Prologue VIII
The Star Performers' Feast (Part 1)
The night before the war. Somewhere in Snowfield.
On the outskirts of the city of Snowfield was a small industrial district where rows of factories stood. Deep within this district, practically walled off by the enormous factories around it, was a modest meat processing plant. It only operated seasonally, probably because the local stockraising industry was not exactly flourishing, and few of the city's residents were even aware of its existence.
The basement of that factory, however, concealed another face, one that had not been cleared with the Business Registry. It was a mage's workshop, constructed within a many-layered Bounded Field in a subterranean space far larger than the area of the lot.
Even the surrounding factories, which appeared unrelated at first glance, were, when one traced their ownership far enough, all ultimately linked to a single organization: the Scladio Family.
It was a mafia lead by Galvarosso Scladio, who had won fame in the underworld for his cunning ability. Although it was called a mafia, its structure differed from the proper Mafia organization that had its origin in Sicily. It was true that Galvarosso Scladio's bloodline had distant ties to the Sicilian Mafia, but he had enlarged his organization by joining hands with or absorbing a multitude of different organizations, creating a faceless mob unconnected with national borders, bloodlines, or ideologies.
The unusual name Galvarosso was a pseudonym. According to one theory, he had come up with it by crossing "Barbarossa," the nickname of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick I, with his own real name.
And he had spread his roots far, wide, and deep into the American criminal underworld.
Historians of crime, the FBI, and even TV commentators had attempted to rationalize how the man who had boasted that he would recreate the Holy Roman Empire in America had actually amassed enough political and economic power to justify calling himself emperor, but not many knew the true reason.
He had patronized a large number of mages over a wide area, both in and outside of the country's borders. Mages who had lost turf wars with other families; mages who had gone bankrupt, their fortunes unable to keep up with their quests for new heights of magecraft; mages who had been driven out of their original lands as heretics; mages who had been loudly expelled from public society as criminals, and were considered nuisances and burdens in magical society; even some mages who had knocked on his door of their own accord — he had become a patron to all mages in a wide variety of circumstances, and supported their activities, not only with direct donations of money, but also by furnishing them with land, and using his public power to remove the mages who had previously occupied it.
A little political pressure or violence was nothing to a powerful mage. When it came to ruffians with knowledge of suggestion and mesmerism, as well as sniping and court orders, however, the number capable of completely defending themselves was, naturally, limited. Even a famous Clock Tower lecturer or a mage well-known in their own field would require a specialized Mystic Code to defend against an unexpected bullet, unless they were of such high ability that they were capable of handling the situation with the power of their Crest alone. Otherwise, even a mage could die all too quickly to a chance encounter with rioting hooligans or a random attack on the street.
Ordinarily such a case would have been viewed as a problem by the Clock Tower and the Church, and immediately crushed. By the time the subject of the Scladio Family came up for discussion, however, they had already obtained a degree of power in magical society.
But would a collection of mages really band together to protect a criminal organization? There were many who doubted, but the mages under the protection of the Scladio Family did, in fact, make free use of their power to defend their patron.
The greatest reason for that was that Galvarosso took no interest in the fruits of their efforts as mages. Not only would he not steal the fruits of their labors; he would not even pry into the nature of their researches if the mages did not wish to disclose them. The mages simply told him what they needed, and the Scladio Family did not hesitate to provide it.
Many of the mages accustomed to this one-sided relationship felt that their path to the Root — their ultimate objective — would be closed if they lost it. Only a very few of the mages felt any real obligation to the Scladio Family; most voluntarily aligned themselves with the organization after rationally considering their own interests as mages.
As a result, the Scladio Family displayed unparalleled rapid growth in the underworld. There were other organizations that knew of the existence of mages, and turned their hands in that direction. Most of these, however, attempted to rule mages with force, and ended up being used themselves, or even destroyed, by elementary suggestion and the like.
Ultimately, the Scladio Family had attached itself to a division of the government, and gained enough power to get involved in the Snowfield Plan. Enough power to nominate one of the mages who was to be a Master in the fake Holy Grail War.
And, this evening, the doors of the meat processing plant opened, and several men stepped into the cold air inside. As they did so, the similarly hard-faced group that was already inside nodded to the newcomers.
"Glad to see you made it."
"What about Mr. Cordelion?"
"He's already left the Correction Center, but he's not here yet," a man — seemingly an underling — answered, his brow bathed in cold sweat. The newcomers scowled.
"Didn't you go to welcome him?"
"Faldeus said it wouldn't look good if anyone from the Scladio Family came to the Correction Center... We only know he was released from a report after the fact..."
"Tch... Who's that government lapdog think he is?"
"I'm sorry. The younger guys are out looking for Mr. Cordelion as we—"
The sharp sound of something being crushed cut off the rest of his words.
"!?"
In unison, the men looked in the direction the noise had come from — the roof of the plant.
Smashed window glass tumbled, sparkling, through the air. A man fell with it, seemingly clad in its radiance, clutching a lump in each hand.
"Wha—"
The things in the falling man's hands were two human heads. Not severed heads, however — their bodies were still attached. The two bodies fell through the window, the man pulling them down with him, and within a few seconds they had been smashed against the concrete floor. Blood spit from their mouths; apparently they had still been alive.
The man who had dragged the pair through the window slowly rose to his feet, heedless of the fact that several drops of their blood had splattered on his face. Despite the fact that he had fallen from the skylight as well, the man wore no expression on his face, as if nothing had happened.
A shiver ran down the spines of the hard-faced men in the plant when they saw the man's face illuminated by the moonlight that filtered in through the broken window. They had been overpowered by the man's eyes, which were a deeper darkness in the darkened plant.
The man wore black gloves, and an air of severity. His eyes, however, were completely lacking "humanity." There was a light in them close to that in the eyes of a bird of prey or a carnivorous beast. Rather than targeting prey, however, they gave the impression of freezing hearts with their glare alone.
"They're not the eyes of a cold, emotionless killing machine, like hitmen sometimes have. If the machine had just one emotion — the urge to kill — it might get eyes like that," Galvarosso, the boss of the Scladio Family, had put it. The was how piercing the distinctive gleam in the man's eyes was.
He appeared to be in his 30s or 40s. His features themselves may have been well-regulated, but that monstrous, piercing gleam in his eyes seized the soul of anyone who stood before them. The hard-faced men, however, were not afraid of that gleam. They knew. Knew that the man's insides were far more frightening than his piercing glare.
"M, Mr. Cordelion!"
"..."
The man whose name had been called did not return the men's stares. He just reached into his pocket. When they saw what he took out of it, the men lying on the floor widened their eyes.
"Wai—"
One of them started to say something, but no more words came. Round after round fired from a handgun fitted with a suppressor, each accompanied by a muffled thud, destroying the prone bodies.
Even after he had confirmed that the two lumps of meat had completely stopped moving, the man did not relax his guard. He continued to stare down at the floor, gripping the handgun tight.
"Uh, umm... Mr. Cordelion? Who are they?" One of the men who had been in the plant from the start asked, his whole body breaking out in a cold sweat.
At that, the man called Cordelion spit out a voice so deep that it might have sounded from the depths of hell. His gaze remained motionless.
"...Flies."
"Flies, sir?"
"Perhaps someone let a whiff of meat get out. Their sense of smell must have been up to the task."
The man's manner of speaking caused the men to look at each other in surprise.
"You mean they were another mage's spies, Mr. Cordelion? After your Command Seals?"
"...Clean them up."
"Y, yes sir!"
The hard-faced men — apparently his subordinates — hurriedly set to work cleaning up the corpses and blood spatter.
"There are more outside. They erected a barrier to keep anyone from seeing them," the man added, matter-of-factly.
"What!? How could there be so many!?"
The hard-faced men felt fear, both because they were surrounded by hostile mages, and because they had committed the blunder of completely failing to notice.
"There are thirty-six," the man declared.
"Thirty..."
"Six here, and thirty outside. Take care of them quickly," he continued to his dumbfounded subordinate.
"Yes sir! ...What?"
There were only two corpses on the floor of the plant.
"Are they up there?"
Could there be another four corpses on the roof? The hard-faced underling assumed so, and was wondering how to get them down, when... more muffled thuds echoed. The instant they all looked up, the man's gun spit fire, and air holes opened in the craniums of the four men who had entered just before him.
"Wha—"
The men who had been in the plant from the start tensed, uncomprehending.
"M, Mr. Cordelion, what are you...?"
"I don't mind them taking me lightly."
"Huh?"
"But this plant belongs to the Scladio Family. If they thought they could enter this sacred place
with disguises like that, it was a grave insult to Mr. Scladio. They weren't worth taking alive."
The next instant, the faces of the men who had become fresh corpses began to distort, revealing entirely different ones.
"!?"
They must have been enemy mages disguised as allies. Were their real comrades still alive, or had they already been disposed of?
"...Once you've finished cleaning up the 'meat,' come downstairs," the man who had slaughtered more than thirty mages in this short span of time addressed his subordinates without any change in his complexion, as if to say that he would not even give them time to consider such questions.
"I have the catalyst. I'm going to summon the Servant."
X X
Snowfield. Somewhere dim.
"Bazdilot Cordelion. On the surface, he's the CEO of an industrial waste treatment company. Behind that, he's one of the leaders of the Scladio Family..." Faldeus Dioland recited.
"And behind that, he's the Massacre Mage Bazdilot, the 'Scladio Toxic Shark'!" The girl sitting next to him — Francesca — cut in. "His behind's behind isn't his front; it's another side entirely! It's things like this that make life fun!"
"It's merely troublesome. And what were those nicknames? There's nothing about a 'Toxic Shark' or a 'Massacre Mage' in my files."
"That makes sense; I just gave them to him."
"I see. I'm glad to hear it."
Faldeus gave Francesca — who was happily flapping her legs on the sofa — a sidelong glance.
"He is suspected of being concerned with more than one hundred and twenty murder cases," he continued, looking at the documents in his hands. "In all of them, however, the evidence is insufficient. Apparently they managed to put him away on a collection of misdemeanors. In the first prison he was sent to, however, three guards and twenty-six prisoners went 'missing' within six months. He claimed the whole prison for the Scladio Family... It must have been hard work covering that up."
"Maybe he picked people they could cover up to disappear? It sounds like he more or pays attention to magical secrecy for Scladio's sake. He might actually be using their infamy as a gang to cover up his being a mage."
"Although his career as a mage is about as violent as you can get... It he comes of a lineage adapted to a rather twisted school of 'domination.' Magecraft that focuses on dominating not others, but oneself... It apparently differs from physical reinforcement, but the details are unclear. He may also be versed in a school of the far-eastern folk magic that the Clock Tower holds in contempt, etc."
Faldeus narrowed his eyes as he went on reading the materials, as if tired.
"He is suspected in connection to the murders of several mages, and was apparently being watched by the Department of Justice Administration. As a result of a certain incident, however, he had a confrontation with Sponheim Abbey... in the middle of which, he came under the protection of the Scladio Family."
"Oh, Sponheim. You know, I hear they were in a mess just then because of the next abbot going missing, or something like that? Otherwise, not even the Scladio Family could've covered for him," Francesca cackled.
"I'm still opposed, Ms. Francesca," Faldeus griped. "I mean, bringing a man with this many enemies into this Holy Grail War, going as far as releasing him from prison. If we're not careful, it could bridge the gaps between the Clock Tower's factions and bring them all down on us together. Even if that is still within expectations, we could easily come under fire from directions we can't even guess at."
"You say that, but the others are pretty similar. Sigma, and little Doris, the youngest daughter of the Lusendra family of reinforcement mages from the far north, entered the country illegally. Cashura used orthodox domination and projection magecraft to wreak all kinds of havoc on Wall Street, and Haruri's the
enfant terrible of witchcraft. And then there's Faldeus, who betrayed the Clock Tower! Yup, pretty much nothing but problem children."
"I have confidence that I can control that lineup, myself included. You and Bazdilot Cordelion, however, are a different story."
Faldeus narrowed his eyes, turned to Francesca, and launched into something like a roundabout lecture.
"Is it really alright to let a man like him have a thing like that?"
"It's fine; don't worry about it. It might've been getting more than even I could handle, and no one knows what the future holds, so what does it matter?"
"We have no intention of playing along with your hedonism. When the need arises, we may need to force both you and Bazdilot to leave the stage."
"Ooh, scary. Are you going to have me sniped? No, you'll want to finish me off for certain, so maybe a bombing?"
Faldeus' icy tone made it clear that his words were no joke, but Francesca burst out laughing like a child who had just heard one. Her cheeks flushed faintly with excitement, in the full knowledge that it was no empty threat.
"Still, that might be nice too. Playing with you guys is definitely an option. I'm no patriot; I wasn't even born or raised in American to begin with."
"..."
Faldeus refused to listen to Francesca's jokes. He waited to see what she would do, circulating magical energy through his body. Francesca saw through his wariness, but continued to lounge on the sofa, deliberately defenseless.
"The time the Elder Title and the last gold wolf wrecked each other was what decided whether a country would sink or swim and all, so when it's time to play, it got to be big and flashy, like this Grail War! Oh, just imagining it's got me all excited! The United States of America versus the beautiful girl mage! It's got a nice ring to it!"
"There's nothing nice about it. And don't entertain the presumptuous idea that an individual could prevail against our proud nation. I hear that the agency has 'erased' you twice in the past."
"Oh, yeah! I got rubbed out, alright! It really hurt, you know? Quantity sure is scary!"
Francesca confirmed that she had been disposed of by the state as indifferently as if the fact had nothing to do with her.
"...I can't understand it. Not what the government is thinking, joining forces with you again, even if it has been decades, and not your nerve, joining forces with the government that tried to erase you from existence."
"It means your superiors think that highly of my ability, and I don't sweat the small stuff. That's all there is to it. Besides, I'm used to having my body killed."
"I believe I understand your mode of existence, but that's still an unbelievable statement."
"Getting my body killed is no cause for despair or anything. In the first place, only one person's ever really killed me. Well, plenty of people have killed my body, but I think I can count the number who've made me say uncle."
She stared into space, as if reminiscing about the past, and loudly gnashed her teeth as she laughed.
"Let me see... I think Old Man Kishua was first. Saint-Germain the hedonist; the fairy-tale witch who lives forever — oh, I guessed it's 'lived' forever now — then there was that rich bloodsucker in Monaco... and a teacher at some school who uses Godo Word, a super old dialect... and speaking of teachers, there were also my masters in magecraft, and..."
The litany of names and words made Faldeus, who was versed in every secret corner of magical society, wonder if it was some kind of joke. The final nickname out of Francesca's mouth, however, sparked a particularly strong recollection in him.
"Oh! And that girl! Scar Red!"
"...It's more than your life's worth to call her that to her face."
The peculiar nickname, charged with both scorn and awe, belonged to one of the Clock Tower's greatest mages, a genius puppeteer who far outranked Faldeus and Rohngall. Among mages affiliated with the Clock Tower, it was simultaneously rather famous and an absolute taboo.
That woman mage, who had ultimately achieved the rank of Grand, had been granted a "Color" — effectively a title — by the Clock Tower. She had not been able to obtain her coveted title of "Blue," however, and had ended up receiving a shade close to "Red"; not even the actual primary color. She harbored an abnormal hatred of the aforementioned nickname, which she had been given sarcastically as a result. It was rumored that she would kill anyone who used it to her face, without exception. Faldeus knew that it was no mere rumor; it was the undeniable truth.
Although... I suppose Ms. Francesca might actually do it...
"Yup, even I was no exception," Francesca cackled, as if she had guessed Faldeus' thoughts. "I said it to her face, and I ended up getting killed
a whole bunch of times!"
After her laughter had subsided, Francesca puffed up her cheeks and looked a little cross.
"It really was awful, you know? You see, she's stubborn, and crafty, and she smashes up people's workshops and swipes whatever strikes her fancy, and even when you turn the tables and kill her instead, she just activates the _______ built into her body, and then she comes back acting all innocent. After she'd killed me about thirteen times, I put in a request with her family and got them to intercede, but..."
Francesca sighed and shook her head. Presumably something had happened between her and the "family."
"In the end, she killed me one last time, and threatened me, all, 'never show your twisted Magic Circuits in front of me again'! And that's how I ended up in this body."
At that point Francesca regained her grin, and flexed her body alluringly. "What do you think?" The gesture seemed to ask. Faldeus, however, did not turn a hair, and raised a question of his own.
"You got that body roughly three years ago, correct? Is that the reason you were strongly opposed when the higher ups at the time suggested hiring her?"
"Well, that was part of it... Either way, I bet she would've turned you down. She only takes jobs that suit her tastes. Apparently her family values interest over money. Oh, but she might have cooperated if you'd asked her to make a puppet that incarnates Heroic Spirits."
When she had finished talking about mages who were not currently directly involved in this Grail War, Francesca suddenly wiped the grin from her face.
"I may not be one to talk, but the memory copies in Scar Red's puppets are perfect. So perfect that it makes me wonder if she even copies her soul."
"That's..."
Faldeus started to say something in response to the girl's words, but then he furrowed his brows and thought better of it. Francesca then casually spoke the words he had hesitated to.
"You're wondering if she might've arrived at the Third Magic, right? Well, if she has, it'd make everything we're doing a farce, and that would be hilarious! Ha ha!"
The girl burst into another fit of laughter. Faldeus, across from her, heaved another sigh, and the wrinkles on his brow deepened.
"There's nothing funny about it. I would be a lost to not only this country, but to magical society in general."
"It's fine. I'm sure the Third Magic will stop being Magic before long. Speaking of which, did you forget you guys' ultimate goal? 'Drag the Third Magic down to the level of magecraft'?"
"...Our goal? Don't you mean yours?"
"It's on my list, but it's just one stop on the way. I think we'll be able to reproduce it once the pioneers of the stars advance a few more levels. Same for the Holy Grail War itself. So, I'm going to be starting as many Grail Wars as I can. I'd like you guys to show some enthusiasm analyzing its pattern."
Francesca's tone had grown gentle, as if out of affection for something. Faldeus' eyes widened.
"I was certain you were aiming to become the master of the Third Magic."
"What a surprise," Francesca laughed. Then she stretched out her legs on the sofa, and leapt energetically to her feet.
"Upsy-daisy... Well, Scar Red aside, let's just leave it that it's not even possible, given my nature... What'd be the fun be in a mage like me becoming a Magician this late in the game?"
"...Those don't sound like the words of someone who was just calling other 'hedonists,' and 'families that don't act unless they're interested.'"
"Did I say I was any different? Although, I am cuter than those two."
"..."
Faldeus' face said that he was exasperated beyond words. The smile Francesca flashed was unlike the innocent grins she had worn so far. There was something mature and bewitching about it.
"Magecraft, which people can recreate, is fine. But Magic defines human limits. We'd be better off without it. I believe that, and I also believe the folly of facing that wall is human nature."
Then she quietly shut her eyes, as if pondering the future of the "festival" that was about to begin.
"Whether it's rooted in bottomless virtue... or malice with no upper limit."
X X
The meat processing plant. Basement.
"I would ask that you answer my question, O mage."
A "great hero." Or else something that left even such words in its wake.
"Is it you who is to become my Master, and assign me trials?"
There was no other way to describe the being that had manifested in the basement of the meat processing plant, surrounded by a multi-layered barrier.
"You're the one to decide that, not me," the man who had summoned him, Bazdilot Cordelion, replied coolly.
The suit-clad mages who served him, meanwhile, were making their Magic Circuits tremble as they broke out in cold sweats. One look was all it had taken to make them understand that the entity that had just manifested belonged on a different plane from themselves.
First, its stature exceeded human bounds. It looked like a statue carved by a god. More than two and a half meters in height, the tips of its hair brushed the ceiling. It was a great, muscular man, but every fiber of his muscles, and every drop of blood in his veins, was overflowing with Od so pure it could be called divine. The mages got the impression that his body alone would be sufficient to easily dispel even large-scale magecraft that required a group to cast, not to mention their mediocre spells.
The mere atmosphere he exuded was enough to dominate the room. A mere few seconds of his conduct was enough to make those who saw him feel that he was practically divine. If this Heroic Spirit were to go out of control, there would be nothing they could do, and
whatever this Heroic Spirit did, they would have to accept that it was the right thing. Such fantasies began to seize Bazdilot's men in the presence of the perfect figure.
The Heroic Spirit was, in fact, capable of slaughtering every human in the room bare-handed. In contrast to the pressure exerted by his body and his magical energy, however, he stood in the center of the workshop with the calm bearing of a gentleman.
That, however, only made the Heroic Spirit's exceptional nature more obvious, and all the mages there, except for Bazdilot, had their brain's continually rocked by the urge to flee. This was no place for worthless mages like themselves. They were looking on a being it was not right for them to look on.
And yet, not one of them moved. Their fear was being kept in check by a greater fear. They could not run away while Bazdilot was still there. That was the only reason.
"______________________."
"______________________."
Bazdilot was discussing something with the Heroic Spirit, but the men did not hear it. It was a conversation between a being that was far more than human, and their own ruler. By the time they did manage to make out the words, the Heroic Spirit's expression had clouded over. Faced with a Heroic Spirit in an obvious ill humor, their superior, Bazdilot, remained expressionless.
"Well? Answer the question."
"..."
"I asked you if, in order to achieve victory in battle, you could kill a small child with your own hands."
"I could not. If any person would order such a thing, that person is my enemy."
A solemn voice flowed from the lips of the expressionless hero.
"Are you... testing me?"
An invisible pressure caused a wind to gust through the workshop as he spoke. It was pure might; not magical energy. A presence so weighty that an ordinary human could hardly help losing their life from suffering it head-on robbed the mage's of their freedom of movement.
"If you speak thus, knowing my origins... I judge that you have taken your life in your hands."
From the perspective of the extraneous mages, those words, delivered with such force, sounded like nothing less than a sentence of death. They prepared themselves to become collateral damage. And yet, they felt no hatred for their superior; only fear mixed with resignation.
That superior — unfazed in the face of the pressure that threatened to crush him, room and all — returned the hero's glare with that inhuman gleam in his eyes, and gave his answer.
"Naturally. I threw my life away a long time ago."
Then he held his right hand aloft, making the design on its back shine.
"By my Command Seal, I order you:"
"...Foolish."
The Heroic Spirit shook his head, judging that the man intended to impose his dominance by means of a Command Seal.
Restraints effected by means of a Command Seal were merely momentary. He knew that he could easily shake them off with his own magical energy. Even if he was ordered to kill himself with all three Command Seals, he judged that
three suicides more or less would not pose a problem. He decided, however, that if the attempt would teach the mage the futility of binding him with Command Seals, and help him to understand his place, he would not prevent the mage from wasting one Seal.
The Heroic Spirit was too noble. Had he been the type to stick at nothing in the face of danger, he would have smashed in the mage's head or sent it flying before he could finish activating his Command Seals. In fact, if he had been summoned as Rider or Assassin, he would probably have done just that. When summoned as one of the three knights, as he was now, however, his aspect as a "faultless hero," handed down in epics, came strongly to the fore. Accordingly, he had taken on a dignity that resembled a form of chivalry.
That created a fatal chink in the armor of that great hero beyond human understanding. For the order barked at him by means of a Command Seal was no demand for an oath of loyalty.
"Do not make excuses."
The hero let out a startled cry as one of Bazdilot's Command Seals shone... and its potent magical energy began to eat its way into his brain.
Impossible.
Even including past Grail Wars, the hero's magical energy was top class. The witches of the age of the gods would be one thing, but no modern mage should be capable of interfering with his mind. But, although it was through a Command Seal, "something" in the mage before his eyes had begun to jolt his brains. The hero recalled that he had experienced a similar gnawing sensation once before. Something of the same kind was being loosed into him by the man before his eyes.
"What... have you..."
"There is no need to hide your crimes, or your regrets. Lay bare your depths. I will see it all."
Bazdilot, still expressionless, tempted the hero in a voice that seemed to sound from the depths of hell.
"I do not need your power as a hero. I need the avarice that will drive you to stick at nothing for the sake of your goal. I need the deluded conviction that will drive a man to choose any vicious means without hesitation, even in pursuit of noble ends," he murmured to the now motionless Heroic Spirit, and raised his left hand a second time.
"By my Command Seal, I order you once more: remember the
humans you have seen."
There must have been some special meaning in those words. Otherwise, they must have been charged with some malefic intent.
The Command Seal, become a mass of magical energy, took the order that shook the hero's ears and caused it to seep deep into his brain.
His vision flickered. In the intervals, the faces of all the human beings the hero had encountered in life floated. There were distant descendents of gods among them, but before him they had all been no more than "mere humans."
A tyrant, a picture of cowardice, wailed, too frightened to stand:
"I understand! I'll praise you! On my honor as king, I'll praise you!
"S-so don't come any closer, monster!"
A blond man, remarkable for his haughty bearing, said:
"Incredible! I'm jealous! The rumors were true: you are a monster! Have no fear. I will treat you well, and put you to good use. So long as you are with me, you are a monster no more.
"You are a great hero, the guardian of a future king."
Just before she had chosen her own death, the woman he had loved said:
"You've done nothing wrong.
"So please, don't curse the world. Don't hate your own blood.
"You're strong, so I'm sure you can do it.
"I couldn't."
Just before he stove his head in and flung him into the flames, what should have been an enemy soldier had said:
"Fath—"
Human figures piled up, many, many layers deep, without regard for the order he had met them, and vanished. As if they were calling to each other, an unnatural volume of magical energy came pouring into him through the Command Seal.
Impossible. No human of this time possesses this much magical energy! It's like... a witch of my own era...
The matchless hero fell silently to his knees on the spot.
Confronted with that unbelievable scene, Bazdilot's men were baffled. A being of a clearly higher order was suffering before a mage, their own superior.
A Master-Servant relationship.
Everyone who beheld that scene understood that it could not be explained away so simply. They did, however, realize that a definite toll had been exacted.
In the Holy Grail War, the Command Seals that each Master possessed amounted to lifelines. They were trump cards capable of enforcing an order or prohibition on a Servant, and even feats, such a instantaneous transportation and emergency escape, that approached Magic. And Bazdilot had spent two of his three. When they considered that the last remaining Command Seal had to be held in reserve in case the Servant rebelled, Bazdilot effectively had no more usable Command Seals for the duration of the Grail War.
The mages felt worried that he had taken on a definite handicap, but a species of trust, which accompanied their fear, put their minds at ease that Bazdilot would manage somehow. That ease, however, collapsed just a few seconds later.
"By my Command Seal, I order you once more:"
The words froze the mages in the underground workshop. Bazdilot was going to expend all three of his Command Seals in his summoning. Faced with their superior committing an action so foolish that even a child, if they were familiar with the Grail War, would not do it, the mages prepared to die this time for certain.
The Heroic Spirit, meanwhile, also resolved himself as he held back the magical energy worming its way into him.
This mage is dangerous.
He did not see Bazdilot expending his final Command Seal as folly. He had realized that, although it did not show in his expression, the mage was taking his life in his hands. He was gambling his whole existence in order to transmute the Heroic Spirit into something else.
Whatever order he gives with his final Command Seal, I must at least eliminate this man.
Even the Heroic Spirit was not able to grasp the nature of the power eating into him. If he was not careful, however, this corrosion could spread to the other Heroic Spirits who had been summoned for the Holy Grail War. Even as he desperately suppressed the curse from his own lifetime welling up inside him, the great hero remained noble.
I must stop him. I must stop the wicked tyrant who would dominate this era.
Even as the mental pollution passed a point that would likely drive most Servants mad, this great hero still reached out his hand, not to defend himself, but for the sake of the other Heroic Spirits and the inhabitants of this era, who he had not yet even met. He did not care if he was called unprincipled. He did not care if he was called a mad spirit that turned his hands against his own Master. The man famed as a hero among heroes was determined to throw even his own honor to the winds, and slay the mage in front of him for the sake of someone he had not yet see.
Then, just as he had shaken off the mental pollution and his hand was about to reach the mage's neck... Bazdilot spent his last Command Seal, as if to sneer at the hero's nobility.
"Accept human nature — the robe of earth."
Everyone in the workshop, except for Bazdilot himself, saw "it." The moment that Bazdilot had expended all his Command Seals, another, reddish-brown tattoo peeked out of his left cuff... and began to squirm like some ghastly creature.
X X
In the gloom.
"Well then, if you'll excuse me. I've got to start preparations for my summoning."
"Sure, I don't mind. I want to take my time watching Artie get summoned on my own, anyway," Francesca said, flapping her legs. She had shifted herself from the sofa to the bed.
Observing that, Faldeus issued one last warning.
"Ms. Francesca, I am well aware of the carnage you've been through. An amateur mage such as myself, however, cannot help being concerned."
At that point, Faldeus narrowed his eyes, and made no attempt to conceal his hostility toward the man called Bazdilot as he continued.
"Was it really alright to give that man 'it'?"
"Does it bother you that much? But not even I could contrive enough magical energy to run the Heroic Spirit you can summon with that catalyst at full spec, you know? It really does take the combo of Baz and the Scladios for that."
"I'm not talking about the catalyst. I'm talking about the 'byproduct' you brought back from Fuyuki."
"Oh," Francesca nodded, and flashed a malicious grin. "That couldn't be helped. I mean, me and Baz are about the only ones who can handle 'it,' much less
grow it, with our egos intact...
"And I don't want to always be touching that repulsive 'mud'! Ahaha!"
X X
The meat processing plant.
It was a bizarre scene.
The reddish-brown something that had flowed into the Heroic Spirit's body along with the power of the Command Seals were eating away at it. The Heroic Spirit released magical energy of his own to oppose it, blowing away more than half the barriers around the workshop. Several of the mages, bombarded by more magical energy than they could handle, collapsed twitching.
Even as he was exposed to the torrent of magical energy, however, Bazdilot kept his piercing glare locked on the Heroic Spirit.
"Celebrate, affirm, and love that which they rejected. Do not hold back."
He launched not only the power of the Command Seals, but also his own accumulated magical energy through his outflung left hand. He continued to force the reddish-brown something that stretched from his hand into Heroic Spirit, making use of even the oriental folk magic that the Clock Tower spurned as heresy.
He was cutting through the wall of magic resistance with his primitive sorcery, clearing the way for the shadowy, writhing, reddish-brown thing to worm its way in directly. The cost was now greater than it seemed conceivable Bazdilot's cumulative magical energy could cover. The Heroic Spirit suspected some kind of trick, but he could not afford the effort to expose it.
Clutching his own body, clawing at every inch of it, the Heroic Spirit remembered the pain of the poison that had brought about his death. The suffering he felt ought to be of another kind, but his instincts dragged the torment of the poison out of his memories. His instincts were screaming that the power flowing into him now was just as dangerous.
Even as he bore the almost indescribable pain, the Heroic Spirit struggled desperately to repress the "urges" that prodded him from within and without. The next instant, however, the "mud" Bazdilot had sent into him had intertwined with the "curse" he had harbored within him as karma, and the kneeling hero let out a bellow that shook space itself.
"______________
________________
________________________!"
As if in sympathy with that roar, a dramatic change took place in his body.
Just as it seemed that the Heroic Spirits whole body had enveloped in reddish-brown mud, the muscles dropped from his thick, burly limbs. His height shrunk almost 50 centimeters, as if his very skeleton had contracted. The mud-like something that coated his body became a dye, and stained the hero's skin reddish-brown. Then the other type of power that had intertwined with the "mud" formed a white pigment, and marked his chest with a radial design, like a scar from having his heart gouged out. As it did, the hero's scream suddenly stopped, and he rose silently to his feet as though nothing had happened.
"How does it feel to have rid yourself of excess?" Bazdilot asked coolly, his left hand still raised. "From now on, that mud should give you power to make up for it."
The Heroic Spirit stared wordlessly back at him.
"The pass is already connected, but... I'll ask first."
Bazdilot stared at the Heroic Spirit who, although shrunken, was still a head taller than himself. His tone was indifferent.
"I ask you: are you my Servant?"
After a brief lapse of silence, the Heroic Spirit answered.
"...Why not?"
He spread the cloth that he had been wearing on his shoulders, and draped it over his head so that it concealed his face.
"In order to achieve my revenge... I will use you. When you lose your value... I will twist your head off with my own hands."
Having donned this bizarre outfit, the Heroic Spirit delivered a disturbing pronouncement in a voice so intelligent that it was difficult to believe he had been on the verge of madness.
"Why do you hide your face?" Bazdilot asked. Naturally, he still wore no expression.
"...A precaution. So that the works of man never again enter my sight."
"...Oh, I see. So that cloth is 'its' skin. If you can move freely like that, it's no problem."
"That is the way of it... Either way, I have no intention of exposing my face to the world. Not until I use the Holy Grail to purge my
true name."
The Heroic Spirit claimed that he would use the Holy Grail to erase a "name."
When Bazdilot heard that strange declaration, he grunted, then brought a hand to his chin and mused aloud:
"In that case, what should I call you? Your original nature has altered so much... Alternative... Why don't I call you 'Alter'?"
In response, the Heroic Spirit gave a little shake of his head, and uttered his name. He had changed completely since he had been summoned, and yet the name he spoke was his origin.
"My name is..."
X X
Beginning with the events at the meat processing plant, a number of Heroic Spirits descended on Snowfield that night, at roughly the same time Saber materialized in the opera house. Some accomplished the summoning as they had planned, some called up Heroic Spirits they could never have predicted, and some lost their lives before they even had a chance to see what they had summoned.
While the Masters and the Heroic Spirits they had summoned played with each other's fates, the "Fake Holy Grail War," whose full complement of Heroic Spirits had already been summoned, gave itself to a brief period of slumber. In order to submit themselves as medals of honor to the victors who sought them.
With the feast of Heroic Spirits that swallowed the town for a lullaby.
Originally Posted by OtherSideofSky
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