This Is My Holy Grail War [170]

In the desolate northern district of Blanche, a silent temple stood in solitude. Within a crude workshop built from steel bars and concrete, four Servants had gathered. Their swords and blades clashed in a resounding symphony—some crisp, some echoing long, others howling in fury.

The frigid wind carried falling snow, and turbulent air currents swept across the land. Saber broke free from the collision of thick ink and violet mist. A sudden gust of the north wind surged, bringing a whirlwind of scattered snowflakes, its raging magical energy akin to a violent blizzard.

Saber’s right wrist twisted inward as she took a stance with her sword at her back. Raising her scabbard, she pointed it forward. Her delicate, rosy lips parted slightly, and her melodious voice transformed into a lingering melody. The divine words carried the weight of a decree—just as they left her lips, all magical energy in the air froze.

With a light flick of the scabbard, not a single ripple stirred. Yet, as the gleaming arc passed through the air, all magic dissipated like an illusion. The ink-like mist and violet haze vanished as if they had never existed.

Saber twirled her sword with a flick of her wrist. Whether through sword energy or magic, she found herself unable to pierce through Caster’s defensive formation. Likewise, Caster made no move to attack. He was in full defense, but Saber knew that if she pressed on, the battle would end in death or severe injury. So, she withdrew—relinquishing the pressure before Caster could retaliate.

Her [Instinct] whispered to her—Artoria’s [Instinct] was rarely wrong. The opponent was biding time, waiting for an opening, poised to strike the moment she faltered. If she kept attacking recklessly, she would eventually make a mistake. Caster wasn’t simply defending—he was hunting.

Their gazes locked. Saber sensed Berserker’s presence nearby. The berserker had been defeated in battle against Assassin and was now retreating toward Caster. That surprised Saber.

But the watchful eyes hidden within the temple confirmed the scene with perfect clarity. Saber had no choice but to accept it—Assassin seemed to fit the Saber class better than she did.

With a forceful stomp, Saber shattered the concrete beneath her feet, sending fractures spiderwebbing outward. She leapt high into the air, unfolding a magic circle as she ascended.

Brilliant stars and geometric shapes interwove, and within the staggered vertices, energy began to coalesce.

A violet beam of magical energy ignited the air in an instant, the intense heat melting the falling snow. Like a meteor, the beam streaked across the sky, trailing a long tail of light.

At that moment, Saber unleashed her magic—accelerating midair like a rocket suddenly igniting its thrusters. She plummeted downward in a ferocious dive.

Her speed was staggering. The magical blast she had just fired had yet to reach its target, but in the blink of an eye, she was already upon Caster.

She raised her sword—yet before the blade could fall, the magical cannon struck first, tearing through Caster’s black mist.

Clang—!

The explosion of magical energy erupted in sparks. Thunderous lightning crackled, illuminating the battlefield as violet and black auras intertwined once more.

Saber retracted her scabbard—[Avalon] vanished into the air. The swordswoman gripped [Durandal] with both hands. With a pivot of her foot, the concrete pavement twisted beneath her, forming a spiraling crater. What was once solid cement crumbled like loose earth beneath the weight of a Servant’s movements.

Though Saber’s frame was petite, the surging power within her rivaled that of a dragon. Twisting her body, the energy she had gathered in an instant sliced through the air—her swing generating a sonic boom!

Caster, his broad forehead furrowed, eyes wide with intensity, wore a grave expression. He said nothing, simply maneuvering the slender blade in his hands. He had been prepared for an assault, yet the razor-sharp edge of [Durandal] still caught him off guard. As a Caster, his summoning revolved around magecraft—he was ill-suited for close-quarters combat. Now, faced with Saber’s relentless offensive, he was forced into retreat.

Saber was the epitome of her class. Her sword’s radiance was blinding. She leapt, planting a foot against a nearby concrete wall. The moment she kicked off, the reinforced structure shattered like fragile tofu, debris scattering amidst a powerful shockwave that bolstered her momentum.

A gaping hole, the size of an oil drum, had been blasted into the cement wall. Cracks spread outward, the concrete crumbling until only a few bent steel reinforcements remained, barely holding the structure together.

She pressed forward relentlessly—if one strike missed, another would follow immediately. Utilizing the terrain or propelling herself with bursts of magic, her attacks rained down without pause. Her blade’s whirlwind seemed poised to consume Caster entirely!

Boom—!

A ripple spread through Saber’s mind—her [Instinct] had warned her again. She saw an eruption of pure black ink surge from Caster, expanding outward to engulf her completely.

Saber had no idea what this was, nor whether the ink posed a lethal threat. But a small section of her golden hair had already bristled, standing rigidly on end. It was a warning—an omen of death. This was the prelude to Caster’s counterattack! If not a Noble Phantasm, then a finishing move.

“Mm—?!”

Before she could even see Caster move, she had already leapt backward in a violent retreat. Her unparalleled [Instinct] had guided her—before the ink could erupt, she had already evaded it.

This wasn’t the first time. Each time Saber’s attacks reached a certain threshold, her [Instinct] would sound the alarm. Caster wasn’t just defending—he was building up for a decisive strike. He never acted recklessly. But when he did… it was a kill shot.

As the rising magical energy began to wane, Saber realized something through her repeated exchanges—unless she revealed her trump card, she would never break through Caster’s defenses. Constantly attacking was nothing more than a waste of mana. And so, she stopped.

Saber had dodged Caster’s assault in advance. The magician, caught off guard, narrowed his eyes in surprise before letting out a quiet sigh.

“Such heavy killing intent… such incredible speed.”

He was no warrior—there was no grin of battle-hungry delight on his face. His only expressions were solemnity and vigilance.

“What remarkable footwork… exquisite, truly exquisite.”

This was nothing more than a simple, genuine appraisal—Caster’s unreserved admiration for Saber’s exceptional skill.

The petite figure of the girl moved across the rough concrete battlefield, offering a requiem in her wake. Her steps were not a graceful dance but the unmistakable footwork of a killer—sharpened through the trials of war, revealed in the cold light of dawn.

"I never expected Western swordsmanship to be this refined. Every time I attempt to counter, you slip away with such effortless grace. Impressive, truly impressive."

Caster couldn't help but marvel, murmuring to himself:

"This swordsmanship lacks the gentleness of Confucian techniques and the domineering force of Legalism. Instead, it closely resembles the pure, lethal intent of the Military School. And yet… there's an ethereal, almost Daoist quality to it."

He had noticed something—Saber could predict his every move. Even before he fully committed to an action, she would already be retreating.

Saber didn’t fully understand his words, but when he mentioned the Military School, she grasped the general idea. After all, whether it was Artoria or herself, their swordsmanship had been honed on the battlefield—meant only to kill. That extraordinary [Instinct] had always ensured the King of Knights' undefeated record.

Unknowingly, Caster had already retreated into an alleyway.

The construction site was lined with damp, bare concrete walls—thick and towering, blocking out the sun. From the deep shadows cast upon those walls, countless crazed, blade-wielding figures emerged, their bloodshot eyes glowing in the dim light.

They resembled men, yet exuded the aura of beasts.

Their long, slender blades gleamed with a chilling light, coated in a thick, inky-black and violet substance—a liquid dense enough to resemble blood. But Saber could tell. This was a curse. A curse not born overnight, but one that had festered for over a century.

Their weapons were steeped in malice, their curses stained red with blood. This meant only one thing—they had taken lives. Berserker’s soldiers had been cursed so thoroughly that even after countless years, the resentment had never faded. Their legend persisted, but all that remained of them was this malignant curse.

They followed their orders with unwavering discipline. No words, no unnecessary movement—these were true death-bound warriors, gripping their blades with unyielding resolve. At their master’s command, they would march into hell without hesitation. Yet, bound by their curse, they had lost all sense of reason. Battle was all they knew now.

These were Assassin's opponents.

Only now, after seeing them with her own eyes, did Saber fully understand.

Brutal, relentless, and utterly mad. And yet… their movements were precise, disciplined—like a horde of deranged but perfectly coordinated lunatics.

If a Servant’s Noble Phantasm was the pinnacle of orderly, structured power, then these soldiers were its inverse. They were akin to a Noble Phantasm, but one utterly devoid of blessing—nothing but pure, cursed destruction.

And along with Berserker’s arrival, another figure appeared—Assassin.

The assassin moved in the open, walking with ease and composure. Leaping across the uneven rooftops of the unfinished concrete buildings, he landed lightly beside Saber.

For now, he was her ally.

The two stood side by side—so close they could reach out and touch one another.

Enemies who had moments ago been locked in a battle to the death now stood together, shoulder to shoulder, facing the overwhelming killing intent radiating from their enemies.

"I will ensure your Master’s safety. You don’t need to worry."

Saber spoke softly, knowing what concerned Assassin the most. She was giving him reassurance.

"...I am grateful."

The gratitude in his voice was genuine. Assassin was honorable—a man who carried himself not as a mere killer in the shadows, but as a true warrior.

Saber’s sharp senses scanned the entire temple. She could feel it—Berserker’s and Caster’s Masters had withdrawn from their workshop. She hadn't even had the chance to strike them down. The only explanation was that they were allies—retreating together.

Two Cavalry-class Servants had entered her domain. The temple had been invaded.

For a magus, a workshop was their sanctuary, an extension of their very being. To trespass was a declaration of war. It didn’t matter who—Assassin, Berserker, or even Caster.

But Saber had already come to an understanding with Assassin’s Master.

Their cooperation had been mutually agreed upon.

"This is my domain. You are not welcome here."

Saber’s voice rang out in fury.

The leyline of the northern construction site was under her control. The mana drawn from the earth would continuously fuel her workshop.

Though the Holy Grail War left little time, and she hadn’t had the opportunity to siphon mana from the surrounding populace, the energy extracted from the land alone was enough.

This was the source of her confidence.

Saber might not have Medea’s profound mastery of magecraft, but she was also free of constraints. Magi of the Age of Gods could extract highly concentrated magical energy with a mere gesture—the only limitations being time and materials.

The Holy Grail War moved too fast. Too fast to prepare. Too fast to secure resources.

That was the very flaw that had doomed Medea in the Fifth War.

Caster’s hesitation was clear—he was considering retreat. But Berserker remained unrelenting.

With no other choice, Caster fell back, making way for the bloodthirsty warriors.

"Kill!"

Berserker’s command rang out like thunder.

The cursed soldiers let loose an earth-shaking roar. The stench of curses and blood assaulted Saber’s nose as they charged without hesitation.

"...Ah."

A quiet sigh escaped Caster’s lips.

It was unclear why.

Much like Saber, he disliked the stench of curses.

Magicians were highly sensitive to such things.

Then, as if responding to his presence, the thin veil of black mist surrounding him suddenly expanded—spreading over Berserker’s summoned warriors.

In that instant, the curses binding them were erased.

The madness in their blood-red eyes cleared.

Now, each of these warriors—who moments ago had been no more than mindless husks—gazed forward with the piercing sharpness of wolves.

And with their regained clarity… they had become even stronger.

No longer charging blindly, they instead formed battle formations, advancing with steady precision.

Every blade was pointed in a single direction, their movements interwoven like a flawless battle formation—methodical, coordinated, deadly.

Their numbers were overwhelming.

Saber wasn’t sure how strong these familiars were.

She cast a glance toward Assassin, who immediately understood.

"They’re skilled." Assassin admitted. "But their abilities are lacking. If they surround us, it might be troublesome."

"Skilled." That meant they could at least hold their own for a few exchanges.

"Lacking ability." That meant they posed no real threat to him.

"Might be troublesome if surrounded?"

Saber raised an eyebrow.

The moment those words left his lips, Assassin’s gaze drifted beyond the battlefield.

Now that the soldiers had regained their wits, they should have been far more dangerous.

Yet Assassin seemed utterly unfazed.

"So, he was lying about being worried after all."

Saber had a general idea of the situation. Just as she was about to engage—

She heard Assassin’s quiet murmur.

"Bare feet. Black robes."

His words were low, almost subconscious.

But Saber caught them.

This supposedly reckless, impulsive swordsman was analyzing the enemy’s identity.

Saber was stunned.

She had assumed Assassin was nothing more than a battle-crazed swordsman.

"A black robe, openly displayed… He might be from the Mohist School."

Saber committed his words to memory.

She herself knew little about the Hundred Schools of Thought—so the task of uncovering the enemy’s true name was naturally left to Assassin.

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This is a fan translation of 这是我的圣杯之战 by 向希望祈祷. All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!