Darnic's elegant face stiffened slightly as he watched the course of the battle.
Normally, he always acted with composure, manipulating even those who opposed him as if they were pieces moving atop his palm, seizing victory through calculated precision. Such was his usual way of fighting.
This Great Holy Grail War might have been marred by irregularities and interference from the Mage's Association, but once he succeeded in summoning the finest possible Heroic Spirit he could conceive of, Darnic had believed his victory to be virtually assured.
Yet reality seldom obeys expectation.
"To think… that even a Lord could be forced into an even match."
The Red Archer remained alive. The Black Lancer was not being overwhelmed, but faced with the sheer, crushing pressure of twenty thousand stakes, the Red Archer had no choice but to devote everything to evasion.
A hero unmatched within Romania's borders.
That was Darnic's Servant — the Black Lancer, Vlad III.
And yet, even he was not guaranteed victory.
Such was the nature of a Holy Grail War.
Seventy years ago, during the Fuyuki Grail War, he had learned firsthand how outrageous and unreasonable Servants could be.
That was why, to ensure triumph, he had summoned the Black Lancer.
But on the scale of the entire Black faction, many of their Servants were low-ranked.
Darnic had expected a rigged game — a conflict among kin, where he would command high-ranked Servants while forcing his own people to summon lesser ones.
The Great Holy Grail War, an unforeseen development born of the Mage's Association's intervention, completely overturned those assumptions.
Were it not for the Black Archer Fiore had drawn by chance, or the Black Saber Goredolf had summoned, defeat would have been certain. In the original Holy Grail War, those two Servants would have been his greatest enemies — but now they were fighting brilliantly as allies.
With the war itself having veered far beyond expectations, Darnic's foundational strategy—
to command only the highest Servants himself while ensuring the others summoned weaker ones to secure his victory—
had backfired spectacularly.
If the Black Lancer were to fall on top of this, everything he had built would crumble to dust.
That, above all, was unacceptable.
Darnic looked down at the Command Seals on his hand.
Three uses of absolute authority.
With them, he could force the Black Lancer to unleash his greatest trump card—
"Legend of Dracula — Bloodline of the Impaler"
His most powerful Noble Phantasm, and at the same time, the accursed abomination he loathed more than anything.
If activated, the Black Lancer would be transformed — in body and mind — into the vampire of legend, the monstrous terror that haunted his name.
He would cease being Vlad III, Hero of Wallachia, and become a calamity made flesh.
Once turned, he would annihilate every other Servant.
And Darnic would die.
The Black Lancer would come to kill him — for the Lancer sought the Holy Grail specifically to erase the humiliation of the vampiric legend that clung to his True Name.
To force him to manifest that very legend would be the ultimate insult.
Even worse, once he transformed into a vampire beyond the framework of a Servant, the Command Seals might not even work.
Darnic wished to eliminate every uncertain factor.
Yes — forcing that Noble Phantasm would grant the Holy Grail, but not Darnic's victory. He had his own dream — a wish that must be fulfilled.
He could not afford to die meaninglessly.
To achieve his desire, any sacrifice was acceptable:
his Servant's wish, even his own life.
In this Great Holy Grail War — where defeat meant certain annihilation — the option to elegantly perish for pride did not exist.
Clinging to victory, ugly and desperate if necessary, was the only path.
He felt no hesitation.
A man who had spent his life trampling others would not cast aside victory for anyone's sake.
He sipped his coffee, exhaled deeply, leaned back against his chair, and contemplated.
What he required now was simply the readiness to die — something he had embraced long ago.
"Nothing ever goes as one wishes…"
He muttered, staring up at the ceiling.
The rest depended on developments.
There was no need to hastily force the Noble Phantasm now.
But if defeat became certain, he would not hesitate to use the Command Seal.
With that decision made, Darnic rose and left his private chamber.
■
The fortress-Noble Phantasm "Hanging Gardens of Babylon — Garden of Vanity" floated majestically in the sky.
Unaffected by the chaos of the battlefield below, it radiated overwhelming pressure and grandeur.
Within the fortress itself, however, all was quiet.
The bothersome Black Rider had been shot down. This place was now undeniably a safe haven.
"Looks like the battle stands about even. As expected of Heroic Spirits — they have the spirit to push back through sheer force."
The Red Assassin surveyed the entire battlefield with a predatory smile.
Aside from the Black Assassin, she had already identified every enemy Servant's True Name:
Siegfried the Dragonslayer of the Netherlands,
Vlad III of Wallachia,
Astolfo of the Twelve Paladins of Charlemagne,
the homunculus-made-hero Frankenstein,
the golem-master Avicebron,
and the mysterious Emiya Shirou whose nature was unknown.
Only two could be called first-rate:
the Black Saber and the Black Lancer.
And then there was the Black Archer — a wild card demanding vigilance.
Her raw stats were unimpressive on paper, and compared to the shining legends gathered under the Red faction, she would rank lowest.
Of course, the Red Caster was an outlier to any scale.
Yet as an Archer, her shooting skill was first-class.
More troublesome still, unlike the Red Archer, her arrows themselves were Noble Phantasms.
Servant stats were meaningful in close-quarters combat, but for ranged specialists like Archers and Casters, the numbers only hinted at their legend's weight. What did Endurance or Agility matter against long-range attacks?
For some reason, the Black Archer even favored close combat — managing to fight on equal terms with the Red Rider.
To Assassin, who had no affinity for martial arts, it seemed bizarre.
If the Archer also excelled in melee, the advantage of distance vanished, making her far harder to counter. On top of that, she wielded countless Noble Phantasms in mysterious fashion.
She was, in fact, perfectly optimized for the grinding war of attrition that defined the Great Holy Grail War.
"Well, assuming our Rider doesn't eliminate her first…"
There were few Servants in all of human history that could surpass that Rider.
Born with divine blessing, trained by the greatest of teachers, a warrior who tore across countless battlefields — one of the supreme heroes of Greek myth.
The moment he was summoned, the Red faction's victory was nearly assured.
If only he would crush that troublesome wild card, all would be well.
"…Now then, I wonder how my Master will fare."
Assassin murmured softly.
Her Master had escaped the battlefield and safely returned to the floating citadel.
Finding life within certain death seemed to have strengthened his resolve — Shirou had decided to advance their plan to the next stage.
With the greatest threat, Ruler, currently delayed by the Red Berserker, now was the ideal moment.
Should Shirou meet Ruler now, the plan would collapse.
That would be boring.
Aside from the Red Caster, who knew the plan, and herself, who participated in it, no other Servants were present in the citadel.
This was perfection — the one moment when their objective could be carried out.
The Red Assassin, having confirmed her Master's safety, was certain of success.
They had time.
They had preparation.
They had her poison.
Failure was impossible — if it happened, she would abandon even her Master.
Of course, such a possibility did not exist.
■
With the final Servant slain, the Great Holy Grail War came to an end.
The Black Servants had been powerful, but every one had been defeated by the Red Servants.
Their Masters fell into despair and ruin.
Yggdmillennia, the bloodline that mocked the Mage's Association and defied its authority, was utterly crushed. They would never recover.
"Serves them right," someone said.
A clan that insulted magi;
a man, Darnic, who shamed the Association;
their downfall was nothing unusual.
It was merely the natural consequence for anyone who drew the Association's ire.
The Red Masters now sat in chairs, each resting after the ordeal.
This Holy Grail War, unprecedented in scale, had forced them to accept the possibility of death — only for all of them to survive. None had expected such fortune.
"It simply means our enemies were weak."
"Well, we are specialists of the hunt. A second-rate patchwork like Yggdmillennia was only worth this much."
They enjoyed tea and conversation — a scene impossible during the war, but natural afterward.
Though comrades today, they might be sworn enemies tomorrow.
Such was the world of magi.
But for now, they spoke as fellow warriors.
"Forgive my interruption."
Another Master stepped forward — Shirou Kotomine, the youngest of the Red Masters, and the Overseer.
At first, they had suspected him of being an agent sent by the Church, but he had performed admirably — tirelessly mediating disputes and keeping the faction unified.
"What is it?"
"Now that the Holy Grail War is finished, I would like to collect your Command Seals."
"Command Seals?"
"Yes. As Overseer, I must retrieve any unused Seals to prepare for the next Holy Grail War."
"Ah, yes… I had forgotten."
Command Seals were the chains binding Servants.
Now that the war was over, and their Servants had departed, they were worthless.
Shirou smiled innocently.
"If you wish, you may even demand compensation from the Church. Considering how perilous this war was, offering your Command Seals in exchange seems reasonable."
"Is that so? But you're part of the Church, aren't you?"
"The ones paying will be the Church — not me.
And as for me, I am but a humble cleric. I have no wealth of my own.
Think of it as a lighthearted retaliation for sending a youth such as myself into this brutal conflict."
His boyish grin softened even the cold hearts of magi.
"…Well, I suppose we can do that."
"Yes, we risked our lives. The Church should reward us."
"Coupled with the Association's payment, this will fund quite the research."
Magic was always hungry for money.
Having risked their lives in the greatest of battles, they deserved ample reward.
"Still, it's unfortunate for you," one said. "You won't receive as much as we do."
Shirou simply bowed.
"I accept that. Humility is a virtue pleasing to the Lord, after all.
Besides, I will receive something appropriate from all of you."
"Something we promised…?"
"You forget — you all agreed that once the battle was over, you would grant me master rights."
Master rights.
The contract that bound Servants — the gateway to the Holy Grail War itself.
Without them, one could not command a Servant, nor even supply magical energy.
"Well, very well."
They agreed without hesitation.
Correct reasoning guided their thoughts:
Command Seals and Master rights are vital during the war —
but absolutely useless afterward.
"Thank you. I shall begin the transfer ritual. Please relax and enjoy your conversation."
Shirou bowed deeply and withdrew.
The magi returned to their idle chatter, paying no mind to the outside world — not even to their Servants, whom they had never met face-to-face.
They sensed nothing amiss.
Why would they?
For them, the Holy Grail War had already ended before it began.
■
Inside a room of Millennia Fortress, Caules let out a breath and sagged with exhaustion.
Beside him stood his Servant, the Black Berserker.
Her purpose was to rampage across the battlefield until she fell.
Caules knew this, and so did she.
But that did not mean her death would be acceptable.
Their time together had been short, but he would not trample her wish — the desire she had entrusted to the Grail, the reason she had agreed to fight as his Servant.
If Berserker could not think strategically, then he would be her lost reason.
They were, quite literally, one in body and soul.
The lightning fired from the Red faction's airborne fortress was a magic far beyond anything modern magi could reproduce.
A Servant with high Magic Resistance, like the Black Rider, might survive.
But Berserker had no such protection — her class did not grant Resistance, and as Frankenstein, she bore no divine mysteries.
Born in the modern era, her mythos was shallow.
She could not withstand sorcery of the Age of Gods.
The attacks from that fortress would obliterate her in a single blow.
As a third-rate magus by his own admission, Caules could easily judge the devastating power in those spells.
Thus, the instant she was targeted — even at the cost of being called a coward — he was prepared to use his Command Seal to withdraw her.
And that was exactly what he did.
In doing so, he performed the greatest task a Master could accomplish.
A Master's role in the Grail War was ultimately the protection and support of the Servant.
Berserker's Noble Phantasm granted her immense regenerative ability, rendering the first of those roles nearly meaningless.
Thus, the entirety of Caules's responsibility lay in how he operated her.
Saving a Servant whose death was seconds away — such was the pinnacle of a Master's duty.
The Command Seal's forced teleportation had saved Berserker at the last moment.
Though Command Seals bound Servant actions, they could also, when used skillfully, produce temporary miracles.
Caules could never perform teleportation magic, but fueled by a Seal's mana, even such a miracle became possible.
Expendable, yes — but losing a Servant meant losing everything.
Though the result was retreat, his decision had been correct.
In his workshop, far from the eyes of the other Masters, Caules finally relaxed.
"You okay, Berserker?"
He asked.
It felt odd to ask about injuries to a mechanical, homunculus-based lifeform, but he refused to treat her as a mere doll.
"…Uu…"
She nodded.
The damage from the priest's Black Keys was minimal, and the wounds from the Red Assassin's lightning had quickly closed under healing magecraft.
But even with her body restored, irritation twisted her expression.
"What's wrong?"
"Vuu… uu…"
She groaned angrily.
Caules could not understand words from her, only interpret her reactions.
"Are you frustrated about that priest?"
She stomped the stone floor — clearly yes.
Being outdone by a mere human must have infuriated her.
Even through madness, her emotions and intellect remained intact enough to throw a tantrum.
Caules recalled the priest calling himself Shirou.
A man in black robes who fought a Servant alone with a katana.
Church Executors were rumored to slay Dead Apostles — but this Berserker, though weak for a Servant, was still superhuman.
And he had pushed her far enough to wound her.
What was he?
The more he thought, the more unsettling the answer became.
"Berserker, you'll wait here for now. It's not the right time."
With the Red Assassin and Red Caster absent, the battlefield held only four enemy Servants.
The Black side still had six, excluding Berserker.
They held numerical advantage — no need to rush her back.
She was now a mobile reserve unit, like the fallen Black Rider had been.
But above all — the ones still on the battlefield were opponents Berserker could not handle.
Without her ultimate Noble Phantasm, she could not wound them.
And using it would kill her.
Thus, letting her charge back in was unthinkable.