Fate: The Sun of Akasha

In the majestic Castle of Camelot, the legendary Round Table was fully occupied by the brave knights sworn to serve the king. The hall was illuminated by torches that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, creating an atmosphere both solemn and oppressive. Each knight sat in their place, their postures ranging from respectful to weary, their armor reflecting the flickering flames like stars in a night sky.

At the center of this scene, King Arthur stood out. Seated on his throne, he rested his head on one hand, his fingers lightly drumming against his face. His expression was one of almost impenetrable seriousness, a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil he carefully hid from everyone present. His eyes wandered from one knight to another, yet it seemed as if he were looking through them, lost in deeper, more distant thoughts.

Behind Arthur's chair, in a position that could be interpreted as either servitude or vigilance, stood Merlin, the enigmatic Wizard of Flowers. His figure was cloaked in a white robe that almost seemed to glow in the torchlight. The hood covering his head cast a shadow over his face, though not enough to completely obscure the bored expression he wore. His eyes, usually brimming with cunning and mystery, now seemed empty, almost drowsy.

'How long do I have to stay here?' Merlin wondered, glancing off toward an unremarkable corner of the hall. He felt the growing discomfort of standing for so long, as the hours dragged on like days. The meeting seemed endless and, worse, utterly unproductive. The knights argued with increasingly raised voices, but their words were nothing more than hollow echoes, without any meaningful progress.

Fearing to draw the King's wrath, Merlin subtly adjusted his hood to hide his face even further, feigning a neutrality he did not feel.

At the same time, Merlin reflected on how curious and ironic it was that the legendary King Arthur, whose name echoed across all of Britannia, was, in truth, a woman. None of the knights of the Round Table knew this secret, except for Queen Guinevere. She knew, and the weight of that truth had profoundly shaped the fate of them both.

Guinevere, once just a young woman with a fiery heart, utterly in love with the "King," found herself shattered by the revelation. It was as if her world, once filled with admiration and expectations, had crumbled in an instant. The disappointment etched on her face was like a mirror reflecting all the confusion and helplessness she felt. It was a silent pain, yet so overwhelming that it erased every trace of her former passion. From that moment on, the Queen became little more than a public figure, a soulless image. Her role in the kingdom seemed as fragile as her power, which was nothing compared to the magnitude of what Arthur—or rather, Artoria—represented.

Merlin, a silent witness to all these events, could not escape the weight of guilt. Artoria had been just a young woman, full of dreams and promises, when she made the decision that would change her life forever. She had renounced her femininity, the choices that might have led her to an ordinary life, to take on the burden of a kingdom. The legendary sword of promised victory, Excalibur, was more than an artifact; it was the symbol of an irrevocable destiny.

When Artoria raised Caliburn, years before Excalibur was entrusted to her, something within her crystallized. Her body, as if frozen by the weight of a sacred pact, ceased to age. Her appearance remained unchanged since that fateful day, a reflection of her interrupted youth and her eternal commitment to the crown.

It is curious how time seemed to stagnate for Artoria. While her knights aged and her allies changed, she remained the same, like a figure carved in granite—eternally young but bearing a burden that made her older than anyone around her. Merlin, watching from afar, saw the sacrifices she made every day, the small fragments of humanity left behind in exchange for an ideal that consumed everything in its path.

Tap!

The sharp sound echoed through the room, breaking Merlin's concentration like thunder piercing a silent night. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by soft footsteps, the sound of bare feet touching the floor in an almost rhythmic pattern. At first, the mage paid no mind, but as the sound grew closer, something made him shudder. Each step seemed to carry an unusual presence, a silent threat.

An indistinct figure passed by Merlin, swift as the wind. Despite his sharp vision, the Magus of Flowers could not discern the face of the being, but he noticed it walking directly toward Artoria. In the figure's hand, a plain sword swung lightly, its simple blade emanating a deadly intent.

Merlin's eyes widened, his heart racing. This was not something he could ignore.

"STOP!" shouted the Mage of Flowers, his voice reverberating across the field. With a swift motion, he conjured a powerful spell: a cord of ethereal light emerged in the air, swiftly winding toward the intruder's hand to immobilize it.

Boom!

The sound was deafening. In an instant, Merlin's magic was destroyed, dissipating like smoke in the wind. The figure stopped abruptly, but not because it had been restrained. Slowly, it turned to face him, and what Merlin saw made his blood run cold.

Before him were golden eyes. Not just golden, but with an intense brilliance, as pure as molten gold. There was something otherworldly about them, a light that seemed to transcend human comprehension. Those eyes weren't merely looking at Merlin — they were piercing through him. It felt as if they gazed not just at his body, but at his soul, his essence, his very existence.

Merlin tried to look away but couldn't. It was as if he were ensnared in a luminous, oppressive web. The golden glow intensified, blinding and terrifying, a manifestation of pure power. The pressure was overwhelming. Merlin felt a sharp pain explode in his head. Blood began to stream from his eyes and nose, an involuntary reaction to the overwhelming force of that power.

'Mystic Eyes!?' The thought formed in his mind amidst the chaos. It was a rare, legendary power, capable of subjugating even the most powerful of mages.

Merlin let out a cry of pain.

"ARGH!" he spat blood, his body weakening as he fell to his knees, unable to withstand the overwhelming force.

The knights around him, who had until then been absorbed in other tasks, immediately noticed the situation. Their expressions shifted to pure alarm.

"Sir Merlin!" one of them shouted, his voice filled with concern and urgency, as they all rushed toward him.

...

In the vast and inhospitable Northern Lands, where the wind cut like sharp blades and the horizon was often obscured by mountains, a peculiar-looking young man stood facing a rock. His dark, long, and shiny hair was tied back simply in a small ponytail, swaying gently with each step, while a few stray strands danced in the wind's embrace. His skin had the warm tone of someone who had spent much of their life under the sun. But what stood out the most were his eyes: golden and intense, as if they contained the brilliance of the sun itself, they seemed to reflect a wisdom and strength that belied his youth.

[Insert image here]

The young man wore simple yet carefully chosen clothing. A sturdy white shirt, slightly wrinkled, was partially concealed beneath a minimalist black cloak that shielded him from the severe cold. His dark trousers, made of thick and durable fabric, were a bit frayed at the edges, a sign of long journeys. On his feet, he wore solid black shoes—functional yet elegant in their simplicity.

What truly set this traveler apart, however, was the weapon he carried. Firmly held in his hands was a sword of impressive proportions, crafted from a material that seemed to defy nature itself. Its blade gleamed with crystalline hues, reminiscent of eternal ice or some kind of magical crystal, dominated by bluish tones that seemed to pulse faintly with their own light. With every movement, the sword emitted a subtle glow, as if it were alive, reacting to the presence of the young man and the environment around him.

The sword's grip, in contrast to its almost ethereal blade, was rudimentary, wrapped in worn strips or ropes that, despite their wear, seemed to offer a firm hold. The rough texture of the hilt suggested a history of battles and uses, reinforcing the impression that this was not an ordinary weapon, but something forged with a purpose far beyond the understanding of an average man.

The young man's name was Rael. He swung the sword with skill and strength, creating a cutting wave of wind capable of splitting the rock before him. Rael looked at the sword before swinging it a few more times due to its weight.

[Acquisition! The rank of the Moonlight Great Sword has risen to Anti-Unit]

He glanced at the screen before planting the sword into the ground and sitting on a log he had cut earlier.

Rael was a transmigrator, perhaps? He wasn't sure. Rael had only seen that whirlpool and that system.

[Name: Rael Sunford]

[Progression: 1.01%]

[Parameters]

Strength: C

Endurance: C+

Agility: C+++

Mana: EX

Luck: EX

[Abilities]

Golden Sun Mystic Eyes: A+++

Third Magic - Heaven's Feel: EX

Swordsman: B

Magic: EX

First Magic - True Denial of Nothingness: EX

Discernment of History: EX

[Noble Phantasm]

Great Sword of the Moonlight (Anti-Unit): B

Rael looked at that strangely; somehow, he knew everything he saw on the screen, understood its meanings and values, but it was still too strange for him.

However, his focus was primarily on the Third Magic - Heaven's Feel.

This was his first acquisition, the magic for immortality.

The soul contains the memories, the mind, and the magical circuits of a person, using the person's body as an anchor to the world to prevent it from being dispersed and returning to the Akasha. Once the brain and body are destroyed, it is impossible to restore a person's dispersed soul, and even the magical ability of the Holy Grail cannot restore a destroyed body. Even if a mage manages to place their soul into a new body, it will either be an inferior copy compared to the original, or the soul itself will eventually begin to decay.

Heaven's Feel is a Magic that allows the Materialization of the Soul, which prevents the inevitable dispersion of the soul once it no longer has an anchor in the World, essentially causing it to transcend to a higher form of existence. It is a Magic that achieves true immortality by transforming the soul into a planar being of higher dimension, capable of interacting with the material world as a mental body without having to return to the Akasha. The practitioner will acquire an unlimited source of Magical Energy since the soul becomes analogous to a perpetual motion machine.

Rael might think of this as either a blessing or a curse, but considering the world of Fate and the Nasuverse, it was more of a Blessing, though there were some... setbacks.

Looking into the distance, Rael glanced southward, sensing a presence there, wondering what it was. Rael drew his sword and made it disappear using his Magic, Silver Key: Extradimensional Storage. The mark of the Silver Key, invisible on Rael's right hand, connected him to an imaginary, limitless extradimensional space where he stored everything he had touched with his right hand.

Rael sighed, still trying to create life using his Magic, but it was a bit difficult. The creation depended on many components using the mind, requiring a mental image. Unfortunately, Rael was indecisive about how to create something.

The rhythmic sound of horse hooves cut through the cold silence of the Northern Lands, a deep echo that seemed to vibrate in Rael's soul. He stopped abruptly, his golden eyes alert like those of a predator. Turning, he spotted the imposing figure of a black horse emerging from the thick mist. The animal was sturdy, with dark, shiny fur like the night, its defined muscles suggesting strength and endurance. But what stood out the most were the deep brown eyes that seemed to carry ancient wisdom, as if the animal understood more than it should.

For a moment, man and horse stood still, observing each other. Rael's golden eyes met the creature's brown eyes, and something inexplicable passed between them – a silent understanding, almost magical. As if recognizing something special in the young man, the horse approached with slow steps, lowering its head in a gesture of submission and trust.

Rael felt a new weight in his chest, a sensation that mixed gratitude and surprise. He carefully extended his right hand, touching the animal's muzzle. The touch was warm, a striking contrast to the biting cold around them. Without hesitation, Rael invoked his magic, a power that seemed to flow naturally through his Silver Key mark. In seconds, strips of leather and metal began to form in the air, materializing out of nowhere. Sturdy reins and a comfortable saddle took shape, fitting perfectly to the horse's body.

With a swift movement, Rael mounted the animal. The black horse whinnied softly, as if approving the action, and soon the two were ready to depart. Rael adjusted the reins, and with a light touch of his heels, the horse began to trot, its hooves resounding firmly against the ground. The young man with golden eyes looked again to the south, feeling the same distant presence that had caught his attention before.