[Simulation Start, Simulation ID: 1004]
[Queen's Calendar, early 2018: After your village was burned to the ground and your beloved grandfather sacrificed himself to protect you, you fled Tintagel and wandered to Salisbury.]
[Because of your shabby clothes and weak mana, your introduction as the Chosen of Prophecy was taken as a joke by the guards, who mercilessly ridiculed you. In the end, they demanded that you clean out the Morris drains to prove your identity as the Chosen.]
Seeing the familiar opening to the simulation, Artoria closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. No matter what, she was no longer who she used to be. After enduring so many people and so many events, hadn't she grown even a little?
Every time she said, "This time I'll get it right," but nothing ever changed. How many more times would she have to repeat this? When she opened her eyes again, the perpetual inferiority and confusion in her gaze were gone.
"Stop treating me like an idiot! You guards have duties too! Cleaning the Morris drains is your job, isn't it? Don't think you can shrug it off by dumping it on someone else! It's because Salisbury's guards are nothing but lazy shirkers that we collapse the moment a real fight breaks out!"
[You decisively refuse the guards' unreasonable demand and mercilessly scold them.]
[Your words ignite the guards' anger, and before you can leave, they attempt to attack you.]
"Come on, then! You're just a bunch of cowards who blame others for your own mistakes—do you think I'm scared of you?"
[You pick up your staff and confront the guards head-on.]
Putting past indecision and hesitation underfoot, Artoria stepped forward before any of the guards could draw their swords. She slammed her staff into the ground, and a swift surge of mana swept out along the earth, erupting among the guards and sending them staggering.
Then, with a flick of her wrist, she gathered mana behind her to form several golden crescent blades. Pushing her staff forward, the mana crescents shot out, neatly sweeping aside the swords that the guards had just drawn.
"This—"
The guards stared in astonishment, but before they could recover, Artoria had already closed the distance in two strides. She struck the foremost guard's face with the butt of her staff, knocking him flat, then followed up immediately with a second blow.
The second guard reacted a bit faster and raised his shield, but the moment the staff's chosen tip touched it, the blue mana that had gathered there detonated, unleashing a violent shockwave that sent the shield flying across the street.
The guard's body pitched backward, off-balance. Artoria pivoted her staff and jabbed its tip into his side. He cried out in pain and collapsed to his knees.
"You bastard—!"
As Artoria efficiently dispatched the two guards, the remaining pair finally snapped to attention. They grabbed their swords and charged at her, swinging overhead.
Artoria showed no sign of panic. She rolled backward just in time to dodge their downward slashes, then tossed a small mana device she had prepared. As she rose, she pointed her staff at the device and unleashed a thin pillar of mana.
"Boom!"
The device detonated in a sudden explosion. One guard was knocked unconscious by the shockwave; the other was blasted face-first into the ground.
When the dazed survivor finally crawled to his feet, he found another figure standing before him.
"Thud—"
With the momentum of swinging a baseball bat, as though she were banishing every trace of her former timidity, Artoria hefted her staff and struck the last guard squarely in the face, sending him into a somersault. By the time he landed, he was already unconscious.
[Although your own mana is quite mediocre and you have no inherent advantage against them, your years of relentless training and the rich combat experience accumulated across other simulations allow you to dispatch the guards in just a few rounds.]
"Don't underestimate me!"
Standing triumphantly among the guards sprawled and groaning on the ground, Artoria slammed her staff's tip into the cobblestones of Salisbury's street, producing a crisp sound.
"Just because a faerie's mana is ordinary doesn't mean she can't be the Chosen of Prophecy!"
"Mark my words: I will save Britannia in the future—no matter what!"
Artoria lifted her brows and declared loudly. Yes. That was exactly right. Even though she had been painfully average, blending into obscurity, she was not someone who simply stood still. After all she had been through, even a lackluster person like her could still grow.
Today was merely her first trial.
Just as she began to turn away, confidence newly restored, she encountered someone she hadn't expected.
"Impressive. Very impressive—your movements were swift and precise, your reactions sharp. Although your mana is indeed unremarkable, seeing how cleanly and stylishly you just handled those guards, I think it'd be hard for anyone to doubt your identity as the Chosen of Prophecy now."
A young man in a pristine white robe began applauding. When Artoria turned to him, he bowed slightly and offered her a bright smile.
"So, honorable Miss Chosen of Prophecy, would you mind allowing a humble faerie like me to join your destined journey of saving the world?"
"Oh, right—allow me to introduce myself. My name is Oberon, Faerie King of the Welsh Forest."
[You encounter the mysterious faerie Oberon. He claims to be the Faerie King of the Welsh Forest and offers to join your party.]
[Do you accept?]
"Huh?"
As Artoria hesitated, taken aback by this unexpected turn of events, the sound of hurried footsteps approached from another direction.
"I got word that someone here attacked law enforcement—is that you lot…? Huh?"
When Guinevere received the notification and rushed to the scene, he saw Artoria standing with Oberon and froze.
"…Ah, crap."
Artoria glanced at the groaning guards at her feet, then at Guinevere, who was running toward her with sword in hand. After a two-second mental shutdown, she called out to Oberon:
"Never mind! There's no time to explain. You—help me out and knock this handsome guard unconscious and haul him away!"
Guinevere: "?"
Oberon: "?"