"Are we there yet? Archer, I'm dying. I'm tired, I'm thirsty, I'm starving, and I'm pretty sure my feet are bleeding."
"Patience, Master. We're almost there. According to the map, it's only about a mile and a half more."
"A mile and a— just kill me. Seriously, Archer, aren't you supposed to be an Emperor? Where's your horse? Where's your imperial carriage? Where's your anything with wheels?"
"..."
Silence was the only answer she got.
As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sleeping city in shades of pale gold and grey, the streets were just beginning to stir. Shop owners unlocking doors. Early commuters shuffling toward bus stops with coffee cups clutched like lifelines. The quiet hum of a world waking up.
And cutting through all of it — looking about as out of place as a peacock in a parking lot — was a girl stumbling down a narrow side street in flip-flops, basketball shorts, and what appeared to be an oversized men's suit jacket draped over her shoulders like a cape.
Her name was Amber.
She was having, without exaggeration, the worst morning of her entire life.
And yes, before you ask — the outfit was the system's fault. Because apparently, the Myriad Worlds Holy Grail War System believed in equality. Gender-neutral starting equipment: tank top, shorts, flip-flops. That was it. No exceptions. No consideration for the fact that maybe, just maybe, dropping a girl into the middle of nowhere in December wearing nothing but a tank top and shorts was a war crime in and of itself.
The suit jacket? She'd found that draped over a bench about two miles back. Left behind by some businessman, probably. She'd snatched it without hesitation and wrapped herself in it like a security blanket.
Which meant that right now, walking through this quiet residential street at six in the morning, Amber looked exactly like a runaway. The kind of girl that concerned neighbors made phone calls about.
She could feel the eyes on her. A woman walking her dog across the street, glancing over with that careful is she okay? expression. An old man on his porch, coffee in hand, watching her shuffle past with the kind of quiet sympathy that made her want to scream.
But honestly? The stares were nothing.
Compared to where she'd started — literally in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, with freezing wind howling through the trees like a pack of wolves — a few worried glances from suburban residents was practically a vacation.
No, the real annoyance was the voice in her ear.
"You know, Master, when I marched across Europe, my soldiers walked thirty miles a day carrying sixty pounds of equipment. And they did it in boots with holes in them. Through snow. Through mud. Through—"
"I swear to God, Archer, if you give me one more 'back in my day' speech, I will use a Command Spell to make you shut up."
"...You wound me."
"Good."
Now, Amber still hadn't quite wrapped her head around one particular detail about her Servant. Specifically: why the famously short Emperor from the history books had manifested as a six-foot-three wall of solid muscle with a jawline that could cut glass and shoulders wide enough to block a doorway.
She'd asked about it. Once. The answer had involved something about "the spirit origin reflecting the ideal form" and "the legend outgrowing the man" and a lot of other mystical nonsense that basically boiled down to: don't think about it too hard.
Fine. Whatever. She had bigger problems.
Like the fact that her mage circuit — the single, bottom-tier mage circuit the system had so generously implanted — was basically running on fumes.
The math was brutally simple. Her total mana pool capped at 100. Recovery rate? One point per minute. Pathetic. Meanwhile, keeping a Servant manifested in physical form drained two points per minute just for existing, and combat bumped that up to three.
Which meant that having Archer carry her — or even walk beside her in physical form for any extended period — was a fantasy. The numbers didn't work. She'd drain dry in under an hour, and then her Servant would start fading.
So Archer stayed in Spirit Form. Invisible. Intangible. Hovering beside her like a very large, very opinionated ghost who had strong opinions about military discipline and the proper way to endure hardship.
Great. Super helpful.
Amber winced as another sharp sting lanced up from her right foot. She glanced down.
Her feet — which had been perfectly normal, perfectly healthy feet approximately twelve hours ago — now looked like they'd lost a fight with a cheese grater. Red welts. Raw spots. Blisters forming where the flip-flop straps dug into skin that was never designed for a fifteen-mile forced march through the countryside.
Two hot tears tracked down her cheeks before she could stop them.
What a mess.
This was all a mess. The transmigration. The system. The rules. The stupid death game with its stupid countdown timer and its stupid "kill three people or die" victory conditions. All of it. A complete, unmitigated disaster.
But Amber kept walking. Because what else was she going to do? Sit down and cry?
...Okay, she was already crying. But she was crying and walking. That counted.
"Courage, Master." Archer's voice softened. Just a fraction. "The church is close. I can sense it."
"You said that twenty minutes ago."
"And I was correct then, too. You simply walk very slowly."
"I hate you."
"I know."
Fortunately, the universe still had a shred of mercy left.
Because after another agonizing stretch of limping, hobbling, and quietly cursing every deity she could name, Amber finally saw it.
The church.
It sat at the end of a tree-lined street, modest in size but unmistakable in purpose. Stone walls. Arched windows. A golden cross mounted at the peak of the steeple, catching the first rays of morning sun and throwing light across the frosted ground like a beacon.
And drifting from somewhere inside — faint, but unmistakable — was the smell of food.
Amber's nostrils flared.
Bacon. Eggs. Warm milk. The unmistakable aroma of an actual, honest-to-God breakfast being prepared by someone who knew what they were doing.
Every rational thought in her brain evaporated.
"Wait, Master. Let me scout ahead first—"
"The church is neutral ground," Amber said, already moving. Her blistered feet had suddenly, miraculously, stopped hurting. "Nobody fights here. That's the rule. And do you smell that? That's breakfast, Archer. Breakfast."
"Master, caution is—"
But she was already gone. Surging forward with the kind of desperate, single-minded velocity that only the truly starving could achieve, Amber crossed the remaining distance in seconds, her flip-flops slapping against the stone path like tiny applause.
Archer's ghostly hand grasped at empty air where she'd been standing a moment before.
Behind his invisible exterior, a grin spread across the Emperor's face.
Reckless? Absolutely. Dangerously impulsive? Without question.
But there was something about that momentum — that raw, unstoppable forward motion — that pleased him deeply. It reminded him of cavalry charges. Of soldiers who ran toward cannon fire because stopping wasn't in their vocabulary.
Well then, he thought, letting his Spirit Form dissolve into full materialization. If his Master was charging in, he might as well walk in behind her. Upright. Shoulders back. Chin up.
Like an Emperor.
Together — the starving girl and the giant behind her — they pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the church.
Morning light flooded in through the stained glass, casting ribbons of gold and blue across the stone floor.
And there, in the center of the modest nave — standing over a small portable stove where a pot of oatmeal simmered, filling the entire church with the warm scent of cinnamon and honey — was a man in priest's robes.
He looked up.
"Welcome to the Holy Church, lost lamb."
His voice was gentle. Measured. The kind of voice that sounded like it had been specifically designed to make people feel safe.
"Although it is not yet time for the Eucharist, the merciful Lord would never have the heart to see one of His children go hungry. Please — sit. Eat."
He gestured toward a simple wooden table nearby, where a bowl and spoon had already been laid out. As if he'd been expecting company.
Amber stopped in the doorway.
Her first impression was: young.
Younger than she'd expected for a priest. Mid-twenties, maybe. Lean face. Dark hair, neatly kept. Features that were... pleasant, she supposed, but unremarkable. The kind of face you'd pass on the street without a second glance. Handsome enough to be polite about, forgettable enough to lose in a crowd.
But his eyes.
There was something about his eyes that didn't match the rest of him. A depth. A stillness. Like looking into water that seemed shallow until you realized there was no bottom.
Amber's survival instincts — the same instincts that had gotten her through fifteen miles of frozen countryside — flickered to life.
Be careful with this one.
And yet the oatmeal smelled so good.
Amber hesitated, caught between hunger and wariness, her mouth already watering while her brain screamed caution.
Behind her, Archer materialized fully. Six-foot-three. Broad-shouldered. Imperial coat thrown over his massive frame, his presence filling the church entrance like a second set of doors. He surveyed the scene with eyes that had once evaluated battlefields across an entire continent.
The priest didn't flinch. Didn't even blink at the sudden appearance of a man who looked like he could bench-press a horse. His serene smile remained perfectly, immovably in place.
That, more than anything, told Amber everything she needed to know about how dangerous this man was.
"What's wrong?" the priest asked, as if reading her hesitation like an open book. "Do you have some doubts about me?"
He set down the wooden bowl he'd been holding, placing it carefully on the table beside the stove.
"I understand. I do look rather young for the role. But rest assured — despite appearances, I have been fully ordained. While I wouldn't dare presume to know the Lord's will, helping with a few earthly concerns is well within my abilities."
His smile widened by a fraction.
"Of course, if you're looking for Father Pucci, I'm afraid you've just missed him. Due to some... irresistible circumstances, Father Pucci departed last night. I'll be overseeing the Holy Church for the next seven days."
Seven days. The exact duration of the Holy Grail War. What a coincidence.
"If you've come seeking assistance," the priest continued, folding his hands before him, "I will provide everything within my power."
Amber said nothing. She was still trying to get a read on him — trying to figure out what exactly was hiding behind that polished, gentle exterior.
But before she could formulate a response, Archer strode past her.
The Emperor moved with the easy confidence of a man who had never, in life or in death, entered a room without owning it. He walked straight to the table, picked up the bowl of oatmeal, and drained it in three enormous gulps.
He smacked his lips.
"A touch light on the salt," he announced, setting the bowl down with a solid thunk. "But as a breakfast? Quite delicious."
The priest's smile didn't waver.
Archer grinned — the kind of grin that showed too many teeth and not enough caution.
"Since you say you can provide anything, then let's start with money. We need it badly. As you can see—" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Amber, who was still standing in the doorway looking like a disaster relief poster. "—my Master is currently so destitute she's about one bad hour from selling herself on a street corner."
"If anyone's getting sold, it's you!" Amber snapped, face flushing crimson.
The priest chuckled softly.
"That won't be necessary. We've prepared one million dollars in cash for every participant — more than sufficient for seven days of expenses."
He turned, crouching to pull a leather handbag from a cabinet behind the altar. As he straightened and held it out, his gaze met Archer's.
The room went quiet.
It lasted only a second. Maybe less. A single heartbeat where two pairs of eyes locked across the length of the church nave — the Emperor and the Priest, each studying the other with the kind of focus that had nothing to do with breakfast and everything to do with threat assessment.
The grin on Archer's face slowly flattened into something more serious. More evaluating. The playful mask slipping just enough to reveal the strategist underneath.
Then, just as quickly, it was over.
Archer laughed — big, bold, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. "Truly worthy of the Church! Generous as always." He accepted the bag and slung it over one shoulder. "Speaking of which — I never caught your name, Father."
"My name is hardly worth mentioning." The priest inclined his head. "Kirei Kotomine. Please — just call me Kirei."
"Well then, Father Kotomine." Archer's tone was light, but his eyes weren't. "While we're on the subject of generosity — would you happen to know the locations of the other participants? If you could help us secure victory in this Holy Grail War, I might even be persuaded to share the spoils. One wish-granting opportunity. Quite the prize, wouldn't you say?"
Kotomine's smile remained precisely where it had been for the entire conversation. Not warmer. Not colder. Just... there. Like it had been painted on.
"You honor me with your generosity. However, the Holy Church has always served as a neutral Overseer. We do not participate in the Holy Grail War in any form." A pause. Measured. "Although — should your Master wish to forfeit, the Church can provide sanctuary."
"Hah! Forfeit?" Archer threw his head back and laughed. "Impossible. After all—"
His grin sharpened.
"—I'm here."
The two of them laughed together — warm, easy, like old friends sharing a drink at a reunion. The kind of laughter that sounded friendly and meant absolutely nothing.
Amber, standing between them, felt distinctly like a mouse that had wandered into a conversation between two cats.
But Archer, for all his bluster, was considerate. Before Amber could even make a move toward the oatmeal pot for seconds, the Emperor zipped open the leather bag, pulled out several thick bundles of cash, stuffed them into his coat pockets, and then — without ceremony — grabbed Amber by the back of her suit jacket collar and steered her toward the exit.
"Wait — I didn't even get to eat—"
"We'll buy breakfast on the way. Better breakfast. Proper breakfast."
"But the oatmeal—"
"March, Master."
The church doors swung shut behind them with a heavy, final boom.
Inside, the silence settled back into the nave like dust.
Kirei Kotomine stood alone among the empty pews, the cooling pot of oatmeal still simmering faintly on the stove. His smile — that perfect, immovable smile — remained exactly where it had been throughout the entire exchange.
But his eyes had shifted.
They drifted toward the shadows at the far end of the church. Deep shadows, where the morning light couldn't quite reach. Where something — or someone — waited in the dark.
Kotomine said nothing.
His expression betrayed nothing.
But the warmth that had been in his voice moments ago was gone. Replaced by something colder. Something that had been there the whole time, hiding underneath the pleasantries like a blade beneath a priest's robes.
The shadows watched back.
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