Chapter 19: Hunters and Prey
"According to our intelligence…"
Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia placed the thin sheaf of papers on the table in front of Vlad III's throne. The atmosphere in the chamber was tense.
"The Saber of Red is currently moving into the vicinity of our Assassin's… hunting ground."
"Oh? How fares the Red Saber in terms of strength?" Vlad III asked, his fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm on the arm of his throne.
"During the… distraction with Spartacus, the Red Saber and his Master managed to infiltrate Trifas," Darnic reported, his brow furrowed. The memory of a Saber-class enemy slipping past their defenses while they were dealing with the rampaging Berserker was a fresh sting to his pride. "They destroyed several defensive golems before being confronted and driven off by… a woman. We couldn't discern her Noble Phantasm from the limited observation."
"A woman. Interesting." Vlad nodded slowly. "And there has been no contact from Assassin's Master?"
"I said from the beginning we shouldn't have hired such a third-rate magus," Gordolf Musik grumbled, crossing his arms. "Now the mess he's created is becoming impossible to contain. The mundane authorities are starting to ask questions the Church can't easily silence."
Caules Forvedge blinked, looking between the adults. "What mess?"
His sister, Fiore, sighed and handed him a folded local newspaper from her lap. "Read the headlines once in a while, brother."
Caules flushed slightly and took the paper. As he unfolded it, a stark, bold headline screamed up at him:
'RIPPER' RETURNS? STRING OF GRISLY MURDERS TERRORIZES TRIFAS
Beneath it were heavily censored photos of crime scene tape and vague, ominous quotes from police spokesmen.
"I remember…" Caules's eyes went wide. "Our Assassin… the Servant summoned was…"
"Jack the Ripper," Darnic confirmed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And it appears the legend has fully consumed the Master. The local magus population has been… depleted. Thoroughly."
"If the noise gets any louder, the Rulers will have to intervene," Caules said, folding the paper with a grimace.
"They already have. And they're accompanied by the Red Saber," Darnic's voice was tight with frustration. "The white-haired Ruler stated his primary concern is the Concealment of Mystery. Assassin's activities are a flashing beacon. He will act. If conflict erupts, he may eliminate Assassin himself. And even if he doesn't, the Red Saber certainly won't pass up the chance to eliminate one of our Servants. This partnership is likely a deliberate strategy."
"Archer. Your assessment?" Vlad turned his gaze to Chiron, who stood silently behind Fiore's wheelchair.
Chiron stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Cyd… he will act decisively. He sees a threat to the integrity of the contest and to the secrecy of our world. If we wish to preserve our Assassin, we should dispatch a retrieval team immediately. The Master is likely already lost. The Servant may yet be salvaged."
Vlad considered this. The Assassin's Master had proven worthless, a liability. But losing a Servant over such a sloppy, preventable scandal was unacceptable.
"Very well. Archer, you will go," Vlad decreed. "The Master is expendable. Retrieve the Servant. If you encounter the Red Saber, engage only if victory is assured. Do not be drawn into a protracted battle. Your objective is Assassin."
"Understood," Chiron bowed his head.
Fiore bit her lip. From the brief reports, the Red Saber's Master was a seasoned necromancer and bounty hunter. In a straight contest of magecraft theory, she was superior. In a dirty, no-holds-barred street fight? She wouldn't last a minute.
"Sister, I'm coming with you," Caules said quickly, stepping forward.
"No. You should remain here," Fiore said, shaking her head gently.
"I will ensure her safety," Chiron said, offering Caules a reassuring smile before moving behind Fiore's wheelchair.
"Hmph…" Franky, who had been lurking near Caules, tugged on his sleeve. Her face was scrunched in a clear, if wordless, expression of displeasure.
She was not happy.
Caules, however, was utterly baffled as to why.
"Caules," Vlad's voice cut through the young magus's confusion. The King of Wallachia had been watching the silent exchange. "You may go as well."
"R-really?!" Caules's face lit up.
"You and your Berserker showed initiative earlier, attempting to prevent my… misunderstanding with the Ruler," Vlad said, a note of approval in his tone. "The fortress is secure with myself, Saber, and Caster's constructs. If you wish to support your sister, you have my permission."
"Thank you, Your Majesty!" Caules bowed deeply, then grabbed Franky's hand, practically dragging the still-pouting Berserker out of the throne room.
"My King, I don't understand," Darnic said, his frown deepening once they were gone. "Sending an inexperienced Master and a Berserker on a delicate retrieval mission…"
"What does it matter? Let the boy have his adventure," Gordolf snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "Hell, send Rider too. Maybe they'll get lucky and take out the Red Saber while they're at it."
Darnic's eyes narrowed, studying Gordolf. The suggestion made tactical sense on the surface, but there was something in Gordolf's demeanor… a forced casualness. He was hiding something. Ah, Darnic thought. He wants the Red faction to thin our ranks for him. How transparent.
"I do not disregard the loyalty of my subjects," Vlad said quietly, his gaze distant. "And I could see it in his eyes. He would have gone regardless of my command. Better to send him with honor than have him skulk in the shadows."
"As you say, my King," Darnic conceded with a slight bow, though his misgivings remained.
---
Back in his private quarters, Gordolf locked the door and activated a sound-dampening bounded field. He let out a gruff sigh of frustration.
"Tch. Was hoping to get a few more of them out of the castle. Make things… quieter around here."
The door to the large walk-in wardrobe creaked open. A silver-haired head poked out cautiously. "Is… everything alright?"
"It's fine. Nothing you need to worry about. Same rules apply—stay hidden until I call for you. And for god's sake, if you hear fighting, you crawl under the bed and don't come out." Gordolf walked to a small refrigerator and pulled out a sealed can of thick, nutrient-rich formula. He tossed it to the homunculus. "Here. It's not gourmet, but it'll keep your systems stable. Can't do a proper tune-up with that lunatic Caster breathing down my neck every time I go near the workshop. We'll have to wait until after the war."
"Thank you," the homunculus said softly, fumbling with the pull-tab on the can. His hands were still weak, uncoordinated.
"Useless," Gordolf muttered, but there was no heat in it. He stomped over, took the can, and opened it with a sharp psst, handing it back. "Drink. All of it."
The homunculus nodded, taking slow, careful sips.
"Saber," Gordolf said, turning to where Siegfried had materialized by the window, watching the courtyard below. "We need to give this one a name. Can't keep calling him 'the homunculus.' Feels… crude."
"I am afraid naming is not among my talents, Master," Siegfried said, a rare, almost helpless expression on his face.
The homunulus looked up, liquid eyes flickering between them. "S… Sieg?" he ventured quietly.
"Sieg? Just 'Sieg'?" Gordolf made a face. "That's… incredibly uncreative. And derivative."
"I… I want to," the homunculus—Sieg—said, his voice gaining a sliver of strength. He looked at Siegfried, then at Gordolf. "After the war… I want to protect you. I may not be as strong as Siegfried, but…"
Gordolf's jaw went slack. He stared at the frail, earnest creature on his bed.
A warm, genuine smile spread across Siegfried's face. He walked over and knelt by the bed, bringing himself to eye level with Sieg. He extended a large, calloused hand. "Then… I leave him in your care. It is a great responsibility."
Sieg's eyes shone. He reached out, his small, pale hand trembling slightly as it gripped Siegfried's fingers. "I will. I swear it."
"Hey! Hold on a second!" Gordolf spluttered, waving his arms. "Who's protecting who here?! Get the hierarchy straight! I'm the Master! I'm the one with the plan! You two are making it sound like I'm some helpless old man!"
Siegfried and Sieg looked at each other, then back at Gordolf. In unison, they smiled.
Gordolf groaned, running a hand down his face, but the corner of his own mouth twitched upward despite himself.
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Author's Note: Hello everyone! Just a quick note to say thank you for reading. Moving forward, I'll aim to post new chapters around 7 PM (my local time) to keep a more consistent schedule. Please don't stay up too late waiting! As for discussions and critiques, I welcome them. I believe the story will speak for itself as it unfolds. Now, back to the tale...
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Interlude: The Eternal Huntress
Atalanta.
A princess by birth, abandoned to die in the wilderness. A child raised by a she-bear, found and taught by hunters. In the brutal landscape of ancient Greece, such a story was not unique. To be exposed was a common fate; to survive it was a rarity. Atalanta was one of the rare few, blessed not by fate, but by the direct favor of Artemis. The goddess of the hunt saw a kindred wild spirit and granted her protection, and with it, a life of unparalleled freedom.
To leap through the canopy, a creature both fierce hunter and elegant beast—this was her existence. She pledged her eternal chastity to Artemis, a vow that promised a life different from other Greek women, free from becoming a man's prize or a kingdom's bargaining chip.
Or so she thought.
No… it would likely end the same. Her strength would make her a heroine. And heroines, in her experience, eventually became trophies for the so-called heroes to boast about. This cynical view solidified as she witnessed the swaggering, arrogant men who called themselves heroes in the cities she sometimes skirted. She despised them. Animals mated out of biological necessity. These men were driven by base, unrestrained desire. It was ugly. She often fantasized about taxonomically reclassifying 'man' as a separate, inferior species.
All men were the same. Their eyes held the same greedy appraisal, whether she was a girl or the woman she became. The pathetic irony was their courage always failed when matched against true threat. They were desire without fortitude.
And then, on a day no different from any other, she met someone… different.
A boy. He couldn't yet be called a man. He stood beside a divine horse of breathtaking beauty, and he seemed frail in comparison. Hidden in the brush, she hesitated. That deer was her quarry. A hunter reclaimed her prey. But the boy hadn't shot it; the horse had acted on its own.
Perhaps if she had simply slipped away then, her life would have taken another path. But she didn't. She confronted him, and saw someone who didn't fit in Greece.
He was… afraid of her. Not of her strength or her bow, but of her. His eyes, the color of fresh snow, were wide and clear, flickering with an emotion she rarely saw directed at herself: a desperate, almost pleading 'please go away.'
Who wants to be near you anyway, you pale-haired brat? I just want my deer!
Of course, one unusual boy didn't change her opinion of mankind. The gold coins he offered as compensation were the only reason for their transaction. She sought the finest rope and bowstring materials because she took pride in her craft, not to impress him.
…Why couldn't women just reproduce with each other? Or find a magic river? Anything to make men obsolete.
Her simmering disdain boiled into outright fury when she later found that same white-haired boy in intimate conversation with her revered Artemis. The goddess had an arm around his shoulders. Atalanta's first instinct was to put him in a chokehold with the very rope she'd just bought. She'd already thrown him once. Finishing the job seemed logical.
But Artemis forbade it. Called him a 'child of the moon.' A child? Artemis was a virgin goddess! The implications were scandalous! Clearly, for the goddess's own reputation, the boy had to be eliminated!
She had no other motive. None at all.
In the end, she didn't kill him. Not because she hesitated, but because Artemis wouldn't allow it.
And then he was gone. Vanished without a trace. Even the greatest hunter needs a trail to follow. She focused on her skills, honing her aim until she could strike a fly from a hero's helm at a hundred paces. It proved useful. Many a 'hero' with dishonorable intentions found himself nursing a sudden, severe headache. Her fame grew.
That fame was a lure, attracting more heroes, inflaming their desires. With every arrogant fool she put down, a part of her wondered about the white-haired boy. If he ever developed that same greedy glint in his eye, she wouldn't hesitate to put an arrow through it. She wanted to do it anyway, just on principle.
To clear Artemis's name and to pursue her own goals, she joined the Argo. And there he was. That shock of white hair was a beacon in the crowd of muscular braggarts. One objective down. Now to corner him, get answers, and maybe toss him overboard.
But he had changed. The boy had become a man, with a lean, powerful build distinct from the brute strength of a Heracles. He seemed different, yet fundamentally the same. His eyes still held that clear, almost skittish quality. Boarding the Argo, the ship of legends, should have been a moment of pride. He clung to a rock on the shore like a piglet being dragged from its den, whining until someone simply picked him up, rock and all.
This man, Cyd, was an anomaly. In a world where 'hero' was often synonymous with 'glorified bandit,' he seemed to fit the ideal. He cared more about helping a fallen child than boasting of his lineage.
Kind. Confident. Humble. Easygoing. He possessed virtues most Greek heroes lacked.
He was also infuriating. His speed, for one. The way he could just… slip away.
Perhaps heroes weren't a special breed. They were just ordinary people granted extraordinary power. Some used that power to indulge their darkest impulses. Others remained ordinary at heart, simply using their strength to do the things any decent person would do, if they could.
If that was the classification, then in her eyes, all Greek heroes fell into three categories: Cyd, Heracles (though Hera's curse put him in a tragic middle ground), and all the others.
He was rational in a world where even the gods were slaves to passion. Or perhaps he was indulging his own desire—a desire so simple, so mundane, it was revolutionary: to live an ordinary, peaceful life.
But the world wasn't kind enough to allow that.
Which was why it was so absurd that he was this strong. Invulnerable skin. Divine blessings falling on him like rain. With all that, he still just wanted to be normal? The world was dangerous, but this was overkill.
Life never gives you exactly what you want. The harder you chase a goal, the more it can distort. Sometimes, stopping is the wiser choice.
Tentatively, she reached out to him. It was a first for her. A strange, fluttering feeling in her chest made her turn away. But he dodged her gesture, replying with a joke that hid a terrifying truth.
He was on a journey to secure an ordinary life by walking the most extraordinary path. He set out with a smile, onto a road she knew would be long and hard. A part of her wanted to follow. Not for any particular reason. Just to observe.
She heard the poets sing of 'Cyd.' Slayer of the Colchian Dragon. The Pure-White Hero.
Whenever her opportunistic father droned on about Cyd's greatness, she'd roll her eyes. She knew better. Cyd just… did things. What others saw as heroic deeds were, to him, simple actions. The 'Pure-White Hero' was just a man with the power to hold onto his humanity in a world that rewarded monstrosity. He didn't kill because he couldn't be hurt. He didn't steal because he desired nothing lavish.
Cyd was still the boy she'd thrown to the ground, who'd looked up at her with wounded confusion. But no one saw that. They crafted a legend, turning his incidental kindness into his entire identity.
His deeds warranted the title. But he was not the paragon they sang of. Their 'Pure-White Hero' was a pathetic construct.
He never wanted to be a hero.
She knew Cyd. The legend could take care of itself.
He became sought-after, accumulating more blessings, drifting further from the simple life he craved.
Then, her father pushed for her marriage. The ugly truth: the daughter he'd discarded was now a valuable bargaining chip to entice a famous hero.
She didn't refuse. Because… she hoped he would come. No—that was a forbidden thought. She was Artemis's devotee. She had taken a vow.
But the thought bloomed anyway.
He came. The final race. He'd promised no more joking demands if he won. Her compliance wasn't… unwilling.
He ran. He fled the wedding, leaving the princess who had, for him, sheathed her claws. He returned to his journey as casually as he'd once walked away from those he'd helped. How many times have you done this?
But you didn't save some helpless princess. You saved a beast who chose not to bite.
You are the Pure-White Hero. In gaining the gods' favor, you saved many. Your path will be paved with glory until it buries you, until you forget the boy you were.
You acted out of your own kindness. You are not a saint! Everything you have, you earned. No one has the right to demand anything of you. You owe them nothing!
They owe you!
You never asked for this. You never wanted it. This is not your duty! You are not obligated to save the world!
Don't forget…
Are you the Pure-White Hero, or the boy who just wanted to be happy?
But… the world hungers for a Pure-White Hero.
It's fine. There will be someone who hungers just for 'Cyd.' Someone to remind you. Though, is anyone in this world that foolish?
Yes.
The hunter whose path he crossed, whose journey he irrevocably altered.
I will keep hunting. Until your journey ends. When the Pure-White Hero finishes his story and vanishes from the world, the hunter Atalanta can finally rest. Then, two people who are not heroes can work on 'Cyd's' wish.
If you die the Pure-White Hero, I will hunt forever, even into the underworld.
If you remain the Pure-White Hero even in death, I will hunt you through the underworld. Not even death can stop this chase.
That is her love.
She believed not even death could part them. But he went deeper, to a place her arrow could not follow…
How pathetic. The Pure-White Hero, seeking an ordinary life, walked a path that saved the world. He was never the self-sacrificing type. How pathetic that he became the legend after all.
No… the pathetic one is her. The hunter who couldn't keep up with her prey.
The hero did not return.
She never believed he lost. Nothing could stop him from reaching his journey's end. Not death. Not the King of Gods. Not hell itself.
Atalanta's search was not confined to earth. As her hunter's eyes scanned the dirt for tracks—a snapped twig, a scuff in the moss, the faint, copper-iron scent of old blood—they also lifted to the heavens. The sky, dotted with the first pinpricks of evening stars, was a map of another kind. As long as those stars shone, her hunt could endure. It could transcend the boundaries of life, death, and myth itself.
In the quiet solitude of the forest, with only the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of an owl for company, pretense fell away. She allowed herself the naked truth.
She wished to become a star.
Not for glory, not for a place in the celestial pantheon. She wanted to become a fixed point in the night sky, a constant, guiding light for the pure-white hero wandering his impossible path. To watch over him from an unreachable distance, to ensure he never lost his way in the darkness that sought to consume him… that, too, was a form of hunting. A vigil. An eternal pursuit.
You will never escape my hunt, the thought solidified in her heart, a core of flint and resolve. No ocean, no mountain, no boundary between life and death will be enough. I will always find you. I will always be there, watching, waiting, guiding. This is my final strategy. My ultimate shot.
She knelt on the soft forest floor, not in submission, but in solemn petition. She prayed to Artemis, not for strength or victory in battle, but for a transformation. She asked to be placed among the stars. To become a constellation—the she-bear, or perhaps the lioness. A creature of fierce, maternal power, yet one that could never bear cubs with the lion. It was a paradox that suited her perfectly. It was her choice, a symbol etched in light across the cosmos.
Though she could never have children with Cyd—a fact that brought a complex pang of regret and acceptance—she could offer him something else. She could pledge her very essence, her celestial purity, to him. Her vow to Artemis, her chastity, would not be broken for him, but it would be for him. A gift of constancy.
Even if she left no mortal legacy, no bloodline to carry her name, her love would persist as long as the stars turned in the sky. It was a vow that wove together the two she loved most: the goddess who gave her freedom and purpose, and the man who showed her what true strength could look like.
And in the deepest, most secret chamber of her proud heart, she acknowledged a terrifying, shameful truth.
She wanted him to break it.
She wanted Cyd, in his gentle, oblivious way, to shatter her vow to Artemis. To render her resolve to dust with a single touch, a single word. She longed for him to be selfish, just once. To claim her, not as a hunter claims prey, but as a man claims the woman he desires. To force her to choose him over her oath, to live in the messy, complicated, human world of passion he seemed to both embody and flee from.
But Cyd…
Cyd was just a gentle fool.
He saw her strength, her independence, her devotion to Artemis, and he respected it as an unbreachable wall. He would never presume to scale it. He would never see the crack in the foundation she had secretly carved for him, the hidden door she wished only he had the key to open.
Her love was a silent, celestial vigil. A hunt that would span eternity, waiting for a quarry who would never look up and see the hunter in the stars, guiding him home.
The hunter was bound forever to her chase, and the hero was forever walking away, both trapped by the very purity that defined them.