The joke landed with a dull thud in Griswald's chest. Snake in the garden. He wanted to groan. Wanted to point out that the woman they'd just killed had been more spider than serpent, what with all the chains and the binding and the—
He kept his mouth shut.
The Caster had just saved their lives. Criticizing his sense of humor seemed ungrateful at best and suicidal at worst.
Mash, however, stepped forward. Her shield dematerialized in a shimmer of blue light, and she bent at the waist in a formal bow. Deep. Respectful. The kind of gesture that spoke of training and discipline.
"Thank you." Her voice carried genuine warmth despite her exhaustion. "Without your intervention, we would have died. I am in your debt."
The Caster waved a dismissive hand. His staff spun lazily between his fingers.
"Don't mention it. Seriously." He stretched, rolling his shoulders like a man who'd just finished light exercise rather than a battle against a Heroic Spirit. "I've been trying to kill that particular pain in my ass for three days now. Couldn't pin her down long enough to finish the job. She kept running off to hunt easier prey."
His crimson eyes slid toward Griswald. Knowing. Amused.
"You lot made excellent bait. Consider it a mutual back-scratching arrangement."
Olga stepped forward. Her silver hair was streaked with ash, her black coat torn in several places, but she'd recovered enough composure to project authority. She straightened her spine. Lifted her chin.
"On behalf of Chaldea Security Organization, I extend our formal gratitude for your assistance in—"
The Caster turned away from her.
Mid-sentence. Without acknowledgment. Without even the courtesy of letting her finish.
Olga's mouth hung open. Her golden eyes widened with shock that rapidly curdled into outrage. A flush crept up her pale cheeks.
"Excuse me, I was—"
"Yeah, yeah." The Caster was already walking toward Griswald. His boots crunched over scattered debris. "Politics and pleasantries. Very impressive. Very boring."
He stopped in front of Griswald.
Too close. Griswald had to tilt his head back to meet those crimson eyes. The Caster was taller than he'd seemed from a distance. Broader in the shoulders. Up close, the lazy confidence in his posture read less like arrogance and more like the relaxed awareness of a predator who knew exactly how dangerous he was.
"Now you." The Caster's smirk sharpened. "You're interesting."
Griswald's throat went dry. "I—what?"
The Caster's gaze dropped to Griswald's hand. To the red marks etched into his skin. The Command Seals pulsed faintly under the scrutiny, as if responding to the attention.
"Command Seals." The Caster's voice carried a note of genuine surprise beneath the amusement. He reached out, fingers hovering just above Griswald's hand without quite touching. "Well, well. Haven't seen a real Master in quite some time. Thought the lot of you had gone extinct in this burning hellscape."
Griswald resisted the urge to pull his hand back. The red marks seemed to throb under the Caster's scrutiny, warm against his skin.
"I didn't—it wasn't planned. The contract formed during the emergency rayshift when—"
The Caster's bark of laughter cut him off. Sharp. Mocking. The sound echoed off the ruined buildings surrounding them.
"Oh, this is rich." He stepped back, spreading his arms wide as if addressing an invisible audience. "A Master who didn't even mean to become one. Contracted by accident. And here I thought the age of heroes had truly ended."
Heat crawled up Griswald's neck. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the Caster wasn't finished.
"And that little display earlier?" The crimson eyes glittered with cruel amusement. "The kissing? The fumbling around like a pair of virgins at their first festival dance?"
Mash made a small, strangled sound beside him. Griswald didn't dare look at her face.
"That was a mana transfer," he managed. "Mash was depleted, and I needed to—"
"A mana transfer." The Caster said the words slowly. Deliberately. Like he was savoring each syllable of Griswald's humiliation. "Through saliva. In the middle of a hostile Singularity. With enemies potentially lurking around every corner."
He laughed again. Harder this time. The sound grated against Griswald's already frayed nerves.
"Boy, you must be an absolutely shit mage if that's the best you could manage."
The words hit like a physical blow. Griswald felt something shrivel in his chest. All those years of failure. All those rejection letters from the Clock Tower. All his family's disappointed sighs compressed into a single, cutting observation from a stranger.
Because the Caster was right. He was a shit mage. Always had been. His magical circuits were weak. His spellwork was mediocre at best. The only thing he'd ever shown any aptitude for was—
"Did your teacher never explain the basics?" The Caster circled him now, predatory and amused. "Mana transfers are for rituals. High-requirement workings that demand more power than a single mage can provide. Summoning. Binding. Reality manipulation." He ticked each example off on his fingers. "They're not meant for sustaining familiars."
"Mash isn't a familiar," Griswald said. The words came out weaker than he intended.
"No, she's a Servant. Which makes it worse." The Caster stopped in front of him again. "A Servant draws much more mana passively through the contract bond than a familiar. The connection itself provides sustenance. You don't need to shove your tongue down her throat every time she gets a bit tired."
Ritsuka coughed. It might have been a suppressed laugh.
"I—the contract is new." Griswald's mind raced, searching for justification. "I don't have strong circuits. I thought—Romani said—"
"You thought." The Caster's smirk faded into something harder. "You assumed. You panicked and grabbed at the first solution that presented itself without understanding the fundamentals of what you were doing."
"The circumstances were—"
"Irrelevant."
The word cracked through the air like a whip. Griswald flinched.
The Caster leaned in. Close enough that Griswald could see the intricate patterns of runes tattooed along his collarbone, visible through the open front of his bodysuit. Close enough to smell smoke and ozone and something older. Wilder.
"Let me make something clear, Master." The title dripped with sarcasm. "I've seen your type before. Weak mages thrust into positions they never earned. Men who stumble into power and expect the world to accommodate their inadequacies."
Griswald's hands clenched at his sides. Something hot and unfamiliar stirred in his gut. Not quite anger. Not quite shame. Something caught between the two.
"I was trying to save her life."
"And you succeeded. Through luck and the enemy's arrogance." The Caster straightened. "But luck runs out. Arrogant enemies learn. And when that happens, you'll need to be more than a fumbling amateur playing at magecraft."
"I never claimed to be—"
"Grow a spine."
The command rang out. Sharp. Absolute. Griswald's jaw snapped shut.
The Caster's crimson eyes bore into him. No amusement now. No mockery. Just cold, brutal assessment.
"You're a Master now. Whether you wanted it or not. Whether you deserve it or not." He gestured toward Mash without looking at her. "That girl's life depends on your decisions. Your competence. Your ability to command respect from beings who have lived and died as legends."
Griswald's throat tightened.
"A Servant will follow a weak Master out of obligation. Out of the compulsion of Command Seals. But they will not trust a weak Master. They will not give their all for someone who cannot even project basic authority."
The Caster stepped back. His expression shifted back toward amusement, but something sharper lurked beneath it now.
"If you're going to play at being a Master, then be one. Stand straight. Speak clearly. Stop apologizing for existing." He spun his staff lazily. "Or don't. Die in this Singularity like all the others. Makes no difference to me."
Silence hung heavy in the ruined street.
Griswald stood frozen. His mind churned through the Caster's words, searching for a response. A defense. Something to salvage his dignity.
Nothing came.
Because the Caster was right. About all of it.
The silence stretched. Griswald could feel it pressing against his skull, thick and suffocating. His thoughts spiraled downward into familiar darkness. Weak. Incompetent. A burden.
Olga's fury radiated off her in waves. She stood rigid, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides. Her golden eyes blazed with the particular outrage of aristocracy denied its due respect.
"You dare turn your back on—"
"Senpai did nothing wrong." Mash's voice cut through, cold as her shield's steel. She stepped forward, positioning herself between Griswald and the Caster. Her violet eyes held none of their usual gentleness. "He saved my life. He made the best decision he could with the information available. You have no right to—"
"I have every right." The Caster's smirk didn't waver. "Someone needed to say it. Better me than an enemy who won't bother with words before—"
"Okay."
Ritsuka's voice sliced through the building argument like a blade. Everyone turned.
She stood slightly apart from the group, one hand raised in a placating gesture. Her orange hair was matted with dust and sweat, and a bruise darkened her cheekbone from earlier fighting, but her amber eyes held steady.
"Okay," she repeated, slower this time. "Let's just—can we take a breath here?"
Olga rounded on her. "This Servant insulted the dignity of Chaldea and its—"
"Director." Ritsuka's tone stayed carefully neutral. "He's been talking with us for maybe five minutes. Five. And somehow everyone's already at each other's throats."
She gestured at the group. At Olga, rigid with aristocratic fury. At Mash, protective and bristling. At Griswald, hollow-eyed and silent. At the Caster, lounging against his staff like he was watching street theater.
"That's actually kind of impressive when you think about it."
The Caster blinked.
Then he laughed.
Not the mocking bark from before. This was genuine—warm and rough around the edges. It transformed his face, softening the predatory sharpness into something almost human.
"Ha!" He slapped his thigh with his free hand. "The girl's got a point. Five minutes look at all of you." His crimson eyes danced with amusement. "Might as well be my Noble Phantasm at this rate. Piss Everyone Off: Anti-Army."
The absurdity of it hit Griswald sideways. A hysterical bubble of laughter threatened to escape his throat. He swallowed it down.
Ritsuka pressed her advantage while the tension wavered.
"Look, we're all stuck in this burning hellscape together, right?" She spread her hands. "Maybe introductions would help? You know. Names. Classes. The basics before we go back to yelling at each other."
The Caster considered her. Really looked at her for the first time, his head tilting with renewed interest.
"Clever." He straightened from his lazy slouch. "Using humor to defuse conflict. Redirecting aggression toward a common goal. You've got more going on upstairs than your looks would suggest."
Ritsuka's smile flickered. "Thanks. I think."
"It was a compliment. Mostly." The Caster planted his staff against the cracked pavement with a theatrical flourish. Blue runes flickered along its length before fading. "Very well. Since the clever one asked nicely."
He swept into a mocking bow. One arm across his chest. The other extended with his staff. The gesture held echoes of ancient courts and older ceremonies.
"I am the Servant Caster. Summoned to fight in this tainted Holy Grail War, fighting to survive in what remains of Fuyuki." He rose from the bow, crimson eyes glinting. "As for my True Name—"
He paused. Let the silence build.
"Cú Chulainn. Child of Light. Ireland's greatest hero, though I'll admit this isn't my preferred Class." He gestured at himself with evident distaste. "Lancer suits me better. All this skulking about with runes and fire—it lacks the directness of a good spear."
The name hit Griswald like ice water.
Cú Chulainn. The Hound of Ulster. The warrior who held off entire armies single-handed. The hero who killed his own son and fought against fate itself.
Standing in front of them. Complaining about his Class assignment.
"You're—" Griswald's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "You're the Cú Chulainn?"
"The one and only." Caster—Cú Chulainn—grinned with sharp teeth. "Well. The Caster version. There's probably a Lancer me that could be summoned which would have been much more impressive."
Olga had recovered enough composure to reassert herself. She stepped forward, silver hair swaying.
Olga stepped forward, silver hair swaying as she drew herself up to her full height. The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact see looked like she came out of both the frying pan and the fire, but her voice carried the weight of generations of magical aristocracy
"Director Olga Marie Animusphere. Chaldea Security Organization." Her voice held its usual imperious edge, but professional courtesy had replaced the raw fury. "We're here to investigate and correct this Singularity."
Cú's face stayed carefully neutral. "Singularity eh."
Ritsuka raised her hand like a student in class. "Ritsuka Fujimaru. I'm... honestly not sure what my official title is anymore. Backup Master candidate? Sole surviving recruit?" She shrugged. "It's been a weird day."
Cú shrugged. "Sole survivor has a certain ring to it. Very dramatic."
"I try."
Mash moved to stand beside Griswald. Her earlier defensive posture had softened, though her violet eyes still held wariness. She inclined her head formally.
"Mash Kyrielight. Servant Shielder. Contracted to Senpai—to Master Griswald."
That caught Cú's attention. His crimson eyes sharpened, the lazy amusement flickering into genuine interest.
"Shielder?" He leaned forward on his staff. "Can't say I've heard that Class before. Saber, Lancer, Archer, Rider, Caster, Assassin, Berserker—those are the standard seven. Even the extra Classes like Ruler or Avenger are known quantities." He circled Mash slowly, studying her with the clinical assessment of a warrior evaluating an unknown opponent. "But Shielder? That's new."
Mash stood still under his scrutiny. Her hands remained relaxed at her sides, though Griswald noticed the slight tension in her shoulders.
"My Class is... irregular," she admitted. "The Spirit fused with me manifests primarily through defensive capabilities. My Noble Phantasm is the shield itself rather than an offensive weapon."
Cú stopped his circling. His eyebrows rose.
"Fused?"
Griswald finally found his voice. It came out steadier than he expected, the shock of meeting a legendary hero having numbed some of his usual anxiety.
"Griswald Von Garmisch. Medical staff at Chaldea. And... apparently Mash's Master now." He gestured weakly at the Command Seals on his hand. "As you noted."
Cú barely glanced at him. All his attention had fixed on Mash with unsettling intensity.
"You said fused. Not summoned. Not contracted." He planted his staff against the ground and leaned on it. "Explain."
Mash hesitated. Her eyes flickered toward Griswald—seeking permission? Guidance? He gave a small nod, though he wasn't sure what she was asking.
"I am a Demi-Servant." The words came slowly, carefully chosen. "A human who has been combined with a Heroic Spirit rather than having one summoned externally. The Spirit exists within me. We share this body."
Silence stretched between them.
Cú's expression had gone unreadable. The playful mockery from before had vanished entirely, replaced by something older. Harder. His crimson eyes held shadows that spoke of ancient grievances and blood oaths.
"Combined," he repeated flatly.
"Yes."
"Without the Spirit's full manifestation."
Mash's chin lifted slightly. Defiant despite her quiet voice. "The Spirit grants me access to their abilities and Noble Phantasm. In exchange, I provide the vessel necessary for them to exist in this era."
"And did this Spirit choose this arrangement?"
The question hung in the air like a drawn blade.
Griswald saw Mash flinch. Barely perceptible—a slight tightening around her eyes, a fractional hesitation in her breathing. But he'd spent enough time in medical examining her to recognize the signs of pain suppressed.
"I..." She faltered. "I don't know. The Spirit hasn't spoken to me directly. They granted me their power during the emergency but vanished without revealing their True Name."
Cú let out a low whistle. The sound was surprisingly soft, almost sympathetic.
"That must not have been easy." He shook his head slowly. "Few heroes would allow others to use their deeds. To wear their legend like borrowed clothing." His grip tightened on his staff. "The thought of some mage playing dress-up with my accomplishments, wielding Gáe Bolg without earning the right to it..."
The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Blue light flickered along the runes carved into his staff as his grin went feral.
"I would have killed anyone who tried it with me."
Mash didn't flinch this time. She met his gaze steadily.
"The Spirit had a choice. They could have rejected the fusion. Could have let me die rather than share their existence." Her voice held no accusation. Only quiet certainty. "They chose to stay."
The blue light faded. Cú studied her for a long moment.
"Hm." He straightened, spinning his staff once before resting it against his shoulder. "Either you found the one Heroic Spirit with more patience than sense, or there's something about you worth preserving."
"I wouldn't know."
"No. I don't suppose you would." Cú's smirk returned, but gentler now. Less mocking. "Shielder. A Class built around protection rather than destruction. And a Spirit willing to share their legend without demanding recognition."
He laughed softly.
"This era keeps getting stranger."
Olga had been silent throughout the exchange. Her golden eyes had tracked the conversation with visible calculation.
"The nature of Mash's fusion is classified Chaldea information," she said. Her tone had shifted from offended aristocrat to cautious administrator. "We would appreciate discretion regarding—"
"Relax, Director." Cú waved a dismissive hand. "I've no interest in spreading your secrets. Dead men tell no tales, and I'll be one soon enough when this Grail War end." He paused. "Assuming it end. Things have gotten rather complicated."
Griswald latched onto the change of subject. "Complicated how?"
Cú's expression shifted. The playful mockery drained away, leaving something rawer beneath. He stared at the burning skyline for a long moment before speaking.
"The Grail War was supposed to be over." His voice came out flat. Matter-of-fact. "Seven Servants. Seven Masters. Fight until one pair remains. Simple enough, even if the execution gets messy."
He planted his staff against the cracked pavement. Blue runes flickered along its length, casting strange shadows across the rubble.
"I'd made it to the end. Just me and Saber left standing. Her Master was some kid—talented but green. Mine was..." He trailed off. Shook his head. "Doesn't matter now. Point is, we were days away from settling things. One final battle. Winner takes the Grail."
Griswald found himself leaning forward despite his exhaustion. The others had gone still, drawn into the Caster's words.
"What happened?"
Cú's jaw tightened.
"Three nights ago. Maybe four—time's gotten slippery since then." He gestured at the inferno consuming the distant buildings. "The whole city just... erupted. No warning. No buildup. One moment everything was normal. The next, fire everywhere. Spreading faster than any natural flame could."
His crimson eyes reflected the distant blaze. Something haunted lurked in their depths.
"The humans died first. Couldn't escape it. Couldn't fight it. Just burned where they stood—in their homes, in their cars, in the streets." His grip on the staff tightened until his knuckles went white. "I found my Master's body three blocks from our safehouse. She'd been trying to reach me when the flames caught her."
Silence pressed down on the group at this.
Ritsuka spoke first. Her voice came out small. "All of them? Every person in the city?"
"Every last one." Cú's tone held no emotion now. Flat as stone. "Two hundred thousand people, give or take. Gone in a single night. The bounded fields around the city kept anyone from noticing. Kept anyone from escaping."
Griswald's stomach turned. Two hundred thousand. The number refused to process. It was too large. Too absolute.
"And Saber?" Mash asked quietly.
Cú's expression twisted. Something ugly flickered across his features before he controlled it.
"That's where things get complicated."
He started pacing. Short, sharp movements that betrayed agitation beneath his casual demeanor.
"I found her at the center of it all. Standing in the middle of the flames like they couldn't touch her. And at first I thought—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his spiked blue hair. "I thought she'd done it. Caused the fire somehow. Used some Noble Phantasm I hadn't seen before."
"Had she?"
"No." The word came out hard. Certain. "Saber's not that kind of hero. Whoever she is—was—she wouldn't slaughter civilians for tactical advantage. That's not how she fights."
He resumed pacing.
"But something had changed. I could feel it the moment I got close. Her Spirit Origin—the core of what makes a Servant them—it was wrong. Twisted somehow." His voice dropped lower. "Not enough to change her Class or her abilities. She still fought like Saber. Still moved like Saber. But the presence behind those moves..."
Cú stopped. His crimson eyes met Griswald's.
"That wasn't the same woman I'd been fighting for weeks. Whatever crawled into her skin, it wore her face and wielded her sword, but the Saber I knew? She died with the rest of the city."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Griswald's mind raced through possibilities. Spirit Origin corruption. Possession. Some form of magical contamination affecting the Servant's fundamental nature. He'd read about such things in theoretical texts during his his time at Chaldea, but the actual mechanics had always been beyond his understanding.
"You said the war reset," Olga interjected. Her voice had gone sharp. Analytical. The Director was back, filing information into neat categories. "Explain."
Cú laughed. The sound held no humor.
"That's just it. I can't explain it." He spread his arms wide. "The next morning, they came back. All of them. Assassin. Rider. Berserker. Lancer. Every Servant I'd watched die or killed over the course of the war, suddenly back. Their presences scattered across the city like they'd never left."
"That's impossible," Olga said flatly. "Once a Servant is destroyed, their Spirit Origin returns to the Throne of Heroes. They can't simply—"
"I know what's possible, Director." Cú's voice cut through hers like a blade. "I understand the rules. But something broke those rules. Shattered them completely."
He turned to face them fully.
"The resurrected Servants came back wrong. Same corruption I felt in Saber. No Masters—they're operating independently, drawing mana from somewhere else. And they're not interested in winning the Grail anymore." His smirk returned, but bitter now. Razor-edged. "They're hunting. Killing anything that moves. Each other. Me. Would've killed you if that snake-haired bitch had finished what she started."
Griswald processed the information. Corrupted Servants. A reset war. Mass death on an unimaginable scale.
"How many are left?" he asked.
"Three." Cú's fingers caught the flickering light from distant fires. "Saber. Archer. And me."
The number settled over the group like a shroud. Griswald did the math in his head—seven Servants in a standard Grail War, four already eliminated, three remaining. Simple arithmetic that somehow felt inadequate against the scale of what Cú was describing.
"The others?" Ritsuka asked.
"Dead. Again." Cú lowered his hand. "Assassin went down two nights ago. Tried to ambush Saber—poor bastard didn't realize she could sense him coming from three blocks away now. Whatever's riding her, it sharpened her instincts. Made her faster. More brutal."
He kicked a loose chunk of concrete. It skittered across the broken pavement and vanished into shadow.
"Rider lasted longer. Had mobility on her side, could hit and run. But Archer caught her yesterday morning. Pinned him down with that bow of his and..." Cú made a slicing gesture across his throat. "Clean kill. Professional. Like he was putting down a rabid dog rather than fighting a fellow Servant."
Mash stepped forward. Her violet eyes held the sharp focus Griswald had seen during their battle with the snake-haired Servant.
"You said they came back corrupted." Her voice carried careful precision. "All of them except you. Why?"
Cú went still.
The question hung between them. Griswald watched the Caster's expression shift—surprise first, then something harder. Guarded.
"Observant." Cú's smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Most people would be too busy panicking about the corrupted Servants to wonder why I wasn't one of them."
"I'm not most people."
"No." He studied her with renewed interest. "I'm starting to see that."
Silence stretched. Cú turned away, staring at the burning skyline. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its theatrical edge.
"The Servants who came back wrong—Assassin, Rider, Berserker, Lancer—they all had something in common." He tapped his staff against the ground in a slow rhythm. "They were already dead when it happened. Whatever it was. I'd killed Lancer myself three days before the fire. Watched his Spirit Origin dissolve. Berserker went down fighting Saber a week before that."
Griswald's mind caught the thread. "They were defeated before the corruption event."
"Exactly." Cú pointed at him without turning around. "Give the boy a prize. Yes. Every Servant who came back twisted had already been eliminated from the war. Their Spirit Origins had returned to the Throne. Should have been beyond anyone's reach."
"But something pulled them back," Olga said. Her golden eyes had narrowed to calculating slits. "Reconstituted their forms from the Throne of Heroes itself."
"And broke them in the process." Cú finally turned to face them. His expression had gone grim. "Think about it. A Servant's Spirit Origin is their self. Their legend. Their identity compressed into magical form. Yanking that out of the Throne, forcing it back into the physical world without a proper summoning ritual..."
He shook his head.
"It's like pulling a man apart and stitching him back together wrong. The pieces are all there, but they don't fit anymore. The person inside is gone. Just a shell moving on instinct and borrowed power."
Mash absorbed this in silence. Then: "Saber wasn't dead."
"No." Cú's jaw tightened. "She wasn't. Neither was I. We were the only two left standing when the fire started."
"Then why is she corrupted and you're not?"
Cú closed his eyes for a moment in thought before slighty opening then just letting small strips of red be seen from behind his blue lashes.
"When the fire erupted, I was on the north side of the city. Investigating reports of strange magical signatures near the old Einzbern territory." He started pacing again. Agitated. "Saber was at the temple on the mountain. Right next to the Greater Grail."
Olga drew a sharp breath. "The Grail itself."
"Has to be." Cú's pacing grew faster. More erratic. "I've been turning it over in my head for days. The corruption. The resurrection. The fire that killed two hundred thousand people in a single night. The fact that none of the servants including me, have had a master for the last few days but had no cases of mana depletion even when using our Nobel Phantasm. None of it makes sense unless the source is something with that kind of power."
He stopped. Faced them directly.
"The Greater Grail is a wish-granting device built on the souls of Heroic Spirits. It's meant to punch a hole through reality and connect to the Root itself. If something contaminated it—twisted its function—"
"It could pull defeated Servants back from the Throne," Griswald finished. The pieces clicked together in his head with horrible clarity. "Force them into corrupted vessels. Use them as..."
"Soldiers." Cú's smirk had gone bitter. "Guardians. Whatever you want to call them. The corrupted Servants aren't fighting the war anymore only encaging each other when they got to close. They're defending something. Patrolling the city. Eliminating anything that might threaten their master."
"Their master being the Grail," Ritsuka said.
"Or whatever's controlling it now."
Silence fell over the group. The distant fires crackled and roared, painting the ruins in shades of orange and red.
Griswald's thoughts raced. A corrupted Holy Grail. Servants resurrected as mindless weapons. The entire city transformed into a killing ground. This was the Singularity they'd been sent to correct—not just a historical anomaly, but an active corruption spreading from a tainted artifact of immense power.
"Saber was standing next to the Grail when it happened," he said slowly. "Close enough to be affected but not killed. The corruption didn't resurrect her—it just... changed her."
"Changed her into something worse." Cú's voice held grudging respect. "You catch on fast for a shit mage."
Griswald ignored the insult. His mind was already moving to the next question.
"If the Grail is the source, then destroying it should stop the corruption. End the Singularity."
"In theory." Cú's expression darkened. "In practice, there's the small problem of getting past a corrupted Saber and Archer who've been enhanced by the very thing we need to destroy. Plus whatever other defenses the Grail has thrown up around itself."
"You've tried?"
"Once." Cú touched his side reflexively. "Saber nearly cut me in half. Would have finished the job if I hadn't managed to retreat into the forest. She didn't really want to fallow me which confirmand my suspicion. "
He met Griswald's eyes.
"I'm good. One of the best, even in this weakened Class. But alone against both of them, protecting the Grail's seat of power?" He shook his head. "I'd need an army. Or at least allies who won't die the moment things get serious."
His crimson gaze swept across the group. Lingered on Mash and her massive shield. On Olga's aristocratic bearing. On Ritsuka's steady composure.
Finally, it settled on Griswald.
"So." Cú's smirk sharpened. "Still think you're up for playing Master?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge.
Griswald felt everyone's eyes on him. Mash's quiet concern. Olga's skeptical assessment. Ritsuka's curious interest. And Cú's crimson gaze, sharp and measuring.
He didn't allow himself to think.
Thinking led to doubt. Doubt led to hesitation. Hesitation led to the familiar spiral of inadequacy that had defined his entire magical career. Instead, he reached for something else—the calm detachment he'd cultivated during years of medical work. The steady hands required when treating wounded staff. The clear focus needed when lives depended on his actions.
Doctor mode.
"I'll do everything I can." The words came out steady. Firm. Not quite confident, but not apologetic either.
Cú studied him for a long moment.
Then he humphed. A short, dismissive sound that somehow carried approval.
"That's a start." He spun his staff once, catching it with practiced ease. "Better than 'I'll try' or 'maybe I can.' Best implies commitment. Lets see if you can keep that commitment when the fire comes back." Cú grinned.
He planted the staff against the broken pavement and leaned on it.
"Our interests align. You need to fix this Singularity. I need to destroy that corrupted Grail before whatever's controlling it spreads beyond this city." His smirk sharpened. "No reason we can't fight together. Pool our resources. Watch each other's backs."
Griswald nodded. "Agreed."
The word felt heavier than it should. An alliance forged in the ruins of a dead city against enemies that had already proven themselves deadly. But what choice did they have? Cú knew the terrain, knew the enemies, had survived days in this hellscape through skill and cunning.
They needed him.
And apparently, he needed them too.
The group began to form up. Mash moved to Griswald's side, her earlier defensiveness fading into professional readiness. Olga fell into step behind them, her golden eyes still calculating but no longer openly hostile toward the Caster. Ritsuka brought up the rear, one hand resting on a piece of rubble she'd picked up as an improvised weapon.
"Wait."
Ritsuka's voice cut through the movement. Everyone paused.
She stepped forward, amber eyes fixed on Cú with sudden intensity.
"The other two Servants. Saber and Archer." She tilted her head. "You never told us their True Names. If we're going to fight them, shouldn't we know who we're up against? Their legends? Their weaknesses?"
Cú stopped mid-stride.
His back was to them, staff frozen in his grip. The casual confidence that had defined his every movement seemed to flicker. Just for a moment. A brief hesitation that spoke volumes.
"Archer's name won't help you."
He turned slowly. His expression had gone strange—not quite guarded, but careful. Measured.
"He has no true legend. Neither written nor spoken." The words came out flat. Factual. "Any name or title he bears would give you no information about him. No weaknesses to exploit. No history to reference."
Confusion rippled through the group.
"That's impossible," Olga said sharply. "The Throne of Heroes only accepts those whose deeds have been recorded in human history. Written accounts. Oral traditions. Mythological frameworks. A Servant must have a legend to—"
"Must?" Cú's laugh held no humor. "Director, I've learned that 'must' is a dangerous word when it comes to this war. Things that must happen don't. Things that can't happen do. The rules we thought we understood have been twisted beyond recognition."
He shook his head.
"Archer exists. He fights. He kills. I've crossed paths with him three times now, and each time he's demonstrated skills that should belong to a legendary bowman. But when I try to read his Spirit Origin—to sense the legend behind his power—there's nothing. A blank space where his story should be."
Griswald's mind raced. A Servant without a legend. Without recorded deeds. It contradicted everything he'd read about the summoning system, about how Heroic Spirits were formed and maintained.
"Could the corruption have erased it?" he asked. "Damaged his Spirit Origin enough to strip away his identity?"
"Possible." Cú didn't sound convinced. "But I don't think so. The corrupted Servants I've encountered Assassin, Rider, and Lancer were twisted, not erased. Their legends were still there, just... warped. Archer feels different. Like he never had a legend to begin with."
"Then how is he a Servant at all?" Mash asked quietly.
Cú spread his hands. "That's the question, isn't it? One I don't have an answer for." His crimson eyes glinted. "But I can tell you this—whatever Archer is, however he exists, he's dangerous. He might not have a legend but he fights like he should."
He let that sink in.
"Don't underestimate him just because his legend is blank. If anything, treat him as more dangerous because of it. Unknown enemies are the hardest to kill."
Ritsuka absorbed this with a slow nod. "And Saber?"
The shift in Cú's demeanor was immediate.
His jaw tightened. His grip on the staff went white-knuckled. Something flickered behind his crimson eyes—respect, perhaps. Or fear. Maybe both.
"Saber." He said the word like it weighed something. "Now her legend I know. Everyone does, even if they don't realize it."
He turned to face them fully. The playful mockery from before had vanished entirely. In its place stood something older. A warrior addressing equals about a worthy opponent.
"The King of Knights herself."