“Master, since we already know this boy is primed to become the seventh Master, wouldn’t it be simpler to just brainwash him into our companion right now?” After settling the unconscious Emiya Shirou neatly over the classroom desk, Medea leaned against her bronze staff and posed the pragmatic question.
“I really hope you don’t mean turning his brain into mush.” Surtr shot a sideways glance at Medea, who wore an utterly deadpan, serious expression.
“Mhm.
Naturally.” Medea nodded without a hint of hesitation.
In her eyes, there was zero ethical conflict they were combatants in a death match to begin with.
Surtr shook her head.
“Forget it.
We already hold the tactical high ground, so there’s no need to stoop to that level.
We just need to make sure the kid leans in our favor if push comes to shove.” While Surtr didn’t consider herself some paragon of virtue, performing cruel psychic lobotomies on a well-meaning kid was way past her personal comfort zone.
Besides, in every anime she had watched in her past life, brainwashed shonen protagonists always snapped out of it through the power of friendship in the eleventh hour and brutally wiped out the villains.
She had zero desire to end up as the villain getting wiped out.
“Very well.
Your will, Master.” Since her Master had spoken, Medea dropped the subject without argument.
“Alright, the Matou estate is next on our hit list.
Between the two of us, raw combat power shouldn’t be an issue.” Regardless of whatever disgusting insect traps the old fossil was cooking up in the dark, at worst, she could simply incinerate the entire estate into ash with Muspelheim’s hellfire.
Tucking the golden scabbard of Avalon into her travel bag, Surtr stepped toward the hallway.
The moment she slid the classroom door open, she nearly bumped into a harmless-looking teenager with blue, seaweed-styled hair strutting down the corridor.
Matou Shinji.
[Client: Matou Shinji] [Quest: Desperately desires to awaken magecraft talent] [Reward: Primogems ×50] ‘What a cheapskate.’ Surtr paused in her tracks, staring at the pathetic bounty.
“What is it, Master?” Medea peered out from behind her.
“Looks like a stray fish from the Matou clan just swam into our net.
Let’s milk him for intel before we roll out.” Since the guy had personally delivered himself to their doorstep, Surtr had zero reason to say no.
Stepping aside, Surtr cleared a lane for Medea to cast her spell.
Five minutes later.
Surtr and Medea strolled out of the classroom, leaving behind a certain red-and-blue high school duo sleeping peacefully in each other’s tender embrace atop the wooden desks.
“Master, you really have a delightfully twisted sense of humor.” Medea gave her Master a profoundly bizarre look.
“Hey, I was just worried the poor boys would catch a cold in this drafty weather.” Surtr gave a saintly shrug, convinced she had performed another great deed of public service.
As for what kind of scandalous romantic rumors would explode across Homurahara Academy tomorrow morning?
She could only say teenage imaginations were far too wild, and it had absolutely nothing to do with her.
“Though speaking of intel, that old fossil Zouken actually managed to summon a Servant of his own.
Well, I guess that was to be expected.” Surtr analyzed the fragments of information extracted from Shinji’s memory.
While the boy didn’t know much, one critical detail stood out: Zouken had recently hired a mysterious, black-robed butler to manage the estate.
No matter how you sliced it, that had to be the True Assassin—Cursed Arm Hassan.
Furthermore, Shinji had noted that the atmosphere inside the Matou residence had grown increasingly foul and terrifying over recent years, prompting him to consider moving into an apartment.
That was undoubtedly Zouken’s dark experiments at work, though Shinji himself was completely in the dark.
After all, the boy was essentially an abandoned discard with zero magical circuits Zouken wouldn’t waste breath explaining classified operations to him.
‘Still, Cursed Arm…’ Unlike brawlers like Lancer who preferred glorious frontal clashes, an Assassin like Hassan would be turned into grease the moment Surtr got her hands on him.
However, the tricky part was getting him to commit.
Assassins possessed absurd agility and concealment skills if the guy decided to tuck tail and flee into the shadows, running him down on foot would be a massive headache.
She needed to bait him into a lethal ambush.
“Medea, you take point and play the bait.
I’ll act as the hidden enforcer.” After a quick calculation, Surtr proposed the strategy.
“Excuse me?
I take point?” Medea widened her eyes as if she had just been told the sun rose in the west.
“Master, I am merely a fragile, defenseless Caster.
You wouldn’t be punishing your loyal Servant just because I teased you earlier, would you?” Medea let out a dramatic, sorrowful whimper, dabbing at her dry eyes.
Surtr might have actually fallen for the act if there were a single tear shed.
Still, the playful banter felt oddly comforting she definitely wouldn’t mind more of it.
“I just need you to bait Hassan out of hiding.
Relax, with me watching your back, nothing can touch you.” A Master serving as the bodyguard for a Servant sounded comically inverted, but comparing their raw physical stats, Medea had to admit it made total tactical sense.
“In other words, Master plans to play the pig to eat the tiger?” Medea caught on immediately.
“Bingo.” “A sound plan.
However, Master, you had better rein in that raging tempest of magical energy rolling off your body.
Servants are absurdly sensitive to supernatural auras.” Medea’s gaze swept over Surtr’s silhouette as she gave a timely reminder.
The most intuitive metric for judging a target’s threat level in the Nasuverse was their ambient mana output.
Mundane humans possessed zero mana, making them harmless.
Modern magi stored a modest pool in their circuits, marking them as slightly elevated threats.
Servants, being pure spiritual constructs, radiated a dense, unmistakable presence.
Meanwhile, the volcanic magical pressure radiating from Surtr was literally on par with a Divine Spirit anyone with basic sensory skills would know instantly that an apex apex predator was walking through the door.
“If you’re unfamiliar with mana manipulation, I can teach you an ancient cloaking technique.” While mana concealment held limited utility for spiritual entities like Servants, applying it to a living human Master was effortless.
“I’m all ears.” Surtr admitted her shortcomings without shame.
Why would a Norse Fire Giant ever waste time learning stealth skills?
Finding a secluded stairwell, Surtr closed her eyes and followed Medea’s incantation guidance.
If her mana core was a roaring inferno, what she needed to do was compress that chaotic wildfire inward, dampening the surface heat without leaking its total volume.
‘Should be a piece of cake.’ ‘Definitely not hard.’ Medea stood a few paces away, watching Surtr’s facial expression morph from serene calmness to severe tension, to strained contortion, and finally into pure, ferocious agony.
Anyone watching would think she was suffering from intense internal qi deviation rather than practicing a basic mana cloak.
Worse, instead of concealing her presence, Medea felt like she was standing beside a thermonuclear warhead on the verge of critical meltdown.
The alarmed witch hurriedly backpedaled a dozen paces, snapping a triple-layered defensive barrier around herself on pure instinct.
If she ended up getting vaporized by her own Master’s accidental self-destruction, that would be the most humiliating death in the history of the Throne of Heroes.
“Master!
If it’s too difficult, let’s just abort!
I can craft a temporary breath-concealing talisman for you instead!” Medea shouted anxiously.
Just as her words left her mouth, Surtr’s swelling aura suddenly snapped into place, deflating inward like a collapsing star before stabilizing into a gentle, tranquil hum.
‘Did she actually pull it off?’ Medea blinked in genuine disbelief.
Within her magical perception, the once-unhinged volcanic pressure had transformed into a calm, glassy lake.
Unless an enemy magus conducted a direct, deep-level spiritual probe, they would merely perceive Surtr as an above-average modern magus.
Opening her eyes, a triumphant smirk tugged at the corners of Surtr’s lips.
“Told you I had it.
Though man, that was exhausting.
Let’s move.” It had felt like yanking the iron reins on a stampede of wild, flaming stallions.
“Wait, why are you cowering all the way in the corner?
Don’t tell me you thought I was going to explode?” Surtr raised an eyebrow at Medea, who was practically plastered against the far wall behind glowing magic shields.
“Ahaha…
of course not!
I have absolute, unwavering faith in you, Master!” Laughing nervously, Medea swiftly dispelled her barriers, glided over to Surtr’s side, and smoothly pivoted the topic.
“The sun is setting.
We should make our move before night fully falls.” “Right.
Let’s go.” Surtr didn’t press the matter, rolling her shoulders as they set off toward the Matou district.
Meanwhile, deep beneath the Matou estate, inside a pitch-black subterranean cavern.
An emaciated, shriveled old man stood upon a raised stone dais.
Stretched out beneath his boots was a foul, roiling pool of black sludge that radiated a suffocating, putrid malice.
Suddenly, a raspy, ethereal whisper echoed directly inside his skull.
‘Master, an enemy Servant approaches.
Judging by their trajectory, their target is our estate.’ “Oh?
Which pairing?” The old man asked.
His voice was wet, raspy, and thoroughly decayed, sounding like someone trying to speak through a throat clogged with rotten phlegm.
‘It appears to be Caster.’ “Caster?
Hehehe…” As if greeting the most delightful news in decades, the old man let out a wet, rattling cackle.
He struck the base of his wooden cane against the stone floor.
A dull thud resonated across the cavern.
Beneath his platform, the black sludge began to bubble and hiss violently.
Dozens of glowing, crimson eye-slits peeled open from the viscous mud, while a colossal, monstrous silhouette rose from the center of the pit, blotting out half the subterranean chamber.
A deranged, fanatical gleam filled the old man’s hollow, sunken eye sockets.
“Then let them come.
My sweet children have been starving for the succulent taste of a Servant’s flesh…”