Fourth Holy Grail War · Fuyuki City
In a secluded residence hidden among the trees on the outskirts of Fuyuki City, wooden window frames blocked the cold mist from outside.
Inside, only a single dim desk lamp was lit, its warm light barely covering a corner of the desk.
Emiya Kiritsugu held a curled intelligence report between his fingertips.
His knuckles turned pale from unintentional force, and his brow furrowed imperceptibly.
In those black eyes, usually hidden with coldness and calculation, a rare trace of genuine surprise surfaced.
His gaze was locked onto the word “Avenger” on the paper.
He let out a soft click of the tongue, his tone carrying a thoughtful ponderance: “Avenger?
This class is truly rare in the Holy Grail War.”
He slowly lowered his hand, leaving the intelligence report carelessly on the table piled with tactical blueprints.
His thumb unconsciously rubbed the edge of his holster, and his usual cold, heavy aura gained a bit more contemplation.
He lowered his eyes slightly, his long lashes hiding the surging doubts beneath.
His inner conjectures churned endlessly: They can’t walk together anymore?
Why is that?
At this thought, his brow furrowed tighter, and a sharp glint flashed in his eyes.
Did that old man Acht hide something from me?
(Angra Mainyu smiles without saying a word.)
Inside the Tohsaka Family’s Magecraft Workshop, glowing white magical circuits meandered across the four walls, flowing with fine flickers of bluish-gold light.
A faint scent of spirit medium incense floated in the air, quiet and solemn.
Tohsaka Tokiomi, dressed in a sharp deep-red suit, sat upright before a cushioned desk.
He held a crystal engraved with a magic circle, and the magic circuits on his fingertips lit up faintly.
His eyes were slightly closed and his long eyebrows were lightly knit, looking lost in thought.
After a moment, he slowly opened his eyes.
His grey-blue eyes were full of scrutiny and doubt, and his tone was low and serious, as if talking to himself or seeking confirmation: “Avenger…
I remember…
it appeared in the last Holy Grail War, didn’t it?”
He looked up slightly, his gaze falling on the Holy Grail magic circle in the center of the workshop, his brow still furrowed.
“But, does that have anything to do with why they can’t walk together with their Master?”
His voice paused, a deeper probe condensing in his eyes, and his tone added a bit more gravity.
“What secrets does this class, which stands outside the regular seven classes, actually hide?”
On a high platform not far away, a luxurious sofa cast from gold sat quietly.
Gilgamesh leaned against the back of the sofa, his posture lazy and noble.
His gold and red robes spread out like flowing sunlight, and an innate kingly pressure surrounded him.
Listening to Tohsaka Tokiomi’s whispers, a flash of unmasked contempt crossed his crimson eyes.
His thin lips parted, and a sneer escaped his throat, carrying the arrogance of one who looks down upon all living things: “Hmph~ Mongrel.”
His tone was full of impatience and disdain.
He looked up and swept his gaze across the shimmering magic circle, his fingertips mindlessly tapping the armrest of the sofa, making the golden armor clink softly.
“The human order won’t allow such a class to appear frequently.
Rather, the mere manifestation of the regular seven classes is already thanks to the Holy Grail’s meager power.” The arrogance in his words made his unique, self-centered kingly posture even more distinct.
The Einzbern castle stood upon the snowy plains, its pure white walls blending with the sky full of snow.
However, the halls inside the castle were as warm as spring.
The firewood in the fireplace crackled, and the warm light made the interior look exceptionally soft.
Irisviel was dressed in an elegant white gown, her skirt hanging softly.
She rested one hand lightly on the railing by the fireplace, her face full of obvious regret.
Her clear blue eyes were clouded with disappointment, and her tone carried an unmistakable sense of pity as she murmured softly: “Eh?
They have to part right after finishing their dance?
How can this be!?”
She lowered her eyes slightly, a bit of heartache coloring her brow.
She raised her hand and pressed it lightly to her chest, her tone full of empathetic bitterness.
“Even though Jeanne d’Arc Alter liked her Master so much, they were forced to part.
How painful that must be.”
She shook her head gently, a bit of lingering fear surfacing in her eyes, and her voice became even softer.
“If I were forced to separate from Kiritsugu and Illya, I can’t even imagine what that would feel like.” That soft empathy added a bit more to her gentle temperament.
Similarly unsettled was Kayneth’s fiancée.
Sola-Ui was dressed in an exquisite western dress and sat on a soft chair.
Her face, which had been smiling just a moment ago, was now full of indignation.
Her brow was tightly knit, and her hands tightly gripped a silk handkerchief, her knuckles turning white.
She leaned forward slightly, her tone full of grievance and unwillingness, with a bit of uncontrollable excitement, whispering almost like an accusation: “What is this?
A tragic ending?
This is too heartbreaking for those of us following the story!”
As she spoke, the corners of her eyes turned slightly red, and her tone suddenly rose, full of incomprehension and pained questioning: “Why can’t Jalter get her happiness!?
Why!?” That agitated state was a far cry from her usual dignified self.
To one side, Kayneth stood tall in his sharp Magecraft Workshop attire.
Facing his fiancée’s near-frenzied state, he only turned his face slightly.
A flash of helplessness and indulgence crossed his eyes, but he did not step forward to comfort her, simply letting her vent her emotions.
He held one hand behind his back, his brow slightly furrowed, his expression deep and serious.
He thought to himself: Avenger?
There’s actually a Servant of this class?
A faint, imperceptible sneer curled the corner of his mouth, and a flash of disdain crossed his eyes.
“Hmph, it doesn’t sound like a good term.”
In his view, a fellow filled with hatred and revenge didn’t deserve the title of Servant.
Recalling the separation ending mentioned in the intelligence, a bit of understanding appeared in his eyes as he thought to himself: No wonder they can’t walk together with that Fujimaru Ritsuka.
An existence wrapped in hatred like that rarely finds a good end.
In a Magecraft Workshop buried deep in the shadows of Fuyuki City, it was dark all around.
Only a few clusters of eerie blue magical fire flickered in the corners, casting light and shadow on the surrounding bizarre rituals and mottled bloodstains.
The air was filled with the decaying scent of spirit mediums and an inescapable chill.
Distorted magic circles were haphazardly carved on the walls, and broken ancient books and dried herbs were scattered on the floor.
Every part of it exuded a heart-palpitating oppression, with only the dancing blue flames barely outlining two figures.
Gilles de Rais had completely lost the few bits of noble poise he usually retained even when frenzied.
He was surrounded by a thick, ink-like black aura—magical energy mixed with resentment and madness.
Messy strands of hair stuck to his sweat-dampened forehead, and his once orderly robes were torn and wrinkled, with the edges even stained with unknown dark spots.
His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils filled with crimson veins.
His reason had long been swallowed by extreme anger and pained regret.
His chest heaved violently, and his heavy, ragged breathing was exceptionally piercing in the silent workshop.
He suddenly raised his hand and gripped his hair tightly, his knuckles turning pale from the force, as a hoarse and shrill roar escaped his throat: “Why?
Why!?” His voice was wrapped in heart-wrenching pain, shaking the surrounding blue flames violently.
The next second, he suddenly let go and swung his arms violently into the air, as if trying to tear apart the darkness of the room.
His tone was full of overwhelming grief and unwillingness: “To treat my saintly maiden like this, to actually let her not find happiness!”
That roar carried a blood-like trembling, every word seemingly ground out from between his teeth.
He suddenly dropped to his knees, one knee slamming heavily onto the cold floor.
His palm struck the ground hard, sending the scattered ancient books flying.
The madness in his eyes burned to a peak, and his crimson gaze surged with world-destroying hatred.
He tilted his head back toward the lightless darkness at the top of the workshop and roared sharply: “Onore!
You damned God!
I will definitely curse you!”
He suddenly pushed off the ground and stood up, the black aura around him becoming even more turbulent.
His fingertips curled into claws from extreme hatred, and his voice was hoarse but carried the resolve of someone burning their bridges: “This Gilles de Rais will one day, absolutely, kill you, you false God!”
That frenzied posture was like a completely enraged trapped beast, leaving only a full heart of desire for destruction and revenge.
In the shadows on the other side of the workshop, the sunny youth Uryu Ryunosuke looked completely out of place in this frenzied scene.
He sat upright on a simple wooden chair, his back straight and his hands placed neatly on his knees, looking exactly like a well-behaved student in class who was afraid of being called on by the teacher.
The usual frivolous and curiosity-filled smile was gone from his sunny face.
His bright eyes were full of caution, and he even kept his breathing extremely light, not daring to make a single sound.
He kept his eyes down, staring tightly at his knees, not even daring to glance out of the corner of his eye at the completely out-of-control Bluebeard beside him.
His whole body was stiff, and his heart was full of apprehension.
He was internally uneasy, only hoping that Gilles de Rais’s anger would subside soon.
He definitely didn’t want this madness to be taken out on him—otherwise, how could he continue to pursue the world’s best and most extreme ‘cool~’ in the future?
That hidden expectation outweighed his fear slightly, only making him even more quietly restrain his presence, as still as a silent ornament.