I Don’t Want to Be a Heroic Spirit

Mordred stood with her arms crossed, lost in thought.

Her concentration was so intense that she didn't notice Artoria standing right in front of her.

The result? Mordred's head collided with something soft—then bounced back.

"...Father?"

"..."

Artoria's cheeks flushed faintly pink, and her voice, clear as a summer lake, reached Mordred's ears.

"What's on your mind? You're so focused you can't even watch where you're going."

"Uh…"

Mordred rubbed her face, her expression somewhat awkward.

"Let me guess... you're still not used to this form of mine?"

"It's not that. Well… maybe a little."

The person before her wasn't quite her Father. Or rather, not the Father she remembered.

Artoria had said as much from the beginning, and Mordred understood that.

But… over time, as they spent more moments together, Artoria began to feel eerily familiar.

Piece by piece, Mordred had unconsciously started to overlay Artoria's image with the one she remembered—the one she had admired so much.

Going shopping with her respected Father, sharing small, harmless jokes, competing over meals, and even receiving gifts…

These blissful memories couldn't possibly be a dream. Mordred was certain of it.

After all, not even in her dreams had she ever felt so happy.

And besides, dreams were the domain of that white-haired nightmare. He wouldn't waste time crafting something this wholesome.

Then, just moments ago, Artoria had drawn her Sacred Spear.

The sheer power Artoria had displayed was nothing like the Father Mordred had once known.

If the Arthur of the past had possessed this overwhelming might, would Mordred have dared to rebel?

Rebels? What rebels? How many divisions? Could they even survive a single strike from that spear?

What would we have even fought with?

Back then, Mordred had rallied her rebellion while Artoria was away on campaign. If Artoria had wielded such power, the rebellion would've been crushed before it could even form.

Still, Mordred wasn't complaining.

Not only was this Father stronger, but she was also much kinder—practically perfect.

A faint regret bloomed in Mordred's heart. If only Father had been like this back then… how amazing would that have been?

"But… that's not what's really bothering me."

Mordred scratched her head, her eyes darting around nervously before sneaking a sidelong glance at Artoria.

"I was just thinking... 'Oh, so that's what killed me back then? You've got to be kidding me. No wonder I died—it makes my death feel a lot less unfair,' or something like that."

Mordred's voice grew quieter as she spoke, her golden hair disheveled as she kept stealing glances at Artoria, her face turning redder with every word.

Artoria blinked in surprise, momentarily stunned, before her lips curled into a soft smile. Her emerald eyes sparkled with amusement, and she raised a hand to cover her mouth as her shoulders shook with laughter.

"Hahaha!"

"W-what are you laughing at?!"

Mordred's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "That's a totally reasonable thought, isn't it? Besides, I always thought your best weapon was the Holy Sword! Where did that spear even come from? I figured it couldn't be much stronger than my Clarent…"

Before Artoria could respond, Jeanne approached them, seemingly with something important to discuss. Their lighthearted conversation came to a brief halt.

"Uh… am I interrupting?" Jeanne asked apologetically, a hint of guilt on her face.

"No, it's fine," Artoria replied, waving a hand. "We were just chatting. What is it?"

"Well… it's not exactly urgent," Jeanne said hesitantly, before gathering her courage. "I was just thinking… maybe you'd make a better Ruler than I would, Artoria."

"Huh? That's it?" Mordred frowned. "Isn't that obvious? Don't tell me you're only realizing it now."

"N-no! That's not it at all!" Jeanne waved her hands in a flustered manner. "It's just… I suddenly felt that Artoria might be better suited to decide how the Command Spells should be used. I was wondering if I should entrust all of them to her."

"Ah, so that's what you meant…"

Artoria's expression softened with understanding.

As the designated Ruler of the Holy Grail War, Jeanne possessed a total of 28 Command Spells, a fact that made her a figure of both fear and reverence among the participants.

These spells allowed for absolute one-time commands on Servants and served as potent reservoirs of mana. Though their effectiveness could be mitigated by a Servant's Magic Resistance or countered with an equal number of Command Spells, their utility was undeniable.

However, Artoria simply shook her head.

"No need. You should keep them yourself—I don't require them."

"...Huh?"

Jeanne looked at her in surprise.

"As I mentioned earlier, I may lack Command Spells, but I possess tools of enforcement and deterrence far more powerful."

Artoria gestured toward the ruins of the Black Faction's castle, then toward the wreckage of Semiramis's aerial garden.

"Therefore, Command Spells would be little more than ornaments to me."

"Ah…"

Jeanne couldn't refute Artoria's logic. It was undeniably true.

"And besides…"

Artoria gazed into the distance, the morning sunlight casting a soft golden glow over her radiant hair. She seemed ethereal, almost otherworldly, bathed in the gentle light of dawn.

"The final battle is upon us. Our duties as Rulers are nearly at an end, and I doubt there will be further need for these Command Spells."

A strange sense of anticipation stirred within Artoria.

How will this Holy Grail War end, now that I've intervened?

Regardless of who emerged victorious, she knew her time in this world was limited. Soon, she would leave and embark on her next journey.

But until then… she decided she would savor these moments a little longer.

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T/N: nooo, more father and son bondingggg