Fourth Holy Grail War · Fuyuki City In a secluded residence hidden among the dense woods on the outskirts of Fuyuki, heavy wooden window frames completely shut out the freezing midnight mist.
Inside, a single dim desk lamp fought back the gloom, its weak, amber glow barely illuminating a corner of the cluttered desk.
Emiya Kiritsugu held a curled intelligence report between his calloused fingertips.
His knuckles had gone bone-white from the sheer, unintentional force of his grip.
A deep crease formed between his brows.
In those dead, black eyes—usually a void of cold calculation—a rare flicker of genuine shock surfaced.
His gaze remained locked onto a single word printed on the paper: Avenger.
He let out a soft click of his tongue.
“Avenger,” he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue with heavy contemplation.
“This class is truly an anomaly in the Holy Grail War.” He slowly lowered his arm, letting the report drop carelessly onto a stack of tactical blueprints.
His thumb drifted down, unconsciously stroking the worn leather edge of his shoulder holster.
The usual suffocating, heavy aura that clung to the Magus Killer shifted, replaced by a churning sea of doubt.
He lowered his gaze, his long eyelashes casting shadows over his eyes.
His mind raced.
They can’t walk together anymore?
Why is that?
The crease between his brows deepened into a harsh line.
Did that old man Acht hide something from me?
(Somewhere in the distant, encroaching darkness of the Grail, Angra Mainyu smiled without saying a word.) Deep within the Tohsaka family’s underground Magecraft Workshop, glowing white magical circuits meandered across the stone walls like pulsing veins, bleeding fine flickers of bluish-gold light into the room.
The faint, solemn scent of spirit medium incense hung heavy in the stagnant air.
Tohsaka Tokiomi sat impeccably upright behind a cushioned mahogany desk, dressed in a sharp, deep-red suit without a single wrinkle.
He held a polished crystal engraved with a miniature magic circle.
As he channeled his prana, the circuits etched into his fingertips lit up with a faint, ethereal glow.
His eyes were closed, his elegant brows drawn together in deep thought.
After a long, silent moment, his eyelids parted.
His grey-blue eyes swam with intense scrutiny.
“Avenger…” he murmured, his low, serious tone echoing in the quiet room as if seeking confirmation from the shadows.
“I recall…
a Servant of that extra class appeared in the Third Holy Grail War, did it not?” He lifted his chin, shifting his gaze toward the massive summoning circle carved into the center of the workshop floor.
“But does that have anything to do with why they cannot walk alongside their Master?” He paused, the probe in his eyes sharpening into something far heavier.
“What secrets does this anomaly—a class standing entirely outside the regular seven—actually hide?” From a raised platform overlooking the workshop, a luxurious sofa cast from solid gold sat in quiet defiance of the solemn atmosphere.
Gilgamesh lounged against the velvet backing, his posture radiating a lazy, suffocating nobility.
His gold and crimson robes spilled over the cushions like liquid sunlight, and an innate, crushing pressure bled from his very existence.
Listening to Tokiomi’s muttered theories, a flash of naked contempt crossed the King of Heroes’ crimson eyes.
His lips parted, and a dark sneer vibrated in his throat.
“Hmph.
Mongrel.” The word dripped with absolute disdain.
He tilted his head back, his arrogant gaze sweeping over the shimmering magic circle below.
His armored fingertips began a slow, rhythmic tapping against the golden armrest, the metal clinking sharply in the quiet room.
“The Human Order will not allow such a filthy class to manifest frequently,” Gilgamesh stated, his tone carrying the absolute authority of a king lecturing a peasant.
“Rather, the mere manifestation of the regular seven classes is already taxing the absolute limits of your Holy Grail’s pathetic, meager power.” Far from the city, the Einzbern castle stood like a fortress of ice upon the frozen plains, its pure white walls blending smoothly into the howling blizzard.
Inside, however, the grand halls were as warm as a spring afternoon.
Firewood crackled violently in the massive hearth, casting a soft, golden glow over the opulent furnishings.
Irisviel von Einzbern stood by the fireplace, dressed in an elegant, sweeping white gown.
She rested one delicate hand lightly against the iron railing, her porcelain face twisted in obvious distress.
Her clear ruby eyes were clouded with disappointment.
“Eh?
They have to part right after finishing their dance?” she murmured, her voice laced with deep pity.
“How can it end like this!?” She lowered her gaze, a sharp pang of heartache coloring her delicate features.
She brought her hand up, pressing it tightly against her chest.
“Even though Jeanne d’Arc Alter loved her Master so deeply, they were forced to separate.
How agonizing that must be.” She shook her head slowly, a lingering trace of fear surfacing in her eyes.
“If I were forced to separate from Kiritsugu and Illya…
I cannot even begin to imagine the pain.” Across the city, a similar unrest gripped Kayneth’s fiancée.
Sola-Ui sat rigidly on a plush velvet chair, dressed in an exquisite, high-collared western dress.
Her face, which had been bright with amusement just moments prior, was now twisted in utter indignation.
Her hands gripped a silk handkerchief so tightly that her knuckles had turned completely white.
She leaned forward, her chest heaving with a mix of grievance and uncontrollable agitation.
“What is this?
A tragic ending?” she hissed, her voice trembling with accusation.
“This is far too cruel for those of us following the story!” The corners of her eyes flushed a faint red.
Her voice suddenly spiked in volume, abandoning all her usual aristocratic dignity.
“Why can’t Jalter get her happiness!?
Why!?” A few paces away, Kayneth stood tall and rigid in his formal workshop attire.
He turned his head slightly, watching his fiancée’s near-frenzied state.
A flash of helplessness—mixed with a rare, quiet indulgence—softened his sharp features.
He didn’t step forward to comfort her, choosing instead to let her vent her frustrations at the broadcast.
He clasped his hands behind his back, his expression darkening into a serious scowl.
Avenger?
There is actually a Servant of such a class?
A faint, imperceptible sneer tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Hmph.
It hardly sounds like a respectable title.
To the proud Lord El-Melloi, a familiar spirit consumed by hatred and vengeance was entirely unworthy of the grand title of Heroic Spirit.
Recalling the bitter separation shown in the broadcast, a cold glint of understanding flashed in his eyes.
No wonder she cannot walk alongside that Fujimaru Ritsuka.
An existence wrapped in such vile hatred rarely meets a good end.
Deep within the rotting bowels of Fuyuki’s sewer system, a makeshift Magecraft Workshop lay buried in absolute darkness.
A few clusters of eerie, pale-blue magical fire flickered in the damp corners, casting long, grotesque shadows over the bizarre ritual circles and mottled, dried bloodstains covering the floor.
The air was thick with the suffocating stench of decaying flesh and an inescapable, bone-deep chill.
Distorted, blasphemous runes were haphazardly carved into the concrete walls.
Shredded ancient grimoires and crushed dried herbs littered the ground.
Every inch of the room exuded a heart-stopping oppression.
In the center of the dancing blue flames, Gilles de Rais had completely shattered.
The Caster had lost every last shred of the twisted, noble poise he usually maintained.
He was entirely engulfed in a thick, ink-like black aura—a violent maelstrom of magical energy, pure resentment, and unadulterated madness.
Greasy strands of hair plastered against his sweat-drenched forehead.
His once-immaculate robes were torn to rags, the edges stained with sickening, dark spots of dried gore.
His bulging eyes were completely bloodshot, the whites fractured by thick crimson veins.
Whatever fragile reason he possessed had been entirely swallowed by extreme, apocalyptic rage and agonizing regret.
His chest heaved violently.
His heavy, ragged gasps echoed like a dying beast in the silent workshop.
Suddenly, he raised his hands and clawed at his own scalp.
He gripped his hair so tightly his fingers turned white, and a hoarse, shrill roar ripped from his throat.
“Why?
Why!?” The scream was drenched in heart-wrenching agony, the sheer force of it causing the surrounding blue flames to violently shudder and warp.
The next second, he released his hair and swung his arms wildly at the empty air, as if trying to physically tear the darkness apart.
“To treat my holy maiden like this!
To actually deny her happiness!” The roar carried a blood-curdling tremor, every single syllable ground out from between his gnashing teeth.
He suddenly collapsed, his knees slamming brutally against the unforgiving stone floor.
He slammed his palms into the ground, sending the scattered pages of ancient books flying into the air.
The madness in his eyes burned to an absolute peak, his crimson gaze surging with a world-ending hatred.
He tilted his head back, staring up into the lightless void of the ceiling, and shrieked.
“Curse you!
You damned God!
I will curse you for all eternity!” He pushed himself off the bloodstained floor, the black aura around him whipping into a violent frenzy.
His fingers curled into rigid claws.
His voice dropped into a hoarse, demonic rasp, carrying the absolute resolve of a man burning his own soul to ash.
“I, Gilles de Rais, will one day…
absolutely…
slaughter you, you false God!” He stood there, a completely enraged, trapped beast, his heart entirely consumed by a singular, burning desire for destruction.
Meanwhile, in the darkest corner of the workshop, the sunny, upbeat youth Uryuu Ryuunosuke looked entirely out of place amidst the apocalyptic frenzy.
He sat perfectly upright on a simple wooden chair.
His back was rigidly straight, his hands placed neatly on his knees.
He looked exactly like a terrified student desperately hoping the teacher wouldn’t call on him.
The usual frivolous, curiosity-filled smile had been completely wiped from his face.
His bright eyes were blown wide with caution.
He kept his breathing incredibly shallow, terrified that even a single exhale might draw the monster’s attention.
He kept his chin tucked, staring intensely at his own kneecaps, not daring to cast even a peripheral glance at the completely out-of-control Bluebeard.
His entire body was locked in a stiff, petrified paralysis.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
He just wanted Gilles’s anger to subside.
He absolutely did not want this apocalyptic madness redirected at him—if he died here, how could he continue his pursuit of the world’s greatest, most extreme ‘cool’?
That hidden, morbid expectation barely outweighed his terror, forcing him to suppress his presence even further, sitting as perfectly still as a silent, unbreathing ornament in the dark.
[Akarin’s Note: Enjoying the story?