Rain fell like ash.
The boy in the dark coat didn't mind. He adjusted the satchel on his shoulder and stepped over the cracked stone path, eyes fixed on the wooden house ahead. No lights in the surrounding forest. No neighbors. Only the steady creak of old timber and the soft hum of electricity behind narrow windows.
He knocked once. Then twice.
The door opened without a sound.
"You're early," said the old man.
The professor was thinner than he remembered—hair grayer, back slightly bent—but his eyes still had the glint of old fire. He wore a cardigan patched at the sleeves, the kind only worn by those who had stopped caring about pretense.
"Punctuality isn't a flaw," the boy said simply.
The professor chuckled. "Still no greetings. Just like your father."
The boy said nothing. He stepped inside, took off his soaked coat, and hung it neatly on a hook.
The warmth of the study hit him instantly—cedarwood, dust, and the faintest tinge of something metallic beneath the air.
Books lined the walls. Some were so ancient they had no titles, only bindings cracked from time and salt. Others pulsed faintly—barely perceptible to a normal eye. But he saw it.
"Mana-reactive parchment," the boy said, running his finger along one cover. "Hand-bound. Western."
"You've studied."
"I observed."
The professor offered tea. The boy declined.
"I'm here about the war."
That sentence froze the room. The professor's hand paused mid-pour. Then he set the kettle down.
"So," he said at last. "It's begun again."
They sat across from each other at a table covered in faded ink maps and burnt photographs. The rain pressed harder outside. Lightning flashed—but the storm never roared. As if even thunder had chosen to stay quiet tonight.
"There are seven colors," the boy said. "Seven marks. Seven anchors."
"Correct," the professor said, folding his hands. "But this isn't the Holy Grail War you read about in broken records."
"I noticed," the boy replied. "Dual-classed Servants. No church oversight. And this time... the Grail itself doesn't seem to care who participates."
The professor raised an eyebrow. "You've deduced much."
"Enough."
The old man studied him carefully. "And what do you want?"
"I want to win," the boy said, flatly.
A pause.
Then: "Why?"
"Does that matter?"
"It matters to the ones you'll kill. It matters to the one you summoned."
The boy's gaze didn't flicker. "She didn't ask."
The professor leaned back. "Then she's a knight. Or close enough."
The boy didn't answer.
The professor poured himself tea and took a slow sip.
"There was a time," he said, "when people summoned heroes for hope. To save their city. Their family. Their dreams."
The boy glanced out the window. The street outside was empty. The city was hours away, but the haze of its neon pulse still bled faintly into the sky.
"This isn't that time."
"No," the professor said. "It's not."
Silence again.
Then the boy asked, "How do I kill a Servant without revealing mine?"
The professor coughed softly, almost laughing. "Straight to the throat, are we?"
"No point hiding intent."
"You intend to assassinate another Master?"
"If they're sloppy."
"And if you're wrong?"
"I won't be."
The professor studied him for a long while.
"You'll need a countermeasure for Caster types. And you'll want to avoid close engagement with Berserkers unless you're absolutely certain of superiority."
"I am."
"You're confident she can handle them?"
"She already has."
The professor paused. "Then she's seen war."
The boy's eyes narrowed slightly, just for a moment. "More than I have."
The rain tapered off.
The professor stood and walked toward a tall case tucked into the wall. He unlocked it with a bone key, withdrew a small object wrapped in silk, and handed it over.
The boy unwrapped it carefully. It was a medallion—etched with symbols he recognized from a fragment of Old Greek dialect. A blessing. And a curse.
"Protection against command seals," the professor said. "Or a distraction, depending on who you show it to."
"Thank you."
"That one comes with a price."
The boy looked up.
"You'll owe me a story," the professor said.
The boy stood. Folded the medallion into his pocket.
"There won't be much of a story if I lose."
"Then don't."
At the door, he paused.
The professor spoke again. "One more thing. There's another color out there—one that doesn't belong."
The boy glanced over his shoulder. "How do you mean?"
"An eighth. Or something close. A Servant summoned without an anchor. Or with two."
The boy didn't react.
"White," the professor said.
The boy opened the door.
The rain had stopped. The wind smelled like iron.
"You'd do well," the professor said, "to keep your Servant's color hidden."
The boy stepped out, not looking back.
"I already am."