For three days and three nights, Nathanael remained in near-total silence, listening to the voice of the Planet. He walked through the sacred gardens of Camelot, along the high towers that touched the heavens, or sat upon the throne of living stone — and in all these moments, the whispers of the world filled his mind and soul.
The Planet told him secrets. Buried stories. Millennia of pain.
It spoke of the mutants, children of the Earth and something more — a step forward in evolution, yet still far from harmony. It spoke of the modern heroes, those who claimed to protect but whose endless war in the name of justice tore the ground, cracked the skies, and deafened hearts.
It spoke, with bitterness, of the gods who once descended to Earth — not to heal, but to dominate, to toy with mortals, to plant their names like flags in wounded soil. None of them listened to the world. None of them understood.
All of them brought pain.
And the Planet, old, weary, and still pulsing with life, wept for peace.
It was with this weight and knowledge that the White King of Camelot summoned his Knights on the morning of the fourth day. The great hall of the Round Table was bathed in the light of dawn filtered through enchanted stained glass, casting multicolored shadows upon the shining garments of the greatest warriors on Earth. There stood the legendary — Mordred, Agravain, Gawain, Tristan, Lancelot, Galahad — and in the seat to his right, Artoria, still growing into her title of Queen, yet as imposing as she had been in her youth as King.
The atmosphere was heavy. Silent. Everyone knew Nathanael's silence had ended because something had changed. Something big.
He spoke.
He conveyed to them the pain of the world. Every memory. Every buried cry. Every plea.
And then came the opinions.
Mordred, as always, was the first to speak — her impulsiveness was an eternal trademark.
"If the world is broken, then we must fix it by force," she said, a fierce gleam in her eyes. "We subjugate. We show power. We become the shepherds of a new age through sword and spear. Those who do not accept it shall be left behind."
Immediately, Artoria stood up, her aura rising like a tide.
"You understood nothing, Mordred," she said with a cold, cutting gaze. "The King did not listen to the world to become a tyrant. He listened to be what others refused to be. To subjugate is to repeat the mistakes that brought us here."
The hall burst into muffled laughter. Tristan smiled discreetly, Lancelot tilted his head with an amused expression. Seeing Artoria scold Mordred was almost... nostalgic.
Mordred huffed, crossing her arms and turning her face away, but she did not reply. Deep down, she knew the Queen was right.
Agravain was next.
Always calm, always meticulous.
"My King. I suggest we begin protective measures around Camelot. Though the magical barrier is already powerful, I recommend reinforcing it with runes from the ancient druids and summoning the Knights of Execution — let them guard the towers, let them patrol the streets. If the world is about to look upon us with eyes of fear or desire... we must be ready."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the Round Table.
"With this… we will be able to choose the worthy. Those who come not as conquerors or parasites, but as servants of the Order. As children of the new Camelot."
Most nodded, considering his words. Mordred, despite his earlier disagreement, also agreed with the proposal. But when all eyes turned to the White King, he did not answer.
He remained silent. Deeply so. The hall seemed to freeze.
His eyes were fixed on Agravain.
"Are you speaking of initiating the Sacred Selection, Agravain?"
Nathanael's voice came out softer… yet denser. It was not just a question — it was a judgment echo. A call to truth.
The air in the hall seemed to shift. The light dimmed slightly, as if the very world held its breath.
Agravain froze. His hand trembled, almost imperceptibly. He had never known fear before a King… but that golden gaze — calm, ancient — pierced deeper than any blade.
"M-my l-lord…" he tried to respond, but no words came. His throat ran dry. He didn't know whether he had crossed a line, or merely touched something too sacred to be named.
"There's no need to fear or be troubled, Agravain," said Nathanael, leaning slightly forward on the throne. His eyes now seemed not to belong to a man, but to something that saw beyond time and space. "I only ask that you answer my question."
Agravain swallowed hard, gathering what little strength remained in him. The hall was silent now. The sound of stained glass panes quivering in the wind was the only one that dared to exist.
"Yes… my King. I suggested it. I believe it is the only way to ensure that only the worthy may walk upon our Land."
Artoria gently pressed her hand against the table. She felt the tension in the air, but also something deeper: the decision to come was neither military nor political — it was spiritual.
All eyes turned to Nathanael once more.
And he, still silent, pondered.
The Sacred Selection
A ritual that, merely by being spoken aloud, made the air in the hall feel denser, heavier.
In the recorded history woven through the distorted lines of Fate/Grand Order: Camelot, the Sacred Selection had been the cruel and divine method by which the Goddess Rhongomyniad decided who was worthy to live under her perfect order. A false utopia, built not by the people's choice, but by the blade of imposition.
Hundreds of souls were brought to Camelot by the Goddess's knights. Men, women, children... peasants, warriors, scholars — all led to the sacred wall under the promise of redemption and protection. And in the end, only one to four individuals were deemed "worthy." The rest were discarded like trash. As if they had never mattered.
It was the kind of judgment a tyrant would approve without hesitation. But Nathanael was not that kind of king.
The silence hanging in the hall was cut by his voice — firm like a sword driven into the center of the Earth, and serene like the roots of the world listening to the wind.
"This is not acceptable for us. The Sacred Selection is not among our options." His words echoed not only through the walls of enchanted stone, but also in the hearts of the knights present.
He rose slowly from the throne, his eyes radiating the ancestral light he had received. The wisdom of the Planet pulsed within his soul like a hidden sun, and so he could declare without fear or doubt:
"For with the knowledge of the Planet, I know who the Worthy are. I know where they are. They have already been chosen — not by a blind or divine judgment, but by the very life they carry. By the way they resist chaos. By the way they refuse to give up."
Upon hearing this, Agravain — who until then had been sweating at the possibility of crossing a forbidden line — felt the weight lift from his shoulders. A sigh escaped his lips before he even noticed. He had tested the King's limits, and now he understood that Nathanael was not a sovereign who imposed his convictions through force, but one who proved them through purpose.
Artoria, who had been watching silently, placed a hand over her chest. Her gaze fixed on Nathanael reflected not only relief, but something deeper… respect. Perhaps even admiration. Because the man who had chosen her as his consort and Queen was not a conqueror, but someone who understood the weight of power — and refused to wield it mercilessly.
Then, Nathanael continued. His voice now less severe, but still carrying a paternal firmness — the firmness of someone who did not speak to command, but to teach.
Would you like me to continue translating the next part as well?
"Moreover, Agravain... we don't need servants."
He looked around the Round Table, calmly meeting each gaze. Some eyes held pride, others reflected, and a few, like Mordred, simply clenched their fists, still digesting every word.
"We will not summon people to kneel. We will not force them to bear a banner they did not choose. Instead... we will offer a new life. A home. Jobs. Refuge. A new beginning."
With each word, the roots of his ideal dug deeper.
"We cannot force anyone to accept what we offer. Every being carries the gift of free will. And even though I am the one chosen by the Planet, even though I have inherited something greater than anyone could ever imagine..." He paused, looking at the palm of his own hand, where the energy of the world still seemed to pulse "...even that does not grant me the right to decide the fate of another without their consent."
The knights listened in silence, and for the first time, they understood the depth of Nathanael's leadership.
He was not merely a King.
He was a bridge between the divine and the human.
And in that moment, by refusing the Sacred Selection, he wasn't merely rejecting a ritual — he was declaring, before the heavens and the Earth, that he would not act as a god above men. That he would not repeat the mistakes of the old gods, nor the distorted versions of justice. He believed that power was not meant to control, but to protect.
Some wondered if he was defying the Biblical God by refusing the authority to judge lives with cold hands.
But others understood... perhaps he was, in fact, following that very God's laws more faithfully than any prophet.
By respecting free will, by refusing slaughter in the name of order, Nathanael was not merely ruling — he was guiding. And because of that, all understood: the new Camelot would not be an empire, but a beacon.