Chapter 3: The Servant to Choose (8K—Please Bookmark)
Justeaze…
In Matou Zouken's field of vision, the icy blue eyes of Fujimaru Ritsuka reflected nothing but memories steeped in the dregs of time.
For an instant, that figure—existing only in the deepest layers of remembrance—seemed to echo before him again.
"Heh… death, is it? A word the old man finds unpleasant. Still, if you truly have the capability… then by all means, try it, Ritsuka."
Hearing the barbed sarcasm in Ritsuka's voice, Zouken neither raged nor bristled. He wore only that skin-crawling, shadowy smile.
Then his gaze narrowed slightly, and his words wrapped themselves in threat.
"However, allow me to remind you of one thing: before you act, think carefully about what the price will be."
"A price?" Ritsuka replied blandly. "At worst, death. Living in a family like this—tell me, do you really think death wouldn't count as release for me? And besides… could you truly bring yourself to kill me right now?"
To Zouken, Ritsuka looked utterly unmoved.
He was no child anymore. He wasn't raised on fear, and the years he'd endured had twisted him into something… strange. Even if he still clung tightly to a fragment of beauty that didn't belong to this lifetime—something warm and precious—after seeing too many people and too many things, the human heart inevitably changed.
And more importantly—
He understood this old worm far too well.
Ritsuka knew Zouken coveted his body. But with the Fourth Holy Grail War drawing close—and with those eyes on top of everything—this cowardly, life-obsessed creature would never dare attempt possession until he had thoroughly grasped the full nature of the Mystic Eyes. So instead, he resorted to petty maneuvers: threats, carrots, sticks—anything to keep Ritsuka in his palm as a chess piece.
Since they knew each other's foundations—since neither could easily force the other's hand—Ritsuka had no reason to show him a shred of courtesy.
"…"
Zouken didn't rebut the ridicule. He simply stared at Ritsuka with that gloomy, hooded gaze, and the conclusion of his attitude was self-evident.
"Ritsuka," he said at last, "compared to my two worthless descendants, you—an adopted child—understand me better. You're also far smarter. Talent, temperament, overall qualities… you're much more suited to becoming an excellent magus."
When Zouken spoke again, his tone carried less perfunctory malice, less overt scheming.
"And since you're clever, I won't waste the same rhetoric I used on those inept heirs. Likewise, you can stop playing childish tricks with me."
Childish tricks…?
Ritsuka's eyes narrowed as he continued studying Zouken, weighing whether he should simply put a bullet through the old man's "point of death" and then calmly explain what a real childish trick looked like.
But after probing again and again, he confirmed it—
This wasn't Zouken's true body.
The death point—his core, the crest-worm—was not inside this shell.
So Ritsuka, reluctantly, discarded that tempting thought.
After years of observation and research, even though Ritsuka had never explained the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception's ability, Zouken's experience had likely allowed him to infer quite a lot. Faced with eyes this lethal—eyes that genuinely held the power to end him—how could a creature as worm-hearted as Zouken ever expose his own life to danger in person?
With a quiet breath, Ritsuka dimmed the light in his eyes. The icy blue sheen faded, and his expression returned to that original, indifferent mask.
"Fine," he said. "Talk, old worm. Why did you suddenly come looking for me?"
Zouken only glanced at him and didn't answer at once.
Instead, he stepped past Ritsuka and walked straight to the workbench, rifling through Ritsuka's insect-familiar research notes with zero hesitation, as if he owned the place.
"Trajectory Ant. Returning Wasp. Chirp-Messenger Moth. Wind-Sense Ant."
He read out the names aloud from the notebook Ritsuka had been prioritizing, then offered a critique without restraint.
"How unexpected. You didn't choose a single insect I recommended. Everything you're cultivating is practical—but all of it is support-type. Is it meant to assist your eyes? Not a bad idea. Still, a fighting style like that is, in a sense, heretical. At the Clock Tower, research along this line would surely be condemned as aberrant magecraft."
"I'm a pragmatist," Ritsuka said, frowning. "And compared to what you call 'the magus' path,' I value my life more. I only cultivate familiars I consider useful."
His impatience sharpened.
"And you didn't come here just to check my homework, did you? Or to accuse me of deviating from orthodoxy? Drop the act. What do you want? Stop speaking in riddles."
"Don't be tense, Ritsuka," Zouken said, shaking his head. "I'm not one of those rigid Clock Tower magi. Whatever road you choose, I won't nag."
He rose slowly, then looked out the window at leaves drifting down in silence. His voice grew faint, as if covered in a layer of dust.
"There's less than a year left before the Holy Grail War. I came to ask you: have you decided? Chosen a target relic? Formed a plan?"
"A plan… and a relic…"
Ritsuka froze. His expression turned strange.
He stared at Zouken by the window, disbelief thick in his tone.
"Wait. You're telling me you want me to choose the relic and make the plan? Have you finally developed brain rot, old worm?"
It was genuinely hard to imagine hearing "your choice" from Matou Zouken—whose control-freak nature was absolute, whose personality was rotten to the core.
Yes, Ritsuka had no intention of summoning Berserker. And yes, his repeated practice runs were partly to prepare for a covert summoning behind Zouken's back.
Still—he had already written a second contingency.
If it failed, and the Servant that emerged really did turn out to be Berserker, then he would cooperate with Lancelot for the short term and look for a gradual opening to cut his chains.
But now, this old monster was offering "autonomy."
Ritsuka couldn't believe it.
After all, a relic was the single most critical part of a Heroic Spirit summoning. It was a medium—an anchor point that connected you to the desired hero. With a relic tied to a specific legend, the ritual established an easier link, drastically raising the chance of summoning that Servant.
Of course, a summoning without a relic wasn't impossible.
But without an anchor, everything became pure randomness. What you got depended entirely on luck.
Sometimes, luck produced a miracle.
But if your luck was even slightly poor, the Servant you summoned could be pathetically weak.
The only "benefit" was compatibility: a catalyst-less summoning tended to yield a Servant whose affinity with the Master was exceptionally strong.
But to a magus, uncertainty equaled danger—an uncontrollable variable, an accident waiting to happen.
It didn't take a genius to know that Zouken would never allow Ritsuka to gamble on a compatibility summon, and Ritsuka had no intention of doing so either.
Because unlike humanity's "last Master," he was likely only one variant among parallel-world Ritsukas. He had not saved the Human Order. He had not forged bonds with countless heroes.
Even he didn't know what kind of Servant his "compatibility" would pull.
For a man who had crawled out of hell and waited years for a chance—half magus, half revenant—this kind of uncertainty was unacceptable.
He would rather cooperate with a known quantity like Lancelot than stake everything on an unknown roll.
If it was Charlemagne, Siegfried, Karna—sure. That was an instant win condition.
But if it was Blackbeard, Charlotte, the Shinsengumi… or someone even weaker—
Then there would be no second chance. No comeback.
So when Zouken dangled that enticing "autonomy," suspicion flooded Ritsuka's mind.
What is this old worm plotting now? What calculation am I not seeing? What trap is waiting for me?
"Heh. There's no need to be that guarded, Ritsuka," Zouken said, reading his thoughts as if they were written on his face.
His laugh was still sinister—but now it carried an affected softness.
"Yes, you resent me. But I am still your grandfather. Since I intend to have you participate in the Holy Grail War, I will naturally grant you sufficient freedom and support. This much help, at least, I can provide."
"…"
Ritsuka didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he began a new round of calculation.
He narrowed his eyes and looked again at the creature reeking of decay from head to toe, trying to understand what was happening.
For reasons he couldn't explain, he felt a contradiction—a gnawing uncertainty. In recent years especially, Zouken had seemed… different. Subtly, but unmistakably. Yet Ritsuka couldn't put it into clean words.
The stench was the same. The tone was the same. The hatred in his own heart had never diminished.
And yet—
There was change.
And there was something off.
It was Zouken… but it didn't feel like the Zouken in his memories.
And as if to conceal something, the old worm had stopped appearing in person long ago. Each time Ritsuka looked with the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception, he saw only swarms of insects wrapped in human skin—hollow shells.
The real Matou Zouken had all but vanished.
Which meant it was safe to assume he was preparing something vile.
Hiding was his nature, yes—
But this concealment carried an edge of forced haste, almost panic.
Ritsuka thought and thought, but still couldn't find the right answer. He couldn't grasp how many secrets a centuries-old monster had buried.
In the end, he had to suppress the doubt for now.
He needed Matou resources.
And that "autonomy," however suspicious, did open a few new possibilities.
"Caster."
After briefly considering which classes were likely to have already been claimed, Ritsuka lifted his eyes and answered without hesitation.
"I'm summoning Caster. And the relic must be from the Age of Gods. Anything that can summon Medea, the Queen of Sheba, or Gilgamesh will do. If you can get something tied to Solomon… that would be best."
"Hero King… King of Magecraft? Heh…"
Zouken's mouth twitched, and his eyelid began to jump.
"If you're asking me for a relic tied to the King of Magecraft, I think you should check your head first—see whether the insects inside have already chewed it to mush."
He realized the boy was treating him like a wish-granting machine.
Even ignoring Solomon—an impossible target—the others were also top-tier among Heroic Spirits. None of their relics would be easy to obtain. Nearly all were unrealistic.
Yet Ritsuka listed them as casually as groceries, which left Zouken momentarily speechless.
But then—
"Caster," Zouken said, frowning. "After rejecting the class I arranged for you—Berserker—you choose this fragile class?"
His displeasure sharpened.
"Ritsuka, you know this. Alongside Assassin, Caster is widely regarded as one of the weakest classes. Are you planning to start preparing for the next Grail War already—waiting out the years until I rot away?"
His voice dropped, heavy with warning.
"My patience is limited. I can't afford to wait for you to spend a decade 'preparing.'"
He was genuinely irritated by Ritsuka's choice.
Compared to the mobility and raw power of the Three Knight Classes, the remaining classes each had clear strengths and weaknesses—and among them, Caster's flaws were, in Zouken's view, the most severe.
First: most Sabers possessed Magic Resistance. That alone made magecraft far less effective, placing Caster at a natural disadvantage.
Second: Riders and Lancers, with their high mobility and speed, also countered Caster. Most magi were poor at close combat and physically slow. They relied on territory, fortifications, and defensive warfare—turtling behind a base. In mobility, they were inferior, and even against Rider or Lancer they struggled to secure victory.
And finally: Casters often served a support role. In the Holy Grail War, the Master and Caster frequently functioned as a "backline," enabling another Servant to perform at full power.
So if two Casters ended up together, the composition's defects became enormous—so severe that victory could feel outright impossible.
No wonder Zouken was displeased.
But to Ritsuka, Zouken's thinking was myopic.
Caster only looked "weak" when the summoned Caster wasn't strong enough.
Solomon was beyond any reasonable expectation—Ritsuka didn't even dare dream of it.
But Medea's performance in Fuyuki remained burned into his memory: Territory Creation, and even the audacity of purifying the Grail with Rule Breaker—absurd feats, accomplished under severe time constraints and insufficient preparation.
Handled correctly, Caster could be the class with the highest win rate.
And Ritsuka also remembered something Zouken conveniently ignored:
This Grail was not a pure artifact.
It wasn't the true Heaven's Feel.
It was a polluted Grail—an infected vessel of calamity.
If it were pure, Ritsuka could seize it without hesitation and use its power to solve his current predicament.
But he knew exactly what using a corrupted Grail would lead to.
A worse fate.
So he needed safeguards—layers of contingency.
He had originally planned to find a way to escape Zouken's chains or attempt purification himself.
But if he truly could summon a magus from the Age of Gods, then his plan—his escape—would become dramatically more feasible.
"I have my own calculus, old worm," Ritsuka said calmly. "Compared to your beloved Berserker, summoning Caster is the true optimal solution. If you don't believe me, then by all means keep being stubborn. Just remember—you'll bear the consequences of the outcome."
He didn't sound urgent. He simply tossed the burden back where it belonged.
"Oh, and one more thing," he added. "If you want me to win for you, then put in some effort. The relic's quality matters. If you can find a famous relic tied to a great magus, our odds rise significantly."
He tilted his head slightly.
"If you can't manage a relic at all, I'll find my own way. But if it fails… don't regret it."
"So you're kicking the ball to me," Zouken murmured, narrowing those shadowed eyes. "You really are a sly brat…"
His voice dropped, almost a hiss.
"Do you truly think your little tricks can fool me? Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do. You want to learn knowledge from a magus of the Age of Gods—then break free of my control."
"I never said that," Ritsuka replied evenly. "That's your guess."
He lifted his chin and looked at Zouken with steady eyes.
"Either way, do it or don't—it's your decision. If you want to hand the Grail over to someone else, I don't particularly care."
His tone sharpened at the end, cold and precise.
"It isn't my lifelong wish. I can live a long time. But you…"
He let the words hang.
"You can't."
"…"
For once, Zouken didn't refute him.
He lowered his head and chuckled a few times—thin, unpleasant laughter.
Then he raised his face again.
And within those elderly, withered eyes, there was an odd light—something unfamiliar.
That strangeness made Ritsuka's sense of alarm deepen.
He knew exactly how disgusting this creature could be. Any insult strong enough to be called a curse would sound like praise when pinned to Matou Zouken.
So Ritsuka had always remained vigilant.
He would not relax for even a breath.
Now that he'd noticed this abnormal shift, he resolved to investigate the old worm more thoroughly.
But for the moment—
The performance had to continue.
"I understand, Ritsuka," Zouken said, tightening his grip on the cane, finally making a decision. "Since you insist, I'll trust you one more time."
"I'll go search for a relic that meets your standards. But remember the promise you've given me."
His tone became coldly possessive.
"If you fail to obtain the Grail, I will personally take that young skin of yours. Then, in the next Holy Grail War… the old man will enter himself."
"Heh."
Ritsuka didn't answer.
He only let out a quiet, mocking laugh.
He wasn't afraid. He wasn't angry.
He had known Zouken's intent for a long time.
And Zouken, in turn, knew Ritsuka's murderous hostility just as well.
They were bound to each other for now—unable to break the chain—so they could only keep acting out this hypocritical play.
But both understood:
The balance was temporary.
Once it broke, neither would show mercy.
They would kill the other with everything they had, and they would not stop until they achieved their aim.
"You won't be disappointed," Ritsuka said calmly.
"I hope so," Zouken replied.
With those final words, he had no reason to remain.
His body swelled, bulging grotesquely—
And then it broke apart into a dense swarm of insects.
Buzzing, writhing, they poured into every corner of the room and vanished in a blink.
"Tch…"
Ritsuka frowned, staring at the now-empty doorway.
"Disgusting old worm. Would it kill you to leave through the front door just once? Always the same routine…"
He exhaled through his nose, voice low and irritated.
"Before I head out to set the stage… I should probably wash this entire room with insecticide."
Join here to read ahead.
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