"Now then, dear reader… let us continue our tale of Don Quixote."
The curtains had fallen upon La Manchaland.
The lights of the attractions had long since dimmed, leaving behind only the groaning of rusted machinery and the distant creaking of the Ferris wheel that once stood as the beating heart of a dream. The joyous melodies that once echoed through the park had faded into silence, replaced instead by the lingering scent of blood and smoke drifting through the midnight air.
A most tragic ending.
Or perhaps…
A most fitting one.
For what else could become of a dream so impossibly fragile within this cruel City?
Beneath the pale glow of the full moon, the final clash between Father and Child had at last concluded. Two lances carrying different ideals had crossed in the heavens above La Manchaland, and only one remained standing when the dust settled.
The successor of the dream had emerged victorious.
Sancho—no…
Don Quixote.
The young Bloodfiend who once wandered beside her Father as his loyal squire now carried his mantle upon her shoulders. His title. His dream. His impossible wish.
Ah… what an exhilarating conclusion it had been.
A tale of impossible ideals ending not in hatred, but inheritance.
The First Kindred's body rested in the arms of his crying child, crimson blood staining the ground beneath them like spilled paint upon a stage. Even in death, Don Quixote's expression remained strangely gentle, as though he had merely fallen asleep while listening to one final story.
"Dear Don Quixote…" Sansón softly spoke, his polished shoes clicking against the fractured ground as he approached the scene. "It would seem thy story ends here, embraced by the very child who inherited thy dream."
His tone carried neither grief nor mockery.
Only observation.
Like a narrator calmly turning the page of a well-worn novel.
Around them, the ruins of La Manchaland trembled.
The impossible amusement park born from the First Kindred's longing had begun to collapse alongside its creator. Buildings distorted into spiraling crimson dust. Rivers of blood receded into the earth. The sky itself cracked apart like fragile glass.
After all…
La Manchaland and Don Quixote had always been one and the same.
A dream sustained purely through the strength of his will.
And now that will had finally come to rest.
"How cruel," Sansón hummed quietly, glancing toward the distant silhouettes of P Corp personnel already advancing into the ruins like scavengers approaching a carcass. "To think that the body of the great First Kindred shall now be dissected and studied like some curious specimen."
One could already imagine the discussions taking place behind closed doors.
The Wings would pry apart every fragment of Don Quixote's existence. They would study his blood, his flesh, the impossible power contained within the veins of an Elder Bloodfiend.
Not out of reverence.
Not out of understanding.
But because the City devoured all things of value.
That was its nature.
The dreamer who once sought coexistence between humans and Bloodfiends would become another tool for humanity's endless progress.
How painfully ironic.
"And yet…" Sansón continued, tilting his head slightly. "Even now, thy tale refuses to end."
For while Don Quixote's body remained upon the ruined stage of La Manchaland…
Something else continued onward.
Far beyond the City.
Far beyond the reach of the Golden Bough.
Far beyond even the grasp of death itself.
A soul drifted through an endless sea of darkness.
Weightless.
Silent.
The form of the First Kindred wandered through that void without castle, without throne, without Family.
And perhaps for the first time in centuries…
Without chains.
"Oh, Don Quixote," Sansón softly laughed, the sound carrying strangely through the collapsing amusement park. "Thou truly art a fascinating creature."
The guide raised one hand theatrically, as though presenting the next act to an unseen audience.
"A Bloodfiend who despised loneliness."
"A monster who admired humanity."
"A king who abandoned his throne to become a wandering Fixer."
How absurd.
How utterly ridiculous.
And yet…
How beautiful.
Even knowing the fragility of his dream, Don Quixote had still chosen to believe in it until the very end. Even after two hundred years of agony. Even after betrayal. Even after watching his beloved Family descend into madness and starvation.
He still wished to believe.
That was the most foolish part of him.
And perhaps also the most human.
"Tell me, Don Quixote…" Sansón murmured, his crimson eyes narrowing with amusement. "Art thou truly intent on walking this path once more?"
The darkness surrounding the drifting soul shifted faintly.
As though something beyond that abyss had begun to answer.
Another world awaited.
A different stage.
A new audience.
Sansón smiled wider.
"Ah… splendid."
How many times had he watched flames die out within the City? How many dreams had crumbled beneath the weight of reality?
Too many to count.
But every so often…
A spark remained.
And Sansón so dearly loved watching those sparks reignite.
"To spark the flame again and again, should it ever fade…" he quietly recited to himself.
The ruins of La Manchaland continued collapsing around him.
The Ferris wheel finally gave one last deafening groan before beginning to crumble, its massive frame collapsing into the crimson mist below. The symbol of Don Quixote's dream—of his impossible paradise—had at last fallen.
Yet somehow…
It did not feel like an ending.
No.
It felt like intermission.
The guide turned away from the scene with a small sigh.
"Though I suppose," he mused lightly, "the next stage may prove far less forgiving."
After all, dreams rarely survived unchanged once exposed to reality.
Would this wandering soul continue chasing coexistence?
Would he cling to that impossible ideal once more?
Or would this new world finally force the First Kindred to abandon his dream entirely?
Ah…
What an exciting thought.
Sansón placed a hand over his chest and bowed politely toward the fading remnants of La Manchaland, like an actor giving his closing performance to an applauding crowd.
"Now then, dear Don Quixote…"
The amusement park disappeared into darkness behind him.
"Go forth."
His smile softened then, becoming almost genuinely fond.
"May thou continue chasing that foolish dream of thine…"
The void swallowed the final remnants of the stage.
"And may thou have a grand time of it."
-----
A/N:
I AM BACK FROM THE DEAD!
Hello everyone, it's your boy S0FTNW3T here once again bringing you your daily entertainment! And as you've probably guessed from this chapter, the very first Servant summoned by Ritsuka is none other than the man, the myth, the walking disaster himself—Don Quixote!
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have conceived an absolutely ingenious idea. A truly magnificent plan. A plan so brilliant that even I don't fully understand what I'm cooking anymore. But trust me, we ball.
Now, before anyone asks: Angela will appear later in the story. Don't worry, I have great plans for her. Oh yes, the plan is massive. Potentially dangerous even. Whether it ends in peak fiction or complete narrative collapse remains to be seen, but that's part of the fun, isn't it?
Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! And please, give me some stones, comments, or whatever form of support fuels the writer brain. My motivation runs entirely on reader reactions and sleep deprivation.
That's all, folks
see you around!