The rayship's bridge smelled of metal and ozone; stabilizers hummed softly in its corners, and panels covered in colored pixels ran along the console like ants, unable to contain the vast array of data. Here, in a cramped cube of alloy and magic, reality held its breath—both the instrument readings and the nervous silence of the people who knew that behind that silence lay either a miracle or death.
Doctor Romani Archiman sat at the central console, his palms barely touching the keys as he listened to the hum the computers translated into text. His profile in the lamp was pale; the large lenses of his glasses reflected the distorted runes flickering across the screens. He sighed, and in that sigh, everything was contained—the weariness of the laboratory and the fear of the people who had witnessed the death of the chronicles.
"The runes are fraying at the edges," he said evenly, pronouncing each term slowly, so no one would think it was simply a reading error. "The chronology... it's crumbling like brickwork in the rain. If we enter the core, we won't just lose signals—we'll lose page after page. Events, faces, names. Everything that records time will simply... fall out."
Da Vinci stood nearby, her gaze fixed on one of the screens, where tiny fractals were disintegrating, as if someone had cast a spell and immediately erased the ink. Her fingers moved quickly, almost dancing over the panels, leaving trails of blue light in their wake. She leaned over and spoke quietly, as if it were a secret guess she was vaguely afraid to confirm:
"It's not just the loss of history – history is trying to erase itself."
The phrase slammed into the air with the same scientific confidence Da Vinci used to smile menacingly when confronting the impossible with fact. A pause hung over the bridge, louder than any indicator lights. Mash gripped the shield in her cold hand; her fingers whitened with tension, but the shield itself was confident and still, like that of someone accustomed to holding the line even in the most frantic battles.
"We can materialize near the core," Romani began, already running through the procedures in his mind. "But if we get too close, the magnitude of the anomaly will nullify our stopping points. This isn't a navigational failure; it's the erasure of a scar from history itself. I recommend landing on the outer edge. Desert. Fewer casualties; we'll be able to develop an exploratory perimeter and prevent space from severing our presence."
Ritsuka leaned against one of the counters, her palms folded in front of her chest, and her gaze held both heavy anticipation and determination: a Master isn't one to hide a decision; a Master is one to make it. She nodded slowly, allowing the crowd of thoughts within the apparatus to coalesce into a decision.
"Then that's what we'll do," she said, her voice even and free of unnecessary abuse. "Outer border. Minimal contact. No technological demonstrations. We didn't come to destroy an era—we came to understand, and if necessary, to save."
Da Vinci shook her head, as if confirming and at the same time adding her detail to the overall scheme.
"I'll deploy 'para-masking.' The scans will look like a magical practice to those being observed—the guise of an old school of healing. The drones will become 'sacred assistants.' I'll dim all the holograms, leaving only the essentials. If anyone asks about our tools, let the answer be 'healing mysticism.' This will give us a five- to six-hour window before anyone starts checking signatures."
Romani raised his hand, and there was no drama in his gesture; he simply pointed to a small round button mounted on the central panel and showed everyone what it did.
"I have an 'ey-button' on my wrist," he said. "In the event of a critical and rapid disruption, one signal, and the Rayship will recall the matter. Retrieval is instant. Remember: we wouldn't have tested the core without full surveillance, but if there's a threat, we plan for emergency extraction. No heroic remnants."
Mash glanced at Romani and nodded—there was iron discipline in her reaction threads. She unfolded the shield, testing it in her palm. Reflected light from the panel ran across the smooth surface, and for a moment it seemed as if the armor itself was glowing—not from magic, but from readiness.
"I'll cover the materialization," she replied curtly. "Come on, Ritsuka, be more precise: how many people can we take with us in an emergency evacuation? How much time do we have if things don't go according to plan?"
Ritsuka ran her eyes down the list she had prepared in her head: there were evacuation plans, a list of priorities, known ways to preserve the human thread of history.
"Evacuation is a priority only for contemporaries and witnesses," she replied. "We'll do the bare minimum, focusing on the living, not the manuscripts. If necessary, we'll resort to temporary protective suits, but that's a last resort. Oh, and we're leaving no trace of our equipment. Da Vinci's camouflage is a must."
Da Vinci was already finishing her preparations; her fingers flicked across the display; tiny drones emerged from the side modules, chiming softly like metallic butterflies. They were wrapped in a blanket and, at first glance, appeared to be ritual amulets. She glanced at everyone and grinned, infusing her voice with the false lightness she liked to employ in moments of tension:
"Well, gentlemen, if history is truly trying to self-destruct, let's hold it by the sleeve and not let it go without evidence. I'm activating para-masking—scanning the outer perimeter sector. Romani, did you receive the signal?"
Romani's gaze wandered over the key. A red grid flickered on the screen—and in its loops was a black dot, like a misplaced pixel that didn't fit their logic.
"Got it," he replied. "The grid is stable. The range is five hundred meters in all directions during landing. According to our calculations, this will give us sufficient radius for initial scans and a minimum risk of matter loss. Launch in three minutes."
Below, beyond the porthole glass, the world seemed fractured: as if someone had taken a perfect painting and scratched it with a few long lines. The horizon shimmered white, and in the gaps between this white and the sand, dark spots flickered—places where, according to the instruments, "lines had fallen out." Among these spots were many fragments—pieces of armor, tattered banners, objects discarded in the dust; all of this reminded us that someone or something had already passed, leaving behind not only emptiness but also the traces of a struggle.
"We must consider the nature of the light," Da Vinci said, suddenly correcting a technical detail of the conversation. "I've taken a spectrum. It's not ordinary—it's a dense, syntactic structure: shades of Rhongomynia. This confirms: we are in Camelot. But this is a Camelot with a flaw: the light here doesn't warm, it cuts. Its interaction with magic and memory is different. Beware, 'purification' isn't just a spiritual metaphor, but a real physical-magical operation."
The words "Rhongomyniad" fell like a small cleaver: they weren't meant to frighten, but to make sure everyone understood—this wasn't just a name, it was a sign. Ritsuka nodded again and, taking a deep breath, looked at those standing shoulder to shoulder with him. She didn't like long pauses before action.
"Then—to the border," she said calmly, and that "then" was everything. "Mash, take up positions at three points around the landing site. Da Vinci, start the scan immediately after our material manifestation. Romani, if the white dot starts to expand—immediately, without discussion—return."
Romani placed his finger on a small, circular, disc-shaped button—an object both iconic and terrifying: one signal, and the rayship would whisk them away so quickly that even the air around them wouldn't have time to remember who was there. He didn't smile. He didn't say a final word. His expression remained academic, and in that gaze lurked a concern he rarely allowed himself to show openly.
"Launch in thirty seconds," Da Vinci whispered, her voice suddenly sterner than usual: the scene demanded it. "All positions. Cloaking active. Maximum alert."
The bridge twitched like an animal sensing it was approaching a new feeding ground. The system flickered, preparing everything for synchronization. Inside, each of them seemed to be prepared—not just the instruments and mechanisms, but even their minds: to remain an observer, to stay on course, to not spark a war. Ritsuka glanced at Mash again; her face, calm and prepared, was the same one she had seen when she had led her companions on difficult expeditions before.
"Let's go," she said quietly, and immediately came the answer: "Done."
Da Vinci removed the cover from one of the drones—wrapped in scar tissue, it peeked out like a small relic. Mash raised her shield, taking up position in a column near the hatch. Romani released the button—and the signal reverberated in the depths of the rayship like the ringing of an empty bowl.
The space around them began to shrink, as if the image they were looking at was about to curl up into an envelope. The light from the emerging panel stretched, and through the window glass, it seemed as if the air was escaping into a tube. Hence, a moment that lives in Chaldea's memory like what happens to a mission before history: the moment when you know there's no turning back until you press the button.
When the bridge disappeared, leaving behind only a hum, all three beings who could be called "history for others" were already walking along the edge of that world where even words are sometimes subject to oblivion.
***
The sand beneath their feet wasn't just hot—it seemed to retain the memory of every step they'd taken. Somewhere far away, beyond the white shimmer of the walls, Camelot breathed evenly and heavily, like a living being itching to restore order. Here, at the edge of the road, where the dunes met the first steps, stood a group of Chaldea: Ritsuka in a cloak, Mash with a shield, Da Vinci with a strange scroll of instruments, which she carefully tucked under the fabric, trying not to reveal their technical outlines.
At first, there was nothing but the sound of the wind and a distant hum, like an organ. Then they emerged onto the road—the ritual patrols. Their appearance was dignified, almost ceremonial: a line of small figures in perfect armor, their helmets and armor so polished that the light reflected off them like lacquered canvas. They walked not like soldiers, but like participants in a ritual—their stride rhythmic, even, inscribed in some invisible meter.
The patrol leader stopped three steps away and removed his helmet—a respectful, but not friendly, gesture. His face beneath the helmet was hidden in deep shadow, and only his eyes—unusually light, almost golden—looked appraisingly. He spoke in a voice that betrayed no personal will, only a role:
"Who dares to appear within the borders of Light?"
The word "Light" here sounded more than just a name for a phenomenon; it was part of a code of laws, and its utterance lent a cautious weight to the speech. Ritsuka stepped forward to precisely the distance considered respectable: close enough to be heard, but far enough away to avoid suspicion.
"We are Chaldea," she replied, trying to keep her voice calm and even. "We are looking for an anomaly. We haven't come for war."
This brief declaration had been prepared in advance, but it still carried the force of a simple fact: Masters rarely showed up in such places without a reason. The patrol commander didn't back down; he merely nodded, as a judge might after hearing an appeal.
"The guards are reporting violations," he said, looking Ritsuka straight in the eye. "Show me proof of your role."
There was no threat in his voice. There was a demand—stern and clear. It was unclear whether it was a demand for formality or for faith; perhaps both at once. For a moment, the situation hung in suspense: the Chaldean group, strangers in an alien order, and the patrol whose duty it was to maintain order under the golden sky.
Da Vinci, who usually disliked theatrical performances and preferred technique to words, withdrew a thin box from beneath her cloak, wrapped in half old cloth and half new, finely crafted material. Her movements were slow and theatrical—not out of a desire to impress, but out of caution: any hasty gesture could be taken for aggression. She held the "artifact" out in the palm of her hand and held it slightly forward, as if offering a holy relic for inspection.
The artifact truly did look like it belonged to another time: a round disk carved with swirls and dots that could be mistaken for runic symbols. But this disk was actually a disguise—it concealed miniature sensors and filters that Da Vinci used for scanning. Several metallic threads were also visible beneath the cloth. To the general public, however, this might have appeared to be a healer's amulet or a ceremonial accessory.
"We do not hide from enmity," Da Vinci said quietly, her voice even and soft, as if it were an old, practical formula. "Allow me to introduce: the household of the physician of the traveling brotherhood. I am Leonardo da Vinci, humble petitioner and physician. We have come to heal the wounds of time, if I may."
The words were spoken with that same faint, ironic smile she skillfully wore when she needed to soften the formality of conversation. The patrolmen didn't laugh. But one of them—a young knight with a ghostly glint in his eyes—stepped forward and, without waiting for further explanation, demonstrated a fragment of ritual power. His hand rose, and from his palm erupted a narrow, white-golden beam: not a flash, not a flame, but a beam—smooth as a taut string of light. He walked straight, without hesitation, and there was no emotion in it; it was an act, a point of ritual demonstration, as if mockingly asking, "Is this the kind of people you are?"
Mash reacted instantly. Her entire body was already prepared—the shield, like a heavy skin, emerged and hovered against her chest. She didn't hesitate or think about diplomacy: her job was to protect. The beam struck the shield, and something happened that no one particularly expected: the contact didn't result in an explosion, didn't tear the fabric of reality, didn't send magic flying. Instead, sparks ran across the shield's surface—not fiery, but metallic, as if the light had clung to the very roughness of the metal and sparkled. The shield sparked, and the sparks bounced off like tiny glass beads. It was theatrically beautiful and significant: the sparks didn't destroy order. They emphasized it.
The knight bowed his head slightly, like a man confronted with a subtle riddle—he expected either submission or defiance. But in the sparks, in the way the shield merely absorbed the blow and did not intrude into the sacred rhythm, he saw one thing: Chaldea had not come to war, but with hands empty for the sword and full for aid. This, it seemed, alarmed him less than it might have.
"Good," he said, barely audible, almost to himself. His voice, previously formally cold, softened slightly. He still didn't trust, but a hint of understanding appeared in it. "You speak beautifully, healer. Show that you are truly capable of helping—and order will accept your handiwork."
Ritsuka didn't resort to subterfuge. She stepped forward, placed her hand on her chest in the knightly manner, and spoke evenly, with the same firmness expected of those who controlled destinies.
"I am Ritsuka Fujimaru, Master of Chaldea. We have arrived in response to an anomaly signal: our objective is to investigate and, if the threat is real, evacuate survivors. We have not come to undermine your order. We request brief passage to survey the area and gather data."
The moment stretched, as if someone had suspended a bundle of time. The patrol commander exchanged a brief glance with the knight and the men in his ranks. Their actions seemed prescribed: they were to take their time with decisions, but also not to refuse outright. In the distance, on the white horizon, where the walls boiled, a thin, sustained chord could be heard—like a bell calling for judgment. It was a reminder: order is watching.
"Five hours," the commander finally said dryly. "Under the escort of one knight—he will show you the way and the final ritual boundaries. Violate the terms, and the light will show you your limits. Understood?"
"Understood," Ritsuka replied, her voice not wavering.
Da Vinci slowly removed the artifact and wrapped it in cloth, as carefully as one would place an eloquent legend back in a book. Mash relaxed her shield for a split second, just long enough for it to stop sparking. The mutual test ended not with a blade, but with a sign of respect—formal, ritual, and tangible. And as the patrol resumed its ceremonial rites, Ritsuka, Mash, and Da Vinci remained at the edge of the world, understanding that beyond lay a tree of decisions, where every branch could lead them to salvation or to a new entry in the chronicle yet to be written.
***
The diplomacy was still dragging on—words exchanged, terms laid out, the patrol holding formation—when Da Vinci's instruments suddenly vibrated, as if someone had abruptly plucked a string from the entire visible world.
She was already holding the "artifact-symbol" in her hands, but her gaze instantly caught on the tablet; on the display, the spectrum bands shot up into a piercing peak, and the thin red line—the one responsible for "ritual energy"—exploded. The Rayship's soundtrack crackled, as if a bell had been smashed somewhere in the distance.
"Listen," Da Vinci whispered, her voice even, but with a hint of alarm, "this is no ordinary flash. Rongonnyamid. His signal."
A distant sound came—not thunder or a rumble, but a single, long, pure tone; along with it, a column of light shot up into the sky, thin and merciless, cutting across the horizon. Those standing nearby felt a shiver run down their spines.
The patrol froze instantly. The commander raised his hand, and the line stiffened, like musicians before the first bar. The knights glanced toward the source; their armor reflected the light, and the reflection read the order: hold the line. The same young knight who had recently demonstrated his strength gripped the hilt, and his voice, quiet and focused, said:
"The platform is activated. The city is responding."
Romani turned pale, but composed himself; there was no panic in his scientific voice, but a cold, precise calculation.
"It's a ritual signal," he said. "If the Rhongomyniad sounds, it means an act is taking place in the center, either confirming the foundations or going beyond what's expected. We need to prepare to move inward—carefully, under control."
Mash instinctively raised her shield. The last glimmer of light instantly sparked shimmering patterns on its surface, as if the light was trying to read the metal. She remained silent, her gaze ready to guard every step.
Ritsuka Fujimaru clasped her fingers in the folds of her cloak, her windblown red hair playing like flames on her neck. Her gaze mingled determination and the steady confidence that comes with a master's responsibility. She took a step forward, looking alternately at Da Vinci, Romani, and the patrol.
"We've received confirmation," she said firmly. "Order is in effect here. But if this ritual deviates from the norm, people will suffer. We can't wait five hours. Mash, maintain silence. Da Vinci, keep your camouflage up. Romani, keep your finger on the 'A' button. And you, sir," she turned to the commander, "if it's possible to escort us closer to the edge of the ritual zone, allow a guide. We'll stay within the agreed-upon terms, but we won't ignore the distress signal."
The commander looked at his men, then toward the pillar of light. He didn't smile, but nodded—not a nod of trust, but of practical agreement.
"One knight will go with you," he said briefly. "And protect the veil. The punishing light does not tolerate noise."
Red-haired Ritsuka took a deep breath, feeling the sand crunch beneath her boots. Her heart beat steadily—not from fear, but from focused excitement; she knew that the step they were about to take would be more than just a move on a map, but a transition into the very heart of history.
Da Vinci was already securing the receiver to the fabric; her fingers trembled slightly—from the excitement of a researcher who understands how important every frame of the recording is now.
"Ready?" she whispered.
"Ready," Ritsuka answered, and her voice sounded not like "I," but like "we."
The patrol moved forward, and Chaldea followed: Mash at the hatch, Da Vinci with the equipment under cover, Romani with her hand on the evac button, and Ritsuka in the center, her red curls barely touching her collar, her eyes fixed forward. The light above them still pulsed; its tone echoed in their chests. It wasn't just a call to action—it was a challenge: to go deeper into the city, where the law of light and the silence of the Void wove a new fabric of history, and where they would have to decide whose side they were on—the side of order or the side of those that order might consume.
***
The road between the dunes and the first houses of Camelot was low, like a threshold—on one side, dunes, on the other, white facades reflecting the light so that the canvas of the sky seemed carved from metal. Here, the wind didn't blow—it rustled like fabric, and every sound seemed important because it could be dissected into its components: a step, a breath, the rustle of armor.
A figure appeared on the crest of one of the dunes. At first, it was just a silhouette—a slender cattail in the lapidary light—but as it descended into the canopy and came closer, it became clear: this was no young warrior, no dashing soldier, but a man sculpted by the road. His armor wasn't new, but it had been meticulously maintained: the metal gleamed softly, as if shaped by the memory of hands. His face beneath the helmet was tanned, with wrinkles around the eyes; a tan, salty and sunny, spoke of many hours spent in the wind. In place of his right hand was an intricate silver inlay, adorned with delicate carvings and patterns that, to a closer look, might suggest not only craftsmanship but also ritual: the prosthesis didn't hide its mechanics; it spoke of the price paid in battle.
Ritsuka, Mash, and Da Vinci stopped. Mash instinctively pulled her shield closer to her body, as if it could sense the honor of another's hand; Da Vinci stepped forward with the same almost theatrical gesture she used to make technique seem like art; Romani stared reservedly through his binoculars.
The man on the dune slowly lowered his helmet, and the gesture was the very code of a knight—respect, but not submissiveness. When his face opened, it revealed a soft, practiced gaze—one who had a habit of seeing the value of every breath.
"I am Bedivere," he said calmly, his voice even and quiet, like a stone dropped into water, creating a steady wave. "I guarded the paths while the light maintained order. You are strangers. Why have you come?"
The question was simple and precise—not an accusation, but an invitation to speak honestly. Ritsuka instinctively lowered her hand to her chest and bowed slightly in response—not formally, but in a human way.
"I am Ritsuka Fujimaru. We are Chaldea. We are searching for the anomaly; we want to understand the cause of the 'erasure', to save people if we can," she answered evenly, her voice fragile and firm at the same time; the wind clung to her red hair, but her eyes remained unmoving. "We didn't come to fight."
Bedivere nodded slightly, as if recognizing in her the same language of responsibility he recognized in himself. His gaze lingered on Mash's prosthetic: the technical insertion wasn't a subject of surprise, but a reason for a brief assessment.
"Your science is well-hidden," he muttered, as if to himself. "I've seen aliens before you. The last ones were worse—their disguise was blatantly obvious. But you are not them."
Da Vinci no longer concealed her professional interest; she briefly unfolded a small sensor hidden in the fold of her cloak, and the screen briefly displayed a spectrum—a thin line, a barely perceptible structure of magic that Bedivere read differently: not as a threat, but as a sign of the times.
"Tell me," Ritsuka asked. "What happened in Camelot? Why are people condemned to the desert?"
Bedivere leaned on the hilt of his sword—a gesture not threatening, but mournful and familiar. He began quietly, like a man who speaks less for information than to ease his own memory.
"Camelot has changed," he said. "Order used to be law, clear and harsh, but fair. Now... there's a ritual. Arturia calls it the 'Sacred Selection.' She holds an altar of light and makes a choice: those recognized by the light enter the city; those it doesn't are left outside the walls. They aren't killed outright; they're given passage into the desert. Some leave on their own, others are forced. But many disappear entirely."
He paused and looked to the side, where the white walls of the city seemed like a pale reflection.
"And there's something else," he continued, his voice growing firmer. "There are points where people's memories... seem to slip. I've seen people become empty, like clothes hanging on bones. Their names vanished from the memories of their neighbors; their houses—as if they had never existed. I call it 'erasure.' It's not from the peaceful light—it's from... something else, something that feeds in the seams of history."
Mash frowned and stepped forward, her shield supporting the horizon. Her silent stance conveyed a directness of will: "If there are people, we will help." Da Vinci clicked a few times on the device, collected the data, and quietly announced:
"We've recorded anomalies in the chronicle. They resemble a localized breakdown of the information field. This isn't just the physical disappearance of people; it's the disappearance of facts about them. We could lose evidence."
Romani, who had been listening to the side, took a deep breath and added:
"It's dangerous. If we don't intervene, the area could expand, erasing not only people but also the keys to history."
Bedivere glanced at him with brief respect, then turned back to Ritsuka.
"I know the city like the scars on my own. There are paths, passages, underground channels that the ancient builders left for supplies and secrets. I could lead you deeper, but—" He paused, and in the silence there was a heavy respect for the oaths he had once sworn—"I will remain a knight. I will act according to my conscience. If I see you going against what you were supposed to protect, I... will not come to your aid."
There was no threat in his words; there was an honesty that duty had taught. Ritsuka felt the words sink into her heart—a challenge and a promise all at once.
"I'm not asking for blind help," she replied quietly. "I'm asking for the truth and the opportunity to help those who are still alive. If you think you can guide us, we'll be grateful. And if you doubt us, just say so; we'll leave."
Bedivere sighed, and a shadow of sadness flickered across his face—a fruit hanging on the branch of memory.
"If you want to help people, act quietly," he said finally, warning in a soft but firm voice. "Here, the law is not pronounced by voice, but by light. Violate the ritual boundaries, and you will be shown your limits. I will guide you so that the spotlight does not reach you prematurely. But if you decide to make a show of it, I, as a knight of Camelot, will stand between you and the one who would destroy the city."
His words were both encouragement and a sobering reminder of the fragility of order.
"When is light most active?" Da Vinci asked, her mind racing as she tried to calculate the window of opportunity.
"The Rongonnimiad is rhythmic," Bedivere replied. "Sometimes the sign sounds in the morning, sometimes at midday, sometimes at night; there are periods when the platform is active longer. It's best to move during the periods preceding activation and hide during the hours when the light wanes. I'll show you the hours and the routes. But remember: if the light spots you inside the zone, it doesn't ask why you came."
Ritsuka nodded, silently casting aside any remaining doubts. A plan was already forming in her head: move quietly, use Bedivere's knowledge, keep the instruments in Da Vinci's camouflage, keep Romani at the ready, and Mash as a human shield.
"We'll go quietly," she said. "And we'll save whoever we can. If you care, come with us as a guide."
Bedivere paused, as if mentally leafing through a tattered book of obligations. Finally, he nodded, not loudly, but with the kind of decision that comes not from command, but from the heart.
"I will go. But know one thing: I served in the light for many years, and I have seen an order that broke people, believing it to be salvation. I respect the king. But I am more a man. If mercy guides you, I will not stand in your way."
His hand on the hilt of his sword was quiet but firm. He made no promises, save one—he would not betray what he believed to be true. That was enough: in a world where the law could seem heartless, a knight's simple honesty weighed more heavily than many oaths.
Mash turned slightly, checking her route. Da Vinci had secured the sensors beneath her blanket to minimize the chance of them being detected as "technology." Romani recorded the time and marked the activation windows. Ritsuka clutched her cloak tighter—the wind had picked up again, sweeping away grains of sand, as if promising that ahead lay not only light but also darkness, which would have to be cut through not by sword, but by action.
They moved forward along the road that stretched between the dunes and the first row of houses—the heavy white wall of Camelot gradually expanding before them, like a living morning, swollen and still. The wind tossed sand along the edges of the sidewalks; the light there wasn't just brighter—it was insistent, almost intrusive: every glint on the shoulder of an armor, every spark on a blade seemed an affirmation of order.
Da Vinci walked slightly to the side, her cloak billowing, concealing her instruments: tiny drones, sensors, and bundles disguised as the sacred chromes and bandages of a traveling healer. She glanced briefly at the hidden display as she walked, checking for any indicators popping up—and smiled quietly, because even in this world, mechanics could masquerade as ritual.
Mash walked beside Ritsuka, her shield slung at her hip, but her fingers were ready—the iconic armor suddenly seemed inadequate for what they were about to see. Romani, slightly behind, was pinning notes in his notebook, his gaze darting over the lines of the logs as if they were the pages of a book that urgently needed to be finished.
Bedivere led the column between the low buildings, taking his time. He chose his path carefully, skirting the wide squares and sticking to the narrow arteries used by delivery men and old men when the city was still different. His face betrayed a keen sense of observation: he knew where the stone was weakened, where the guards walked, where matters were resolved in whispers. His silver prosthetic arm faded in the sun, the ornaments on it shimmering like markings—a sign that this arm served more than just a practical purpose.
Along the way, traces were found—things abandoned in haste. Empty baskets by the door, hats tucked under benches, knives sticking out of the sand. People emerged from corners, their knees trembling as they caught sight of the column, but their instinct for caution overcame their curiosity. Peasants and artisans hid in the shadows of the arches, their gazes veiled, as if the signature of the light might count them and erase them. Some stood in the doorways, heads bowed quietly; some, seeing Bedivere, straightened their shoulders slightly, but immediately suppressed their hope, for the light demanded a different sacrifice, a different submission.
"They don't like prying eyes here," Bedivere whispered, barely audible, as if talking to himself. "Better to stick to the shadows. It's not because the people here are bad—it's just that their lives have become a ritual, and ritual doesn't tolerate outside treatment."
Da Vinci nodded, pulling her scarf higher, and her voice, quiet and precise, replied:
"The disguise is holding. The filters operate at the recognition level—the local character scans don't see us as a threat. But they sense outsiders. Watch their gestures: if someone insists on being righteous, it doesn't always mean hostility. Often, it's simply a defense against misunderstanding."
Walking along the alley, they finally emerged into a more open area, the ground paved with stone slabs. Before them rose the first platforms—not just stages, but high scaffolds where those who were to be seen and heard were raised. There were no people on them, but cast by the light, the shadows of those in power already stood: two figures—one golden and shining, the other almost completely immersed in silence.
Their silhouette was visible from afar: Artoria, as if carved from pure white light, held the Rhongomyniad; her armor caught the reflections so that it seemed as if the sun was emanating from it. Beside her, in the penumbra of her too-flat glory, stood the Phantom—his appearance stern and impassive, his mask smooth, his vacant eyes betraying no emotion, but the very silence emanating from him was palpable, like a thick cloth around the heart. Light and silence—they were close, and the combination gave a strange sense of completeness and menace at the same time.
As Bedivere led them closer, to the edge of the square, the patrols' pace slowed; a few guards stood by the platforms, as if awaiting a signal from above. In the distance, that subtle hum that always accompanied the presence of the Rhongomyniad could be heard—a piercing ringing, like a reminder of the law. The people in the shadows held their breath, and even the wind seemed to pause, afraid to disturb the ceremony.
Bedivere paused, gesturing with his hand, a simple and clear route map, then turned to Ritsuka. His voice was quiet, but there was neither reproach nor flattery in it—only stern concern.
"My hand is not for violence against those who seek the truth," he said, his eyes lingering on Ritsuka's face to see her for who she was. "But if you go into the city, know that order punishes silently and swiftly."
Ritsuka looked at him, and her gaze met the gentleness of the old knight and the shadow of the truth he held. She listened to his words: it was both a warning and a promise. She understood that here every action was weighed differently, that here they did not strike loudly or judge openly—their punishment was carried out with light and sacred rite, leaving few traces.
"We will be quiet," she replied, clutching her cloak to her throat. "And if we see anyone we can save, we will." Her voice was firm, but it held a youthful determination, the kind born not of knowledge, but of a desire not to allow people to be erased from history. "Show us the way, sir. And if anything goes wrong, tell us directly."
Bedivere nodded, his hand touching the hilt of his sword, a gesture that signified readiness and responsibility.
"Follow me," he said. "But keep to the shadows and don't raise your head too soon. The platform isn't just a place of gaze; it's a place of judgment. We'll pass places where people pray in silence, and there you'll see what it means to be unrecognized."
He rose to his feet, leading them deeper into the city through narrow passages between buildings, where the steps were worn by thousands of feet. Along the way, he occasionally pointed out subtle signs: notches on doors that served as a sign of untouchability; hatch covers that led to cellars; anchors where one could wait in case of danger. At one point, he paused by a door from beneath which quiet sobs could be heard—he looked down, and a flicker of sadness crossed his face, but he said nothing; such things spoke to him without words.
Da Vinci walked, shielding her equipment. She peered under the blanket, catching noise and background noise readings as she went; everything was still stable. Mash walked on a raised platform, her shield slightly raised, her movements calm and measured: if necessary, she could become a wall.
And when they emerged onto the small raised plaza just before the platform, a scene unfolded before them, where Artoria and the Phantom had already taken their positions. Artoria glanced at them for a moment—her eyes were mirror-like calm, yet they conveyed the loftiness only a ruler can attain. The Phantom stood nearby, calm, as if the space around him held its breath.
The faces of the people standing at the edge of the square were immersed in a strange mixture of awe and fear; some bowed silently, others looked on with detachment. And against this quiet backdrop, Ritsuka felt the weight of responsibility: there was a choice ahead, and there would be no easy paths back.
***
The area around the platform resembled a pulpit of light—the hot rays of the rongonnimád fell evenly and whitely on the stone, casting precise shadows. Artoria stood at the center of this light: her armor seemed not just to reflect but to radiate the radiance, every curve of her armor chiseled as if a sentence were sealed within it. Beside her stood the Phantom. He made no claim to the light or hid in the shadows; he was silence itself, dense and cold, like a shield covering one's lips. The featureless mask offered no clue to either emotion or intention; nevertheless, his presence spoke louder than words.
Bedivere remained a short distance away, a stopover between the ceremony and the road; his prosthetic arm glinted in the sun as he raised his palm slightly in polite greeting. Ritsuka stepped forward first, her red hair spilling out from beneath her hood, her gaze focused and clear.
"Your Majesty," she began evenly, "we are representatives of an organization dedicated to the protection of human history. We have arrived in response to an anomaly signal. We request permission to investigate the area where cases of disappearances and 'erasures' have been recorded. Our goal is not to interfere with the course of events without cause; we request only limited access—to search for survivors and confirm the facts."
Her voice wasn't a plea; it was the diplomacy of a young woman accustomed to responsibility but still holding on to hope. Da Vinci, standing nearby, held the "healing" disk in her hands and leaned in to whisper to Ritsuka what she considered important.
"Look," she whispered, barely audible, "He's no ordinary servant. His signature in the spectrum is Saber class. And according to the contract seal, he was summoned by her hand. She summoned him herself. Like everyone else."
Ritsuka felt a thought tremble in her chest: an ally of Artoria, that meant that in this war of order, there was not only brightness, but also a guardian of silence. She took a small step back, so as not to appear too close to those who held power.
Arturia didn't speak for long. Her voice was clear and even, like an order that couldn't be waved aside, and there was no hint of reproach or pity in it—only reason, forged by duty.
"Camelot maintains order," she said. "A few casualties are the price of peace."
Her words rang out across the square; several people in the crowd flinched as if struck by a shock. It wasn't a shout; it was a statement, a law, couched in a single sentence. Beside her, the Ghost remained motionless, and his silence itself became a confirmation—as if the silence itself agreed with the crown's decision.
Ritsuka didn't back down. She spoke calmly, but in a way that made the meaning clear to everyone: Chaldea is governed by rules, but people are more important to them than abstractions.
"Chaldea does not interfere with the laws of history without reason," she replied. "But if there is a threat to human life, we are obligated to attempt to save them. We request permission to conduct a brief check of the anomalous sources; if necessary, to evacuate those still alive."
Arturia glanced at the Phantom, and in that exchange of glances there was something that could be called advice: silent agreement or doubt, weighed on the scales of two principles. Then the queen turned back to them.
"Limited access is possible," she said. "But on one condition: under escort. You will receive a guide and supervision—one of my instruments of order will accompany you, and you will obey her or his decision on the spot. Break the rules, and the Light will restore order without further ado."
She paused, and at that moment the Ghost tilted his head slightly—a movement so subtle that someone unobservant might have mistaken it for a trick of the wind. But it was a sign: a guarantor stood beside Arturia, and his silent presence meant the agreement would be protected by more than just words.
Bedivere stepped forward and gave Ritsuka a look that was both wary and repulsed by the need for execution, but also a promise that he would handle them properly.
"I will see you off," he said quietly, "but know this: my hand is not for violence against those who seek the truth. If you act with honor, I will not let the light touch you before your time. But if you go on display, order will punish silently and quickly."
Ritsuka nodded, accepting the condition. Da Vinci adjusted the equipment's camouflage and noted dryly:
"We're keeping to the limits. We just need access to the locations where the disappearances were observed. The scans will look like healing rituals."
Arturia looked at Ritsuka for another moment, then lowered her gaze toward the square—as if counting the people there, reading their fates with a single glance. Finally, she gave a brief signal to the knight standing nearby, who stepped forward, assuming the role of escort.
"So be it," Arturia said. "But remember: order is not an opinion. It is a duty. And sometimes duty requires a price."
With these words, diplomacy, as cold and precise as light, concluded. Chaldea was granted conditional admission; the Ghost remained standing nearby, a silent judge, and Bedivere, standing at their side, prepared to lead the column deeper, to where light and shadow intertwined, and where they would share responsibility for lives with those who had already accepted the price of order.
***
As Arturia's final words hung in the air, as if carved in marble by a finger, the tension in the square grew to a palpable density. At first, it seemed like a gentle tremor—the stone slabs sighed, the flags on the tall poles fluttered slightly, and even the shadows of the people shifted in their places, as if someone had invisibly adjusted the arrangement of the figures on the stage.
Da Vinci was the first to notice: a series of anomalous signals flashed on her hidden monitor, the thin lines of code breaking, one of them breaking free and soaring across the ritual frequency spectrum. Her face paled momentarily with scientific interest, but there was also a hint of alarm in that pallor—not from curiosity, but from the realization of the scale.
"This is the beginning of a ritual," she whispered. "Not just a symbol—the platform is being launched. Listen."
The word "platform" immediately filled the space with meaning: the people hidden in the arches fell silent; the guards tensed like strings; someone on a nearby bench closed their eyes in prayer. From somewhere deep in the city came that single, pure tone—not thunder, but a solid bell that presses on the chest and makes breathing more even. Following it, a burst of light burst forth: a thin column of light, almost transparent, cut through the air, and white shards sparkled at its edges, like scattered voices.
Arturia listened. Her lips pressed together so tightly that a wrinkle barely appeared on her forehead—a rare gesture for a ruler accustomed to holding her face like a mirror of her will. Her gaze became tersely firm; she didn't pull away, but her very figure seemed to sink into a pose of determination. She didn't pronounce her verdict aloud, but even without words, it was clear: this was her ritual, her responsibility, and she sensed that at this very moment, something was going wrong.
The ghost stood nearby, silent as ever, but now its presence felt different: not just like a shield, but like a boundary between worlds. As the column of light passed by, its mask didn't reflect the glare at all; a faint glimmer flickered nearby, resembling neither light nor shadow—more like a note cut off from the music of reality. Mash's shield, resting at her shoulder, glowed faintly: not a simple gleam of metal, but a ripple, like a reflection off water. This flicker was barely perceptible, but all the more telling that the present power and Chaldea's protective field were interacting with something alien and profound.
Bedivere stood slightly ahead of the column at that moment, adjusting his cloak with one hand and touching his prosthetic with the other. We'd already seen his hand, but now, up close, it revealed additional details: its silvery surface was covered in fields of creased engraving, fine stitches at the base suggesting surgical interventions; at the bend, a dent resembling a blow, and next to it, a fine carving of a double branch, the symbol of an old oath. The prosthetic wasn't just an insert—it was a map of his past, bearing scars and choices. Bedivere ran his finger over it, as if checking that everything was in place, and a hint of weary determination flickered in his gaze: service has a price, and he had paid it.
The ritual's signal grew louder. A muffled cry suddenly echoed from the square—not a scream, but an alarm. A noise and a shifting of the crowd could be heard; somewhere, the crying stopped. Romani cringed, along with the logs—he leaned over the tablet, his fingers quickly scrolling through the lines, trying to predict how long the platform would remain active and the radius of its effect. His face remained calm, but his eyes suggested that beneath that calm lay a tense calculation: their window was rapidly closing.
Ritsuka—red-haired, young, but with the inner heaviness of being a master—felt a dilemma welling up in her chest, one that couldn't be resolved with formulas. She heard the words of Romani and Da Vinci, saw the shimmer on Mash's shield, and knew: a choice lay ahead. Helping people would require intervention, perhaps directly and contrary to ritual; preserving history's purity meant respecting local law, however cruel. Her hand clutched her cloak to her chest, the fabric creaking.
"What are we doing?" she asked quietly, not for the audience, but for those around her: for Mash, for Bedivere, for herself.
Mash looked at her evenly, as if she were taking orders, and answered briefly, without metaphors:
"We protect people while we can. If necessary, we will retreat. But peace is not worth the cost of those who are still breathing."
Da Vinci shook her head, her eyes glittering with internal calculation and the genuine excitement of a researcher:
"The activation window is limited. If we want to penetrate where the 'erasures' are recorded, it's best to do so before the peak. But any misstep, and the light will detect the interference."
Bedivere, a slight wrinkle forming at the corner of his lips, uttered something that was both a warning and an offer:
"I will lead you to a place where you can approach unnoticed. But if you invade openly, the Order will respond quietly and mercilessly. The decision is yours, but remember: sometimes saving one means dooming a hundred."
Arturia, listening from her platform, did not intervene. Her gaze kept sliding over the Chaldea column; it conveyed not only the coldness of a high judge, but also the weariness of a ruler forced to weigh sacrifices. This weariness held a grain of humanity, and Ritsuka knew this: the crown burdened not only power but also a way of life, where every intervention was a step in a new chain of consequences.
The Rhongomyniad's ringing grew louder, as if scorching the air; the column of light expanded, and from its crust, thin dots suddenly erupted, forming rows—as if the city were rereading its records, deciding what to keep and what to erase. At that moment, everything around seemed frozen: passersby, guards, even the grains of sand in the wind—everything watched the outcome of the choice.
Ritsuka closed her eyes for a second and imagined those who might now be on the platform or in its shadow—whose names might be crossed out. Her heart sank, and the answer came not from her mind, but from something deeper: from the claim to humanity that Chaldea had always stood for.
She opened her eyes, and there was a firm decision in her voice that would break the silence and set the tone for the next chapters:
"We're moving. Quietly. And if we have to, we'll save whoever we can."
At that very moment, the ritual bell rang again—a sharper tone, like a final call before fulfillment. With this ringing, a path began where every step would decide: to uphold the law of history or preserve life. This was their cruciform moment; after it followed a path of no return, and it was on this path that they would have to choose who they would be—guardians of order or guardians of the people.