This is a war I've been working on for a while. Have fun. This is set in a timeline where the Fifth Holy Grail War led to the entire system being destroyed, but a new war may be starting.
Teaser
In a roundabout way, one could term the Holy Grail Wars a “series of unfortunate events.”
This would be true.
The Holy Grail War had a history of ending with casualties, emotional trauma, and mass destruction. It had even caused the three great Mage families, the Matous, Einzberns, and Tohsakas to die at the end of the Fifth War. To say nothing of the fact that the Grail itself and Fuyuki had been destroyed so thoroughly that they could have been said to have never existed.
So, yes, the Holy Grail War was definitely a series of unfortunate events that seemed to have run their course. Some Mages may have felt unhappy with the War’s passing, but it was over. Even if any idiots had wanted to restart the war, they had no Grail, no catalyst. Their hopes would be dashed.
Until now.
Stories flew like ravens to the Mages of Europe, telling them of a new Grail within the city of Reinfelt, Poland. A city known for its ley lines being above average, but nothing special beyond. Until now.
Professors in their ivory, or perhaps clockwork, towers would scoff at the impossibility of such an event. The techniques to recreate a Grail were lost, they claimed. But the truth was undeniable. Or at least, the truth that people were believing the story was undeniable. And, in the world of Magecraft, aren’t stories power?
So, that was the reason why Reinfelt was in the midst of a magecraft renaissance, a Gold Rush. Several impetuous youngsters flocked to the city, some bringing their entire workshops or most precious Mystic Codes with them. All for a chance at a miracle.
Some would die, but that’s a risk they were willing to take. Pascal’s Wager. Infinite benefits outweighed finite risks. They needed to try and to dream. For a few months, it seemed as though this was just a story. When they went home, they would undoubtedly be a little sheepish.
But such a fate was reserved for the unworthy many, who had not managed to summon a servant. The chosen few would fight on in this Resurrected Holy Grail War.
Would these events be just as unfortunate as the first?
Only fate would tell.
Chapter 1: The First Prologue
The sky was black as the hearts of mages. Clouds hung above the sky like fruits, promising rain. Truly it was a storm that one would remember. A Storm of the Century. The man walking down the lonely road took no notice of this.
The road led to a large manor. The kind that showed that the owner had wealth, but also taste. The garden was diligently maintained and the house was old, the age providing dignity rather than damages . As if it were planned by fate, as he came to the front door, lightning flashed.
As the storm increased in intensity, the door opened, sparing the man the discomfort of wet clothes. An old man with a dignity about him; a butler directed him into a room. The visitor graciously accepted and strolled beneath the cavernous ceiling where he would meet the master of the house. As he walked, blood ran down his face and from his eyes. The walk turned into a run.
He made his way into a small study where Felle La Syncope Mormontine Darkelyn sat. There was a large desk, solid like an obelisk and two chairs were there. Before he could take his sheet, Darkelyn stood.
Darkelyn, always the gracious host, stood before his visitor could sit. He was an extremely average man, youthful and vigorous, except for his eyes. They seemed … old. He attempted to greet his guest.
“Ansel,” he said, his eyes studying the visitor, “What an unexpected-”
Ansel raised a hand. “Let’s not.”
Darkelyn dispensed with the pleasantries. “How bad is it?”
Ansel D’Aminton left the shadows and unbuttoned his coat. He dropped it onto the desk. A sound of chemical burning filled the room.
The shirt underneath was soaked with blood. His body seemed to be flaking away and his hair, normally crisply combed, hung limply. His skin was a living horror, black pustules littering it. One hand seemed almost crushed. His voice broke and sounded rusty.
“My God,” Darkelyn studied him. “I knew it had to be bad, but this?" He leaned further in. "I’ve seen corpses looking better off than you-” he gestured, “-how are you still breathing.” He stepped backwards. “It must be quite painful.”
Ansel made a gesture. Darkelyn continued. “I know that this isn’t the kind of thing you want to hear, but that goes to show what happens when you mess with the Failryns. They know how to hurt people.”
“I needed something from them.” He gestured to a box, chained shut, that he had been carrying.
“Is that a catalyst? For the war? Don’t tell me that you tried to steal from them. What possessed you to do that?”
“I survived,” Ansel said.
“You clearly did.” Darkelyn’s words dripped sarcasm. “The question is for how long.”
Ansel’s left eye blinked rapidly, as if he had lost control of it. “Is it fixable?”
Darkelyn nodded. “I’m not the best healer in my family, but I do have an admirable array of tools at my disposal. I’ll see what I can do.” He sipped an expensive wine. “The pain is going to be quite remarkable.”
Ansel nodded.
“And of course, there will be a cost. I trust you know what I mean?”
“That?”
“Yes.”
Ansel hesitated. “Why? My family has resources. I have resources. Surely something else will do.”
Darkelyn shook his head. “No, Ansel, that won’t work. The type of attack used against you, it’s not something that you can buy off or wish away. It can only be paid in blood.”
Ansel began to sob, but he followed Darkelyn deeper into the estate.
They wandered the maze of the Darkelyn manor for some time. It was tastefully decorated and was nothing like what lay within. Then they came into a small, sterile room. This was the only place in the house that was honest about itself.
Darkelyn collected several sharp instruments from a cupboard and assembled his more mystical tools. He then reached for a scalpel to begin with.
“Everything you’re giving up, Ansel. It’s so much.” He leaned forward, beginning his work. “I hope that this was worth it.”
Ansel, tied to the table, screamed.
He fell into a world of darkness, paralyzed. Every single part of his body that had nerve receptors was alight. He thought he screamed, but there was no sound. His body seemed to be flying, over the great city in which Heroic Spirits would battle.
His bones seemed to break, but he continued to float. All of his bravado was gone. He just wanted the pain to stop. Despite the fact that its constancy should have been monotonous, it instead managed to find new ways to hurt. And then he fell to earth and it got worse.
Children, with broken bodies, white hair, and red eyes, screamed at him. They approached him, crying, weeping, beating him with their small hands. He remembered them. He begged forgiveness, absolution. There was none.
One of them called him father. That one was slipping away, indistinct.
“Forgive me, Joseph.”
And then it was done. He woke up in a four poster bed. Darkelyn was sitting on the side.
“You’re awake,” Darkelyn said. “It’s been a while.”
Ansel tried to move, but his back fell afire. Darkelyn admonished him. “I don’t think you should be out of bed for a while.”
“Bullshit, I gave up too much. Where’s my catalyst?”
Darkelyn feigned indignation. “You aren’t implying that I would steal it, would you? No, your bloody treasure is right next to the bed. I’ve also prepared a circle.”
“You’re being awfully hospitable, Felle. I’d expected you to kick me out.”
“I have a fondness for hopeless cases like you. And besides, I’ve already taken my payment.”
Ansel tried to laugh. The sound died in his throat. Darkelyn had given him his life, but not much of it.
“I think I’ll be the first mage to ever attempt a ritual from bed. Even if I die horribly, I’ll have that.” And then his circuits flared as he chanted.
I stand as a humble supplicant
Before the serpent’s garden,
Where the dead live, crystallized in amber.
Though their heroism is unquestioned,
Justice carries a scale as well as swords
I shall be thine scales, and thou shall be my sword.
And from this alliance, we shall forge a miracle.
If any have faith, they will answer my call
If any have strength, they will answer my call
If any have honor, they will answer my call
For all of the forgotten children, we shall protect
Answer me now.
Come to me now, UNDER FORCE, UNDER WILL
The windows of the room broke and the wind rushed in. Darkelyn’s shouts were muffled, and then in the center of the circle, something twisted in reality and a shape was seen.
They were slim, though tall, and wore a white coat. The newly summoned servant’s face gave no emotions, but they asked a simple question.
“Are you my master?”
Ansel, in a hoarse voice, answered. “Yes.”
Three command seals were on his hand. The first servant had been summoned.
The Resurrected Holy Grail War had begun.
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