American comics: Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who worry about their fathers!.

Chapter 1046 Saber, I am the God of Sleep!

After walking for a while, Artoria's cool voice broke the silence: "Peter Patrick."

Peter stopped, turned around, and looked at her.

"what happened?"

"Among the companions you mentioned, some are proficient in magic."

Artoria's gaze swept over the beam of light shining through the gaps in the forest, and she asked him curiously, "Is there any difference between the magic in your world and that in ours?"

A barely perceptible glint of curiosity flashed in her eyes.

Since Merlin, she has not been exposed to magic in the true sense for a long time.

Peter hadn't expected her to ask that question. After a moment's thought, he said to her, "The rules of 'magic' in your world are more inclined towards a primal power, closely tied to nature and legend."

He paused, then continued, "Like your holy sword, its power is rooted in the mythology of this land, rather than simply being a collection of magic."

"The magic in our world originates from extraterrestrial demons, a higher-level existence that leaked its power to us."

He became interested in King Arthur's magic.

Although Saber basically uses her holy sword to kill people after becoming a Saber-class Servant, she should also be a mage.

If Artoria were summoned as a mage, her primary attack method would definitely become magical attacks.

"May I see it? It's magic that belongs to this era, magic that belongs to King Arthur."

Artoria was slightly taken aback when she heard Peter's request.

Performing magic?

In peacetime, this might have been just a little trick for the pleasure of court banquets, but after Kamran, on the ruins of everything that had collapsed, this demand seemed so out of place, yet it carried a certain unconventional allure.

She remained silent for a few seconds, a complex light flashing deep in her green eyes, before finally nodding and slowly raising her left hand.

There were no complicated incantations or dazzling magical radiance.

With a very slight flick of their fingertips through the air, a few steps ahead of them, on a small patch of slightly dark and damp mud, a few wilted blades of grass seemed to be infused with invisible vitality.

The slender stems of the grass stood up at a speed visible to the naked eye, and the curled leaves unfurled, revealing a healthy and full emerald green luster.

Even more surprisingly, the almost transparent white flower buds swelled up rapidly in the leaf axils and then quietly bloomed, emitting a delicate fragrance.

The entire process was silent, with only the vigorous vitality and the sudden rich fragrance silently announcing the occurrence of a miracle.

Peter was somewhat shocked by what he saw.

He walked over, squatted down beside the few newly sprouted blades of grass, and reached out his finger to touch the tender petals with utmost care.

A cool yet resilient touch came from my fingertips.

"The guidance of life...?"

Peter muttered to himself, his tone filled with disbelief, "No, it's more like... awakening their dormant essence, allowing them to return to their most perfect state. This... is amazing."

He looked up at Artoria, his eyes gleaming with the light of discovery. "This isn't simple elemental manipulation or energy bestowal; it must touch upon the very essence of existence. What kind of magic is this?"

Artoria calmly withdrew her hand and explained to Peter:

Merlin called it "the blessing of the fairy land," not a creation, but an awakening and resonance with the slumbering principles of the earth and of all living things.

"A blessing from the Fairy Village?"

Peter paused slightly when he heard "the land of fairies".

He had learned about the setting of the Fairy Land of Type-Moon in his previous life.

It is said that in the Type-Moon universe, Fairyland is a mysterious area located below the Earth's surface, known as the "inner side of the world," and is the habitat of fantasy species (such as heroic spirits who have lost their physical bodies, elves, etc.).

The "skin" (surface) of the world inhabited by humans covers the Earth's surface and follows human physical laws.

If possible, once his fathers have all grown up and retired, he could take his wives to the Fairy Village to live out their retirement life.

"And you, Peter Patrick, can you demonstrate your magic to me?"

Artoria asked Peter curiously.

She knew Peter was a mysterious and powerful man, but she didn't know his abilities, so she asked directly.

"of course can."

Upon hearing this, Peter stood up and patted off non-existent dust from his knees.

“My ‘magic’ might be a little… different.”

He stretched out his hand, palm up, and a small ball of soft golden light condensed in mid-air above his palm.

Within the halo, tiny, star-like points of light slowly rotated, forming a miniature, slowly rotating nebula pattern.

An ancient and vast aura instantly spread out, making the air in the forest seem to freeze for a moment.

Artoria looked at Peter in surprise.

She could clearly sense that what Peter possessed was not magic, but a more primal power, closer to the very rules of the world.

Like gazing at the boundless starry sky, one feels one's own insignificance.

The miniature nebula lasted only a few seconds before vanishing like a phantom into Peter's clasped hands.

"My magic is a fusion of the magical origins of countless worlds, including the magic of the three goddesses, the magic of the Harry Potter world, the magic of Marvel, and the power of the gods. I have come into contact with the magical origins of these different worlds."

Peter explained it casually.

He then took three items out of his pocket.

A sandbag that appears to be sewn from some kind of ancient leather, filled with sand that shimmers with an odd light; a strangely shaped helmet; and a gem that emits a soft glow.

Peter's gaze swept over the three artifacts. "At the same time, I am also the master of dreams."

His gaze fell on Artoria. "My King, you said you had a very long dream... about Camran, about Mordred. In fact, dreams are the echoes of the soul, fragments of the past, and also the gateway to understanding. I can take you into the dream world."

Peter's voice lowered, "I can help you see what kind of echoes lingered in the hearts of those knights who followed you but ultimately went down different paths before the storm came, at the turning point of their fate."

Upon hearing Peter's words, Artoria's body instantly stiffened.

The knights' dream?
Is Peter really the god of sleep?!
Could the other party also be a mysterious figure like Merlin?

Artoria instantly wondered if the other person was Merlin in disguise, guiding her in the final moments of her life.
Perhaps he was already dead when he asked Bedivere to deliver the sword, and now he is just dreaming?

She couldn't help but fall into a reverie.

"……May I?"

After a long while, she forced herself to come to her senses and asked Peter with difficulty.

"Of course, just hold my hand."

Artoria took a deep breath and, with an almost ritualistic solemnity, grasped Peter's outstretched hand.

When her fingertips touched Peter's hand, an indescribable torrent instantly swept over her consciousness.

There was no dizziness, no pain of space being torn apart.

The world seemed to have been instantly stripped of all color and sound, leaving only pure darkness.

Immediately afterwards, countless fragmented, shimmering images surged in from all directions like a startled school of fish, instantly engulfing her.

She saw her dream of Lancelot, the Knight of the Round Table.

-

A torrential downpour fell from the sky.

Large raindrops lashed furiously at the ground, roof, and cold armor, creating a deafening roar.

Camelot's towering walls were reduced to a blurry and oppressive outline in the rain.

Lancelot, the strongest knight known as the "Knight of the Lake," now resembled a trapped beast driven to the brink of despair.

He was soaking wet, and his armor was covered with dents and bloodstains from the battle.

He held someone tightly in his arms—Queen Guinevere.

The queen's long, golden hair was soaked by the rain and clung to her pale cheeks. Her magnificent palace dress was covered in mud. Her eyes were tightly closed, and she was breathing weakly, like a lily about to wither in a downpour.

Lancelot carried her and ran wildly through the mud, splashing muddy water with every step.

His breathing was heavy, like a broken bellows, and his face was covered in a mixture of rain and sweat.

He just wanted to escape.

Escape this city that symbolizes honor but also brings endless shackles, escape the gazes you can't face.

However, just as he was about to burst out of the shadow of the city gate, he suddenly turned back.

His gaze pierced through layers of rain, desperately landing on the towering summit of the royal city.

A solitary figure stood silently on the edge of the tallest tower, golden hair flying wildly in the raging wind and rain.

Artoria's expression was unreadable; only her emerald eyes stared at him. There was no anger, no condemnation in her gaze, only an unfathomable weariness and alienation.

Lancelot's heart felt as if it had been pierced by that gaze.

His arms, which were holding Guinevere, trembled violently as immense pain and self-destructive despair overwhelmed him in an instant.

With a wild roar, he turned sharply and charged even more frantically into the boundless darkness outside the city.

Just as Artoria was staring in shock at the scene before her, the fragments of her dream memories changed again, and the scene before her disappeared and was replaced by other images.

-

The pungent smell of mildew and the strong aroma of herbs replaced the cold rain.

The light was dim and flickering, coming from an oil lamp in the corner.

This is an extremely simple, almost dilapidated monastery hut.

Lancelot lay on the hard wooden bed, his once strong and lion-like body now withered and emaciated, wrapped in a rough gray monk's robe.

His face was covered with deep wrinkles and a deathly pallor; his once bright eyes were now cloudy and devoid of any sparkle.

He coughed violently, each cough seeming to expel his tattered internal organs, his withered hands clutching tightly to a simple wooden cross on his chest.

Lancelot's voice was broken and fragmented, filled with deep-seated remorse and self-reproach: "...a sin...a grave sin...I betrayed my knightly oath...betrayed my dearest friend...and even more so, betrayed my...king..."

He was breathing heavily, and murky tears welled up in his cloudy eyes, sliding down his deeply lined cheeks and soaking the rough linen on his pillow.

"I betrayed...her trust...I tarnished the glory of the Round Table...I personally...pushed ideals...to the abyss. King, why don't you understand human nature!"

His breathing became increasingly rapid, each inhale accompanied by a hissing sound like a broken bellows, and his gaze began to wander, as if searching for something.

In the end, he found nothing.

The withered hand that had been clutching the cross fell limply to the cold edge of the bed, and there was no more sound.

In the dimly lit little house, only that pale ray of light remained.

-

"Well--!"

Artoria's consciousness was struck as if by an invisible giant hammer.

She suddenly broke free from that quagmire of sorrow.

The sudden burst of real light made her involuntarily close her eyes tightly.

Cold sweat soaked her blonde hair and slid down her pale cheeks.

She could even feel her hand, which was holding Peter's right hand, trembling slightly uncontrollably.

She never expected to see such a scene.

Is this the dream of Lancelot, the knight who betrayed himself?

So he spent the rest of his life in such pain?
Artoria was overcome with grief.

In fact, she did not hate Lancelot, who had an affair with the Queen.

But Lancelot remained immersed in pain.

Peter, who was standing beside her, did not say anything, but simply stood quietly.

After a long while, she took a very slow, deep breath and slowly exhaled.

"……Thanks."

Her voice was still hoarse.

She wanted to express her sincere gratitude to Peter.

I am grateful to him for revealing this cruel truth, grateful for his silent companionship at this moment, and grateful that he allowed me to see the scenery that I had overlooked.

Peter simply nodded, put the sandbag back into his arms, and said, "These are just fragments of dreams in the long river of time. Perhaps as time goes by, these fragments will eventually disappear without a trace."

"Only regret and resentment remain."

"I"

Artoria, her voice trembling slightly, asked Peter, "What was Lancelot's ultimate fate? Why did he say I didn't understand people's hearts? And you, who claimed to be the god of sleep, can you tell me the answers to these questions?"

"Yes, I know the ending. After learning of King Arthur's departure, Guinevere decided to spend her life in a monastery repenting, praying, and helping the poor."

"Lancelot eventually became a monk, and the two never saw each other again until their deaths."

Peter passed on some warmth to King Arthur.

"As for his claim that you don't understand people's hearts, haven't you seen through these dreams yet? Saber, he hates himself and he hates you for not punishing him. You deliberately hide your gender and emotions, even sacrificing your personal happiness."

“Lancelot believes that your idea has a fundamental flaw—ignoring the desires and limits of human nature. Through his forbidden love with Guinevere, he tries to make you understand that ‘humans cannot completely abandon their desires,’ which makes you angry and upset. However, you remain unmoved and do not even punish him.”

"His purpose is simply to make you pursue the happiness of 'human beings,' not to become a king without feelings."

Hearing Peter's words, Artoria was struck dumb!

Have I been wrong all along?
Did I never understand people's hearts?
Just as Peter was about to say something more to the other person, a very faint yet exceptionally clear energy fluctuation came from the southeast.

Peter's expression changed instantly.

It's Ciri!

He gave a low shout and turned his gaze toward the source of the energy fluctuations.

Before he finished speaking, Peter had already darted away like an arrow, so fast that he left only a blurry afterimage in the forest.

Artoria's eyes narrowed.

All her complex emotions were instantly suppressed by her warrior instincts. With a light touch of her toes on the ground, her figure, like a silver streak skimming the ground, followed closely behind Peter, rushing towards the direction where the stench of blood permeated the air.

After passing through the last dense oak grove, the view suddenly opened up.

Before me lay a village nestled beside a small river, a place that was once peaceful and serene.

But at this moment, peace has already been completely torn apart.

Several thatched huts were burning fiercely, thick black smoke billowing straight into the sky.

The air was filled with the acrid smell of burning wood, the strong stench of blood, and the distinctive odor of animal hides worn by the barbarians.

The cries of terror, the savage roars of the barbarians, and the piercing clang of weapons mingled together, creating a savage symphony of slaughter.

Dozens of burly Saxon warriors, clad in rough leather armor and with their faces painted with ferocious paint, were like wolves that had broken into a flock of sheep. Wielding heavy battle axes and broadswords, they frantically slaughtered the fleeing villagers.

An old man was hacked down in the mud, a woman was dragged by her hair and cried out in anguish, and a child huddled helplessly in a burning corner of the house, trembling.

The muddy land was stained dark red with blood, and broken farm tools and corpses were scattered everywhere.

Meanwhile, in a relatively open area in the center of the village, a fierce battle was raging.

Ciri's slender figure moved with ghostly speed, darting and weaving through the barbarian warriors' encirclement.

The strangely shaped knight's steel sword in her hand drew deadly silver arcs, each flash accompanied by the screams of barbarian warriors and splattering blood.

The space around her seemed to distort slightly, allowing her to appear at the most incredible angles as if by teleportation, avoiding fatal slashes while simultaneously delivering the blade to the enemy's vitals.

On the other side, Diana, the demigod princess from Paradise Island, is like a golden war goddess on the battlefield.

She was not wearing armor; her Amazon-style battle skirt fluttered in the wind.

The pair of protective silver bracelets on his wrists, shimmering with divine power, deflected all the incoming heavy weapons, emitting a deep, resounding clang like a great bell.

With each swing of the Vulcan Sword in her hand, scorching waves of air surged forth, easily tearing the approaching barbarians apart, armor and all.

Zatanna Zatara, the sorceress of Gotham, stands on the edge of the battlefield, now controlling the core of the magical storm.

She wore her signature top hat and recited powerful incantations that reversed word order clearly and rapidly.

"! Fire extinguished!"

A thick water dragon appeared out of thin air, roaring as it rushed towards the most intensely burning thatched hut, instantly extinguishing it.

"! Ground subsidence"

As the incantation was uttered, the ground in front of her instantly transformed into a churning pool of quicksand. Several charging barbarian warriors were caught off guard and screamed as they sank into it, their heads and flailing arms struggling desperately.

Persephone, on the other side of the battlefield, did not directly participate in the bloody fighting; she was enveloped in a grayish-white halo.

Suspended a few feet above the ground, she placed her hands on the ground and murmured ancient incantations.

As she chanted, wisps of grayish-white mist began to emanate from the barbarian corpses lying dead on the ground, their limbs incomplete, as well as the bodies of villagers who had been mistakenly killed.

Those were remnants of souls that had not yet completely dissipated, tainted by the ferocity of the battlefield and the instinct to kill.

Persephone's power, like an invisible net, forcibly soothes these resentful and unwilling souls, guiding them back to peace and preventing them from being catalyzed by the atmosphere of the battlefield into more terrifying evil spirits or becoming tools for the enemy.

Jane Foster, wielding Thor's hammer, vigilantly guarded Persephone's side, deflecting the occasional stray arrows and spears to ensure the goddess of the underworld's spellcasting was undisturbed.

(End of this chapter)