The door to Zelretch's office creaked open — not dramatically, not even loudly, but with the sound of old hinges that had borne witness to too many secrets, whispering them again to the room as it breathed in the change.
Rin Tohsaka stepped across the threshold.
The space was an orchestra of disorder. A chessboard where gods had flipped the pieces and forgotten the rules. Tomes of interdimensional convergence were stacked beside half-finished teacups, still steaming faintly — tea leaves curling like divination glyphs. A suspended, slowly rotating projection of a dying multiverse floated in the corner, fragments of existence orbiting a hollow nucleus that pulsed with a heartbeat that was not time.
Shadows moved of their own volition — not in defiance of light, but in contempt of it.
At the room's nucleus stood Zelretch, the Wizard Marshal, adjusting the sleeve of a coat woven with lunar veins and stitched in patterns even the Root had long since forgotten.
"You called?" Rin asked, voice even, footfalls unapologetically firm.
Zelretch didn't glance up. "Yes. You're attending a meeting in my place."
Rin blinked once, brow twitching. "A meeting?"
"A strategic conclave," he said, finally lifting his eyes. They shimmered — not with light, but with some deeper resonance: part anticipation, part resignation. "Thirty minutes. Lords. Department heads. High seats. I trust you won't die."
He tilted his head slightly, as if recalling a passing note from another book entirely. "How are Shisan and Claudius progressing? Still trying not to kill each other?"
Rin folded her arms. "One of them nearly did. The other stopped him. So… promising."
Zelretch gave a low chuckle. "Ah, the sound of compatibility forged in strangulation. Carry on."
"You're serious about this meeting?" Her tone edged with incredulity. "You're sending me to speak in your place about this? The Grail War and the decay of the leyline network — that's your theater, not mine."
"I have a guest arriving," he replied, as if announcing an afternoon nap.
"A guest?" Rin stared at him. "More important than the Clock Tower's potential erasure from magical relevance?"
"Yes."
Her jaw clenched. "You're insufferable."
"I've heard worse."
"I wasn't praising you."
Zelretch finally smiled, folding his hands behind his back. "Dr. Garnet will accompany you. She'll brief you on what matters before you walk into the pit."
Rin gave a half-sigh, half-growl. "Fine. But if Barthomeloi vaporizes me with a glance, I'm haunting this office forever."
"I'll bind your spirit to the tea kettle," he mused. "It would improve the flavor."
With a rustle of her coat, Rin turned on her heel. The door shut behind her with a metallic click that rang like a ritual bell, dismissing her not as a student — but as an emissary.
The hall beneath the First Spire was a relic buried in reverence. Its age was carved into the very stone, where every tile bore the faded imprint of secrets sworn and truths unspoken. The walls thrummed gently with suppressed power — layers of bounded fields, secrecy runes, and containment rings that whispered warnings even to passing air.
Her boots struck the marble like declarations.
She walked alone — or so she thought.
"Late," a voice called from ahead, dry as iron on snow. "But only fashionably."
Dr. Mireille Lysithea Garnet emerged from between two obsidian support pillars, cloak wrapped tight, her gloves fastened with silver clasps shaped like blooming ciphers.
Hovering at her shoulder was a floating disc — the Lacrima Lucida — a mirror no wider than a handspan, framed in tarnished silver and veined with fragments of soulglass.
"Not late," Rin replied. "Just cursed with punctual drama."
"Indeed," Garnet said, tilting her head. "Come. You'll want context before you enter the sanctum of egos."
"Don't keep me waiting."
They walked side by side, their steps echoing like dueling pendulums.
"The group is calling themselves Die Erben der Schwarzen Sonne AKA The Heirs of the Black Sun," Garnet began. "A hybrid — cult, insurgency, and conceptual parasite. They've merged forbidden theology with pre-Earth design theory. Ludolf Arkwright is their center — yes, that Arkwright. The one Zelretch allegedly executed. Clearly, execution didn't stick."
"He's alive?" Rin's voice sharpened like a blade drawn halfway.
"In body, soul, or concept — it hardly matters. He's acting. And Fuyuki bleeds because of it."
They turned a sharp corner. Runes along the wall brightened faintly at their passage, identifying and authorizing them with silent precision.
"The leylines?"
"Corroding. Rotting from within. It began subtly. Like mold beneath wallpaper. But it's no longer passive. The leyline grid is being rewritten in real time."
"If it spreads?"
"Mana networks. Boundaries. Geographic anchors. Global collapse is a very real possibility. The Grail could be hijacked. Or worse, become a vessel."
Rin was silent for a beat. "How long has this been happening?"
"We don't know. Which, to me, is the most terrifying answer of all."
They arrived at a great circular door — etched with intersecting circles, layered sigils, and pulsating veins of aether-gold. Sentinel golems flanked the entry like dreaming statues, unblinking and unbreathing.
"One more thing," Garnet added. "Two Masters have already been selected by the Grail."
"Let me guess," Rin murmured. "Insane. Reckless. Doomed."
"Princess Eirene Vulpen von Eisenwald. And Talia Grimm."
Rin exhaled through her nose. "Of course. Royalty."
"You'll see the room's reaction for yourself."
Before Garnet could continue, Rin collided with someone rounding the final bend.
"Watch it—" she began, then stopped. Recognition flared.
A familiar presence.
Lord El-Melloi II stood before her, a storm in repose. His long coat swept the floor like a professor's shadow, and the scent of scotch, old paper, and dying mana lingered about him like incense.
"You still barge into sacred halls like a thunderclap," he said, the corners of his mouth tugging slightly.
"And you still quote funeral rites like bedtime stories," Rin shot back, smirking.
Their banter was quicksilver. A bridge over deeper memories.
"Good to see you, Waver," she said.
"You too, Rin."
The chamber beneath the First Spire was hollowed from a single slab of midnight obsidian. It pulsed with leyline suppression fields, folding space inward so tightly that even thoughts felt heavier inside it. The air was thick — not with heat, but with expectation.
At the crescent table sat those who defined magical law.
To Rin's left sat Lord Syphor Dalion — ritual theorist from the Grand Ritual Department. His robes were embroidered with ancient chalk markings, as if he lived in his own summoning circle. His eyes, pale and too still, looked as though they belonged to someone who hadn't blinked since the Third Grail War.
Beside him sat Philosopher-Alchemist Nymira — a scholar of meaning itself. Her robes shimmered in alchemical hues, and her left eye had long since been replaced by a clockwork orrery that ticked softly every few seconds.
"Dalion and Nymira," Garnet whispered. "Theory and interpretation. The blueprint and the myth."
Before Rin could respond, the chamber darkened.
A voice rang like a bell struck inside the skull.
"Announcing Lady Lorelei Barthomeloi."
The doors opened like scripture torn in half.
Barthomeloi entered with practiced severity. Her boots made no sound, but her presence made up for it tenfold. Her uniform shimmered with divine precision. Her gaze cut through the room like a spell that demanded compliance.
She sat without waiting for permission.
The meeting began.
"We are gathered," Barthomeloi began, "to address what may be the Clock Tower's greatest disgrace since the founding of the Department of Modern Magecraft. Ludolf Arkwright — traitor, executioner of order — yet lives."
She turned to Rin like a blade considering its next notch. "And Zelretch sends a schoolgirl?"
Rin didn't blink. "He sends someone who's survived two Grail Wars. You're welcome."
Before the air could curdle, El-Melloi's voice intervened, cool and calm.
"Rin Tohsaka's insights exceed even her pedigree. Denying her perspective would be an academic loss. And a strategic one."
Barthomeloi said nothing. But she didn't object.
Garnet stepped forward. "Two Masters have already been confirmed: Eirene von Eisenwald and Talia Grimm. One is royalty turned strategist. The other is ritual scar turned blade."
Nymira raised a brow. "A walking thaumaturgical plague. We're embracing chaos now, are we?"
"Desperation is a fine recruiter," Dalion muttered.
Rin leaned forward, voice cutting the silence. "Do we know if the Heirs have summoned?"
Garnet hesitated. "…No confirmation."
Barthomeloi scoffed. "Then what do we know?"
"The leyline corrosion is exponential. Fuyuki's pulse is no longer Earth's heartbeat — it's being overwritten. Rewritten."
Dalion's assistant stood, hand trembling.
"We intercepted a message. Etched into the flesh of a summoned homunculus. Translated by blood and rune."
He laid a parchment down.
"To Awaken the Architect Below."
Nymira flinched. "Umbra?"
Dalion's chalk clattered to the floor.
Barthomeloi's gaze turned to steel. "Explain."
Dalion spoke like confessing to a ghost. "Umbra is not a god. Not a beast. It is the design before design. A failed world template sealed by Gaia herself. A logic that sought perfection by removing change."
Nymira added softly, "It wants a world of stillness. Pattern without deviation. Silence masquerading as peace."
Rin's voice dropped. "And they want to bring that here?"
The room froze.
Barthomeloi rose slightly. "What is Zelretch doing to prevent this?"
Rin stood. "He's not playing chess. He's preparing to flip the board."
Nymira snapped, "Then we use the Grail. As a weapon."
Dalion gasped. "You'd blaspheme the construct itself?"
"It's already corrupted," she said. "Why not corrupt it forward?"
A voice, deep and final, echoed from the chamber doors.
"Because at that point, you'd be giving a hurricane a blade."
They turned.
The doors opened.
Archmagus Caedmon Elginhart entered like prophecy made flesh.
His coat was carved from wyrm-leather, each step a thunderclap folded into silence. His presence did not fill the room — it replaced it.
All stood.
Even Barthomeloi.
Caedmon approached the table. A scroll floated behind him, unrolling of its own accord.
"I come bearing Zelretch's decree."
He gestured.
"I, Caedmon Elginhart, and my two hands — Juno Faelora and Seraphina Valdren — will lead the strike upon the Heirs in Fuyuki. We will execute Ludolf Arkwright. We will destroy the Grail. We will prevent Umbra's materialization."
Barthomeloi hissed. "Why not Zelretch himself?"
Caedmon's voice rumbled. "Because the Grail must complete. Even corrupted. Even chained. Only then can it be shattered."
El-Melloi's voice was ice. "And what disadvantages do we face?"
Caedmon looked at them all. "They have summoned. They have tampered with the Ruler. They command the leylines. We are behind. They want Umbra. And they are using Angra Mainyu as acid — to corrode the lock."
Rin's mouth dried. "And the eclipse?"
Caedmon looked away. "…Perhaps Ludolf. Perhaps not. But it was placed."
Barthomeloi's voice dropped to a whisper of fire. "When?"
Caedmon unrolled the final section of the scroll.
"Three months. Then we descend into Sanctum Nadir."