Fate/Strange Fake - Volume 1 - Chapter 3

Act 3: Assassin
In a certain land, there once lived a woman of deep faith.
That was all. That was the whole story.
The devout woman was so pious that she behaved as a heteroclite.
And so, the people scorned her as a zealot.
Worse still, even those who worshipped the same god as she looked
upon her with contempt.
But the zealot did not hate the people.
The people only hated her because she was yet weak of faith.
She was not pious enough. It was as simple as that.
The zealot forged on, pushing herself even harder.
She sought after the miracles created by her predecessors, and
recreated every last one of them.
But her faith was still weak.
It was far, far too weak.
—or at least, that’s what the zealot heard, as the world screamed at
her.
Every man of faith began to shun the zealot.
My faith is weak.
My faith is weak.
My faith is weak.
In the end, the zealot was unable to do anything. She lived as a
zealot, and died as a zealot. Not as a martyr. She lived a life of nothing,
and then, she was gone.
And yet, the zealot did not begrudge the world.
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She was ashamed of her own weak faith, and gave herself over to
the maelstrom of faith once again.
The zealot felt no hate for the people. Only the gods of the heathens
drew her ire.
So lived the zealot, irredeemable in the eyes of the common people.
That was the whole story.
That was where her story was supposed to end.
—until the moment when the false Grail chose the zealot.

Nighttime — Eastern Snowfield — the Marsh District
The marsh district unfolded to the east of the city center. It was
home to many crystal-clear lakes.
In between the lakes were countless many swamps. A network of
roads was knitted through the district.
Out of all the land surrounding the city, the eastern region—the
Marsh District—was likely the most developed; even so, there was not
much in the way of civilization save for a few fishing spots and vacation
homes.
And on one particular plot of land, there was an enormous vacation
home.
A Bounded Field had been established there. Even if an ordinary
man were able to detect the home, he would be unable to bring himself
to worry about it.
Architecturally speaking, it really was in bad taste. Compared to
the lakeshore boarding house a little to the west, it was a bit too Gothic,
designed with black and gray motifs.
And—
In the basement of the house, a number of magi were present. They
had just completed a summoning ceremony.
The summoning was a success.
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All that remained was to answer the Servant’s query in the affirmative,
thereby completing the contract.
But—
This is strange.
The summoner, a mage by the name of Jester Karturei, stared
quizzically at the Heroic Spirit he had summoned.
Around ten of his disciples were also present.
And in the center of the summoning circle stood one other figure,
clearly neither human nor mage.
An air of intimidation, infinitely deep and pure, emanated from a
solitary woman, clad in black robes.
She seemed quite young, but it was difficult to be sure, since she
kept her face turned to face the floor.
Right then, Jester felt a severe sense of foreboding.
The summoning should have brought forth an Assassin.
For the most part, it is impossible to pick the class into which a
Heroic Spirit is summoned.
But there are exceptions.
With the appropriate preparations and incantations, one can choose
to summon either Assassin or Berserker, each of which has a special
characteristic that makes this possible.
Accordingly, Jester chose to summon a Servant of the Assassin
class.
By their very nature, only a small number of Heroic Spirits can be
summoned as Servants of the Assassin class; and at first glance, the
being at the center of the summoning circle seemed to be one of those
Heroic Spirits, but—
I was under the impression that Assassins always wear a white
skull mask....
Heroic Spirits of the Assassin class all clad themselves in a black
robe and hide their faces with a skull mask. Jester knew that much
from his earlier research.
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But the woman before him, though wrapped in black cloth, did not
wear a white mask. Her actual face was visible from between the layers
of fabric.
In that case, am I supposed to pose the question...?
This was Jester’s first time actually experiencing the Holy Grail
War. Of course, this Holy Grail War was an imitation from the beginning.
It was impossible to anticipate the ways in which it would
differ from the War in Japan.
In the first place, it was bizarre that the parties behind this entire
war—the stars of the show—had yet to reveal themselves. Jester assumed
that a clan at least as renowned as the Einzberns would have
been involved in the creation of something so grand and elaborate as
this Holy Grail War, but he did not sense the presence of any magi
fitting that description.
Perhaps they were hiding themselves well; or perhaps they were
watching from afar.
Jester set all of his doubts aside, and waited for the Servant to make
a move.
And then—the black-clad woman slowly raised her head. Jester’s
form was reflected in her pupils.
“I ask of you...”
Her gaze was as powerful as she was intimidating: deep and infinitely
black, pure and unpolluted.
The mage unwittingly let out a quiet murmur as he chuckled softly,
waiting for the Servant to continue speaking.
“Are you... the mage... who has summoned me... to attain the Holy
Grail?”
She rubbed the black cloth wrapped around her mouth and spoke
deliberately and delicately.
Relieved that she had finally spoken, Jester stepped forward. Brimming
with a newfound confidence, he spread his arms as if to welcome
her into this world.
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“Indeed, I am. I shall ”
【......Delusional Heartbeat......】
The moment she spoke, time stopped.
Jester felt something brush against his chest. He lowered his head
to look at it.
What’s thIs͌?
And ͕tHen—he saw som̄ ethINg Red in frOnT of his torͨso, and he
NOTIC̙ eD Th̘aT iT ̿wAs in͐ facT HOlDing o̮ntO ̜̊soMeThInG rEd,͊ANd̊
̞Ḧ É ̯ re͉̒ aliZeͫ d T̻ ha̞ T ́T͔̎
h͖͖
e ̞ͥT̥̒
hI̭Ng͐̾ ̜̯ͣ
iT̻ ̟̒WASh̙̒OL̬d ͧ ̻iNͨgͣ ͖͒Ẅ̤ As͈ Ac̺ͦT̮ u̾a̭ͬ
L ͭ
ͅLy̿ ̣̗̊HIS
͖ͧhe̪̐ ḁ̄ r͎̆ T,͔͐ ̙̆A̩ͤ
nd
He did not raise his head back up. Jester’s body collapsed to the
ground.
“How...!?”
Seeing their master’s body suddenly turn utterly immobile, Jester’s
disciple-mages panicked. Their eyes grew wide as they looked at the
situation unfolding before them.
A third arm, red in color, had sprouted from the woman’s back. It
extended all the way to Jester’s body, and where it brushed against his
chest—
How strange. That red hand came to hold a heart—and then
crushed it.
The remaining mages looked at their master’s body and at the
woman, their gaze flitting back and forth. They cried out, frenziedly.
“Y-you rogue!”
“What did you do to Lord Jester!?”
“Are you not a Servant!?”
As they panicked and shouted, the mages armed themselves with
weapons and intensely focused their magical energies.
As she looked upon Jester’s disciples emotionlessly, the blackrobed
woman said just one thing.
Indeed, it was ephemeral.
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“Our god most-compassionate... has no chalice....”
Perhaps they heard her, or perhaps they didn’t. Either way, one of
the men drew a magical-seeming dagger and leapt towards her, trying
to impale her through her back.
And then—
A wet, aberrant sound echoed around the chamber as her shoulders
began to warp.
Her left arm reached backwards at an abnormal angle and ever-sogently
touched him and—
【......Fantastical Cybermind......】1
And right away, his head burst into flames and splattered everywhere,
accompanied by an explosive noise, as if his head had itself become
a bomb.
Hearing the blast and seeing a flash of light, the mages all cowered
in fear.
Only two of them had perished—but that was enough to convince
them that they were dealing with a real, honest-to-god Servant: a being
against which they were utterly powerless.
“I shall cleanse... the heretic magi....”
As she spoke deliberately, she stood still, not moving for some few
seconds.
It seemed like she was allowing the magi time to flee—but they did
not. In unison, they took a great leap backwards and unleashed the full
force of their magical energies on the women.
Witnessing this piteous sight, the black-robed Servant slowly shook
her head, an almost-despondent look in her eye—
And yet, without a trace of mercy, she spoke words of power.
【......Illusional Ependyma......】2
And then—silence descended upon the chamber.
The black-clad Servant was surrounded by the corpses of magi.
1空想電脳
2夢想髄液
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All of the mages that had tried to release their magical energy upon
her had, for some reason, been consumed by their own mighty flames.
Their remains were strewn about the floor.
The only one who had any idea what happened was the Servant.
She hastened up the stairs out of the basement, still silent.
She reverted to her spirit form, and, unseen by anyone—
She raced off into the darkness of the night. She, who once had no
direction in her life, had finally found a definite purpose.

The zealot sought proof.
Proof that she was truly a person of faith; proof that she was one of
Allah’s people. Nothing more.

It was not until much, much later that she realized that her search
for proof was itself evidence that her faith was weak.
When she was young, she honed herself, so as to earn a name—a
name that would serve as a proof of her faith.
In order to attain that name, which would evidence her piety, she
would have to attain power—power enough to perform a divine miracle.
However, only a particular, special sort of miracle would suffice.
It had to be a miracle that could bring death, swiftly and reliably; a
miracle greater than any known to a zindīq or mohareb.
She was a member of a sect that pursued such miracles: the Hashshashin,
a cult that was zealotic by its very nature.
Even in the innermost circles of the cult, however, she was scorned
as a zealot among zealots.
The past grandmasters of the cult had all performed a miracle
bearing the name of Shaytān, and in doing so earned their titles.
Each and every one of them was shocked by her deeds.
None of them was prepared to believe what they had seen.
She was but a young girl, a mere lamb—
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How could she master all the miracles performed by the preceding
18 grandmasters?
There was no question that she had honed herself with the most
Herculean of efforts.
It went without saying that she had spilled much of her pure, uncorrupted
blood in the process.
And yet, the people of her sect would not recognize her as a grandmaster.
“What have you accomplished? You have imitated miracles already
performed. That is naught but rote. It is because your faith is weak that
you are unable to bring forth a miracle of your own contrivance.”
She was certainly talented.
That is to say, she had talent enough to master the abilities of all
the grandmasters of the past. She had the strength to bear the pain
she went through as she mortified her flesh. She had the fortitude to
face any hardship through strength and willpower. But she was not
endowed with the talent needed to bring about a miracle of her own
invention.
That was only half the problem. Her ability to master so many
miracles, when mastery of a single one would take an ordinary person
a lifetime—that was the other half. The people may well have feared
her, knowing that she was able to achieve those miracles in a matter of
years.
“And thus, you are weak of faith. We cannot bestow the title of
grandmaster unto one such as yourself.”
That argument was mere sophistry. And yet, she accepted it wholeheartedly.
I see. My faith is not deep enough.
How much I have yet to learn. I have brought shame upon the
miracles of the former grandmasters.
She did not resent anyone else. She merely continued to hone her
own abilities.
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And when a new grandmaster—the Hundred-Faced—was selected—
She saw that he was capable of all manner of things, things she
could not do herself, but she did not envy him. She only felt shame at
her own impiety.
In the end, the zealot found no proof of her faith, and vanished
into the mists of time.
Or so it should have been—
But, what a quirk of fate! When she was summoned by the man
called Jester, she was given knowledge of the world by the Holy Grail,
and immediately came to know her destiny.
She had to bring the Holy Grail—that emblem of heresy—unto
naught. That was all she desired.
And though she was not unaware that the past grandmasters had
all sought it—
She felt only sorrow.
She did not resent those grandmasters. Neither did she revile them.
Their faith was, without a doubt, deeper than hers. Even now, they
were worthy of her respect.
Her hatred was directed at that which had led them astray: the
Holy Grail War.
She had to put an end to it. She tore through the dark of the night,
hastening forth in search of the Holy Grail.
Given that she had slain those magi, she would soon lose her supply
of magical energy.
She was still receiving magical energy, but it was a mere trickle.
When the flow of magical energy came to a complete stop, she
would vanish.
Would that happen after a few days? A few hours? A few seconds,
even—?
But it mattered not.
Until her last moment,
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Even if her body was a mere apparition—
The nameless Assassin would not question her purpose.
Believing that the piety of at least those who, like herself, had been
faithful would be rewarded,
She, without a moment’s hesitation, made the Holy Grail War itself
her enemy.

A few minutes later.
In the basement of the lakeside cottage where the nameless Heroic
Spirit was summoned, there were no men; only corpses.
By the time Assassin departed, this became an even more certain
truth.
“Kha!”
A pristine laugh rang out.
But the truth was what it was.
In that room, there were no men; only corpses.
“Khaa! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
A peal of laughter echoed. It sounded like the laugh of a child, jubilant
from the bottom of its heart; but at the same time, it was warped—
somehow perverted.
But the truth was still what it was.
In that room, there were no men; only corpses.
“Wow, that was a surprise! To think that the Holy Grail would
bring me such a kooky little maverick!”
The man bounded up like a jack-in-the-box, the Command Spells
on his right hand still gleaming.
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“How beautiful....”
I was planning on awakening the Spider with the power of the
Grail and living to see this tiresome world be destroyed, but....
I had no idea I still had “emotions”—those vestiges of humanity!
He trembled, beset by emotions—
And the truth remained what it was.
In that room, there were no men; only corpses.
Given that the truth was what it was, it could only mean one thing.
The mage Jester Karturei, now choked with emotion, was, at this point,
a corpse.
“What pathos! What pulchritude! How bewitching, resplendent,
dainty, picturesque, cute! Oh, what a tragic mistake I have made—
when I once had so much time and so little to do, I should have mastered
the Ars Poetica! I cannot find the words to describe her piety!”
Jester was having the time of his life. Paying no heed to the corpses
scattered around the room, he began to unbutton his shirt. Magicallooking
emblems appeared on his bare chest—emblems that were entirely
unlike Command Spells.
It was a ring of six red marks, similar in form to the cylinder of a
six-shooter.
However, one of the six marks—the one closest to his left breast—
had turned dark.
“She crushed my concept-nucleus with such ease! I was as careful
as I could be! And it didn’t even matter! With her arm, she could return
even a being far stronger than me to naught!”
Jester touched the darkened mark with a finger, whereupon his
fingertip was sucked into the skin of his chest. Strangely, not a drop of
blood fell from the mark. He shoved his his hand up to the wrist into
the muddy flesh-colored morass and squelched at his own innards.
“My mage-soul has been utterly destroyed.”
Then, like a gear, or indeed, like a revolver, the six marks rotated,
almost as though they were wriggling. The darkened mark shifted to
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his left flank, loading a new red mark on his left breast.
“In that case, I had best put on a new face from here on out.”
And then, somehow—just as those six marks had moved, his body
and face pulsated. A moment later, he had the appearance of an entirely
different man.
He withdrew his finger from his chest and placed it on the darkened
seal at his side. He was in a state of ecstasy as he rubbed his finger
around it.
“That concept-nucleus was shielded by countless many layers of
protective magic. And despite that, she made all of that as unto less
than nothing with that red arm. Her fingers reached the very core of
my being.... An arm so simple, and yet ever so fiendish! And yet—nay,
thus!—it is beautiful! A Noble Phantasm—what a thing!”
He continued to speak to the corpses strewn around him, with a
clear, resounding voice. Of course, they did not respond.
“I am surprised that she was able to use that fearsome technique
without hesitation, and so many times at that. Had she access only to
the energy of any other mage—an ordinary one, unlike myself... she
surely would have run out almost right away.”
He flashed his unusually-sharp canines at the altar of corpses. He
continued to talk to himself in a booming—and almost bewitching—
voice.
“I suppose I need not tire of the world quite yet.... That beautiful
assassin! Her piety! Nary could I allow her to vanish without a name!”
That—was a statement that could only be made by those who had
seen her memories.
Via the linkage of magical energy that connected a Master and
Servant, the former could view the latter’s thoughts and memories as
though they were dreams.
“Of course not! Who would dare let such a thing go to waste!?”
If Jester spoke true, it would mean that he had learned of her faith
through a dream he had while he was dead, but—
“I shall grant you a name! Your beautiful face; your beautiful soul;
your beautiful power; your beautiful faith... I will desecrate them and
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defile them and derogate them and debauch them and degrade them
all! What greater pleasure could there be!?”
He laughed heartily. His visage gradually took on a wicked color.
“O pleasure! O impermanence! O beauty! I will make that beautiful
Servant kneel before me, and I will destroy her faith, and when I
have drained the last of her power, what a sight that will be!”
Jester’s heart beat to a euphoric rhythm as a shadow extended from
the ground beneath his feet.
It was a red shadow—a red as supremely deep as the emblems on
his chest.
When the shadow finally wrapped itself around the bodies of all
of Jester’s disciples, it divorced itself from the ground, and became a
crimson wave that engulfed the countless many corpses.
And then, right away, the shadow withdrew back into Jester’s body.
As it did, it was a yet-deeper red than before.
In just seconds, the bodies had been reduced to mere skeletons by
that inexorable shadow.
“The Holy Grail? The destruction of the world? Those, too, are
wonderful! This, I grant! But what trifles they are! They are mere
dreck before her despair!”
And then—
He, a living corpse—a vampire1—climaxed from envisioning the
taste of the Servant’s blood, as his dead eyes glowed bright with life.
“As fellow heretics in this land, let us be the best of friends! Khaa...
Khahahahahahahahahahahaha!”
And so, with nary a proper contract binding them—
Assassin’s Master infused the Holy Grail War with a toxic darkness.
Laughing and laughing and
1吸血鬼
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