Act 6: Lancer
The forest was deep—ever so deep—
He looked as if he had fallen into a bottomless bog.
run
run run
run run run
He dashed through the forest, cutting through the night as he went.
Had he really thought about why exactly he was running? Perhaps.
His actions could be described by the simple verb “flee”, but he did
not have it in him to contemplate that verb and to run at the same time.
We could well say that the reason he was “fleeing”—
In other words, the desire to “live”, was what impelled him to race
forth.
He acted on instinct, not on reason.
He was impulsive, not rational.
He did not even know whither he ought to flee. He merely leapt
forward and forward again, on and on.
How long had he been running?
With every step, his legs cried out in agony. The pain radiated
throughout his body unattenuated.
But he had to keep going. His body did not want to stop, nor did
his mind.
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Perhaps the endorphins had already cut out. Wave upon wave of
unadulterated pain washed over his body, over and over and—
ʔ.
His ferocious instinct was strong enough to get him through even
that.
Trees swept past him like a breeze, and indeed, given how he
wended his way through the forest, it was like he had himself become
the wind. Just when he was about to arrive at the end of the breeze—
A magically-enhanced bullet pierced through the wind.
“ʔ!”
Before he could even feel pain, his body was overcome by shock.
His momentum carried him to the ground. The earth mercilessly
battered his body. As if it were comeuppance for the way his legs had
kicked at the ground as he ran, the vast earth became as unto a weapon
and walloped him.
“. ʔ!”
An unvocalized scream.
Try as he might to stand up, the convulsions that overcame his body
would not let him do so.
As his mind heard his body cry out in pain, his ear heard a quiet
voice echo out.
“...you have caused me quite some trouble.” The speaker seemed
level-headed, but beneath his calm veneer, there were clear indications
that he was incensed.
The man, who seemed like a mage, lowered his heavily-ornamented
revolver and carefully trod on the stomach of the collapsed escapee—
and then he shoved the still-hot barrel of the revolver into the open
gunshot wound.
There was a hissing sound as the escapee’s flesh was scorched. The
odor of singed meat echoed about the forest.
The escapee opened his mouth wider than should have been possible
and exhaled moist air from the depths of his throat.
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“This is absurd. Of all the things that could have happened, you
received the Command Spells! What a farce!”
The escapee screamed noiselessly as he thrashed about. There certainly
were chain-like markings on his body that looked like Command
Spells.
“Why do you think I went to the trouble of making you? Why do
you think I amplified your Magic Circuits to their utmost limit? Why
do you think I have even let you live this long?”
The mage quietly shook his head and kicked the escapee—still
writhing in pain—like a soccer ball.
“...To win the Holy Grail War, I must summon a being that transcends
every Hero.”
He walked up to the escapee—and stomped on his face again.
“If I do not summon a being that exceeds every Hero—a being who
has such power as to be called a god—I cannot hope to defeat those
Heroes who are said to be kings.”
And again.
“And if it has come to this... I have no choice but to summon a
being more ancient than the first Hero—one of those of Egypt who
became gods.”
And he trampled him.
“But even the power of the Command Spells, combined with the
latent power of this land, do not suffice to call forth a being so powerful
as a god. I, too, must violate a few strictures to pull that off.”
And he crushed him.
“And you—you were to be my catalyst! A catalyst to summon a
god! Why would you refuse that honor!? You have repaid my kindness
with malice!”
The escapee could no longer even attempt to scream. He could see
little but the darkness of the night and the ever-spreading red of his
own blood.
And yet—
Even if breathing itself had become painful for him—
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As he drank down the blood that spilled forth from his throat, he
tried harder still to stand up.
Upon seeing the escapee that was unwilling to admit defeat, the
mage sighed and—
He laid his foot on the escapee’s back and mercilessly crushed the
escapee under his weight.
“Enough of this. I have any number of spares at the ready.... You
will return the Command Spells to me. Then, you will die. And you
will die in the way I prescribe. I will throw you into a furnace and use
your remains to build myself a new experimental subject.”
He extended his right hand towards the escapee’s Command Spells.
The escapee could not care less about the Command Spells and
whatnot.
He did not even know of the phrase “Holy Grail War”, let alone its
meaning.
live.
He, as a living being, merely obeyed the instincts that welled up
within him.
live. live.
Even then, as the end drew near, those instincts had not waned an
iota.
live. live. live.
—that was all that he was aware of.
live. live. live. live live live live
live. live. live. live live live live
live. live. live. live. live. live. live.
live livelivelivelivelive livelive livelivelivelivelivelive live
livelivelivelive livelive livelive livelive livelive livelive live
livelivelivelive live livelive live live livelivelivelivelivelive
livelivelivelivelivelivelivelive livelive livelive livelive
live livelive livelive livelivelivelive livelive livelivelivelive
live livelivelive livelive livelive livelive live livelivelive
livelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelive
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livelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelive
—live!
Not “I don’t want to die.”
Nor was it quite “I want to live.”
It was not a desire, but rather a simple instinct,
The mere hope to “live.”
Had he himself noticed this distinction? Or—
Then again, did he even have the means to express the notion “I
don’t want to die”?
His body slowly came to rest, but—
Out of all the living beings in the Snowfield area, his will was the
strongest. And with that mighty will, he screamed.
“ ”
The mage did not realize what that scream meant—and so, he did
not notice:
That in that instant, the ritual had been completed.
That the escapee’s scream was his alone; that it was his own form
of magic; that those were words of summoning.
That, the mage did not know.
Just a moment ago, the fifth Servant had been summoned into the
ravine to the north, and—
It seemed that the false Holy Grail was in a bit of a rush to manifest
the sixth Servant.
Of course, from the very outset of this Holy Grail War, with the
summoning of Rider, the nature of the summoning ritual had always
been rather vague.
But in any case, it was in that moment that—
The sixth Servant finally descended upon the forests of Snowfield.
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A brilliant light shot through the forest, and a mighty whirlwind
swayed the nearby trees.
The mage was tossed a few meters away by the strong wind. Startled,
he readied his gun—but just then, he felt an enormous rush of
magical energy, and so, strengthened his Magic Circuits.
“Wha....”
Before his eyes, a being appeared, clad in a simple piece of cloth.
That the being was a Heroic Spirit was clearly evident from the
overwhelming magical energy that poured forth from it.
At the same time, there was something unusual about it.
It looked far too plain to be a Hero.
It didn’t seem to have anything that could really be called “equipment”,
and its clothing seemed rather shabby. Of course, it’s not like
a Hero’s value depends on the value of his material possessions, but—
even so, just what sort of Hero would be without even a single weapon?
He quietly surveyed the being.
A woman?
Based just on its face, he would call it a woman.
It had lustrous skin and soft features.
However, its chest and its hips were hidden by the loose cloth it
wore. Its limbs alone extended outside the cloth, and they seemed to
be quite firm and taut.
N-no, wait... that might be a man.... ...? Which is it...?
The Servant’s face seemed to retain some vaguely childlike features,
making it easy to interpret as either a man’s face or a woman’s face.
Either way, its body was firm. It was tensed like a coiled spring, and
could likely rocket forth in the same manner. That much was clear to
the eye. Whether it was a man or a woman, its face was beautiful all
the same.
Is... is that... is that even a... a human?
The mage felt a twinge of embarassment.
It certainly had a human face, but there was something discomforting
about it. He couldn’t figure out how to describe it, but there
was definitely something wrong with it. Perhaps it was just too per-
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fect. There was nothing visually out of the ordinary about it, but its
entire body exuded an odd aura—kind of like a mannequin. It was as
though it were a puppet, in the magical sense.
He couldn’t really make out its build, perhaps because of its loose
garments. He became less and less certain whether the Heroic Spirit
was a man or a woman, or indeed whether it was a human or something
else altogether.
Nonetheless, one thing was for sure.
That Hero was unbearably beautiful.
It was a paradoxical being, possessing both the impurity characteristic
of mankind and the immaculacy inherent to nature.
Its body was like the velvety boughs that enwrapped the statue of
Venus. It was as though the Heroic Spirit’s form defied classification as
a man or a woman; a human or a beast; a god or a demon.
With the forest behind it, the Heroic Spirit, a being of perfect harmony,
let its lustrous hair flutter in the wind and—
“Are you... the Master who called for me?” it asked of the wounded
escapee, sprawled on the ground before it.
Ah, what a gentle voice it was.
Its voice, too, was androgynous. In the end, the mage would never
learn its true identity.
The escapee was bewildered by the sudden flash of light and burst
of wind that accompanied its appearance, but when he took one glance
at it, he knew.
The one who stands before me is not my enemy.
He knew that that alone was an absolute truth.
For a short while, he suppressed his urge to flee, and gazed intently
at his savior.
His eyes were ever so pure, as if he were imagining what lay within
the Heroic Spirit’s very soul.
It quietly knelt down as the escapee staggered to his feet, so that it
could look him in the eye, and—
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“ ” said it, with words that the mage
could not understand.
The escapee replied to it.
“ ” it responded, again quietly.
And then, the Heroic Spirit reached out and lifted the wounded
escapee into it arms.
„Thank you. We have formed a contract.“
It spoke as if to a friend of countless many years—and so, the escapee
felt relief.
He was granted life. His heart swelled large with emotion.
He knew he would have to flee no more—and at long last, he could
collapse.
“Im... possible... impossible! This cannot be!” His shouts echoed
about the forest.
Unable to understand what he was witnessing, the mage waved his
gun about.
“This is preposterous! I will not stand for this!” he yelled.
As he did, he aimed his gun.
And at the end of his barrel laid—
A silver-coated wolf, its fur stained with blood and dirt, resting in
the arms of the Hero.
“You troglodyte! This just... you have no abilities to speak of! You
are a mere chimera! And you are a Master!? I cannot believe this!”
The mage continued to fiercely brandish his ornamented gun, taking
careful aim.
“Please lower your gun. My Master does not wish you harm,” said
the Heroic Spirit, quietly.
“Wha....”
He was surprised by the politeness with which it spoke, but more
importantly, he was unsettled by the contents of its statement.
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“As if! What sophistry...”
“I can understand the language of his kind... and in any case, it is
not difficult to surmise what you have done to my Master.”
They sought to dance upon it—despite knowing that this Holy
Grail War was a false one.
Truth and falsehood were secondary to their desires.
They fought not for the Holy Grail, but for their convictions
It was a Holy Grail War for them alone.
That was the spark that began the war.
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