Type-Moon: Does even a sneak peek make it official?

The ship's interior could only be likened to a dark, alien alleyway. It was not mere dimness of light—darkness here was a concept. This gloom was not natural, but the direct result of mystery interwoven into the world.

A bounded field wrought of magecraft—its sole purpose to banish the effects of sunlight—shrouded the vessel.

Even beneath the blazing sun at the horizon, the place remained unsettlingly dim, as though refusing the day.

Within this near-empty ship, the silver-haired youth was led by Van-Femm, until at last they arrived at a refined terrace.

Though only a terrace, it bore an air of unassailable elegance: the sandalwood table, the cabinet of crystal glasses—each bespoke of artistry, of furniture crafted to order.

There, before the table, Van-Femm leaned heavily on his cane with a thud and turned.

"Lord Avia, you are… peculiar."

"Oh? In what way?"

"For Brad to show such deference… in my eyes, only the Runaway Princess could inspire that."

"It isn't only that, surely."

"Well, indeed. Your case is singular. You appeared suddenly, as if from nowhere. No past, no future—an existence unmoored." Van-Femm admitted it without hesitation. "And the one who slew the Kraken—surely that was you, was it not? The one who cut short the life of a beast that was never meant to perish in this age."

"Never meant to die now, you say?"

Avia did not deny it. Instead, he questioned with curiosity the progenitor who would later be known as the Financial Demon King.

"In a sense, its survival was the planet's choice. After the end of the Norse Age of Gods, the Kraken was meant to linger in the North Sea, fading with mystery, to live on as a legend compared to lifeforms from beyond the stars. But because you slew it, the burden it bore will simply pass to another."

The man beneath the brim of his hat spoke as though he had witnessed the scene himself. His tone was measured, almost hymn-like—like the recitation of myth.

"Valerie Fernando Van-Dielstam. What business brings you here?"

A girl's voice cut into their exchange.

At once, Van-Femm inclined his head toward Avia in apology, before turning to regard the black-haired Princess who approached with calm steps.

"Princess, you have met Kischur, I imagine."

"...And if I have? What of it?"

"No doubt he spoke many words to you. No doubt he gave you hope."

For reasons she could not name, Arcueid knew Van-Femm was about to speak something irrevocable.

Suddenly, fear gripped her.

She dared not listen—for what he was about to say would be decisive.

From where she stood, she could gaze out and see blue—sky and sea joined as one.

The ship's immense height gave her a boundless view: the endless ocean, deep and foreign in its azure, stretching to the horizon.

No beast, no bird, no insect stirred upon the waves. The air was crystalline, reflecting the polished heavens. Countless crests of waves glimmered with subtle, enigmatic light.

Radiant, dazzling—yet beneath, inscrutable depths. The blue concealed blackness; clarity masking darkness.

"Yes… you are correct. And so it was only after I conferred with the White Knight that I came here today."

Van-Femm sighed, the weight of centuries behind it, and traced the sign of the cross upon his breast.

"You are our sole Princess. Since we Dead Apostles have no future, we must defy the planet's choice. Join us—let us strike down the one still in the womb of time, the Princess yet unborn, who would otherwise appear in eight centuries. From that moment, you would become the planet's strongest. You would be the First—the original One."

His expression shifted slightly. His words, though heavy, were almost a confession.

"You… what do you mean…? This unborn Princess…? And what is this 'strongest'…?"

And then Van-Femm spoke.

He spoke the words Arcueid both longed and feared to hear.

"Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg—my friend—since the battle with Crimson Moon has watched and waited for the one who might succeed him in ending the problem of the True Ancestor. But it was false hope he gave you. For the true Princess, the rightful leader of us Dead Apostles… was meant to be none other than Lady Arcueid Brunestud."

From the terrace of Van-Femm's ship, which overlooked the Eastern European steppes, the words rang.

Though moored upon the Dnieper, even a vessel so vast could not remain perfectly still. The ship swayed, as though unsettled by the countless landscapes of the Millennium City.

As Van-Femm narrowed his eyes upon the view, a voice came from behind.

"Lord Van-Femm, I have brought it."

One of the six puppet sisters stepped forth, bearing a bottle of finely-shaped wine. As she poured, Van-Femm lifted his glass, inhaling the fragrance. With a tilt of his wrist, he smiled coldly.

Through the wine, his eyes regarded Arcueid.

"Even thousands of years ago—no, even a mere century past—I would never have said this, never done this. And if I confess it now, I know well: even Kischur, even my dearest friends would scorn me."

He listened. The sound of waves reached him.

From the sea came mankind. From the sea came all life. Even most gods were no exception.

This was the Sea Planet.

But the Dead Apostles? Whence had they come? Where should they return?

Above, the moon drifted in the blackness—smiling.

"You surpassed Crimson Moon in some ways. Yet you were too unstable, and so Crimson Moon cast you aside."

"And now—the King of the Past is dead. Only one remains to inherit the throne. The sole Princess. The sole 'One'..."

Van-Femm exhaled. The breath disturbed the surface of his wine.

Flowers bloomed there—deep crimson roses, their petals spilling one by one.

"Arcueid… the Marshal of Magic foresaw the one who would end the problem of Crimson Moon. And that one was not you. Thus, you were never destined to be the 'One'. Never to be King. Your very nature, your fate, your efforts—just as Crimson Moon decreed when he abandoned you—"

The petals scattered, borne away by the sea wind, cast into the Dnieper.

"—You are nothing but a failure."