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
down and saw the key, placed on a pedestal by his feet. He picked it
up—and then tossed it away, disinterestedly.
“This key is a trifle. There lives not a single man in the entirety of
my garden who would dare lay a hand upon my treasures. Though I
did order that this key be created, I did not need it, and so I did away
with it.”
“...ʔ!”
The mage had been speaking an incantation to numb the pain in
his right wrist. When he heard the Heroic Spirit’s statement, he was
shocked.
One of his ancestors had staked everything on the hopes of attaining
the key to that treasury.
That artifact, his family’s one and only pride, had been tossed away
like a piece of filth. And that too, by his Servant, a being who should
have been his slave; his tool.
Overcome with rage, the pain in his right arm grew dull, even as
he stopped chanting the incantation.
However—as if to deliver a fatal wound to the mage, the brownskinned
girl turned to look at him, and spoke at him in an intimidating
voice. “If His Majesty wishes that it be so, I shall do no further battle
with you. I ask that you depart now.” Her voice dripped with pathos.
“Wha...”
“If you do so, I will not have to slay you.”
“ .” The mage lost control of himself.
The fury that had welled up within him took control of his Magic
Circuits. He did not even have the capacity to speak. Hysterically, he
released all the magical energy stored in his left hand.
He put all of his magic, his madness, his might into a sphere of
black light, and flung it at the girl with all his strength. It soared towards
her, tearing through space, ready to consume her whole—it
blitzed; it surged; it raced.
The girl should have been destroyed by his burst of magical energy
before she could take another breath.
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But that didn’t happen.
“( )”
A silent chant.
As her lips moved, magic began to take form around her.
Almost immediately, immense magical energy erupted between
her and the mage.
It was like a spell that had been compressed so far that it became
soundless—a chant of overwhelming power.
And at the very end—the mage saw it.
An enormous firey maw, perhaps twice as tall as him, appeared in
front of her and drank down the magical energy he had released, and
then—
That cannot be.
That was the last thing he ever thought.
In the end, what was it that could not be? He did not even have
time to contemplate that.
Th-that can’t... ca-cannot... that... c-can’t be.
As a mage, he would have liked to think that even if he were to die,
his lineage would live on... but then, he recalled that it was a mere few
days prior that he had slain his would-be successor with his own hands.
It can’t be! It cannot! I... I will... die? Here? That c-cannot....
That cannot cannot cann
.
And then, the mage vanished.
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 was swallowed up by
those flames. He met his end, just like that
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“I beg Your forgiveness for having subjected You to such an unseemly
sight, Your Majesty.”
She had just killed a man, but she was not flustered. She bowed her
head before the Heroic Spirit.
The golden Servant looked upon her so as to say that it did not
matter to him. Then, in reference to the magic the girl had used, he
said, “I see. So your people have ruled this land in my absence.”
The magic she had just used did not originate within her self.
Rather, it was likely that she had exploited the ley lines of the land.
In acknowledgement of that fact, emotion flitted across the girl’s
face for the first time. Her head still bowed low, she wistfully replied,
“We have not ruled it. Rather, we have lived in harmony with it. ...Just
as Your Majesty surmised, my people are but mere commoners once
outside Snowfield.”
“A mongrel shall never be anything but a mongrel. Those with
magic are no different than those without.”
His arrogance suggested that he believed all things save for himself
to be alike. The girl did not reply.
The Command Spells that had been on the mage’s right hand had
already migrated to her own right hand.
Magical energy now flowed into the Heroic Spirit’s being not from
the mage, but from the girl. As he observed this, he spoke as imposingly
as ever—somehow bored, but at the same time infinitely majestic.
“Very well. Once again, answer me. Are you the insolent mage
that dares make an entreaty to a king in all his radiance?”
The golden Heroic Spirit.
The greatest of all Heroes. The man said to be the king of all
kings—
The girl gave a firm nod, and bowed down before him once again.
“...I do not seek the Holy Grail,” said the girl quietly, as they made
their way out of the cave.
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She had identified herself to be Tiné Chelc. As the Master of the
golden Servant, she was now a participant in the Holy Grail War.
And yet, she had made the contradictory declaration that she did
not desire the Holy Grail. Elaborating on her true goals, she said, “We
wish to drive out the magi who selected this place as the site of their
Holy Grail War, who have run roughshod over this land. Such is the
extent of our desire, Your Majesty.”
She declared her desire to destroy the Holy Grail War without the
least hint of gravitas. The golden Heroic Spirit—the king summoned
into this age as a Servant of the Archer class—disinterestedly replied, “I
do not care for the Grail either. If it is the true Grail, I shall punish the
knaves who stole my treasure; and if it is a false Grail, I shall execute
the ingrates who performed this ritual.”
“Your gracious words reassure me, Your Majesty,” she thanked him.
Continuing on, she spoke of her people: “For a thousand years, my
tribe has lived in harmony with the land on which Snowfield was built.
We even protected it against the tyrants from the east who sought to
rule this place. But then, a sect in their government joined forces with
those wretched magi... and in a mere seventy years, they overran this
land.” Her voice was thick with a mixture of rage and sadness.
But the Heroic Spirit did not seem to care. “What rot. It matters not
which mongrel reigns supreme over this mongrel land, for it is a part
of my garden, and shall in the end return to me. Ordinarily, I would
not deign to interpose in a squabble among mongrels... but if they dare
lay their hands on my treasures, that would be a different matter.”
As always, he thought only about himself. And what did the girl
make of that?
She did not find it terribly unpleasant, nor was it particularly surprising.
He conducted himself as a king at all times, and so none could
question his kingship.
His indomitability inspired a twinge of something like envy in her.
She composed herself and stepped out of the cave.
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Outside the cave, perhaps a hundred people in black garments
stood at attention, awaiting her return.
The majority of them were brown-skinned, just like her, but there
were also a few white- and black-skinned people among them.
They had driven a fleet of vehicles to the lip of the valley and encircled
the entrance to the cave. Clearly, they were not there to do an
honest day’s work.
They laid eyes upon the girl and the imposing man beside her
and—
In unison, they reverently knelt before the girl and the Heroic
Spirit.
“Who are these knaves?”
Tiné, too, knelt before him before replying. “...They are but the
members of the society that seeks to revive our tribe and defeat the
magi that have descended upon the city, Your Majesty. I have succeeded
my father as the society’s representative. And so, I must fight
in this war.”
“Oh?”
Many people knelt before him in veneration. Perhaps it reminded
him of how things had been when he was alive. His eyes faintly narrowed
as he ever-so-slightly acknowledged her.
“Mongrels though you may be, you seem to understand who is
worthy of your worship.”
“We would not dare to meet Your Majesty’s splendor with anything
but the deepest gratitude.”
“So, you wish to make use of my might for your ends. It seems that
you have prepared adequately for the forthcoming battle.”
“......”
She knew she was supposed to be honored by that comment, and
yet she was uneasy.
The king was very clearly bored, and took no pains to hide it.
And right away, as if to confirm her suspicions, the Heroic Spirit
spoke: “But this grail is, after all, a false one. The other rabble who
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have been drawn here are mere trifles. Deliver judgment unto them as
I may, I shall find no respite from this tedium in doing so.”
By the time he had finished speaking, he had brought forth a small
bottle.
Everyone who was there to witness it would fondly reminisce about
it later. And what was it? It was “a distortion of space, from which
emerged a single carafe that fell right into the Heroic Spirit’s hand.”
It was a beautifully-ornamented vessel made of who-knows-what.
Perhaps china or perhaps crystal—either way, it was lustrous and
translucent. Some sort of liquid washed about within it.
“If this war will be a mere trifle to me, it is only fitting that I treat
it accordingly: as a childish game. There will be no need for me to
use the full force of my abilities. Until an enemy worthy of my power
comes forth, I shall spend my time in leisure.”
As he trailed off, he unsealed the vessel and was about to down it
at a single go, when—
Right then.
With timing so perfect that it must have been brought about by the
machinations of fate, rather than chance—
The earth cried out.
【. . . . . . . . . . 】
““!?””
Tiné and her followers all turned to look at the sky.
They had heard a mighty roar off in the distance—one with the
power to shake both heaven and earth.
But it was too beautiful to be called a “roar”. It was as though a giant
angel or its ilk, or perhaps even the Earth itself, was singing a lullaby.
They could tell that the sound had came from far, far away—from
the forests that lay to the west of Snowfield.
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That tremendous rumbling noise, which laid waste to the very laws
of physics, was, for some reason, something Tiné had faith in.
It was like the first cry of a newborn, and at the same time—
It was almost certainly the voice of a stupendously powerful Servant.
Archer, too, stood motionless upon hearing that voice.
The bottle he had conjured was at his lips. He had been about
to drink, when he stopped—and it was then that the golden king displayed
a powerful emotion for the first time.
Even those who had known Archer for some time would say that
it was rare to see him so emotional. That king among all kings was
quick to anger, and by no means level-headed—but to think that even
he could be brought to this state.
“That voice... could it be?”
His eyes lit up with surprise, consternation, bewilderment—and
then, exhilaration.
“...Is it you?”
Tiné noticed that the the Heroic Spirit’s powerful aura wavered for
a mere instant as he whispered those words.
But, without a moment’s hesitation, Archer exuded arrogance once
again, overbearing as always. He burst into a fit of earnest laughter.
The sound of his jubilant voice penetrated the vast sky, higher and ever
higher.
And then, after he had had his fill of laughter—
“Ha! What fortune! What am I to call a happenstance of this sort
if not proof of my kingship?!”
He swelled with delight and vigor, as though he had not been bored
just a few moments earlier.
“Rejoice, mongrel girl! It seems that I shall have occasion to use
the full force of my abilities in this war!”
The king of heroes was uncharacteristically talkative, perhaps because
he was awash in joy.
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“What a pleasure it would be to end it all in a duel on yonder
plaza.... But then again, if he has been summoned as a mad warrior, or
if.... No; I shall not speak of it. This is not a matter that the mongrels
ought hear of.”
He was in a pleasant mood, unable to stifle his laughter, as kingly
as ever. As he stared in the direction from which the roar came, he
spoke to Tiné, who still knelt beside him.
“Look upon me, Tiné.”
Shocked that the Heroic Spirit would refer to her by name, Tiné
raised her head to look up at him.
The king tossed her the bottle he had been holding.
“It is an elixir of youth. I imagine you have no need for it at your
age, but now that it has come to this, I do not need it, either. Be grateful.”
“Y-yes...? Yes, Your Majesty!” Her eyes were wide with surprise.
Archer glanced at her for a moment before going on. “If you wish
to become my subject, I shall command you thus,” he said, majestically.
Though he paid little attention to her, Archer was in high spirits as he
delivered his kingly order. “You are but a mere child. Act as one. Until
you learn the ways of the world, it will suffice for you to gaze upon my
kingly might with jubilance.” Though there was a touch of sarcasm in
his words, they were nonetheless powerful.
She had discarded all her emotions for the sake of her tribe, and
yet, when faced with his words, she faltered.
Indeed, because she had discarded her emotions, she could do
nothing but display her utmost respect to him. She was unable to
jubilate, and so hung her head.
“I shall attempt to do so, Your Majesty,” she said, apologetically.
And so—with that, one Servant and his Master had stepped onto
the battlefield.
Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes, along with the girl whose land had
been stolen.
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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.
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.
17
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.
18
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
19
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.
20
“...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—
21
“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.”
22
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.
23
The golden Heroic Spirit nodded at the girl’s response. He looked
down and saw the key, placed on a pedestal by his feet. He picked it
up—and then tossed it away, disinterestedly.
“This key is a trifle. There lives not a single man in the entirety of
my garden who would dare lay a hand upon my treasures. Though I
did order that this key be created, I did not need it, and so I did away
with it.”
“...ʔ!”
The mage had been speaking an incantation to numb the pain in
his right wrist. When he heard the Heroic Spirit’s statement, he was
shocked.
One of his ancestors had staked everything on the hopes of attaining
the key to that treasury.
That artifact, his family’s one and only pride, had been tossed away
like a piece of filth. And that too, by his Servant, a being who should
have been his slave; his tool.
Overcome with rage, the pain in his right arm grew dull, even as
he stopped chanting the incantation.
However—as if to deliver a fatal wound to the mage, the brownskinned
girl turned to look at him, and spoke at him in an intimidating
voice. “If His Majesty wishes that it be so, I shall do no further battle
with you. I ask that you depart now.” Her voice dripped with pathos.
“Wha...”
“If you do so, I will not have to slay you.”
“ .” The mage lost control of himself.
The fury that had welled up within him took control of his Magic
Circuits. He did not even have the capacity to speak. Hysterically, he
released all the magical energy stored in his left hand.
He put all of his magic, his madness, his might into a sphere of
black light, and flung it at the girl with all his strength. It soared towards
her, tearing through space, ready to consume her whole—it
blitzed; it surged; it raced.
The girl should have been destroyed by his burst of magical energy
before she could take another breath.
24
But that didn’t happen.
“( )”
A silent chant.
As her lips moved, magic began to take form around her.
Almost immediately, immense magical energy erupted between
her and the mage.
It was like a spell that had been compressed so far that it became
soundless—a chant of overwhelming power.
And at the very end—the mage saw it.
An enormous firey maw, perhaps twice as tall as him, appeared in
front of her and drank down the magical energy he had released, and
then—
That cannot be.
That was the last thing he ever thought.
In the end, what was it that could not be? He did not even have
time to contemplate that.
Th-that can’t... ca-cannot... that... c-can’t be.
As a mage, he would have liked to think that even if he were to die,
his lineage would live on... but then, he recalled that it was a mere few
days prior that he had slain his would-be successor with his own hands.
It can’t be! It cannot! I... I will... die? Here? That c-cannot....
That cannot cannot cann
.
And then, the mage vanished.
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 was swallowed up by
those flames. He met his end, just like that
25
“I beg Your forgiveness for having subjected You to such an unseemly
sight, Your Majesty.”
She had just killed a man, but she was not flustered. She bowed her
head before the Heroic Spirit.
The golden Servant looked upon her so as to say that it did not
matter to him. Then, in reference to the magic the girl had used, he
said, “I see. So your people have ruled this land in my absence.”
The magic she had just used did not originate within her self.
Rather, it was likely that she had exploited the ley lines of the land.
In acknowledgement of that fact, emotion flitted across the girl’s
face for the first time. Her head still bowed low, she wistfully replied,
“We have not ruled it. Rather, we have lived in harmony with it. ...Just
as Your Majesty surmised, my people are but mere commoners once
outside Snowfield.”
“A mongrel shall never be anything but a mongrel. Those with
magic are no different than those without.”
His arrogance suggested that he believed all things save for himself
to be alike. The girl did not reply.
The Command Spells that had been on the mage’s right hand had
already migrated to her own right hand.
Magical energy now flowed into the Heroic Spirit’s being not from
the mage, but from the girl. As he observed this, he spoke as imposingly
as ever—somehow bored, but at the same time infinitely majestic.
“Very well. Once again, answer me. Are you the insolent mage
that dares make an entreaty to a king in all his radiance?”
The golden Heroic Spirit.
The greatest of all Heroes. The man said to be the king of all
kings—
The girl gave a firm nod, and bowed down before him once again.
“...I do not seek the Holy Grail,” said the girl quietly, as they made
their way out of the cave.
26
She had identified herself to be Tiné Chelc. As the Master of the
golden Servant, she was now a participant in the Holy Grail War.
And yet, she had made the contradictory declaration that she did
not desire the Holy Grail. Elaborating on her true goals, she said, “We
wish to drive out the magi who selected this place as the site of their
Holy Grail War, who have run roughshod over this land. Such is the
extent of our desire, Your Majesty.”
She declared her desire to destroy the Holy Grail War without the
least hint of gravitas. The golden Heroic Spirit—the king summoned
into this age as a Servant of the Archer class—disinterestedly replied, “I
do not care for the Grail either. If it is the true Grail, I shall punish the
knaves who stole my treasure; and if it is a false Grail, I shall execute
the ingrates who performed this ritual.”
“Your gracious words reassure me, Your Majesty,” she thanked him.
Continuing on, she spoke of her people: “For a thousand years, my
tribe has lived in harmony with the land on which Snowfield was built.
We even protected it against the tyrants from the east who sought to
rule this place. But then, a sect in their government joined forces with
those wretched magi... and in a mere seventy years, they overran this
land.” Her voice was thick with a mixture of rage and sadness.
But the Heroic Spirit did not seem to care. “What rot. It matters not
which mongrel reigns supreme over this mongrel land, for it is a part
of my garden, and shall in the end return to me. Ordinarily, I would
not deign to interpose in a squabble among mongrels... but if they dare
lay their hands on my treasures, that would be a different matter.”
As always, he thought only about himself. And what did the girl
make of that?
She did not find it terribly unpleasant, nor was it particularly surprising.
He conducted himself as a king at all times, and so none could
question his kingship.
His indomitability inspired a twinge of something like envy in her.
She composed herself and stepped out of the cave.
27
Outside the cave, perhaps a hundred people in black garments
stood at attention, awaiting her return.
The majority of them were brown-skinned, just like her, but there
were also a few white- and black-skinned people among them.
They had driven a fleet of vehicles to the lip of the valley and encircled
the entrance to the cave. Clearly, they were not there to do an
honest day’s work.
They laid eyes upon the girl and the imposing man beside her
and—
In unison, they reverently knelt before the girl and the Heroic
Spirit.
“Who are these knaves?”
Tiné, too, knelt before him before replying. “...They are but the
members of the society that seeks to revive our tribe and defeat the
magi that have descended upon the city, Your Majesty. I have succeeded
my father as the society’s representative. And so, I must fight
in this war.”
“Oh?”
Many people knelt before him in veneration. Perhaps it reminded
him of how things had been when he was alive. His eyes faintly narrowed
as he ever-so-slightly acknowledged her.
“Mongrels though you may be, you seem to understand who is
worthy of your worship.”
“We would not dare to meet Your Majesty’s splendor with anything
but the deepest gratitude.”
“So, you wish to make use of my might for your ends. It seems that
you have prepared adequately for the forthcoming battle.”
“......”
She knew she was supposed to be honored by that comment, and
yet she was uneasy.
The king was very clearly bored, and took no pains to hide it.
And right away, as if to confirm her suspicions, the Heroic Spirit
spoke: “But this grail is, after all, a false one. The other rabble who
28
have been drawn here are mere trifles. Deliver judgment unto them as
I may, I shall find no respite from this tedium in doing so.”
By the time he had finished speaking, he had brought forth a small
bottle.
Everyone who was there to witness it would fondly reminisce about
it later. And what was it? It was “a distortion of space, from which
emerged a single carafe that fell right into the Heroic Spirit’s hand.”
It was a beautifully-ornamented vessel made of who-knows-what.
Perhaps china or perhaps crystal—either way, it was lustrous and
translucent. Some sort of liquid washed about within it.
“If this war will be a mere trifle to me, it is only fitting that I treat
it accordingly: as a childish game. There will be no need for me to
use the full force of my abilities. Until an enemy worthy of my power
comes forth, I shall spend my time in leisure.”
As he trailed off, he unsealed the vessel and was about to down it
at a single go, when—
Right then.
With timing so perfect that it must have been brought about by the
machinations of fate, rather than chance—
The earth cried out.
【. . . . . . . . . . 】
““!?””
Tiné and her followers all turned to look at the sky.
They had heard a mighty roar off in the distance—one with the
power to shake both heaven and earth.
But it was too beautiful to be called a “roar”. It was as though a giant
angel or its ilk, or perhaps even the Earth itself, was singing a lullaby.
They could tell that the sound had came from far, far away—from
the forests that lay to the west of Snowfield.
29
That tremendous rumbling noise, which laid waste to the very laws
of physics, was, for some reason, something Tiné had faith in.
It was like the first cry of a newborn, and at the same time—
It was almost certainly the voice of a stupendously powerful Servant.
Archer, too, stood motionless upon hearing that voice.
The bottle he had conjured was at his lips. He had been about
to drink, when he stopped—and it was then that the golden king displayed
a powerful emotion for the first time.
Even those who had known Archer for some time would say that
it was rare to see him so emotional. That king among all kings was
quick to anger, and by no means level-headed—but to think that even
he could be brought to this state.
“That voice... could it be?”
His eyes lit up with surprise, consternation, bewilderment—and
then, exhilaration.
“...Is it you?”
Tiné noticed that the the Heroic Spirit’s powerful aura wavered for
a mere instant as he whispered those words.
But, without a moment’s hesitation, Archer exuded arrogance once
again, overbearing as always. He burst into a fit of earnest laughter.
The sound of his jubilant voice penetrated the vast sky, higher and ever
higher.
And then, after he had had his fill of laughter—
“Ha! What fortune! What am I to call a happenstance of this sort
if not proof of my kingship?!”
He swelled with delight and vigor, as though he had not been bored
just a few moments earlier.
“Rejoice, mongrel girl! It seems that I shall have occasion to use
the full force of my abilities in this war!”
The king of heroes was uncharacteristically talkative, perhaps because
he was awash in joy.
30
“What a pleasure it would be to end it all in a duel on yonder
plaza.... But then again, if he has been summoned as a mad warrior, or
if.... No; I shall not speak of it. This is not a matter that the mongrels
ought hear of.”
He was in a pleasant mood, unable to stifle his laughter, as kingly
as ever. As he stared in the direction from which the roar came, he
spoke to Tiné, who still knelt beside him.
“Look upon me, Tiné.”
Shocked that the Heroic Spirit would refer to her by name, Tiné
raised her head to look up at him.
The king tossed her the bottle he had been holding.
“It is an elixir of youth. I imagine you have no need for it at your
age, but now that it has come to this, I do not need it, either. Be grateful.”
“Y-yes...? Yes, Your Majesty!” Her eyes were wide with surprise.
Archer glanced at her for a moment before going on. “If you wish
to become my subject, I shall command you thus,” he said, majestically.
Though he paid little attention to her, Archer was in high spirits as he
delivered his kingly order. “You are but a mere child. Act as one. Until
you learn the ways of the world, it will suffice for you to gaze upon my
kingly might with jubilance.” Though there was a touch of sarcasm in
his words, they were nonetheless powerful.
She had discarded all her emotions for the sake of her tribe, and
yet, when faced with his words, she faltered.
Indeed, because she had discarded her emotions, she could do
nothing but display her utmost respect to him. She was unable to
jubilate, and so hung her head.
“I shall attempt to do so, Your Majesty,” she said, apologetically.
And so—with that, one Servant and his Master had stepped onto
the battlefield.
Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes, along with the girl whose land had
been stolen.
31
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.
