But no matter who it was, none could draw the sword from the stone.
"Knights... huh?" Ludwig couldn't help but chuckle to himself.
Come to think of it, he was a "Knight" as well—though not a "Knight" in the classical sense, but an "Ether Liner." His core was entirely different from these ancient warriors.
He scanned his surroundings. There was no sign of that Merlin here. Not the meddlesome succubus who clung to him and slept by his side, but the male version.
As no one proved capable of drawing the sword, a sense of disappointment spread from the knights to the spectating commoners. Is there no knight in this country capable of becoming King? Does Britain have no future? Can Merlin's prophecy truly be fulfilled?
Regardless, so many knights had gathered here that there were countless other ways to choose a king. They could simply test their strength as knights and appoint the most excellent among them to succeed the late King Uther as the King of Knights.
Ignoring the Selection Sword that had not chosen them, the knights began to propose methods of selection that favored them. First was the joust. For a true knight of honor, a duel involving a charge on horseback with a lance was only natural.
Considering this was likely a dream, Ludwig wondered if it would be alright to do something that deviated from history, even if he already knew the outcome.
For instance... what if he tried to pull that sword?
Just as Ludwig was considering this, the site of the selection ceremony fell into a sudden, rapid silence.
The knights who had failed to draw the sword had come to an agreement to decide the kingship through feats of arms. No one approached the stone anymore. It was even questionable how many of them still believed in the prophecy. The sword sat there, abandoned, as if nothing had changed since the beginning.
Ludwig didn't leave; he didn't follow the crowd to the next stage of the selection.
Because one person had stayed behind.
A small figure stood at the back of the crowd—someone so unassuming that even Ludwig had overlooked them at first.
Artoria Pendragon.
The youth wasn't surprised. After all, this was the memory of the King of Knights; it would be more strange if the protagonist wasn't present.
Clad in coarse, simple clothes and looking very much like a slender young boy, Artoria walked alone to the sword in the stone and reached out, gripping the hilt.
Her expression was complex, making Ludwig want to ask: What are you thinking at this very moment, King of Knights?
He hadn't expected the ceremony of drawing the sword to be so lonely. He found himself wanting to tell her to wait—should he go and call the others back to witness this? If he even could.
"It would be best to think carefully before you take hold of that."
A magus dressed in white, with white hair and a white hood that obscured whether he was young or old, spoke up.
This was the court magus who would later assist Artoria: Merlin, the Magus of Flowers.
Compared to the "Merlin" Ludwig knew, this man carried a different atmosphere. It wasn't just because he was male, but because while this magus was smiling, his tone held a hidden note of pity. Thus, he offered a warning.
"I will not harm you, so do not do it. Once you take hold of that sword, you will cease to be human until the very end. Not only that—once you take it, you will be hated by all and meet a tragic death."
The magus's warning—or rather, his prophecy—caused Artoria's face to contort with a flicker of fear.
You knew such destruction awaited, yet you still drew the sword? Then why did you do it? To reach the "correct" end that belonged to you? Or was it for something else?
Ludwig stepped back a few paces, standing to the side of the stone, silently watching Artoria as these questions surfaced in his mind.
Everyone has a reason to throw themselves into battle, even if it means being ground to dust.
What were you thinking when you first took that step? Ludwig asked internally, resting a hand on his hip.
This was a ritual to kill "herself." Drawing the sword meant abandoning her identity as a human and her right to human happiness to become a device known as "The King."
Artoria understood this better than anyone.
And so, she made her first vow; she voiced her original thought.
"There are many people smiling. I believe... that certainly cannot be wrong."
Ludwig nodded in silence.
Even for the King of Knights, who had carved her legend into human history, the reason for first throwing herself into battle was such a simple, pure, and beautiful prayer.
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Type-Moon: The A-Ray Knight's Holy Grail Journey(80 Chapter - Ongoing)
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