The Hero who sacrifice himself for peace

As the last glimpse of Bedivere disappeared into the curtain of sand and distance, I allowed my body to finally relax. The air was still dry and thick with heat, but the pressure that had coiled in my chest was beginning to lift.

I raised my hand once more, letting mana gather and flicker at my fingertips like faint glimmers of starlight.

Map formed before me—a detailed projection of the surrounding terrain. The shifting dunes and broken cliffs took shape, outlined in faint, glowing light. I studied it carefully, eyes scanning every detail.

And then, there it was—just beyond a stretch of jagged ridges and shallow valleys. A structure. No, a settlement. Small, but unmistakably a city, perhaps nestled within the protection of natural terrain.

"A city…?" I murmured.

The sight brought a wave of cautious hope. It wasn't Camelot, that much I was sure of—Camelot's towering walls would have registered clearly on the map. But even a smaller city meant potential shelter, and more importantly—information.

I closed my hand, letting the map dissolve into a cloud of glowing particles that slowly scattered in the wind. My fingers tightened slightly.

"All right. Time to move."

With my cloak pulled tightly around me and my footsteps light on the sand, I began walking again—this time not through endless aimless wandering, but toward a destination. Toward answers.

Each step forward felt steadier now, the uncertainty slowly giving way to purpose. The golden sun above continued to blaze fiercely, its rays scattering off the ever-shifting dunes like liquid fire.

But I paid no mind to the heat, nor the sweat trailing down the back of my neck beneath the cloak's hood. My focus was fixed solely on the silhouette of the distant city that had appeared on the map.

The wind whispered around me, tugging gently at the hem of my cloak. My boots left shallow prints in the sand that would vanish within minutes.

The desert was like that—erasing signs of the past, swallowing up proof of anyone's journey. A place made for the lost.

But I wouldn't let myself be one of them.

As I approached a low ridge, I ascended the slope cautiously, my invisible blade still at the ready within my grip.

Even if I'd discarded Excalibur moments ago for the sake of caution, my guard remained raised.

That brief encounter with Bedivere had reminded me of how close I stood to being discovered. One misstep, one wrongly spoken word… and the consequences could become irreversible.

At the top of the ridge, I paused, narrowing my eyes beneath the shadow of my hood. There it was—faint but visible in the far distance.

A collection of stone walls, maybe towers, nestled between a scattering of sandstone cliffs. The buildings looked aged, sun-worn, but not abandoned. Smoke trailed faintly from one or two chimneys, curling upward into the open sky. There were signs of life.

"I'm getting close," I whispered to myself, a soft breath carried off by the desert wind.

Still, a flicker of anxiety gnawed at my chest.

What kind of people lived there? Would they recognize me? Or rather… would they recognize the face I wore?

The face of a king.

Even with the cloak pulled tight around me, I couldn't erase the truth of my imitation. Artoria Pendragon's form was one easily remembered. Revered by some. Hated by others. If someone had fought beside her or against her, even the smallest detail might spark recognition.

I gritted my teeth slightly, then shook my head.

No. I would manage this. I had to.

I adjusted the clasp of my cloak and set off again—this time moving faster, letting my legs carry me down the slope and back into the flatlands. The city was close. And whatever truths or dangers waited inside… I would face them.

As long as I kept the mask on.

As long as I never forgot who I was beneath it.

The descent from the ridge was smoother than expected.

The sand here was more compact, likely hardened from years of wind erosion. My boots crunched softly with each step, and the faint silhouette of the city ahead slowly grew clearer, more defined.

Stone walls, watchtowers, and rooftops that jutted from within like jagged teeth on the horizon. It wasn't Camelot—that much I knew. But it was a settlement. A place of people. And for now, that was enough.

I raised my hand again, focusing mana into my palm. A soft blue glow pulsed in the air, and a familiar shimmering map reformed above my skin.

"Hm…"

My eyes scanned the floating holographic layout. The city wasn't large, but it seemed… intact. Not a ruin. Not another illusion conjured by the Singularity's twisted nature. There was a mana signature emanating faintly from within too—not aggressive, but definitely present.

Maybe Servants. Maybe just strong individuals. I had to stay cautious either way.

The streets looked like they branched from a central square, which likely served as the hub for information, trade, and news. If I was going to blend in, I'd need to find an inn, maybe even acquire different clothes to mask this presence further.

I dismissed the map with a flick of my fingers, letting it scatter into soft blue particles that faded into the wind.

My gaze returned to the city.

It was time to move again.

I adjusted my cloak, ensuring it still covered the shape of my armor beneath, then pulled the hood further down over my head. No one could see my face—not here, not yet. I couldn't afford the risk.

The winds blew stronger as I drew closer to the outskirts, and with it came faint signs of civilization: a worn banner flapping lazily atop a gatepost, the distant sound of something metal striking stone—maybe a blacksmith at work.

I inhaled slowly, feeling the dryness of the desert begin to lift from the air, replaced by the heavy scent of smoke and old wood. Life.

As I reached the first weathered stone that marked the city boundary, I paused once more. My golden eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, every silhouette that wandered nearby.

And then… I stepped forward.

Into the unknown.

As I passed through the worn archway of the city's entrance, my boots met stone for the first time in hours. The shift from sand to cobblestone was oddly comforting—tangible proof that I had arrived somewhere real.

The air here was heavier, tinged with the scent of smoke, dust, and sweat. Unlike the stillness of the desert, this place breathed with life, even if that life was not one of peace or comfort.

My eyes scanned the surroundings carefully beneath the shadow of my hood.

The streets were narrow and cracked, littered with broken crates and faded cloth banners that fluttered in the breeze.

To the sides of the alleyway, I saw huddled figures—some wrapped in dirty blankets, others leaning against the cold stone walls. Gelandangan.

Homeless, scattered in corners like forgotten memories. Their faces were gaunt, eyes hollow, but not without spark. Survivors in a land where survival was no small feat.

Further down, I spotted travelers. Some looked like mercenaries—scarred men and women with mismatched armor and wary gazes.

Others bore robes or cloaks like mine, heads lowered as they passed each other in silence. A few carried strange trinkets, likely relics from the desert or stolen magical tools. Every single one of them carried fatigue in their stride, and weapons not far from reach.

A group of children darted past me, barefoot, laughing despite the state of the world around them. Their joy felt misplaced—yet perhaps necessary.

"…This city," I murmured quietly, "is breathing on borrowed time."

I didn't know its name, nor did I know who ruled here, if anyone. But one thing was clear: this was a temporary haven for the desperate, the forgotten, and those seeking something in the heart of the Singularity.

My hands remained hidden beneath my cloak, gripping the edges tightly. I kept walking.

A merchant nearby barked prices in a tired voice, selling dried meat and worn-out gear to a pair of mercenaries. A woman with a bandaged eye sat beside a small fire, stirring a pot of something that smelled faintly edible. Even in its ruin, this place had rhythm.

No guards challenged me. No one paid too close attention. I was just another traveler to them. And I intended to keep it that way.

As I approached what looked like a rundown plaza, I noticed a large board posted with worn paper—quests, bounties, and news written in faded ink. It might be a good place to gather some information.

But first… I needed rest. And maybe, just maybe, a proper roof over my head tonight.

The weight of the desert still clung to my shoulders—dust in my hair, sweat on my brow, and exhaustion creeping into every corner of my body. I pulled my cloak tighter, weaving through the crowd in search of an inn or tavern. A warm meal, even a stale bed—anything would do after everything I'd endured.

Yet, just as I turned a corner, scanning for a signboard or a welcoming lantern, my eyes caught a familiar silhouette.

Behind a modest-looking stall covered with faded cloth and old supplies, stood a man—lean and weathered, with short black hair, dark eyes filled with calm patience, and a quiet smile as he handed a canteen to a traveler. His armor was simple, practical. A bow rested against the edge of the stall, barely noticeable unless one knew to look for it.

My steps froze.

"…No way."

The figure turned slightly, his profile now clearer under the sunlight, and there was no mistaking it.

It was him.

Arash Kamangir.

The Hero of the Persian legend. A man whose name carried the weight of sacrifice and salvation. A Servant of the Archer class… and more importantly to me, back in when I'm playing FGO—he was my most reliable farming machine. A man who, despite his one-time Noble Phantasm, was the cornerstone of countless victories in endless grind battles.

(A: Press "F" to pay respect)

"Arash…" I whispered under my breath, almost forgetting to keep my voice low. Memories rushed in: his selfless smile before every final wave, his calm words, his unwavering resolve to give everything for the people—even if it meant vanishing.

But this wasn't the digital world anymore. This was real. This was the Singularity.

And that man behind the stall… wasn't just a sprite. He was Arash, living and breathing.

He didn't seem to notice me yet—too busy speaking to a young traveler who looked no older than seventeen. He handed over a small sack of dried food and gestured kindly, possibly giving directions. Just like always, helping others without asking for anything in return.

I felt a pang in my chest. This wasn't just nostalgia—it was awe. Reverence.

But I couldn't approach him carelessly. Not while I was in this form. Not when I was still imitating Artoria Pendragon.

The risk was too great. If he caught even the slightest resemblance, even a fragment of her presence in me… everything could fall apart. My cover, my freedom, and perhaps even the path I was trying to forge through this distorted world.

And yet, the temptation was there—pulling at me like gravity.

If I spoke to him, even briefly, perhaps I could glean some information. About this city. About the Holy City. About what lies ahead.

I glanced around, my eyes scanning the flow of people that filled the market street—travelers wrapped in dusty cloaks, merchants shouting about their wares, and children weaving between carts with stolen fruit in hand. No one paid me any mind. No one looked twice at the hooded figure lingering near the stall.

Good. That was what I needed.

Quietly, I extended my hand beneath the cloak and activated my skill. A soft shimmer of mana glowed faintly between my fingers, and then—coins appeared in my palm. Simple bronze and silver currency, believable and tangible. Enough to buy a modest meal or supplies.

I took a quiet breath, tightening my grip on the coins.

"I'm just a tired traveler," I told myself.

"Buying food. Asking for directions. Nothing more."

I stepped forward—slowly, carefully—blending into the crowd until I stood just before the stall. The scent of sun-dried meat and baked flatbread drifted in the air, mixing with the faint scent of dust and old wood. And there he was—Arash, standing only a few steps away.

He hadn't noticed me yet. Not truly. But he would soon.

My heart beat a little faster.

Now… let's see what kind of man he is when seen through my own eyes.