United Kingdom, London.
The vast majority of people in the world had no idea that behind this modern international metropolis lay a hidden, supernatural world.
The Mage’s Association.
Erected directly above the ancient subterranean labyrinth known as the Tomb of Albion and governed by the core doctrine of “preserving and passing down magecraft as knowledge,” it was a sprawling institution established by modern magi.
Put more bluntly, it was essentially an enclave where modern magi huddled together for warmth.
Unlike Japan, which was currently shrouded in the dead of night, London was just easing into the afternoon.
Pale sunlight pierced through the overcast cloud cover, casting a gentle warmth over the chilly city streets.
Inside the grand building known as the Clock Tower, within a retro-styled, book-lined office.
A long-haired man dressed in a dark suit sat behind a mahogany desk, his back slumped heavily against his leather chair, a lit cigar resting between his lips as he puffed out plumes of white smoke.
Exhaling a cloud saturated with nicotine, Waver Velvet lifted his right hand, holding it up before his tired eyes.
Inscribed upon the pale skin on the back of his hand were three vivid, crimson crests resembling outstretched wings.
Command Spells.
The absolute entry ticket to the bloody ritual known as the Holy Grail War.
A self-deprecating smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
Even though he had formally renounced his candidacy to participate not long ago, he never imagined the Holy Grail would seek him out on its own initiative.
Did this mean that deep down in his heart, he had never truly let go?
Was he happy?
Without a doubt.
After all, standing on that stage once more had always been his deepest, unspoken wish.
Was he terrified?
The brutal, visceral slaughter of the Fourth Holy Grail War remained branded into his memory.
Even though ten years had passed and he had grown incomparably stronger and wiser, he still possessed zero guarantees of returning alive.
So, should he go?
Throwing away his hard-won daily life, abandoning the heavy responsibilities resting upon his shoulders, and discarding everything he had built over the last decade—to survive that meat grinder, he would need to steel himself with absolute, unwavering resolve.
Taking a deep drag from his cigar, exhaling, taking another deep drag, exhaling…
he repeated the motion in heavy silence.
Gray, Flat, Svin, Caules, the entire El-Melloi Classroom…
and barely counting Reines and Melvin.
Before he even realized it, he had forged so many precious bonds in this world.
Marching off to the Holy Grail War meant he might very well lose every single one of them.
‘If it were my younger, reckless self from ten years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated for a single second.’ Waver smiled bitterly to himself.
Only when the burning cherry threatened his fingers did he stub the cigar out into an ashtray already overflowing with cigarette butts.
Gazing once more at the crimson wings branded across his skin, Waver made his final decision.
Pulling a pristine sheet of parchment from the desk drawer, Waver Velvet unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen and began to write the first formal will and testament of his life.
Meanwhile, in Japan, inside Fuyuki City’s Ryuudou Temple.
Thanks to the rudimentary magical knowledge floating inside the fire giant’s memories, Surtr didn’t have to stress over how to trespass smoothly.
Carrying Medea straight up Mount Enzou, a single low-tier Suggestion spell was all it took to convince the temple monks to welcome the two bizarre, suspicious-looking girls into the guest quarters without batting an eye.
While magecraft came with countless restrictions in supernatural warfare, manipulating ordinary mortals remained absurdly easy.
Inside the quiet tatami guest room.
Surtr poured a cup of warm water and handed it to the hooded woman sitting across from her.
The brief trek up the mountain had been plenty of time for Surtr to lay out her proposition.
Now, the ball was entirely in the witch’s court.
Medea huddled into the shadowed corner of the room, her expression completely obscured beneath the deep purple folds of her hood.
Far too much madness had unfolded tonight, and frankly speaking, her mind hadn’t caught up to reality.
First, she had been summoned into this war, only to be betrayed and used.
Then, after retaliating against her summoner, she was relentlessly hunted down by an assassin, only to be rescued from the jaws of death by an inexplicable horned swordswoman.
Within twenty-four hours, the dizzying rollercoaster of betrayal and survival had left Medea emotionally drained.
Yet here she sat, backed into yet another critical crossroads.
Should she gracefully fade away and return to the Throne of Heroes, or enter a formal pact with Surtr, whose identity and background were shrouded in total mystery?
Did she want to live?
Of course she did.
Only by remaining in this world was there any hope of pursuing her desires.
However, having just taken a knife to the back from her previous Master, the traumatized witch was practically swimming in acute psychological PTSD regarding contracts.
After a suffocating silence, she reached out, took the warm ceramic cup, and spoke in a quiet, solemn tone.
“My name is Medea.
Medea, the ‘Witch of Betrayal’.” Surtr tilted her head in slight confusion, not quite understanding why the woman was suddenly dropping a dramatic introduction.
“Okay.
And?” Surtr asked casually.
“…” Catching zero disgust or fear in the girl’s response, Medea pressed on.
“The reason I am reduced to this wretched state is because I turned on my Master.
I used my own magecraft to burn him into a pile of ash, leaving not even a scrap of a corpse behind.
Knowing that, do you still wish to forge a contract with a witch like me?” Her voice dripped with bitter self-abandonment.
Surtr could feel a pair of sharp, searching eyes gazing out from beneath the hood, scrutinizing her every micro-expression to see if she was merely putting on an act.
Truth be told, Surtr hadn’t given the issue a single second of thought.
After all, she had known the woman’s True Name and tragic backstory from the very beginning.
Her former summoner, that Middle Eastern oil baron Atrum Galliasta, was an irredeemable scumbag who manufactured mana batteries out of innocent living children.
He was the kind of absolute filth who deserved to be incinerated a hundred times over without an ounce of sympathy.
Medea’s choice to slaughter the bastard and liberate those captive children had earned major respect in Surtr’s book.
Sure, the witch had a history of doing unhinged things—slicing her own little brother into pieces and scattering his limbs across the sea wasn’t exactly standard behavior.
Yet deep down, she was still fundamentally a maiden yearning for genuine affection.
Besides, Medea’s gorgeous, elf-eared beauty was a massive bonus point.
‘Well, maybe that last part is the real selling point?’ Either way, her stance wouldn’t waver.
“Obviously.” Surtr didn’t hesitate for a heartbeat.
“Every betrayal has a reason.
And I’m pretty confident I won’t give you any reason to ever betray me.” Rather than saying she placed blind trust in Medea, it was simply Surtr’s supreme confidence in her own overwhelming strength.
‘What’s with this woman?
Is she just a total narcissist?’ Medea found herself completely re-evaluating the red-haired girl before her.
Yet the warmth blooming in her chest felt undeniably pleasant.
Even though they had met less than an hour ago, the impression Surtr left on Medea was ridiculously high.
The girl was her savior, showed zero prejudice toward her infamous witch title, and her striking, wild beauty resonated on every aesthetic level.
From a purely pragmatic standpoint, having a Master who possessed the combat capabilities of a top-tier front-line Servant dramatically skyrocketed their chances of conquering the Holy Grail War.
There was literally zero reason to say no.
‘This girl is honestly way too sweet.’ Perhaps taking a gamble and placing her trust in someone one more time wasn’t the worst idea.
Lifting the cup, Medea drained the warm water in a single swallow.
“From this moment onward, you are my Master.” Her voice resonated with the ancient cadence of High-Speed Divine Words.
As her declaration echoed through the room, Surtr felt an ethereal, spiritual thread attempting to establish a connection with her soul.
Surtr offered zero resistance.
She relaxed her spiritual defenses, allowing the foreign tether to link directly into her core.
The instant the spiritual pathway locked into place, three vivid, flame-shaped crimson strokes burned their way onto the back of Surtr’s hand.
“The pact is sealed.” With that, Surtr was officially recognized as a Master in the Fifth Holy Grail War.
Across from her.
A torrent of blistering, god-like magical energy surged through the spiritual link, flooding straight into Medea’s starved spiritual core.
Like sweet, revitalizing rain washing over cracked, drought-stricken soil, a vibrant, healthy flush rushed across Medea’s pale cheeks.
The overwhelming, intoxicating sensation of being completely topped off forced a soft, breathy moan from her lips.
“Ah…
mmh…” Catching the distinctly bewildered, arched eyebrow on Surtr’s face, Medea snapped back to her senses, coughing awkwardly into her sleeve to hide her burning blush.
“Since your injuries are still healing, go get some shut-eye.
We can strategize everything else in the morning.” Surtr spoke up, breaking the tension.
Absorbing such an absurd volume of divine prana in one go was impossible to digest instantly the witch needed proper rest to stabilize.
At the exact same time, a crisp chime resonated through Surtr’s consciousness.
[Quest Completed: Client Medea] [Reward: Primogems ×300] [Current Primogems: 300] [System Shop Unlocked]