How much time had passed since his sense of orientation had slipped away?
The homunculus slowly pushed himself upright, astonished that he was still alive. Damp soil. Moss-covered rocks. Trees swaying in the wind. The scenery around him was exactly as it had been moments before he lost consciousness—yet the bright smile that had once been nearby was nowhere to be seen.
The stillness of the forest air carried a hollow emptiness, seeping down into the core of his body. An emptiness he had never once felt while Rider had been at his side.
"Is this…?"
In the homunculus's hand rested a single sword. A blade sheathed in a simple scabbard, yet emanating a distinct trace of magical energy. With his high-grade, fully developed magic circuits—crafted as a complete magical organism—he immediately understood the sword's nature.
The sword was a fine piece of craftsmanship, but more importantly, it functioned as a magical implement. A healing tool, with rudimentary cognitive interference woven into it. Thanks to this blade, the homunculus had clung to life.
"…Archer."
Among those who might reach out a hand to him, only one came to mind as the sword's owner.
Rider had not carried such a blade, and Saber—who had, at the very end, defied her Master on his behalf—possessed no magical ability of this kind. Which left only the enigmatic, earnest red Archer.
Just the absence of these people near him left him feeling terribly alone.
For the homunculus, Rider and Archer were rare allies—protectors. And Saber, who had been willing to oppose her own Master to save him. He lived now only because three heroic spirits had chosen to spare him.
What a miracle that was.
He drew in a deep breath—filling his lungs with cool air—then exhaled slowly.
There was no pain. The healing magic had already mended the worst of his wounds.
To inhale, to exhale—he had never imagined that such a simple series of actions could feel so liberating. For the first time, the homunculus felt alive. Freed from days of fearing death. Standing at the threshold of a new life.
He had to walk.
He decided to leave the forest. To find the nearest settlement. The most important thing was to get far away from Millennia Castle. If they captured him again, he would surely die this time.
His saviors—those three heroic spirits—would now return to the Great Holy Grail War.
A hopeless conflict where even legends of history struggled to survive.
If that was their duty, then his duty was to survive.
To live as brightly as possible with the life they had entrusted to him.
His guardians were gone.
The days of being sheltered like a fledgling bird had ended today. The homunculus—who had once struggled even to walk—had now been released from the cage. He had gained freedom. And along with that freedom came the price: he had to stand on his own legs and keep moving forward.
But this was natural. He could not rely on them forever. If anything, he should be grateful for how deeply they had protected and cared for him up until now.
His breath quickened; his heart pounded violently as if ready to burst. His legs heated with sharp pain. But all of it was proof of life.
Necessary pain for a short life lived earnestly.
He alone was escaping from the war. The thought tugged painfully at him, but still the homunculus kept walking forward.
Darnic let out a sigh inside his study.
Even after nearly a century of life, neither his handsome face nor his composed expression showed a hint of aging. Yet as the head of a large organization, the strain and accumulated burdens were unmistakable.
It felt as though an eternity had passed since he had declared rebellion against the Mage's Association and begun preparations for the Great Holy Grail War.
Half a century spent hiding the Greater Grail, spending years as a parasite within the Association, observing, waiting, gathering strength. All for the sake of one victorious moment.
Darnic—the man known as "Darnic of Eight Tongues"—was a celebrated schemer, his political talents unmatched. The reason Yggdmillennia had avoided attention for so long, maneuvering under the Association's nose until they detonated the Great Holy Grail War, was thanks to his skill.
Every preparation was in place. Half a century of effort seeding the clan, feigning compliance with the Association as a lecturer, planting spies, building the optimal stage for war.
But war is alive.
In every age, in every form.
And during this one, Darnic had been reminded just how unpredictable it could be.
From the declaration of war until this very day, several unforeseen events had struck, even for someone like him.
First—the activation of the Grail's backup system.
Originally, Darnic had never planned for a Great Holy Grail War. He intended to conduct a small-scale Grail ritual within the clan, monopolizing the Grail for Yggdmillennia. This was why he didn't care if his fellow clan members summoned lesser-ranked Servants—the victory was predetermined. His own Servant, Lancer, would inevitably claim the Grail.
But the fifty enforcers sent by the Mage's Association shattered that expectation.
The surviving magus activated the backup system, and thus the Association forced their way into the ritual, transforming it into a large-scale war. Worse still, they summoned heroic spirits far surpassing those of the Black faction. By leaving catalyst acquisition to each clan member, Darnic had unintentionally limited their potential summons—something he now regretted. Had he personally gathered catalysts, they might have summoned far more powerful heroes.
Second—the existence of Archer.
Not merely an unknown Servant—a complete enigma. No True Name, no records, and using an absurd magical technique—projecting Noble Phantasms. No matter how many documents he scoured, Darnic found no hero matching Archer's profile.
Yet, given the current war, Archer was now a valuable asset.
Third—the missing Assassin.
Although Assassin had been summoned to the Black faction, they had disappeared without contact. No one knew where they were; the worst-case scenario was that they had defected to the enemy.
They had obtained Red Berserker, but that was merely a disposable battlefield weapon. Losing Assassin could only benefit the enemy.
And fourth—Caster's Noble Phantasm remained incomplete.
Caster, a golem maker, naturally possessed a golem as his Noble Phantasm.
His masterpiece: Golem Keter Malkuth, a massive anti-army Noble Phantasm ranked +.
Darnic had spent thirty percent of his assets acquiring the materials.
And yet—even that was not enough.
A core was required. And that core demanded a first-rate magus.
Impossible to obtain from within Yggdmillennia, where even Masters were barely adequate.
There had been one substitute: a rare, mutated homunculus with exceptional talent.
But Rider and the others had shielded him.
As a pure magus, Darnic could not understand why Rider, Saber, and Archer would go so far to protect a single homunculus. Rationally, it was absurd. A replaceable tool had been chosen over a priceless asset. If possible, Darnic would still have pursued him. But he could not. Saber and Archer—some of their strongest pieces—had stood against it.
Rider, though the prime culprit, was too valuable to alienate.
To trample their sentiment would fracture the Black faction.
Still, it had been fortunate.
Apparently, Saber had been willing to offer his own heart to save the homunculus.
Had Archer not intervened, they would've lost Saber—their trump card—to petty conflict. Saber was irreplaceable. Caster's golem project, on the other hand, had alternatives.
Darnic sighed again.
If Caster's Noble Phantasm activated, they wouldn't lose—not even in one out of ten thousand cases.
But losing Saber would mean no one could restrain Red Lancer.
The enemy Saber was formidable as well. The Black faction could not afford such a loss.
Chasing the homunculus was also impossible. Doing so would spread unrest throughout their ranks. They could use Command Spells, but that would weaken their forces for later battles. Their quality was already inferior; the Command Spells needed to be saved for decisive moments.
Taking all conditions into account, Darnic had requested Caster to stand down.
Darnic understood Caster's passion as a fellow magus, just as he understood Vlad III's goal of cleansing his name. He sympathized with both.
But Caster was a magus, and therefore his thoughts differed from those of kings and knights. Archer, meanwhile, was impossible to categorize.
A faction filled with heroes of wildly different natures—each strong-willed, each proud. Glamorous to behold, but a nightmare to command.
Still—
"The worst hasn't happened yet."
Yes. It wasn't hopeless.
Assassin aside, the Black faction remained intact. They had Spartacus. They had Millennia Fortress. They had Vlad III—whose power within Romania was absolute, his territory skill transforming the region itself.
As long as they fought here, defeat was unthinkable.
The only problem left was how to acquire a first-rate magus.
"I really thought it was over for a minute," Rider said brightly as they walked the corridor toward their rooms.
The three heroes who had intentionally let the homunculus escape had undergone questioning, but none had been punished. After all, half their fighting strength had unanimously protected him; harming the homunculus was impossible.
"I was worried they'd use a Command Spell on us."
"At this early stage of the war? Impossible. Especially not Darnic. No magus like him would waste such a resource on something this trivial."
"Haha, true. But I didn't expect Lancer to be in such a good mood."
Archer gave a simple, matter-of-fact reply, and Rider laughed warmly.
"He values noble behavior—dignity, pride, loyalty. Things like that. You upheld those ideals, so he had no reason to condemn you."
Saber—now freed from his shackles—analyzed calmly.
Lancer fought to reclaim his pride. He would never condone behavior that tarnished honor. Conversely, he would praise behavior aligned with it. A single homunculus was nothing compared to a hero's pride.
"…I hope he'll be all right," Rider murmured, his cheerful expression wavering with concern.
"Who knows," Archer replied, shrugging.
"Archer, you could at least say something comforting."
"How he lives in the outside world is no longer any of our concern. Worry if you want, but if you cling to him like an overprotective mother, I fear for your future."
"Ugh, harsh. True, but harsh."
"You two are idealists. Even if I try to play the realist, it's still two against one. Balance is maintained."
"Wait, Archer," Saber interjected. "Don't lump me in with Rider. I'm not nearly as straightforward as he is."
"…Is that praise or an insult?" Rider tilted his head.
"By the way, Saber. Your Master…?"
Gordes, Saber's Master, had been knocked unconscious by Saber's own hand.
"He is resting. He should awaken soon."
"That's when your real problem begins, then."
Saber nodded grimly.
Gordes did not trust him completely. Saber's recent actions had surely wounded Gordes's pride.
"I will speak with him. I won't repeat the same mistake."
"Good. I hope it goes well."
Saber paused, then said:
"It seems he has awakened. I must go."
"Good luck, Saber!" Rider called after him as Saber left.
A difficult Master made for a difficult life. A Servant should not have to soothe their Master's hurt feelings—yet such was the nature of this war.