"I am Saber. Nice to meet you." Her gaze flicked over her shoulder, a wink tossed toward Callista and Archer. "Oh, and the same goes for you two as well."
"…S-Saber?" Callista's voice cracked, stunned.
"A Saber…" Archer murmured in a tone heavy with sorrowful awe, his closed eyes tilting toward her.
"And one of such beauty… Truly, the world delights in throwing radiance against my bleak shadows."
Saber smirked, crossing her blades and resting her chin lightly atop the hilt, eyes dancing with amusement.
"My, my. Seems I've already made quite the impression."
Before another word could be exchanged, the sound of deliberate footsteps echoed from behind.
Emerging from the shadows came a middle-aged man, gray hair streaked with age, his face lined with the wrinkles of experience.
"Oh?" His voice was calm, almost amused. "Three knight-class Servants gathered in one place?"
"Master?!" Lancer's head whipped back in shock, her voice laced with alarm.
Saber tilted her head at the newcomer, one sword twirling idly in her hand, mischief flickering in her smile.
"Well, well~ Another guest joins the party?" she chimed, her tone lilting, theatrical.
"And here I thought things couldn't possibly get any more interesting."
Callista took a step forward, her black eyes steady as the man's gray gaze fell on her. The air between them seemed to thicken with tension.
"What do you want, young lady?" the man asked, his voice calm but edged with the authority of someone long accustomed to control.
"I want to ask…" Callista didn't flinch, her tone fearless. "Who are you?"
The man raised an eyebrow, almost amused. "Well now, a bold one, aren't you? Your courage is intriguing. Very well—I suppose I can grant you that answer."
With a deliberate pause, he straightened his posture, his presence pressing heavier on the atmosphere.
"Victor Crowne. As you may have already guessed, I am the Master of Lancer."
Callista narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. "Victor Crowne… sounds like a fake name out of a cheap thriller novel."
For a heartbeat, silence lingered.
Then—
"Pfft—Ahaha!" Saber suddenly burst out laughing, bending over slightly with one hand on her hip.
Her twin blades glimmered as she leaned forward, grinning like a mischievous child who had just witnessed something priceless.
"Oh wow! She burned you! Right in the middle of your dramatic reveal!"
Callista exhaled, unconcerned, before declaring firmly, "I'm Callista Ashviel, Master of Archer."
Victor, however, gave her only a fleeting glance, his attention immediately shifting toward Saber, as though Callista's words were little more than background noise.
"And you, Saber," he pressed, his tone sharpening. "Who is your Master?"
"Oh~? My Master?" Saber tilted her head, twirling a lock of silver hair around her finger.
Her smile was playful, but her eyes brimmed with cunning amusement.
"He's a real enigma, you know. A mysterious one—full of secrets. Makes him kinda cool, don't you think?"
She gave her blade a casual spin, the steel catching the light, before suddenly pointing it at Victor. Her grin widened, teasing yet edged with menace.
"He doesn't want to show himself. Especially not in front of you…" She chuckled, low and melodic. "Fufufu~ Looks like he's a little scared."
Her voice softened, but her eyes sharpened, narrowing like a predator about to strike.
"So then, Victor… tell me." She leaned ever so slightly forward, her smile now razor-thin.
"…What exactly did you do to him?"
"I don't see how it's my fault if I've never even laid eyes on his face," Victor said coolly, his tone laced with mockery.
A smirk tugged at his lips. "But from the way you talk, your Master sounds like a loser, doesn't he?"
Saber's chuckle cut through the air like steel against flint. She shifted her sword casually, tapping the flat of the blade against her shoulder.
"Oi, oi~ That's quite a mouth you've got," she teased, her golden eyes narrowing. "Bold words for someone who doesn't even know what he's up against."
Leaning forward, her voice dipped into a tone that shimmered between humor and menace. "Loser, huh? Hate to disappoint you, but the so-called loser you're mocking… is the one who summoned me."
The playful smile faded, her presence pressing down like a sharpened blade. "Anyone capable of pulling me into this world is no weakling."
Her gaze hardened, and the tension in the air grew taut. "So—mind your tongue, Victor. Unless, of course, you'd like me to cut down that arrogance of yours right here and now?"
Victor lowered his head just enough for his hair to shadow his expression. Then, with a calm turn of his heel, he broke away from her killing intent. "That will do for tonight," he said curtly.
"Lancer, we're leaving. Move quickly, before I'm forced to waste a Command Seal."
"Tch—!" Lancer clicked her tongue, glaring at him with open irritation. "Fine, fine! But just watch yourself! I'll crush you tomorrow, you hear me?!"
Still muttering curses under her breath, Lancer finally fell into step beside Victor.
The two figures retreated into the night, their presence swallowed by the shadows until only silence remained.
What lingered was Saber, her blade still resting against her shoulder. Beside her stood Archer and Callista—watching the exchange with wide, unblinking eyes.
Both Archer and Callista's gazes drifted back to Saber, who still wore that infuriating, easy smile.
Archer broke the silence, voice soft but direct. "Saber, thanks for helping us." He folded his arms, studying her. "But… why? Why help us in the first place?"
Saber tipped her head, the smile never leaving her face. "Hm? Why, you ask?" She gave a lazy little twirl of her blade; the metal caught the lamplight and threw it back as a silver slash. "Because my Master asked me to—of course."
She set the blade point-first against the ground in a casual, theatrical flourish. "If it's his wish, then this Saber has no reason to refuse. Simple as that."
For a heartbeat her grin softened into something warmer. "Though… hiding in the shadows forever? That's hardly fair, is it?" She glanced at Archer and Callista, then toward the place where her Master had been standing unseen.
"If he trusts me enough to fight, he should trust me enough to show his face."
Her tone turned playfully accusatory. "Come on, Master. Don't make me look like a liar." She winked, mischief sparkling in her eyes.
"Step out and show yourself—unless you want everyone to think you're really a loser, fufufu~"
At her words, the house's door pushed open and a figure stepped out.
A man with beige hair and brown eyes, wearing a plain shirt and a leather jacket—so ordinary he almost seemed out of place in a tableau that had felt otherwise charged with myth.
He moved toward them with the unassuming gait of someone who'd never expected to be the center of attention.
Callista's jaw dropped, finger pointing as if she'd just seen the impossible pulled from a hat. "Wha—?! You?!" she squealed, half accusation, half disbelief.
Archer let out a long, rueful sigh. "Of course. The fates weave their threads with cruel humor."
Saber strutted over to stand at the man's side as if announcing royalty. "See? I told you he wasn't a loser." She puffed up, proud as a banner.
Then she leaned close and, loud enough for everyone to hear, she whispered with theatrical gratitude, "Thanks for making my first impression look so cool, by the way."
The man—me—felt the room narrow to the circle of eyes fixed on me. My greeting came out awkward and small. "Uh… hi?"
Callista still looked unconvinced, wide-eyed and searching for some trick. "Wait! You're really the Master?!"
Saber raised my hand without ceremony and tilted it so the others could see the sigil burned there—an unmistakable Command Spell glowing faintly against my skin.
"This is undeniable proof!" she declared, voice booming with vindication.
"I just… felt like I had to help you," I admitted, rubbing the back of my neck. "So, I tried summoning a Servant. You know—just like you did."
"Tried?" Callista repeated, her eyes narrowing as she stepped closer.
"You call that trying when you managed to summon a Saber-class?!" Her voice climbed with disbelief. "What catalyst did you use to call her forth?"
"…Catalyst?" I blinked. "Wait—am I supposed to use one?"
"You—didn't?" Callista was already standing in front of me now, staring as though she were trying to peel back the layers of impossibility.
"You didn't even use a catalyst…? Just how absurdly lucky are you?"
Before I could find an answer, Saber slipped an arm around my shoulders with the easy confidence of an old friend. She pulled me close until her laughter brushed against my ear.
"See? I told you he's special~," she chimed, golden eyes glittering. "No relics, no ancient rites—just sheer willpower. Honestly? That's kind of hot."
My face went red at once.
"A-Anyway…" I stumbled over my words, trying to recover. "The truth is, I don't really understand much about any of this. So… how about we work together?"
For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Then Callista's eyes narrowed to sharp slits.
She turned slowly, the moonlight catching her profile—silver light sliding over the chill in her gaze like steel kissed by frost.
"Work together?" she repeated, her voice a thread of venom. "With you? An amateur who dared summon a Saber without even knowing what a catalyst is?"
The words hung heavy, cutting deeper than any blade. She wanted me to feel it.
A tense hush settled until Archer finally broke it. His voice was steady, measured.
"Master… don't forget. He saved us tonight. His Servant stepped in when we were outmatched."
Callista's lips curled, the faintest smirk twisting at the corner. "Yes…" she said at last, her tone like ice cracking beneath weight.
She spared Archer a sidelong glance, eyes gleaming with something between disdain and reluctant acknowledgment. "…I'm painfully aware."
Her eyes snapped back to me, sharp, dissecting. She let the silence linger a second longer, almost enjoying how it pressed down like a weight.
Her voice dropped like silk over steel—low, velvety, and somehow dangerous. "…Very well. We'll play along. For now."
She tilted her head, the smirk on her lips deepening into something unreadable. "But don't mistake my compliance for trust. That… is a currency I never spend cheaply."
Hearing that made something in me bloom warm and foolishly bright. "Being able to work with you makes me happy," I said honestly, the smile coming without warning and staying there.
Callista's mouth twitched. For a breath, color—subtle and almost embarrassed—flickered across her pale cheek before she crushed it back under a practiced coolness.
She turned her face away as if the moonlight itself had offended her. "…You really are absurd," she murmured, the words soft but sharpened at the edges.
Saber watched the exchange with an amused tilt to her lips, like someone watching a play they'd already enjoyed.
She leaned in close and mumbled with a playful scoff, "You really are an odd little guy—so honest and open, with a face like that."
"It's… cute," she added after a beat, the warmth in her voice small but genuine. "I like it."
I felt Saber's arm loosen; I stepped back to free myself from the casual intimacy.
No sooner had I done so than Callista's eyes snapped to me, attentive and businesslike. "So—give me your home address."
"Huh?" My brain stuttered. "What…?"
"Your home address," she repeated, impatience threading her tone. "The place you live."
Huh?! A goth girl wants my home address? Jackpot!
"47 Ashbourne Row, District of Halberg, Marivale, EU-029," I recited, trying to keep my voice steady.
Callista produced a small black notebook as if it had been waiting in her hand all along.
She wrote the address with deliberate, precise strokes—each letter inked like a seal on a pact.
When she snapped the book closed, her voice held no warmth. "Don't get excited. I'm not coming over for tea."
Saber snorted beside me, already spinning a scene in her head. "Oh? But wouldn't that be fun~? Rainy night, dim lights, goth girl at your door… fufu, I can already write the script." Her eyes danced with mischief.
My cheeks flamed. Callista's glare toward her was a blade. "Say one more word and I'll burn your stupid flower ribbons off."
Saber only grinned wider, unbothered.
Callista turned away with one last look that lingered a moment too long—cold, measuring, oddly intimate.
"I will visit tomorrow morning," she said over her shoulder, every syllable like an order carved in stone. "Don't make me see you in inappropriate clothes."
The words hung in the night air as she walked off—a small verdict, a promise, and perhaps something else that neither of us would say aloud.
And with that—Archer silently trailing behind—she melted into the shadows of the night, leaving only a faint chill in the air.
The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever. Then, before I could stop myself, the words slipped out.
"...Daaamn." My chest heaved as if I'd just run a marathon, heart pounding against my ribs. "...I think I'm in love."
Saber burst out laughing, her bright voice cutting through the heavy night. She leaned forward, ruffling my hair like an older sister catching her kid brother in the act.
"Ohhh? Look at you, hopeless already~" she teased, flashing a grin equal parts mischief and menace. "Careful… some girls don't just bite. They drain your soul."
Her words lingered, but before I could even retort, the exhaustion I'd been holding back crashed down on me.
My knees buckled, my vision swam, and all at once the weight of everything—every death, every revival, every ounce of stress—poured out.
I collapsed, gasping for air, staring up at the woman in front of me. Saber… a legendary hero from ages past, now standing here, bound by my summons.
"Whoa, whoa—Master!" She crouched down quickly, voice light but laced with genuine concern. "Don't just drop like that, you'll give me a heart attack!"
Her sword rested casually against her shoulder, but her eyes stayed fixed on me, soft with worry.
"So that's the cost, huh…" she murmured, tilting her head as if piecing it together.
"Summoning a Servant isn't exactly a stroll through the park. Still—" Her smile returned, gentle yet proud. "You really pulled through, Master. You did well."
She crouched beside me, moonlight catching in her eyes as she studied my face—the sweat, the tired smile.
"…Heh." Saber's voice was low, carrying a rare softness that almost didn't suit her.
"You're not like the usual Masters. No schemes. No hunger for glory. You just… threw yourself into this mess for someone else's sake."
A quiet laugh slipped past her lips, tinged with warmth. "Kinda reckless. Kinda dumb. But honestly? It's not bad at all. Feels… refreshing."
Her hand came to rest lightly on my shoulder. For once, her grin wasn't mischievous but reassuring. "Alright, that's enough for today. Close those eyes, Master."
She gave me a playful wink as my vision began to blur. "Saber's got your back. So sleep tight… and hey, dream of something nice—like endless bowls of ramen, all on me~"
A strange comfort washed over me, loosening the weight in my chest. I let out a small sigh, happy and relieved. "Thank you…"
But as the haze in my mind cleared slightly, my eyes darted around. "…But how do we get out of this dimension?" I muttered, unsettled.
Saber slid her arm under mine, helping me to my feet. "Hmm… good question." She scanned the eerie space, her expression thoughtful. "Maybe if you use your mag—"
Before she could finish, a thunderous voice cut through the air from behind us.
"—!" I flinched at the suddenness, my heart leaping as I spun around.
Saber froze mid-sentence, her expression shifting instantly to one of sharp alertness.
From the darkness, a figure emerged.
Not a man.
A woman.
She stepped into the dim glow, her form otherworldly, draped in dread and fire. She wore a black iron corset fractured with glowing red cracks, jagged shoulders flaring outward like broken wings.
A tattered black skirt hung at uneven lengths, as if burned at the edges, swaying with each step.
Her boots were tall, forged of steel, each strike against the ground ringing with menace.
In her hand gleamed a weapon—blood-red with black accents, a jagged edge radiating danger. Its aura was sharp, deadly, merciless.
I blinked hard, unable to process her presence. She looked less like a person and more like a nightmare come alive—something pulled straight from the pages of a dark fantasy novel.
Saber stepped forward, shielding me without hesitation. Her eyes narrowed, the playful warmth from moments ago gone without a trace. Both hands tightened around the hilts of her twin blades.
"State your business here," she demanded, voice steady but coiled with caution.
"…Is she a Servant?" I muttered, my skin prickling with the weight of something utterly foreign.
The woman before us carried an aura that tasted like thunder. My eyes flicked to her weapon. "Can there really be two Sabers at once?"
Saber didn't avert her gaze. She only gave a small, thoughtful nod. "Another Servant… yes."
But the way she studied the newcomer made it clear she felt something that didn't sit right. She frowned, voice low and private: "There's something off. I can't put my finger on it."
Saber barked the order that cut the air like a blade. "State your identity!"
The woman halted. Slowly, perfectly, she turned her attention to us—me and Callista—taking us in as if weighing our souls. Then she spoke, each syllable cold and exact.
"Class: Punisher. Nero Claudius. I have been summoned to deliver ruthless judgment upon those who defile the rules of the Holy Grail War."
"Punisher?" The word landed in my throat like a stone. My head spun.
Saber's eyes widened. "Nero Claudius… the fifth emperor of Rome?" she breathed, incredulous.
She scanned the newcomer from head to toe, searching for familiar marks of legend. "You… don't look the part," she observed, skepticism plain in her tone.
"I was summoned directly by the Holy Grail," Punisher replied without emotion. "I exist for punishment—direct and absolute." Her hand tightened on the weapon's hilt.
"This form was chosen to punish without hesitation. The original me might have faltered… but I will not."
"You could say I am the Alter." The last word fell like a blade.
"Alter…" I echoed, the word shivering through me. Something colder than fear crept along my spine.
Saber's stance didn't relax, but her curiosity sharpened. "You speak of rules and violations. Are you some kind of referee for the Holy Grail War?" Her tone tasted of irony and wary respect. "Though… your appearance is a drastic shift for such a role."
"'Ruler' is too soft," Nero retorted, eyes hard. "That saintly type would never have done what I did." Her voice carried no pride—only a brutal, candid certainty.
"Then why are you here?" Saber asked bluntly. "We haven't broken any rules—at least, not knowingly."
Punisher's gaze slid to me with cold precision. She leveled her weapon. "I want to ask you a question."
"Huh? Me?" I stammered, incredulous and terrified all at once.
I racked my brain—what could I possibly have done? Cooperating with another Master? Had I inadvertently tripped some cosmic clause?
Before I could fend for myself, Saber stepped forward in a living shield. Her twin blades crossed in front of me with a metallic ring.
"Oooh~? So the feared Punisher is going to pick on a tired newbie Master?" she teased, grin razor-bright and reckless. "How about you try getting through me first?"
Then, in a movement so swift it blurred, Punisher darted forward—an arrow of shadow and intent. Saber pivoted, blocking, defending, everything she was born to do.
For a heartbeat I thought she'd keep the field between us. But then Punisher halted—right beside me—and the tip of her blade kissed the skin at my neck.
Saber's eyes snapped to the steel at my throat, astonishment flashing across her face. "You know if you move even a little, I'll cut your master's neck," Punsiher said, not to me but to Saber, voice flat and menacing.
Saber could only click her tongue—a short, furious sound. Her muscles tensed, mind racing for the angle, the leverage, the answer that could turn a single, lethal breath into negotiation.
Punisher's eyes cut to mine with the cold focus of a blade. Sweat beaded on my forehead; the world narrowed until it was only the two of us—her measured calm, my ragged breath. Without preamble, she asked, voice low and urgent.
"How did you know?"
"Huh?" The question landed like an unexpected blow. I didn't understand what she was asking.
Her gaze didn't waver. She spoke slowly, as if tasting each accusation.
"You stepped out of that alley without any sign of confusion. For a moment I thought you were someone already accustomed to this realm."
She tilted her head, studying me. "But I was mistaken."
Her eyes sharpened. "Then you told Archer's Master that Lancer would appear here soon—yet you had never even met Lancer before. Curious." She leaned in, the words narrowing like a trap. "Tell me. How could you possibly know such things? …It vexes me greatly."
Even the sound of her voice crawled across my skin. Goosebumps rose along my arms. My throat closed.
Should I tell her the truth?
If I lied, would she lash out and end me?
If I told the truth… would she tear my throat open all the same?
I had to tell her. I had no other choice.
"I can—" My sentence died on my lips as pain exploded through my body.
It wasn't physical at first—it was the searing burn of something branded into my flesh.
My command seal flared, hot as hellfire, every nerve in me alight. I staggered, fingers clawing at my chest.
The agony screamed through me, and instinct shut my mouth. I forced myself to be silent.
The torment eased like a tide pulling away, leaving me spent and trembling.
I sucked in air as if I'd been underwater. My breaths came shallow and hot. My legs wanted to give out.
"Tell me." Punisher's voice was a blade; patient, unwavering.
Words tumbled out before I could bottle them. There was no courage in them—only raw need. "…I can see the future."
For a moment the world held its breath. Saber's eyes flicked to me, then widened. Punisher's expression shifted—surprise, calculation, something like interest glinting in the cold.
"You… can see the future?" Saber repeated, incredulous, the edge in her stance easing as she processed the claim.
Punisher's reply was almost clinical. "Oh? So you truly possess mystic eyes." The name landed in my ears like a verdict.
Mystic eyes…
What the hell even is that? I've never heard of it in my entire life.
"Yes," I answered, voice thin but steady, and felt the tiny spark of fate's attention prick the back of my neck.
"That explains it." Punisher's blade lowered in a single, deliberate motion.
She took a step back, then walked away as if the conversation had concluded. "Don't worry—I won't tell the other Masters."
Her footsteps paused. She glanced over her shoulder as she passed, eyes cold and assessing.
"But understand this." Her tone turned blunt, merciless. "If you use that power to break the rules, it's the same as a violation."
She fixed me with a look that felt heavier than any sword. "I will be watching you. My gut tells me there's something unusual about you." Her voice softened a fraction—less threatening, but no less serious. "And don't try any tricks. Cheat, and you'll lose your head."
"Ah… okay." I swallowed and nodded, words small and hollow in my throat.
Punisher's silhouette melted into shadow for a heartbeat—then she stopped, turning back to regard me without speaking.
I couldn't keep the question from spilling out. "Punisher!" I called. She looked at me again, silent. "How do I get out of this dimension?"
For a moment she simply studied my face, attempting to judge whether I jested. The worry in my expression betrayed me: I wasn't joking.
"Use your foresight to find out," she replied finally, voice clipped.
It sounded simple, but the how was missing—an instruction stripped to the bone.
"If you never tell me in the future, I'll never know either," I protested weakly.
Punisher let out a slow sigh and, with the finality of a sentence delivered, said,
"Use your Command Seal." Then she vanished—swift and absolute, like a blade withdrawn from the flesh.
"Command Seal?" I stared at my hand as if it might suddenly flare to life.
Across from me, Saber scowled, her lips pressed together in a pout that looked suspiciously like regret.
"Why?" she muttered to herself, voice tight. "I failed to protect you, and that forced you to reveal your secret." Her shoulders squared, resolve hardening.
"I'm sorry, Master. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again."
"Uh… thanks," I managed, because what else could I say?
I brought my gaze back down—centered on the faint sigil that, until now, had been nothing more than an odd mark on my skin.
Use the Command Seal.
The idea sat in my chest like a coin of ice.
How?
How do I use it?
I swallowed the words down my throat and stayed quiet for a moment, trying to find the right thing to say.
"Back!" I shouted suddenly, as if barking a command to the world itself. "Back—please?" My voice cracked on the last word.
Silence answered me. Then, without warning, a shard of light—like a splinter in a mirror—appeared.
The world around me fractured into glittering pieces of glass. The floor fell away and I was tumbling between two worlds: one solid and familiar, the other cold and impossible.
If I lost my balance now, I could get stuck between them forever.
"Master!" Saber's shout tore through the roar of the void. A hand—real and steady—thrust into the space between us.
"Saber?!" I groped for it, panic making my strokes clumsy.
"Take my hand, Master!" she yelled, voice iron-strong over the surge. "Come on—reach for me!"
It felt like swimming through syrup, the interdimensional current tugging at my limbs. Fingertips brushed. I closed my eyes and forced my hand forward.
Our palms met—solid, warm—and she gripped me like an anchor.
"Got you!" Saber grinned, and hauled me through the invisible tide with more strength than I expected.
The command seal on my hand flared, a hot pulse of light, and the next instant I crashed face-first onto my bed.
My heart hammered. For a few seconds I lay there panting, the room steady and ordinary around me. No Saber. Just the quiet hum of my lamp.
Then a voice, amused and slightly exasperated, came from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"That was far more dramatic than necessary."
"Huh? Where are you, Saber?" I asked, looking around.
"Down here, Master!" Saber's voice chimed.
I glanced at my palm. The command seal was still glowing faintly. "Oh—so this is what your room looks like?" she said, and the seal pulsed again as though answering. For a moment I stared at my own hand in disbelief.
"You… are in my hands?" I muttered.
"Yup!" she replied cheerfully. "Seems I can't fully manifest in the real world. I can only appear inside that other dimension—and I can project my voice into the seal."
The casualness in her tone should have been reassuring. Instead, a hundred small worries prickled at me.
Saber was quiet for a beat, then spoke with an uncommon gentleness.
"So… may I ask you something?" Her voice was careful now, no teasing edge—serious.
"Yeah. What is it?" I tried to sound casual, but my voice still trembled.
"About what you said earlier… 'I can see the future.'" She paused. The seal's light flickered like a candle in a draft.
"Was that really true? Or did you say it just to survive?" There was no mockery in her question—only a plain desire to know the truth.
My mouth worked. It felt like opening a door to something I'd rather keep closed. "It's… complicated," I admitted. "I can't see the future like a movie playing out."
"But when I—when I enter that dimension again, I sometimes get a glimpse. A fragment. Enough to know the shape of things." I tried to keep my voice level. "But to be honest… I don't want to be able to do it."
"Don't want to?" she echoed slowly, absorbing the words. Her tone softened. "Why not? Knowing the future could be a powerful advantage."
"Because it tortures me." The confession slipped out raw and small. My hands shook as if the admission had weight.
She was quiet for a long moment, the kind of silence that isn't empty but full of thought.
Finally, she said softly, "Got it." The seal's light eased to a calm pulse. "I won't pressure you. I won't ask more."
A brief pause. Then, with a familiar playful lilt returning to her voice:
"But if you ever do want to talk—about the future, your burden, or even just bad food—I'm right here."
"Master and Servant stick together, after all~"
I smiled faintly, a quiet chuckle escaping me. "Alright." With that, I let myself collapse onto the bed.
My limbs refused to move. The exhaustion wasn't just physical—it felt like my mind itself had been wrung dry.
"Rest, Master," Saber whispered, her voice carrying warmth through the command seal etched on my hand. "I'll keep watch. And don't worry..."
The glow of the seal pulsed softly, in rhythm with my heartbeat.
"The future can wait."
My eyelids grew heavy.
The last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was the faintest trace of her laughter—gentle, reassuring, and strangely human.
...
...
I've seen people's dreams shatter. I've seen it countless times.
And the truth is… I'm always the one who breaks them.
I've always come first in every race I've ever run. Some might call it talent. I've competed in dozens of local competitions, national championships, even international tournaments.
Every time I stepped onto the podium, I felt proud. I felt… unstoppable.
Back then, I didn't understand.
I didn't realize that winning meant crushing someone else's dream.
It hit me one day after another victory. I had taken first place again, and as I stepped down from the podium, I saw him—a young man, tears streaming down his face, clinging to his coach for comfort. He had failed to win. That competition had been his dream.
Watching him cry… my chest tightened. Something deep inside me stirred unease I couldn't ignore.
Then came the day I couldn't ignore it any longer. I won again, just as I always did, but this time one of the competitors pushed beyond his limits, chasing me with everything he had.
He didn't make it. He collapsed, badly injured, and required weeks—maybe months—of treatment.
Seeing that… I couldn't continue. I couldn't keep shattering dreams just to feed my pride.
So I stopped. I walked away from racing. I returned to being a regular student, blending in, living quietly, until I graduated.
I woke to a voice like a bell being rung right beside my ear. "Master! Wake up! Are you still in school? If so, you need to get up soon!"
The room was half-drowned in the pale gold of morning. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and fished the memory of the dream back into focus.
"Huh? I just graduated from high school, so I'm still unemployed," I mumbled, pushing the blanket down.
The words felt thin in the quiet, but Saber's reply filled the space with bright, undaunted cheer.
"Oh! That's great! Then if you're unemployed that means you have a lot of free time right?" Her voice had that breezy, sunlit quality—like a blade that smiled.
"Yeah… you could say that," I answered, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "But Callista was planning to come here, right?"
"Oh ho~? You're right. I wonder what she wants to talk about." Saber's tone threaded curiosity with a little sparkle of excitement, like someone opening a wrapped present on impulse.
Sitting up properly, I glanced toward the corner where she usually materialized—only she hadn't formed a full body yet. "By the way, how are you feeling? You can't make a physical form, right?"
For a moment there was silence, then she spoke, small and a little embarrassed. "Well, I feel like I'm one with you." The confession landed like a dropped coin: small, bright, impossible to ignore. "Ah—this is embarrassing."
She added, hurriedly, "I saw what you saw and I felt like I was holding hands with you." Behind the words I could hear a blush—if such a thing could be heard—an audible shyness that made my chest twist.
I frowned, confusion and a hint of panic in my voice. "Then how am I supposed to take a shower without you seeing me?"
Saber exploded into laughter, the sound sudden and genuine. "Pfft—Master, that's what you're worried about? Of all things, you're thinking about the shower?!"
She teased me so easily that I felt like a child again, scolded for fretting over something ridiculous. Saber's voice softened into mischief.
"Relax, relax~ I'm not some peeping ghost stuck in your head. Unless…" Her tone dipped, playful and teasing, "…you actually want me to peek? Fufufu~"
My face warmed. She saw it and laughed—this time gentler, almost affectionate. "Kidding, kidding. Don't worry, Saber's got some manners."
A pause, just long enough to feel intimate, then she continued in a conspiratorial whisper: "I'll look the other way when you're doing your private stuff. Cross my heart~"
"Though, can't promise I won't be curious," she mumbled, the last word softer than a sword's sheath closing.
Outside, the morning wind brushed the window and the world went on—ordinary and oddly perfect.
The knock came like an accusation.
I glanced at the clock—nine on the dot. Morning light pooled weakly through the curtains, but there was no gentle wake-up; only an insistent thudding at the door.
"Huh? Who's coming at this hour?"
I padded down the stairs, hair still a disaster and the scent of sleep clinging to my clothes.
When I opened the door, the world on the threshold felt colder—draped in black, every edge deliberate.
She was Callista.
She stood framed in the doorway like a portrait of midnight: a black coat threaded with silver chains, boots that clicked on the porch boards with the kind of rhythm that made the house feel like a stage.
Her expression scanned me with slow, bored precision, the kind that could grade the world and declare it wanting.
"…You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, nose wrinkling as though I were a particularly disagreeable flavor.
I caught my reflection in the glass panel—hair stuck up in ridiculous angles, yesterday's shirt clinging like a blanket. Mortifying.
Callista's eyes flicked down to her watch. "9:02 AM," she announced with flat, clinical accuracy. "And you're already failing basic human decency."
"W-what? It's Sunday!" I stammered, uselessly protesting.
From somewhere inside my pocket—no, from inside my hand—Saber's voice chimed like a sparkler.
"Ohhh~ Look at this! Princess Callista came to visit her sleepy prince! This is even better than I imagined!"
Callista didn't deign to react to the teasing apparition. She stepped forward without waiting for permission, movement sharp enough to cut the air.
"Move."
Before I could think, her shoulder bumped mine and I was shuffled aside. She crossed my entryway as if every floorboard had been laid for her feet alone.
"We have things to discuss." She peeled off one glove, then another, finger by finger with the teasing patience of someone unwrapping a secret.
Her voice was the sharp part of winter: efficient, unavoidable. "And you're going to listen—whether you're awake or not."
"Alright…" I managed, leading her into the living room with a hand that felt embarrassingly clumsy. "Sit here first—I'm going to take a shower. You don't mind waiting, right?"
"No need, it will be quick." Callista's answer was curt. "Next time you should wake up at seven when someone wants to visit."
I sank down onto the sofa while she remained standing, the composed silhouette of a storm that hadn't yet broken. "…Um, so—let's talk about the plan since we're working together—"
Callista cut me off before I could finish. Her eyes found mine and held them with an intensity that made my scalp prickle. "I'm here to confirm something," she said. "And don't even think about lying to me."
She pushed a dark fringe aside, revealing the pupil beneath—once ordinary and black—now burning a ribbon of uncanny red.
"Are you the son of Julius Lawrence?" Her voice was low, a blade wrapped in silk.
My heart started a frantic drumline. My mouth went dry; the room narrowed into a tight chamber where every breath sounded loud and guilty.
It felt less like a question and more like an inquest before some stern, unblinking magistrate.
"Yes." I nodded, the single syllable thin and brittle. It left me exposed, like glass laid bare on a table.
Secrets felt pointless now—my words skimmed off her gaze as if she could see straight through me.
Nervousness knotted my stomach; words slipped away before I could steady them. I fought the urge to look away.
"I heard from my father that a man named Julius Lawrence was the previous winner of the Holy Grail," she said, each phrase measured, as if she were reciting a verdict. "He won by playing dirty tricks and taking advantage of other Masters."
My breath hitched.
He did?!
"So—are you offering to work with me so you can take advantage of me?" Her tone sharpened into accusation, the red in her eye narrowing like a slit.
Silence pooled between us. I had no instant answer; everything inside my chest felt too exposed to move.
"I'm not that close to my dad," I said finally, the words falling out clumsy but honest. "I don't even know where he is now."
After my mother died, I'd been alone. My father sent a monthly allowance—an austere, distant lifeline—and our conversations were a handful of formalities, nothing like the warmth other families spoke of.
"We rarely talked. I… I never knew what to say to him," I admitted, the truth tasting of ash.
"I didn't even know he was a previous winner… so, to answer your question—no."
"I just want us to work together. That way, we can help each other… and maybe you can explain the things I don't understand," I replied honestly, not a trace of deceit in my voice.
After all, I had no reason to lie.
Callista's eyebrow lifted just the slightest degree—no blink, no change in breath—only that unrelenting red stare.
It felt invasive, as if she were peeling back the layers of me to see whether anything fragile would crumble.
Then she let out a short, dismissive sound.
"Hmph. Too honest," she muttered. "Either you're stupid… or you're dangerously naive."
Her words landed with a sting. I opened my mouth to protest, to explain, but the edge of her gaze stopped me again.
"Your eyes…" I blurted instead, unable to hide the curiosity that prickled my skin. "Why did they change? Why do they feel like—"
Callista folded her arms, cool and composed, the dark fabric of her coat swallowing the light around her.
She didn't soften; she merely tilted her head as if answering a common question.
"They're Mystic Eyes," she said plainly.
Mystic Eyes? The name echoed in my head—the same word Punisher had dropped last night.
"What was that?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
If I could understand it better, maybe I could weave a lie that would hold up the next time I faced that Punisher-class Servant.
Callista's posture didn't change, but her voice slowed, as though she were explaining something fragile.
"Imagine someone born with eyes unlike the rest of the world's. When they look at things, their gaze can do things that shouldn't be possible—things that bend the rules of ordinary reality."
She spoke like a teacher telling a strange fairy tale, making the unbelievable sound almost mundane. "That's what Mystic Eyes are."
I stayed quiet, listening. Her tone was patient, deliberately simple, as if she were stripping the mystery down so I could carry in my head.
"Easy examples?" she said. "Eyes that can see lies—words that are false will look broken, or dark. Seeing a truth might make an image glow for them. That—" she tapped the fringe that hid one eye "—that is what my eye does."
"In other words," she added, folding her explanation into a neat package, "Mystic Eyes are like having a built-in magical ability inside your gaze."
It sank in. I nodded, picturing the uncanny mechanics of it. Saber's voice chimed from my command seal, bright and querulous. "That sounds really cool! Callista~! Can you show me again?"
Callista's mouth tightened. She didn't answer.
It seems she still doesn't completely trust us...
Then, I thought about Punisher. Maybe if I tell her what happened after we parted that night, she'll start to trust us more.
"Callista." My voice felt smaller than I wanted.
"What?" Her cold stare snapped to me like a hooked blade. Waiting. Expectant.
I told her about the encounter after she'd left: the dark silhouette of a Punisher-class Servant, the way the air had felt wrong, the hint of menace that had trailed me like shadow.
I spoke plainly; there was nothing to gain from embellishment.
Her expression shifted—one flicker of surprise—but she still had her Mystic Eye half-revealed.
If she wanted, she could tell if I lied. She took that power like an anchor, steady and unblinking.
She was silent for a long breath. "Punisher, huh… I've never heard of that class before," she murmured, thoughtful. Then, with the flat certainty of someone who'd read the room, she added, "And you're not lying at all."
"Of course! My master never lies—he's the most honest man in the universe!" Saber declared suddenly, bright as fireworks.
I slammed my palm down on my command seal in a futile attempt to hush her, cheeks burning with that familiar, helpless embarrassment.
The question slipped out before I could catch it. "Are… Archer and the others also tied to your Command Seal, too?"
Callista, who'd been leaning against the wall with that unreadable expression, turned her gaze toward me like a blade finding its mark.
For a moment she was nothing but shadow and silver chain, the room shrinking around the quiet authority in her voice.
"At first, the Holy Grail War was fought in the real world," she said, slow and deliberate, as if laying a lesson on a table.
"But because it endangered ordinary people, one of the Grail's winners used his wish to move the battlefield away."
She paused, letting the idea settle like dust in a sunbeam. "Now Servants can no longer fully manifest in the real world—so battles don't spill into civilian life. It's a safety built out of necessity."
Her fingers tapped once against the fabric of her sleeve, a metronome for the dry facts.
"Masters still communicate with their Servants through the Command Seal. So, to answer your question—"
She lifted her chin and cut the air in two with a single, simple word. "Yes."
I hadn't expected a full lecture, but the explanation calmed a corner of my confusion.
The rules of this strange game were beginning to take shape, rigid and dangerous and oddly bureaucratic.
Callista's eyes met mine then—those crimson slashes half-hidden beneath her bangs—and the mood shifted.
"Now it's my turn to ask you," she said.
"Oh? Yeah—" I started. I didn't get a sentence out before she interrupted, precise and unyielding.
"Can you really see the future?" Her Mystic Eye pinned me like an accusation.
"Uh… yes." I nodded, the word brittle in my mouth.
Her red gaze sharpened. "You're lying."
The accusation should have stung, but I'd been caught in stranger truths before. "Not exactly," I said. "I can't foretell everything. Sometimes I just… know things people don't yet know."
Her eyebrow climbed, a small concession of interest. "You're honest," she murmured.
Then she straightened, hands on hips like a queen preparing a challenge. "Well then—guess what I'm going to say next."
My brain scrambled for some clever counter, but nothing came. "I can't—predict that. My ability only works in that other dimension," I admitted.
She cocked her head, a smile that wasn't a smile tracing her lips. "Uncertainty," she said softly. "You aren't even sure your ability is limited to that dimension, are you?"
"…Actually," I said, and for once my voice was steady. "Yes."
Her voice was a knife wrapped in velvet. "And you also lied that you had Mystic Eyes."
Callista's red gaze bored into me like a verdict. "You're lucky the Punisher doesn't have eyes like mine, or you'd have been ripped apart."
A long silence hung between us before I finally dared to speak.
I rose from the sofa, the wooden floor creaking beneath me like a quiet protest. "I've told you everything I know. So… will you trust me?"
She hesitated, brows knitting as if weighing the world on a scale only she could see.
Then came the question that made blood go cold in my veins: "Is there a possibility you'll betray me someday?"
"Zero percent," I said, voice firmer than I felt. The answer tasted like an oath and I meant it, though the future was always slippery.
Callista let out a slow, almost amused sigh. Her red eye narrowed for a heartbeat, then relaxed. "Alright. I trust you."
The words landed in the quiet like rain on a tin roof—unexpected, steadying. She stepped closer, intensity softened into something almost like camaraderie.
"Promise me one thing," she said. "Don't hide anything from me about this War, or about your abilities."
"I will try," I replied, earnest.
For the first time since she'd arrived, the corners of Callista's mouth twitched into a grin—sharp and oddly warm.
"You are a truly unique man, Nicholas." The name rolled off her tongue like a rare coin, and for a second she seemed pleased by its weight.
Then, in a gesture that felt sheepishly human, she let her hand fall and the dark fringe slipped back over her eye, masking the mystic crimson.
Damn. She was beautiful.
Something braver in me nudged forward. "Just call me Nico," I said, smiling because it felt right.
Before the room could settle, Saber's voice burst out from my hand like a fireworks display.
"Oh la la la~ you two realize there are still other people here, right? Archer, why have you been so quiet this whole time?"
Archer's reply was as proper and stiff as a knight's salute. "I already discussed matters with Master before coming here. I see no need to add anything else."
Saber snorted in obvious disappointment. "You're so stiff, aren't you?"
Their bickering was familiar as sunlight at breakfast. I couldn't help but chuckle—soft, breathy, the sort of sound that slides out when things shift from danger to something almost domestic.
Now that I had allies, I told myself, the road would be easier.
I lied to myself then—an ember of hope smothered under the ash of what came after.
Weeks later, Punisher dissected my life like a surgeon with no ethics.
Using Callista's Mystic Eye, she peeled back the layers of my existence and found the one atrocity I'd hidden most: the Life Reset ability.
The discovery was clinical, merciless, and swift. Once she had proof, Punisher moved like a predator arranging the pieces of a trap.
She took Callista's freedom from her with the same certainty someone takes a breath.
One authoritative stroke revoked Callista's contact with Archer, and in that instant Callista became an exile in her own body.
Punisher assumed Archer's Mastership as easily as slipping on a glove—no ceremony, no guilt. Her claim was final; her purpose, brutally simple: end me.
She hunted me. The ability to slip back before death was a blasphemy in a world that valued finality; it marked me as an aberration, a loophole that had to be sealed.
Punisher's mandate was merciless: finish what the rules couldn't tolerate. And the cruelty spread.
Other Masters, hungry for certainty and vindication, turned their Servants toward me like wolves scenting blood.
The world that had once felt large now narrowed into a circle with my name at its center.
"Master," Saber said, voice almost unbearably soft. Her word was a small island of comfort amid the encircling dark.
I had died hundreds of times. I had cried until my chest ached as if sobbing could hollow me out and make me lighter.
Sleep had become a stranger; when I did fall into it, nightmares were the only faithful companions.
I rose from the bed with the weight of those deaths still in my bones.
"Callista is locked up," I said, voice flat as a blade. "No one moves her. If we can force Archer's contract back to her, she'll come back—she'll be herself again."
"But how?" Saber's question came through the Command Seal like a plea from somewhere close behind my ribs.
Punisher would not be reasoned with. She had sealed her victory not only with power but with a legalism of cruelty.
So there was no room for parley—only violence left as an honest language.
"We force her to speak," I said. My leather jacket felt heavier than it had any right to, as if it dragged my intentions behind me like chains. "Tonight we pin her down. Make her body betray her will."
Saber's voice through the seal sharpened, unexpectedly grave. The teasing lilt had vanished; in its place was something like steel tempered in a battlefield's heat.
"So that is your resolve, Master?" she murmured.
For a long moment she didn't banter. She simply said, "I have walked fields where mercy died. I know the weight of cutting deeper when the road ahead is only ruin. If this is the path you choose—" Her words slit the silence like a sword. "—then I will make a way through it."
There was a pause, and then, impossibly, a tired sort of humor softened her tone. "Let's ensure your mad plan actually works. And the brutal part—leave that to me. That is what a Saber does."
The Command Seal flared—an eruption of cold light against my skin—and the world tore open beneath my feet.
When the vertigo faded, I was standing in a narrow alley that smelled of rain and rust—exactly the place I always returned to before slipping back into the real world. The air tasted like metal and old regrets.
Saber materialized behind me as if she had always been there. Her hands settled on my shoulders, kneading in a way that tried to undo the tension coiled beneath my ribs.
"Hey," she said, soft but firm.
"I don't want the face of the man I love for to be carved in stone. Smile a little—you look better that way."
There was comfort in the small, human gesture. Saber's steadiness had always been my anchor; her warmth a fragile rebellion against the cruelty of this war.
"Thanks, Saber." I let the smile slip out, tiny and brittle, then turned back to face the street.
"There—see? More charming." She nudged me with a tone that was almost teasing, but there was steel beneath it. I squared my shoulders. "Let's do this."
We stepped out of the alley as if walking onto a stage—and the scene that met us stole the breath from my chest.
Seven Servants stood on the rooftop across the street, silhouettes against the bruised sky.
Their auras overlapped and surged, a living constellation of power that made my teeth ache.
The world around us thrummed with the pressure of intent—hostile, precise, hungry.
Archer said nothing. His silence was a drawn bow.
A high, childish voice cut the hush like a knife. "Oh! That's Buggy!" Lancer squealed, almost gleeful. "Finally you show up! Tonight's going to be a real blast!"
Blue eyes flashed. Her cheer was sickly—malicious joy hidden behind a grin.
"Hmph. To face seven Servants with such little preparation… either you're a fool, or you're bait walking into the tiger's den." Rider's voice was dry, cold as calculus; his gaze measured every possible outcome and found them wanting.
"Ah—how fleeting. Even under heaven, those who dance before gods must know their place." Caster's words flowed like a curse woven into silk. "Will you move with grace—or stumble into despair?"
Assassin looked down with aristocratic disdain, lips thin. "Such insolence. Even in death, peasants should remember their place."
"Enough talk." Berserker's roar split the air—a promise of annihilation. "If you stand against me, I'll crush you until nothing's left!"
And in the middle of that assembly, poised and cold as a blade, stood Punisher. She stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
"You finally have the courage to show yourself. Your underhanded tricks stop tonight."
I could sense five Masters—ghostly presences guiding their puppets like conductors of doom.
They waited, hungry for proof, for the final severing of the loophole I'd become.
"Death is not the end for me," I whispered, not to them but to myself—an attempt to anchor my resolve.
"Saber—go!" I pushed the words out.
"As you wish, Master." Her voice was calm, but in it lay the promise of steel. Saber moved like a storm incarnate.
The six Servants leaped from the rooftop as one—fell through the air with the inevitability of a sentence passed.
The Rider twirled his sacred staff, and from its tip lashed forth a whip of searing violet light.
It cracked through the air with merciless intent, but Saber evaded it with a swift pivot, the strike searing past where her body had stood a breath earlier.
Yet Rider's grin only deepened. The staff spun once more, striking the earth with an arcane rhythm, and from below erupted a surge of radiant energy. T
he ground itself roared as if torn open by wrath, nearly consuming Saber had she not leapt backward at the final instant.
No respite was granted. From behind, Assassin descended—his foot arcing in a ruthless spinning kick.
Saber turned, blades flashing, and caught the strike in a resounding clash of steel and flesh.
With a deft retreat, Assassin leapt away, raising his hand. A flare of blinding brilliance burst forth, searing Saber's vision in a cruel, merciless white.
When her sight steadied again, the battlefield had already shifted. Suspended above, a mechanical colossus loomed—its form forged of steel and power—gripping a massive spear. Balanced upon that spear stood a young girl.
And then, without hesitation, the titan hurled her.
The girl—no, the Caster—descended like a falling star. She leveled her blade against Saber, eyes gleaming with intent to carve through her foe.
Though her vision still wavered, Saber caught the strike, her twin swords straining beneath the force.
With a surge of will, she repelled the Caster, casting her back into the awaiting arms of her mechanical sentinel.
But the assault did not cease. From the heavens, Lancer launched forth astride her spear, descending with merciless velocity. Saber twisted aside, narrowly evading the lethal strike.
And then—the air itself rebelled. Blades of compressed wind tore through the battlefield, arrows that rained from every direction.
Saber maneuvered desperately, yet even she could not emerge unscathed; one strike carved across her thigh, crimson scattering into the air.
Archer.
Saber clicked her tongue in frustration, but already the next threat had emerged. Berserker, weapon in hand—a firearm that roared with brutal thunder.
The bullet hurtled forth, but Saber's blades split it in twain before it could pierce her heart.
Berserker charged. Their swords collided with a violence that split the night, strike after strike exchanged in a storm of fury until both warriors were forced to leap back, their clash unresolved.
Breath ragged, body pressed from all sides, Saber stood at the center of a relentless storm. Surrounded. Outnumbered.
Yet as her chest heaved, the weariness faded. Power surged anew within her veins.
Her gaze flicked aside—and found me.
I stood there, my hand raised, magecraft coursing through the bond between us. Strength flowed from my circuits into her frame, kindling the embers of her resolve.
A smile touched her lips.
"A repayment for earlier," I murmured, voice steady.
Her eyes shone, fierce and unwavering, as she inclined her head.
"Thank you… Master."
With that, Saber's smile hardened into steel. The storm had not broken her. It had only sharpened her blade.
At last, the Punisher, who until now had stood as a silent sentinel, descended. Her boots struck the earth with a resounding thud, and in the same breath she surged forward—an executioner unleashed.
From below, her blade carved upward, a merciless arc meant to cleave Saber where she stood.
But Saber met it with a single sword, steel grinding against steel. Her second blade swept toward the Punisher's face, a strike swift enough to end any lesser foe.
Punisher shifted aside, expression unshaken, allowing the strike to hiss past her. Saber pressed the assault relentlessly, her twin swords weaving a storm that forced Punisher onto the defensive, each strike a demand for submission.
Then, with sudden ferocity, Punisher retaliated. Her movements grew wild, her strikes unrestrained, yet her face remained unnervingly calm—serene even, as if the storm she unleashed required no passion at all.
Their blades clashed again and again, sparks erupting with each collision, until at last they locked together, steel grinding as they sought to overwhelm the other.
Their eyes met. Neither blinked.
"Why do you stand by your Master, a man who defies the very order of life and death?"
"His existence itself is a transgression—a mockery of the laws that bind all beings." Punisher's voice was quiet, yet it cut through the battlefield like judgment itself.
"Why not? I want him to soar freely, like a bird beneath the open sky—and I will be there, always, to protect his flight." Saber's lips curved into a bright, unyielding smile.
"Have you never tasted the sweetness of freedom?" She pressed harder, her voice rising. "If not—"
Her blades flared with will as she roared:
"—THEN ALLOW ME TO SHOW YOU!"
With a violent surge, Saber cast her back, the force hurling Punisher through the air.
Through the haze of battle, I caught the faintest glimpse of her face—just for an instant, her composure cracked. Surprise. Yet it lasted only a heartbeat before it twisted into a smirk, cold and sharp.
She struck the ground, steady as ever, and without pause she and Saber launched forward once more—two forces hurtling toward each other, inevitability forged in steel.
A few weeks ago, I was nothing more than a high school graduate, just another youth searching for work.
Yet now, I find myself thrust into a war I never imagined could exist.
Even so—I must press forward. Forward, until my body can no longer move. Even if I fall, even if I die, I will rise again and try once more.
Death is agony, yes… but it is through death alone that I have endured to this very moment.