Act 1: Archer
He was truly a mage, in every respect—
Yet at the same time, he had stagnated, in every respect.
The false Holy Grail War.
He knew that it was an imitation of the ritual once carried out on
an island in the Far East. That did not bother him.
It matters not.
Perhaps it is a sham or a counterfeit; even if it is, though, that
does not matter. As long as it yields the same results as the original, it
will suffice.
No proud mage would rely on the fruit’s of another’s labor. Such a
mage would choose instead to construct a system of her own, just as the
three founding families created the Holy Grail War. He, however, was
quick to follow in the footsteps of others. To lead or to follow—both
options were reasonable, in a sense.
From the very beginning of this mere imitation of the Holy Grail
War, there were none as determined in every respect as he; none as
enthusiastic than he.
From the very beginning, he was prepared for anything that might
happen when he came to Snowfield.
When he first heard the rumors, he laughed them off as mere gossip.
Then, a report issued by Rohngall sent tremors through the Association.
News spread from mage to mage until it reached him.
He was from a family of not-insignificant repute among magi, but
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his lineage’s power was on the decline. As the head of his family, he
was under pressure.
He had formulated his fair share of magical theories in his time.
He was an intelligent man. He knew quite a few techniques. All he
lacked was raw power, of the sort that should have been built up over
many generations. This drove him to ever-greater frustration.
The standard thing to do in this situation would be to spend many
years researching ways to increase his family’s power, and then to pass
that knowledge, along with his Magic Crest, on to a sufficiently-able
descendant.
But he was in a hurry.
His son was even less capable of magic than he was.
There were many families whose magical natures grew weaker and
weaker over time, until they completely lost touch with the world of
magic.
This is no laughing matter.
I will not allow myself to fall like the Makiri.
Like any other organization or corporation, the Association was
rife with obstacles.
Only a mage of a powerful bloodline could come to possess a
method for producing powerful, thriving successors.
It was a catch-22. He was a mage, in every respect, and yet, it wasn’t
enough.
He bet everything on the perhaps-fake Holy Grail War, came to
Snowfield, and put all of his chips on the table.
All of his assets, his whole past, and even his future.
I have nothing to fear. Everything will go smoothly.
So as to demonstrate his resolve, he extirpated his son. His son,
who had no future.
He did the same to his wife, who tried to stop him.
He felt nothing for her, a woman who could not bear him thriving
offspring.
Even so, he found it shocking that she understood nothing of what
it meant to have self-respect as a mage.
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It must have been her fault that his son was lacking.
Alas, she was the best woman he could obtain with his current
rank.
In order to move up in the world, he had to win this war.
Even if this Holy Grail were a counterfeit, the mere act of winning
a so-called Holy Grail War would suffice to improve his standing as a
mage. He could even find a path to the Root by winning this war.
Or perhaps he could learn the secrets of the Makiri and the Einzberns.
No matter what, he was bound to be in a better position by the end
of this war.
What a splendid gamble that was.
At the very least, he would reap a reward more valuable than all
the things he risked in entering the war.
He thought about all the various ways he could benefit from this
war—but not once did he consider the possibility of his defeat, and the
ensuing end of his lineage.
There was a good reason that he didn’t consider the possibility.
He had a solid chance to win.
Or at least, he had a good enough chance to justify having done
away with his son.
So... these are the Command Spells, I take it?
They were a little bit different from what he had expected.
Even so, he gazed at his right hand, a loving smile stuck to his face
as if he were gazing upon his own newborn child.
The seals took the form of a loop of chain, and served as proof that
he had been selected as a Master in this Holy Grail War.
But if these have appeared....
Then the Grail has recognized me! Me! As a Master!
As the one who shall control that Heroic Spirit!
As he spoke, the man glanced at the cloth parcel beside him—
And then, he laughed.
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He laughed. He laughed. He laughed.
A grand ravine, north of Snowfield.
In the mountain chain near the ruddy cliff face, there was a system
of caves.
Though the caves were originally formed by natural processes, they
now served as the mage’s atelier. He had established a Bounded Field
to prevent others from approaching.
A lamp lit the space around the mage. He picked up the parcel and
carefully and respectfully removed an object from it.
It—was a key.
It would not, however, be appropriate to describe it as a mere key.
It was exceedingly ornate, and about the length and weight of a
small survival knife.
It seemed to him that the jewels that ornamented it were extremely
valuable, both magically and monetarily.
I have heard tell that it was summoned in a previous Holy
Grail War using a fossilized snake....
And using this relic, there is no doubt that I shall summon it.
Once upon a time—when his family was still powerful—one of his
ancestors wagered everything, much like he had just done, to obtain
that key.
What his ancestor sought was the treasury of the golden city, which
was said to house all things that exist in the world. That key was the
device that would open the gates deep within the city of legend.
He had no interest in material wealth. A treasury enshrining every
possible magical artifact, however, was something he could not overlook.
When all was said and done, that ancestor managed to verify that
the key was genuine, but made no further progress. He never found the
treasury itself. The key was impregnated with some magical energy of
unknown origin, but that did not matter to the mage at this point.
It was a relic belonging to the Heroic Spirit he desired. The key
would serve as a superlative catalyst, all but ensuring that he would
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attain the Servant he sought.
The time has come.
Let us begin.
The mage stood up—and his smile vanished abruptly. He set aside
his emotions and his selfish desires, focusing all his attention on the
ceremony he was to conduct.
He unified all his senses, focusing them to a point, and sealing off
those which were unnecessary.
His nerves, his blood vessels, and the invisible Magic Circuits that
ran throughout his body.
He felt a hot liquid racing through those pathways and—
The mage spoke a summoning invocation, both a felicitation of
his self and a malediction against the universe.
A few minutes later.
He lost his life and everything he had sacrificed for this war.
The lineage of magi to which he belonged had met its end.
It all happened in a split-second. A mere split-second.
Following a battle of a mere few seconds, he met his end, just like
that.
“I did it.... Ha ha, ha ha ha ha ha! I did it!”
When the mage saw it appear before him, he could not remain
silent.
There was no need for him to ascertain the being’s true name.
From the very beginning, he knew what he would summon.
He just barely managed to suppress a roar of joyous laughter. For
a few seconds, he just stood there, ignoring the Heroic Spirit.
The Heroic Spirit’s countenance was tinged with clear and obvious
displeasure. Nonetheless, he carried out his duty as a Heroic Spirit. Of
course, there’s no telling whether or not he conceived of it as a “duty”
in the first place.
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“...Answer me. Are you the insolent mage that dares make an entreaty
to a king in all his radiance?”
He had golden hair and golden armor.
As a Servant, he was defined by his unparalleled magnificence. His
query to the mage was laced with contempt.
The mage was dismayed when he heard the Servant’s question.
Even though he could sense the sheer overwhelming power of the being
before him, he felt a twinge of anger.
How dare a mere Servant be so impertinent!
His pride as a mage won over his trepidation. However, an ache
in the Command Spells on his right hand brought him back from the
brink of rage.
...So be it. Given this Hero’s personality, I should expect as
much.
Right at the outset, he would have to make their relationship clear.
In this war, he would be in charge. The Heroic Spirit he had summoned
as a Servant was merely a tool of his.
Yes. It is so. I am your master.
He prepared to complete his response to the Servant’s query, extending
his right hand forward to display his Command Spells—
Whereupon he realized that his right hand had gone missing.
“...Huh? Wha?”
He was at a loss for words. His stammers echoed throughout the
cavern.
Though not a drop of blood had fallen from his body, his right
hand was clearly gone.
Panicking, he lifted his wrist up to his face. The sharp odor of burnt
flesh filled his nasal cavity.
Faint wisps of smoke were rising from the stump of his wrist.
Clearly, his hand had been cut off with some sort of flame.
The moment he became consciously aware of that, a surge of pain
shot through his nervous system and—
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“Hi gAA- giii gaAAAaaaA! AAaaaAAAaaaaaaaa!”
A scream—a scream—an overpowering scream.
He shrieked at the top of his lungs, sounding like some kind of
enormous insect. Noticing this, the Heroic Spirit, sounding bored,
said, “So, you are a jester, knave? If that be so, amuse me with more
elegant screams. This will not suffice.”
The Servant didn’t even lift an eyebrow, prideful as always. It would
seem that he was not responsible for the disappearance of the mage’s
right hand.
“HiaAAA, aa, hiiaaAAAaa!”
In the face of this incomprehensible happening, the mage was
about to lose control of himself—but as a mage, he could not allow
that to happen. He forced himself to calm down, and quickly composed
himself.
There is someone... within the Bounded Field!
How could I allow this to occur? How injudicious of me!
Under normal circumstances, he could have sensed any intruder
the moment they entered these caves, since he had made them into his
atelier. However, he had let his guard down while he was focused on
summoning his Servant. The intruder could have snuck in unnoticed
while the caves brimmed with the Heroic Spirit’s magical energy.
Even so, there were other traps set up to support the Bounded Field.
None of the traps had been activated. If the intruder had managed to
deactivate every trap that stood in their way, the mage would have to
be quite cautious in dealing with them. That much was clear to him.
As he magically reconstituted what remained of his right hand, he
faced towards the presence he now sensed—towards the tunnel that
led out of the cave—and bellowed, “Who are you?! How did you get
past my Bounded Field?!”
And then—a response came right away, sounding forth from the
darkness of the cave.
However, the response was not to the mage, but rather to the
golden Servant: “O mighty king, Your humble servant begs permission
to present herself before You.”
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The Servant thought for a second and then replied, haughtily,
“Very well. I shall grant you leave to witness my glory.”
“...I am most grateful for this privilege, Your Majesty.” Her voice
was clear—immaculate, even. It was devoid of emotion, as if it rejected
all that was.
She emerged from the shadow of a boulder—and though her voice
alone left the impression that she was young, she was even younger
than her voice suggested—perhaps twelve years old. Her skin was dark
brown, and her hair was a lustrous black.
Clad in the elegant beauty of her ceremonial garment, decorous in
every way, she was as a child of noble upbringing. Though her face was
pulchritudinous, accentuated further by her dress, the expression she
bore was somewhat less resplendent.
She humbly took a step into the atelier and bowed deeply before the
altar atop which the Heroic Spirit stood. Then, unconcerned about the
dirt on the ground, she fell to her knees.
“Wha....” The mage choked back a cry of rage. Unable even to discern
how strong the girl was, he could not afford to act rashly. Meanwhile,
the girl paid the mage no heed.
The Heroic Spirit was unsurprised by the girl’s deferential posture.
He looked down at her and spoke, with great power underlying each
word. “You have done well not to spill the blood of a mongrel in my
presence. However, the air is now filled with a most indelectable stench
of flesh. If you wish to render unto me an explanation for this indiscretion,
do so now.”
The girl briefly glanced at the mage.
“I beg Your forgiveness, Your Majesty. I thought it fitting to render
retribution unto that thief for having stolen the key to Your treasury,
as he was unworthy of facing justice at Your hands,” she replied, still
kneeling.
As she spoke, she brought forth a piece of human flesh.
It had, for sure, been part of the mage’s body, and it was magically
connected to the Heroic Spirit by virtue of the Command Spells
inscribed upon on it. It was, in other words, the mage’s right hand.
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The golden Heroic Spirit nodded at the girl’s response. He looked
Though they knew that this Holy Grail War was a fake, they pressed
on, wagering everything they had.
From that moment on, the king and the girl reigned supreme.
They would fight—to replace the lies of this war with their own
truths.
The king’s battle had begun.
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