Click-click-click!
With a few subtle noises, the back door of a house was quietly pried open by a figure hidden in the darkness. As the clouds drifted away, the moon emerged, casting pale light across the yard—and revealing the intruder. He had orange hair, wore a fashionable coat, and didn't look very old, like someone who had just graduated from college.
Oh, right—in the Far East at this time, children weren't expected to go to college. Going straight to work or inheriting the family business was the more common path.
"Lucky~ It's so easy to pry open the doors here. Small towns really are nice. Nobody seems to care much about security." He chuckled lightly. "Let's see if there's anything suitable for my art~"
The orange-haired young man hummed a carefree tune as he wandered toward the house. He didn't seem concerned that the sound might alert the homeowner. In fact, it would be more accurate to say he hoped to encounter someone—so he could carry out his artistic creation.
He toyed with a fruit knife in his hand. The blade, razor-sharp, glinted coldly under the moonlight. That same light reflected in his eyes—eyes that bore a faint, almost imperceptible tinge of bloodlust.
As if roused by the noise, a figure carefully descended the staircase from the second floor. It was a woman, not very old, dressed in pajamas and holding a spatula—though who knew why she had brought it upstairs in the first place. Reaching the first floor, she glanced around, searching for the source of the strange sound.
At first glance, nothing seemed amiss, and she let out a breath of relief. She placed the spatula down in the kitchen and turned to wash her hands before heading back upstairs. But as she turned, she suddenly saw someone watching her.
Before she could scream, something was shoved into her mouth—a biscuit, of all things—muffling her cry.
"Shhh, little sister, no need to panic. I just want you to appreciate my art. Ah~ Tell me, do you believe in the devil? Yes, the devil. You're going to be my offering to him. I hope Mr. Devil likes my work."
The young man glanced around and sighed with faint disappointment. "Tch, no children in your house, huh? Pity. That's my favorite material. But oh well—better than nothing."
Before the woman could react, a sharp pain lanced through her abdomen. Blood welled up, staining both of their hands. She didn't die immediately—the shock and pain caused her to faint on the spot.
The orange-haired man raised an eyebrow, looking down at his unconscious subject. He made no move to withdraw the knife. After all, pulling it out would cause massive bleeding, and he hadn't yet decided on his creative direction. Premature blood loss would ruin the raw material.
Still smiling faintly, he carried the woman over to the table. It seemed he'd already decided what to make of her. Since she apparently lived alone, he could take his time—no need to worry about discovery for now.
Mummification, maybe? Would the devil like that? There might not be much salt around here, but bleeding her out first was also an option.
While contemplating his options, he took an old book from his bag. Its pages were filled with esoteric drawings and ritual circles. From the kitchen, he fetched some basins and pots, setting them near the table. Then he carved a groove into the wood—an improvised drainage channel—to collect blood neatly into the basin.
"Well then... let's get started."
He smiled wider, picking up a small pair of kitchen scissors and a straw—tools to help siphon blood from an artery. But just as he spoke those words, a voice rang out behind him.
"Get started on what?"
He answered without thinking. "Start making art, duh—huh?"
Was someone else in the house?
He whirled around, slashing instinctively with the dagger—but hit nothing. Then he found himself staring into a pair of light blue eyes.
"To be honest, if I hadn't smelled the blood, I never would've found you. You weren't even supposed to be in this city. But since you are... I might as well erase you now."
Before the orange-haired man could respond, a string of fae words shimmered through the air. The incantation pierced his skin like invisible needles. The meaning was simple: [Freeze].
In the blink of an eye, he was encased in a pillar of frost—frozen solid.
White vapor hissed around the sculpture. Aslan calmly stepped forward and gave it a light push. His magic surged outward, shattering the frozen figure into glittering shards.
"Goodbye, Uryu Ryunosuke. Scum like you deserve to rot in hell."
Turning his attention to the injured woman, Aslan gently pulled the dagger from her abdomen. With a few whispered fairy words, he healed the wound, then cast another spell to blur her memory. When she awoke the next morning, she'd believe it had all been a strange dream.
He raised his hand. Etched on its back was a crimson Command Seal—its design a staff entwined with a blooming flower.
Aslan smiled faintly.
Next step: summon the Heroic Spirit.
Ever the gentleman, he carried the woman back upstairs and tucked her into bed. Then, without another sound, he slipped out of the stranger's home and made his way toward Ryuudou Temple.
Technically, he could summon a Servant from anywhere. But doing so at the convergence point of a spiritual vein would ease the magical burden and reduce the strain on his body. Why bother making things harder?
Deep within the forest surrounding the temple, Aslan drew a magic circle. It wasn't a complex one—just the simplest version of a summoning array. But that was fine. The Holy Grail War didn't require anything fancy to bring forth a Servant.
"All right, old bastard," he muttered, lips curling into a smirk. "You'd better show yourself."
-End Chapter-
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