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The Crowned Flame Descends: The Young Sovereign's Journey
Prologue: A Whim of Cosmic Proportions
The concept of boredom doesn't truly apply to beings like Zarakhul Omnis Dei. When one exists beyond the comprehension of even the highest gods, when reality itself bends to accommodate your mere presence, what meaning could such a mundane emotion hold?
And yet, as he reclined upon his throne of conceptual dominance—a seat that existed simultaneously across all planes and none—the Young Sovereign found himself experiencing something dangerously close to it.
"Zera," he called, his voice barely above a whisper yet resonating across dimensional boundaries.
From the swirling cosmic flames that perpetually encircled his throne emerged a woman of impossible beauty. Standing tall at six-foot-one, her form was voluptuous yet elegant, cosmic-colored hair flowing like liquid starlight around her. Her eyes, shifting between supernova gold and abyssal teal, focused entirely on him.
"My Emperor?" Vael'Zeratha replied, her voice carrying the gentle hum of universes being born.
"I find myself..." he paused, searching for the right word, "...curious."
A slight smile touched Zera's lips, revealing teeth that seemed to contain constellations. "Curious, my Sovereign? About what could such a being as yourself possibly be curious?"
Zarakhul adjusted his position, the black-gold emperor robes trimmed with eternal flames shifting around his lean form. At only seventeen, his youthful appearance belied the incalculable power housed within. His deep cosmic gold eyes, containing spiraling galaxies for irises, gazed out beyond the confines of his realm.
"There are worlds, Zera... worlds with rules and limitations. Worlds where beings call themselves gods yet know nothing of true divinity." He twirled his celestial fan lazily between his fingers. "I wonder what it would be like to visit such a place. Not to conquer, merely to... observe."
Zera moved closer, a subtle possessiveness in her gesture as she placed a hand on his shoulder. Where her fingers touched, reality itself seemed to ripple in pleasure.
"You would descend to lesser realms?" she asked, curiosity mixing with protective concern. "For what purpose, my Flame of Orderless Majesty?"
"Purpose?" he laughed, the sound causing distant galaxies to harmonize in response. "Must everything have purpose? Perhaps I simply wish to walk among those who believe themselves important. To see how they justify their existence when they know so little of what lies beyond."
Zera considered this, her cosmic hair shifting through spectrums of color as she thought. "And which realm would you honor with your presence?"
"I've been watching one in particular," Zarakhul said, waving his celestial fan. Reality parted before it, revealing a multiversal cluster known to its inhabitants as the Nasuverse. "This one amuses me. They have structured their cosmos so carefully, with such precise hierarchies of power. Rules upon rules, mysteries and magecraft, heroic spirits and divine beings—all playing within boundaries they believe unbreakable."
"It is a charming little dollhouse," Zera conceded, studying the image. "Though entering it would be like a titan stepping into a house of glass. Your mere presence would shatter their systems."
"Precisely why it interests me," Zarakhul smiled, a rare display that sent ripples of pleasurable shock throughout nearby dimensions. "I wish to see how their rules bend around me. How their gods and heroes respond when confronted with something that exists beyond their comprehension."
Zera's eyes narrowed slightly. "And if they should somehow displease you?"
"Then they will learn the difference between gods who are named and Gods who simply Are." He stood from his throne, and all of existence seemed to hold its breath. "Will you accompany me, my dragon goddess?"
Her answer came not in words but in transformation. Her human form dissolved into burning cosmic light, expanding outward until a dragon of impossible proportions manifested. In deference to the realm they would visit, she limited her size to merely that of a city block—a gesture of restraint that would go unappreciated by those below.
Zarakhul stepped forward, gravity rewriting itself not to offend his descent as he mounted the great dragon. As he settled between her massive shoulder blades, he leaned forward to stroke her scales—each one containing what appeared to be an entire galaxy in miniature.
"Gentle, Zera," he admonished with amusement. "We are not conquerors today, merely tourists."
"As you wish, my Emperor," her voice rumbled, sending tremors through reality. "Though I make no promises should any dare to disrespect you."
"I would expect nothing less," he replied with fondness. With a casual gesture of his fan, he tore open the barriers between realms, creating a pathway into the Nasuverse. "Let us see how the little gods play when true divinity walks among them."
Part I: First Contact - The Shock of Divine Presence
The sky over Fuyuki City cracked—subtly, politely. Not violently, as if afraid to be rude in his presence.
It began as a hairline fracture in the blue expanse, a sliver of something beyond comprehension peeking through. Then, with the delicacy of petals unfurling, reality parted to allow entry to that which existed beyond its jurisdiction.
Descending from the rift, Vael'Zeratha, in her city-block-sized dragon form, coiled through clouds and folds of atmosphere. Her scales, each containing the depth of a galaxy, refracted sunlight into impossible colors. Her wings, stretching wide enough to cast entire districts into shadow, beat with a gentle rhythm that nonetheless collapsed bounded fields across the globe.
Planes crashed, their navigation systems overwhelmed by her presence. Satellites panicked, transmitting garbled messages about cosmic anomalies before falling silent. Bounded fields all across the world imploded under the Astral Submission Field she passively emitted.
On her back sat Zarakhul Omnis Dei—clad in his black-gold emperor robes, celestial fan resting in hand, eyes half-lidded in amusement as he surveyed the world like a patron observing a child's art project.
"Charming," he mused, watching as the city below erupted into chaos. Magi scrambled to reinforce failing bounded fields, Counter Guardians stirred in agitation, and even the slumbering gods of this realm shifted uneasily in their rest. "They still believe death has meaning here."
Zera hummed in response, her wingbeats collapsing more bounded fields like whispers snuffing candles. "Their entire conceptual framework is built on permanent endings. How quaint."
"Understandable, though," Zarakhul replied, his voice carrying no judgment. "When your existence is so brief, you must create meaning from its limitations."
"Should I burn it, my Sovereign?" Zera asked, flames that could unmake concepts flickering between her teeth. "It would be a mercy, in truth. To free them from their cage of rules."
"No," he replied, running a hand along her scales affectionately. "Let's see how long the illusion holds. There is beauty in their struggle against inevitable truth."
They drifted lower, and Fuyuki trembled beneath them. The very concepts that formed the foundation of this reality—the Root, Origin, bounded fields, magical circuits—all vibrated in disharmony as something they could not categorize entered their domain.
In the Clock Tower, the heart of the Mage's Association, alarms that had never before been triggered blared to life. In the Church, sacred relics bled and shattered. And in the hidden places where the oldest beings of this world dwelled, ancient eyes opened in confusion and terror.
"Something approaches," whispered Zelretch, the Wizard Marshal, master of the Second Magic and one of the most powerful beings in this realm. "Something that should not be."
In a hidden chamber beneath Fuyuki, where the preparations for the Fifth Holy Grail War were nearing completion, seven magi felt their command seals burn with unprecedented intensity. The Grail itself, that corrupted vessel of wishes, churned with newfound anxiety.
Somewhere beyond time and space, Counter Guardian EMIYA felt a summons unlike any before—not to eliminate a threat to humanity, but to bear witness to something that transcended the very concept of 'threat.'
Their idle stroll across timelines brought them directly over Fuyuki, precisely during the summoning phase of the Holy Grail War. Beneath them, seven desperate magi chanted flawed rituals, clawing at echoes of heroism to earn a wish.
Zarakhul tilted his head, smirking as he observed the complex ritual energies swirling below.
"They summon Servants to grant wishes," he noted, genuine curiosity in his voice. "Curious. How adorably backwards."
"What do you mean, my Emperor?" Zera asked, her massive form circling lower.
"They believe they need heroic spirits to grant wishes," he explained, "when wishes themselves are merely expressions of desire and will. They bind these magnificent beings, echoes of true legends, and for what? To fight proxy wars over a corrupted vessel."
He stood upon Zera's back, his balance perfect despite her movements. "I think I shall take a closer look."
"Be careful, my Sovereign," Zera cautioned, though both knew there was nothing in this realm that could harm him.
"Always, my dear Zera," he replied with affection, and then he stepped off her back.
Gravity rewrote itself not to offend his descent. He did not so much fall as the world rose to meet him, eager to cushion his arrival. He landed with perfect grace before the grail's forming vortex, startling every magus and entity nearby.
Time fractured around him. Spiritual pathways recoiled from his presence. The Grail itself shuddered, as if recognizing that something far beyond its pay grade had intervened in its carefully designed system.
The gathered magi—representing families like Tohsaka, Matou, and Einzbern—froze in confusion and fear. Their rituals, interrupted at the crucial moment, hung in potentiality rather than collapsing. It was as if reality itself held its breath, waiting to see what this newcomer would do.
"Zera," Zarakhul called, looking up at the massive dragon circling overhead.
"Yes, my Emperor?" she purred, folding her wings around the world like a mother's embrace.
"Let's try their ritual," he said, the first hints of genuine entertainment crossing his features. "For sport."
Part II: The Summoning - A Different Kind of Contract
The gathered magi watched in stunned silence as the young man—seemingly no older than seventeen—stood calmly before the swirling energies of the incomplete Grail ritual. His presence alone had frozen their carefully prepared ceremonies, command seals burning impotently on their hands.
"Who are you?" demanded Tokiomi Tohsaka, the first to recover his voice. "How dare you interrupt the sacred ritual of the Holy Grail War?"
Zarakhul barely spared him a glance, but that momentary attention was enough to make the powerful magus stumble back, his magical circuits overloading with input they could never process.
"Sacred?" Zarakhul repeated, genuine amusement in his voice. "Is that what you call this flawed system of bondage and battle?"
Above them, Zera's massive form began to shrink, collapsing inward until she descended in her human form—tall, elegant, and radiating such power that the earth beneath her bare feet crystallized into strange, glittering substances unknown to this world.
"My Emperor," she said, coming to stand slightly behind him, "they cannot comprehend what you are. Their minds lack the necessary dimensions."
"Evidently," he agreed, turning his attention back to the incomplete summoning circle. With no catalyst, no circle, and no chant, he simply spoke:
"Come forth. The one whose pride once held kingdoms in line. Let your blade be mine—not by contract, but by coronation."
Reality bent in apology for what followed.
The summoning circle, designed to call forth heroic spirits through the Throne of Heroes, suddenly blazed with light far beyond its intended capacity. The grail's energy, which had been carefully portioned to summon seven Servants, now flowed unrestrained toward Zarakhul's command.
Light cracked open across time and myth, and from within walked Artoria Pendragon—but not as a Servant bound to the system. She emerged fully formed, not as a reflection of her heroic self but as her complete being, drawn across time and space by something that transcended the limitations of the Throne of Heroes.
Her armor gleamed in the moonlight, Excalibur held ready in her hand. But as her eyes fell upon Zarakhul, something changed. Her instincts—honed through years of kingship and battle—screamed submission. The holy sword, once sealed, unsheathes itself of its own volition—not in defense, but in offering.
To the shock of everyone present, including herself, she knelt, not out of magical compulsion but reverence.
"My king..." she whispered unconsciously, as if recognizing the ideal she never truly fulfilled, and then was stunned by her own words.
Zarakhul gently lifted her chin with one finger, studying her face with genuine interest.
"You've done enough kneeling for kings who weren't worthy," he said softly. "Stand. You're mine now."
She was even more stunned at those words, confusion warring with an inexplicable sense of rightness.
Behind him, Zera narrowed her eyes, amused but watchful.
"Another knight, my Sovereign?" she asked, a hint of possessiveness in her tone. "Shall I be jealous?"
"Only if she tries to ride you, Zera," he replied with a smirk.
"She would not survive," Zera purred, baring teeth that seemed too sharp, too bright to be human.
Artoria rose to her feet, still gripping Excalibur, but now holding it point down—a gesture of respect rather than threat.
"I don't understand," she said, her voice regaining some of its regal composure. "I was to be summoned for the Grail War, to fight for the Holy Grail."
"And now you've been called to something greater," Zarakhul replied. "The question is, what will you do with this opportunity?"
Before Artoria could respond, chaos erupted around them. The other magi, recovering from their initial shock, were attempting to salvage their own summonings. Command seals blazed as they forced their will upon the Grail system.
"Stop them!" Tokiomi commanded, directing his magic toward Zarakhul. "They're disrupting the entire ritual!"
Flames of exceptional power—the Tohsaka specialty—roared toward Zarakhul and his companions. Artoria moved instinctively to defend, raising Excalibur, but there was no need.
The flames simply ceased to exist as they approached Zarakhul's aura. Not extinguished, not absorbed—they were retroactively removed from the concept of "existence" itself.
"How tedious," Zarakhul sighed, waving his celestial fan casually. The gesture seemed to fold reality, and suddenly the magi found themselves frozen in place, their magic suspended in potentiality.
"I didn't come to disrupt your little war," he informed them, though his tone suggested minimal concern for their predicament. "Continue your rituals if you must. I've found what interests me."
With another wave of his fan, he released them from temporal suspension, and the interrupted summonings surged forth. In rapid succession, the remaining Servants manifested—Archer, Lancer, Rider, Caster, Assassin, Berserker—each appearing before their designated Master.
But something was different. As each heroic spirit materialized, their eyes were drawn not to their Masters but to Zarakhul. Recognition dawned on their faces—not of his identity, but of his nature.
Gilgamesh, summoned as Archer, was the first to speak. The King of Heroes, arrogant beyond measure, stared at Zarakhul with narrowed eyes.
"What manner of being are you?" he demanded, his voice lacking its usual contempt, replaced with cautious assessment.
"One who finds your collection of treasures charming," Zarakhul replied, meeting the golden king's gaze without concern. "Though somewhat limited in scope."
Gilgamesh's expression darkened at what would normally be a lethal insult, but he did not immediately attack—a restraint shocking to all who knew his nature.
"Come, Artoria," Zarakhul said, turning away from the gathering. "And you as well, Zera. I believe we've caused enough disruption for one night."
"You cannot take my Servant!" protested the young Einzbern homunculus who had attempted to summon Artoria. "I am her Master!"
Zarakhul paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Am I taking her?" he asked Artoria directly. "Or are you choosing to follow?"
Artoria hesitated, looking between the desperate homunculus and the unfathomable being before her. "I..." she began, clearly torn between duty and an inexplicable pull.
"You feel no contract binding you," Zarakhul observed. "No command seals compel your obedience. The choice is entirely yours, Knight of the Round Table."
This realization seemed to startle Artoria. She looked down at herself, sensing the absence of the restrictions that normally accompanied a Servant summoning. She was not drawing mana from a Master. She was not bound by command seals. She was... free.
"I will follow," she decided finally, sheathing Excalibur. "Not as a Servant, but of my own will."
"How is this possible?" someone whispered among the gathered magi. "He's overwritten the entire system."
"Not overwritten," Zarakhul corrected, though he hadn't seemed to be listening. "Simply reminded it of broader possibilities."
With that, he turned and walked away, Zera at his side and Artoria following behind. The gathered Masters and their newly summoned Servants watched in silence as the strange trio departed, leaving devastation not through destruction but through the fundamental restructuring of what they had believed immutable.
In their wake, the Fifth Holy Grail War would proceed—but altered irrevocably by the mere passing of something beyond its conceptual framework.
Part III: Initial Days - The Weight of Sovereignty
At first, Artoria followed out of oath.
She could not explain, even to herself, why she had knelt. No contract bound her to this strange young man. No compulsion had been used. Yet standing before Zarakhul, she had felt what it meant to be in the presence of one who was born to be obeyed—not out of force, but sovereign truth.
For three days, she observed him in silence as they made their way through Fuyuki City. Zarakhul showed no interest in the Holy Grail War unfolding in their wake. Instead, he wandered the streets, markets, and parks with the curiosity of a tourist, Zera perpetually at his side.
On the fourth day, as they stood atop a skyscraper overlooking the city, Artoria finally spoke her mind.
"I will serve you, not as your Servant," she declared, her voice carrying the weight of her former kingship, "but as your knight."
Zarakhul turned to her, the eternal flame in his eyes dancing with amusement. He laughed gently, almost teasing.
"You mistake me for someone who needs service," he replied. "I summoned you to see if you'd look better standing or kneeling. I haven't decided yet."
Zera, leaning against a nearby railing in her human form, smirked at the exchange. Her cosmic-colored hair drifted in a breeze that seemed to affect nothing else on the rooftop.
Artoria flushed. Not from shame—but rage. No one spoke to her like that. No one had ever dared, not even in her darkest days as the King of Knights.
"I am not an ornament for your amusement," she said stiffly, hand instinctively moving to Excalibur's hilt.
"Aren't you?" Zarakhul asked, his tone genuinely curious rather than mocking. "Isn't that what all beings become in the presence of that which transcends them? Ornaments, curiosities, pieces of a collection?"
Before Artoria could respond, Zera straightened, her eyes narrowing as she looked toward the horizon.
"We have company, my Emperor," she announced, a note of anticipated pleasure in her voice. "It seems the little war has come to us."
From multiple directions, they could sense the approach of Servants—powerful heroic spirits drawn not to battle each other, but to investigate the anomaly in their midst.
The first to arrive was Rider, Alexander the Great, mounted upon his divine bull. The massive Servant landed on the rooftop with thunderous force, his laugh booming across the cityscape.
"So this is the being that has disrupted our war!" he declared, looking Zarakhul up and down with unabashed interest. "You're smaller than I expected."
"And you're exactly as I anticipated," Zarakhul replied, unperturbed by the giant's overwhelming presence. "The king who measured greatness by distance conquered rather than hearts changed."
Alexander's smile faltered slightly, but his enthusiasm remained undimmed. "And what manner of conqueror are you, boy? What lands have you claimed?"
"I don't conquer," Zarakhul said simply. "I exist, and existence accommodates me."
"Bold words!" Alexander boomed. "But words alone don't make a king!"
"No," agreed another voice as Archer—Gilgamesh—materialized in a shower of golden light. "Actions define kingship. Authority. Power." His red eyes fixed on Zarakhul with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant respect. "The question is, what actions has this pretender taken to warrant such confidence?"
"Pretender?" Zarakhul echoed, genuine amusement in his voice. "That's rich, coming from one who styles himself 'King of Heroes' while knowing so little of what lies beyond his golden garden."
Gilgamesh's expression darkened dangerously. "You dare mock the King?"
"I acknowledge the king," Zarakhul corrected, "while recognizing his limitations."
The tension on the rooftop thickened as more Servants arrived—Lancer taking a position near the edge, Caster hovering nearby, Assassin lurking in shadows, and even Berserker's massive form crashing onto an adjacent building.
Only Saber was missing—for she stood now behind Zarakhul, torn between her newfound allegiance and her nature as a Servant in the War.
"Why have you come to this realm?" demanded Gilgamesh, his patience visibly wearing thin.
"Curiosity," Zarakhul answered honestly. "To observe beings who believe themselves the pinnacle of power. To walk among those who have never glimpsed what lies beyond their conceptual framework."
"He means he's slumming," Zera added with a smirk, drawing all eyes to her towering form. Even in her human guise, she radiated such power that several of the Servants instinctively shifted into defensive stances.
"And what are you?" asked Caster, her voice betraying her unease.
"I am Vael'Zeratha," she replied, her true name causing ripples through reality itself. "The Primal Flame of Final Majesty. First pulse of Flame and Void. Breaker of Origins." Her smile revealed teeth too sharp to be human. "But you may call me Zera—if my Emperor permits it."
"He is no emperor," Gilgamesh stated flatly, though his usual absolute certainty seemed somewhat diminished. "He is a child playing at godhood."
In response, Zarakhul merely tilted his head, studying Gilgamesh as one might study an interesting but ultimately harmless insect. Then, with a casual flick of his celestial fan, he altered reality.
The change was subtle but profound. Suddenly, all the Servants found themselves unable to access their Noble Phantasms. The conceptual weapons and abilities that defined them as heroic spirits were simply... inaccessible. Not destroyed, not sealed—just temporarily placed outside their reach.
"What have you done?" demanded Alexander, reaching futilely for his sword.
"Reminded you of perspective," Zarakhul replied calmly. "Your powers are borrowed from humanity's belief. Mine exist independent of recognition or faith." With another flick of his fan, he restored their abilities. "I didn't come to challenge your war or claim your grail. I came to observe. Nothing more."
Gilgamesh, visibly shaken though trying to conceal it, took a step forward. "If you truly possess such power, why waste time with observation? Why not simply take what you desire?"
"Because desire itself is shaped by limitation," Zarakhul explained, his voice taking on a teacher's patience. "When one can have anything, the nature of wanting changes. I don't desire objects or outcomes. I desire experiences. Understanding. Connection."
His gaze shifted briefly to Artoria, who stood watching the exchange with growing comprehension.
"Now," Zarakhul continued, addressing all the gathered Servants, "you may return to your war. Continue fighting for your corrupted grail and limited wishes. I won't interfere—unless you make it necessary."
There was an implicit threat in his words, though delivered with perfect politeness. One by one, the Servants departed—all except Gilgamesh, who lingered.
"This isn't over," the golden king warned. "No one dismisses the King of Heroes."
"I didn't dismiss you," Zarakhul corrected. "I gave you a choice. That's more than you typically offer others."
Gilgamesh's eyes narrowed, but he offered no retort. Instead, he dematerialized in a shower of golden particles, leaving the trio alone on the rooftop once more.
"Well," Zera said into the ensuing silence, "that was invigorating. Shall we continue our tour, my Emperor?"
"Yes," Zarakhul replied, his interest in the confrontation already fading. "I believe there's a temple nearby that houses interesting conceptual anomalies."
As they made their way toward the stairs, Artoria finally spoke again.
"You could have destroyed them all," she observed. "Yet you chose restraint. Why?"
"Destruction is the easiest and least interesting expression of power," Zarakhul replied without looking back. "Anyone can break things. Creating, preserving, understanding—these require greater mastery."
And despite her lingering anger at his earlier dismissal, Artoria found herself following him anyway, drawn by an understanding of rulership she had sought throughout her own reign but never fully grasped.
Part IV: First Week - The Cracks Begin
Over the following days, Artoria watches Zarakhul dismantle the fabric of magi society in passing. It isn't done with malice or intent—merely as a consequence of his existence in a realm not built to accommodate him.
Bounded fields collapse in his wake. Heroic Spirits find themselves momentarily disconnected from their Masters when he passes nearby. Ley lines surge and ebb erratically, following his movements like love-struck puppies. Even Zelretch, the wielder of the Second Magic and one of the most powerful beings in this reality, doesn't dare to observe him directly, sensing the fundamental threat to the conceptual structure he helps maintain.
Zarakhul doesn't conquer. He simply exists, and things rearrange themselves to fit him.
But it isn't his power that shakes Artoria's resolve.
It's the casual way he uses it. The utter calm with which he walks through godhood.
Where others boast, he yawns. Where others command, he glances. Where others demand love… he does nothing—and yet everyone leans toward him.
Even her.
They are walking through a moonlit garden when she catches herself staring at his profile for the third time that hour. The way starlight seems to bend around him, how flowers turn toward him as if he were the sun, how the very air vibrates in anticipation of his next word or gesture.
"You're staring again, Saber," he notes without turning.
"I was… assessing threat vectors," she lies, her training as a knight providing the excuse.
"Adorable lie," he replies, finally looking at her with those galaxy-filled eyes.
She blushes again, uncomfortable with how easily he sees through her. Nearby, Zera watches their interaction, clearly amused.
"Another flame added to the orbit," the dragon goddess muses just loudly enough for Artoria to hear.
"I am not orbiting anyone," Artoria protests, her pride as the King of Knights flaring.
"No?" Zera challenges, moving closer with inhuman grace. "Then why do you follow? Why do you watch? Why do you lean toward him when he speaks, like a flower seeking light?"
Before Artoria can formulate a response, their attention is drawn to a disturbance ahead. A group of local magi—minor practitioners affiliated with the Clock Tower—have set up a barrier across their path.
"In the name of the Mage's Association," their leader declares, "we demand you cease your disruption of the natural order!"
Zarakhul doesn't even break stride. As he approaches the barrier, it simply... unravels. Not violently or explosively, but as if the conceptual framework that gave it structure suddenly recognized its own irrelevance.
"The natural order," Zarakhul repeats thoughtfully, continuing past the stunned magi. "Such an interesting term. Nature. Order. As if the two weren't inherently contradictory."
"You're destroying foundations laid by generations of magi!" one of them protests, desperation in his voice. "Systems that maintain the balance between mystery and reality!"
Zarakhul pauses at this, genuinely interested in the claim. "Am I?" he asks, turning to face them fully. "Or am I simply revealing the artificiality of your constructs? True mysteries don't collapse in the presence of greater understanding—they deepen."
His words seem to resonate on multiple levels, causing several of the magi to step back in confusion as their magical circuits vibrate with unfamiliar energy.
"What are you?" whispers one, a young woman whose family has served the Association for centuries.
"A question more interesting than any answer I could provide," Zarakhul replies with a gentle smile. "Ask instead: what could you become if you stopped accepting the limitations others have defined for you?"
Without waiting for a response, he continues on his way, Zera and Artoria following in his wake. The magi make no move to stop them, too shaken by the casual dismantling of their reality.
Later that evening, as they rest in a traditional inn that has been mysteriously emptied of other guests, Artoria confronts him directly.
"You speak of limitations as if they were merely suggestions," she says, watching him as he gazes out at the moon. "Yet all existence is defined by boundaries. Without them, there is only chaos."
"Is that what you truly believe?" he asks, turning those ancient young eyes toward her. "That boundaries are necessary rather than convenient?"
"Of course," she insists. "Without laws, without structure, civilization crumbles."
"Ah," he nods, understanding. "You're speaking of societal constructs rather than ontological frameworks. Yes, civilizations require agreements on behavior—mutual limitations for mutual benefit. But that's very different from accepting false ceilings on potential."
"False ceilings?" she echoes, confused.
"The magi of this world believe they've reached the pinnacle of their craft," he explains. "They've codified their understanding into rigid systems, believing they've mapped the full territory of possibility. But they've merely drawn borders around their own ignorance and called it mastery."
His words strike uncomfortably close to Artoria's own experience as king—her belief that she had understood the full scope of rulership, only to watch her kingdom fall despite her best efforts.
"And you?" she challenges. "What limitations do you acknowledge?"
For the first time, something like thoughtfulness crosses his perfect features. "Interest," he says finally. "I am limited by what captures my attention. By what I find worth engaging with."
"That's not a real limitation," she argues.
"Isn't it?" he counters. "When you can do anything, the only meaningful constraint is desire. And desire itself is shaped by values, aesthetics, connections." His gaze lingers on her face. "By beings worth knowing."
The implication hangs in the air between them, and Artoria finds herself uncomfortable with the warmth it generates in her chest. She is a king, a knight, a symbol of perfect rulership—not someone to be flustered by cryptic compliments.
"You should rest," Zarakhul suggests, mercifully changing the subject. "We'll be visiting the Grail's physical anchor tomorrow. It promises to be... illuminating."
As Artoria withdraws to her room, she passes Zera in the hallway. The dragon goddess regards her with those shifting gold-teal eyes that seem to see beyond physical form.
"He finds you interesting," Zera says, her voice neither jealous nor approving—merely observational. "That's rare."
"I don't exist for his entertainment," Artoria replies stiffly.
"No," Zera agrees, surprising her. "You exist for your own purposes. That's precisely why you intrigue him. Most beings are predictable, following the paths laid out for them by nature or society. You forged your own way, even when it led to tragedy."
"How do you know about my past?" Artoria demands, unsettled.
Zera's smile is ancient and knowing. "I don't need to know specific events to recognize patterns of being. You carry yourself like one who has stood alone against overwhelming forces—and paid the price for your principles."
Before Artoria can respond, Zera continues past her, adding over her shoulder: "He respects that more than you realize. Don't mistake his casual manner for dismissal."
Left alone in the
Part V: Hallway Revelations and Hidden Desires
Left alone in the hallway, Artoria contemplates Zera's words. The dragon goddess had seen through her façade with disturbing ease, recognizing the weight of kingship and sacrifice she carried.
As she slides open the door to her room, she's startled to find it already occupied. Seated by the window, bathed in moonlight, is a woman of haunting beauty—long lavender hair cascading over a black dress that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it.
"Medusa," Artoria recognizes the Rider-class Servant instantly, hand moving to call Excalibur.
"Peace, King of Knights," Medusa says softly, her mystic eyes concealed behind her ornate blindfold. "I come seeking understanding, not conflict."
"Understanding of what?" Artoria asks, not relaxing her guard.
"Of him," Medusa replies simply. "The one who walks between realities. The one whose presence rewrites the very rules of our existence."
Artoria hesitates, then closes the door behind her. "What makes you think I have any insight?"
"You follow him," Medusa observes. "Not as a Servant bound by command seals, but willingly. I want to know why."
The question catches Artoria off-guard. Why does she follow Zarakhul? What compels her to remain in his orbit when she could have refused, could have returned to the Grail War as intended?
"He sees beyond facades," Artoria says finally. "Beyond the masks we wear, the roles we play. He looks at me and sees... Artoria. Not just King Arthur, not just Saber."
Medusa nods slowly. "I've felt his gaze as well. It doesn't flinch from monsters."
"You're not a monster," Artoria responds automatically.
A sad smile touches Medusa's lips. "Aren't I? That's what history has made me. What humanity believes me to be."
"And what does he see when he looks at you?" Artoria asks.
"Someone worthy of being seen," Medusa whispers, an unfamiliar vulnerability in her voice. "Do you know what that means to one who has been viewed only with horror or lust for centuries?"
Before Artoria can respond, the door slides open again. Zarakhul stands in the doorway, celestial fan in hand, eyes taking in the scene before him with mild amusement.
"An unexpected guest," he observes. "Though not an unwelcome one."
Medusa rises in a fluid motion, her posture caught between defensive readiness and inexplicable submission. "Forgive the intrusion. I wished to understand—"
"Why I affect you so strongly?" Zarakhul finishes for her, entering the room with casual grace. "Why your very nature seems to respond to my presence?"
"Yes," she admits simply.
"It's not complicated," he replies, moving to stand before her. With gentle fingers, he lifts her chin. "Beings of power recognize their natural hierarchy. Your divine blood—cursed though it may be—still remembers what it means to stand in the presence of true divinity."
He reaches for her blindfold, and Medusa stiffens.
"My eyes—" she begins.
"Cannot harm me," he assures her. "And I would see them."
Slowly, he removes the blindfold, revealing her mystic eyes—those legendary orbs that turn flesh to stone, minds to madness. Artoria tenses, expecting... something. But Zarakhul merely gazes into them without effect, studying their crystalline beauty with appreciation.
"The world made you hide these," he says softly. "Made you believe your gaze was only for destruction."
"It is," Medusa insists. "They petrify all they behold."
"They petrify what cannot withstand truth," Zarakhul corrects. "Your eyes don't create stone—they reveal the rigidity already present in weak spirits."
This perspective—so contrary to everything Medusa has believed about her curse—leaves her speechless. Her breath catches as Zarakhul traces the outline of her eyes with his fingertip.
"Beautiful," he declares simply. "Now, will you continue lurking in shadows, or will you walk beside us in daylight?"
"I..." Medusa hesitates, glancing at Artoria.
"The choice is yours," Zarakhul reminds her, stepping back. "As it always has been, though few acknowledged it."
After a moment of silence, Medusa nods. "I will join you. Not as servant or subject, but to understand what you truly are."
"Understanding flows both ways," Zarakhul replies with an enigmatic smile.
As if summoned by some unheard signal, Zera appears in the doorway, her cosmic hair shifting with barely contained energy.
"Making friends, my Emperor?" she asks, eyeing Medusa with calculated assessment.
"Making connections," he corrects. "A different thing entirely."
As the night deepens, the four beings—each powerful in their own right, each weighted with destiny—find themselves engaged in conversation that spans history, divinity, and the nature of existence itself. And if Medusa's eyes occasionally linger on Zarakhul with more than academic interest, if Artoria finds herself leaning toward him unconsciously during discussions, if Zera watches it all with knowing amusement—well, that's simply the gravitational effect of sovereignty, isn't it?
Part VI: The Bathing Incident – Divine Waters and Mortal Embarrassment
The next morning finds them at a hidden hot spring deep in the mountains surrounding Fuyuki. According to local legend, the waters possess healing properties for spiritual entities—a claim Zarakhul found curious enough to investigate.
"The mineral composition is unremarkable," he observes, kneeling beside the steaming pool and running his fingers through the water. Where they touch, the liquid briefly shimmers with cosmic light. "Yet there are trace elements of divine essence. Fascinating."
"A god's blood," Zera notes, sniffing the air. "Ancient, diluted over centuries. A minor deity who likely died here during what these humans call the Age of Gods."
"No wonder it affects spiritual beings," Artoria comments, studying the pool with interest. "It's essentially a diluted form of divine ichor."
Medusa, still adjusting to her new role in their group, stands slightly apart, her newly exposed mystic eyes taking in every detail of their surroundings.
"We should test its properties," Zarakhul decides, already beginning to disrobe. His black-gold emperor robes slide from his shoulders, revealing a form that seems both youthful and timeless—lean but perfectly proportioned, skin that appears to contain subtle constellations beneath its surface.
Artoria's eyes widen in shock. "What are you doing?" she demands, turning away abruptly.
"Entering the water," he replies simply, continuing to undress without concern. "The most efficient way to test its effects is direct immersion."
"But—" Artoria sputters, her face reddening. "You can't just—not with—"
"Modesty?" Zarakhul questions, sounding genuinely puzzled. "An interesting concept, but hardly relevant in this context. We're studying divine properties, not engaging in social rituals."
"My Emperor has never understood human discomfort with natural forms," Zera explains with amusement, already transforming her cosmic garments into something more suitable for bathing—a shimmering, semi-translucent wrap that reveals as much as it conceals.
Medusa, surprisingly, seems the least bothered. "Sacred bathing was common in my era," she notes, beginning to loosen her own attire. "Gods and mortals often mingled in such waters."
Before Artoria can formulate further protest, there's a sound from the forest path leading to the spring. A group approaches—visitors to the supposedly secret location.
"We have company," Medusa warns quietly.
"Inconvenient," Zarakhul sighs, but makes no move to redress.
Around a bend in the path appears a group of women—participants in the Holy Grail War, both Masters and Servants. Rin Tohsaka leads the way, accompanied by the Archer EMIYA. Behind them follow Illya von Einzbern with her massive Berserker, and surprisingly, the elegant Servant Caster, Medea of Colchis.
They stop dead at the sight before them: the Young Sovereign half-undressed beside the hot spring, surrounded by three beautiful women in varying states of dishabille.
"What exactly is going on here?" Rin demands, her face flushing crimson.
"A scientific investigation," Zarakhul replies calmly, completely unbothered by the intrusion.
"It looks like a private party," EMIYA observes dryly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"Hardly private if anyone can wander in," Zera retorts, stretching languidly in a way that makes her cosmic-threaded garments shift like living aurora.
The situation might have devolved into confrontation if not for a sudden disturbance in the water. The hot spring begins to bubble and glow, the divine essence within responding to the concentrated spiritual energy gathered around it.
"Interesting," Zarakhul murmurs, kneeling again to examine the phenomenon. "The waters are reactive to the density of spiritual beings present."
As he leans forward, the spring erupts—not violently, but with enough force to splash everyone present. The divine-infused water cascades over them, soaking clothes and skin alike.
What follows is chaos of a different sort.
The divine essence, dormant for centuries, awakens upon contact with Zarakhul's omniversal energy. The water clinging to everyone suddenly feels alive, tingling with power. For the Servants, it's a surge of energy beyond what any Master could provide. For the humans, it's an awareness of spiritual dimensions previously invisible to them.
"What is this?" gasps Rin, staring at her hands which now glow with magical potential far beyond her normal circuits.
"Divine awakening," Zarakhul explains, completely unfazed by being drenched. "The water recognized something in me and responded accordingly."
"It's magnificent," whispers Medea, the Caster, her eyes wide with wonder as her magical capacity expands exponentially.
What none of them expect is the secondary effect. The water, imbued with divine essence and charged by Zarakhul's presence, begins to behave with almost sentient purpose. It clings to their clothes, making fabrics transparent or dissolving them entirely in patches, creating a scene that would make even the most liberal hot spring establishment blush.
"My clothes!" Rin shrieks, trying desperately to cover herself as her blouse becomes nearly transparent.
"A minor inconvenience," Zarakhul notes, still focused on the water's magical properties rather than its sartorial effects.
Zera laughs openly, completely unbothered by her increasingly revealing state. "The water has taste," she observes, watching as it seems to deliberately expose the most flattering aspects of everyone present.
Even Artoria, despite her legendary composure, finds herself in a predicament as her attire suffers strategic dissolutions. Her face burns with embarrassment, but something prevents her from simply leaving or materializing her armor—a curiosity about Zarakhul's reaction, perhaps?
He, however, seems entirely focused on the mystical phenomenon rather than the inadvertent display around him. This apparent indifference somehow proves more frustrating to Artoria than any lecherous reaction would have been.
"Aren't you even going to look?" she finds herself asking before she can stop the words.
Zarakhul glances up at her, those galaxy-filled eyes meeting hers with mild surprise. "At what? Oh—" Understanding dawns. "The physical forms revealed by the water? They're beautiful, certainly, but hardly the most interesting aspect of what's happening here."
This casual compliment-within-dismissal leaves Artoria strangely deflated.
Medusa, despite her own compromised state, seems to understand Artoria's reaction. "He sees beyond the physical," she murmurs, moving closer. "It's both liberating and maddening, isn't it?"
"I don't know what you mean," Artoria replies stiffly.
"Don't you?" Medusa's mystic eyes glint with knowing amusement. "To be seen completely, yet not reduced to merely what is seen?"
Their philosophical moment is interrupted as Illya's giggle cuts through the awkward tension. "This is better than any magic show!" the young homunculus declares, entirely too amused by the adults' discomfort.
Even her Berserker, the mighty Heracles, seems affected by the divine water, his perpetual rage momentarily calmed as the essence soothes his madness-enhancement.
"My Emperor," Zera approaches Zarakhul, water cascading down her form in rivulets that seem to deliberately enhance her supernatural beauty. "Perhaps we should give our unexpected guests some privacy to compose themselves?"
"If you insist," he agrees with a slight shrug, finally standing. "Though the data collection is incomplete."
"Science can wait," she suggests, her voice dropping to a purr that sends inexplicable shivers down the spines of everyone present. "There are other investigations worth pursuing."
The look that passes between them speaks volumes about their ancient bond—playful yet profound, intimate yet transcendent.
With a casual gesture, Zarakhul causes the water clinging to his form to simply cease existing, leaving him perfectly dry. He then retrieves his robes, the black-gold fabric flowing around him as if eager to embrace its master.
"We'll continue another time," he announces to no one in particular. "Though you're all welcome to remain and experience the spring's effects. They should prove... illuminating."
As they depart, leaving the flustered group behind, Artoria finds herself walking closer to Zarakhul than strictly necessary. When their hands brush accidentally, she doesn't pull away immediately.
"The water revealed more than physical forms," he comments quietly, for her ears alone. "It showed qualities of spirit—courage, nobility, resilience. Yours shone brightest of all."
The compliment, so unexpected and genuine, warms Artoria more deeply than she cares to admit. Perhaps being seen—truly seen—by someone who perceives beyond ordinary limitations isn't so unsettling after all.
Behind them, Medusa watches this exchange with thoughtful eyes, while Zera's knowing smile suggests she foresaw this development long before it occurred.
And so their unusual company grows more connected, drawn together not just by Zarakhul's overwhelming presence, but by the shared experiences that slowly transform them from followers to companions.
Part VII: The Golden Challenge – Pride Before the Fall
Word of Zarakhul's presence spreads through the supernatural community of Fuyuki like wildfire. The Holy Grail War, meant to be the pinnacle of magical conflict in this world, has become a sideshow to the cosmic visitor and his growing entourage.
It's only a matter of time before the King of Heroes decides he can no longer tolerate this affront to his supremacy.
They are dining in a traditional restaurant—Zarakhul having developed an appreciation for mortal cuisine—when the challenge arrives. The air splits with golden light as a Noble Phantasm embeds itself in their table, cleaving it perfectly in half without disturbing a single dish.
A message is engraved on the blade: "The garden at midnight. Come alone or with your collection. The true king will settle this matter."
"How dramatic," Zarakhul observes mildly, plucking a piece of sashimi from his plate as if nothing had happened.
"Gilgamesh challenges you," Artoria states, her expression darkening. Having faced the arrogant king in previous Holy Grail Wars, she knows his devastating power.
"He seeks to establish dominance," Medusa adds, her mystic eyes analyzing the embedded weapon. "It's in his nature as the first hero."
Zera simply laughs, the sound like crystal bells shattering. "The little golden king thinks himself your equal, my Emperor. How adorable."
"Not adorable," Zarakhul corrects her gently. "Authentic. His pride is genuine, his belief in his supremacy absolute. There's beauty in such conviction, even when misplaced."
"You won't accept his challenge?" Artoria asks, surprised.
"Of course I will," Zarakhul replies, dabbing his lips with a napkin. "Experiences, remember? Confronting a being who believes himself the pinnacle of power could prove enlightening—for him, primarily, but perhaps for me as well."
"He possesses every Noble Phantasm ever created," Artoria warns. "The Gate of Babylon contains the prototype of every treasure humanity has ever conceived."
"Yes," Zarakhul nods, seeming genuinely interested. "A remarkable collection. Limited to a single reality's concept of 'treasure,' of course, but impressive within those constraints."
As midnight approaches, they make their way to Fuyuki Central Park, an expansive garden where the city's ley lines converge. Word of the confrontation has spread, drawing other participants in the Holy Grail War to witness this unexpected clash of kings.
Gilgamesh awaits them in the center of the garden, golden armor gleaming under the full moon, red eyes burning with pride and barely contained rage. Behind him stands his Master, Kirei Kotomine, the corrupt priest watching with calculated interest.
"You came," Gilgamesh acknowledges as Zarakhul approaches. "And brought your pets."
"Companions," Zarakhul corrects mildly. "A distinction you might benefit from understanding."
The subtle rebuke causes Gilgamesh's expression to darken further. "You've walked my garden long enough, pretender. This world exists in my treasury. Everything of value belongs to me by right."
"Fascinating perspective," Zarakhul replies, genuine curiosity in his voice. "Tell me, does it comfort you? This belief that ownership equals meaning?"
The question catches Gilgamesh off-guard. For a moment, confusion flickers across his perfect features before hardening into certainty once more.
"I didn't call you here for philosophy, but judgment," the golden king declares. "You claim authority without proving worth. That ends tonight."
With a gesture, the air behind Gilgamesh ripples as countless golden portals open—the Gate of Babylon unlocked to its fullest extent. Through each portal gleams a legendary weapon, each powerful enough to level mountains or pierce divine defenses.
"Impressive," Zarakhul acknowledges, making no move to defend himself. "Your collection is truly remarkable."
"You mock me at your peril," Gilgamesh warns, his patience visibly thinning.
"Not at all," Zarakhul assures him. "I genuinely admire dedication to aesthetics. The question is whether the collector has surpassed his collection, or remains defined by it."
This philosophical challenge proves the final straw for Gilgamesh's restraint. With a gesture of his hand, dozens of Noble Phantasms launch simultaneously toward Zarakhul—a barrage that could obliterate cities.
"My Emperor!" Zera moves to intercept, but Zarakhul raises a hand, stopping her.
"No," he says simply. "This is a conversation between kings. Let it happen."
The weapons—legendary blades, spears, axes, artifacts of impossible power—streak toward Zarakhul's unprotected form. Artoria and Medusa tense, instinctively preparing for devastation.
But the devastation never comes.
As the Noble Phantasms reach Zarakhul, they simply... stop. Not violently, not with explosive force, but gently—as if reaching the natural end of their trajectory. They hover before him, suspended in perfect stasis.
"Interesting," Zarakhul comments, inspecting the nearest weapon—a spear that could pierce the heavens themselves. "Each one contains a story, a legend, a fragment of human belief made manifest." He runs a finger along the blade, which trembles at his touch. "Beautiful, in their way."
"Impossible," Gilgamesh whispers, his composure cracking for the first time. "No defense can stop all of them. No concept can negate their combined power."
"I didn't stop them," Zarakhul explains gently. "They stopped themselves upon recognizing something familiar in me."
"What nonsense is this?" Gilgamesh demands, sweat beading on his perfect brow as he struggles to maintain control of his weapons.
"These treasures were forged from human dreams of transcendence," Zarakhul continues, walking slowly along the line of suspended weapons. "Dreams of reaching beyond mortal limitations, touching divinity, achieving the impossible." His galaxy-filled eyes meet Gilgamesh's. "I am what lies beyond those dreams—what exists when all limitations are transcended. They recognize in me the ultimate fulfillment of their purpose."
With a casual gesture, he sends the weapons back to their portals, not forcefully but with the gentle guidance of one returning children to their home.
"You dare!" Gilgamesh roars, his legendary composure shattered. "Ea! Come forth!"
The air splits as Gilgamesh's ultimate weapon manifests—the Sword of Rupture, the drill-shaped blade that can tear apart the very fabric of reality, revealing the truth that existed before creation itself.
"You would use that here?" Zarakhul asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. "Knowing what it might reveal?"
"I will show you the truth of creation," Gilgamesh declares, raising Ea. "And your place within it!"
As the sword begins to spin, gathering destructive energy that could shatter the world, Zarakhul simply smiles—not with mockery, but with something like anticipation.
"Yes," he agrees. "Show me this reality's truth. I'd be fascinated to witness your perspective on it."
The challenge in his voice is subtle but unmistakable. Gilgamesh hesitates for a fraction of a second, some instinct warning him that the being before him wants this revelation.
But pride wins out. "Enuma Elish!" he cries, activating his ultimate Noble Phantasm.
Reality tears.
The garden, the city, the very concept of "world" splits apart as Ea reveals the swirling chaos that existed before creation—the primordial void from which all things emerged.
Witnesses to the battle cry out in terror as their perceptions cannot process what is being revealed. Even powerful Servants shield their eyes from truths mortal minds were never meant to comprehend.
But Zarakhul stands unaffected, looking into the revealed void with the casual interest of a tourist viewing a moderately engaging exhibit.
"Ah," he says, nodding. "So that's how this particular reality was structured. Fascinating."
To everyone's shock, he reaches into the rift torn by Ea, his hand penetrating the chaos that should destroy anything it touches. His fingers seem to sift through primordial energies as one might run their hand through flowing water.
"Good craftsmanship," he comments. "Elegant balance of order and chaos. Though the foundational axioms are rather rigid—no wonder your magic systems are so structured."
Gilgamesh stares in horror as Zarakhul casually examines the pre-creation void that not even gods are meant to touch directly.
"What are you?" the King of Heroes whispers, Ea trembling in his grasp.
"A question with many answers, none of which would satisfy you," Zarakhul replies, withdrawing his hand from the rift. With a gentle motion, he smooths over the tear in reality, sealing it more perfectly than it had existed before. "Perhaps it's better to ask: what could you become, if you stopped defining yourself by what you possess?"
The question strikes at the very core of Gilgamesh's identity. The golden king falters, Ea's light dimming as his concentration wavers.
"I am the King of Heroes," he insists, but the words lack their usual absolute certainty.
"You are that, certainly," Zarakhul acknowledges. "But is that all you wish to be? A collection of treasures with a consciousness? The first hero, forever looking backward at what you established rather than forward to what you might become?"
These words—philosophical rather than confrontational—seem to impact Gilgamesh more profoundly than any physical attack could have. The golden king lowers Ea, his expression troubled in a way none have ever witnessed.
"This confrontation is meaningless," Zarakhul continues gently. "Not because you couldn't harm me—though you couldn't—but because we're asking the wrong questions. Power isn't the interesting metric here. Purpose is."
"What purpose could transcend kingship?" Gilgamesh demands, but there's something new in his voice—curiosity beneath the pride.
"That," Zarakhul smiles, "is the question worth exploring, isn't it?"
The confrontation ends not with destruction but with contemplation—the King of Heroes withdrawing not in defeat but in philosophical unsettlement, his worldview shaken in ways no battle could achieve.
As the gathered witnesses disperse, buzzing with accounts of what transpired, Zarakhul's companions approach him with varying reactions.
"You could have destroyed him," Medusa observes.
"To what end?" Zarakhul asks. "Destruction rarely teaches anything of value."
"You showed mercy," Artoria notes, her expression thoughtful.
"Not mercy," he corrects. "Respect. He built his existence around a principle—flawed though it may be. There's integrity in that commitment."
Zera, watching Gilgamesh's retreating form, makes a sound of reluctant agreement. "The little king has potential, I suppose. More than most in this realm."
"All beings have potential," Zarakhul replies, his gaze sweeping across the night sky. "The question is whether they choose to recognize it in themselves."
As they leave the garden, the air around them seems charged with possibility. Something fundamental has shifted in Fuyuki tonight—not just in the balance of power, but in the understanding of what power truly means.
And if Artoria walks closer to Zarakhul than before, if Medusa's normally guarded expression softens when she looks at him, if even Zera's possessive stance becomes more inclusive of the others—well, that's simply the natural orbit of beings recognizing something transcendent in their midst, isn't it?
Part VIII: The Joining of Fire – A Goddess Descends
The ripples from Zarakhul's confrontation with Gilgamesh spread far beyond Fuyuki. Throughout the world, beings sensitive to power shifts feel the disturbance—like a stone dropped into the cosmic pond, sending waves across reality itself.
One such being arrives the very next day.
They are walking through a forested area outside the city, Zarakhul studying the local flora with mild interest, when the air temperature suddenly spikes. Trees begin to smoke, grass withers, and the very atmosphere shimmers with heat.
"We have a visitor," Zera notes, her posture shifting from casual to alert. "A divine one."
From between two ancient trees steps a woman of breathtaking beauty. Tall and commanding, with flame-red hair cascading to her waist and eyes that burn like the heart of a volcano. Her attire—if it can be called that—consists of living flames that wrap around her body, preserving modesty while suggesting that such concerns are beneath her.
"Amaterasu," Medusa identifies her with surprise. "The Shinto goddess of the sun."
"No," Zarakhul corrects gently. "Not quite. Look more closely."
Indeed, upon closer inspection, there are subtle differences. This being has fox ears partially hidden in her flaming hair, and behind her swish nine magnificent tails—each one tipped with golden fire.
"Tamamo-no-Mae," Artoria realizes. "The Nine-Tailed Fox, avatar of Amaterasu."
The fox goddess bows deeply before Zarakhul, a gesture of respect that clearly costs her considerable pride.
"Supreme Sovereign," she addresses him, her voice melodious yet crackling with suppressed power. "Word of your presence has reached even the divine realms. I come to... verify the rumors."
"Rumors of what, precisely?" Zarakhul asks, though his amused expression suggests he already knows.
"They say a being walks this earth whose authority exceeds the gods themselves," Tamamo replies, straightening from her bow. "One who casually rewrites laws the divinities believed immutable."
"And you came to challenge this intrusion on divine territory?" Zarakhul guesses.
Tamamo's laugh is like the sound of kindling catching fire. "Challenge? No, Supreme One. I came to offer my services."
This declaration earns a narrow-eyed look from Zera, whose cosmic hair begins to shift more rapidly with barely contained energy.
"Services?" Zarakhul repeats, ignoring his companion's obvious displeasure. "What services could a fox goddess offer one who needs nothing?"
"Perspective," Tamamo answers immediately. "I have walked between mortal and divine realms for centuries. Been worshipped as goddess, hunted as demon, served as wife, and persecuted as monster. Few beings understand the full spectrum of existence as I do."
"An interesting proposition," Zarakhul acknowledges. "But I sense there's more to your offer than scholarly exchange."
Tamamo's nine tails sway hypnotically as she takes a step closer. "Legend says the Young Sovereign collects beings of power and beauty around him—not as servants, but as companions worthy of his attention."
"And you wish to be 'collected'?" Zarakhul asks, raising an eyebrow.
"I wish to stand in the presence of true divinity," she corrects, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "To serve not out of compulsion but recognition. Is that not what you offer your... companions?"
At this, Zera moves forward, positioning herself slightly between Tamamo and Zarakhul. "My Emperor does not 'collect' beings like trinkets, fox. Those who follow him do so because they recognize truth when they see it."
"And is that not precisely what I'm doing?" Tamamo challenges, meeting Zera's glowing eyes without flinching.
The tension between them crackles in the air—two tremendously powerful feminine entities sizing each other up, ancient rivalries of dragon and fox playing out on a cosmic scale.
"Ladies," Zarakhul interrupts mildly, "while your territorial display is fascinating from an anthropological perspective, it's hardly necessary."
Both turn to look at him, momentarily united in their surprise at his casual dismissal of their posturing.
"Tamamo-no-Mae," he continues, addressing the fox goddess directly. "Your offer is noted. But companions aren't acquired through applications or interviews. They're recognized through interaction and understanding over time."
"Then allow me time in your presence," Tamamo requests, performing another graceful bow. "Let me demonstrate my worth."
"Worth isn't demonstrated," Zarakhul corrects gently. "It's inherent. The question isn't whether you're worthy of my attention, but whether our connection would be meaningful to both parties."
This perspective—so contrary to the hierarchical thinking of divine beings—clearly startles Tamamo. For a moment, her carefully composed expression slips, revealing genuine wonder.
"You may join us for now," Zarakhul decides, already turning to continue their walk. "Proximity will reveal whether there's resonance worth pursuing."
As they resume their journey through the forest, the group's dynamic shifts to accommodate the newcomer. Tamamo positions herself close to Zarakhul, but carefully avoids challenging Zera's primacy. Artoria and Medusa exchange knowing glances, both recognizing the patterns forming around their enigmatic center.
Later that evening, as they rest in a clearing beneath the stars, Tamamo demonstrates one of her skills—creating a feast from simple ingredients through divine manipulation.
"In my time as a court lady," she explains, expertly preparing a dish of supernatural delicacy, "I learned that nourishment can be more than sustenance. It can be connection, comfort, even a form of worship."
"An interesting philosophy," Zarakhul comments, watching her work with genuine appreciation. "Transforming the mundane into the transcendent through intention and skill."
"Exactly!" Tamamo beams, clearly pleased by his understanding. "The divine exists in the everyday, if approached with the right perspective."
As they dine on her creation—a meal that somehow tastes of sunlight and ancient forests—Zarakhul observes the interactions between his growing circle of companions. Zera maintains her slight distance, still wary of the newcomer. Artoria and Medusa have developed an unexpected camaraderie, the knight and the monster finding common ground in their shared experiences. And Tamamo works diligently to find her place, her every movement calculated to display her value without overstepping.
"You don't need to try so hard," Zarakhul tells her quietly when the others are engaged in conversation. "Authentic connection cannot be forced."
Tamamo pauses in her attentive serving, genuine vulnerability crossing her features. "When you've been both goddess and demon," she confesses, "authenticity becomes... difficult to locate. Everyone wants something from you—worship, power, subjugation. No one simply wants... you."
"And what is the authentic 'you', beyond the roles you've played?" Zarakhul asks.
The question leaves Tamamo speechless. For perhaps the first time in centuries, someone has looked past her abilities, her divinity, her power—and asked about her essence.
"I... don't know anymore," she admits finally, her nine tails drooping slightly. "That's why I came to you. They say the Sovereign sees beyond facades to the truth beneath."
"I see possibilities," Zarakhul corrects gently. "What you could become when freed from expectations—including your own."
This perspective—offering freedom rather than definition—affects Tamamo profoundly. Her eyes, always burning with divine fire, suddenly glisten with something far more vulnerable.
"Then I will stay," she decides, conviction replacing calculation in her voice. "Not to serve or impress, but to discover."
"A worthy endeavor," Zarakhul approves, his galaxy-filled eyes reflecting starlight. "And far more interesting than mere service could ever be."
Later that night, when the others have retired, Zera finds Zarakhul gazing at the moon from a rocky outcropping.
"Your collection