Chapter 536: A Thought Cast Into Darkness, Suddenly the World Widens

CE… no, even the concept of time had lost meaning. From this moment 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 framework, every intelligent being could feel it clearly: upon waking, the world had become unfamiliar. They were no longer the masters of nature.

On that day, humanity remembered 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 methods, 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 time 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 emergence of that ancient mythological battlefield did not stop them from offering prayers and cheers to their kings, saints, heroes, beliefs, and totems…

But the outcome 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 meteors, 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 transformed 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 some 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 renamed 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 become numbers—Numbers: XX.

One week later…

Formerly known as the Chaldea universe (“Fate/Grand Order”), it was now formally registered in Imperial government documents 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 some 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 armed 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 merging into a singular melody in this silent yet chaotic metropolis.

From breached homes came bursts of gunfire and explosions, followed by screams, then silence. Auxiliary soldiers dragged out men and women in varied attire, all gripping firearms. One muscular middle-aged man even had TNT strapped across his chest.

There was no time 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 meat 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 gentlemen, I regret to inform you that from this day forward, on the banks of the Thames, 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. Some 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, Merlin 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-rimmed 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 medal.

At the sight of him, it was as though a tiger had entered the streets. Doors and windows of surrounding buildings slammed 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 Camelot, Britain, a thousand years later…”

Seeing the shell-shocked citizens, Artoria sighed. She wanted to comfort them, to stop this, but she was merely a guest under someone 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 confirmed it—her body had fully healed. Even the bodily restraints caused by the Holy Sword were gone.

All thanks to a certain someone.

Artoria glanced at a certain flower magician. The white-robed youth, Brother Merlin, had regained his former 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, Merlin beamed 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 brimmed with pride, his face the very picture of harmlessness.

“And… my king, what is that look? It’s been so long since we’ve met, and you’re staring at me like trash… is that your way of hiding your embarrassment?”

Her pale aqua eyes calmly regarded her court magician. Artoria soon looked away.

“Hey, old bastard,” said Mordred, approaching Merlin 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 came 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 same in the end. It’s called showing where you stand, little Mo. You’re still young. Still a lot to learn,” Merlin 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.”

“Meanwhile, in other warzones, the pacification and purges are still raging.”

To this, Merlin 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 Camelot, led by Artoria and Merlin.

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, Palamedes, Gaheris, and even the Shield Knight Galahad.

This wasn’t something Merlin could have pulled off alone. Clearly, it was the work of a certain someone who had seized control of the Throne of Heroes.

As the Inquisitor had said, this was preferential treatment for a man who “understood the times.” Truthfully, once he saw the tide had turned, Merlin’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 same.

Naturally, the Empire granted him special treatment, and as compensation for the beatdown he’d taken from the Imperial military command staff. Combined, it gave Merlin the rare chance to state a personal wish.

At the time, 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 some 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 come 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 named Artoria.”

Those were Merlin’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 deemed 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 Merlin 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 remembered forever (a star).

But that was difficult. Without the unifying force of interests, without political acumen, without absolute strength or personal prestige, mere 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 something they can see and touch.

So, overjoyed, Selene invoked the authority of the Swirl of the Root. At the right moment, purple clouds arose in the east, auspicious signs filled the heavens, golden lotuses bloomed 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 mere thought for Selene, who now fully commanded the Throne of Heroes. It wasn’t about reversing time or creating souls from scratch—the imprints were already there. Giving them flesh was effortless.

At the same time, Selene resolved to overhaul the parallel world mechanics of the Swirl of the Root.

Simply put, she would fully separate different timelines 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 time 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 met with immediate annihilation by Selene’s defenses.

Each world, whether grand or humble, would evolve on its own, untethered from the projections of other high-dimensional universes. A flourishing of diversity.

At present, Selene was extremely busy. She only took a moment 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 timelines 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 dimension.

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 movement: 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 Gilgamesh, 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. Some she’d torture. Some 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 Merlin?

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, Merlin 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 came 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 consumer of human dreams.

Merlin’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 become of Britain a thousand years later, their remaining time in the Type-Moon world began ticking down.

Led by the Inquisitor, Merlin and Artoria’s party passed through multiple layers of Imperial military checkpoints. With the naked eye, one could see the increasing presence of stationed armaments, 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 Thames, 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. Commercial zones were flattened, replaced by towering war machines—dozens, hundreds, some several hundred meters tall—each outfitted with fearsome 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 metallic 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 moment, the Inquisitor raised a finger and grinned.

“The dimension of the gods—the Imperial Capital.”

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