Lord of Mineralogy.
Head of the Department of Spiritual Evocation.
A prodigy of the Association.
A ninth-generation magus.
These were the titles and stations I held as the head of the El-Melloi line—each one earned by my own hands, each one more illustrious than the last.
And my name is Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald.
A magus who had lived almost his entire life under the glare of brilliance. A magus who had pursued the extreme limits of Mystery, pushing forward day after day toward the Root itself.
As the ninth heir of the Archibald bloodline—one of the Clock Tower's great houses—I was not merely well-born. My talent and intellect were rare even among the rare. A true child of heaven.
With resources that deep and a name that loud, my future should have been boundless. I was never meant to be compared to mediocrities like Tokiomi Tohsaka. Even against the legendary Grand Puppeteer, Aozaki Tōko, I had every confidence that I would one day stand as her equal.
And yet—
Even I was being strangled by an endless swarm of anxieties.
Because I had already witnessed my own death.
It happened on a cold ocean, drowned in boundless darkness. I died with a sensation I had never known before in my life—powerlessness so complete it felt as if everything I was had been stripped away.
In that freezing sea, I lost everything: my life, my pride, my glory… and the woman I loved.
Even now, I cannot forget that night—watching her struggle in despair right before my eyes, while I could do nothing.
And now, whether it was destiny's joke, my own delusion, or some god's amusement—
I, Kayneth—who should have been dead—had returned.
Across an impossible distance of time, back to the beginning. Back to the stretch of days before my death.
To survive, I tried to wrench myself out of that cursed ending with my own efforts. Even when certain "predictions" came true, I forced myself to call them coincidence.
But then the anomalies piled up—one after another—until denial became stupidity.
Even so, I would not "defy fate" by deliberately doing the opposite of everything I knew. Nor would I sink into resignation and accept a tragic script like a fool.
I do not submit to fate.
I do not lose to anyone.
Call it providence, coincidence, destiny, karma—whatever you like.
I, Kayneth, will do only what reason tells me is correct. I do not believe in fate—and I will break it. I will shatter that pathetic ending, and the farce of my so-called tragedy.
My honors still stood on display in the Clock Tower.
My beloved still waited for me in London.
And my useless student's error-riddled thesis was still sitting in my drawer, untouched. Without my intellect—without my guidance—Waver that idiot would rot in that dead end forever, never finding the answer.
So this time—
For my beloved. For myself. For my student—
I must survive.
That was why I personally traveled to the cradle of Celtic myth and used its leylines to summon Diarmuid Ua Duibhne in the strongest state the Lancer container could withstand—granting him not only two cursed spears, but the use of a demonic sword as well.
I even brought Waver with me, forming a teacher-and-student alliance—mutual support, mutual insurance.
And to ensure absolute discretion—to make certain my safety—I broke from habit and built my workshop as a minimal setup, hidden inside an ordinary residential building that no one would ever suspect.
And yet… and yet—
That damned, laughable, tragic thing called fate still refused to let me go.
The hunt that had once ended my life had found me again.
"An attack?!"
Darkness fell again.
I lifted my head toward the wavering firelight, and in that instant my mind erupted into a storm.
With Diarmuid absent, the building suffered the "expected" blackout. Even a man as vigilant as I am will, in that first reflexive moment, restore power.
And the instant I did—
A shell smashed through the window and screamed straight toward me.
A shell.
Seeing that projectile roar in, my body tried to run on instinct—then I realized it was meaningless. This wasn't a bullet. It was artillery. The purpose wasn't to kill me; it was to erase me and my entire hiding place in one stroke.
At this distance, escape was impossible.
If that shell detonated in the room, the blast would trigger my stored magical reactor and ignite a chain explosion.
There was no dodging it.
I stared at the approaching shell, and an ugly memory surged up—
The last time I died, my aircraft was struck by a shell that came from nowhere, sending it to ruin.
This scene was identical. A cruel replay.
But I did not panic. I did not lose my composure.
Instead, I thought—coldly, sharply—about the only solution that mattered:
How do I stop the impact… and keep the reactor from detonating?
The answer was obvious.
"Boil—my blood."
With the spell spoken, I opened every sealed container hidden throughout the room at once.
A flood of silver liquid burst out and screamed through the air, weaving itself into a massive protective membrane that enveloped both me and the room where the magical reactor was stored.
Volumen Hydrargyrum—the supreme mystic code I had perfected, brought from the Clock Tower for combat. A defensive system with overwhelming performance against both magecraft and physical harm.
One of my trump cards.
Now was exactly when it should be used.
BOOM—!
Heat and flame blossomed with the explosion.
But the mercury-silver membrane wrapped around everything, swallowing the blast's thermal and kinetic violence whole—protecting me and, more importantly, protecting the reactor behind me.
I survived the first strike.
But the assault from the darkness clearly had no intention of ending there.
That shell had only been a feint.
The real killer was already inside my workshop.
In the black, I saw it: a shadow with a gun—an utterly lightless muzzle pointed at my head.
A finger tightened.
BANG.
A black bullet tore out of the darkness, screaming straight for my skull.
I was controlling Volumen Hydrargyrum—I had no time to react.
My body tried to dodge, but it was futile. The shot was calculated. No human reflex could evade it.
And in that instant I understood:
This attacker was not a mere modern magus.
It was a Servant.
The method of infiltration—the silent crossing of distance into my workshop—
Spirit Form.
Even with perfect concealment, I felt the movement through my control of the workshop's bounded field.
But if it was a Servant… then who?
Assassin? The splitting Hassan?
Then how did it find me? When did I expose myself?
Questions screamed through my mind, but there was no time left to answer them.
The bullet was already here.
Will I die again?
Oddly, there was no fear—perhaps because I had already died once. Compared to drowning helplessly in a dark ocean alongside the woman I loved…
A clean shot through the head might almost be mercy.
But reality did not follow that thought.
CLANG!
In the next instant, the bullet was cut in half—split by a crimson demonic sword.
And as the answer to that shot, a yellow spear flashed like lightning through the room, stabbing toward the attacker.
"Ghk—!"
The crimson-cloaked figure jerked away at high speed—but not fast enough.
The yellow spear pierced straight through its arm.
Pain detonated, and the left arm immediately lost all strength.
That spear was Gáe Buidhe—The Yellow Rose of Mortal Fate—a constant-activation Noble Phantasm gifted to Diarmuid Ua Duibhne by Manannán mac Lir.
It required no true-name release to function.
Its curse was absolute:
Wounds inflicted by it do not heal.
No recovery magecraft, no regeneration, no miracle can restore what it takes. The injury remains until Gáe Buidhe is destroyed—or Diarmuid is eliminated.
A trump card he had kept hidden.
It hadn't found a proper opening during the chaos of the first night—
but it struck true here.
"Master—my apologies for arriving late. Please forgive me!"
Diarmuid materialized at my back in an instant, sword in hand. He had intercepted the fatal bullet at the last possible moment.
He looked at me—alive—and let out a long breath, relief and fear written plainly across his face.
A fraction of a second later… and my head would have been "opened" for good.
That shell and that bullet weren't ordinary munitions. They were constructs of magical energy—close to Noble Phantasms in nature.
No wonder their power was so obscene.
If they had been mere modern mystic codes, they never could have done this.
That bullet, in particular—
even if I had tried to block it with Volumen Hydrargyrum directly, the result would likely still have been my skull shattered in disbelief.
But we survived—because I did the one thing my past self would never have done.
I didn't gamble on pride.
I didn't try to "handle it myself."
I spent a Command Spell and summoned Diarmuid back immediately.
Because I have already died once.
I will not die again.
Diarmuid, too, seemed to understand what Iskandar had felt earlier—how close a Master can come to instant death.
And he understood, perhaps for the first time in his life, how vile this war could be.
Not everyone fought with chivalry.
Some would win by any method—
even if it meant assassinating a Master in the dark.
His eyes hardened.
From this moment on, he would not allow such a scene to repeat.
But first—
"Lancer," I ordered, voice steady despite the lingering chill in my spine. "Kill the attacker."
"Yes, Master!"
Diarmuid didn't hesitate. Spear in hand, he shot after the fleeing figure.
As he moved, I reminded him—use the jeweled artificial eye. Do not lose the trail.
Because the attacker felt wrong.
It should have been Assassin—but when it slipped close, I caught a glimpse of the face beneath the red cloak.
No skull mask.
No black bodysuit.
A bandaged face, hidden under a red mantle.
If my eyes hadn't lied, then this Grail War might contain more than the seven.
The "extra Servant" problem wasn't theoretical—it was real.
And that was information too critical to ignore.
I swept my gaze across the ruined room and began gathering the essentials to relocate immediately.
The disturbance had been far too large. Police would arrive soon.
If I stayed, I risked exposure—or at minimum, pointless complications.
Before leaving, I crouched and picked up one of the severed bullet halves, examining it closely.
"It's a bullet… made of magical energy. The shell as well. Projection magecraft? Or something else?"
Not a true Noble Phantasm, but still an extraordinary construct.
Which meant the attacker likely wasn't Hassan.
A modern-era Servant, then? One who relied on firearms?
My expression darkened.
I had nearly been killed—stolen, cheaply, in my own workshop.
No one stays calm after that.
Meanwhile, on the great bridge in Fuyuki—
Morning arrived.
The first light of dawn spilled across the city, illuminating faces, cars, and the ordinary exhaustion of commuters beginning another day.
Traffic flowed. Office workers marched on, resigned to routine.
And yet, the morning felt strangely unreal.
Because people crossing the bridge saw something that made them blink and stare—
Two figures were sprinting along the steel framework above the bridge, locked in a furious chase in broad daylight.
It was so absurd that some thought their eyes were playing tricks on them.
Diarmuid didn't care.
He didn't even notice it was morning.
His eyes were fixed only on the red figure ahead—his anger burning, his shame burning hotter.
For a knight, failing to protect one's Master is the greatest disgrace.
He needed to atone.
And there was only one acceptable payment:
The attacker's head.
He unleashed his speed without restraint, Lancer-level agility pushing him forward in a relentless hunt. In his vision, the crimson shadow raced across the top of the bridge's structure, always just beyond reach.
Then my voice reached him through the link.
"Lancer. Report."
"My apologies, Master," Diarmuid answered immediately. "The target is fast—and extremely familiar with Fuyuki's terrain. I haven't caught up yet."
"Even you can't?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
Diarmuid was a Lancer with A+ Agility. If even he couldn't close the distance, the target's capability was abnormal.
"Yes. The target possesses a Noble Phantasm—or an ability—that allows sudden bursts of acceleration. Each time I gain ground, it widens the gap again."
"Where is it heading?"
"It's fleeing toward the northern outskirts. I'm continuing pursuit."
"The northern outskirts…" I narrowed my eyes. "Toward Mount Enzō?"
I had studied Fuyuki's map last night. In that direction, only one location mattered:
Mount Enzō and Ryūdō Temple.
A major leylines-backed stronghold—an Age-of-Gods-grade territory if prepared properly.
I already suspected that was the battlefield Caster had established.
A hard bone to chew—exactly why I had postponed dealing with it.
So what was this "extra Assassin" doing?
Why lead Diarmuid there?
An ambush?
A lure?
A forced battle meant to drag us into Caster's territory?
Had the attacker allied with that blue dog?
Was the blue dog behind this at all—Caster's cheating, producing an "illegal Assassin"?
Or was this a deliberate "poisoned river" tactic—pull us into Ryūdō Temple, let us and Caster bleed each other, then harvest the survivors?
Too many variables. Too little data.
"Damn it…"
And on top of that, continuing this chase in daylight would cause a public incident.
It wasn't acceptable.
So I made the only correct decision.
"Return, Lancer," I ordered. "Confirming the attacker is a Servant is enough for now."
"It's already day. We cannot keep fighting. Come back before we fully expose ourselves—we're relocating immediately."
"…Understood."
"And Ryūdō Temple—" I continued, voice cold and measured. "We'll reassess once Waver and Rider arrive. For now we proceed steadily. No reckless advance."
A stable, rational choice.
Because this war was no longer the war I remembered.
Illustration: "Assassin"
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
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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? 30
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 30
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