Chapter 5: Day 1, Dawn
The Shadow in the Dark
The police station. Rear parking lot.
"...What's that?"
Ayaka and Saber, who had escaped the police station through the back entrance, heard gunshots and looked up from the rear parking lot. They saw a man in the act of leaping from the edge of the roof to the building next door, and a priest stretching out his arm toward him. Then, with a fluid motion, the priest's arm appeared to stretch to several times its length, only for a shell to fire from its mechanical-looking end, striking the man directly and causing a small explosion. Just like that, the man was blasted into a window of the adjacent hotel.
A little later, the priest — whose arm had returned to its original length — leapt toward the hotel with several swords in each hand.
The hotel might be next door, but there were still more than ten meters between it and then police station. Far enough that any normal human, even a running long jump world champion, would fall. The priest, however, leapt it easily, and vanished into the hotel.
"Am I dreaming...? Or were those 'Heroic Spirits'?"
"Don't you feel something when you look at me?" Saber asked anxiously.
"You're hitting on me at a time like this? Give me a break..."
"No. You are indeed a charming woman, but that's not what I meant. Don't you get a sort of picture of my physical and magical strength when you look at me? It might pop into your head clearly written out, or..."
"I'm not really sure what you're talking about..."
"I see..." Saber pondered, hearing Ayaka's puzzled tone. "Perhaps because you really aren't a proper Master..."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll take time to explain it properly later. It's pointless if you can't see it, anyway. Right now, the important thing is that you can't distinguish between ordinary humans and Heroic Spirits. It won't be a problem with ones whose appearances stand out, but a lot of Heroic Spirits look no different from ordinary humans when changed into civilian clothes."
When he got to that point, Saber checked his own attire, then looked at the paling sky in the distance, and muttered:
"I'd like to procure civilian clothes myself, but... Yes, it's just dawn now. I shall leave these grounds, as I declared I would."
X X
Inside the hotel.
The hotel next door to the police station had been ranked as the safest accommodation in the city, purely due to its location. That evaluation, however, was about to be overturned.
No sooner had sounds of gunfire and explosions resounded from the surrounding area without warning than a shockwave struck the building, causing damage in one of the guest rooms. It luckily happened to be unoccupied, but the damage to the hotel's reputation was unavoidable.
While the hotel staff were running around, unable to get an objective grasp of the situation... the priest who had trespassed into the hotel through the damaged room was ultimately unable to locate Jester.
He had completely erased his presence, and even his magical energy had completely cut off. In its place were a number of injured people, who lay groaning on the hallway floor. They had probably been roused by the sounds of gunfire from the direction of the police station, and come out into the corridor. There were women and children among them, and some were bleeding from cut arms.
"Hey, are you alright?"
"
Ngh... What...?"
The shocked victims appeared not to realize what had happened to them.
"Staunch your wounds with cloth. I'll call an ambulance right away," he said, but if the Dead Apostle had done something to them, he could not just allow them to be taken to a municipal hospital. Carelessness could lead to a massive outbreak of living corpses. If that happened, the Holy Grail War would be the least of his worries.
They don't look like they've been cursed or had their blood sucked, but...
Then Hansa noticed a shivering child watching him from the shadow of the stairs.
"Hey, boy. You see anything?"
The pale-faced boy, not yet ten years old, nodded.
"A scary man... shouted, 'Out of my way!'... Then he..."
"Do you know which way the scary man went?"
"...He disappeared."
"...I see. I'm glad you're alright. You'll be safe now."
I see. He left them alive to slow me down.
Hansa lightly patted the boy on his shaking head, then took out his cell phone.
"It's me. One of you handle the suggestion on the crowd, and the other three surround the building. He might be mixed in with the evacuees, so be careful. Don't overlook anyone suspicious."
When he was done issuing orders, Hansa heaved a little sigh, and muttered:
"Good grief... A Dead Apostle after the Holy Grail; it really is the end of the world."
X X
Main Street. Near the police station.
"Please stop."
A woman stood in Ayaka and Saber's way as they tried to leave the police station. She was a young brunette, but her features were hard to make out. That was because she wore an odd mask that covered her eyes. The center of the blindfold, which could have been cloth and could have been leather, was adorned with a cross. Her whole body was covered by something like a black wetsuit, and more odd decorations were visible in various places on the body-fitting fabric. A pure white cloth wrapped around her arm fluttered. Ayaka wondered if she was part of a circus.
"I'm terribly sorry, but I've been told to investigate any suspicious people in this area."
"You seem a lot more suspicious to me," Ayaka said, knitting her brows. Then she noticed: There were large crowds of curious onlookers milling about, even on the rear side of the buildings, but none of their eyes paused on the suspiciously-dressed woman.
Huh? Could it be that I'm the only one who can see her?
A chill ran down her spine. Her mind flashed back to a little girl in a red hood. She was on the verge of panic.
"It's an attention-deflecting barrier," Saber explained in an attempt to reassure her. "Most likely the power of that cloth on her arm. She's choosing to show herself to just us, so don't worry, Ayaka. Still, this smell that's been hanging over the area around the police station... It must be some sort of incense to facilitate mass hypnosis."
"Mass hypnosis?"
"They probably want to conceal the fight between the monster and the priest we just saw. The Holy Church's hunters don't change, even after 800 years. Still, surely you can tell whether I'm a monster, or something else?"
The strangely-dressed woman heard Saber's words, and bowed respectfully.
"I take you to be Servant and Master. Excuse me."
"No need to apologize. Devotion to one's duty is a virtue," Saber said, and then caught sight of people beginning to evacuate the hotel one after another.
"Is the vampire... still in that hotel?"
"Yes. We have placed barriers over the entrances and exits; they will react if the Dead Apostle crosses them."
"Does that mean the vampire might leave?"
"Yes," the mysterious woman nodded matter-of-factly. Her words made Ayaka glance at Saber.
"I'd rather not get dragged into trouble, so... I'll be leaving."
"I suppose you're right. I'll accompany you."
"You really don't have to..."
Heaving an exasperated sigh, Ayaka put the area behind her at a brisk pace. She could hear a voice behind her saying, "If you find the time, please come to the central church. The overseer must have something to discuss with the Masters," but that had nothing to do with her.
"Unfortunately... I'm not a Master. Sorry."
"?"
Behind the confused-looking woman, a stream of guests continued to evacuate the hotel. One child, mixed in among them, shot a glance in Ayaka and the others' direction. Including the woman from the Church, who ought to have been shielded by her attention-deflecting barrier.
The child whose head Hansa had patted shortly before saw the woman executor, and flashed a smile that was far from innocent. Then he thought to himself,
conscious of the Command Seals that had moved to his back:
Ugh. And here I'd thought to take a breather after tiring myself out.
Once he had stood with the evacuees for a while, the boy quietly slipped out of line, and vanished into the dawn city. Neither passing through the executors's barriers, nor being showered in the rays of the rising sun posed any problem to him now. Because now Jester Karture's body was not that of a Dead Apostle; it was the body of an ordinary human boy.
And that boy murmured, with a smile of childish innocence that belied the twisted lust beneath stamped on his features:
"I wonder if Miss Assassin will come back soon!"
X X
The police station.
"Are you alright?"
The police station had become a battlefield. The Holy Church's executors had administered their suggestion well, and it appeared that the incident would be settled as an attack by the friends of an arrested armed robber in an attempt to save him from prison. The lobby and parking lot, however, still bore fresh wounds, and the officers were covered in injuries.
That was the atmosphere that pervaded the station's medical room, where the officer who had lost his right hand to the Dead Apostle was receiving treatment. He appeared to be undergoing a healing spell from a female officer whose with a large sickle Noble Phantasm, and the flow of blood from the wound was just stopping. Regenerating his lost hand, however, would require an exceedingly high level of healing magecraft. There was always the option of fitting him with an ordinary prosthetic hand, but he could not hope to return to the front lines any time soon in that condition.
"You have to understand. We'll take it from here."
"...No, I can do it. Please give me a chance."
"With that wound? Next time we might be fighting the King of Heroes, or Saber, or Rider, who we don't even have data on. Can you guarantee that you won't get in the way in a harsher battle than the one against Assassin?"
"I..."
The officer ground his teeth in frustration.
He was the most positive about this operation, the chief thought.
One of the police officers with magic circuits — descendants of stray mages — whom he had gathered from across the country. At first the chief had thought of them as mere pawns, but when he had discovered those filled with zeal, like this man, he had revised his opinion somewhat.
That was precisely why he could not allow him to die needlessly. Because the chief needed someone to succeed him after he lost this war and died, for the sake of the next opportunity.
"You still have a future. Don't throw it away for nothing."
"But... I want to protect this city's future."
"What do you mean?"
"If we were only up against Heroic Spirits, I might have given up. But what will happen to the city if we leave vicious people like him to their own devices...? I can't let it go, not as a mage, but as a police officer."
The man was barely in his thirties. The chief sighed as he answered.
"I value your spirit, but I cannot put us all in danger in the blind belief that where there's a will, there's a way. If you say you can still fight, prove that you can handle your weapon with one hand, or with a prosthetic one."
"...I'll try."
The young officer's voice was full of fighting spirit. The chief was wondering whether he ought to address him at greater length, when the phone in his breast pocket rang, and forced a break in the conversation.
"...It's me."
"Hey there, bro! That sure was a disaster! A vampire! Imagine that. You sure you wouldn't have been better off summoning Frankenstein instead of yours truly, and getting him to whip you up a big batch of monsters?"
The chief sighed at Caster's usual demeanor, then replied coolly.
"If that was a joke, I'm not laughing. There were no actual fatalities, but we still have seriously injured people here."
"Come on, don't be that way. Ya can't have a war without somebody getting hurt. You realize you got real lucky not to lose anyone against that monster? I should be able to up the power on your equipment based on this experience."
"I'll be looking forward to it."
It was a heartfelt statement. Just as they themselves needed to gain more experience, it was also necessary to raise the limits of their Noble Phantasms. They weren't drawing out their full power yet, but one by one they would manage to release their true names and unleash their full potential. Most Noble Phantasms, such as Excalibur or Gae Bolg, were able to demonstrate their maximum power only when one intoned their true names. If all the officers managed to achieve that, then victory against the higher-ranking Heroic Spirits would finally be in sight.
"At the moment, the one closest to releasing its true name is... Why, bro, it's that Japanese sword of yours."
"I see. I'll get the rest caught up soon," the chief declared, at the same time telling himself that he could not afford to be overly optimistic.
"By the way, bro," Caster added, "the thing from that Shishigō guy came in."
"...Good. He works as fast as they say. Fast enough that I wish I could have brought him in as a Master on our side."
"Shishigō" was the name of a freelance mage known for his remarkable ability. The chief had paid him a large sum of money to acquire a certain object. He had estimated that there was a fifty-fifty chance of it arriving in time for the Grail War. The fact that it had come so soon could be called the silver lining on the dark cloud hanging over him.
As if to prove it, Caster reported his findings on the other end of the phone.
"If I work on this thing, I bet it'll cut to the heart of most anything, Heroic Spirit or vampire."
What he said next, however, defied the chief's expectations.
"I'll make it for the wounded lad lying next to ya, bro. To replace the dagger that got eaten up."
"...If he proves that he can fight."
"Yeah. I'll be waiting, ya hear? In the meantime, I'll be rehydrating dried goods from the age of the gods, and making the ultimate weapon."
Caster spoke as if he was certain that the officer would recover. Then he spoke the thing's name.
"With this hero-killin' hydra venom dagger for a model, it'll take no time at all. Ha ha!"
X X
Western Snowfield. The great forest.
Deep in the woods, several kilometers removed from the city... the woman Assassin crouched, repenting her own immaturity.
How can this be...? What a fool I've been.
She had barely questioned the fact that her magical energy was never exhausted. She had only been looking ahead. Her duty had been all she could see.
And this was the result. She had used the arts of the great chiefs with magical energy given her by a monster.
I have defiled the chiefs' great works. I am no longer qualified... to so much as call myself a believer...
They were many reasons why she had not been chosen as the chief of the assassins, the "Old Man of the Mountain," beginning with the fact that those around her had feared her fanaticism. One of those given, however, had been that she was simply too honest for an assassin.
In the affair at the police station, no ordinary assassin would have chosen a frontal assault. They might sometimes opt to carry out an assassination in a visible place in order to announce the power of their order to the masses, but the majority of the chiefs who took the name Old Man of the Mountain conducted themselves in manners truly befitting the name "assassin." It was precisely because she was seen more as a warrior than as an assassin that the leaders of her time had feared her becoming chief. They had sensed a risk of the organization changing, and exposing their own vitals on the center stage of politics. The woman Assassin, who lacked self-awareness, had continued to blame her own immaturity.
Who did I imagine I was? Who am I to pass sentence on the heretical ritual that has led the chiefs astray? Was I not also drawn in by the Holy Grail? Yes, from the first, I have answered the grail's call. It is those who seek the Grail who are summoned to the Holy Grail War.
Yes, in truth I coveted the Grail. I desired to demonstrate my piety by seeking it out, and destroying it. I wanted to do it to make myself seem important... As a result, I wished for the Grail, and was seen through by the chaos of the Holy Grail War.
Kneeling on the ground, she felt ashamed of her own weakness.
Even a heretical ritual such as this was able to see through to my base interior.
Her internal clock warned her that the time had come for prayer, but she considered that her present, defiled self did not have the right to offer them. Instead, she had decided to give herself over to meditation, and confront her own weakness.
How much time had passed since then? When she slowly rose to her feet, her eyes were filled with a dark, razor gleam.
It's not over yet.
Under normal circumstances, she might have given up the fight, her spirit broken. Or she might have compromised, saying, "What does it matter if it's a Dead Apostle's energy?" But she chose to do neither. Nor did she run. She reevaluated her position.
Even my existence here is God's will. If this time is also part of the "life" allotted me, then... I must do my duty. Flight can never be permitted.
My duty... has not changed. It is to put an end to this heretical ritual, and... to hunt that monster.
My own immaturity is no reason to hesitate. I cannot make it an excuse.
Whether she was acting to settle her own feelings, or for something else, she did not know. Assassin felt ashamed of her own weakness for wasting these minutes crouching here.
Oh, how immature I am.
There was no longer any hesitation in her eyes that noted the morning sun filtering through the trees. Having acknowledged her weakness, she had chosen the path of fighting once again.
What should I use to slay that monster?
An inhuman devil. It was true that she had once succeeded in crushing his heart with Delusional Heartbeat: Zabaniya. But it was also true that he still existed.
How many hearts does he have? How can I erase all of him?
Assassin reconsidered the powers she possessed. Imitations of the chiefs' techniques. But while they were the same in kind, they were not completely identical in strength. She herself considered that all her techniques fell short of the chiefs', their actual effectiveness varied. Some had the same power as the techniques used by the actual Old Men of the Mountain, while others surpassed them, and still others were inferior.
For example, there was a skill called Delusional Poison Body: Zabaniya, which had once been wielded by an Old Man of the Mountain known as "The Tranquil." The power that "The Tranquil" herself had acquired had been truly fearsome. It had turned every part of her, including all her bodily fluids, her nails and skin, and even her breath, into deadly poison. A dreadful legend told how she had slaughtered an entire army by spreading her poison on the wind.
Assassin, however, merely mimicked that power temporarily by concentrating poison in her own blood. It was said that this was because she imagined a scenario in which indiscriminately scattering death on her surroundings might result in the deaths of comrades or innocents, and the concentration of the poison was consequently reduced.
Capricious Fleeting Shadow: Zabaniya was a technique for extending and controlling the hair on her head, but oral tradition had it that the Old Man of the Mountain who had actually used it had been capable of making each strand of their hair as fine as a spider's thread, and lopping off their target's head with no one being any the wiser.
On the other hand, unknown to Assassin, her Ichor of Reverie: Zabaniya, which manipulated her targets with song beyond the realm of human hearing, surpassed its original in power. Against a large group, as she had used it earlier, its effects ended at jolting her targets' brains and causing their magic circuits to go out of control, but if she concentrated her "song" on a single person, it was capable of bringing the average Servant to their knees, or completely dominating a human brain. The original had not been so powerful. Even if she had known that, however, she would not have accepted it. As far as she was concerned, the instant she had worked it out with her own power, it was an irreplaceable, divine work.
Assassin continued to list the countless techniques that reached the level of Noble Phantasms in her head, and to ponder which was best suited for eliminating the monster. In the midst of her ruminations, however, she felt a faint unease. It was a doubt she had sometimes harbored in life as well.
"Meditative Sensitivity: Zabaniya" — a technique allowed her to sense every feature of the surrounding terrain as part of her own body. It was the art she had employed to locate the police station's power source. Concerning that technique alone, she could not shake a strange feeling that something was not as it should be.
It was said that this venerable technique had been used by an Old Man of the Mountain, but in what era they had lived had not been definitely known. Not only to herself, but also to her peers, her instructors, and even to the present Old Man of the Mountain. Only a tradition that an Old Man of the Mountain had used such an art remained. She had attempted to recreate the skill based on that, and yet...
Was Meditative Sensitivity truly such an ability? Did a chief who wielded an art by that name even exist in the first place?
Even she, who was called a fanatic, was forced to wonder. Or perhaps it was precisely because she had given everything to copy each and every one of those legendary techniques that she harbored such doubts.
I feel as though... something is being hidden from me. The truth behind the chief who used this Zabaniya...
At that point, she forced herself to stop wondering. She must not doubt. She was ashamed to have even considered such a thing; it was a sign that she was, indeed, immature.
Once more she sank into thought to overcome her enemy.
All the while, she felt that weird unease and a fateful premonition that "something might happen" groaning softly in the depths of her heart. Almost as though it was resonating with something.
X X
Coalsman Special Corrections Center.
A short time earlier.
"Now... It should be just about time."
Shortly before the police station had come under assault from the woman Assassin, Faldeus had secluded himself in his workshop in the innermost depths of the prison facility. He stood in the center of the workshop, whose mystic accoutrements belied the modern penitentiary above, and slowly steadied his breathing. Various sorts of dolls, from delicate mannequins to ragdolls used for shamanism, were enshrined around him. All of their "eyes" were staring at a pedestal in the center.
Faldeus Dioland.
He came from a line of puppet-using mages, and was a relative of a mage who had once participated in the Fuyuki Holy Grail War. The third Holy Grail War, which had been conducted before the second World War.
The tribulations of the mage, who had employed Assassin, had been inscribed as mystic "memories" in the puppets he had used, and transmitted through them to his family. Transmitted widely and unrestrictedly, not only to his heir, but even to distant relations. No member of the clan, however, stepped forward to declare that they would be the one to conquer the Holy Grail War.
The third Holy Grail War was said to have been thick with taboo spells and evil spirits of the land, broken rule after broken rule. It was only natural for any mage to think twice after viewing such a vivid record of it. Possibly, the more powerful members of the clan may even have noticed that something unwholesome had blended with the Grail. One of them — Faldeus' grandfather — had joined hands with United States politicians and military leaders, and developed a plan.
A plan to hold a Grail War on their own land.
It had seemed impossible. After all, the construction of the Great Grail rooted in the earth, the foundation of the Holy Grail War, remained a closely-guarded secret of the Einzberns. Leaving that subject for later, however, they had secured a sacred ground to rival Fuyuki, and gone ahead with the underlying preparations.
The procurement of useable sacred ground had, in any case, likely been equally indispensible to the government. The Sacred Church was strong in the United States and suppressed any attempt to mix statecraft and magecraft. Such matters had ultimately fallen under the jurisdiction of a single agency.
They just needed to inch their way closer to the Fuyuki Holy Grail War in a century or two. Even in the national system called "America" were to change, they would continue to develop an organization on that basis. With that determination, they wrested the land from its guardians, and proceeded to tamper with its ley lines on a grand scale.
Less than a century later, however, around the time Faldeus' father had inherited the enterprise, a major turning point arrived. A mage with connections to the dark side of the state, separate from Faldeus' family, had proposed the possibility of recreating a part of the Great Grail system.
"I'll steal a piece of the Fuyuki grail for you. All you have to do is cultivate it here."
What nonsense.
Or so everyone thought, but the mage in question had shown the government results a number of times in the past, so they could not simply ignore it. But a fake was still a fake, even one cultured from the Great Grail. Its connection to the ley lines would be weak when compared to the complete entity that was the Fuyuki Grail. When Faldeus' father asked if it was really possible to recreate the Grail by such means, the mage had replied:
"You just have to prime the pump."
"Prime the pump, huh?" Faldeus muttered to himself with a wry smile, remembering the story his father had told him. "That 'priming' made a glass crater on the south side of town. Even irony has limits."
He let out a big sigh, then wiped the smile from his face and began his mission.
" For elements, silver and iron. For foundation, stone and the Archduke of Contracts..."
The words that flowed from Faldeus' mouth were unmistakably the incantation for summoning an Heroic Spirit. As the chant went on and on, the quality of the air began to change.
An impossible chant.
An impossible ritual.
Any mage who knew of the Grail War would have thought the same. After all, all of the Heroic Spirits had already been summoned. There were to be six Heroic Spirits in Snowfield. Faldeus himself had declared it to Rohngall and the Mages' Association. And
it had been no lie.
The fake Holy Grail War. The Heroic Spirits summoned as parts of a ritual that was both real and fake.
They were no more than sacrifices. Sacrifices to agitate the ley lines and intensify their waves in a fixed direction. Sacrifices to use the resulting backlash... to begin the real Holy Grail War.
"Emerge from the ring of restraint, O Guardian of the scales...!"
The instant Faldeus finished the chant, radiance filled his workshop. The eyes of the countless dolls enshrined around it reflected the light, and began to rattle, as though to bless the manifestation of the Heroic Spirit. Or as if frightened by the presence of death that filled the room.
Then, the light focused into a single point, and... nothing happened.
"...?"
As the light vanished, the dolls ceased their clatter. Chilly silence enveloped the workshop.
"...A failure...?"
He sensed neither the presence of a Heroic Spirit, nor a bond of magical energy. Most importantly, there was no voice asking him if he was its Master.
"Humph..."
But there was no irritation on Faldeus' face. If he were being honest, he had considered it a fifty-fifty chance. Using six Heroic Spirits as priming to summon seven more was too hard to swallow. After all, powerful Heroic Spirits like the King of Heroes had already materialized. It was too much for just "priming the pump."
"Well, I suppose that means we're going with plan B."
Faldeus heaved a little sigh, and put the workshop behind him.
X X
An area of the prison served Faldeus as both a second workshop and a monitor room. Upon entering it, he announced to Aludra and his other subordinates:
"We're switching to plan B. Contact Ms. Francesca and Mr. Reeve."
"...Did the Heroic Spirit fail to materialize?"
Faldeus answered Aludra's direct question with a quick nod.
"Yes. I suppose that, even with a time limit, seven at once really is the limit. Execute the fake Grail War according to plan, counting Saber as the seventh fake Servant rather than the first real one."
I'm not sure if the Grail will manifest or not, given the circumstances... but I suppose that will be a problem for next time.
Still, the Command Seals, at least, did appear... I wonder if it's possible to do away with one of the current Masters and use these to form a new contract with their Heroic Spirit.
Coldly eyeing the Command Seals on his right hand, Faldeus jotted down his progress on a notepad. That done, he was about to get in contact with all the parties concerned, when he noticed something just a little out of place.
Noise was flickering across several of his orderly rows of monitors. If that had been all, he would have assumed it a simple breakdown. The problem was that the noise extended to feeds coming from familiars. They might be monitor-shaped, but they were mystical.
Ordinary noise was impossible, so Faldeus suspected interference from an outside mage. Then, when he was in the middle of a monitor check... he noticed that he was scribbling on the notepad by his hand.
Whoops. It's not like me to do something like that... Maybe failing to summon a Heroic Spirit did give me a bit of a shock.
Having finished puzzling over his own actions, Faldeus was about to tear out the sheet when, suddenly, his hand stopped. Amid his scribbles, clearly meaningful words were written in a hand entirely unlike his own.
"I ask thee: art thou my Master?"
Faldeus felt the blood drain from his head all at once. He slowly ran his gaze over his surroundings, determined not to let impatience get the better of him. Then he saw the darkness.
The noise was on a monitor displaying the outside of the prison. There was a blind spot under the trees where the light did not reach. Faldeus' eyes were drawn to that still deeper darkness. To be precise, they were drawn to a small, white object floating in its center.
The monitor was a mystic implement linked to a familiar. Faldeus sent a command to the familiar, and made it move closer to the shadows. Before long, Faldeus was certain: the thing floating in the darkness was a twisted skull mask.
"...Excuse me; I'm going out for a breath of fresh air."
As soon as Faldeus was out of the room, he made for the place he'd seen in the monitor at a brisk pace. It was still conceivably a trap laid by an outside mage. He proceeded cautiously down the hallways of the prison, keeping a wary eye on his surroundings.
The hallways were long, and it was not yet dawn. As he hurried past windows that let in almost no light... the fluorescent light at the end of the corridor dimmed, and then went out. The way ahead was suddenly plunged in blackness. And in that blackness, Faldeus saw it: a white skull mask suspended in deep darkness.
There's no mistaking it. That skull mask belongs to... an Assassin-class Heroic Spirit.
Had his summoning succeeded? Or could it be the Assassin that had already been summoned as a "sacrifice"? Guesses were still whizzing through Faldeus' brain when the fluorescent light turned back on, and, at the same time, the white mask vanished.
"Was that..." He started to mutter, when the light directly above him went out. As it did, a voice called out to him from behind.
"...Don't turn around."
Faldeus could just tell that the voice was male. It was so coldly inhuman, however, that he could not imagine the speaker's age, build, or anything else except that he had whispered from behind Faldeus' back.
"...!"
In that instant, Faldeus was prepared for his own death. Nothing he did now would do him any good. Even if he used all the magecraft he possessed, it would be impossible to extricate himself from this situation. The "death" he sensed was that certain.
Faldeus did not know what was behind him. It almost seemed to him that limitless blackness gaped open there. He sensed
nothing. The voice had not even been full of bloodlust; almost the opposite...
He had not been able to pick up anything in the voice at his back. It felt like the airless void itself had called out to him. Its presence had been so rarefied that he almost wondered if his own ears had been playing tricks on him.
Even so, there was one thing he could picture: that if there was something behind him, it must be the white mask he had just seen floating in the darkness.
"I ask thee... Art thou my Master?"
A question from nothingness. Faldeus knew that there must be an answer there if he turned to look, but he could not bring himself to do it. All he could do, in the stillness, was to address the man standing behind him.
"...Yes. If you appeared in answer to my summoning earlier, then I suppose I am."
After a brief pause, a whisper shook Faldeus' eardrums.
"...Have you faith?"
"Faith...?" Faldeus was doubtful.
"...Have you a belief to which you would devote your life?" The voice shot back at him dispassionately.
Faldeus considered a moment, then steadied his breathing and answered.
"I would give all magecraft for our United States. That is my faith."
"...Have you the resolve to see that faith through, even if it means ending another's life?"
"Am I willing to kill for it, you mean?"
"...That is what it would mean to contract with me."
Most mages were prepared to take lives in the Holy Grail War. Even so, how many would be able to give an immediate answer while they could clearly sense their own death approaching? After a brief silence, the young mage opened his mouth to speak with a surprisingly calm mind.
"Of course I am. If it was for the United States, I would not even hesitate to kill a fellow citizen."
A short period of silence followed Faldeus' declaration, then the darkness behind him replied:
"...My name is Hassan-i Sabbah."
The Heroic Spirit had declared his own true name. The contract had not yet been sealed, so it had not been telepathy, but Faldeus was certain that the introduction had reached no ears but his own. The whisper had actually stirred only a single point in Faldeus' brain. It had felt almost like a curse seeping into his guts.
"So long as you retain your faith, I shall be your shadow."
Then, without ever showing itself, the "shadow" left a parting word, and vanished into the darkness. Only the still-immobile Faldeus was left. He had a feeling that a line of magical energy connected him to a distant "something." He could not, however, feel much movement of magical energy. He could not immediately determine if they were even linked.
"I see... It may be too late, but it feels real now."
If he had gotten a single answer wrong, he would probably have died. If he mistook a single button press, even the Heroic Spirit he had summoned could become his grim reaper. He felt the reality of how irrational, and how terrible, a Heroic Spirit could be.
Faldeus gave a little chuckle, although he was oozing could sweat.
"So this... is the Holy Grail War."
Originally Posted by OtherSideofSky
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