Fate/Strange Fake - Volume 1 - Chapter 2

Act 2: Berserker
England — somewhere in London
The Clock Tower.
For most, that term refers to a popular tourist destination in London.
For magi, however, it means something else altogether.
It is the headquarters of the Association, which brings countless
many magi together, and at the same time, is the finest educational
institution for the training of young magi.
It could well be said to be the Vatican of magic. For as long as
England has existed, it has produced first-class mage after first-class
mage, each of whom has gone on to elevate the art of magic to a new
level.
“Fuck....”
A word unbecoming of that austere institution resounded through
the halls.
“You know what you are? In a word, you’re an imbecile,” said a
man in his early thirties, remonstrating the youngster facing him. His
long hair fluttered in the breeze as he swore.
He wore a red coat with golden ornamentations on its shoulders,
and his face bore a tremendously sour expression.
But that youngster desperately replied—
“Oh, come on! At least describe me with three words!”
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—with a response that was just a bit off.
“You’re a cretin and an imbecile. There are no other words to describe
you.”
The youngster stood his ground, unintimidated by the stern man.
“But I really, really want to participate, professor! I’ve got to go to
the States for the Holy Grail War!”
“For fuck’s sake! Don’t bloody go around yelling about that in the
hallways! You incorrigible imbecile! Damn it all... where did you hear
of it? It’s not a top-secret matter, but it certainly isn’t something a rotten
little whippersnapper ought to know about!” The professor gave the
clingy youngster a piece of his mind, having checked to make sure that
there was nobody in the vicinity.
He was an instructor at the Association, the finest educational institution
in the magical world, and was known to all as Lord El-Melloi
II. Apparently, that wasn’t his real name, but everyone who knew him
referred to him as Lord El-Melloi II out of respect.
Though he was still young, he was said to be the finest lecturer in
the Clock Tower. Every student who had taken a course taught by him
had gone on to become a first-rate mage. His students became famous
among magi the world around for their exploits.
As such, he earned the respect of many magi, who bestowed upon
him various nicknames, such as “Professor Charisma”, “Master V”, and
“Great Big Ben 9 London Star”.
He had no great exploits to his own name, however, and did seem
a bit irritated that his students were stealing the spotlight.
But for now, what was irritating him was specifically the young
man standing before him, who was also one of his students.
In response to his professor’s question about the Holy Grail War,
the youngster nonchalantly replied, “Yesterday, some professors and
administrators from the Association were holding a council meeting
in one of the basement lecture halls, right? You know that famous puppetmaster,
Mr. Rohngall? That was the first time I actually saw him in
the flesh!”
Upon hearing his student’s reply, El-Melloi’s expression turned
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indistinct, perhaps with infuriation. He applied a claw hold to his
student’s face and hissed, “Why—the—fuck—do you know what happened
in that meeting?”
“I was a bit curious, so I eavesdropped!”
“That was a top-secret meeting, you twit! They must’ve set up
dozens of Bounded Fields!”
He averted his eyes. “Er, well, see, I know I shouldn’t have, but I
was really, reaaally curious...” he replied, apologetically.
“So I figured, why not try hacking into the room’s own Bounded
Field? And what do you know, it worked!”
—silence.
The use of the word “hacking” among magi was not a peculiarity of
his: its use was in fact rather prevalent among younger magi. His actual
actions likely had nothing to do with hacking or cracking; presumably,
he meant that he had bypassed the Bounded Field unnoticed, snuck
into the meeting, and eavesdropped.
Flatt Escardos.
He was the most senior of Lord El-Melloi II’s students.
Though he entered El-Melloi’s tutelage as a young man, he subsequently
spent many years in the Clock Tower, unable to graduate.
To describe him in a single word, only El-Melloi’s terms of abuse
would really be appropriate.
Using a few more words, however, it would be fair to describe him
as a man with boundless magical potential and talent. A man who,
however, critically lacks the ability to put that talent to any good use.
He was the eldest son of the Escardos line, a family that lived on
the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. It was hoped that Flatt would be a
mage who had Magic Circuits the likes of which are rarely seen, along
with the talent necessary to control them, but—
Alas, his magical talent was for naught, since he lacked the stern
disposition that is necessary for all magi.
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At first, he was hailed as a prodigy and studied under a number
of other professors. Eventually, though, all of them started bellyaching
about Flatt, and so in the end, he was assigned to Lord El-Melloi II, for
there was nobody else available.
Years passed. As Flatt’s magical talents developed, he came to surpass
all the other students. Other professors were unable to achieve
the same results with their students. This was a good sign for Master
V’s reputation.
That said, Flatt had too many other problems, and so was still yet
to graduate from the Clock Tower.
Usually, Lord El-Melloi II would refuse to overlook a student’s
weak points, unwilling to send an underprepared mage out into the
world. But this time and only this time, he had begun to regret having
made that choice.
“A talented idiot is the most dangerous kind of idiot...” said Master
V, calmly.
Master V had moved past anger. He had achieved a sort of ascetic
enlightenment. That said, he looked as sullen as usual. He whacked
his student and said, “I’ll pretend I never heard any of this. Now quit
harassing me about this.”
“I won’t be a bother, professor! I just, you know, I need some kind
of item to summon a hero, right?! I don’t know how I’m supposed to
find one of those! Like, if I had a portrait of Napoleon, could I summon
Napoleon?! An emperor would be the coolest thing!”
“If I were the Heroic Spirit Napoleon, I’d rather have you face the
firing squad than make a contract with you!”
El-Melloi thought about making a break for it, but he decided
against it. Instead, perhaps because something about the Holy Grail
War had come to mind, he asked Flatt a serious question. “...Flatt, you
know, you’re.... why do you want the Holy Grail? I can’t imagine that
you take magic so seriously that you’d want to reach the Root. Knowing
you, I have to ask—you aren’t planning on wishing to graduate, or
wishing to peeve me off as comeuppance for not letting you graduate,
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or anything that stupid, right?”
El-Melloi was completely unprepared for Flatt’s response.
“Because I want to see it!”
“...what?”
“I mean, it’d be so super-cool! It’s the Holy Grail! Hitler and Gobbles
wanted it for the Third Reich! And Shi Huangdi and Nobunaga
and Godzilla all looked for it too! If it really exists, I’ve just gotta see
what it looks like!”
“His name was Goebbels, not Gobbles. Godzilla never looked for
it. I don’t know about Nobunaga or Shi Huangdi, but historically and
culturally speaking, that just doesn’t seem right.” El-Melloi corrected
Flatt on the points that didn’t matter, but stayed otherwise silent.
Flatt waited a while for his professor to respond, expecting to be
thoroughly scolded. Eventually, El-Melloi sighed, and calmly and
kindly said, “Do you understand what a war of mage against mage
really entails? You might well experience things worse than death, and
end up being killed gruesomely, not having accomplished anything.”
“And people who know that still look for the Grail, right? Now I
want to see it even more!”
El-Melloi was about to yell at him, telling him to think about it
more—
—but even if he did think about it more, this moron would probably
end up saying the same thing.
Having arrived at this conclusion, he decided to question Flatt
from a different angle.
“Well, tell me this: do you have what it takes to kill somebody for
the Grail?”
“Uh.... What if I could win without killing people... like, we could
play chess, or...”
“Brilliant! If your opponent happens to be the World Chess Champion,
that just might work! Hell, maybe you could even have a chessboxing
match!”
“...This is a tricky problem, huh. I really, really want to see the other
Heroes... and if it works out, I want to make friends with them! If I
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made friends with six Heroes, I’d be an awesome mage! We could even
conquer the world!”
El-Melloi remained silent. He had figured that Flatt had completely
lost track of his initial question somewhere along the way.
He wasn’t planning to admonish Flatt, nor was he particularly surprised
by Flatt’s ramblings.
He put his hand to his chin, and seemed to be thinking about something
for a while—
And eventually, he snapped back to reality, and said, “...that’s not
happening.” He flatly put a stop to Flatt’s fantasies.
“Yeah, yeah, well, I’m counting on you, professor! Or, should I say,
Great Big Ben 9 London Star!”
“Don’t call me that to my face! And honestly, why did you have
to pick that nickname!? You’re making fun of me, aren’t you? You are
making fun of me, you clod!”
“Well, don’t worry! I’ll think up a new nickname for you. It’ll be
perfect! Like, um, how about ‘Magical Miniskirt Professor’1!?”
“Fuck off and die!”

In the end, Flatt clearly looked miserable after having been dealt
with so coldly by El-Melloi. He wandered around the academic wing
of the Clock Tower. He walked down a long corridor, humphing in a
manner unbefitting a man nearly 20 years of age.
And then—
“Ah, good to see you there.” A woman called out to him from down
the hallway.
She was one of the administrative personnel of the Clock Tower.
In her hands, she held a large box and a small bundle.
“These packages are for your professor. Could you pass them onto
him?”
1絶対領域マジシャン先生
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And so, she thrust the two packages into Flatt’s hands. Now, he
would have to hand these over to Master V, but—
Aw, man, I bet he’s still mad.
Flatt thought negative thoughts as he headed back up the hallway,
whereupon he was overcome by curiosity about the contents of the box.
He used clairvoyance magic to examine its contents.
He saw a small knife with a sinister-looking design on it, probably
designed for ceremonial use.
And then, with his keen powers of clairvoyance, he saw a name
inscribed on the blade. An electric sensation shot through his body.
Could it be...!
Professor...! You got it for me!?
Taken in by his own misinterpretation, he set off at a run, carrying
the box with him.
There were a number of symbols on the inside of the box, but they
weren’t written in any script he could read. Presumably, they were
magical instructions from some other country or somesuch.
He could figure out how to interpret those instructions at some
other time. For now, he had one goal: to get to the center of the academic
wing, as quickly as possible.

“Son of a fuck... he’s back again?” Lord El-Melloi II was clearly not
pleased when he saw a certain someone sprinting down the hallway
towards him. Strangely, though, when Flatt caught up to him, with a
small package in his hand, he started babbling about things that had
nothing to do with the Holy Grail War.
“Pr... professor... you... g... got... this... this thing... for... me!”
gasped Flatt, as he showed the parcel to his professor. Having run a
hundred meters at a breakneck pace, Flatt had run out of breath quite
quickly.
El-Melloi looked at the parcel, unsure at first what it actually was.
When he saw the address and logo printed on the exterior, he realized
what it was and nodded. “So, you... what, do you want this?”
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Flatt nodded his head furiously, like he was some kind of headbanger.
“Well, alright. If you want it, you can have it. I didn’t need it anyway.”
Hearing his professor’s response, Flatt glowed with happiness—the
greatest joy of his life thus far.
“Thank you so much! I mean, really, thank you so very much! I’m
so glad I’m your student, prof!” He dashed off, almost tearful with joy.
“Damn. When I was his age, I was everything he isn’t. I bet he
used clairvoyance to look inside it.... What was in there that he wanted
so much?” El-Melloi muttered under his breath, exasperated.
A few minutes later—
El-Melloi II had returned to his room. As he thought about his
incompetent pupil, a cabinet caught his eye.
It was a double lock, with both a physical component and a magical
one. El-Melloi carefully undid the locks and picked up the object inside
the cabinet.
It was a peculiar-looking protective case, in which rested a piece of
cloth.
From the looks of it, it was an antique. It was decaying, and had no
apparent use.
However, given that it was the most carefully-secured object in the
room, it was evident that it was no mere raggedy scrap of fabric.
“Take the other Servants as your subjects and conquer the world,
huh....” Thinking back on Flatt’s ramblings, he frowned and scowled.
“If I couldn’t stop him, I was considering letting him have this...
but I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”
Still frowning, El-Melloi II sighed in relief and put the lid back on
the case. He thought about the parcel he had let Flatt have.
“I suppose I’m in no position to talk, but they really should rethink
that system of having students courier other people’s mail. Not that it
was a particularly important piece of mail.”
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“Well, anyway, if that’ll get him to forget about the Holy Grail War,
that’s a good thing.”
A few months earlier—
El-Melloi had been enjoying some Japanese video games in the privacy
of his room. Every time he finished playing a game, he filled out
the survey card that had been included in the game box and jotted
down his impressions of the game. It was just the proper thing to do.
Of course, he had to pay international postage to have the cards
airmailed back to Japan, but he did so nonetheless. Thanks to that, he
had been entered into a number of sweepstakes, and so his room was
filled with all sorts of game merchandise.
That’s not to say that he filled out the surveys just to get merchandise.
To the contrary, he had little interest in most of the products he
received. He really did just want to relay his opinions back to the game
designers.
And then, a few months after that—
If there was any merchandise El-Melloi really did want, he would
just order it directly. When he saw the sender’s name—that of a
Japanese company—on the package Flatt had brought to him, he figured
that it was just another piece of bonus merchandise. And so, he
didn’t even bother to open it before letting Flatt have it.
Just as El-Melloi suspected, it was nothing more than a piece of
game merchandise.
Judging from the company’s name, he figured it was an action figure
from some sort of game about robots or something of that ilk, but—
In actuality, it was from a simulation game called “Night Wars of
the British Empire”.
And as for what that piece of merchandise was

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A few days later — the City of Snowfield — Center Park
The sun shone brightly, hanging high in the midday sky.
Flatt had hopped on a plane to America post-haste. Of course, he
was thoroughly unprepared for the journey.
He had a vague idea of how the Holy Grail War worked, but he was
clueless about the specifics.
Ah, Flatt—a man who had more important things to worry about
than the Holy Grail War—
And a man who gazed at the sigils on his right hand with glee.
“These are... so... awesome! If I use these... Command Spellthingums...
will they disappear?”
He rubbed his hand over and over again. Every so often, he would
mumble something—and then, his shoulders would droop. It was as
though he was heartbroken.
“It’s like they’re gonna vanish. I’ve got it! I absolutely won’t use my
Command Spells, no matter what!”
Apparently, Flatt had somehow figured out that Command Spells
disappear after being used. If anybody else with knowledge of the Holy
Grail War had been in the park at that time, they surely would have
apprehended Flatt then and there and taken him in for interrogation.
Luckily for him, the only people in the park were ordinary people—
mostly children with their parents.
Flatt stared at his Command Spells for a while longer. Eventually,
he opened the cloth parcel he had been holding.
From it, he removed a knife.
It was a dastardly-looking knife, tinged in red and black, and was,
all in all, rather crass.
Even though it was still sheathed, its blade was nonetheless bizarrely
lustrous—elegantly so, even.
“Man oh man, thank goodness for Master V. I mean, sure, he was
beating around the bush, but he had this awesome relic all ready and
waiting for me!”
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Flatt still hadn’t realized that a mix-up had happened. Looking at
the knife with his own eyes did not dissuade him. Rather, it left him
more confident than ever in the verity of the knife, and it spurred him
onwards, bringing him all the way to the States.
And then—imagine!—the Holy Grail had selected him to participate

in the war, and had endowed him with Command Spells for that
purpose.
He stared alternately at his Command Spells and his knife—and
every so often, he mumbled something.
Perhaps thirty minutes had passed, when—
A shocking scene unfolded in the park—and had any other Masters
known about it, they surely would have fainted from the shock of it.
To be frank, it was miraculous. If his teacher, El-Melloi II, had
been there to witness it, he would likely have praised Flatt. Of course,
he would have been furious while doing so. And he would have kneed
Flatt in the unmentionables a few times first.
Was it a miracle? Or was it a mere stroke of luck—or perhaps,
something achieved by Flatt’s own latent talents? Either way, in a certain
sense, Flatt had delivered a powerful slight against the false Holy
Grail War.
Of course, the only one who was aware of this was Flatt himself.
〔I ask of thee: art thou the Master who hath summoned me?〕
“I... wha!?”
Upon hearing that frighteningly crisp voice, Flatt leapt out of his
seat and looked around for the speaker.
As before, though, all he could see were families and couples walking
about. Whoever it was that had spoken was nowhere to be seen.
〔“Aye,” say ye? I shall take that as an affirmative. Our contract is
complete. As partners in search of the Holy Grail, let us be jolly chums.〕
“Huh? Huuuh!?”
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Flatt furiously gyrated his neck in all directions, but still could not
find anybody who seemed like the one who had just been speaking.
Perhaps witnessing the young man in a panic, the voice continued
on.
〔By the stars... you have summoned me before the eyes of the public,
and without an altar at that! Quite some pluck you have there, O
Master of mine.... Hold it right there.... If you did not use an altar, did
you neither speak the summoning incantation!?〕
“Uh, um... sorry, there was a lot of magical energy flying around,
and I was kind of fiddling with it... and I guess we linked up. Man, I’m
really sorry about summoning you this way.”
〔I see... Well, that is quite alright—in fact, it speaks volumes about
your excellence as a mage.〕
Apparently, the voice of that Servant-ish being was being transmitted
straight into Flatt’s head.
He soon realized that magical energy was flowing through his
Command Spells and going... somewhere. Rather shyly, he started
talking to the voice in his head. “Er, erm... I guess this isn’t really the,
um, the right time to ask, but... are Servants always like this?”
〔Not at all, lad. I am a special case. Don’t let it bother you.〕The
Servant’s voice was friendlier than Flatt had imagined, and it was quite
refined and polite, to boot. Oddly enough, he was unable to get any
idea as to what, specifically, the Servant’s identity might be.
〔In any case, I do not really have a definite “identity”, so to speak.
You could say that my appearance and manner are of all varieties—but
then again, perhaps you could not. It is that sort of thing.〕
Upon hearing any ordinary voice, one can typically tell if the
speaker is a man or a woman; or if the speaker is old or young; or
maybe even what the speaker’s occupation is. Something about the
voice is bound to give away those details. But this voice, which was
transmitted directly into Flatt’s head, was devoid of any special characteristics.
It was like he was speaking to a headless monster.
“So, um... could you tell me what your name is?”
A casual question.
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If the knife in his hand was what it seemed to be, the Servant would
surely be just what he expected.
And yet, Flatt was unable to reconcile his impression of a “Heroic
Spirit (?)” with the voice inside his head.
This made sense, since he knew that his image of a “Heroic Spirit
(?)” did not precisely accord with the class of beings called “Heroes”.
But, well—in any country where British films and novels were
popular, there couldn’t be many who hadn’t heard of that Servant.
Granted, in terms of notoriety, he wasn’t quite on par with Sherlock
Holmes or Arsène Lupin, but—unlike those two, he had really existed,
once upon a time.
For some reason, the Servant remained silent. Flatt nervously
looked around, but—
Suddenly, a man of large build, dressed in shades of black, entered
his field of view.
“Boy oh boy! You finally manifested!”
“I what? What in tarnation’re you talkin’ about, boy?” The man in
black looked at Flatt suspiciously.
Flatt yelped, and his face turned a ghastly shade of white.
Of course the man would be wearing black.
He was a policeman, with a handgun holstered at his hip. He
peered down at Flatt—a man sitting on a bench in front of a fountain
in the middle of the day with a knife in his hand.
“What in blazes are you doin’ yammerin’ to yourself, son? And
what’s that there knife for? You’re acting mighty suspicious.”
“N-no! I mean! This isn’t!”
Flatt was rattled. He tried to explain what he was doing, when—
“Did that surprise you?”
Suddenly, the police officer began to act in a kind manner. He
handed his truncheon to Flatt.
It felt like a real truncheon—but the moment he grasped it, it vanished
into thin air.
Surprised, he looked up from his hand, only to find a conspicuous
lack of a police officer. In the officer’s stead, he saw a woman dressed
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in a positively lascivious dress.
And then, the woman spoke to him. “I thought I might demonstrate
my specialty to you before introducing myself.” The voice,
though certainly feminine, had the same feel to it as the voice that
had been in his head just a little while prior.
“Huh? Huh? What!?” Flatt grew more and more surprised.
Then, the woman disappeared from before his very eyes and—
〔I apologize for startling you, Master. I thought this way might be
faster.〕
The voice was in his head again.
Some of the nearby families seemed to have noticed that something
was off. Some rubbed at their eyes while others cocked their heads, and
a few children even asked their parents why the police officer turned
into a woman and then vanished. Of course, their questions were met
with laughter.
Given what they had seen, and given that the imprint left in the
ground by the woman’s high heels remained, they could be certain that
what they had just seen was no hallucination.
The truth was not for the ordinary people who looked on with
suspicion—only within Flatt’s mind would it be revealed.
〔Allow me to introduce myself once again. My true name is—〕
Flatt waited for him to continue, with bated breath.
He knew what his Servant’s true form was. However, in the legend
in which he appeared, the Servant’s true name was far more important.
Flatt waited and waited for the voice to continue echoing in his
head, but—
When the Servant finally did continue, what he said surprised Flatt
in an altogether different way.
〔To be frank, I do not know.〕
“Are you serious!?”
Flatt had risen halfway off the bench he was sitting on. Realizing
that there was nobody in front of him, and that he looked rather silly,
he embarrassedly sat down while furtively glancing about.
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Paying no attention to the young man’s antics, the Servant continued
to speak, with a voice devoid as ever of any peculiar characteristics.
“None ought to know my true name, save perhaps for myself—the
true me, not the me of legend. ...Or, perhaps, the one who put a stop
to my murders.”

The knife Flatt held was not a true relic, but rather, an imitation.
But where that Heroic Spirit was concerned—
It could draw forth a much more powerful spirit, precisely because
it, like the Heroic Spirit, was an imitation designed for public consumption.
That Servant had no name, though there was proof that he once
lived in this world.
And yet, none knew what he truly looked like.
None knew his appearance; his true name; whether he was a man
or a woman;
Or whether he was even a human at all.
He—though his gender was not known—was a symbol of fear; one
who terrified the world. The people imagined him in countless ways,
and he was the topic of myriad tales and theories.
Perhaps a doctor;
Perhaps a teacher;
Perhaps an aristocrat;
Perhaps a prostitute;
Perhaps a butcher;
Perhaps a devil;
Perhaps a faerie;
Perhaps a conspiracy;
Perhaps madness.
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It was not even certain whether he was a single person or not. The
people’s fear of him was exploited to create all manner of stories about
him—and then they were unified into a single legend.
But he was not merely a legend. He had really existed.
Indeed, for Flatt, who had spent many years at the Clock Tower,
his legend was probably the one closest to home.
Everyone knew what proof there was that he existed.
In the district of London known as Whitechapel—
There were found the macabre corpses of five prostitutes. There
could be no greater proof.

〔That said, there is a name by which I am known, and by which I
identified myself in my letters.〕
〔Jack the Ripper.〕
A few months earlier—
El-Melloi II had played the game “Night Wars of the British Empire”.
He had mail-ordered the game from Japan, thinking that it would
be a wargame about the various legendary knights of England.
Alas, the Japanese do not distinguish between the homophones
“knight” and “night” in writing, and in this case, they had meant the
latter. The game’s protagonist was based on a real person, who wandered
the streets of London at night while fighting against the maddened
personality within him. At times, he would also end up fighting
demons. It was one of those adventure games.
Even though it wasn’t what he was expecting, El-Melloi played the
game until he cleared it, and jotted down a list of his honest opinions
about the game. First on that list was his opinion that “the game’s title
leaves something to be desired”.
When he turned the survey card over, he noticed that there was
some information about the prizes he could win in those sweepstakes.
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If you send in this card, you could be one of 100 lucky winners
to receive a replica of a knife with Jack the Ripper’s
signature on it! (sheath included)
Like hell Jack the Ripper would inscribe his name on a knife.
He snorted at the thought. He lost interest in the prize itself, and
returned to impassively writing down his thoughts about the game.
And all the while, he was utterly unaware of what that survey card
would end up bringing about.

And then, a few months after that—
Flatt sat in front of the fountain in the park, having a mental conversation
with the being in his head.
In just a short while, he seemed to have gotten the hang of the situation,
and was speaking naturally with the being.
“So, you’re saying that because you were nobody at all, you gained
the power to become anybody at all, huh....”
〔Righto. You got lucky, though. If I had manifested as a Servant
of any other class, I would have possessed your body and gone on a
maddened rampage to... well, in any case, let us just say that I would
be swimming in blood by now.〕
“Uh....” Flatt found it difficult to interpret that as a joke. He
couldn’t help but look around at the faces of the people around him.
Were Jack to go on a rampage, most magi would worry that ordinary
people would come to know of the existence of magic. Flatt, however,
found himself relieved for a different reason, one rather atypical
of a mage.
“U-um... by the way, what class are you? Are you Assassin?”
〔Ah, my apologies. I am of the Berserker class.〕
“Huh?”
The Servant’s answer sent Flatt into a tizzy.
Flatt wasn’t a complete ignoramus—he had done some basic research
into the Holy Grail War.
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He knew that Servants of the Berserker class would gain power in
exchange for losing their sanity.
Perhaps Jack understood why Flatt was confused. He began to
matter-of-factly explain the nature of his class.
“You see, I was enshrined in legend as a symbol of madness. The
class of the maddened warrior is the only one that really fits me.”
“Ah... like how a negative times a negative makes a positive!”
Any ordinary mage... or indeed, any ordinary person would have
to wonder if that explanation would fly. Flatt, of course, took it in
stride.
This, in turn, surprised Jack, who mumbled something before
amending his explanation. 〔If I were the soul of an actual person,
this probably would not have happened. Since I was just an emblem of
madness, however, I suppose I was overlooked. It is quite the miracle.
Then again, perhaps there is something unique about this Holy Grail
War itself.〕
“Wow. Servants really are awesome!” As usual, a simple response
from Flatt.
Recalling a matter which had made “him” uneasy, the Servant
started talking about something else. 〔By the way, when I appeared
before you in the form of a police officer—why did you not attempt to
hypnotize me... or use some other form of magical suggestion? Surely
that is the most basic sort of magic?〕
“Huh? ...Er, well, I figured I should make sure the cop understood
what was going on, first.”
〔I was worried about your competence for a moment there, lad.〕
Flatt, sensing that there was a tinge of embarrassment in the voice
in his head, changed the topic of conversation. “So, if you find the
Grail, what’ll you wish for?”
〔Hrm... as you are my Master, I suppose I ought to inform you...
but I beg you, please do not laugh at me.〕
The sane Berserker hesitated for a moment before continuing to let
his voice echo in Flatt’s head.
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〔...I want to know who slew those five prostitutes in Whitechapel—
in other words, my own identity. That is all.〕
“Your identity...”
〔I am a mere fable, with no real presence. And yet, when I think of
the people inventing stories and hypotheses about my true identity and
nature—it frightens me. I do not expect that you will understand me,
given that you have a body and a name and a past to call your own.〕
His voice sounded meek.
He just wanted to know who he was.
It was an unusual idea, but at the same time, it was likely all that
the Servant desired.
Flatt thought for a while. Then, straightforwardly, he asked the
Servant a question. “So when you find out who you are, what will you
do? Like, if someone summons you somewhere besides a Holy Grail
War... will you appear in the body of the person you once were?”
〔That may well happen. Though my current form differs from the
person I once was, it remains true that I was once a serial killer. The
legends about me are all based on that premise. If I am a person of
legend who also existed in fact, the onus is upon me to be as true to
my reality as possible.〕The way he spoke somehow conveyed the impression
that he was lonely.
“Doesn’t that just mean there’s no real you?” stated Flatt, straightforwardly
and to the point, with no sense of decorum whatsoever.
Flatt was just such an outrageously frank person. The Servant was
taken aback, and the voice resounding in Flatt’s head reflected that.
〔...Do people ever tell you that you lack decorum?〕
“Ahaha, they totally do! All the time! Thanks!”
〔I was not commending you... but, well, that is fine. We need not
discuss this matter any further. Anyway... I am surprised that you saw
fit to summon me. You could expect neither the might of a Hero nor
the morality of a man from me.〕
It was an eminently reasonable thought.
Never mind that Jack the Ripper himself was the one asking. Anyone
would be hesitant even to be around him, and to summon him as
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a Servant on top of that—
Flatt, frank as frank could be, replied.
“I love people like you! You know, men of mystery with secret
identities and all that!”
〔...〕
“Come on, that’s so cool! Besides, you’re an awesome guy! Isn’t
that great!?”
He may have had a mage’s intuition, but his temperament was...
not so mage-like.
If there was one way in which his temperament was fitting of a
mage—
It was that his intuitions differed ever so slightly from those of most
ordinary people.
To phrase it in the most generous way possible, he was gifted with
a superabundance of curiosity—and magi ought to be curious.
Though it was unclear how the Servant interpreted Flatt’s reply—
He, a Servant who should have been composed of pure madness
and savagery, readied himself for battle. With the slightest bit of optimism
in his voice, he spoke.
〔Very well, my Master. Where shall we begin? Using my abilities,
we can infiltrate any place whatsoever, and slay the enemy Masters
where they stand! I await your orders. What might they be?〕The
Servant was clearly in high spirits.
His Master, on the other hand, just sat there with a calm smile on
his face. Truly, he was the least mage-like of all magi.
“The weather’s nice today. Let’s just enjoy the sun for a while. It’s
nice and warm!”
〔Wha...!?〕
Thus began the journey of a young man who knew nothing of
tragedy, and the Villainous Spirit who created nothing but tragedy.
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There was just one thing they shared: none stood further from the
ideals of the Holy Grail War than they.
That one thing, and nothing else.