Chapter 7
The atmosphere in the Trifas church was thick enough to slice. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting fragmented pools of colored light across the stone floor, but it did nothing to dispel the tension.
Tap. Tap-tap. Thump.
The sound was sharp, repetitive, and profoundly irritating. It was the sound of a single, superhumanly strong finger driving into solid stone masonry with enough force to pulverize the surface.
"Ahem… Rider, may I ask what you are doing?"
Shirou Kotomine, the priest overseeing the Red Faction, stood near the altar. His smile was its usual blend of gentle benevolence and profound, cosmic weariness, but a new element had been added: a faint, pained wince every time the thump echoed through the nave.
This was, after all, his borrowed church. The holes were a problem.
"Hah?" Achilles didn't even look up. His brow was a knot of furious concentration, veins standing out on his temple and forearm. He was focused entirely on the section of wall he was systematically turning into Swiss cheese. The holes were clustered at a height that suggested he was imagining the chest or back of a tall, broad-shouldered man.
"Never mind. Please, continue." Shirou decided that preserving the remaining walls was less important than preventing Achilles from redirecting his frustration onto something—or someone—more animate. The demigod had been in this state since being forcibly yanked back by Jeanne's Command Spell. The rhythmic, violent finger-drilling seemed to be his only outlet.
"Ten minutes until nine," Shirou murmured, checking his watch and moving to stand in the center of the aisle. The colored light from a window depicting St. Michael slaying a dragon painted his white hair with temporary streaks of red and gold. "Lancer. Your assessment of the Ruler you engaged?"
Karna materialized from a shimmer of golden light near a pillar, his arms crossed over his chest-plate. His expression was as impassive as ever. "Neither of us employed our full strength. He was… testing. As was I."
"I see. And if you had employed your full strength?"
"I would request to confer with my contracted Master before undertaking such an action against an Arbiter," Karna stated, his molten gold eyes meeting Shirou's.
A flicker of something cold passed behind Shirou's gentle smile. "Your Master has delegated full tactical authority to me for the duration of this War."
Karna studied the priest's face for a long, silent moment. The only sound was the relentless thump-tap-crunch from Achilles's corner. Finally, Karna closed his eyes. "Even at my full power, and even employing my Noble Phantasm… victory is not assured."
The admission hung in the air, heavy and significant.
"Not even you are certain?" Shirou's gaze drifted to Achilles, who was now muttering dark Greek curses under his breath with each jab. He shook his head slightly. Unreliable in this context.
His two greatest pieces were the god-slaying Karna and the invincible Achilles. According to Atalanta, the eastern Ruler was Cyd. That meant the only ones who could plausibly face him were these two.
And Achilles was a terrible match-up. Both possessed divinely-granted invulnerability. But Cyd's legend contained no recorded weakness, no vulnerable heel. That narrative would have crystallized into a defensive Skill potentially surpassing even Andreias Amarantos. Furthermore, Cyd carried the blessing of Apollo—the very god whose arrow had famously slain Achilles. The conceptual disadvantage was staggering.
That left Karna's anti-god spear, Vasavi Shakti. A single, world-ending strike. But Karna's reluctance was palpable. He wouldn't use his ultimate trump card on a command he didn't believe in.
Troublesome.
Creeeak…
The heavy wooden door of the church swung open, cutting off Achilles's destructive therapy. In an instant, both Karna and Achilles dissolved into particles of light, vanishing from sight. Only Shirou remained, his hands clasped before him.
A man with a face like a battered fist and sunglasses stepped inside, his boots loud on the stone. Lionheart.
"You're the supervisor for this War, I take it," Kairi Sisigou said, his voice a gravelly rumble. He walked forward slowly, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows of the pews and the high ceiling. He spoke under his breath, the words meant for the Servant only he could sense. "Anything here?"
"Three. No… four," Mordred's voice whispered back directly into his mind, her usual bravado tempered by caution. "One's hiding real good. I've got a bad feeling."
A second, calmer voice followed. "Four Servants are present. The fourth is an Assassin, concealing her presence with high-level skill." It was Cyd, also spiritualized and observing.
Kairi kept his face neutral. Four. Great.
"Welcome. I am Shirou Kotomine." The priest's voice was calm, welcoming, but it carried a weight of experience that seemed mismatched with his youthful appearance. It made Kairi's instincts itch.
This guy's older than he looks. Or he's seen too much. Either way, suspicious.
"Kairi Sisigou. You've done your homework, I assume," Kairi said, not bothering with a greeting. He dropped onto a pew in the front row, the wood groaning under his weight. He openly scrutinized the priest.
"Naturally," Shirou replied, tilting his head slightly. "Will your Servant not materialize? It is customary to introduce one's partner."
"You wanna see me?"
Before Mordred could respond, Cyd chose that moment to appear. Not in his modern illusion, but in a more spectral, imposing form. He materialized sitting right beside Kairi, the solidity of his presence making the pew creak a second time. Slung casually over his shoulder was the massive, wicked scythe of Hades, its curved blade seeming to drink the light from the stained glass. An aura of profound, silent finality rolled off him.
Shirou Kotomine's perfectly maintained composure cracked. For a fraction of a second, his gentle smile froze, his eyes widening a hair. It was the look of a chess player who has just seen his opponent's queen teleport to an impossible square.
"So?" Kairi said, leaning back and crossing his legs, playing his part with the ease of a born conman. He gestured casually to Cyd. "What do you think? This is the Servant I summoned using the Age-of-Gods tablet the Mage's Association loaned me. Performed the ritual in a graveyard, naturally. Seems to have summoned a… specialized aspect."
Mordred, still spiritualized: (…The hell?)
"I… see," Shirou said, recovering with impressive speed. The smile was back, though it looked a bit more strained. "This is… unprecedented. I was not aware a Ruler could form a contract with a Master."
"Isn't it common?" Cyd said, his voice echoing slightly in the church's acoustics. He rested the haft of the scythe across his knees. "A Heroic Spirit with compatibility across multiple Classes can manifest in different forms. Having the same hero appear in different Classes in the same War isn't that strange, is it?"
He's bluffing. He has to be bluffing, Shirou thought, his mind racing. He'd already confirmed the eastern Ruler's identity as Cyd. A Ruler could not also be a regular Servant. The Grail's rules forbid it. But the figure before him, radiating the unmistakable, chilling authority of death… It was disorienting. And Karna, who had fought Cyd, was saying nothing. The silence from his own Lancer was damning.
"You're… lying," Shirou stated, but the conviction in his voice wavered.
Cyd's lips quirked. He reached out and ran a hand along the scythe's blade. As his fingers touched it, the weapon shimmered, collapsing in on itself with a series of soft clicks and shunks, until it was just the familiar, unadorned black box strapped to his back. The deathly aura vanished, replaced by his usual, more neutral presence.
"Yeah. I'm lying." Cyd's admission was blunt, almost cheerful. "I am the Ruler for this Holy Grail War. Cyd. Pleased to meet you properly."
"Tch. Just a joke, huh?" Kairi clicked his tongue in mock disappointment, selling the act. He could see the gears turning in the young priest's head, see the uncertainty clouding his earlier conclusions. The bluff had worked. "Alright, Saber. You can come out now."
He waited.
Nothing happened.
A heavy, palpable silence descended, broken only by the distant sound of a car passing outside. Kairi felt a sudden, cold prickle on the back of his neck. Mordred was not appearing.
Clink. Clank.
After a full, excruciating minute of silence, heavy armor plates materialized behind him. Mordred, in full silver-and-black battle regalia, her horned helmet hiding her face, stood rigidly at attention. She didn't speak. She didn't move. She just stood there, Clarent held point-down before her like a knight at a vigil.
Oh, she's pissed. Kairi thought, sweating internally. He couldn't see her face, but years on the battlefield had given him a sixth sense for hostile glares. He could feel it—the heat of her anger aimed at the back of his skull. He had a vivid, unpleasant premonition of the tantrum awaiting him back at the cemetery. He also had the distinct, chilling feeling that if he made one wrong move, that massive sword might just casually separate his head from his shoulders.
CRASH—!
The sound of splintering wood shattered the tense standoff. A pew at the far end of the church was sheared in half, its pieces sent skittering across the floor.
Achilles stood amidst the wreckage, his spear in hand, his emerald eyes blazing with a feverish, battle-hungry light. All his pent-up frustration was now laser-focused.
"You!" he shouted, the word echoing. "You just said… your name is Cyd. Right?!"
"Achilles…" Cyd said, turning his head slowly to face the Rider. His own eyes narrowed, analyzing. "Your mother, Thetis… she showed me kindness, once. I'd hoped to repay her. Never got the chance before… other engagements came up."
"I don't care about that!" Achilles roared, his free hand clenching over his chest, right above his heart. "All that matters is this! I've waited for this! A chance to cross blades with you!"
"Not now," Cyd said, his voice calm and utterly firm. He didn't even rise from the pew. "If we're going to fight, it will be after the Black Faction is dealt with. Those are the rules of the game you're playing."
"Rules! Always with the damn rules!" Achilles snarled, sweeping his spear in a furious arc that demolished two more pews, sending wood chips flying.
"The one who wants to kill me more than you isn't even making a move," Cyd said, lifting his left arm to rest it along the back of the pew. His gaze shifted past Achilles, towards the deeper shadows near the confessional. "Right?"
The shadows seemed to condense. Then, with the silent grace of a stalking panther, Atalanta materialized. Not in a flash of light, but as if she'd been there all along. She ignored the shattered furniture and walked over, sitting down on the pew next to Cyd with a quiet rustle of her cloak. Her cat ears were flat against her hair, her posture tense but controlled.
"Be patient," she said, her voice low. Her eyes, sharp and green, never left Cyd's profile.
"Oh. Right. Big Sis is here too," Achilles muttered, the fight draining out of his stance slightly. He lowered his spear, though his grip was still white-knuckled. He shot a glance at Atalanta, a complex mix of respect and frustration in his eyes.
[But Big Sis… you know you can't beat him either.]
He didn't dare say it aloud. Some truths were too dangerous to voice.