Chapter 71: The reunion
The world steadied beneath Riya's feet only after a few long, dizzy heartbeats.
One moment, he was surrounded by the collapsing shimmer of a portal; the next, his boots landed on polished wood.
The faint scent of parchment and candle wax hit him as his eyes adjusted to the dim, scholarly atmosphere of an office.
Stacks of books leaned against each other like tired soldiers, while maps and charts covered the walls in carefully organized chaos.
Behind a broad oak desk sat a man with neatly combed dark hair, and a measured, unreadable gaze.
He adjusted the bridge of his glasses, sizing Riya up in the same way one might inspect an unfamiliar weapon.
"You're late," the man said flatly, voice laced with the irritation of someone who had already had a long day.
"I dislike having my schedule disrupted."
Riya raised a brow, glancing around the room. "...And you are?"
The man's expression barely shifted, but there was a subtle tightening around his eyes.
"Lord El-Melloi II."
"But you may call me Waver Velvet."
"We've never met, but we have a mutual acquaintance—Zelretch."
The name alone was enough to make Riya's shoulders stiffen.
"Yes, him," Waver continued with a weary sigh, as if reading Riya's reaction.
"I owed him a favor."
"Against my better judgment, I'm here to fulfill it."
From beneath the desk, Waver withdrew a long, rectangular case—its lacquered surface smooth and almost ceremonial.
He set it on the desk between them, the faint metallic click of the lock opening sounding louder than it should have in the quiet room.
Inside lay a small, weathered relic—its material unclear, but old, steeped in a faint, lingering energy.
"This," Waver said, "is your part of the arrangement."
"A summoning catalyst."
"I don't know who it's meant to call, and frankly, I don't care to."
"I'm simply the delivery man in this equation."
Riya studied the relic, his fingers brushing against its surface.
It had a pull to it, faint but undeniable.
"But," Waver went on, leaning back in his chair, "there's another matter."
"One of my… problematic students has decided to involve himself in the Snowfield Grail War—Flat Escardos."
"If you happen to be present in that city, I'd like you to keep him alive."
"Or at least, keep him out of trouble."
"You manage that, and I'll owe you a favor in the future."
Riya's brow twitched slightly. "Sounds like a babysitting job."
"Call it what you want," Waver said, the corners of his mouth tugging into a humorless smile.
"Consider it a test of patience."
He tapped the desk twice, and his gaze sharpened.
"Now, before you go charging in blind, you should know a few things."
"The Snowfield Grail War has…"
"Unconventional participants."
"The city's Police Department is in on it—they're treating the whole affair as some sort of sanctioned operation."
"And then there's the Scaldio Family."
"Old money."
"Magus lineage going back centuries."
"They don't like outsiders."
"You'll recognize their style—opulent, arrogant, and armed to the teeth."
Waver's tone suggested he had little patience for either group.
"That's all I'm willing to share," he said finally, gesturing toward the relic.
"Take it, and try not to get yourself killed before you even summon a Servant."
Riya picked up the relic, slipping it into his coat. "No promises."
Waver's sigh was almost theatrical, as if he'd heard those words from somewhere in the past.
The air in the office shifted before the knock even came.
A sharp, rapid rap-rap-rap at the door broke the quiet.
Before Waver could answer, the door swung open with theatrical force.
A tall, blonde woman in an opulent blue dress swept inside, her gold jewelry glinting under the lamplight.
Every step radiated the kind of confidence that came from being absolutely certain you were the most important person in the room.
"Lord El-Melloi II," she began in that silky, aristocratic tone, "I could hardly believe my ears when I overheard."
"You're sending—" her eyes flicked to Riya with thinly veiled skepticism "—this person to retrieve Flat?"
Waver's jaw tightened. "Miss Edelfelt—"
She cut him off without the slightest hesitation.
"Flat is my classmate."
"My responsibility as class representative."
"And you expect me to simply stand by while some stranger waltzes into Snowfield, finds him, and—what?—escorts him back? For all we know, he might come back in pieces!"
Riya leaned back in his chair, unimpressed.
"You always greet people like this, or am I special?"
Her sharp blue gaze didn't waver.
"You're special in the sense that you are unknown."
"Which means untested."
"Which means—no offense—you could be an absolute disaster waiting to happen."
"...Offense taken," Riya replied dryly.
"I'll come along," she declared, as if the matter were already decided.
"With me present, Flat will return in one piece."
"And I'll make sure you don't get yourself killed before you've even figured out which way to point your weapon."
Riya pinched the bridge of his nose. "The last thing I need is babysitting from some rich girl who thinks duels are tea parties."
Her smile sharpened. "Then it's fortunate I don't need your permission."
Waver pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly resigned.
"Riya, you'll find Miss Edelfelt's self-confidence is… durable."
"Once she's made up her mind, there's no point in trying to talk her down."
"And since she has resources, it might actually help you."
"I have more than resources," she said, her chin lifting proudly.
"I have duties."
"And Flat is one of them."
Riya eyed her for a moment, then sighed.
"Fine."
"But if you start trying to boss me around, I'm tossing you out of whatever vehicle we're in."
She smirked. "Then I'll make sure we're in my private jet."
As they stepped out together, Waver's muttered voice followed faintly through the closing door:
"Zelretch owes me for this…" Waver muttered under his breath, already waving the two of them toward the door as though eager to wash his hands of the matter.
The journey that followed was mercifully brief, though not without silence heavy enough to feel deliberate on both sides.
Luvia led with her usual aristocratic stride, while Riya trailed behind, nursing the sting of his wounds and the irritation of being dragged along like some half-reliable hireling.
The moment they stepped into the grand marble foyer of the Edelfelt estate, Luvia's sharp gaze swept over Riya like a jeweler examining a flawed gemstone.
Her eyes narrowed.
"You're injured."
Riya glanced down at himself, then back up. "I've had worse."
"That," she said crisply, "is not the glowing endorsement you think it is."
"You're pale, your balance is slightly off, and your right sleeve is torn in a way that screams a blade missed your arm by inches."
He shrugged. "Still breathing."
"Not for long if you keep treating yourself like a disposable pawn."
She gestured sharply toward a richly upholstered sofa in the adjoining lounge.
"Sit."
"Now."
"I'm not—"
"Sit."
Her tone brooked no argument, and Riya found himself sinking into the cushions despite himself.
The sofa was absurdly comfortable, like it had been designed specifically to make guests feel too relaxed to protest.
Within moments, a maid appeared with a silver tray bearing a porcelain tea set and a small box of bandages.
Luvia herself knelt — though she did so with the kind of poise that suggested it was entirely her decision and not an act of humility — and began inspecting the shallow cuts along his arm.
"You're lucky these aren't deep," she murmured, applying antiseptic with infuriatingly delicate precision.
"I don't need a lecture." Riya muttered.
"Oh, but you do," she said sweetly, her voice carrying the same sting as a well-aimed slap.
"You see, unlike your… experience, I am intimately familiar with how a proper Grail War functions."
"It is not just some brawl with toys."
"It is a battle between the greatest magi, each backed by a Heroic Spirit, with every participant prepared to exploit the slightest weakness — physical or mental."
She tightened the bandage just enough to make him flinch.
"Right now, you have both."
She poured herself a cup of tea and sipped with perfect posture, as though the conversation had already been settled in her favor.
Riya leaned back against the sofa, deciding not to rise to the bait — for now.
But he filed away every word.
She wasn't wrong about one thing: in this kind of war, ignorance was just another weapon for someone else to use against you.
The Edelfelt mansion was every bit as ridiculous as Riya expected — golden chandeliers dripping with crystal, carpets thick enough to lose a shoe in, and walls lined with oil portraits of smug-looking ancestors.
Luvia led the way like a queen returning to her palace.
"You will stay here for the evening."
"A battlefield injury requires proper care, and I won't have my reputation tarnished by dragging an exhausted partner into the field."
"I'm fine," Riya said flatly.
"You would say that," she replied, not slowing her pace.
"The truly inexperienced never recognize their own limits."
"Inexperienced?" he echoed with a faint smirk.
If she had any idea what kind of wars he'd been in, she'd be choking on her tea.
They arrived in a guest room bigger than most apartments.
She motioned toward the bed with a wave that somehow managed to be both imperious and theatrical.
He sat, mostly because the mattress looked indecently comfortable.
"You see, the Snowfield Holy Grail War is a much more refined affair than those crude skirmishes you've probably stumbled through," she began.
"It's a contest of wits, resource management, and noble decorum."
"Proper magi understand that appearance and negotiation are as much weapons as the Servant they command."
Riya raised an eyebrow. "So… less fighting, more tea parties?"
She ignored him entirely. "And unlike the street brawls you may be accustomed to, we follow a civil structure."
"There are rules regarding civilian interference, and the Servants are…"
He cut in. "You mean until someone ignores the rules and stabs you in the back."
"Which they will."
"And you'll be shocked because you thought they were playing fair."
Her eyes narrowed, but she continued in that airy tone that screamed aristocratic upbringing.
"I assure you, the Edelfelt family has navigated far more dangerous conflicts than anything you could imagine."
"Right," he said, lying back against the pillows.
"Because nothing's more dangerous than a room full of people politely pretending they're not going to kill each other."
Her lips twitched — irritation, barely masked.
"Rest, Riya."
"You'll need your strength if you're to keep up with me."
He didn't bother answering.
The mattress was absurdly soft, the kind that made it hard to care about much else.
His last thought before sleep pulled him under was that for all her posturing, Luvia would be eaten alive in the kind of war he knew.
The world shifted, and when Riya opened his eyes, the familiar void of his dreamscape had been replaced with silence and stone.
Rows of worn headstones stretched into the mist, weathered by time and half-swallowed by the earth.
A faint chill clung to the air, carrying the scent of old grass and damp soil.
Crows called somewhere in the distance, though none could be seen.
Among the graves, a lone figure stood.
Her hood was drawn low, a heavy cloak wrapping around her slight frame, but the white strands of her hair caught what little light there was.
She seemed at once part of the graveyard and apart from it, like a ghost reluctant to linger.
"…You've come," she said softly, her voice carrying the faintest tremor.
Riya took a step closer, noting the way her gloved hands tightened around the shaft of a massive scythe.
It wasn't raised in threat—more like a weight she carried out of habit.
"You're… Gray, right?" he asked, more statement than question.
The girl gave a hesitant nod, then lowered her gaze. "That's what I'm called, yes."
"I… know of you, Riya."
"The one who carries us all within him."
There was no suspicion in her tone, no test or challenge.
Only a quiet acceptance, as though she had been waiting for this moment.
"I was raised here," she added, her voice as soft as the mist.
"Among graves, among memories."
"It's… not a place many would want to stand in."
"But it's where I feel most like myself."
She hesitated before glancing back up, her blue eyes uncertain. "I know what you're trying to do."
"fix the broken timeline..."
"It's a burden I could never bear, but… I want to help."
"Even if the only way I can is…"
Her voice trailed off, her cheeks faintly coloring beneath the shadows of her hood.
She shifted her grip on the scythe before dismissing it in a shimmer of light, as though putting away the last of her defenses.
"…You'll let me help, won't you?"
Riya felt a surge of gratitude.
"Gray, I... I appreciate your offer more than you know."
"But are you sure?"
"This isn't something to be taken lightly."
She nodded, a determined look in her eyes.
"I'm sure, Riya."
"I want to help you, in any way I can."
"If this is the only way, then I'm willing."
With that, Gray reached out and took his hand, leading him deeper into the graveyard, where the shadows were thickest.
The air grew colder, and the silence was broken only by the distant hoot of an owl.
Gray stopped by a large, ancient tomb, its stone worn smooth by time and weather.
"Here," she said, her voice barely audible.
"It's private."
Riya nodded, his heart pounding in his chest.
He reached out, gently pulling her closer.
Gray's eyes fluttered closed as their lips met, a soft, tentative kiss that deepened with each passing second.
Riya's hands found their way to her waist, pulling her against him as he explored her mouth with his tongue.
Gray moaned softly, her body pressing against his.
Her hands roamed his back, pulling him closer, deeper.
Riya's mind raced with desire and anticipation.
He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down her neck, tasting her soft skin.
Gray gasped as his teeth grazed her collarbone, her breath hitching.
"Riya..."
He pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes.
"Gray, are you sure?"
"There's no going back after this."
She nodded, a determined look in her eyes.
"I'm sure!"
With that, Riya lifted her cloak, revealing the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts beneath her clothes.
He traced a line down her spine, feeling her shiver beneath his touch.
Gray reached for the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion.
She stood before him, naked and vulnerable, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight.
Riya's breath caught in his throat.
He reached out, cupping her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened.
Gray arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.
He leaned down, capturing one nipple in his mouth, sucking and nipping until she was writhing against him.
Gray's hands found the waistband of his pants, fumbling with the button.
Riya helped her, pushing his pants down and kicking them aside.
He was hard and throbbing with need.
Riya groaned, his hips bucking into her.
"Gray..."
he guided her to the ground, laying her down on the soft grass.
She straddled him, her wet heat pressing against his cock.
Riya reached up, cupping her face, pulling her down for a deep, passionate kiss.
Gray rocked her hips, sliding against him, teasing them both.
Riya broke the kiss, his breath ragged.
She reached between them, guiding his cock to her entrance.
Slowly, she lowered herself onto him, taking him inch by inch.
Riya groaned, his hands gripping her hips as she filled herself with him.
Gray began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm.
Riya met her thrust for thrust, their bodies moving in perfect sync.
The graveyard faded away, replaced by a world of sensation and pleasure.
Gray leaned down, her lips finding his as she rode him harder, faster.
Riya's hands roamed her body, tracing the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass.
He gripped her hips, pulling her down onto him as he thrust up, meeting her stroke for stroke.
Gray's moans filled the air, her body trembling with each thrust.
Riya could feel his orgasm building, his body tensing with each stroke.
Gray's inner muscles clenched around him, milking him, pushing him closer to the edge.
He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles.
Gray cried out, her body convulsing as her orgasm washed over her.
Riya thrust up once, twice more, before his own release tore through him, his cock pulsing as he spilled into her.
Gray collapsed onto his chest, her body slick with sweat.
Riya wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as they both caught their breath.
The graveyard returned, the moonlight casting a soft glow over their entwined bodies.
Riya looked down at Gray, a soft smile on his face.
"Thank you, Gray."
"For everything."
She looked up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
"I'm glad I could help, Riya."
"And...thanks."
And with that, they lay together in the graveyard, their bodies entwined, their futures uncertain, but their connection undeniable.
The world, however, did not pause for their fragile reprieve.
Elsewhere, beyond the veil of warmth and fleeting tenderness, the cold white expanse of the snowfield stirred.
A distant wind howled like a mournful requiem, carrying with it the scent of steel and blood—a herald of kings and chains yet to clash.
There, beneath a sky of gray and despair, a summoning circle flared to life in the snowy wastes, its golden radiance swallowing the frail magus who had so desperately called upon the oldest of kings.
His trembling hands rose in triumph as the towering figure emerged—golden hair like hammered sunlight, crimson eyes that burned like the horizon at dusk, and a presence so absolute that it crushed the very air.
"G–Gilgamesh…" the magus whispered, breathless with awe.
His family's honor, his pride, his future—all restored in one miracle.
But the miracle ended in a heartbeat.
A second figure approached, her steps swift and merciless.
Tiné Chelc's dagger struck before the magus could even turn.
His body crumpled into the ground, staining it with his blood, while his precious Servant only watched with disdainful amusement.
Gilgamesh did not even reach for a weapon.
His eyes flicked toward the dying man, then to the girl.
"How pathetic."
"To think the first sight my eyes fall upon in this age is a worm squirming for glory."
"Hmph… at least you had the decency to remove him, girl."
Tiné bowed her head slightly, steadying her breath.
"I am Tiné Chelc."
"From this day forth, I am your Master."
The king's gaze lingered on her, appraising.
Then, as if she were barely worth the thought, he turned his back.
From the folds of her robe, Tiné produced a gleaming relic—a key of gold and red, etched with Babylonian script.
She stepped forward, offering it with both hands.
"This belongs to you, King of Heroes."
"The key to the Gate of Babylon—"
Gilgamesh snatched it without ceremony.
He weighed it once in his palm, then scoffed and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder into the snow.
"Trash."
"My treasures answer only to me."
"This bauble is useless."
Her lips parted in protest, but she said nothing.
He was a king; she had expected nothing less than arrogance.
"Then what is your will, my king?"
"Shall I take you to the faithful?"
"To those who would serve you?"
Gilgamesh's laugh rolled like thunder.
"Serve me?"
"Foolish child."
"This 'war' is nothing but a farce."
"Do you imagine the King of Uruk will dirty his hands with mongrels scrabbling for scraps?"
"I shall sit, drink, and watch the years waste away… until a foe worthy of me stirs."
From the golden ripple of his Gate, he drew forth a vessel—a radiant flask glowing with divine light.
The Potion of Youth, one of countless treasures hoarded from forgotten ages.
Tilting it lazily, he admired the liquid sloshing within.
"Why bother with conflict, when I can drink, indulge, and slumber away the centuries?"
He raised it to his lips—then froze.
A tremor rippled through the leylines.
Not of fear, nor of threat… but of recognition.
His crimson eyes narrowed, sharp as drawn steel.
For the first time since his summoning, his expression shifted—surprise, then something deeper.
"…That presence…" His voice dropped, softer, reverent.
"Impossible."
"And yet… no, I would know you anywhere."
He lowered the flask, then with a sudden grin tossed it toward Tiné.
She caught it with both hands, eyes wide.
"Rejoice, girl."
"You alone shall bear witness."
"For the King has found reason to fight."
Without another word, Gilgamesh strode into the snowfield, every step radiating authority.
Tiné hurried behind, clutching the glowing flask as though it might burn her.
The desert awaited him beyond the edge of the snowy plains, an unnatural scar of sand blooming where it had no right to exist.
And within that desert stood the one presence his soul could never mistake.
Enkidu.
His other half.
His equal.
His friend.
The clay-born weapon of the gods, reborn in flawless human shape, gazed at him across the wasteland.
Neither spoke.
No words were needed.
Gilgamesh's hand rose, not in greeting, but in defiance.
From the golden void at his back came forth Ea—the Sword of Rupture, its three rotating segments whirring as if grinding the seams of reality itself.
And without a word, he unleashed Enuma Elish.
The desert howled as the sword split the firmament.
Space, sky, and sand screamed as the primordial force surged forward—obliteration given form.
But Enkidu did not flinch.
Their arms extended, the earth itself surging upward in chains of divinity.
In their hands too formed a weapon—his chains, born not of kingship but of nature's will.
Their voices overlapped as one: "Enuma Elish!"
The clash split the heavens.
Twin torrents of origin collided, creating a storm that devoured light and sound.
Sand turned to glass, clouds shredded into spirals.
And at the heart of it, two figures stood unyielding, neither giving ground.
When at last the light dimmed, laughter rang across the battlefield.
"Enkidu…!" Gilgamesh's grin was wild, boyish, unrestrained.
"Hah! Even after ages uncounted, your strike has not dulled!"
Enkidu's voice carried a warmth few had ever drawn from them.
"And you… still as arrogant as ever."
"Truly, I have missed you, Gil."
But joy did not soften their clash.
Gilgamesh's Gate roared open, disgorging countless treasures: spears that felled gods, blades that toppled kingdoms, chains that bound the mighty.
They streaked toward Enkidu like a golden storm.
The clay-born raised their arms, and the earth answered.
Spears of stone, blades of metal, forests of chains and spikes erupted in defiance, colliding mid-air with the king's barrage.
Each impact rang like a gong, each clash a hymn to their shared past.
They fought not as enemies, but as friends who could only speak through battle.
Yet, mid-strike, Enkidu faltered.
Their eyes narrowed, sensing a tremor.
"…This presence…" Their tone was grave.
"Something unnatural."
"It gnaws at me… this corrupted force."
Gilgamesh snarled, Ea humming at his side.
"Tch."
"To intrude upon our reunion… whoever it is courts death."
Enkidu shook their head.
"Not now."
"Our time has not yet come."
"That thing… is poison to us."
"We cannot stay."
For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy.
Then Gilgamesh's lips curved, sharp as the edge of a blade.
"Very well."
"One more strike, then.
"To mark our promise."
They raised their weapons again.
Ea roared, the earth's chains surged, and once more the world split under the cry of Enuma Elish.
The blast carved a canyon through sand and stone, reverberating for miles.
When the dust cleared, Enkidu was gone, their presence faded into the horizon.
Gilgamesh stood alone, Ea still humming in his hand.
Slowly, he lowered it, the grin lingering though tempered by something unspoken.
"…Hmph."
"So be it."
"Return to me swiftly, Enkidu."
"For I will not forgive you if you keep your king waiting."
Behind him, Tiné finally caught up, breathless and overwhelmed.
She had witnessed gods clash, legends made manifest—and all she could do was clutch the glowing flask he had given her, staring at the king who looked upon the empty desert with a smile only Enkidu could truly understand.
Elsewhere, beneath a sky drowned in snow, the world shuddered.
A pulse of black energy tore through the frozen silence, staining the horizon with malice.
The earth cracked, trees withered, and the air reeked of curses as the corrupted force spread outward like a plague.
At its center stood a figure—a monster draped in the skin of a hero.
Muscles coiled with divine hatred, eyes burning with madness, and chains dripping with black ichor.
The man—no, the beast—raised his head to the storming sky.
His voice was not a roar but a verdict, grinding like stone dragged across steel:
"I will kill every last god."
The darkness surged again, swallowing the land.
Leaving no trace of the monster that has just spoke.
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Gray:
Skills:
Magic Resistance:(C)
Independent Action:(A+)
King's Reflection:(A)
Mystic Code Seal Release:(C)
Anti-Spirit Combat:(B)
Protection of the Ends of the World:(B)
Noble Phantasms:
Rhongomyniad:(A+)
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