Chapter 14
Gold and Lions I
Several Hours Earlier
Main Street, near Snowfield Central Hospital
The sight was like a fantasy.
Not, however, in the sense of a delightful paradise. It was fantastical in the sense of a battle between gods or a vision of Hell.
Berserker, Jack the Ripper, had transformed into more than two hundred demons.
Their overwhelming domination, which had slaughtered the three-headed demon dog that had belonged to the "true" Archer, who called himself Alkeides, and had seemed poised to overwhelm the Heroic Spirit as well... when that power to become a demon—the Spirit Origin called a Noble Phantasm—had been completely stolen by Alkeides' Noble Phantasm "Reincarnation Pandora: Usurper of Heavenly Winds."
A Noble Phantasm that stole Noble Phantasms.
Its power defied reason. With it, Alkeides had acquired grotesque strength.
He kicked Jack aside and raised his weapon to slaughter the police officers who stood in his way.
But just then, the other Archer—the first of all heroes, clad in golden armor—appeared.
The further arrival of Saber, his red-streaked blond hair fluttering, and his party sent the situation spiraling into even greater confusion.
"Well, this is a surprise. Can these 'Servants' even be fiends of the pit?" Saber—Richard I, "the Lionheart"—asked the dark-haired young man behind him. The situation was obviously abnormal and filled with countless sudden deaths if he took even one false step, but Saber was unfazed, as if to say that this was where he belonged.
The dark-haired young man—Sigma, the self-proclaimed Master of "Lancer Chaplin"—who was oblivious to the prevailing mood in a different sense from Saber, replied matter-of-factly.
"I've been told that Anti-Heroes may have appeared in the Fuyuki Holy Grail War as well. According to my employer, beings like that are sometimes summoned when the conditions are right."
"I see. Well, it is capable of summoning fairies, after all. If a banshee or something had turned up, I'd have liked to take a look at it for old times' sake, but it appears this isn't an opponent I can afford to sit back and watch."
Saber surveyed the Heroic Spirit who had taken on a demonic appearance, and then glanced upward.
"The same goes for the gaudy one up there."
Above them stood a man clad in golden armor who exuded a powerful aura.
"Know your place, mongrel," the Heroic Spirit looking down from atop the church's belfry addressed Saber with an air of displeasure. "Who granted you permission to look up at me?"
Arrogance.
If one were to put a word to his manner of speech, that would be the natural choice.
Saber, however, immediately realized that it was not hubris. He was able to understanding that the man was saying that he was nevertheless worthy of being granted permission.
The golden Heroic Spirit stood above him.
The demonic bowman standing stood in front of him.
That flashy fellow is an archer too?
I see. Two archers certainly does mean that this Grail War isn't normal.
It appeared that, just as the Lancer he had met in the forest had warned him, this Holy Grail War was far from ordinary.
In spite of which, the knowledge he had received from the Grail pertained to a "proper" Holy Grail War. That probably meant something.
But Richard didn't have time to consider difficult questions at the moment.
The golden Heroic Spirit probably far outclassed him. The strength of his Spirit Origin rivaled that of the beautiful Lancer Richard had met in the forest. He could tell at a glance that he had no chance of winning if they fought head-on.
And then there was the grotesque bowman with demon's horns sprouting from his head, with whom he had conversed earlier. He could tell that this Heroic Spirit was likewise so powerful that he had no hope.
Richard's Spirit Origin tensed and insistently warned him of danger. The alarm came from the fragments who were not quite Heroic Spirits and who accompanied Richard due to his Noble Phantasm.
"Do you want to die for nothing? Retreat before it's too late," Locksley the assassin, Pierre the bowman, and the other fragments of Spirit Origins continued to cool-headedly sound the alarm.
He could also sense the Spirit Origins of an indifferent-seeming swordsman and a mage who merely smiled faintly, but Saber himself was focused on the overwhelmingly mighty opponents standing before him, his eyes shining.
"My heart gave me permission. I doubt I could ever look down on you, but I take you for a storied Heroic Spirit worth looking up at. A king, judging by your manner. It's not every day I meet someone who merits respect just by standing there. I know my place, and so I give thanks that I was able to be here today."
"Mongrel. Do you intend to appraise me with such eyes? I have no need of thanks—I have not permitted you anything."
The golden-armored Heroic Spirit spoke dispassionately, without changing his expression.
"Be gone at once."
At that, the space behind the Heroic Spirit distorted and countless weapons emerged from holes in the air. When they moved, it was with the intent to kill Saber, who opened his eyes wide in astonishment.
Like arrows loosed from drawn bows, numerous weapons shrouded in magical energy on par with Noble Phantasms fired at the spot where Saber stood.
Sigma must have sensed the danger in advance, because he had already retreated to an alleyway by the church.
Saber, left to stand alone, hesitated for a moment, but then spoke as if he had made sense of the situation.
"When you said, 'be gone,' you meant from this world!"
He drew his own sword with a cheerful grin.
"Ha ha! What a droll fellow!"
It was a dull-bladed ornamental sword that had adorned the walls of the mansion in the wetlands that Sigma had made his base of operations. But as far as Saber was concerned, having a grip was enough to make it a fine weapon.
The sword flashed for an instant and began swatting the weapons launched from behind the golden Heroic Spirit out of the air.
Even so, it was only able to strike down a few of them—a drop in the bucket compared to the dozens of Noble Phantasm raining down.
The golden Heroic Spirit was apparently convinced that that would suffice and had already turned his attention back to the monstrous Archer. That demonic-looking Archer, however, turned to look at Richard. His expression was indiscernible behind the strange cloth that covered his face.
Richard's instincts as a Heroic Spirit immediately alerted him that he was being evaluated for some unclear purpose, but he had no time to consider the point. In less than a second, the countless weapons were nearly upon him.
Richard leapt, swinging his sword once again, and danced into the tiny gap left by the several weapons he had knocked aside. He had dodged the onslaught by a hair's breadth, but the weapons struck the ground around him, smashing the asphalt. The torn-up earth became a new threat to Richard, pouring down on the spot where he stood.
Richard, however, was no longer there.
"I see, I see! So, blades as fine as these cause disasters just by sticking in the ground!" Richard called out, moving with incredible swiftness and seizing one of the Noble Phantasms lodged in the ground—a weapon in the shape of a long sword. "What magnificent workmanship! Just holding it makes me feel as if I had an army at my back! I don't just mean the quantity of magical energy it contains; I mean this craftsmanship, this construction, this composition! It's plain to see that even its least decoration is both simple and complete! If each of these arms is the work of the planet, they form both the headwaters and the fertile plains! Hey! Listen! This is marvelous! Are all these other weapons as fine?! And you toss them down like they were nothing! Where are you maharaja of? Oh, I tell you frankly and with respect: You are magnificent and I envy you!"
Despite having just evaded an attack that, had it struck him, would certainly have proved fatal, Richard's eyes sparkled like a child's. His sudden outburst drew bewildered stares from the police officers, who were doing their best to keep their distance and regroup.
The next words out of Richard's mouth would have seemed like nothing short of suicide to anyone who knew the golden Heroic Spirit.
"Say! Since you have so many... would you mind giving me a few?"
X X
Inside the church
"How can he smile in a situation like that?"
Snowfield's largest church stood across the street from the hospital. In one corner of it, a woman muttered, drawing in her breath.
"And?" A somber man's voice echoed from behind her. "Judging by your gaze, miss...may I presume that you are that Saber's Master?"
The words of the priest dispatched by the Holy Church to oversee this Holy Grail War, Hansa Cervantes, caused the blonde woman who had been peering out the window, Ayaka Sajō, to glance briefly in his direction and then shake her head.
"I'm...not a Master."
"Oh? But I sense a path of magical energy linking you. Aren't you here in this church to seek sanctuary?"
"...No. I only came because Saber said this would be the safest place nearby."
Ayaka spoke brusquely, but with the bare minimum of courtesy for the priest's station.
Hansa was not especially put out and joined her in looking out the window at the street as he continued.
"Good grief. This is supposed to be a shelter. I can't have people treating it like a watchtower or a trench. Oh well, it's not a big deal. Using whatever you can is what war's all about. Especially wars between mages."
Hansa shifted his attention slightly upward and let out an aggrieved sigh.
"It looks like a Heroic Spirit's gotten up on the roof. Honestly, what does he think this sacred church is?"
X X
"I took you for a mere fly, but I see you are a shameless beggar."
The Heroic Spirit on the church roof appeared to take an interest in Richard for the first time. He turned not just his gaze, but his head to face him.
The golden Heroic Spirit looked down with less anger than pity in his eyes. Richard continued unperturbed.
"I suppose it was rude to ask you to give them to me! I would love to buy them, if I can afford them price!"
Richard persisted in speaking casually to the golden Heroic Spirit.
"But having laid eyes on such treasures, I can't suppress the feelings they inspire in me! I'd run into battle with as many of them as I can carry if I could! I assume, given your preemptive strike, that we're already at war, but for such fine pieces, I want to do things properly no matter the circumstances! I'd like to borrow these weapons as I please while we fight! How does that sound to you?"
"You have some nerve to joke like that while laying your hands on them so casually, mongrel!" The golden Archer scowled. "Still, it seems you have eyes to appreciate fine workmanship before letting glitter cloud your mind. As a reward, I shall permit you to stain my treasures with your blood. Receive it gladly."
By the time he finished speaking, he had already taken action and launched dozens more weapons out of thin air. They rained mercilessly down on Richard, who held both the new sword he had taken and the one he had come with.
They were slightly faster and more numerous than the previous attack.
Richard weaved between the weapons, planting his feet on the chunks of rubble they flung up and using them as stepping stones to leap high into the air.
"Since I'm risking my life for this joke, I'd like another favor from you!"
Then, twirling like an acrobat, he unleashed a weighty series of strikes.
"What I want isn't blood on your weapons."
"Oh-ho..."
"It's to leave just a little scratch on your magnificent armor."
Evading the oncoming swarm of deadly blows, Richard changed direction in midair.
He completely changed course without a stepping stone of any kind.
Although he must have been under considerable strain, he contorted his body still further, adding the force of his rotation to make his sword reach the golden Heroic Spirit.
Seeing that, the scowling Heroic Spirit drew the sword in his own hand.
"So, you, a mere gladiator, weave magecraft!"
The golden Heroic Spirit parried the nearly-surprise attack and dropped to the roof one level below the belfry, glaring at Richard, who held one of his treasures.
He did not shout angrily or lose his composure; his tone remained one of rebuke for a lack of courtesy.
"No, that wasn't me."
Richard judged that he was still unable to so much as bring the golden Heroic Spirit down into his arena and readied his swords again, grinning provocatively up at his opponent.
"It's a little joke my retinue played on you."
X X
"...He's fast."
The grotesque bowman, Alkeides, kept his distance and observed the new contender's capabilities with a cool gaze that belied his wild appearance.
His dexterity was probably about on par with the Amazon Rider's on horseback.
Alkeides could sense no divinity from him, which told him that the Heroic Spirit had been formed as a pure human.
His speed, however, surpassed human limitations and the magical energy that swirled around him was shrouded in a strange magical energy that was neither human nor divine.
He isn't strong enough to make my blood run cold. But purely in terms of speed, he may outmatch me. Depending on his Noble Phantasm, he merits caution.
Alkeides then recalled the power, similar to magical energy, that surged from Saber's body.
It was like...the Naiads that abducted my attendant Hylas...
He was on the verge of dredging up memories of the time he had left the Argonauts from the depths of his Spirit Origin when he was forced to abandon that train of thought.
The police officers around him had gotten back into formation and were showing signs of resuming their assault on him.
"Humph... I must apologize for focusing on other enemies during our confrontation."
"...You have no intention of withdrawing?" One of the officers asked.
Alkeides shook his head.
"Just as you have those you must protect, I have things I must steal. There is no need for us to understand each other. If anyone could find common ground with my intentions, such a villain would also be my enemy."
He would vanquish those who opposed him.
Those who made peace with him he would also destroy.
It sounded unreasonable in the extreme, but Alkeides continued as if to test the officers.
"What I am going to do is to slaughter a child unable to comprehend my reasons. Once I have done that, I will have no business with you. Will any of you forsake a child to save your own skins?"
He gripped his bow as he posed the question.
He did not draw the string. He merely gripped it.
Even so, if he were to suddenly swing his bow, casualties would result.
The quality of the Noble Phantasms the police officers held didn't matter.
The Heroic Spirit standing before them was beyond such distinctions.
All of their legs were shaking, but still, in spite of that, they did not flee. They did not even look away.
They were not unafraid. Some of them were holding back tears and chattering teeth. If this had been a normal mission, they would have called a temporary retreat.
But they understood.
If they retreated here, it would be the end.
There would be no heavily armed riot squad or National Guard coming to deal with the vicious criminal. Even if there were, they would never be more capable of facing him than they, armed with Noble Phantasms, already were.
They were the best.
They were there because they were the best pawns that the police, as an organization, had to offer.
They couldn't say whether that was a suggestion that their chief had implanted in them or routine that had seeped into them as autosuggestion. They, who were registered as Clan Calatin, had only their chief's assurance.
"You are justice."
Just those words without anything to support them.
But to those who believed them, those words were a spell, or perhaps a blessing, that bound action and fate.
And the one most bound by those words was a young officer who stood on the battlefield despite the loss of his right arm.
X X
Orlando Reeve, chief of the Snowfield Police Department, was one of the managers—or one might say the masterminds—of the "Fake Holy Grail War."
As far as the ordinary citizens were concerned, one of his subordinates, John Wingard, could have been called the ideal police officer.
When he had been barely old enough to understand what was happening, he had seen his mother's death on TV.
John's father had quickly turned it off to shield his son from that flame-shrouded scene, but that instant of fire had been indelibly engraved in John's mind.
His mother had been a police officer who had received numerous commendations for her achievements. He remembered that his generally unemotional father had told young John about his mother as bedtime stories to stop his crying.
When he thought back on it, it may have been a kind of curse.
Since then, John had been chasing the shadow of the mother he barely remembered.
He hadn't been told that his father was a mage, even by the time he joined the police force.
John was a third son and his oldest brother was to be the next head of the family, so as a mage he had only been regarded as his brother's spare.
His father had apparently concealed his true identity even from John's mother, but it seemed that higher-ups in the United States government, or rather certain departments that dealt with the field of magecraft, had been aware of his existence.
When it came to dealing with Mystery, no nation, no matter how powerful, could help lagging behind the Holy Church and the Mages Association.
It was in that context that John had been summoned to a certain police facility and informed of his origins. His father had apparently already agreed. John had been sold to the state on the condition that his father, who was estranged from the Mages Association, would receive the government's financial backing.
John had been confused, but the instant he actually performed magecraft himself, his skepticism vanished and he had been forced to accept the reality.
He had felt fear.
If this power really existed, then just how many cases had it been used to cover up? How many unsolved cases involved magecraft? How many innocent people had been wrongly convicted due to false information?
He could understand the concept of concealing Mystery. He could not, however, understand the concept of sacrificing others to do so.
For mages, it was a matter of course, but John had been raised as an ordinary person. In the midst of his anger at the unreasonable nature of mage society, Orlando Reeve had spoken to him.
"When heretics commit outrages, it takes other heretics to keep them in line."
John, having been headhunted by Orlando and assigned to a unit under his direct command, was transferred to Snowfield, where he learned a shocking truth.
"This city is going to become a battlefield for mages. Now that the government has taken action, there's no way to stop that.
"We could fight the government, but that wouldn't even be recklessness; it would be folly.
"That being the case, our duty is to continue to maintain order while it happens. We need to proof to all mages that here, the border with the world of magecraft is guarded.
"Never forget: if we fail, at worst eight hundred thousand people will be sacrificed."
He did not agree with everything the chief said.
He had even made attempts to get that plan abandoned, sure that no government could be so cruel.
The more he learned about the plan, however, the more he understood that no individual effort could possibly change anything in time. He came to believe that the course the chief proposed was the most rational.
They would take control of the course of the Holy Grail War and suppress the situation before harm came to ordinary citizens.
John believed that if they could do that, it would stand as proof.
If they had the power to overcome Heroic Spirits, the ultimate familiars, then they would become a major check against mages just by continuing to be there.
John did not understand that the monsters called mages would never stop for that sort of common sense. To mages, who would treat even their own lives as pawns in order to reach the Origin, a "check" that consisted only of great strength was just a fine subject for observation.
Not having been brought up as a mage, John could not even comprehend the cunning wiles that the Mages Association and the Holy Church, custodians of Mystery in the true sense, employed to spread their roots throughout the world.
And there was one more thing he had not understood.
No matter how spectacular a weapon he had, no matter how he honed his magecraft, mind, and body...there were horrifying monsters out there that would return it all to nothing.
The moment John realized that was the moment that the monster commonly known as a "Dead Apostle" that called itself Jester Karture had taken his right arm.
He had lost his arm completely when it had been "eaten" by the hematophage that called itself a Dead Apostle during the assault on the police station the day before. But because his supporter, Caster—Alexandre Dumas—had provided him with a new prosthetic arm, the chief of police had reluctantly permitted his return to active duty.
He had only been permitted to return as support for the other members of Clan Calatin and not to stand on the front lines...but they had quickly lost the ability to maintain a formation with any distinction between front and rear lines. Half of the nearly thirty police officers armed with Noble Phantasms had sustained injuries and were unable to move normally. It was the most the remaining members could do to maintain any kind of formation at all and were in no condition to put up a proper fight on their own now that Jack the Ripper had retreated.
They had also not anticipated another Heroic Spirit they had obtained information about in advance, Gilgamesh the King of Heroes, joining the fray.
He was currently engaged in combat with the newly arrived Saber, but the King of Heroes' fighting style was both bizarre and straightforward. He forced his opponents to surrender their lives through the force of overwhelming quantity. They had heard about his indiscriminately firing Noble Phantasms, but now that they actually saw it, they could do nothing but dumbly let the scene burn itself into their eyes.
John even wondered for a moment if they were only confronting the grotesque bowman in order to avoid facing the reality of the King of Heroes' power, but the Heroic Spirit in front of them was no less dangerous, so he abandoned the comparison as meaningless.
"What I am going to do is to slaughter a child unable to comprehend my reasons. Once I have done that, I will have no business with you. Will any of you forsake a child to save your own skins?" The bowman before them asked solemnly.
They had no obligation to answer him...but John opened his mouth before he knew what he was doing.
"If there were, I wouldn't laugh and I wouldn't be disappointed, either. But that doesn't mean I can let you through."
"Oh? You won't run, then?"
"...If I were keeping my cool and thinking ahead, I'd want to run. I doubt I'll be able to beat you no matter what I do... But I'm afraid of abandoning a kid in exchange for a future and a cool head."
After hearing that answer and scrutinizing John for a moment, however, the grotesque bowman made a strange pronouncement.
"...You have courage, son of man. I would not call you foolhardy. For that, I pity you."
"...?"
"No..." The bowman said to the bewildered John. "It's none of your concern."
The next instant, the bowman was standing right in front of John.
"Wha...?"
The movement appeared instantaneous, but it was achieved not through speed due to physical strength, but by moving in a gap in their attention.
The movement testified to the fact that the grotesque bowman did not rely solely on physical strength, but was also possessed of skill achieved through superhuman training. John, however, did not despair at it.
He had no time to appreciate the difference in power before the massive bow struck his neck.
Then, before he even knew what had happened to him, and before he had a chance to prove that he could fight with the prosthetic arm Dumas had given him...John Wingard was sent flying with a broken neck and smashed into the hospital's glass entrance door with a loud crash.
X X
Even as a pitiable police officer was about to lose his life, the duel between Richard and the golden Archer continued to unfold on the roof of the church.
The golden Heroic Spirit kept up a relentless series of attacks while still managing to appear unruffled. He nevertheless shot the occasional inquisitive glance at Richard, who continued to dodge his assault, and posed a question to him without dropping his haughty demeanor.
"Mongrel, I permit you to answer my questions."
"I'm honored."
He slackened his attacks, but there was no complacency or conceit in his opponent's eyes.
Richard could see plainly that taking advantage of the opportunity to charge in would only lead to his taking the brunt of a heavy counterattack. He therefore decided to halt for the moment and listen to what his opponent had to say.
"You've scraped through a similar predicament before, haven't you? I can tell by the way you dodge."
"Yes," Richard answered with a shrug, "I went through the same thing yesterday. It was all the other side up, though."
"...What became of your opponent?"
"We made friends. Our Masters—well, contractors—seemed to get along too."
Richard corrected himself in deference to Ayaka denying being his Master, but that did not seem to make much difference to his opponent, who showed no particular reaction to it. Richard failed to notice, however, that the golden Heroic Spirit's eyelids twitched in surprise at the words "we made friends." Even so, he could tell that his mood had changed.
Until then, he had been "eliminating an insolent pest." Now, however, his animosity had lessened and a different mood was filling the area in its place. It was an atmosphere that Richard had surrounded himself with in life, but that fact was lost on his present self.
"I see... They may be my friend, but they are as soft on others as ever."
The golden Heroic Spirit spoke with a wry smile. His words puzzled Richard, who had a bad a feeling about what was coming.
"What?"
"My friend." I've heard this somewhere before.
One day earlier, to be precise. When he had proposed an alliance to the Heroic Spirit he had met in the vast forest.
"You see, that one best friend of mine is rather hard to please. Whenever I try to make friends or form an alliance with someone, he says, 'I shall test you to see if you are worthy of my friend,' or something like that and chases them off with unreasonable demands."
Then, Richard noticed that, unlike earlier, all the space around him had begun to distort.
Oh, this looks like I'm going to die, doesn't it?
Surrounded on all sides by the Noble-Phantasm-launching distortions, Richard sensed "death" with every inch of his body.
The golden hero addressed him just as the Lancer Richard had met in the forest had said he would.
"I shall test you to see if you are worthy of my friend."
"Hey now, just because someone might take your friend doesn't..."
Richard began to crack a joke, but cut himself short.
He was not unperceptive. One look at the golden hero's expression was enough to tell him that his opponent could not be motivated by simple covetousness, jealously, or any other vulgar emotion.
"Please forget I said that. It was immature of me."
"You did well to stop yourself. You have my compliments. If you had finished that sentence, I would have struck off your head and ended this without even bothering to test you."
Then, the golden hero addressed Richard not as a king, nor as a warrior, nor as a Heroic Spirit, but as a judge.
"Circumstances have changed. Mongrel, I acknowledge you not as riffraff, but as a 'seeker' worthy of my trial. If you survive, you will be my friend's ally and my certain 'enemy.'
"Should that time come, I will permit you to leave your blood on my treasures again, this time as a 'person.' Consider yourself honored."
X X
__________
Click, clack, clatter.
Clusters of little sounds wandered through the man's darkness.
Whispering voices mixed with the sounds of hard objects colliding faintly vibrated John's eardrums.
The metallic sounds, which refused to stop even while the voices spoke, sounded rough, but to John they seemed to have a musical elegance.
"Where am I...?"
He slowly raised himself.
Strangely, he felt no pain, but all his other sensations were hazy. Only smell tickled his mind—an appetizing scent that included the aromas of fruit liqueur and toasting butter.
Then John realized that he was in a restaurant. Warm, orange light filled the air, but it was not electric light; it was the glow of candle flames.
John could see a single man sitting at the enormous long table illuminated by that glow, surrounded by stunningly beautiful women who chatted amiably and occasionally refilled the man's glass.
"Um...I..."
When John tried to speak to the people around the table, the man elegantly wiped his mouth with a napkin and then leisurely turned to face him.
"Hey there. I see you're up."
"What...? Mr. Du—Caster?!"
It was Alexandre Dumas, the Caster who had made a contract with the chief of police and who was well known to John and the other members of Clan Calatin. Only his hair stuck up more and he seemed a little larger than when John had met him in his workshop.
"Um, what am I doing here...? Where's everyone else?"
At that point, John realized that Dumas was not looking at him.
"Huh?"
John tried to touch a candlestick, but his hand passed right through it. And that was not all—a beautiful woman carrying food walked right through him like a ghost. At that, John realized that he did not exist in that place.
His brief training as a mage must have borne fruit, because he recognized that this was no ordinary dream, but something of mystical significance.
"Relax. This is a restaurant. It's kinda high-class, though, so try not to make a scene. Friend or foe, I suggest you listen to what I've got to say for now."
At first it seemed like Dumas was speaking to John, but his words were actually directed at someone standing behind and a little to the side of him.
John was still confused, but he steeled himself and slowly turned to look behind him.
And there...stood a single wounded man.
Part of his body was wrapped in bandages, stained here and there by oozing blood. But both the white of the bandages and the dark red of the freshly dried blood were quickly wiped from his impression of the man.
Black.
The blackness of the man's coat seemed to express the color of his soul.
His skin was pale to the point of being sickly and his hair was far from dark. He must have been caught up in some serious trouble, because while John caught glimpses of fine clothes such as a nobleman might wear under his coat, the coat itself looked scorched all over. Still, John could not help feeling that the blackness of that coat was the man's true nature.
While John hesitated, the man in the black coat continued to glare warily at Dumas without uttering a word.
Dumas, perhaps sensing the man's bloodlust, shrugged and waved a hand.
"Oh, I take that back. I'm not a fan of getting killed, so let me make it clear that I'm not your enemy. If I were, you'd be on a ship to Hell by now. Am I wrong? Actually, considering the 'enemies' you took on, you'd be lucky if a trip to Hell was the worst you got."
Dumas picked up a nearby pitcher of water and poured it into a glass as he continued.
"Anyway, have a drink. If you need someone to taste it for poison, I'll do the honors."
At that, the pitch-black man addressed Dumas without relaxing his guard.
"Who are you...? Do you...know about me...?"
"Yeah, you could say that. I'm not directly involved, but I happened to find out about you. About what you've managed to get done and about what you're trying to do now."
At that, the dark man slowly rose to his feet, warier than ever. Dumas held out the glass of water to him and nodded at the seat across the table, as if testing him.
"Have a seat. A count shouldn't be standing around like that."
"..."
"Oh, or would you rather I call you something else?"
Then, Dumas uttered a proper name that was both the other man's outer surface and his innermost core.
"Edmond Dantès. Nice name. It'd look great in print, you know?
"Although 'Le Comte de Monte-Cristo' would make a better title for a novel."
X X
Central Snowfield
"A trial, is it?" Richard asked the man standing on the roof with him as he readied his sword.
"I see. I thought you were an Archer, but are you perhaps of the Ruler Class?"
Richard, drawing on the knowledge bestowed on him by the Grail, mentioned an Extra Class.
The golden Heroic Spirit, however, laughed scornfully.
"Fool. A Ruler in a Holy Grail War is merely an impartial scale that judges by the world's standards. There is nothing impartial about my judgments. The path I have walked and the wealth I have piled in my treasury are the scales that will judge you."
Faced with a Heroic Spirit who ostentatiously declared that he was the rules, Richard grinned cheerfully and nodded.
"A fool, am I? I get that a lot."
Richard sighed, resting his sword on his shoulder and glancing down at the road.
"I only came here in the first place because I heard that the guards who defend this city were going to investigate a Heroic Spirit spreading a mysterious plague and thought I might be able to do something to help. I suppose that encounters in the Holy Grail War do naturally lead to fighting."
"Do not dissemble, mongrel," the golden Heroic Spirit laughed scornfully. "What do you have to lament? You are enjoying this situation more than anyone."
"..."
Richard flashed a fearless grin by way of an answer and posed a question of his own to the golden Heroic Spirit.
"You know...your friend called that plague the 'black curse.' Those guards have assembled to do something about it, am I right? Are you certain you don't want to help them? We could always form an alliance."
Richard, who insisted on calling the police officers "guards," recalled what his ally Lancer had told him—that "if the curse and mud mix," it would be "a disaster"—while he waited for an answer.
The golden Heroic Spirit, however, kept his arms folded and his eyes fixed on Richard.
"That impertinent spell? I will blast it away when it shows itself. Nothing you do will alter that outcome. It is making itself a bit of a nuisance, but executing the source of the curse will put an end to that."
"I see. It's true that I've only just arrived and don't fully grasp the situation, but it sounds like your 'trial' will take everything I've got."
Richard cracked his neck and inquired about his current predicament.
"It's not just my life on the scales; it's my whole past and future all taken together. Isn't that right?"
"Enough chatter. Are you a fool who needs everything spelled out for him?"
Richard watched the golden Servant make this unreasonable declaration with a wry grin.
"I see. I can accept that. So, this is already a battlefield with survival on the line."
Then, as he spoke his next words, the Lionheart sprang into action.
"The pact is made. I'll take the words we just exchanged for war cries...and launch my invasion."
The instant he stepped forward, the distortions in the air around him began to shine. Then, as if all the stars that blanketed the night sky had fallen, innumerable Noble Phantasms rained down on Snowfield.
Richard leapt to the roof of the building next door to the church as "judgment" closed in on him from all sides. It was both an infinite series of blows and a never-ending single strike. Death closing in from every direction with no end in sight.
But Richard was not a beast to simply let himself be hunted. He was, after all, a Heroic Spirit who had manifested in the Saber Class, said to be the "best" of the seven.
Faced with the trial of the unfathomable golden Heroic Spirit, Richard began to unleash his own power as a hero with the Spirit Origin of a king.
The rain of Noble Phantasms poured down, some fast and some slow. Richard leapt on the roof as he wove his way between them.
Onrushing Noble Phantasms.
Richard kicked one of the weapons and twisted his body, dodging the flurry of blows that followed by a hair's breadth.
His movements were too rough to be called acrobatics and too elegant to be called combat. He charged into the center of the oncoming blows, any one of which would prove fatal if it struck him, and as he had just declared, used his overwhelming speed to launch an invasion of that territory of death.
Richard readied the sword in his hand while contorting his body and slashed upward into the air with all his might. The radiance that overflowed from the arc of his swing scythed through the onrushing blades and created a new path for him to launch his own attack.
Even so, one wrong move would still cost him his life.
He walked that fine line between life and death with superhuman speed and muttered, not to anyone, but to encourage himself.
"I may not have many qualities that can match yours."
It was almost like a contract with himself.
"But...
"When it comes to speed, I'm more than your match."
X X
Crystal Hill casino hotel, top floor
Tine Chelk.
The Master of Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes, and also a girl who paid him heartfelt homage.
She was a priestess who had been "made" over generations to avenge her people.
The Protectors of the Land, who had inherited power in a long, unbroken succession without belonging to the Church. Pressure from both inside and outside the world of magecraft, brought to bear on them by countless mages and a clique of people in power, had forced them to their knees. In order to one day reclaim the land, they literally offered themselves to the land that had continued to protect them.
They etched Magic Crests into the bodies of their newborn children.
Through those designs, etched using principles slightly different from those of Western magecraft, they forcibly linked their Magic Circuits to the land's leylines and raised them as mystical "catalysts."
It was a wish.
It was a miracle.
It was a cry.
It was a circuit.
It was a sacrifice.
It was...a densely packed curse distilled from tens of thousands of lives.
The actions of the mages who managed the land was synonymous with making a contract with the land. An extremely simple, pure curse called a contract.
If they ventured beyond the reach of the land's leylines, they would die.
In exchange, by assimilating the land's leylines with their own lives, they were able to wield powerful magecraft with the greatest efficiency, even without an incantation.
They forced the land to enlarge their Magic Circuits and passed them on to their children.
Even Tine Chelk had been born as a sacrifice to the next generation, a mechanism to pass on her genes and Crest to a successor after undergoing that suffering.
She had twelve older brothers and nine older sisters, but they had all been taken into the land.
After sacrifices to assimilate her human Magic Circuits with the land's leylines, Tine's body had at last acquired an ability to wield magecraft that surpassed her father's. She had been fated to do the same thing to promising children of the next generation, whether they were sons or daughters...but the Holy Grail War had derailed that fate.
The reason mages had stolen the land from Tine's ancestors.
The plunderers were on the verge of realizing their dearest wish.
The Protectors of the Land had elevated Tine and begun to train her in combat magecraft and information about the Holy Grail War.
All in order to make Tine Chelk a Master in the Holy Grail War.
It was a fact that they revered her as their chief. Some opposed it, but they were a minority within the tribe.
At the same time, they understood that while she was a chief to be respected, the girl was also a sacrifice who would use up her life to achieve their goal—that she was a catalyst they must use up in order to carry out "the reclamation of the land," the curse of a people.
But she was not a miserable puppet led on by her people. She had faced this Holy Grail War prepared to expend her own life. Even if she was being controlled, not by the will of her people, but by her inherited destiny itself.
Since she was very young, Tine Chelk had accepted that she would live as a curse against the usurper mages.
But now Tine could do nothing but open her eyes wide and burn that scene into her memory.
Noble Phantasms rained down like meteors.
The weapons continued to slice through the unfeeling air, each and every one shrouded in Mana reminiscent of the Age of the Gods.
Tine was using a far-seeing spell to observe events on the ground from the top floor of the casino hotel Crystal Hill. Enhancing her eyesight with magecraft and looking down from the top floor directly would likely have sufficed, but her disposition as a person and her ability as a mage to sense danger, as well as the instincts of her species awakened through the path that linked her to a Heroic Spirit as a Master all rejected the idea of looking down on her Heroic Spirit—Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes—from on high.
If she were a seasoned mage, she would have looked down at him without hesitation. She would likely have incurred the King of Heroes' extreme displeasure by doing so, but that was another matter.
She wondered if even watching him through a familiar might be disrespectful, but he had tolerated her observing his battle with Enkidu from a distance, so she judged that it fell short of the line she must not cross.
Just as I would expect of Lord Gilgamesh. That other Archer is certainly a formidable enemy, but I'm sure Lord Gilgamesh is even more powerful. That poor Saber must already be...
Then, Tine gasped. In the image she saw through her far-seeing spell...Saber was still alive. In fact, he was beginning to counter the King of Heroes' offensive.
"Who on Earth...is that Heroic Spirit...?"
Saber.
The class said to be the best in the Holy Grail War.
According to Tine's subordinates' investigation, based on the relic that had been brought as a catalyst, it was conjectured that the mastermind faction likely intended to summon King Arthur. She had also received information that the Kuruoka mages, who had likewise thrown their lot in with the masterminds, had brought a relic related to Qin Shihuangdi from mainland China, but she could not predict what class he would manifest as.
Nevertheless, Tine had had no intention of stealing either catalyst.
Relics brought by the mages masterminding the Grail War would not be easy to take. Besides, the moment Tine had learned that someone had set foot on that land with a catalyst of Gilgamesh, she had made up her mind that the Servant she should summon and the king she should serve was none other than the King of Heroes, rumored to be the origin of all kings.
Even after witnessing extraordinary Servants such as that other Archer—the man who called himself Alkeides—and the horsewoman who called herself queen of the Amazons, Tine had no doubt that the King of Heroes would win through to the end. That was how exalted, proud and filled with a royalty that would make everything and everyone bend to its will the magical energy she could sense through the path that connected them was.
That Lancer who the King of Heroes called his "friend" was probably the only one who could challenge him. In which case, she had thought, all those who stood in his way before that final encounter were destined to be swept aside.
She had dismissed information such as Saber being the "best" Class as merely rough approximations, and yet...
"So fast..."
Tine Chelk was forced to realize that, as the Saber Class was hailed as the best, every Saber must have something "extraordinary" about them.
She did not know whether this was King Arthur, as she had conjectured, or some entirely different Heroic Spirit. Even going by what she could see of Saber through her far-seeing spell, his Spirit Origin did not seem to be a match for the King of Heroes or Alkeides. It struck her as being on the same level as the Amazon queen who had called herself Hippolyte or perhaps a little higher.
And yet, that Saber was still alive in the midst of a fierce onslaught from Gilgamesh's Gate of Babylon. He was not countering every blow like the Lancer Gilgamesh called his friend, nor was he taking every blow like Alkeides, who was currently facing the police officers—Saber was continuing to evade the entire rain of weapons. He occasionally made the sword in his hand shine and struck away a few Noble Phantasms, but he kept those attacks to the bare minimum necessary.
If he was only running away, Tine could have understood it, but the strangest thing about that Saber's actions was that they seemed clearly to be an "offensive," not a retreat.
"It can't be..."
Sweat ran down Tine's brow as she watched Saber gradually closing in on Gilgamesh.
"He's still...getting faster...?"
X X
The plaza behind the church
The boy hiding in the shadow of the plaza's trees, Flat Escardos, watched the offense and defense being performed atop the church and the adjacent buildings and shouted:
"Wow... That gold guy's attacks are cheating, but that guy who's dodging them is almost as bad! It's like he's doing an action game dodge infinitely and canceling every move he makes!"
"Your similes are always...so crass..."
The telepathic grumbling came from Flat's Servant, Jack the Ripper, who had reverted to the form of a watch.
Jack, a Berserker who had made a contract with Flat, had been robbed of a Noble Phantasm that it would be no exaggeration to call half of his Spirit Origin by Alkeides and sustained extraordinary damage as a result. For that reason, he had transformed into an inanimate object to minimize Magical Energy consumption, but...
"Now, shall we take action as well?"
"But will you really be all right, Ja—Berserker?"
"Even if I retreat, you'll find some excuse to go and help the police on your own, won't you? Our acquaintance has been short, but I've gotten a fairly good idea of how you act."
"Oh man... Do I seem like that kind of hero?" Flat sounded embarrassed.
"You probably aren't," the wristwatch Heroic Spirit replied telepathically. "But, concepts of good and evil aside, your professor tries to finish what he starts, doesn't he? As his student, I expect you'll follow his example."
"...You've got me there, Jack. Can you read my mind?"
"I would have to be awfully unperceptive to miss that. You're not foolish enough to charge in without a plan, but there's a good chance your plan would be the height of foolishness. I'll have to guide you."
"Don't worry, I plan on going home alive! I've got to show you off to everybody, after all!"
"Couldn't you come up with a better reason?"
Jack enjoyed the absurd exchange, but it was like an injured person keeping up a conversation to keep their mind off the pain.
"Well, it doesn't matter. I know you're better suited to support than to rough and tumble work. I'll focus on supporting you while you support the others."
"...I guess you're right."
Flat deliberately did not ask if Jack could still fight. It was obvious to him that Jack was severely weakened. Being robbed of the concept called a Noble Phantasm had seriously destabilized his Spirit Origin.
Instead, he asked a different question.
"...If we beat that guy, will your Spirit Origin go back to how it was?"
"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to. You can see it, can't you?"
"...Yes. From what I can see, the Spirit Origins have already completely fused... It's like they're melting together in some kind of super creepy mud-like stuff... I wonder what it is..."
"Yes. Even if we destroy that thing, that power probably won't return to me. Not unless I'm destroyed and re-summoned from the Throne."
"But," Flat answered dejectedly, "that Ja—Berserker would have his memories and everything reset. He wouldn't be the same person as you, would he?"
"I don't mind if you call me Jack now. After revealing my Noble Phantasms and saying what I did, my true name must be an open secret now... My memories may be recorded in the Throne, but as long as he's summoned as a piece in the Holy Grail War, another me won't share them. Although it might be different under particular—or should I say abnormal—conditions."
"Yes, I know. The professor still wants to see someone again in spite of that, but..."
"Oh, yes... Your teacher is a veteran of the Holy Grail War, isn't he?"
The pair continued to converse as if nothing was out of the ordinary despite the golden Heroic Spirit's Noble Phantasms flying through the air within eyesight. Perhaps it was Flat's natural disposition, or perhaps he was being considerate of Jack. Jack himself had realized that his Spirit Origin itself might be in jeopardy if he did not maintain his sanity by continuing the conversation.
"Still, we can't just stand here twiddling our thumbs. If we aren't going to retreat, then we have to do something to stop that Heroic-Spirit-turned-demon."
"It would be nice if he clashed with that gold guy and went off somewhere, but..."
"That golden Archer is the enemy your teacher warned you to steer clear of. Now I understand why. He's a disaster to everyone equally. We'll have to act covertly."
The pair considered how to make their rapid comeback and support the police unit.
That said, they hardly had time to think it out properly. Not only did they not know when a stray projectile from the battle between Archer and Saber unfolding above them would fly in their direction, it also did not seem likely that the police force could hold out long against the Heroic Spirit they were facing.
"What about using another Command Spell to boost you and secure the girl in the hospital?"
"According to the information from the chief of police, that girl's brain is affected by an unknown illness. I can't approve of dragging her out of there without police support. The risk of other people becoming infected is supposed to be low, but if we drag the girl out without police support, her body may not hold up. Besides, we assumed we'd be bringing her to the church, but look at the state of it now."
Flat looked at the church with the golden Archer standing imposingly on its roof.
"What about isolating her with a ward or something and making her invisible, then? I learned a lot of different patterns for concealment when I went to a tomb or something with the Professor a little while back!"
"In that case, that bowman who stole my power will probably blow away the whole hospital. That would probably be a piece of cake for that Heroic Spirit... Wait."
"What?"
"Someone's here."
Jack halted the conversation to give Flat a warning.
Flat shifted his attention to his surroundings and found that a figure had drawn near to the trees they were hiding under. The instant Flat, who had been ritually registered as a Master, laid eyes on that figure, he knew that it was a being that, like Jack, had materialized as a Heroic Spirit. At the same time, he also realized that it was not a Heroic Spirit suited for combat.
Jack immediately took the form of an enormous wolf and barked menacingly at the newcomer.
"Stop right there, if you please! Who are you?"
"Whoa! Did you just turn into Le Chien, Jack?!"
Flat shouted some kind of proper name, but Jack did not answer and kept his eyes on the man coming toward them.
The man had close-cropped hair and his clothes, despite seeming antique, were fine and elegantly tailored. He did not seem like a fighter, but he did not give the impression of being a mage or a horseman, either.
"Based on your dress, I take it you come from the France of one to two hundred years ago?"
Jack had taken the form of a wolf based on rumors that Jack the Ripper was actually an animal. His question was packed with all the animosity and menace peculiar to a beast.
The man, who had stopped about ten meters away, answered with a shrug.
"Hey, didn't anyone ever teach you not to judge a book by its cover? I'm not judging you by your looks, you know? I wouldn't even be surprised if you told me your favorite food's Commercy madeleines... Probably."
"Oh, Commercy madeleines are delicious, aren't they?!" Flat quickly shot back without dropping his guard.
"Oh?" The man responded. "Since you know what I'm talking about, I guess that means Commercy's still famous for its pastries."
"It is! A friend of mine from France always brings them as souvenirs for professors and friends!"
"That so? I'd love to try one and see how the taste has changed since I was alive. Whoops, I guess I just gave away that I'm from France, just like I look. Oh well, that's no big deal compared to the taste of madeleines."
The mystery man and Flat continued to discuss French communes with the air of a friendly chat.
The meteor shower of Noble Phantasms continued to fall in the sky behind them. Jack, standing beside them in his huge wolf form, addressed Flat with a look of discomfort.
"Hey, this is no time for chit-chat. Who knows how many more minutes the police can last against that..."
However...
"I can't quite get the measure of you, boy," the man said with a sudden grin. His mood had changed.
"The way you let yourself get caught up in talking about sweets while you work up a spell behind my back is pure mage. But there's nothing mage-y about still going on about sweets way after you finished the spell."
At that, Jack looked at Flat in surprise and Flat looked confused.
"Huh? Well, I got it ready because I thought you might be dangerous if you were an enemy, but since you're not an enemy, activating it would just be a waste of magical energy and it wouldn't be fair to you either, would it?"
"..."
After briefly observing him in silence, the man looked at Flat and continued cheerfully:
"Boy...what are you?"
"Huh...? Oh, you want me to introduce myself! I'm Flat! I don't want to become a target for curses and it's needlessly long anyway, so I can't casually give away my full name, but the name I usually give people is Flat Escardos! I'm Berserker's Master!"
"Well, that wasn't what I meant, but it doesn't matter. Also, I don't think you should casually tell people that you even have a full name, either. Anyway, now you've told me your name, it wouldn't be fair if I didn't tell you mine."
"...Your name?" Jack asked suspiciously. "You, a Servant, would tell your name to us, participants in the same Holy Grail War?"
"I don't want to hear that from somebody who might as well have been shouting 'I'm Jack the Ripper' with the Noble Phantasms he was showing off and the things he was saying back there. Although I hear you did your thing after I was dead and buried."
"..."
"My weak points won't change whether I give away my true name or not. If you lop my head off, I'll die. If you stab me through the heart, I'll die. If I drown, I'll die. If I starve, I'll die. If I freeze, I'll die. If I get old, I'll die. See? I've got loads of weaknesses. What kind of weakness could a man who can't even stop a simple curse be hiding at this point?"
The Heroic Spirit showed no trace of hostility, but given the state of his Spirit Origin, Jack could not afford to take chances. He positioned himself to protect Flat and continued to eye the man warily.
"It doesn't make sense. If you aren't hostile, then why make contact with us?"
"Hey, our Masters have an alliance, right? I figure we Servants should follow suit."
"...I see, so that's who you are. That makes sense, but..."
The Master that Flat and Jack had made an alliance with, the chief of the Snowfield Police Department, had told them, "I can't reveal my Servant's true name, but they specialize in logistics support. You'll never meet face-to-face."
They might be temporary allies, but given that they would ultimately fight over the Grail, it would hardly be advantageous to reveal true names or allow Servants to come in contact with each other unnecessarily. Jack saw the sense in that, and that was why he could not help feeling that this Servant appearing in front of them was unnatural. And yet...
"That said, I've got my reasons for telling you my name. I can't offer enough collateral to make a proper alliance in combat. But from what I see of your methods, kid, I figure that spilling my guts is the best way to team up with you for real."
With a cheerful shrug, as if to say that he was well aware of the distrustful eyes fixed on him, the Heroic Spirit introduced himself.
"The name's Dumas. I'm a Caster, though I've got no clue why."
"Huh?"
Flat could not suppress an incredulous response. The Heroic Spirit who called himself Dumas shrugged.
"Alexandre Dumas. Never heard of me?"
"What?!"
This time, Flat let out what was clearly a cry of surprise and shouted:
"Wh-Which one?!"
"What do you mean, which one?"
"The super strong general who worked for Napoleon?! Or his son, who wrote The Three Musketeers and Les Mille et Un Fantômes?! Or maybe his son, who wrote The Lady of the Camellias?!"
"The second one. Les Trois Mousquetaires aside, you know some pretty obscure titles. Still, I'm happy to see people know my boy's stuff better than mine," Caster—Dumas—said with a self-deprecating chuckle.
"Of course I know it! I've seen the Three Musketeers as a movie, a cartoon, and even a puppet show! Wow! Are you really the real deal?!"
"A Heroic Spirit's like a copy, so I don't know about the 'real deal,' but if you're asking if I'm Dumas, then the answer is oui. Still, I never figured my books would stick around for over a century. I guess it shows that, for better or worse, human nature hasn't changed that much. If you want to look up to someone, though, better make it my boy. He's got real talent."
"Oh, please don't talk like your talent's fake! There's an alumnus from my school who comes from a whole family of book lovers, and they've got a bunch of original copies printed back in your day! Oh, wow! This is as good as an army, Jack! Oh, I really wish I could keep talking and get more information out of him, but helping the police comes first, so, let's ask him for help!"
"Hmm... It's true we're out of time. If you say so, Master, then I'll trust him for now, but..."
With that, Jack resumed his watch form and fastened himself on Flat's wrist.
Dumas watched that and chuckled.
"I appreciate your confidence, but you know there's no way I could handle that thing on my own, right? And since you're going out of your way to stay a watch so you don't have to move, I figure your Spirit Origin must be in pretty rough shape."
Dumas' gaze was focused on the flashes of light that came intermittently from Main Street on the other side of the church. The other Heroic Spirits seemed to have moved from the church roof while they weren't looking, so there was no telling who was causing these flashes or the thunderous roars that followed them.
"If you still want to do something, though, I can lend a hand."
"You really mean it?!"
"Kid...you don't act much like a mage...but are you ready to toss your own life into the pot to get what you want?"
"Huh?"
"Don't worry, it ain't a witch's cauldron that only comes out right when it feels like it; it's a cutting-edge pressure cooker. I'll even throw in a kitchen timer."
Dumas flashed a fearless grin at Flat and Jack as he rattled off odd turns of phrase.
"And most importantly, it's me who'll be doing the cooking."
Originally Posted by You
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