The Fifth Holy Grail War, Fuyuki City.
Inside the living room of the Tohsaka residence, warm yellow light filtered through the carved window lattices, scattering like crushed gold across the polished wooden floor.
A faint, earthy fragrance of black tea drifted through the air.
A delicate porcelain cup sat on the low table, a thin wisp of steam rising from its surface to carry the lingering warmth into the quiet room.
Tohsaka Rin sat across the table, her brow furrowed into a tight knot.
Her usually composed features were currently twisted in genuine bewilderment.
She tilted her head, her clear sapphire eyes reflecting the glow of the room as she stared blankly ahead.
She leaned forward, her voice laced with unfiltered surprise.
“Eh?
What class is an Avenger?” Beside her, Archer leaned casually against a structural pillar.
He slowly raised his eyes, the arm draped over his elbow pausing mid-motion.
His handsome, typically stoic face broke into a faint, almost imperceptible expression of utter helplessness, the kind reserved entirely for dealing with a difficult child.
He let his gaze linger on Rin for a long second before opening his mouth.
His pacing was slow, deliberate, and dripping with an unquestionable certainty.
He dragged out the final syllables of his words, layering them with a thick coat of perfunctory dismissal.
“Avenger.
That is to say, an avenger of wrongs.
It is an irregular class, completely independent of the standard seven.
They do not generally manifest in this world under normal circumstances.
When they do happen to appear, it means the Holy Grail War has undergone, or is currently undergoing, a fundamental mutation…
or so the theory goes.” “Why do you know this so clearly, Archer?” Rin pressed, her confusion only deepening.
She straightened her posture, planting her hands firmly on her hips.
Her gaze locked onto her Servant, sweeping over his emotionless face as if trying to pry the secrets out from beneath his skin.
Archer released a long, exaggerated sigh.
He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
A fleeting, almost invisible flicker of amusement danced through his steel-gray eyes.
Maintaining his tone of long-suffering resignation, he delivered a perfectly logical explanation backed by his own hidden calculations.
“Yare yare, Master.
Have you already forgotten the basics?
When a Servant manifests in a given era, they are automatically granted the necessary background knowledge by the Holy Grail itself.” It was a complete fabrication.
The actual truth was far more bureaucratic.
As a designated agent of Alaya, he had just spent the last few moments rapidly skimming through a highly detailed, emergency instruction manual regarding the Avenger class that the Counter Force had forcefully beamed into his head.
Processing such a sudden, dense stream of classified information on the fly was a privilege reserved strictly for a specialized cleaner like him.
Rin blinked, processing the excuse.
For a second, she seemed to accept it, but her instincts quickly flared.
She stared at Archer’s face, her previously relaxed brow snapping back into a scowl.
A sharp edge of irritation bled into her voice.
“Oh…
but what is with that look in your eyes?
Why do you look like you are explaining basic math to a complete idiot?” That brief flash of knowing playfulness in Archer’s gaze had not escaped her notice.
The corners of Archer’s lips twitched upward, forming a mysterious, highly punchable smile.
The amusement did not reach his eyes, hovering entirely around his mouth in a display of silent mockery.
He offered no verbal response, allowing the sheer condescension of his silence to do the heavy lifting.
That single look shattered Rin’s remaining patience.
The young magus instantly saw red.
The tips of her ears flushed crimson at a visible rate, the heat spreading rapidly across her cheeks.
She shot to her feet, her hands balling into tight fists at her sides.
“Damn it!
I am going to use a Command Spell right now!” She raised her right hand, her fingers hovering dangerously over the complex, crimson magical crest etched into the back of her skin.
Archer’s smug composure evaporated into thin air.
He pushed off the pillar, his back snapping straight as he took a hurried half-step forward.
He threw his hands up in a placating gesture.
“Hey, hey!
Is that really how you treat a priceless Command Spell?
It was just a harmless joke, do you really have to take it to the nuclear option?” Meanwhile, across town at the Emiya household, the evening breeze swept gently through the open courtyard, carrying the crisp chill of late spring.
In the corner of the yard, the old cherry blossom tree shed a fresh wave of pink and white petals, laying down a soft floral carpet over the grass.
A shimmering light screen hovered in mid-air above the engawa, broadcasting its scenes with crystal clarity.
Fujimura Taiga sat on the wooden deck, clutching her cheek with one hand.
Her eyes were red and watery.
Her face, which had been split by a bright, goofy grin just minutes prior, was now twisted into a mask of exaggerated, theatrical grief.
She sniffled loudly, waving her free hand at the floating screen.
“Wah!
A sudden, tragic parting right after such a romantic date?
How can the world be this cruel!?
Big sister’s heart is breaking into a million pieces, boohoo…” The wailing lacked any real sorrow, carrying instead a childish, dramatic flair.
Yet, beneath the theatrics, there was a genuine thread of regret for the two figures currently projected on the screen.
Emiya Shirou stood a few paces away.
He had entirely stopped watching the broadcast, his attention fixed on his guardian with a look of deep, weary exasperation.
He reached up to scratch the back of his head, his shoulders slumping.
“Wait, Fuji-nee.
It is just the alternate versions of them in the broadcast that are parting ways.
Why are you crying a river over it already?” Artoria stood quietly by the edge of the courtyard.
The evening breeze caught a few stray strands of her golden hair, softening the sharp, regal lines of her profile.
She kept her gaze lowered, watching the scene where Jeanne d’Arc Alter and Fujimaru Ritsuka were exchanging their final words.
Her expression remained perfectly stoic, but a faint, lingering melancholy pooled in the depths of her emerald eyes.
Hearing Shirou’s exasperated sigh, she slowly lifted her head.
Her voice was calm, carrying the quiet weight of a king who had watched too many people walk away.
“…Partings.
Indeed, such situations are an inevitability.
Meetings and farewells are the common currency of this world.
No matter how much reluctance one harbors in their chest, there is often nothing that can be done to stop the tide.” Her fingertips brushed lightly against the invisible hilt of the sword resting at her hip, grounding herself as her features smoothed back into their usual, unshakeable composure.
Deep within the subterranean levels of the Matou compound, an inescapable, bone-deep dampness clung to the air.
The dark wooden support pillars were stained with mottled, sickly patterns.
Flickering candlelight from the wall sconces cast long, jagged shadows across the stone floor, suffocating the space in a grim, oppressive dread.
The faint rustling of withered lotuses and rotting wood from the courtyard above barely penetrated the deathly silence of the basement.
Matou Sakura stood motionless in the dim corridor.
Her slender frame looked painfully fragile against the encroaching shadows.
She kept her head bowed, her long eyelashes fluttering rapidly to mask the turbulent emotions swirling in her eyes.
A heavy shadow of sorrow rested between her brows.
Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her chest, her pale fingertips curling into her palms.
The final moments of the broadcast replayed endlessly in her mind.
“Are they…
really going to leave each other?” she murmured.
Her voice was a fragile whisper, laced with a deep sense of loss.
A faint tremor shook the end of her sentence.
“They were just sharing a date.
They were dancing together.
It looked so warm…” Her delicate voice carried a bitter edge, making the stagnant air around her feel even heavier with dejection.
In the pitch-black shadows just a few feet away, Matou Zouken hunched his withered, skeletal frame.
He leaned heavily against the damp stone wall, looking like a piece of petrified, rotting wood.
His gaunt face was entirely devoid of blood.
His murky, sunken eyes rolled slowly in their sockets, gleaming with a cold, calculating malice.
He stood in silence for a long time.
A series of dry, rattling wheezes scraped their way up his throat before he finally parted his lips.
His voice was a hoarse, ancient rasp, dripping with the decay of centuries.
“…Avenger.
I recall the term.
One managed to manifest during the Third Holy Grail War.
It was nothing more than a pathetically weak Servant, summoned by the foolish Einzberns.” He paused, his claw-like fingers scraping lightly against the fabric of his dark sleeve.
A sharp glint of absolute contempt pierced through the murkiness of his eyes.
He let out a low, rattling sneer, his tone dripping with arrogant indifference.
“Can such a worthless, insignificant class truly cause any real waves in this world?” His words echoed in the damp corridor, dismissing the very concept of an Avenger as nothing more than an ant beneath his boot.
[Angra Mainyu: Why don’t you look behind you?] [Akarin’s Note: Enjoying the story?