"Uncle Darnic, there's no need to be so concerned about temporary gains or losses. Our Yggdmillennia family has already gained the upper hand in the Holy Grail War. The enemy's Rider of Red, Achilles, and Berserker of Red, Spartacus, have both been captured by Her Majesty."
"Moreover, the enemy has already expended their Command Spells to recall Servants. They only have three in total. The ones who should be worried right now are the Reds. We just need to stay steady and advance carefully."
Fiore's words finally brought clarity to Darnic's troubled mind. Indeed—what was the rush? They had waited sixty years for this chance. What were another seven days of patience?
The current situation was excellent. There was no need to gamble recklessly. A gambler's impulse could ruin everything.
Though he firmly believed that the final fruit of victory in this Holy Grail War would belong to him, Darnic decided to play it safe. Any unnecessary risks could jeopardize his ultimate triumph.
"Thank you, Fiore. I was being too hasty," Darnic said with a sigh, bowing his head slightly in genuine gratitude toward the girl in the wheelchair.
Darnic was, in many ways, a contradictory man. Cruel and cold, yet polite and composed—always addressing others with a courtesy that bordered on refinement.
Toward subordinates, clansmen, even allies—so long as they obeyed without defiance, Darnic was often quite reasonable, even generous. One might say he was an enlightened elder, a guide.
Yet when his own interests were at stake, no amount of loyalty or familiarity could soften his heart. He could exploit or discard anyone without hesitation or remorse.
Truly, magi were strange, paradoxical beings (with only rare exceptions).
Violent, yet gentle; belligerent, yet lovers of beauty; arrogant, yet courteous; stubborn, yet fickle; submissive, yet unwilling to be controlled; loyal, yet prone to betrayal; brave, yet cowardly...
Was that not the very essence of magi?
"No, Uncle Darnic, this is my duty," Fiore replied softly.
"In that case, since our disruption has achieved its purpose, the King should withdraw."
Darnic nodded with a calm expression, then turned toward the Complete Book of the World's projected image—where Prince Vlad's party was still enveloped in the aftermath of Atalanta's Noble Phantasm. Raising his hand, the Command Spells glowing faintly upon it, he spoke clearly.
"My King, our objective has been achieved. Her Majesty has already eliminated two of the enemy Servants. The purpose of weakening the Red side is fulfilled. You may now retreat."
The Command Spells granted by the Greater Grail were immensely powerful artifacts. Beyond forcing obedience or temporarily amplifying a Servant's power, they could share vision, enable telepathic communication, and even perform miraculous feats—such as teleportation, bordering on True Magic.
The reason the Masters of the Black Faction seldom used that vision link now was simple—they had something far superior: the omniscient, godlike surveillance provided by the Complete Book of the World's 3D panoramic projection.
Why cling to a first-person view when you could enjoy a perfect third-person perspective instead?
"Hmm... so you chose to withdraw for now, Darnic. I must say, I thought you'd push your luck and go all in."
The familiar cool voice drifted through the hall, prompting Darnic and the other Yggdmillennia Masters to lower their heads in unison.
"Your Majesty."
"At ease. I won't interfere with your deployment of the other Servants."
As Selene stepped gracefully into the gilded hall, her tone was calm but commanding.
"Yes, Your Majesty. We shall obey your will," Darnic said, placing a hand to his chest and performing a formal bow. Only after completing every step of the proper etiquette did he finally raise his head to face Selene and Caster of Black—Avicebron as they entered.
In matters of courtesy, Darnic was impeccable. And Selene, who preferred diplomacy over defiance when her authority wasn't directly challenged, found little reason to dislike him.
"In accordance with your proposal," Selene said, her crimson eyes half-lidded, "I have captured the Berserker of Red, Spartacus. His Master's seal has already been erased by Avicebron. You may now establish a new contract with him."
"Thank you for Your Majesty's trust!"
"Don't be so quick to thank me, Darnic." Selene's tone cooled. "A word of caution—Spartacus' Noble Phantasm possesses the ability to absorb attacks and self-detonate. If I'm not mistaken, the Archer of Red following behind him intended to wait until he neared the fortress... and then trigger his explosion."
Upon hearing this, every hair on Darnic's body stood on end. Thank the Root that Her Majesty had captured him. If Berserker of Red had detonated near the fortress, their entire base—including the homunculus mana production workshop—would have been annihilated.
Even if the Greater Grail beneath the castle remained hidden, the loss of their homunculus mana supply alone would cripple their Servants' strength. They would no longer be able to recklessly unleash Noble Phantasms or burn through mana as they pleased.
Even Selene would have suffered in such a scenario. Acting independently merely allowed her to remain in the world without a Master—but to unleash a Noble Phantasm under such conditions? That would have been far more difficult.
Yes, Selene could draw power from the imaginary space that existed across all worlds... but one must remember—this was not her true body.
She was merely a manifested fragment of legend, a Heroic Spirit data construct bound by the same Saint Graph limitations as any other Servant. The mana she could draw from the void was a mere trickle compared to the immense consumption of her Noble Phantasms—like a drop in an endless desert.
"I understand," Darnic said gravely.
"Good. The captured Berserker of Red—Spartacus—is being held outside the fortress. I've already set up a defensive barrier and stationed the Royal Guards to watch over him. The rest is yours to handle. Avicebron and I have other matters to attend to."
With that, Selene turned and left the hall. Wordlessly, Caster of Black—Avicebron followed behind her.
"Teacher! Wait for me!"
Roche dashed after them.
Watching the young apprentice's retreating back, Darnic narrowed his eyes slightly. "...As you command."
...
As Selene walked along the marble corridor leading to the underground workshop of the Fortress of Millennia, she suddenly realized someone was missing. Turning toward the Royal Guards following behind, she asked curiously, "Hmm? Where's your captain, Darlenst?"
"Your Majesty, Captain Darlenst said you ordered him to engage the Son of the Sun God, Karna. He departed some time ago," one of the guards replied.
Darlenst—captain of this particular squad of Royal Guards—was a veteran from the old Imperial Capital's Eighth Legion, one of Selene's loyal retainers.
"When did I... oh—"
Selene paused, recalling the moment during the capture of Berserker of Red.
'Your Majesty, in accordance with your command, I've located the Ruler's presence. The Lancer of Red, Karna, is moving to engage. Shall I act?'
Darlenst had asked that question, and at the time, Selene—already irritated by Achilles' flirtatious provocation—had simply waved and nodded in distracted assent.
And earlier, during the Trifas battle against Red Saber Mordred, she'd even promised Darlenst personally:
'Don't worry, your time will come. The son of Surya, the Sun God, from the Mahabharata—he's your opponent.'
...Right. That had indeed been her own promise. A nod and a wave might not have been a direct command, but to that simple-minded soldier, it was as good as law.
The moment he saw an opening, he'd gone off immediately.
How... loyal.
Thinking of that tanned, square-jawed face, Selene couldn't help covering her own with one hand. Why were all her Royal Guardsmen so earnest—so single-mindedly dutiful?
Well... she supposed it wasn't a bad thing. The more honest and obedient soldiers under her command, the better.
"Hmm. Let him go, then..." she said with a faint smile. "Karna's already been recalled by his Master anyway. What's he going to do, fight Jeanne d'Arc for fun?"
Ahh, delightful. How very entertaining.
...
On the highway leading toward Trifas.
The night wind howled as Jeanne's school uniform dissolved into radiant motes, replaced by her Servant attire. Silver armor gleamed over her black nun's robes, and a silver circlet rested upon her brow—more symbolic than protective.
The cold air whipped past her as she gazed ahead at the massive crater carved into the earth by a devastating strike. The culprit, of course, had already left—without so much as a word.
Even someone as patient as Ruler—Jeanne d'Arc couldn't help feeling exasperated. She planted her white iris flagstaff into the ground with a heavy thud.
"What on earth was that supposed to mean?! That Lancer of Red!" she fumed. "He attacks me without a word—me, the appointed Ruler of this Holy Grail War—and then disappears before I can even ask him why. But... that had to be a Command Spell, didn't it?"
The abrupt disappearance, that blinding flash of teleportation—it could only mean his Master had used a Command Spell to forcibly withdraw him from the field.
"The Red and Black Servants have already started fighting. I need to get there quickly—and over there..." Jeanne turned toward the forest, where the sounds of battle were loudest. "That must be a Noble Phantasm being unleashed... I have to—"
Then she froze.
Her gaze drifted to a familiar, pastel-pink object lying in the dirt nearby.
"Ah—ahhh! My luggage!"
When she had come to Romania, she'd already spent most of Laeticia's savings. Jeanne had felt guilty enough about that—but now even Laeticia's suitcase had been completely destroyed... by none other than the Lancer of Red.
Her expression turned blank with despair as she stared at the wrecked, mud-splattered suitcase. Clothes, undergarments, and toiletries were scattered across the roadside in pitiful disarray.
"Why does this kind of thing keep happening to me...? Lancer of Red, did you really come all this way just to blow up my suitcase? Ugh... fine, I'll clean this up first."
Sighing, Jeanne dismissed her white iris flag and knelt to start gathering her belongings. But just as she reached for a blouse—
"Hey! You there—Ruler!!"
A booming, metallic voice roared from behind her, deep and gruff. "Have you seen the Lancer of Red—the son of Surya, the Sun God, Karna—from the Mahabharata?"
Jeanne nearly jumped out of her skin. Her ears rang from the sheer volume—but that wasn't what mortified her most.
No. It was shame.
Because the clothes she was frantically collecting—her stockings, undergarments, and various private items—were all scattered in plain sight.
Ahhh—he saw! He saw everything! Laeticia, I'm so sorry!
"I could have sworn I sensed the burning aura of the sun just moments ago," the man continued gruffly. "Now it's gone. Hm? Miss, do you need help?"
Realizing that the man was standing right behind her—and that his gaze had drifted toward the scattered clothing—Jeanne's face flushed scarlet. Her blue eyes, blazing with divine authority, snapped toward him.
"Please don't look! Eh? Y-you're... a Servant?!"
She craned her neck upward, eyes widening in astonishment.
Before her stood a towering figure—easily over three meters tall—encased in ornate, golden armor. A crimson cloak billowed behind him. His sheer size radiated overwhelming strength.
But her skill, True Name Discernment, yielded nothing. Whoever this armored giant was, his Noble Phantasm's concealment was far too powerful. Even Jeanne couldn't see through it.
"Hm? I'm no Servant," the giant rumbled. "Hey, woman, you haven't answered my question yet. Do you need help or not?"
The armored man—Captain Darlenst of the Royal Guards—pointed at the colorful mess of clothes scattered across the road. "And that sun god's son—"
"Stop! Just—stop! As the Ruler, I can't cooperate with you even if I wanted to! And turn around already—don't look!"
Though she was only temporarily possessing Laeticia's body, Jeanne was inhabiting it—and those garments on the ground were, in every sense, hers. The idea of a man staring at them made her want to die of embarrassment.
Darlenst, for his part, couldn't care less what this Ruler woman wore. Still, remembering Sir Sebas' lectures on gentlemanly conduct, he reluctantly turned his head aside.
"Tch. What a troublesome woman. Fine—don't want help? Then hurry it up. And I mean hurry up."
If not for Her Majesty's explicit order that the Ruler was not to be treated as an enemy (so long as she wasn't favoring the Red Faction), Darlenst wouldn't even be talking right now. He'd have already raised his Honkai-powered battle axe.
As he waited, though, his irritation grew.
"Damn it! That Karna bastard got away! The tribute for Her Majesty—gone! Damn!"
Of course, among the rough ex-soldiers under General Kinshasa's command, foul language was hardly unusual. It wasn't as if they were on duty in the Imperial Capital before the throne, after all.
"Woman! You done yet?! It's been thirty seconds! Move it! Even the Imperial Security Division wouldn't let you dawdle like this!"
"Huh? This is a lady's—"
"Lady my ass! Pack it up and get moving! Don't keep Her Majesty waiting... tch, what a disgrace. Came out full of confidence, and all I end up with is you! When the commander hears about this, I'll never hear the end of it..."