In the early 19th century, a young man freshly graduated from Cambridge found himself overwhelmed by the astronomical figures he was calculating for celestial movements.
Not just in astronomy. Whether it was government research departments or private enterprises, nearly all experiments and business operations that required large-scale calculations demanded dozens of people working in tandem.
The young man pondered: if all these complex calculations could be delegated to machines, wouldn't that save an immense amount of time?
And so he continued thinking.
It was possible.
A machine powered by steam, capable of performing high-level, complex calculations.
Its name: the Difference Engine.
Indeed, mathematics played a role in virtually every branch of knowledge.
When this machine was completed, humanity would be able to save time across various fields—leaps and bounds of it. Civilization might advance by centuries.
But that dream was never realized.
Though a prototype of the Difference Engine was built, it remained rudimentary, falling far short of the results he had envisioned.
Even before completing a fully functional Difference Engine, he had already begun imagining the Analytical Engine—a concept so far ahead of its time it bordered on madness.
Alas, to be half a step ahead is genius; to be a full step ahead is lunacy.
And human effort has its limits.
Until the day he died at his workbench, the complete Difference Engine and Analytical Engine never saw the light of day.
But that was fine. He had anticipated this outcome. That's why he left all his design schematics on his workbench. Surely, when people found his body, they would also find his drafts.
Then, someone in the future would carry on his dream. One day, with fully realized Difference and Analytical Engines, humanity would take a monumental step forward. The steam engine—symbol of mankind's will to reshape the world—would evolve even further.
But that, too, never came to pass. The large-scale Difference Engine and Analytical Engine never materialized, and the radiant world of steam he had dreamed of remained a fantasy.
People abandoned his research. No one carried on his dream.
—That was the future revealed to him by Machiri.
Upon learning this, Babbage fell into despair.
His life's work, his research, had gone unrecognized. These were things that should have been necessary—essential to pushing civilization forward.
So why—why had no one taken up his mantle?
He couldn't understand.
—Crushed by confusion and helplessness, he continued swinging his massive hammer, thick clouds of steam erupting from his back, powering his towering body.
Even in death, even as a Heroic Spirit, Charles Babbage couldn't let go of his obsession.
He wore on his body the possibility of a future—that twisted shell of iron.
He buried in his heart the dream of a radiant future—that alien world of steam.
This was his Noble Phantasm. This was the dream of his radiant steam world.
CLANG.
After narrowly dodging several attacks, Mordred was finally forced to trade a blow with the iron colossus and was sent flying. She felt like her internal organs had all been knocked out of place.
"Not done yet?!"
She stabbed her brilliant Radiant King's Sword into the ground, using it to brace against the recoil, and turned her head to shout at Guinevere.
"Almost! Just hang in there!"
Guinevere's voice rang out from the other side.
Babbage's gaze immediately shifted toward his voice. But at this point, both Guinevere and Jack had disappeared into the thick steam spewing from Babbage's body—he could no longer pinpoint their location.
Every time he tried to hunt the young Master down, the female Saber would reappear and stall him—just like now.
THUD. A blow struck the back of Babbage's head, but he paid it no mind.
This steel shell, though it bore less of his blood and soul than the Difference Engine or Analytical Engine, was still his creation.
His intelligence, his pursuit, his results—achieved from standing atop the shoulders of countless giants—and his desperate wish to become a stepping stone for those who would come after him... How could that ever be surpassed by mere heroism?
He swung his massive hammer again, kicking up shockwaves as he swept it behind him. Mordred, seeing the mountain of iron coming her way, had no choice but to retreat again in a flurry of motion.
Her frustration was mounting. She wanted nothing more than to rip this iron can apart.
But none of her attacks could break through his defenses.
Even her strongest slash only managed to carve a shallow mark into the iron shell. Against a body of this size, it didn't even qualify as a scratch.
This had to be the most humiliating battle of her life. Babbage's strength and defense were off the charts. She'd fought plenty of thick-skinned, high-attack enemies before—stone golems, crystal giants, ancient constructs—but none of them could compare to this monster.
Even she, prideful as ever, had to rely on the cover of steam to dodge and delay.
Then Babbage's voice rang out from within the fog:
"I've measured your limits."
The steam was so dense now that even his massive frame was hard to make out from afar—just a hazy outline in the distance.
Suddenly, the sound of mechanical pumping echoed through the mist—deep and oppressive, like a hammer striking directly into her skull.
"Regrettably, your strength is not enough to save humanity."
And then, amidst the pounding rhythm, his voice continued:
"Let us end this tedious game of hide and seek."
"With this next strike, I will end this battle."
She wanted to curse his arrogance—but the weight pressing on her chest was real.
All the hairs on her body stood on end. A powerful sense of danger screamed in her brain: Something's coming.
"Master! Are you done yet?! Damn it! If you don't hurry, I'm dead!"
Mordred roared in desperation.
But Babbage's voice did not stop.
"Unrealized dreams—here and now—"
"Noble Phantasm, release—!"
"My fantasies! My ideals! My dreams!"
With an earsplitting hiss, a torrent of steam burst forth, flooding the battlefield and obscuring vision even further.
Then, in a blink, the fog before her was violently swept aside.
Babbage had accelerated.
He was right in front of her.
He raised his hammer—but instead of swinging it down, he thrust it forward like a spear.
And then—one by one—its gear-like rings began spinning in reverse.
"—Dimension of Steam!"
As the gears rotated at blinding speed, they expelled highly pressurized magical steam, forming a violent vortex that howled outward.
Though it was still just steam, it now cut like a spinning scythe. Workshop tools caught in the blast were shredded to pieces. The magic embedded within the steam corroded them like acid, leaving nothing but a fine powder that was quickly swept away by the wind.
"Shit—!"
So this was a Noble Phantasm, huh?
Startled by the sight, Mordred immediately tried to retreat and widen the gap. But the vortex was far larger than she'd anticipated—and it caught her in its grasp.
The spinning wind threw her off balance. She flailed, reaching out to grab a nearby piece of heavy machinery.
For a moment, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Then the machine began to shift—dragged inexorably toward the vortex.
"Goddamn it...!"
Eyes wide with disbelief, Mordred cursed.
This was bad. Was this how it ended?
If—if only she knew what her own Noble Phantasm was. Maybe she could've won.
But there were no ifs.
Staring into the heart of the vortex, Mordred exhaled quietly.
She wasn't afraid. She just felt... disappointed.
She wasn't the clueless idiot she had been at the start. After spending time with Guinevere, she had begun to understand the dream world—what it was, and who she might be within it.
She remembered her unique trait: after death, she would reappear in a later timeline.
Which meant... she had a rough idea of who her next self might be.
She didn't know what kind of person she would become—but she was certain it wasn't someone she'd ever wanted to be.
So she wasn't afraid of losing. She just felt it was such a waste.
She liked this version of the story.
The knight's tale from the books she'd once longed for.
She had found companions who fought beside her, a grand journey to save the world—and she was even playing the role of a knight she herself admired.
And now... it was ending?
What a shame.
She had only just begun to earn the recognition she desired.
But dreams always end, one way or another.
No matter what, she had made a pact—and she would fight to win every battle for her Master.
So, with that in mind, Mordred let go of the machine, ready to be torn to pieces by the vortex.
But just then, a hand reached out and grabbed hers.
Startled, she looked up—and saw Guinevere, holding onto the same machine with one hand, and grasping her with the other.
"What the hell are you doing?! Do you have a death wish, idiot?!" he yelled.
"Huh? Wait—why the hell are you here?! Why would a Master risk himself like this?!"
"If I didn't come, you'd be toast by now, wouldn't you, dumbass?!" Guinevere shot back. "You don't have permission to die yet—not without my say-so!"
Hearing that, Mordred's eyes suddenly stung. But she still shouted back:
"Better one of us dies than both of us, isn't it?!"
"Who said we're both gonna die?" Guinevere shot her a grin. "You did great, Mordred."
"Thanks to you, we bought enough time. We've won."
She blinked, confused—then in the heart of the vortex, behind Babbage...
A flash of azure lightning exploded, engulfing the iron giant.
"After all," Guinevere explained, "he's an antique from the first Industrial Revolution. I'm guessing his fancy tin can wasn't designed to handle high-voltage electrical attacks."