Miss Hebe is Slaughtering Her Way Out of the Lostbelt!

Hebe bowed slightly, her right arm resting lightly over her chest.

"At the end of the journey, everything will be all right. Everything will be in perfect order."

May Heaven bless My King.

—In Avalon, the ever-awaiting land of ideals.

Current Lostbelt Progress: 100%.

1455 — The Rose War ended. The Knower logged out.

She wanted to cry out, but no sound came.

It was as though someone in the distance was calling her name—not Arthur, but the name that had long been abandoned at the end of the pilgrimage: "Artoria."

"After drawing that sword, what did you want to do?"

The golden-purple sunset drenched the sky in color. The girl lying atop the haystack turned her head and asked with a bright smile.

"Of course, drive the invaders out of Albion," she had answered then.

"Mm, and after that?" the girl with beautiful green eyes continued. "Become the new king who rules Albion?"

"If I must become the new king, then naturally I will not shrink from it!" she had answered loudly, only for her voice to gradually lower afterward. "But being king must be troublesome... I've never learned how, and no one has ever taught me."

The last rays of sunlight gradually faded from the sky. The clouds turned blue-purple, and several stars had already appeared against the deep blue heavens.

"I see. Then from now on, I'll be your Court Mage and become a sage belonging only to you." The girl spoke indistinctly around the straw in her mouth. "You just need to keep sitting on the throne. Leave all the troublesome matters to me."

The girl shook her flaxen hair. "As long as you don't regret it someday."

"I will never regret it," Artoria answered firmly.

The monarch's head lowered slightly, and she became Artoria once more.

Avalon's power finally began to take effect upon her, driving the sickness from her body, repairing her damaged form, and restoring life to her aged organs.

One by one, the tubes binding her to the Iron Throne silently detached. Artoria raised her arm, as though welcoming her rebirth, or as though embracing someone.

There was no one there to embrace her.

"Merlin, you liar..."

The tower of pure white had already risen from the ground and begun to merge with reality. At its summit was a cramped room corresponding to the palace in reality where the Iron Throne stood.

At this moment, only this small palace remained unchanged, while the world beyond the tower underwent earth-shaking transformations. The torrent of time surged swiftly onward, and all things faded and warped within it. Yet everything seemed to be growing better.

This was Avalon's true function.

At its core, it was merely a blueprint revealing the possibilities of the future.

Yet at the very moment the Lostbelt was about to reach its end, the blueprint could become a lamp that illuminated the darkness, allowing this stretch of history to continue into the ideal future envisioned by its designer.

If nothing unexpected occurred, it would deliver Artoria intact into the future five hundred years later.

Yet the girl seated upon the Iron Throne remained unmoved by all of this.

She merely rose from the Iron Throne, then crouched down and looked at the clear, rippling water on the ground before pressing her right hand against it.

"I hereby invest you as the sole wife of the King of Albion, a queen who shall share in glory for all eternity," she said softly.

The water rippled quietly.

When Morgan entered the palace housing the Iron Throne, this was the scene she saw.

Perhaps because no one had visited this place for too long, when Artoria looked up, she had nearly forgotten how to speak. Yet her eyes were still filled with confusion.

"From the Lostbelt to the Fifth History, it was Merlin's great work that protected us," Morgan replied. "But old Albion was destroyed along with the past. It was precisely because of that that I truly accomplished my great work."

At the moment her great work was accomplished anew, Morgan's form naturally reshaped itself as well.

"Even so, she still fulfilled the promise she made back then," Morgan said. "What about you? What are you doing? Investing a pool of water as your queen?"

Artoria remained unmoved. She sat quietly beside that pool of water.

Morgan raised her hand, then lowered it again. She gazed sorrowfully at Artoria and shook her head.

"Artoria, I hate myself. But the way you are now is so pitiful that I cannot even bring myself to hate you."

She turned and left the temporary palace.

"Hehe."

A soft laugh came from the empty hall behind her.

Then the laughter became piercing, shrill, and mournful—more harrowing than a wail.

Settlement

"Settlement in progress..."

"Current Lostbelt — 1455, The Rose War. Current Progress: 100%."

Achievement: Guidance of the King—You guided the new king in drawing the Sword in the Stone and witnessed her pilgrimage to rule Albion.

Foundation of the Kingdom—You have always played an indispensable role within Albion's royal family.

Turning the Tide—No matter how perilous the situation, once you arrive, you can reverse the fate that was set in stone and reach the proper ending.

Sage—Your wisdom, your methods, and your will delight your companions and drive your enemies to despair.

Court Mage—You did not often use magic to solve problems directly, yet tales of your mastery of magic shall endure forever.

Nightmare—You dragged tens of thousands of defenseless people into dreams at once, and they shall never wake up. Some price must always be paid. What matters is that the King of Albion's reign endures, that she burns eternally like an undying flame, and that her royal authority remains unshakable.

Great Work—You reached the third rank of the Path of Ascension and completed your own great work.

Overall Evaluation: A+++.

Comment: The long pilgrimage had finally reached its end. At the end of the Spiral of Contradictions, the Sage turned herself into a spark, illuminating the road ahead for history.

Through your efforts, another lost secret history has been proven and incorporated into the histories.

—We all salute you, The Knower.

Hebe leaned back in her chair and let out a long breath.

The aftereffects were too intense.

She picked up the glass beside her, took a sip of water, and continued looking at the screen.

Rewards are being distributed.

Basic Rewards:

"Merlin's Compendium of Illusions"—Exchanging surface and substance, swapping within and without. Though it cannot create Imprints again, it can satisfy nearly all your everyday needs;

Pseudo-Sacred Sword: Sword in the Stone—Proof of Albion's royal authority. You also possess partial ownership of it. The current highest level of release is Daylight;

Nightmare Bloodline—Noble blood from the inhabitants of the wasteland. It will allow you to use fortune-telling, dreams, and nocturnal wandering with greater ease.

A-Rank Special Reward: The Everlasting Ideal Land: Avalon—A blueprint leading to the future, a light that illuminates and drives away darkness, a key that opens hope.

Since the Fourth History, all great works have been suppressed and erased by the present age. Yet exceptions remain, and there is more than one. Before you reach Daylight, this great work shall remain sealed.

The above rewards are universal across all Lostbelts.

After claiming your rewards, please exit the Secret History Simulator. We will subsequently update the simulator version. Estimated update time: 24 hours.

Hebe instinctively sat up straight.

It was already late, but fortunately, not a single customer had visited her curio shop.

"So it really is a cheat... It's a little different from what I imagined."

Hebe had long harbored some suspicions about the Secret History Simulator, which had abruptly appeared on her computer desktop in the form of a game.

Now, her suspicions had merely been confirmed.

"What kind of trial-version cheat has such a high barrier to entry..." Hebe pressed a hand to her forehead and laughed helplessly. "Fine. It's not too late yet."

She clicked to claim the rewards.

The next instant, cobalt-blue starlight descended from the sky.

It felt as though she had lived through an entire lifetime, yet it had only taken the span of a finger snap.

Hebe's petite body suddenly sprang out of her computer chair, arching backward and convulsing as though struck by lightning.

Yet just as she was about to fall, the grayish-yellow old carpet abruptly expanded and rose, its colors becoming far more vivid as a sweet fragrance filled the air—it had turned into an enormous piece of cheese.

The springy cheese was soft to the touch.

"So this is what it feels like to use illusions in the real world. It's surprisingly wonderful."

Hebe snapped her fingers, and the sweet, enticing cheese folded in on itself out of thin air, flattened, and turned back into that drab old carpet.

In fact, even if she did not dismiss it herself, it would return to normal after three to five minutes.

"I can understand the illusion part. Even if it can't compare to when I played 'Merlin,' with the Nightmare's support, it shouldn't be much weaker... But what's going on with the Sword in the Stone?"

Hebe could not make sense of it at all. "I never pulled the Sword in the Stone out, either?"

Neither the Sword in the Stone nor the sealed great work could be tested.

As for the illusions, their effectiveness had weakened in addition to being time-limited. Even so, Hebe was still pleasantly surprised.

When she sat back down before the computer and prepared to exit the Secret History Simulator, she found another line of text on the screen.

The Lostbelt The Rose War has been successfully recorded. This Lostbelt belongs to the Fourth History.

The line vanished in an instant, after which new text surfaced over the dark green desktop.

The Secret History Simulator is undergoing a version update. You will be unable to log into the simulator during the update. Estimated waiting time: 23 hours and 59 minutes.

Refusing to believe it, Hebe clicked the mouse, only to discover that not only could she not open the simulator, even her keyboard and mouse had stopped working.

"No, why did it lock my whole computer too?"

After fussing with it for several minutes, Hebe gave up on the futile effort.

By then, night had fully fallen. Church Street was brightly lit, and the clamor of tourists and passersby drifted over from the nearby square.

Hebe pursed her lips, got up, took a thick jacket from the wardrobe in her bedroom, and put on her shoes.

"Closing time."

She stepped outside, flipped the sign over to the "Closed" side, then locked the door.

It was too late to make dinner now, so she could only eat out... Come to think of it, hadn't a new restaurant opened across the square two months ago?

Albion Cuisine was much like British cuisine from her original world—the flavor was difficult to put into words.

It was not that it tasted especially bad, but rather that the gap between its best and worst was enormous.

When Hebe had first crossed over, even with mental preparation, she had still been left utterly disoriented by the chained assault of steamed potatoes, baked potatoes, potato slices, and mashed potatoes.

Once she had barely adapted to that combo, she was met with the passionate follow-up combo of battered fried fish and cold sandwiches.

It was not bad enough to be inedible, but it was only good enough to fill one's stomach.

Fortunately, Hebe's culinary boundaries were flexible, and Albion was much the same. On the far side of the square, not far from Church Street, restaurants from all over the world had gathered.

Some advertised themselves as "authentic originals," while others had adapted their dishes to local tastes.

Hebe's destination was a Gaul restaurant that had opened just two months ago. Contrary to what one might expect, its specialty was not high-end Gaul cuisine, but affordable, good-value broth.

Lunch here cost an average of only fifteen euros, while dinner, which included alcohol, cost twenty euros.

The preparation of broth was simple, but its origins dated back more than a century, to the Fourth Era—the 1850s of the nineteenth century.

It was Gaul's golden age. At the time, vast numbers of industrial workers needed food that could fill them up while remaining cheap and good, and so a rich soup made from beef trimmings came into being. In 1896, the first restaurant to make broth its specialty opened in Paris, the capital of Gaul, and it was still operating there to this day.

By the time Hebe entered the restaurant, every seat on the first floor was already occupied.

The floor manager was directing the waiters to clean up and free tables for newly arrived customers.

"Welcome..."

The floor manager in the neatly pressed suit turned around, and the moment she saw Hebe, her voice instinctively dropped.

The manager's expression stiffened at once. Fortunately, the restaurant's noisy atmosphere provided cover, and no one else noticed her lapse.