Tonight was the curtain-raiser of the Holy Grail War.
It was also destined to be anything but ordinary. Even the air over Fuyuki City felt taut—like a drawn bowstring, ready to snap.
Inside the Tohsaka mansion, the head of the current generation, Tohsaka Tokiomi, slowly rubbed the Command Spells on the back of his hand. The tension in his chest rose minute by minute.
By all rights, he should have been delighted.
He had not only summoned the strongest possible Servant—Gilgamesh—but his pupil, Kotomine Kirei, had also followed the plan and successfully summoned Assassin, agreeing to coordinate with him from the shadows.
More than that, his old friend Kotomine Risei, the overseer of this Holy Grail War, had promised to support him wherever possible. The price was trivial: Tokiomi would take responsibility for whatever losses Fuyuki suffered during the war.
A perfect Servant. A capable assistant. And himself—an excellent magus who had lived in Fuyuki for decades, knew the city inside and out, and held the home-field advantage.
It was a lineup that screamed certain victory. And on top of that, even the referee was effectively on his side.
With all these pieces in place, Tokiomi truly couldn't imagine how he could possibly lose. In truth, he had already accepted—quietly, confidently—that he would take the final win.
And according to the intelligence Kirei had provided, the other participants were largely understood.
Other than Tokiomi and Kirei, the remaining members of the Three Great Families were hardly worth fearing.
The Matou had sent a mere teenager—a boy named Ritsuka—because the current head, Matou Zouken, was old and frail.
Tokiomi readily admitted that Ritsuka's talent and raw potential might even surpass his own.
But magecraft was not a contest decided by talent alone. Accumulation mattered, too.
No matter how exceptional a child might be, he could not bridge the gulf of decades of knowledge and lived experience. Someday Ritsuka might surpass him—but not now. Not in this war.
As for the Einzbern, they had apparently dispatched a peculiar homunculus, one that looked as if it had only recently been created. Most likely they shared the Matou's thinking: abandon this war and prepare for the next.
In other words, among the Three Great Families, only House Tohsaka stood truly dominant.
Of the remaining two Clock Tower magi, one seemed to be nothing more than a lucky apprentice—hardly worth note.
The only participant who truly occupied Tokiomi's thoughts was the prodigy of the modern era, the Lord of the Department of Mineralogy—
Lord Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald.
Whether it was Kayneth's status as a Lord or his sheer ability, he represented everything Tokiomi desired yet could never attain. Compared to that man, Tokiomi's own gifts felt pitifully small.
And so Kayneth was, in Tokiomi's mind, the greatest threat in this Grail War.
That was precisely why Tokiomi had prepared so thoroughly.
Summoning Gilgamesh. Securing Kirei's cooperation. Enlisting Risei's support.
All of it was to guarantee—one hundred percent—that he could clear that obstacle.
The pride of a magus told Tokiomi this was disgraceful. Even if he defeated Kayneth, winning by such means would be shameful. It would betray the Tohsaka creed: elegance, poise, and refinement.
But his yearning for the Root—his obsession with truth—finally crushed his hesitation.
If he had to be scorned, if his name had to be nailed to the pillory of Grail War shame, then so be it.
This was his stubbornness—Tohsaka Tokiomi, a small man who refused to let go.
For the Tohsaka's long-held vow, he would violate his own principles.
"Lord El-Melloi… forgive my baseness," he murmured, thumb tracing the crimson Command Spells. "A Holy Grail War is a battle of wisdom and strength, is it not?"
As he spoke, the final knot inside him loosened.
For him, this was the moment to pay any price—seize victory in one decisive push.
"Teacher."
Just as Tokiomi steeled himself, a familiar voice came from outside his door.
"Kirei. Come in."
At once, the door opened. Kotomine Kirei stepped inside alone.
Once Kirei entered, Tokiomi tried to gather his thoughts again. He glanced at his student, then up at the clock on the wall. His carefully maintained composure—his "elegance"—cracked with a trace of irritation and confusion.
He looked at Kirei. "What happened? Kirei, what of the plan? Assassin was supposed to send a duplicate to be killed by Archer. Why has Assassin not appeared?"
Kirei shook his head, his voice steady.
"Teacher. Assassin did come. But on the way, she was discovered by another Servant and killed."
He continued, measured and precise:
"The Servant who killed Hassan must possess extremely powerful presence detection. Otherwise, Assassin would not have been found so easily."
"Based on my assessment, that Servant's detection ability likely exceeds Assassin's Presence Concealment and may have reached Rank A or higher."
"…!"
Tokiomi's brow tightened further. His growing worry was no longer directed at his student—but at the unknown Servant who had shattered his opening gambit.
"Rank A detection…" Tokiomi muttered. "Then that Servant is Assassin's natural predator."
"Yes. If that is true," Kirei said, "ordinary Presence Concealment will not deceive them. That Servant may possess a frightening ability—one that can perceive disturbances within nearly ten kilometers."
He paused, then delivered the more troubling implication:
"They may even have realized Assassin is not a single entity, but a plurality. Our plans for surveillance and ambush will likely become difficult to execute."
"To prevent them from noticing inconsistencies," Kirei added, "my father has already ordered all Assassin units waiting at the Church to disperse."
"If the Church were identified as an Assassin gathering point, there is a high chance our side would be exposed."
"But even then," he concluded, "I doubt we can delay for long."
The more Kirei spoke, the more Tokiomi's head began to ache.
"I understand…" he said at last, voice heavy.
He rubbed his temples and exhaled, irritation boiling beneath his skin.
His carefully arranged opening script—ruined before the first scene could even be staged, undone by an outside variable.
Anyone would be furious.
Yet Tokiomi also knew this was not Kirei's fault. Kirei and Risei had executed their part perfectly: suppression, concealment, discipline—flawless.
If this had happened anyway, then perhaps it was simply—
bad luck.
Tokiomi stared at Kirei's silent face, the anger trapped in his throat. In front of his student he could not explode, so he forced the fire down and turned his mind to contingency.
But while Assassin's failure plunged two Masters into gloom, there was one man in this room whose mood was the opposite.
A golden-haired youth lounged on an ornate sofa, sipping one of Tokiomi's treasured wines.
Archer.
He didn't look displeased at all.
If anything, he looked… amused.
"What an excellent farce," the young man drawled. "Clowns who make even this king laugh. Rarely do I bother to humor your little play, but I had, for once, found a sliver of interest. And now your clown show has ended before it even began."
With casual arrogance, he sprang to his feet, landing lightly on the floor as though the world owed him balance.
"Most noble Hero King—" Tokiomi began, unable to stop himself.
"Spare me," the golden youth cut in, raising a hand. "Put away that insincere performance. I am not the other me from another world. Your affected flattery disgusts me, Tokiomi."
His true name—Gilgamesh—carried no warmth.
"I agreed to play along only because it was a diversion in boredom," he said. "But since your self-assured plan has collapsed, I will go see what happened."
His eyes gleamed, the tone shifting—eager, predatory.
"Because just now… this king sensed it."
"The aura of that cursed wielder of the Holy Sword."
"This time, I will reclaim the score from last time. I will fight until I am satisfied."
With that, Gilgamesh dissolved into spirit particles and vanished, leaving only a stiff silence behind him—and Tokiomi's face, twisted with displeasure.
"…!"
Tokiomi stared at the direction Archer had left, then down at the three crimson lines on the back of his hand.
His expression became painfully complicated.
He'd seen through it. Completely.
So this is the Hero King…
But—
Was it truly wise to stride out openly like that when the enemy lineup was still unclear?
And from his words, there was a Saber in this war—someone even Gilgamesh was willing to take seriously.
If such a threat existed, why not lie low, conceal oneself, and step onto the stage only at the last moment—secure victory with certainty?
Yes, he had summoned exactly what he wanted: the Hero King, Gilgamesh.
But the man's penetrating gaze—and his stubborn refusal to obey—made Tokiomi feel profoundly uneasy.
A strong, ugly premonition crawled up his spine.
…
…
"So… you're really doing this?"
At Ryūdō Temple, inside the magecraft workshop, Ritsuka watched Morgan's series of "operations" unfold—operations that ended with Gilles de Rais being placed under their banner, a Servant-class combat asset successfully added to their forces.
Ritsuka's expression was helpless.
"This is… okay?"
He couldn't shake the feeling that they were warping Gilles's will—turning it into something dishonest.
Morgan tilted her head and idly spun the fleur-de-lis banner-spear Gilles had practically shoved into her hands.
"What isn't okay?" she replied flatly. "He changed his mind of his own accord, didn't he?"
"A moment ago he was calling me 'Saint Jeanne' every other breath and refusing to leave. If you doubt it, ask him yourself."
"I know." Ritsuka sighed and nodded.
It was true: Gilles had declared, in his own mouth, that he wouldn't go.
He insisted on fighting at Morgan's side, rebuilding the glory of France.
Which was… absurd, frankly.
One was British, one was French—and yet here they were talking about "restoring France's glory."
Ritsuka didn't know whether to laugh or groan.
Morgan had denied it, of course. She wasn't Jeanne. He had mistaken her.
But Gilles was a Berserker, and worse—a Jeanne fanatic. The moment he saw a face identical to Jeanne's, his reason evaporated. He latched onto Morgan as "Jeanne" with religious certainty.
If she wasn't Jeanne, then she had to be Jeanne's reincarnation—how else could they look the same?
It was the kind of logic only madness could make airtight.
Ritsuka and Morgan had both been stunned by it.
Especially Morgan.
By actual chronology, she was centuries removed from Jeanne. Reincarnation was nonsense.
But Morgan had no interest in explaining metaphysics to a Berserker.
If he insisted she was Jeanne and wanted to serve?
She had no reason to refuse a high-quality weapon.
So under her guidance, Gilles prepared to form a second Servant contract with Ritsuka.
Normally, a magus could only supply mana to one Servant. Too many contracts would crush the Master's body.
But with a prepared stronghold, Morgan's mana supply didn't rely solely on Ritsuka. Most of it came from the magic circle she had established at Ryūdō Temple, drawing, filtering, and channeling power from Fuyuki's leylines.
Ritsuka, in that arrangement, was essentially a human relay device.
He would still have only three Command Spells—but signing a second contract with Gilles would not break him.
At the final moment, Ritsuka faced the silver-armored knight—now visibly lucid again—and asked:
"Do you really intend to contract with me, Gilles de Rais?"
"I don't want to deceive you," he added quietly. "Now that you've regained your composure, you can tell, can't you? Morgan isn't Saint Jeanne."
"Yes." Gilles nodded, his voice low with embarrassment. "Though the face is identical, the… temperament differs far too greatly."
He glanced back at Morgan, who was still absent-mindedly playing with the fleur-de-lis spear, and released a small, regretful sigh.
"Then why do you still want to fight beside us?" Ritsuka pressed. "Just because you can stand once more beside someone who looks like Jeanne?"
"…"
Gilles fell silent. Then, after a moment's thought, he shook his head. A faint light rose in his eyes—like a dying ember refusing to go out.
"I won't deny that such selfishness exists in me," he admitted. "But I have my own wish as well."
"Your wish…" Ritsuka's voice slowed. "What is it?"
"I want true release."
Gilles's gaze trembled with old pain.
"You know my story. Jeanne's death, the corruption of that grimoire… I lost my former glory and fell into the wretched thing called Bluebeard."
"My wish is simple—"
"You want the Grail to free you from the fate of becoming Bluebeard," Ritsuka cut in.
Then he poured cold truth over the room.
"That's too difficult. In history, the fact that you became Bluebeard has already been witnessed by the world—fixed by causality."
"Unless you can truly return to the past, even the Grail won't easily overturn that."
Ritsuka didn't soften it. He told Gilles the cruel reality outright.
Gilles listened—and then shook his head again, calm and unwavering.
"I suspected as much. But I'm not asking for an impossible miracle."
"I only want to… resist once more."
He extended a hand, eyes locked on Ritsuka like a pledge.
"Magus. I can see it in you—you also have wishes and ideals. You, too, are resisting a destiny of your own."
"I want to resist alongside you."
"Even if all I win is a better-looking death… that is enough for me."
He had drifted in muddled darkness for far too long.
He still remembered Jeanne—but so many of her words had blurred with time.
And yet, this time, something resurfaced.
For a fleeting moment of clarity.
A woman with Jeanne's face.
A magus with an unmistakable sense of justice.
Those buried memories—sealed so deep they might never have returned—rose again before his eyes.
In that haze, he saw Jeanne's familiar face, as if she stood before him once more.
And he remembered her voice.
"You ask why I can keep fighting with such spirit?
Even when the battle seems impossible, why can I still turn it around?"
"I'm sorry, Gilles. I don't know the answer myself.
I'm only resisting in the small ways I can.
My heart keeps pointing me forward—that's all."
"Even if I know I will lose in the end…
I think I will resist until the very end."
When he had been exhausted by battle after battle, lost and hollow, the Saint had given him that answer.
So, Jeanne…
Please—
lead me in one more charge.
This time, I will keep pace with you. I will not fall back.
"I understand." Ritsuka reached out and firmly clasped the offered hand.
They didn't know what the future held.
They didn't know whether the destinies they resisted could truly be changed.
But they were alike.
Both were rebels against fate.
Even if their ending was still failure—still death—they would fight without regret.
Because there was no road left behind them.
"Then the contract is formed," Ritsuka said, voice steady with resolve. "In the war to come—"
"Fight with me. Resist fate with me, Marshal Gilles."
"Understood, Master." Gilles's voice was quiet, absolute. "This body shall walk through fire for you."
The instant the words fell, deep blue magecraft light bloomed through the workshop—driving back the shadows in every corner, illuminating the determination in both their eyes.
The future might still be distant and unclear.
But here, now—two rebels against destiny had finally found a path to walk side by side.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 90)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 95)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League (Chapter 80)
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter70)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter70)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter50)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter60)
Can Playing Games Save the World? 20
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 20
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