The walk from the KTV to the park wasn't far. By now it was late at night; apart from the chirping of insects and the dim glow of streetlights, the park was deserted.
Meanwhile, in the nearby forest, Kiritsugu and Maiya were busy setting up equipment. Kiritsugu wore a faint, satisfied smile. The reason was simple: the location was close to the Tōsaka estate. By deploying weapons here, he could launch an attack on them at any time.
Machine guns, already adjusted for angle, dotted the area. Anti-armor firearms were positioned with care, and various rocket launchers and bazookas were in place. If he had his way, Kiritsugu would have brought in even heavier firepower—and missiles.
The arms dealer with white hair and pale eyes certainly had them, but getting such hardware into the Far East was nearly impossible. If the Holy Grail War were taking place in the Middle East, Kiritsugu could have shown the other participants the meaning of "fire suppression" and "missile bombardment."
Money? The Einzbern family had plenty. Connections? Kiritsugu's life as a mercenary and assassin—along with his stepmother's formidable network—had given him more than enough. The thought of that woman made his hands still. She was powerful in every sense, not the type of "righteous ally" villains would target first, but the kind who struck others down without hesitation, offering help with an almost detached air. She would mock the weak with a killer's bluntness, yet sigh at the price of strength.
To him, she was both a stranger and an irreplaceable family member.
Kiritsugu shook off the nostalgia. The Holy Grail War came first. Victory meant he could wish for world peace—and in a way, it would be revenge for his family.
If someone hadn't tried to harness the power of the Dead Apostles, he might still be following her now. What would life have looked like then?
His hand drifted to his ribs. He'd had them removed to create Origin Bullets. Aslan had once mocked the method, asking why he hadn't just removed a section of bone and fused it with special rivets—letting the rest grow back. In a few years, Kiritsugu could have repeated the process and had an endless supply. It was "sustainable development," Aslan had argued.
Kiritsugu pictured himself in old age, too frail for fieldwork, loading all remaining Origin Bullets into a machine gun for a hundred-round burst.
Aslan's remark had reminded him of another oddity: the man's habit of collecting his own trimmed nails, melting them down, and forging items. Once, he'd made a nail clipper from half-dragon nails—an E-rank Noble Phantasm, stronger than most modern weapons.
With it, he could shear through a carefully crafted dagger, then casually trim his nails, chin raised in mockery: "That's it? You're not even worthy to be my nail clipper."
That nail clipper still sat in Aslan's "treasure house," a space-magic storage filled with 1,500 years' worth of inventions, gadgets, and survival tools. Some were designed for very specific problems—like a fully automated doomsday-ready RV for fifteen people. If the planet exploded? No problem; a spaceship waited inside.
Anyone who stumbled upon that magic space could have made a legend for themselves.
Still, for Kiritsugu, there was no growing back the ribs he'd lost. Without magical or medical intervention, they were gone for good. That didn't bother him. Not every mission needed an Origin Bullet—but tomorrow night might.
Tonight was for alliances. Tomorrow night would be the assault on the golden Servant. If that failed, they would target his Master. Simple logic.
Kiritsugu knew that, short of missiles, his firearms wouldn't harm the golden Heroic Spirit. This arsenal was, in truth, a gift for Tōsaka Tokiomi.
He could almost picture Tokiomi's polite smile as he accepted it—elegant but strained—saying in a reserved, puzzled tone: "Thank you so much for your kind intentions."
And if he dared to be honest: "I don't need these. Please, take them back and give them to someone else."
For now, though, Tokiomi knew nothing of this "gift." The refined magus was lying in a bed in his basement, drained in both body and spirit.
-End Chapter-
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