Chapter 8
The tension in the Trifas church had shifted. It was no longer a simple standoff; it had become something more intricate, more precarious. The air hummed with unspoken alliances, simmering grudges, and the heavy scent of old stone, polished wood, and—from one particular corner—fine, aged wine.
Shirou Kotomine, the priest at the center of the storm, felt the foundations of his sixty-year plan tremble. His smile, a masterpiece of benign endurance, was becoming a rigid mask.
"This is… certainly a unique development," he said, his voice carefully modulated to hide the strain.
"Relax. I'm not here to cause trouble," Cyd said, leaning back on the pew and propping one foot on the splintered remains of the bench in front of him. He snapped his fingers. "I just have a few questions about why your faction decided to take a swing at the referee."
"He ordered it." Karna materialized fully, his golden armor gleaming. He didn't gesture dramatically; he simply lifted a hand and pointed a long, steady finger directly at Shirou. His tone was matter-of-fact, a soldier reporting a fact.
"Yeah, he told me to do it too," Achilles chimed in, walking over to stand behind Cyd's pew. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the priest. His earlier frustration had found a new, more satisfying target.
Are you all conspiring to ruin me?! Shirou's internal scream was silent, but the twitch near his eye was not. His benevolent facade was cracking under the sheer, blunt-force honesty of his own Servants. Aside from the silent Assassin lurking in the shadows behind him, every single Heroic Spirit in the room had, either explicitly or by their stance, aligned themselves with the Ruler. Even Karna, by not defending him, had chosen a side.
"Truly, the situation grows ever more fascinating. What shall we do, my Master~?" A new voice, rich and decadent as honey left to ferment, purred from directly behind Shirou. The scent of wine intensified. Semiramis, the Assyrian Queen, Assassin of Red, manifested, pressing herself against his back. Her long, elegant fingers traced idle, teasing patterns on his shoulders through his cassock. Her crimson eyes, heavy-lidded with amusement, surveyed the room.
Wonderful. Not a single one is on my side.
"She is Assassin," Shirou said through gritted teeth, attempting to steer the conversation to a safer topic—introductions.
"Mhm," Cyd nodded, then made a small, encouraging 'go on' gesture with his hand.
"..." Shirou's mouth opened, then closed. No sound came out. His frozen smile looked more like a rictus grin. Behind him, Semiramis buried her face in his shoulder to stifle a series of undignified snickers.
Shirou desperately wanted to use the same vague, noble-sounding justifications he'd fed to Karna and Achilles: 'Eliminate the unpredictable variable,' 'Secure the Grail's purity,' etc. But the sixty years he'd spent in the modern world, meticulously preparing for this moment, hadn't been wasted. He'd studied the legends. He knew Cyd's myth inside and out. In a different life, he might have even admired him—the hope of the common people, the white hero who brought peace without slaughter, who spoke for the downtrodden to the gods themselves. Cyd embodied the peaceful resolution Shirou himself sought.
And that knowledge was now a weapon turned against him. He knew, with chilling certainty, about the blessings Cyd carried. One in particular posed an existential threat to any plan built on lies or half-truths.
The Blessing of Hermes: Unwavering Truth.
If he spoke, any falsehood would be forcibly corrected. He didn't know if the blessing would compel him to speak the truth, or simply expose his lie. He couldn't risk it. There was only one foolproof defense.
Shirou Kotomine smiled his gentle, pained smile… and shook his head.
If I don't speak, I can't be caught.
"Ah, I see," Cyd said, nodding as if this made perfect sense. "So the decision to eliminate me was a unanimous one by all the Red Faction Masters?"
"I object!" Kairi Sisigou's hand shot up from his pew. "Wasn't consulted. Don't agree."
"And my Master~" Atalanta said, a sly, knowing smile curling her lips. She leaned forward, her cat ears twitching. "If she knew about this little plot… I imagine she'd be quite cross. Violently so."
Shirou's eye twitched again, but he gave a slow, reluctant nod. He couldn't deny it.
"And where are these other Masters now?" Cyd asked, tilting his head, his expression one of mild curiosity.
Karna's eyes narrowed to slits of molten gold. He said nothing, but his gaze locked onto Shirou.
Shirou shook his head again, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"You're a clever one," Cyd mused, his gaze shifting past the priest to the voluptuous queen still draped over his shoulders. "So, Assassin. You haven't done anything to the Masters of Lancer, Rider, Caster, and Berserker, have you?"
Shirou's entire body went rigid. No. Don't take the bait. Semiramis was fiercely loyal to him, he knew that. He'd even tried to brief her on Cyd's capabilities, though she'd mostly been interested in whether the "pure white hero" was handsome or not. But her personality was her greatest weakness here. Prideful, arrogant, and utterly disdainful of what she saw as petty moral constraints. She would never submit to the humiliation of silent nods and head-shakes. She would answer. And she would answer with the dramatic, unvarnished truth.
He was right.
"Of course I did," Semiramis said, her voice a lazy, contemptuous drawl. She waved a dismissive hand. "A little something in their evening tea. They're sleeping quite soundly. It was almost too easy. Really, Master, you worry over such trivial—"
She stopped. The words hung in the suddenly frigid air. Her own brain caught up with her mouth. The smirk melted from her face, replaced by a look of dawning, horrified comprehension.
The atmosphere in the church solidified into something deadly.
Karna's spear, Vasavi Shakti, appeared in his hand with a soft shing of manifested metal. The temperature around him seemed to drop.
Kairi Sisigou's hand, which had been resting casually in his coat, now gripped the handle of his sawed-off shotgun. His posture was coiled, ready.
Shirou closed his eyes. A long, weary sigh escaped him. "Is this… the end, then?" All of it. Six decades of waiting, planning, gathering resources and allies. Crushed before the first real battle because of a conversational trap and his own Servant's hubris. They were surrounded. Karna could kill him before Assassin could react. Achilles, Atalanta, and the Ruler himself were mere feet away. There was no escape. Even if they somehow fled, the war was already lost. Without the other Masters, command of their Servants would falter.
"I see," Cyd said. He didn't move. He didn't summon his weapon. He just… nodded.
Silence.
Shirou opened his eyes, confused. "...That's it?"
"Wait, what?!" Kairi blurted out, lowering his gun slightly. "They drugged and imprisoned the other Masters! That's got to be against the rules!"
"Not really," Cyd said, stifling a yawn. "He used his resources and his Servant's abilities to gain a tactical advantage over his nominal allies. That's not against the rules; that's the point of the Holy Grail War. There are no 'teams' in the end, only winners and losers. He's simply preparing for the inevitable free-for-all after the initial 7v7. If he'd killed them, it would be the same. This isn't a game you walk away from if you lose. If you don't have the stomach for betrayal and preemptive strikes, you shouldn't be here. Being put into a magically-induced coma is a merciful outcome, all things considered."
The transformation on Shirou Kotomine's face was instantaneous. The weight of impending doom lifted. His smile returned, not as a strained mask, but as a genuine expression of profound, astonished relief. His eyes shone with something akin to worship.
In contrast, Karna's expression grew graver. Kairi looked from Cyd to Shirou with new wariness. The Ruler's impartiality was absolute—and terrifying. It meant anything was permitted.
Achilles just shrugged. He hadn't met his Master, didn't care what happened to them.
"Your fairness… is truly a marvel," Shirou said, his voice thick with emotion. He took a step forward, his hand outstretched. "I am honored. If you have no other lodging, please, consider this church a place of respite for you."
"Really?" Cyd raised an eyebrow. He reached out and shook the offered hand. "The lady behind you doesn't seem too thrilled with the idea."
Semiramis had detached herself from Shirou. She stood a few paces back, her beautiful features contorted into a mask of pure, venomous jealousy. Even when Shirou glanced back at her, she made no attempt to hide her glare, which was now fixed on Cyd with the intensity of a basilisk.
BANG!
The heavy church doors flew open, slamming against the stone walls. Silhouetted against the morning sun was a tall, gaunt figure in elaborate, anachronistic medieval robes. He staggered inside, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest.
"A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a—" he began, his voice a theatrical wail. Then he stopped, his monologue dying as he took in the scene: the shattered pews, the gathered, tense Servants, the priest shaking hands with the Ruler. "…Have I arrived at an inopportune moment?"
"Not at all, Caster," Shirou said, turning with a beatific smile, releasing Cyd's hand. "We were just having a delightful conversation. This is one of the Rulers for this Holy Grail War. The legendary Pure White Hero, Cyd."
William Shakespeare, Caster of Red, blinked. Then his eyes lit up with the delight of a playwright stumbling upon perfect dramatic irony. He clasped his hands together. "Oh! This is the Ruler you ordered eliminated yesterday? Marvellous!"
Shirou Kotomine's serene smile didn't falter, but a single, weary thought echoed in the quiet of his mind.
You too, Caster? Is everyone here determined to see my plans burn?