17/ Fated Night
My eyes finish adjusting to the darkness. The old man said good night vision is one of the most important skills in an Executor’s arsenal since most battles in the magecraft world are fought at night in rural areas far away from civilization. Like magi, those of us who have circuits can reinforce our eyes but that would give you away faster than just using your phone as a flashlight.
Time to make your way up to the old farmhouse, Chris.
The Ferrini Ranch Open Space. This parcel of land was donated to the county in the mid-nineties to extend Cardinal Peak’s nature reserve. The old Ferrini farmhouse became somewhat of a tourist attraction, but more than anything it’s a status symbol for the privileged of Tolosa who live in Ferrini Heights. Many of their sons and daughters attend my school.
The farmhouse is built on a leyline adjacent to the fallen leyline at Cardinal Peak. The point they connect is to the east of the farmhouse grounds and must serve as the main axis for any bounded field that can stretch the entire estate. At the same time, containing that point means creating a plug, stagnating the leyline, dismantling any field created to protect it. Therefore, that point can’t be protected with magecraft.
I know because I met with Lord Byron’s representatives, then helped them survey the area to acquire a temporary co-ownership and file the paperwork necessary to restore and renovate the farmhouse, including an easement to allow for public use when he wasn’t using the estate.
That was a hard sell. The Mission argued that public access was in his best interest as a magus. A continuous flow of tourists, especially families coming to the open space for a tour of the house before a picnic offers mental constituents that can be captured and then absorbed through the leyline to strengthen the land — much like how the Tower of London functions, just happier.
I approach the main axis, slip through the bounded field, cross the plain, and start climbing up the mansion.
Lord Byron’s Iselma is a branch family of the Lord of the Value
Department of Creation
Jigmarie
Department of Curses
Lord Byron offset those inner defenses by bolstering the ones surrounding the estate. There’s no way a Servant who didn’t attend this meeting could get into position to use an Anti-Fortress Noble Phantasm to mow down the entire estate without being detected.
I swing onto a second-floor balcony and reinforce my hearing. Any traces of rudimentary magecraft should be hidden due to the Servants inside. I can’t hear the entire conversation, but I can make out snatches of Father Phahn explaining the history of the Tolosa Holy Grail to these Masters — why is that necessary?
“. . . Just before the start of the war, the bishop who brought the Tolosa Holy Grail to light passed away. . .”
Why is he telling them about Dilo’s death?
“. . . The team that he had left at the Tolosa Mission to oversee this Grail War, whether it be out of ambition, loss, or spite. . . obtained Command Spells and summoned a Servant. . .”
I — what? No. What? I —
Someone from the Mission summoning a Servant is ridiculous. What is he going on about? It’s our job to protect this city against the Holy Grail War. No team member would actively go against that objective. Everyone in our little team has been vetted by Father Kelsey and sometimes even Cherry. I can’t think of a person who would —
“. . . I was given the honor and burden of these Command Spells by the Grail. . .”
Something breaks.
The overseer of the Holy Grail War that replaced me is a Master himself. More than that, he just announced his status in front of almost every single Master fighting the war. Sorry, I’m not sure I can process this right now. Not because what he said was too outlandish or that it was a betrayal of everything the Church stands for, but because I stepped back in shock onto a toy. A kid probably forgot about it when their family was visiting. That shouldn’t be an issue because I’m on the balcony and everyone inside is occupied with listening to a pontificating priest.
But. . . what if it turned out that I’m not the only one outside the mansion? What if the moment my foot ground the toy into the stone balcony something moved a few balconies away — a few balconies too far to sense my presence but close enough one couldn’t dismiss what just happened as an innocuous sound. No, if the person on the other balcony is a magus then there’s no possibility they would dismiss something like that. The darkened figure turns towards me and I’m able to get a good glimpse of her face.
Teach me, Sunao-sensei Chapter Four: Heyo, you Executor-in-training bugs who aren’t even fit for the Asura’s Pit yet. It’s everyone’s favorite holy idol, Sunao. Yosh, let’s get this straight right here, right now. Faces. . . are hecka important if you wanna be a good Executor. Heretics come in all sizes and shapes, so you got to remember all of them as well as the ones they might change into. After today’s exercises, you’re going to be able to instantly recall the face of any cute girl you might come across. If you take longer than that bam, too late she’s already gone, you’re alone forever — got it?
It doesn’t matter if the only light is from the inside the mansion, there should be more than enough to apply Sunao-sensei’s four rules like you had to do for everyone at school for the suggested extra credit. First, her fair hair frames a high forehead with the beginning of a few wrinkles — mid to late thirties. Second, from the shape of her face and sharp features, she seems as WASPy as everyone else in this town. Next is from her demeanor. . . that doesn’t matter if she just started burning magical energy through her eyes. Okay, come on, the absence of an emotional reaction is always a sign of combat experience. Does that really matter when she’s reaching for a revolver?
I can hear the audio that plays when you get a failing grade on the online Sunao-sensei course. But I have enough information — a freelancer who uses a gun.
You’ve trained for this Chris, so come on already. Doesn’t Cherry always tell you magecraft is about finding the core and then swapping it as quickly as possible?
So, what’s important? What’s important right this instant?
If either of us were to let our circuits catch alight, the Servants or Masters inside the mansion would immediately sense us. That’s something both of us want to avoid. I’m not sure about her magical capabilities, but neither of us is going to be able to use our circuits to functionally stop our subjective time to perform any complex calculations. I can see it in her reinforced eyes that she knows this as well. These few seconds before we commit to actions will be the only thinking time we’re allowed. The second important thing is the sound of gunfire will draw attention to both of us, meaning, she can’t attack me right now. Her best option is to predict my attack and immediately counter or escape. So, I’ll —
The beginnings of a thin black blade materializes from the cross-shaped hilt I draw from my robe. In the next moment, I’ll use the ledge of this balcony to propel myself across the gap and use the momentum to subdue my opponent. The magical energy required to materialize a single Black Key is only slightly more than what it takes to reinforce one’s hearing. I hope Lord Byron’s Caster doesn’t have specialized magical energy detection abilities. Right, this is the best option available to me. There’s no going back. My body fully commits, springing into action but —
My opponent finishes turning around as a silencer materializes onto the barrel of the revolver. I. . . grit my teeth. Combat robes are made with kevlar and lined with protective sigils so they can easily defend against a rain of bullets from a submachine gun. Those are only for experienced Executors heading into a demonic battlefield to extinguish damned souls. As someone whose combat training consisted of mostly using an Ash Lock because he was less than proficient with Black Keys these robes are equipped with the minimum number of sigils. No matter, I’ll sacrifice the use of my off arm instead of taking a bullet to the face and subdue her before she’s able to fire again. But that tattoo on her shooting hand is a Command Spell. The moment the shot misses my forehead, she’ll call for her Servant. I can’t worry about that now; I’ve already committed to the attack. More than that, I’m no longer the overseer so there’s no issue with attacking a Master. As a member of the Church, there’s nothing wrong about killing a heretic.
She narrows her eyes. Go on, pull the trigger already. If you don’t. . . .
Her eyes widen as her grip on the weapon slackens.
“What?” But I can feel it as well. Behind me is a burst of magical energy making whatever was utilized to materialize my Black Key and her silencer paltry in comparison.
A silver slash.
Using all my strength, I twist my body in mid-air. Sparks fly as the saber clashes against my Black Key, lighting up my attacker’s face. Its painted features are partly scratched off — you can see the wood fibers splintering off, almost as if a certain someone had stepped on it.
Oh. . . I was wrong when I said there were no defenses other than the bounded field. There must be toys like this one scattered at key points, acting as sentries. Either my stepping on it or the magical energy from materializing my Black Key must have set it off.
The arm holding the Black Key trembles. The wooden doll is stronger than a regular human. It wouldn’t be too much of a problem if I could use both my hands, but my off arm was already in position to take that Master’s bullet. Neither would it be too much of a problem if both my feet were firmly planted on the ground because I could divert the attack and retreat.
My mid-air defense may have saved my back from a nasty gash, but I lose the exchange as well as all momentum. That is to say, I’m thrown away from the mansion towards the ground.
The moment I’m thrown away I hear a silenced gunshot. By attacking one of the sentries she triggered the alarm or perhaps the alarm was already triggered the moment the wooden doll’s magical formula was activated and she only fired to protect herself.
Large volumes of chaotically expelled magical energy break my fall. It’s an incredibly amateurish, inefficient technique but there wasn’t enough time to reinforce anything. It’s okay if I’ve only taken this much damage, I’ll just activate the curse of self-healing. Right now, I’ve got to start running because wooden soldiers have started to swarm the foot of the mansion.
Something filled with magical energy leaps off the second-floor balcony. That must be the other Master. Why hasn’t she used her Command Spell to summon her Servant yet? No matter how strong she is or how powerful of a Mystic Code that revolver might be she won’t last against a small platoon of mechanical dolls.
I’m no expert in any type of creation, but even I can feel that some of the dolls have been refurbished with pre-17th-century parts. Those I won’t be able to stand up against them with just Black Keys. Even with the Ash Lock, it’ll be a struggle against more than four. That’s the Iselma family for you.
We both start sprinting across the field down the hill towards the gap in the bounded field. After we slip through the gap, we can retreat into the shrubbery.
Automatons generally come in three categories: 1) those that are directly controlled by the magus; Lord Byron was inside the mansion, entertaining his guests when the automaton attacked me. 2) Those that have an internal energy source; automatons of this nature are costly. It would take more than a fortune to equip fodder with magecraft engines. 3) Those that are being supplied magical energy from an external source, like a leyline. The land, number, and actions mean the third type is the most likely. If they’re tied to the bounded field and siphoning the magical energy from the leyline, their efficiency should rapidly decrease the moment I get out of Lord Bryon’s territory.
Proper Executors are capable of maintaining a pace of about thirty miles per hour in bad terrain without the use of magecraft. Not only are we under bad terrain, the slope of the hill means any step could lead to me losing my balance — so almost a minute. Reinforcing myself would increase my speed, but I have a hunch these wooden soldiers are tracking magical energy.
I take a glimpse behind. . . that’s strange. That Master is running about three fourths my speed. She’s definitely reinforcing herself, but what a weak flow of magical energy. There’s a constant tug of war between Master and Servant for magical energy. Could it be that manifesting her Servant is taking up so much magical energy she barely has enough to reinforce herself? In that case, why doesn’t she call her Servant? I see, it’s because even at her speed she’s still faster than the wooden soldiers.
The wooden soldiers continue their steady march. The fact that they prioritize their balance over speed is a testament of their maker. These dolls work as a collective rather than individually, intimidating their opponents with sheer numbers. Outnumbered, the target’s only option is to flee.
In a cock-assured rush, the prey eventually loses their balance and are swept under the advancing line. If they do escape the line of wooden soldiers, they would be met with a bounded field supported by this land. Without knowing about the gap or without a Servant to brute force through the bounded field, one has almost no chance of escaping. It’s almost like instead of trying to keep people out, Lord Byron is trying to keep something from escaping.
Ceremonial trumpets and the thundering of wooden hooves shake that thought from my brain. The sea of advancing wooden soldiers parts, allowing lacquered horses to break into a mad gallop. Each horse is hitched to a carriage with a single driver. No, the carriage is part of the horse. To make matters worse, the carriages instantaneously magically modify themselves into war chariots carrying two more wooden soldiers armed with muskets. The line of wooden soldiers is the signaling beacon, and the cavalry are the shock troops. There’s no time to ask myself if this is really art and proceed to attempt to break down the mystery. Legs, don’t fail me now. You know this mountain better than anyone else.
“Damn!”
The ground in front of me explodes. A spray of hard mountainous soil that hasn’t tasted rain for almost a year cuts half of my view.
Don’t turn around, Chris. Keep running, you’ll make it. There’s no point in zigzagging. The dolls started firing musket balls, sure. But lead balls don’t make that kind of impact — no, they’re more like enchanted lead bubbles. The moment they pop, they spread their magical payload with the force of a grenade. These musket balls aren’t enough to kill heretics, but they’ll slow them down so they face a calvary stampede. It only looks like they’re firing haphazardly, but they’re just trying to scare you into making a mistake or goad you into fighting back. You’re no match for them. . . for now. That could change the moment you ignite the magical energy into your body. But I know, the moment you reinforce anything is when you die. These are dolls — they can’t see, but they can sense magical energy. That’s why you have to keep running, as is. You can’t die here.
But what about that Master? With our head start she might make it — fifty-fifty, no… forty-sixty. I don’t want to know if the forty is a success or failure, because can’t you change any probability of her surviving to zero with the Black Key in my hand?
Executors are professional heretic hunters. She’s a Master attempting to wage war in this town.
I don’t think there is anything wrong with killing her before she’s able to hurt anyone. Protecting the sanctity of the Grail War isn’t my business anymore, so eliminating as many heretics as possible has become something I should do.
You won’t throw that Black Key though because you realize it’s not that she won’t summon her Servant, she can’t. The fact that she’s out here means that her Servant is inside that mansion, mingling with everyone else. The moment she summons her Servant with her Command Spell is the moment they realize this Master didn’t attend their meeting because she was too busy breaking through the defenses. It isn’t too difficult to figure out what her aim was. That’s right, the reason I didn’t choose the balcony where she laid in wait was because there was a gap in the curtains where you could actually see the going-ons below and therefore anyone who looked up could see you as well. That was her perch. She was using her Servant as a distraction to create an opportunity to kill one or more Masters.
Geez, tonight has been a complete failure. Not only have I been unable to find any information about the Dead Apostle, but I’ve also unwittingly become entrenched in this Holy Grail War once again.
But it’s not your fault, is it? A little voice whispers in my ear. This is just the way that the world works. Interlopers like yourself earnestly search for meaning and end up destroying lives. No one’s truly at fault if both parties are sincere. Equally honest flames, we burn, aiming to merely shed light but before we know it the entire world is razed until we are both no more than effervescent cinders. How could one not disagree,
object,
reject?
Truthfully, Chris —
— All of us, no matter who we are, are merely foam idiotic, pathetic, weak human beings.
So. . . you. . . just. . . can’t, okay? That isn’t something Chris Frampton would do. His grudge should be against the Dead Apostles that killed his family. Even if the Church teaches that heresy must be expunged, he should be confused about his position because the woman who helped raise him is a magus herself.
Okay?
I dash through the gap in the bounded field and continue a few meters to the edge of the small forest between the Ferrini Open Space and Cardinal’s Peak Reserve. The Master manages to clamber through that gap a few seconds after me. I had expected to already be among the trees when she slipped through the gap. It’s not that she became faster. There’s a trail of smoke behind her that sends magical energy detection abilities, mine included, into disarray. She’s a freelancer who uses alchemy then.
Behind her, one of the carriages reaches the edge of the bounded field and abruptly stops as if all its strings had been cut.
She raises her revolver as she gets up, but I take the initiative and throw the Black Key in my hand, leaving myself without a weapon. Like an arrow, the black blade draws a slight arc, but the Master’s reactions are too quick. Or rather, she had already predicted that I was aiming for the hand holding the weapon.
Right, I made it too obvious that I was considering throwing my Black Keys at you when I freaked out on the hill there. I’m too easy to read because I don’t have much combat experience. I know that. That’s why the moment I threw the blade, I scrambled into the forest before you could fire and hid behind a thick tree trunk.
She slowly approaches me with her revolver drawn, ready to shoot the moment I make a move. In that case, it’s time to play my trump card.
“I’m not part of this Holy Grail War!” I shout from my hiding place. “I’m an Executor-in-training tasked with exterminating a Dead Apostle in this town. This has been a terrible misunderstanding!”
Silence for a moment and then, “If that’s true, why were you at a meeting for Masters?”
Someone told me that one of the Masters might be a Dead Apostle. Say it, say it, just answer her already.
“Well? Can you answer that?”
Oh. . . I. . . can’t say those words.
My heart bubbles. These aren’t bubbles you see at the bottom of the pot when boiling water. This is skimmed beer foam or ephemeral sea foam that continuously piles onto itself until the imaginary friction magically ignites to produce a sooty flame — the switch magi use to convert themselves into machines that produce magical energy. The heat that fills this vessel drives my senses beyond infinity, instantly sending my circuits into overheat.
“You —!” Her finger is on the trigger, but she’ll be a second too slow —
“” I vault from cover to intercept her.
With that single-action incantation my magical energy sears a magic formula in the broadest foundation in the world. The only mystery allowed for members of the Church is the Baptismal Sacrament, but within the foundation known as The Teachings of the Lord are spells that can be engraved into the hilt of a Key of Providence to create additional effects like burning, petrification, or desiccation. Since this is evidently magecraft, it’s looked down upon by the members of the Church and rarely used — except for this spell.
Like black lightning running through the night, the Black Key picks itself from the ground and once again aims for the hand holding the gun. Too late, she’ll be too late. The expression on her face tells the entire story. Even if she twists her entire body to dodge the surprise attack, she’ll lose her footing allowing me enough of an opening to subdue her. Her only other option is to. . . wait, really?
Her sharp eyes narrow even further. She’s going to take the attack.
She concentrates her magical energy into her hands and then increases its density — the classic counter spell for dealing with point-based magical attacks. The magical energy of both spells will clash and the effect evaporates. But, while the Black Key’s blade might be formed with magical energy, it’s still semi-solid. A technique like that isn’t going to —
I see. . . That’s insane.
She doesn’t care if the Black Key pierces her hand because all she needs is a single shot. Then this is just a replay of the events of the balcony. I’ll just sacrifice this left arm so —
It’s a split second that decides life and death, but a split second was too long for the being that just materialized.
It lands, sending rippling licks of magical energy throwing both the other Master and me off-balance before our skirmish can conclude. She raises her gun. I pull out another Black Key hilt from my robe, but the instant we look at the monster, the blood is drained from both our faces.
His pressure isn’t as overwhelming as Archer’s where it seems like you’re constantly trying to hold up the sky in his presence. This is human calamity incarnate — a divinity born from glorious despair, the blood of one’s opponents, and righteous conflict. Servant —
“— Lancer. . .” the Master next to me finishes my thought.
In the face of this spirit, basically on the level of an elemental, we can’t remember what our misunderstanding was. Instead —
Lancer flexes his almost golden muscles that ripple as he poses. He looks at me for a moment and then lowers his eyes so they meet the Master’s Command Spell.
My shaking legs are on the verge of collapsing. If I wasn’t regulating my body, my heart and bladder would have both exploded. Worst of all, my stomach starts eating itself over and over again. Run. I need to get away right now. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t a Dead Apostle. This is more like a hurricane that made landfall during a junior high sporting event.
Right, if I run away. . . if I run away, Lancer isn’t going to come after me. He just wants that Master. I’m no longer part of the Holy Grail War so there’s no reason to stay here any longer. There is nothing that I can do.
The image of a girl crying on a football field flashes through my mind. No, not that.
“You’re not a lot of things. But, I thought you were at least that type of person.”
What type of person is Chris Frampton? What reason does he have for holding his old man’s Black Keys? What did that boy who died want to become? Didn’t you say. . . didn’t you vow to at least be true to that boy you owed everything to?
Words I mumbled to a priest who sat by my bedside a lifetime ago bubble back to mind. That priest might no longer be here, but those words and the feelings that should have been contained in those distant bubbles will always be there as long as I affirm my past.
I know what Chris Frampton would do.
I know what I have to do.
“By the order of this Command Spell —!”
In the next moment, that Master’s chest will be pierced before she’s able to activate her Command Spell. With a second swing, the leaves of all the shrubs in a five-meter radius are going to be stained with my splattered brains. This ‘fight’ which will last less than a second, solely depends on whether or not I’m able to buy her enough time to complete her .
A spear so large its leaf blade is enough to impale the torso of an entire cow is thrust with ferocious technique that threads the needle between raw power and conditioned finesse. The motion is so fast the spear is little more than a blur to reinforced eyes. There is no other description for the wielder other than a god of war.
But even a divine attack isn’t difficult to block if you already know where it is going to strike. All I’ve got to do is make sure my circuits which are rotating at top speed don’t burn out in the next second. It doesn’t matter if the magical energy is from my own life force or the air’s because all that matters right now is making sure these two Black Keys don’t break during the exchange.
“Hm —” Lancer lets a surprised grunt at my resistance.
The edge of the spear seemingly swallows the two black blades that I swung with all my strength. The alien sound of Black Keys reinforced so they’re almost as hard as a gemstone grinding against and then yielding to the edge of a Servant’s spear half-heartedly thrust rings into the trees. No matter how much supernatural strength I put into these Black Keys, they can’t stop that attack. This a Servant we’re fighting against. So delay it. Delay it for as long as —
— The keys snap.
I’m sent flying only to be stopped by the lower trunk of a stray tree. The impact permeates throughout my body. The real damage is my arms ripping and tearing in multiple places as if they had been cut a thousand times — the equivalent exchange for reinforcing a part of your body with more magical energy than it can handle. I can’t feel them; are they broken? That doesn’t matter right now because. . .
“Come, Berserke —”
That was the amount of time I was able to buy — not enough.
The bough will pierce her heart before she’s able to get that last syllable out.
This entire night’s struggle has been for nothing.
I. . .
As quickly as the spear was thrust, a tongue of fire repelled the leaf blade. That tongue, held aloft, is a red, thin double-edged blade with a smaller blade jutting out from the bottom of the golden hilt. It’s swung so quickly that I can only follow the trail of embers. No matter how fast the flame might be, the bough manages to catch and then match each blow. But the embers from each arc of the blade linger longer, their sooty red is now a warm orange. I can even feel the heat from here. I’m not sure if it’ll take ten or a hundred more blows but eventually, the fire will overwhelm the bough.
The Servants break apart.
“That boy. . . is under my protection.”
The feral god of war takes in the opposing Servant and then my crumpled figure before grunting to himself and retreating into the forest. The Servant in front of me makes no attempt to pursue.
I look at the Master who keeps her eye on the Servant. When she was using the Command Spell, she distinctly was trying to say Berserker. That swordplay is not that of a Berserker.
The trough of this hill is completely silent, almost as if the clamor of just a few minutes ago never existed. It’s obvious. There does not need to be a wind to draw open the curtain of clouds to let the moonlight filter in. That figure is bright enough to serve as her own moon, reflecting all the distant lights from the suburbs below.
She turns to face me and time stops.
Those fervent yet troubled eyes are the centerpiece of a bouquet of features so delicate they look as though a cosmic clockmaker took the time to painstakingly craft each one before binding Its creation in .
She bites her lower lip.
I bite my tongue for the words can’t, won’t come out.
This scene, it only lasts for a second, but it is as sharp as her demonic sword so it pierces my wavering consciousness and cuts through all the years I’ve been alive.
This is special. You must remember this.
Even if you fall down to hell.
Even if you lose Chris Frampton.
Engrave this one scene onto your soul so that neither foam may drag it out to sea nor flame may incinerate it beyond recognition.
Why?
Because it’s the first time you have ever thought a machine looked beautiful.
*****
Presage Seaweed
~Interlude~
The doorbell rang as Cherry entered the cafe. The dimmed light that made reading slightly a chore, the empty plates left on one or two tables, and the coffee aroma that hung like a persistent smog were all so similar to one from her hometown one could say it was the same cafe. Cherry ignored the unwelcome pangs of slight homesickness and made her way to the bar. She wasn’t sure if he would be here tonight — he could be out at an Italian restaurant, flirting.
The last time they saw each other face to face was. . . a year ago? She went back home to check if everything was okay with the house. But Cherry writes, she writes to him every month. She was old fashioned that way, magi usually are. So what she won’t tolerate is meeting in this . It’s a cheat — a singularity that shouldn’t exist in this world or any other world. Say that as she might, she loved their pies.
Ooops, remember, you’re on a diet. It was your cheat day on Monday. You’re going Keto this year. Last year was Paleo. Cherry’s tried them all. She hadn’t lost any weight long-term, but she’s reached enlightenment. A scale was a woman’s arch-nemesis. Like a she scrawls a number in her diary every night. There was a self-mutilating sacredness to it that you couldn’t find with a health app.
A waitress came to ask her if she wanted anything. Cherry fidgeted awkwardly for a second wondering if she could convince herself on getting an advance on next week’s cheat day but stay strong! You can do this! In your teens, you made the mistake of assuming you could diet before summer to fit into your swimsuit. Naive. Too naive, girl. Every Instagram model you follow regularly posts that the foundation of a swimsuit body requires you to start during winter. Winter is when all the calories pile up. You can’t fall for that trap — not this year.
Cherry sighed after the waitress left.
“Heyo Annherbe-deluxe, Cherry.”
A little girl clambered onto the seat next to her.
“Who taught you that, Curie?”
She pointed to a lonely flip phone completely left behind by the times next to the register, “He said it’s the normal greeting here.”
Cherry gently smiled. Even if it makes no sense to her, that didn’t mean she should let it show on her face. “I’m really happy to see you again, Curie. You’ve grown quite a bit.”
The little girl jumped into Cherry’s arms. She was cold like crystal, not to mention you could be eaten at any moment and not realize it. No, that’s wrong, Cherry told herself. There’s warmth there, there has to be. We’ve spent so much time together there had to be something beyond —
“I missed you too, Cherry. The Detective has as well. He reads all your letters you know and stays up thinking about what to write back. He’s not good at admitting it though.” Curie nodded knowingly.
“How is he?”
Curie opened her mouth but before she could get any words out, she was interrupted.
“Well, well, well it seems like someone hasn’t lost any weight at all.”
That’s his way of saying ‘I’m glad you look healthy.’
“You look well too, Nii-san.” She slipped in her native tongue.
He instinctively stroked the tiny scar on the back of his head as he took a seat next to Curie. “Scram, girl. Go play with the cats or annoy the waitresses.”
Curie poked her tongue out in reply and ran off.
“I’m glad that you two are still getting along so well.”
“You call that getting along? That brat’s more trouble than she’s worth. Should have left her in South America when I had the chance.”
Some part inside of her knows that she can’t forgive her brother for all the things he’s done. But even if they weren’t related by blood, he was still her brother and she wishes for his happiness, so when he says things like that they help unwind the wires in her head.
“What about the kid you’re looking after? The one with the long, fancy name.”
“Chris? He’s. . . he’s a good kid.”
“That’s just a polite way of saying he’s messed up but doesn’t show it.”
She ignored that, “He comes here often. Have you talked to him?”
“Yeah. He’s a good kid.” The Detective called the waitress and ordered a nitro cold brew, this time, less cinnamon. “Why are you here, Sakura? If you’re after news about Rider and Emiya, you can call them yourself.”
“I’m really proud of you, Nii-san.” That stopped him cold in his tracks. “When you dropped out of university, saying it was too easy and everyone was an idiot I was really worried about your future. We all were. But ever since you came back from South America with Curie and started your own private investigation firm you’ve. . . you’ve been doing better.”
“Haah? Don’t be impertinent. I don’t need your validation, failure. Don’t get me wrong, I love that you decided to let the Matou family die, but a failure is still a failure.”
Cherry smiled. “If you would let me finish Nii-san. I recently heard there was another up-and-coming private investigator duo from Mifune. A man about your age with only one working eye, and a twenty-year-old beauty rumored to have ties with the Yakuza?”
The Detective snorted at that dismissively, “You sure love your gossip magazines, Sakura. Fumbling idiots. Could give any Manzai duo a run for their money.”
“Oh, I heard they were rated as one of the top agencies in Japan?”
“Did you take the time to check who is rated the top in the country, idiot.”
“The top-rated private investigator office in the country, wow, you’ve come so far! So that means you’ll be able to find some information about someone for me?”
“What? I don’t have the time to do something like that.”
“Nii-san, I’m horrified. The top private detective Japan won’t even help his own little sister?”
Matou Shinji looked at his sister in disbelief.
Matou Sakura steadied her determined gaze, offering a forceful half-smile and a wrinkled brow, as if trying to make her brother eat an apple slice.
“Okay, who am I looking for,” he mumbled before turning away. Like so many before him, he crumbled under that determined gaze.
Cherry took out a folded printout from her purse. Church profiles were usually small novellas, but this was a single page. At the top left corner was a photo of a strawberry blond woman with a high forehead and sharp features.
“Amelia Levitt, a pediatrician who worked at Snowfield Central Hospital, patients include. . . Snowfield? Isn’t that the town where that fake Holy Grail War that basically destroyed the area took place?”
“Oh, it seems like Senpai has been telling you things that he shouldn’t.”
The Detective looked Cherry straight in the eye. “This woman. . . she’s a Master, isn’t she? And you, Sakura, you’re a Master too, aren’t you?”
“What? I. . .”
“Don’t lie to me. Who would use concealer on their hand to hide a Command Spell? I might not have magic circuits but don’t treat me like I’m a fucking idiot!”
“Yes Nii-san, I’m the Master of Saber.”
The Detective closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “This isn’t about Amelia Levitt, is it? Even you aren’t dumb enough to ask me to investigate an American. This about this kid isn’t it?”
He pointed to the only name that sounds Japanese on the profile.
Tsubaki Kuruoka.
“They should learn to write names properly. What’s this. . .” he looked closer at the page. “Well she’d be a teenager now. What this kid got to do with your shitshow.”
“The Kuruoka family are a family of magi who helped establish the Snowfield Grail. . .”
The Detective interrupted, “She was a Master, then. What happened to her?”
“That’s what I’d like you to find out.” Cherry folded her arms on the table.
“She is. . . was American, you’re in America. I’m in Japan. What do you think I can do?”
“The Kuruoka family did more than just help establish the Snowfield Grail system, Nii-san. They also took part of the Holy Grail system and magecraft that utilized insects.”
He immediately broke out in a cold sweat. She knew what she was asking of him. He was told he was the true heir to the family; that was why he was given access to all the grimoires in the forbidden library to peruse at his pleasure. He was given the privilege to learn his family’s secrets because he would pass them down. That privilege was his pride, his assurance that he was better than the masses that sat in the same classroom as he did. Later, it would turn into his greatest shame. And now?
That young boy who made himself a makeshift robe and wand almost drowned in the mystery he lusted for — a wig saved his life.
That aimless, bitter young man who couldn’t stand his family’s ruin set forth to retrieve a grimoire his sister sold in an attempt to rid the demonic fog clouding his heart and was almost consumed by the mystery he wished to be initiated into — a crystal trinket saved his life.
So, the question isn’t ‘and now,’ it must be ‘so now?’
“Alright, whatever, I’ll check my notes and my contacts for information about this Kuruoka. You. . .” He folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his breast pocket. “If you get yourself killed that’s your own problem. Also, it’s also up to you to tell everyone else you’re part of this magical shitshow again. I’m not your messenger boy.”
“One more thing Nii-san.”
“Something else?” he asked grumpily. “You really have no respect for your brother.”
“Are you still in touch with Sajyou Ayaka?”
He shivered at the name then protectively stroked his luscious seaweed locks, reassuring himself this was his natural hair. Yet, no matter how smooth, bouncy, or real his wavy hair might be, he can still feel her malicious razor gliding over his naked scalp.
“No, why? I think she went to Romania or somewhere else in Europe after she graduated.”
“I got my hands on some security footage of Snowfield. She, or at least someone who looks like her, was present. Do you happen to know anyone who might have her contact information?”
“I think she used to hang out with that trio of track team girls. That means I have to deal with that idiot Makidera, again. Fine, fine. Anything else?”
“No, that’s everything. Thank you, Nii-san. Please take care of Curie and yourself.”
Sakura’s full smile was almost too perfect.
Shinji knew the shadow lurking behind that smile. It was underneath him when he tried to rape her.
He couldn’t make up for that day. He couldn’t forget that day.
The waitress finally arrived with his iced coffee in a mason jar. Shinji grabbed the handle the moment it was set down but put the drink back down the moment he met his sister’s eyes. There was something he forgot to say.
“Hey, Sakura.”
“Nii-san?”
“Don’t get yourself killed.”
~Interlude Out~
Day 3 – End
Fate/Mythologie Volume 1: Palingenesis/805 – End
Originally Posted by SirGauoftheSquareTable
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