In the perpetually chaotic sprawl of Los Santos, a blonde-haired man with sharp green eyes had long grown accustomed to the scenery.
Gang wars erupting at intersections, bank robberies in progress at noon, people being mugged in broad daylight—if you didn't see at least one of those on any given day, you were in the wrong city.
In terms of high crime rate, Los Santos held its own, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with legends like Night City and Gotham.
Furthermore, if you didn't have a criminal record here, you were simply doing something wrong.
Every citizen possessed a very particular, law-abiding nature: they knew and respected the city's real rules.
Robbing, prostitution, drug dealing—these weren't mere activities; they were the foundational bylaws every true resident abided by.
If you failed to follow to these rules, then you had no right to complain when you woke up the next day dumped in a gutter, homeless and bleeding.
Arthur Wayne—currently cosplaying as King Arthur from Fate/Prototype—raised his customized pistol toward the trembling bank clerk.
He was accompanied by his buddies: Carl Johnson, Big Smoke, and Ryder, who were respectively dressed as Robin, Batman, and the Joker.
Why was Arthur's costume different? Simple: his face was a dead ringer for the Nasuverse version of the King of Knights. Besides, they always picked their cosplays randomly, grabbing whatever they thought looked suitably intimidating or hilarious for the job.
"Alright, suckers, hands where I can see 'em! This is a robbery!" Arthur barked, his voice cutting through the sterile bank air, while CJ swept the lobby with a sawed-off shotgun, his grin promising violence so palpable he didn't need to fire a single shell.
From behind the counter, a muffled sob escaped one of the clerks.
"What the hell are you crying for?" Arthur snarled, disgusted by the clerk's wet, sniveling sounds. "America doesn't believe in tears. Now move your ass!"
"U-uhm, sir… shouldn't it be 'Moscow doesn't believe in tears,' not America?" the clerk stammered, shivering in his cheap suit.
Arthur rolled his eyes so hard his head tilted. "What's the goddamn difference? Now—the money."
Five minutes later, they were already outside, heavy duffel bags slung over their shoulders, piling into a waiting muscle car as police sirens began to wail in the distance—too late, as usual.
The engine roared to life, tires screeching against asphalt. The police chase was instant and relentless, a ballet of screaming metal and flashing lights.
Then came the inevitable exchange of gunfire between the moving vehicles. The wicked never rest—a fitting motto, as Arthur, Ryder, and Big Smoke leaned out the windows, unleashing a torrent of rounds from their respective AK-47s.
Bullets sparked against cruiser hoods and shattered windshields until, one by one, the pursuing cars swerved and erupted into fiery explosions.
"Fuck, yeah, this is awesome!" Big Smoke howled into the rushing air, still firing burst after celebratory burst at the burning wrecks.
Ryder, pumped on adrenaline and chaos, yelled over the din, "Should we blow up the whole damn police station next?!"
Arthur glanced back, a wild grin splitting his face. "You know what, man? Fuck it, why not?"
Despite the bold declaration, they didn't actually do it. Blowing up a police station and looting its armory was a Tuesday afternoon in Los Santos, but today, they were feeling lazy.
The money in the trunk was calling, and the prospect of going home, dumping the cash on a table, and counting their filthy, hard-stolen earnings was a far more appealing kind of chaos.
The police station could wait for another day of inspiration.
Arthur leaned back in his seat, finally exhaling.
Just as he thought he could relax for a second, their car exploded.
A high-caliber sniper round tore through the engine block from an impossible distance, the crack of the shot arriving a heartbeat after the impact.
Metal twisted, glass vaporized, and the sedan was lifted off its tires in a bloom of fire and shrapnel.
That was the moment the world broke.
The sky above Los Santos didn't darken—it fractured. A spiderweb of jagged, glowing lines split the blue expanse like a pane of glass struck by a hammer.
All sound was sucked into a vacuum, replaced by a crushing, silent pressure that squeezed the air from his lungs and made the city itself seem to hold its breath.
Arthur's vision drowned in a searing white light. Geometric symbols—circles within circles, jagged runes, complex thaumaturgical formulas that had no business existing outside of a madman's notebook—burned themselves into reality, hovering in the air around him.
They pulsed with a power that made his skin crawl.
Then, a voice.
Not in his ears, but inside his skull, etched directly onto his soul.
It was soft, young, and trembling with a reverence that bordered on madness.
"I summon thee."
"Heroic Spirit who stands at the end of all wishes…"
"Answer my call."
An invisible force, gentle and absolute, wrapped around him.
Arthur felt his body lift from the wrecked, burning seat, untouched by the flames.
"—What the absolute hell?" was the last coherent thing he managed to choke out before reality itself folded inward.
Space twisted, light bent, and Los Santos vanished.
He blinked, staggering as solid ground—polished stone—replaced the feeling of freefall.
His eyes widened in pure disbelief.
Standing before him was a girl with hair like spun gold and eyes of deep, serene blue.
She was dressed in an ornate, blue dress that seemed both regal and strangely fragile.
He knew her. He'd seen her on screens, in fan art, in the depths of Fate/Prototype lore. This was Manaka Sajyou. The Princess of Origin. The fucking omnipotent wish-granter.
Fuck. Chat, I'm so dead…
The thought was a cold spike of pure panic.
He braced for annihilation, for being unmasked as a fraud and erased from existence.
Then, her soft voice echoed in the quiet chamber, not in his mind, but aloud.
It was filled with a happiness so intense it was unnerving.
"My Prince… thank you. Thank you for answering my call for the Holy Grail." She smiled, a radiant expression of pure, unhinged ecstasy.
Her gaze was locked on him, wide with obsession and devotion.
Wait. What?
Is she… mistaking me for someone?
His own shock made him look down.
He was still wearing the cosplay gear—the intricate blue armor, the ridiculous cape, the prop sword at his hip, now somehow feeling less like plastic and more like cold, weighted metal.
Oh. Oh, shit.
Is she for real? Did she just pull a fucking King Arthur out of Los Santos because I was dressed like one?
He needed to test this.
Now. He decided to play along, his street-smart instincts overriding his terror.
He forced his posture straighter, summoning every ounce of the cool, commanding presence he used during a heist.
"Alright, girl," he said, his voice lower, more measured. "Tell me about yourself. Your name, your family, and what you wish for in this Holy Grail War."
She didn't hesitate.
She obeyed, like a subject receiving a royal command. "Uhm… Prince… Actually, I don't have a wish of my own."
She clasped her hands, her expression earnest to the point of pain. "But please, don't worry! I will win the Grail for you. Don't look at me like I'm weak just because I only have one Magic Circuit. I'm… I'm super powerful. I promise."
Her words were a child's boast, terrifying in their sincerity.
"Okay…" Arthur murmured, his mind racing.
He reached out, slowly, and stroked her blonde hair. It was a gesture of encouragement, of feigned familiarity. He'd seen kings do it in movies.
She let out a soft, trembling hum at his touch, leaning into it like a starved cat. "My Prince… I'm so happy I summoned you… Please, take a seat and wait for a moment. I will cook for you."
Arthur just nodded, moving mechanically to sit in a nearby ornate chair.
His face was a perfect, deadpan mask.
Is this girl for real?
The thought screamed in his head.
She didn't even check my stats? My Spirit Origin? She didn't consult the damn Root or whatever? She just… assumed?
But then, a crazy, glorious, insane idea began to crystallize in the chaos of his mind.
Maybe… this is for the best.
She thinks I'm King Arthur. The Holy Grail here is the real deal—not that scam in Fuyuki. It can grant any wish…
A slow, audacious smirk threatened to break through his deadpan expression.
Why the hell not become the real King Arthur?
If the Grail could do anything, then wishing to become the Heroic Spirit she believed him to be… how hard could it be?
He leaned back in the chair, the gears turning. He was a bank robber from Los Santos sitting in a magical workshop, being served by an omnipotent princess who thought he was a legendary king.
What could possibly go wrong?