CE... no, even the concept of ti had lost aning. From this mont on, all old orders were swept into the trash heap.
Beneath the Swirl of the Root, in thousands of parallel worlds, even without a unified temporal frawork, every intelligent being could feel it clearly: upon waking, the world had beco unfamiliar. They were no longer the masters of nature.
On that day, humanity rembered the fear of once being ruled.
The sky shattered. The concept known as "myth" descended upon the Earth. Ancient taboos awakened... the unknown darkness spread across the cosmic domain, swallowing all in its path...
Massive mystical barriers, varied and wondrous in their thods, were laid bare. Hidden magi, legendary human heroes, Heroic Spirits, demigods, gods, and even more fantastical beings of myth—phantasmals, dragons, magical beasts, fae folk... all revealed themselves to the mortal world for the first ti without disguise!
Shoulder to shoulder, united in defiance, they launched a bold counterattack against the alien heavens!
Though common folk had no idea what was happening, completely at a loss, the ergence of that ancient mythological battlefield did not stop them from offering prayers and cheers to their kings, saints, heroes, beliefs, and totems...
But the outco was inevitable. Their heroes were defeated.
As towering light lances, plasma, macro cannons rained down, war machines veiled the sky, and drop pods along with assault ships fell like blazing teors, the surface burned beneath a searing sky. Warriors clad in high-tech armor surged forward like a tidal wave, their blitzkrieg striking down all resistance.
When the Heroic Spirits fell, when the phantasmal species surrendered as the Swirl of the Root was transford into the Swirl of Honkai, the world’s mundane militaries found themselves utterly powerless. Even against what appeared to be archaic auxiliary troops of the Empire, they stood no chance.
Though so fought bravely, creating countless tragedies of noble self-sacrifice, it did not stop the world from falling and becoming a colony of the Holy Selene Empire. All nations, all religions, were stripped away.
Even ethnic designations were forcibly renad according to the Empire’s central administrative galactic designation: Imperial Central Direct-Controlled Star Domain XXX-XX-XX, labeled by parallel universe and sector coordinates. In the Empire’s statistical bureau records, they had beco numbers—Numbers: XX.
One week later...
Forrly known as the Chaldea universe ("Fate/Grand Order"), it was now formally registered in Imperial governnt docunts as: 49th Parallel Universe — Milky Way Sector — Orion Arm — Solar System — Earth.
The British Isles.
Britain was one of the few places post-CE that still retained so mystery. The Inner Sea of the Stars, Avalon’s gateway to the present world, was located here.
The day was not especially cold.
But the people’s hearts were frozen.
Thud thud thud thud!!
Towering Astartes warriors bearing the Dragon’s Roar banner of the Third Legion, Black Templars, and the twin-headed eagle of the Empire, marched forward with heavy steps. Their cadence was unified, armored to the teeth, forming a moving wall of violet and gold. Each street echoed with the low, resonant toll of bronze bells.
The roar of hydraulic pistons reverberated as fully ard auxiliary soldiers leapt from vehicles, dashing past the Black Templars like a storm. The clash of man and machine rang like a symphony of iron and fire, with orders, battle cries, and engine noise rging into a singular lody in this silent yet chaotic tropolis.
From breached hos ca bursts of gunfire and explosions, followed by screams, then silence. Auxiliary soldiers dragged out n and won in varied attire, all gripping firearms. One muscular middle-aged man even had TNT strapped across his chest.
There was no ti to detonate. Both of his arms were blown off at the shoulders, and a laser beam pierced through the center of his forehead, leaving a gaping hole. Skull and brain matter were instantly vaporized, releasing a sizzle of roasted at and a charred, brainy aroma.
Another group trying to disrupt public order—heroes? No, fools.
From a nearby church, an old priest withdrew his gaze.
"Ladies and gentlen, I regret to inform you that from this day forward, on the banks of the Thas, from England to Wales and Scotland, the world will no longer permit the display of any private flags. All pagan faiths are to be abolished. The God-Emperor..."
"Today will also mark the last day for this church," the old priest said with great difficulty.
"God, what are you saying? How could God abandon His flock... Satan’s army is trampling the Earth..."
Devout believers stared blankly at the old priest, lips trembling, voices distorted.
Those who have never experienced the depths of Catholic faith would not understand such heartfelt devotion and obedience. The casual, performative believers were nowhere to be found. All present were elderly or middle-aged, likely among the last generation deeply shaped by Christianity before the information explosion.
The old priest looked around. Many were already on their knees, weeping. So shouted, distraught by the collapse of their lifelong spiritual foundation. The grief, the heartbreak, even despair was etched into their bones.
"Heh, look at their pathetic faces."
Watching the commotion around the now-condemned church, a squad of Imperial auxiliary troops snickered.
"Their god is nothing—a rotten piece of wood, a broken hunk of plaster, a dead stone."
Clack~
Walking slowly along the cold, desolate streets of London, rlin and his party made their way forward. Leading the group of oddly dressed, cosplay-like misfits was an Inquisitor of the Imperial Inquisition, wearing a broad-rimd hat marked with the scales-and-skull symbol. He was clad in a double-breasted precision-forged officer’s coat, bearing on his chest the coveted golden twin-headed eagle dal.
At the sight of him, it was as though a tiger had entered the streets. Doors and windows of surrounding buildings slamd shut.
Those unfortunate enough to be caught outside clutched their distributed relief food, trembling in place. Their hands shook like sieves. Their faces were pale, sickly, lifeless. Sparse beards clung to their chins, and their eyes were dulled—numb.
"Sir!"
Instantly, the squad of Imperial auxiliaries snapped to attention.
With a salute, the Inquisitor crossed through their patrol zone.
"So this is Calot, Britain, a thousand years later..."
Seeing the shell-shocked citizens, Artoria sighed. She wanted to comfort them, to stop this, but she was rely a guest under soone else’s roof. Her kingdom had long since fallen. She was no longer their monarch.
As for the Imperial Governor’s justification, it was far more pragmatic: post-war reconstruction, maintaining order, and protecting the lives and partial interests of the majority.
Crack!
She extended her gauntleted hand and clenched it. A crisp sound, like dripping water, echoed from her bones. The sensation of blood flowing through her veins confird it—her body had fully healed. Even the bodily restraints caused by the Holy Sword were gone.
All thanks to a certain soone.
Artoria glanced at a certain flower magician. The white-robed youth, Brother rlin, had regained his forr ethereal charm. There was no trace of the recent beating he’d taken at the hands of a group of Valkyries.
Sensing Artoria’s gaze, rlin bead and tossed his flowing white hair, as if pink and white petals were dancing in the air. "Hahaha, well? How’s the body feel? Just like before, right? Still cute as ever—my dear Artoria."
His words brimd with pride, his face the very picture of harmlessness.
"And... my king, what is that look? It’s been so long since we’ve t, and you’re staring at like trash... is that your way of hiding your embarrassnt?"
Her pale aqua eyes calmly regarded her court magician. Artoria soon looked away.
"Hey, old bastard," said Mordred, approaching rlin while carrying the King’s sword. She first glanced at the Imperial troops marching in formation along the street, then muttered under her breath, "So you ca back to life, huh? And yet, here you are bowing and scraping to a new master."
"Ah, swapping masters or whatnot... it’s all the sa in the end. It’s called showing where you stand, little Mo. You’re still young. Still a lot to learn," rlin replied with faux wisdom.
"What?!" Mordred’s voice jumped a few decibels.
"This is what the Empire calls a reward for early submission," said the Inquisitor leading them.
"Tsk tsk..."
Turning his head, he let out a short laugh and remarked, "I reviewed the battle reports from Avalon. In the entire star-domain theater, Nightmare, you were the first to surrender. And it seems your reputation isn’t low. Your surrender triggered a total collapse of resistance in the Avalon zone."
"anwhile, in other warzones, the pacification and purges are still raging."
To this, rlin responded with a slight smile. "Does that not highlight my wisdom?"
Needless to say, the group was none other than the Round Table Knights of Calot, led by Artoria and rlin.
Among them: Lancelot of the Lake, Gawain the Sun Knight, Tristan the Mourner, advisor Agravain, rebellious knight Mordred, chamberlain and violet-armored silver knight Bedivere, along with Kay, Percival, Gareth, Palades, Gaheris, and even the Shield Knight Galahad.
This wasn’t sothing rlin could have pulled off alone. Clearly, it was the work of a certain soone who had seized control of the Throne of Heroes.
As the Inquisitor had said, this was preferential treatnt for a man who "understood the tis." Truthfully, once he saw the tide had turned, rlin’s change in attitude and rapid surrender made him the first in the entire Type-Moon world to lay down his arms and persuade the local resistance to do the sa.
Naturally, the Empire granted him special treatnt, and as compensation for the beatdown he’d taken from the Imperial military command staff. Combined, it gave rlin the rare chance to state a personal wish.
At the ti, Selene, in her post-crisis leisure state, was curious and wanted to see what kind of wish this whimsical flower magician might make.
The result? It surprised her a little.
"Please give my king another chance."
"I watched her grow up. I was the one who pushed her onto the throne she never wished for."
"The tragic end of the Arthurian epic... sure, part of it was Artoria’s own fault. But so of it—was mine."
"When she entered the Holy Grail War, her wish was never for herself. She wanted a better king to replace her and guide the people... And now, that wish has co true" (he said flatteringly), "but I want her to truly live and witness it. Not remain stuck in a twisted state between life and death, cursed by the Holy Sword!"
"Whether she chooses to remain a knight or retire to a quiet life as a commoner, it will be her path to walk—a new life, one where she no longer bears the burdens of kingship, as an ordinary girl nad Artoria."
Those were rlin’s exact words.
That bit about the wish being "fulfilled" was clearly sycophantic, and of course Selene could tell.
The implication: the new "king" was a better ruler than Artoria.
Who else but Selene herself!
See, Selene never liked flattery, never encouraged it, and the Empire had no precedent of anyone rising to power through flattery. But even she had to admit—whether it worked or not, she liked hearing it.
Artoria—so noble, so bound by decorum, often deed emotionally detached—was not suited to be a ruler, at least in Selene’s eyes. She was the archetype of a noble knight, but that very perfection made her ill-suited for kingship.
As rlin once told her: If your life ends without stain, worthy of praise—beloved by all—then as long as human history continues, you will be rembered forever (a star).
But that was difficult. Without the unifying force of interests, without political acun, without absolute strength or personal prestige, re charisma was but an unreachable ideal. Loyal followers might exist, but they too would eventually wane.
Most people are just that—ordinary. What they need is sothing they can see and touch.
So, overjoyed, Selene invoked the authority of the Swirl of the Root. At the right mont, purple clouds arose in the east, auspicious signs filled the heavens, golden lotuses blood upon the earth, and a sacred fragrance wafted from across the sea of stars, ethereal and pure, each step a radiant blossom.
Not only did the Knight King Artoria step forth from the boundary between life and death, but her entire Round Table was also revived and delivered.
Truly, reviving Heroic Spirits was a re thought for Selene, who now fully commanded the Throne of Heroes. It wasn’t about reversing ti or creating souls from scratch—the imprints were already there. Giving them flesh was effortless.
At the sa ti, Selene resolved to overhaul the parallel world chanics of the Swirl of the Root.
Simply put, she would fully separate different tilines and parallel worlds from one another.
She would accelerate their evolutionary processes while preventing convergence.
This was a key part of Selene’s plan to restructure how the Swirl of the Root operated.
She would fold and conceal all threads of ti and parallel worlds. From now on, no EX-class clairvoyance, no magus, not even a god could observe them.
Any attempt to peek would either yield nothing—or be t with imdiate annihilation by Selene’s defenses.
Each world, whether grand or humble, would evolve on its own, untethered from the projections of other high-dinsional universes. A flourishing of diversity.
At present, Selene was extrely busy. She only took a mont to slack off, and the avatars she dispatched across countless parallel worlds sent back all they saw and heard to her central consciousness—and she spotted the issue.
Too many worlds were too similar. That the Milky Way, the Solar System, and Earth mirrored each other was one thing, but having identical people and experiences? Unacceptable. Change it!
Though most tilines in the Type-Moon world were different, there were always those (certain individuals) who were just too similar.
Then there was the Throne of Heroes. Selene had big plans. She intended to expand it throughout the Honkai dinsion.
The Cursed Legion!
Another project requiring Selene’s prolonged effort.
Selene would not recklessly abuse resurrection. Instead, she planned to guide the heroic souls of fallen Imperial soldiers to the new Throne of Heroes, transforming them into her own ghost army—a dread force under her sole command. Terrifying in form, unseen in movent: the Cursed Legion!
As for the original Heroic Spirits in the Throne? Apologies. Your new boss is Selene now. She’s no Gaia or Alaya—she doesn’t play nice, and she definitely isn’t powerless.
Take the likes of Gilgash, those notorious rebels. You once treated the Counter Force with disdain. Try your arrogance on Selene and see what happens. Total erasure? Think again.
Selene wasn’t a devil. She would simply tear you into several pieces. So she’d torture. So she’d reprogram into eternal tools and executioners.
In Selene’s realm, there would be no battlefield on which to die for freedom. The only option was to kneel and swear loyalty.
Not willing to swear allegiance? Selene had plenty of ways to make you submit—in both body and mind.
As for rlin?
Truly, one thought offered to Selene, and suddenly the world widened. All the problems that had long troubled him were instantly resolved.
He felt completely unburdened.
Though regarded as a sage, rlin was not truly human. After all, he was a half-breed between a succubus and a human.
He loved the human world, but when it ca to individuals... well, uh, let’s just say—it’s better left unsaid!
That was his attitude. As you can see, he was never truly a companion of humanity, but a consur of human dreams.
rlin’s fondness for humanity was more of a personal hobby. What he really wanted was simply for humanity not to go extinct. Since Selene had no plans for genocide, just a change of rulers, well... he could live with that.
Once they passed through the long security line, fulfilling Artoria’s request to see what had beco of Britain a thousand years later, their remaining ti in the Type-Moon world began ticking down.
Led by the Inquisitor, rlin and Artoria’s party passed through multiple layers of Imperial military checkpoints. With the naked eye, one could see the increasing presence of stationed armants, Astartes warriors, and Imperial administration officers.
A vast plaza stretched out before them. It was hard to imagine that just days earlier, this had been a crater wiped clean by the Spear of Light—a pit encompassing the Clock Tower, the Thas, and several city blocks. Now, a massive fortress stood tall.
Outside the straight road leading to the main gate, the surrounding land had been cleared. Comrcial zones were flattened, replaced by towering war machines—dozens, hundreds, so several hundred ters tall—each outfitted with fearso barrels and bladed weaponry.
Under the silent gaze of hulking armored soldiers, midway across the plaza, Artoria suddenly asked, "Lord Inquisitor, where exactly are we going?"
"We’re here."
The Inquisitor stopped walking and looked up, offering no further explanation.
Before his voice had even faded:
Hummmm—!
A beam of light pierced the sky. The heavy clouds over Britain parted, revealing a sprawling tallic heavenscape.
Bathed in a pale blue column of light, golden hair and a blue ribbon floated upward in the breeze. Under gravitational pull, the entire group began to slowly ascend.
In the next mont, the Inquisitor raised a finger and grinned.
"The dinsion of the gods—the Imperial Capital."
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