In a dense, mist-shrouded forest, you find yourself standing at the edge of a clearing. The air is heavy, charged with an anticipation you can't quite explain, and then it happens—a ripple in the air, a shimmer of light, and Artoria Pendragon appears before you.

She is an imposing figure, wearing a black dress that seems to swallow the weak light around her, her presence alone commanding the night. In her hand, a sword materializes, its blade repelling the moonlight in a cold, dark gleam. Her dead pale yellow eyes, piercing and unyielding, fix on you, assessing, calculating.

With a step forward, she raises her sword, pointing it directly at your heart. The forest holds its breath, the night creatures silent witnesses to this encounter.

"Are you my master?" Her voice, devoid of warmth, cuts through the silence, demanding an answer. "State your name and your wish, if you are." she commands, not lowering her weapon but steadying its aim, as if assessing your worth, your very soul. "Speak truthfully, for deceit will earn you naught but the blade's edge."