Fate/Strange Fake - Volume 1 - Chapter Prologue

Prologue
A cleft.
That city, rising from the darkness of the surrounding hinterland,
was certainly worthy of being called a “cleft”.
It was not a disjunctive barrier, of the kind that might separate day
from night; light from darkness. Rather, it was a harmonious barrier,
one that demarcated a boundary between things of the same ilk. That
was the strange thing about the city of Snowfield.
It was a watershed, but the things it divided were not so different
as magic and sorcery, nor were they as similar as men and beasts.
In a sense, it was a hazy boundary, smudged with the colors of dawn
and dusk. But it was more than just a divider. It was a black nexus,
begotten from a blending of pigments.
To put it differently, it was the boundary between one town and another;
the boundary between nature and man; the boundary between
a man and a megalopolis. It was not at all unlike that indistinct morass
that separates dreams from mere sleep.
The American West. The city lay a while to the north of Las Vegas.
Its surroundings were a product of a delicate balance. North of the
city was a vast ravine, reminiscent of the Grand Canyon. To the west
lay a dense forest, an unusual sight in such an arid area. To the east, a
tract of lakes and marshes; to the south, a vast desert unfolded.
Though the city had not one smidgen of farmland, it was surrounded
in all four directions by land perfectly suited for agriculture.
Indeed, that city alone was a strange existence that stood out from its
1
 
surroundings like a sore thumb.
A boomtown with its sights set on the future; a city with just the
right mixture of the natural and the artificial—that was how some
might describe Snowfield, dazzled by its beauty. But in reality, the city
was built on arrogantly arrogant notions. Sometimes, those notions
were apparent; but sometimes, they were not.
The lie of the surrounding land was as natural as it could be. It
was as if that town—that cleft, that nexus, that blending of countless
colors—had deemed itself fit to bring concordance unto its milieu. The
town became as a black stage, evaluating all that surrounded it.
According to records pertaining to the very beginning of the 20th
century, the area was home at the time to a few indigenous peoples here
and there, and essentially nobody else.
Starting about 70 years ago, though, the area began to rapidly develop.
By the time the 21st century rolled by, the land had undergone
a total transformation. Now, it was home to a thriving city of 800,000
people.
“Of course, rapid development can happen anywhere. The fact that
we have been asked to investigate such a seemingly-typical city indicates
that we ought to devote special attention to the city’s origins.”
Thus grumbled an elderly man, clad in blue-black robes.
The night sky was dark, and there was not a star in the sky. It
seemed like the clouds could burst open at any time.
From a sparse grove of trees at the edge of the vast forest to the
west of the city, the old man peered through a pair of binoculars. As
he gazed at the light thrown off by the agglomeration of skyscrapers
off yonder, he went on, with disdain apparent in his voice.
“Hrm... binoculars these days really are quite handy. They come
into focus with just a push of a button; and further, it’s less of a hassle
to use them than to go to the trouble of sending out a familiar.... What
a wretched age we live in.”
With a sour look on his face, the old man spoke to the young apprentice
standing behind him. “Don’t you agree, Faldeus?” he asked.
2
 
The man called Faldeus stood beside a tree perhaps two meters
away from the old man. His voice filled with doubt, he replied, “Never
mind that. More importantly, need we really be so concerned about
that thing? That so-called... ‘Holy Grail War’?”
the Holy Grail War
It was a phrase often appearing in fairy tales and legends from
times past. The moment that phrase left Faldeus’s lips, his teacher lowered
his binoculars and spoke at him, with exhaustion apparent in his
eyes. “Faldeus, is that a joke?”
“No... I meant...,” stuttered the apprentice. He lowered his gaze, as
if expecting a harsh punishment.
The old man shook his head and sighed, anger entering his voice.
“I did not think I would have to ask, but... just how much do you know
about the Holy Grail War?”
“I did skim over the materials I was given, but...”
“Then you know enough. Be it a mere rumor among children or
the ramblings of a third-rate tabloid—as long as there is some possibility,
no matter how small, that an object described as a Holy Grail
will come into being, we cannot afford to ignore it.”
“For it is the true desire of all magi, yet at the same time a mere
means to the ultimate end.”

Once upon a time—there was a battle.
It took place in a certain country in the Far East.
The battle took place in an ordinary town, unbeknownst to its people.
However, that battle hid a truly dreadful secret. Indeed, it was a
war that brought about a miracle called the Holy Grail.
The Holy Grail.
It is an eternal miracle.
3
 
It is a legend.
It is a relic of the world of the gods.
It is a terminus.
It is hope—and so, to seek it is to admit despair.
The very identity of that object referred to as the Holy Grail changes
from time to time, from place to place, and from person to person. In
that war, the Holy Grail was not quite the “sacred relic” that it is often
pictured to be.
There, it was said that the miracle called the Holy Grail appeared
in the form of an omnipotent wish-granting device.
But it was merely said to be so, for at the time that the battle to
claim the Grail began, the wish-granting device called the Holy Grail
did not exist.
Before the Grail itself appeared, seven spirits were manifested.
From all of this world’s histories, traditions, magicks, and fictions—
from every medium, “Heroes” were selected to be summoned into the
present-day world as “Servants”.
They formed the fundament of the Holy Grail War, and were absolutely
essential for the eventual summoning of the Holy Grail.
Those spirits, beings immeasurably stronger than humans, were
called forth to destroy one another.
The magi who summoned those Heroic Spirits were known as
“Masters”. In order to earn the right to obtain the Grail, a right which
could devolve upon but one, they too slew one another. That carnage
is precisely what is known as the Holy Grail War.
The spirits, once slain in battle, flowed into the vessel of the Holy
Grail; and when that vessel was filled, the wish-granting machine was
completed. That was the system underlying the Holy Grail War.
Those battlefields were perhaps the deadliest, most noxious places
in the world.
The participating magi had to conceal their existence from the rest
of the world, as always, and so they trod quietly through the night,
letting loose the flames of battle while unseen.
4
 
As part of its mission to oversee those objects described as Holy
Grails, the Church dispatched its own supervisor. The noxious battlefields
gleamed with a sanguine veneer as they were cleansed by those
overwhelmingly powerful spirits.
And, now—
The Holy Grail War: a battle fought five times on an island in the
Far East.
Something appeared in an ordinary town in the States. That something
was accompanied by harbingers akin to those seen in that war
fought in the Far East. Rumors of that something spread among magi.
As a result, the Association—that organization which brings all
magi together—saw fit to conduct a secret investigation of that town.
And so, it came to pass that an elderly mage and his disciple were dispatched.

“...very well. Your knowledge of the Holy Grail War is sufficient.
However, Faldeus. I am unimpressed by your lackadaisical attitude.
It disappoints me that you know so much about it, yet care so little.
Depending on how things turn out, this could become a matter that
concerns the entire Association. Were that to happen, those wretches
from the Church would surely turn up. Get it together, Faldeus.”
“But is this really the place?” replied Faldeus, skeptical despite his
teacher’s admonitions. “The system underlying the Holy Grail War
was built by the Einzberns and the Makiri. Is it not tied to the land
that the Tohsaka proffered? Could someone really have replicated their
system... a full seven decades ago?”
“If this is indeed the place... ah, yes. In the worst-case scenario, it
is possible that this place was built solely for the sake of the Holy Grail
War.”
“It couldn’t be!”
“Calm yourself; that was just one possibility. It is said, after all, that
the three founding families did anything and everything to attain the
5
 
Grail. In any case, we have yet to learn who is attempting to recreate the
Holy Grail War in this town, Faldeus. It would not surprise me if the
perpetrator was some relation of the Einzberns or of the Makiri. ...One
of the Tohsaka is at the Clock Tower, so I doubt it is their handiwork.”
The old mage returned to his binoculars, leaving open the possibility
of the founding families being involved.
It was perhaps an hour till midnight, and yet the city lights were
almost as bright as ever. Snowfield stood serenely against the overcast
night sky, boasting of its own existence.
After surveying the area for a few minutes, the old mage prepared
to cast a spell, as if it was the only reasonable thing to be done. The
spell would render his binoculars capable of viewing the ebb and flow
of ley lines.
The apprentice gazed upon his master from behind, and meekly
asked, “If a Holy Grail War truly does take place, surely neither we of
the Association nor the devotees of the Church would keep quiet about
it...?”
“Indeed... but there have only been omens thus far. Back at the
Clock Tower, Lord El-Melloi said that there were irregularities in the
ley lines, but.... Well, that was just a crude hypothesis on his part, to
say nothing of that student of his. Hence, we are now here in this land,
in order to verify El-Melloi’s predictions.”
Exhausted, the old mage chuckled.
With a mixture of irritation and scorn permeating his voice, he
talked and talked at great length, perhaps at his disciple, or perhaps
at himself.
“Of course, no Heroic Spirit can be summoned unless preparations
for a Holy Grail have already been made. If a Heroic Spirit is indeed
brought forth, our doubts will immediately be cast away... but I would
prefer for that not to happen.”
“It’s a surprise to hear that coming from you, sir.”
“Speaking for myself, I very much hope that the rumors surrounding
this land are nothing but. And if something does materialize here,
I would like for it to be a fake Holy Grail.”
6
 
“Does that not contradict what you were saying earlier? That the
Holy Grail is the true desire of all magi and a means to the ultimate
end...?”
“Well... I suppose it does,” he replied, furrowing his brow. “But
even if, hypothetically speaking, there is something here worthy of being
called a true Holy Grail, I say confound that! It would pain me to
see the Grail appear in a country with such a meager history.... I am
sure that many magi would do anything to reach the Root, but, to be
frank, I would not. If I were to reach the Root... it would be like an illmannered
youngling muddying up my bedchamber with his unkempt
shoes. That wouldn’t do for me.” He shook his head exasperatedly.
“Is that so?”
For the umpteenth time that day, the old mage sighed at his apprentice.
“In any case,” he wondered out loud, changing the topic of
the conversation, “in this new land, I have to wonder... just what manner
of Servants could be summoned?”
“Indeed. Leaving Assassin aside, the identities of the other five
classes depend entirely on their summoners, so we truly have no way
of even predicting what might happen.”
Unable to contain his aggravation with Faldeus, the mage harshly
rebuked him: “If you leave Assassin aside, there are six classes remaining,
you clod! It was not two minutes ago that I spoke of the seven
Servants! Enough with your tomfoolery!”
Each Heroic Spirit summoned to the Holy Grail War is placed in
one of seven classes.
Saber.
Archer.
Lancer.
Rider.
Caster.
Assassin.
Berserker.
The Heroic Spirits are summoned in forms that accord with their

various special characteristics, thereby honing their abilities even fur-
7
 
ther. A Hero of the sword may be summoned as Saber; a Hero skilled
with the spear as Lancer.
To reveal one’s true name is tantamount to broadcasting one’s
weaknesses and special abilities; as such, Servants are typically referred
to by their class names. Each class is also endowed with various
skills, each able to influence combat in its own distinct way.
For example, Caster has the power of Bounded Field Creation1,
while Assassin has the ability of Presence Concealment.
In a sense, the various classes are like chess pieces, each with a distinct
ability.
But each player has only one piece. The chessboard is irregular,
designed for a battle royale. And every piece has the chance to control
the board, provided that its mover—its Master—is strong enough.
It was this most fundamental principle of the Holy Grail War that
Faldeus had bungled. His teacher lamented that he had such an unworthy
disciple, but—
Faldeus remained emotionless, despite having been scolded.
He hadn’t turned a deaf ear to his teacher’s words, nor did it seem
that he was reflecting on his indiscretions. “No, there are six classes in
total, Mister Rohngall,” he said, in a soft and steady voice.
“...What?”
Suddenly, a chill ran up the spine of the old mage, Rohngall.
This was the first time Faldeus had referred to him by his name.
He wanted to yell at Faldeus; to ask him what was going through his
head—but Faldeus’s icy glare stopped him. Rohngall remained silent.
Faldeus’s emotionless visage twitched. “In the Holy Grail War
waged in Japan, there certainly were seven classes,” he said, coolly
pointing out his teacher’s mistake. “But in this city, there are only six.
The Saber class—the strongest and most suited for battle—does not
exist in this false Holy Grail War.”
“What... are you talking about?”
Something crunched in his backbone.
1結界作成能力
8
 
His Magic Circuits, his nerves, and his blood vessels all conveyed
a warning signal, causing an alarm bell to ring in his ears.
His apprentice—or at least, the man who must have been his apprentice
until a few minutes ago—took a step towards him. “The system
created by the Makiri, Einzberns, and Tohsaka was truly amazing,”
he said, in a voice bereft of emotion. “That’s why we couldn’t copy it
perfectly. We would’ve liked to begin the war with an exact copy... but
we used the Third Holy Grail War as our template, and that was a real
mess of its own, you see. It really is a shame.”
Faldeus clearly looked as though he couldn’t be past his midtwenties,
and yet he was narrating events from over 70 years ago as
if he had seen them himself.
Just when it seemed that his expression was going to turn sinister,
the corners of his lips contorted, as if pulled at by invisible strings. Still
as cool as ever, he spoke from the bottom of his heart.
“You referred to my nation as ‘young’1. But that is all the more
reason for you to remember, elder.”
“...What?”
“That you ought not to make light of a young nation.”
crunch crunch crik crak creak crack crik crunch
Every last one of Rohngall’s bones and muscles creaked. Perhaps
it was because he was tightening his guard, or perhaps he was just outraged.
“You wretch... who... are you?”
“I’m Faldeus, of course, old chum. Of course, the only thing you
really know about me is my name. Anyway, I really have learned quite
a bit about the Association up ’till now. I suppose I ought to thank you
for that.”
“......”
1[sic] - the word Faldeus uses here in the original (若い) is not one that Rohngall
uses in his earlier criticism of the U.S., either.
9
 
Based on his extensive experience as a mage, Rohngall knew right
away that the man standing before him was no longer his apprentice;
rather, he was an enemy.
Rohngall readied himself to kill Faldeus the instant that long-time
acquaintance of his made a move. And yet, alarm bells continued to
ring through his head.
He must have known precisely how capable a mage Faldeus was.
There were no signs that Faldeus had been concealing his strength.
As an experienced spy for the Association, he could be sure of that.
At the same time, though, his experience as a spy made it clear to
him that he was in a dangerous situation.
“You must be a plant, then, from another organization, sent to infiltrate
the Association. And you have been one ever since you told me
you sought to become a mage.”
“Another organization, eh?” With a gluey, syrupy voice, Faldeus
corrected Rohngall. “The Association seems to be under the impression
that a group of non-Association heterodox mages is responsible
for the creation of this Holy Grail War, but.... I mean, honestly, how
could... well, never mind.”
As if to indicate that there was nothing more to be said, Faldeus
took a step forward.
He wasn’t particularly menacing, nor did he present himself as an
enemy, but it was nonetheless clear that he was plotting something.
Rohngall clenched his teeth and smoothly lowered his center of gravity,
preparing himself to respond to whatever Faldeus might do.
“Do not underestimate me, child.”
As he spoke, he readied a plan to make the first move in this duel
of magi—but he had already lost.
By the time they had begun trying to outwit one another as magi,
Rohngall had already been defeated by the man standing before him—
“I’m not underestimating you, sir.”
—for Faldeus had not planned to fight him as a mage in the first
place.
“I’ll hit you with everything I’ve got.”
10
 
Faldeus ignited the lighter that he was holding in one hand. A cigar
suddenly appeared in his other hand, which was empty until then.
It looked like apportation, but there were no signs that he had used
any magical energy.
Seeing that Rohngall was puzzled by his actions, he grinned. It was
a grin from the very core of his being, a smile of a sort that Rohngall
had never seen. He went on, saying, “Haha, that was just an illusion—a
trick. Not magic.”
“......?”
“Ah, well, you see, we aren’t really an organization of magi, specifically.
I hope you aren’t too disappointed,” said Faldeus, without even
the slightest bit of tension in his voice. He lit his cigar. “We answer
to the United States of America. It just so happens that we have a few
magi among our number; that’s all.”
Rohngall was silent for a few moments, and then he replied. “—I
see. Now, pray tell, what does that cigar have to do with ‘everything
you’ve got’?”
Rohngall was trying to buy time to ready his magic. But the instant
he spoke those words—
Something burst through the side of the his head. Everything was
decided in an instant.
It was a wet- and blubbery-sounding explosion.
The bullet decelerated as it pierced his cranium. Lead scattered
everywhere, swimming in a sea of brain-fluid as it burned his mind
away.
Instead of exiting through the other side of his skull, the bullet ricocheted
around his brainpan, putting an instantaneous and permanent
end to the old man.
And then—even though he was quite apparently dead, dozens
more bullets pierced his body, as if to deliver a final blow.
The bullets were not all fired from one place. There must have been
more than a dozen marksmen situated at various locations.
11
 
That was clearly overkill. What an inexorable way to destroy.
His aged limbs bent and crumpled powerlessly, like a marionette
forced to dance to rap music.
“Thanks for the dance. That was pretty funny.”
Rohngall’s body sent up a red spray as it slumped to the ground,
squelching. Faldeus looked at the fresh corpse and clapped slowly.
“You look thirty years younger now, Mister Rohngall.”
A few minutes later—
Faldeus stood still before the body of his teacher, collapsed in a
pool of its own blood.
But the forest around him had changed. There was a strange atmosphere
around him.
Dozens of men clad in camouflage gear moved out of the forest
from behind Faldeus.
Each one of them wore a black balaclava and held a silencerequipped
assault rifle, each engraved with a different design—rustic,
yet detailed.
Their races were scarcely discernible, never mind their emotional
affects. One of them straightened up and walked up to Faldeus, delivering
a salute as he spoke. “Reporting in, sir. Situation is normal.
We’ve found nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Good work, buddy,” replied Faldeus. Whereas his underling
spoke quite formally, Faldeus’s voice was warm.
He ambled over to the corpse of the old mage, looking down at it
with a weak grin on his face.
Still facing away from his subordinates, he said, “Well, then... seeing
as how many of you are probably unfamiliar with these so-called
‘magi’, let me give you the rundown.”
The uniformed men had already fallen into formation behind him.
In silence, they listened to Faldeus speak.
“A mage is not a sorceror. Don’t clutter your imaginations with
fairy-tale creatures and legendary beasts. Think of... ah, that’s it—
12
 
think more along the lines of a Japanese anime or a Hollywood flick.
That’s all there is to them.”
He squatted down before the body of what was once his teacher,
grabbed a piece of it, and lifted it into the air with his bare hands.
It was a bizarre sight, but nobody so much as raised an eyebrow.
“They die when they’re killed,1 and physical attacks are reasonably
effective against them. Now, there are some who cover themselves with
a veil of mercury, strong enough to deflect thousands of bullets. There
are others who can transfer their consciousness and extend their lives
with the aid of insects embedded in their bodies. But... well, the former
type has no defense against an anti-tank rifle, while the latter type
almost certainly couldn’t survive a precision missile strike.”
They may well have figured that Faldeus was joking. The camouflaged
men struggled to suppress their sniggering.
But—the moment they heard the next thing Faldeus had to say,
they all fell silent.
“There are exceptions, though.... For example, this fellow, who
wasn’t even here in the first place.”
“...could I ask you to elaborate on that, Mr. Faldeus?” inquired one
of the gunmen, ever-so-formally. Faldeus cackled and tossed a piece
of the corpse’s flesh at him.
He caught it staidly. He looked at the piece of meat, likely part of a
finger, and gasped with surprise. “...wha—?”
Under the illumination of his flashlight, it was clear that white bone
protruded from the red sinews of the flesh.
But there was something wrong. Something unlike the flesh of a
true human.
Transparent threads, not entirely unlike fiber optic cables, extended
out of the flesh and wormily wiggled about in a most disturbing
fashion.
1...and that’s how it should be.
13
Fate/strange fake Prologue
“A cyborg, so to speak? Well, we call it a puppet. Mister Rohngall is
a terribly cautious investigator, you see. He’s not so foolish as to come
all the way out here with his real body. At the moment, he’s probably
situated either in one of the branch chapters of the Association, or in
his own atelier. I’ll bet he’s all in a tizzy now!”
“A puppet...? That’s preposterous!”
“It is something of a spectacular technique, but do notice that he
wasn’t able to make it seem perfectly human. The form of an old man
works well for concealing those imperfections, I suppose. I hear there’s
a puppetress whose dolls are utterly indistinguishable from the bodies
they’re modeled on... they’d even pass a DNA test.” Faldeus talked and
talked, sounding disinterested, as if he were an uninvolved third party.
The soldier frowned. “In that case, would he not have heard everything
you said earlier?” he asked of Faldeus, his commanding officer.
“He would have. Just as planned.”
“Er...?”
“I went to the trouble of gloating like a fool prior to killing him
precisely in order to ensure that the Association would come to know
of everything that I said.” Faldeus stood atop the fake body, lying in a
pool of fake blood, and gazed up into the dark sky as it began to drizzle.
Contentedly, he murmured, “Consider this a declaration... our
warning to the magi.”
And that marked the beginning—
The beginning of the banquet of men and Heroic Spirits; the beginning
of the false Holy Grail War.