This Is My Holy Grail War [162]

Sunlight spilled across Naskia’s face, highlighting her pale complexion. She furrowed her brows, her irritation growing—she despised the blinding light. Naskia had never liked standing in the sun; she preferred the shadows, had no interest in basking in the spotlight.

Born into a family of magi, she had encountered many outsiders under her grandfather’s influence, but they were never truly part of her world. She had been raised in solitude, taught to conceal the mysteries of magecraft from prying eyes. She had seen far less sunlight than an ordinary child, and over time, she had grown to resent it.

For as long as she could remember, she had studied magecraft alone, long since overcoming any fear of the unknown. Darkness did not blind her; it enthralled her. A magus matured quickly—so much so that one could say they never had a childhood at all.

Constant exposure to ordinary children had only deepened Naskia’s disdain. She had always been independent, and she found them insufferable—especially those self-important suitors who pined after her.

With a steady breath, she suppressed the lingering magic in her body and took a step forward. The moment she stepped into the light, however, she realized—Berserker had not followed.

Surprised, Naskia whirled around, only to see him fixated on the holy relic—a shattered, nameless stone tablet.

The uneven inscriptions made her head ache just looking at them. The crude strokes meant nothing to her. Just as she was about to ask what he was doing, Berserker crushed the relic into dust.

“Hey! Berserker, what the hell are you—”

The room had no lights, only shadows.

From where she stood in the sunlit doorway, all she could see were his glowing red eyes, blazing with rage.

The bright world outside contrasted starkly with the darkness of the room. Within the gloom, Berserker’s voice rumbled low and bitter:

"Damn those scholars... damn those traitorous rats. They feast on His Majesty’s grain, yet they plot their treachery in the dark! Without an Emperor—where is the nation?"

Again and again, he muttered of emperors and treachery.

The priceless relic was reduced to worthless dust, and Naskia could only sigh in frustration. A die-hard royalist. This Berserker was nothing more than a fanatic. Worse still, she had lost a small fortune on that artifact, and she hadn't even reimbursed the cost with her grandfather yet.

She had studied the Holy Grail War thoroughly. Her grandfather’s research had provided her with stacks of notes. Maintaining a good relationship with one’s Servant was crucial—even more so with Berserkers, who were notoriously difficult to control.

“You destroyed the tablet?” she asked, frowning.

"Hmph. Those damnable thieves... How dare they write treasonous poetry and spit on His Majesty’s grace! They deserve to die, every last one!"

He spat a wad of phlegm onto the ground, only calming after venting his rage.

"Ugh, whatever. It’s useless to me now anyway."

The loss still stung, but there was no point dwelling on it. Besides, she hadn't even billed her grandfather for it yet.

"Let’s go. Saving lives comes first."

The words slipped out before she realized it.

Even she was startled by them.

Berserker, his fury now subsided, merely chuckled.

"Very well. Very well. No need to rush, no need to rush." He waved a hand, as if nothing had happened. His madness, it seemed, was reserved for a specific group of people.

At her command, he faded into spiritual form, following her unseen.

...

The hospital wasn’t far.

By the time she arrived, the inferno had already consumed the building.

Thick, toxic smoke billowed into the sky, blackening the once pristine white walls. The structure leaned dangerously, as if it could collapse at any moment.

The explosion had torn through the building, yet the hospital had not crumbled entirely.

Had the bomber been incompetent? Or was this intentional?

Naskia narrowed her eyes, scanning the area.

Something was wrong.

Aside from the cries for help coming from within, there was no one outside.

A [Bounded Field]. A ward to repel outsiders.

It was a temporary setup, not overly complex—but effective. The fire department had been driven away. Emergency personnel, ensnared by the field’s influence, were unable to approach.

"Bastard..."

She clenched her teeth.

She could hear them.

People, screaming inside.

But they couldn't escape.

And no one outside could reach them.

This hospital was fully equipped with safety measures, located in the very heart of the city. Emergency response should have arrived immediately.

But someone wanted every single person inside to burn.

Was this a trap?

Should she go inside?

Should she save them?

For a long moment, Naskia hesitated.

She was a magus, raised to see herself as superior, to despise the mundane masses.

But deep down, she was still human.

Her grandfather had never sent her to the Clock Tower. She had not been steeped in the cold, ruthless nature of traditional magi.

So—

She ran into the flames.

The inferno was a living thing, devouring everything in its path.

Patients and staff screamed as they burned, fleeing desperately—only to collapse, choking on the lethal smoke.

The black clouds that filled the halls were poisonous.

And this was only the ground floor.

If it was this bad down here, how much worse would it be upstairs?

This place had become hell itself.

Without hesitation, Naskia knelt, pressing her palm to the ground.

Her magic circuits glowed beneath her coat, pulsing with a faint, blue light.

The ward was severed instantly.

The moment the spell lifted, the trapped survivors rushed for the exits.

They hadn’t been unable to escape—they had been lost, confused by the bounded field.

As the wave of people surged outside, Naskia found herself thinking—

The Church.

She had always sneered at the Church and its Executors. But in moments like these… perhaps their existence was necessary.

Because the world of magi was merciless.

She lifted her hand.

Her lips moved.

“[Wind].”

A single word.

A gust swept through the hallways, scattering the toxic smoke—but not fanning the flames.

A delicate control. Precise.

Even so, the fire still raged.

Her familiars were useless here. Butterflies could not fight fire.

The Zorgen family’s magecraft was weak against flames.

She was at a disadvantage.

I have to go up.

More people needed saving. But if she went further, she’d have to make a choice—

Reveal her Servant?

Or go alone?

The ground floor was bad enough. The flames climbed higher, the smoke thicker.

Going up in a fire was suicide. Escape always meant going down.

“They’re all poisoned,” a voice remarked.

She turned—

A new arrival had entered the burning hospital.

A man, middle-aged, with short, reddish-brown hair.

He wore a black down coat, his mana modest—a second-rate magus at best.

"You’re saving people?" His tone was unsettlingly calm.

"You have a problem with that?" She crossed her arms, openly hostile.

"No. I was going to ask—can I help?"

"Then quit standing around and get to work!"

She had no time for games.

“Can you go upstairs?” he asked, gently prying open a collapsed patient’s mouth. Pale blue mana swirled at his fingertips, purging the poison from their lungs.

“Yes.”

Naskia now had two choices:

Unleash Berserker—or handle this herself.

She observed the man.

Rough hands—calloused.

But his face was clean, his features tidy.

A man who had saved many before.

But the Grail War had begun.

Was he a Master?

She saw no [Command Seals] on his hand.

But Seals could appear anywhere.

As she pondered, she realized something—

Her own [Command Seals] were still visible.

She hadn’t hidden them before rushing out.

Yet the man hadn’t reacted at all.

Which meant—

He wasn’t part of the war.

“Berserker, go upstairs and save them.”

Naskia issued the command without hesitation.

She was already preparing herself for resistance, thinking of ways to convince her Servant to obey. After all, wasn’t Berserker a loyalist? A tool of a tyrant?

But instead, she was greeted by a bizarre sight—Berserker was already carrying unconscious patients to safety.

“They are the people.”

His movements were swift and efficient, lifting bodies effortlessly despite his frail appearance. The hollow shell of a man possessed unfathomable strength.

“Live. Live.”

His voice was a murmur, yet filled with conviction—an inexplicable, unshakable concern for the struggling masses.

A royalist who cared for the common folk but despised scholars with every fiber of his being.

What kind of history was this?

Naskia felt a headache creeping in. History had always been her weakest subject. If not for the Holy Grail War, she wouldn’t have even bothered reading about it.

This hospital was massive, and she had no idea how many were still trapped inside.

But she had one goal—to save as many as possible.

The Holy Grail itself barely mattered to her.

She knew the truth. The idea of a wish-granting cup was nothing but empty words. A bottomless mana source? Irrelevant. The Root? Not her concern.

Winning would certainly please her grandfather. But losing? Someone else could try again in sixty years.

Right now, she sought peace of mind.

She couldn’t just stand by and watch people die.

Maybe all those years in school hadn’t been completely wasted after all. At the very least, they had instilled in her a moral compass.

More and more people were being pulled from the burning wreckage.

Many had fallen unconscious, their bodies limp and lifeless.

Naskia couldn’t heal them.

That task fell to the man in black.

She and Berserker were nothing more than nurses—he was the doctor.

For a brief moment, the healer froze.

His gaze locked onto Berserker, stunned by the sheer power radiating from the Servant’s very being.

But his surprise faded quickly. He had seen worse.

"The Holy Grail War?"

His voice was calm, indifferent.

"I am merely a traveler passing through. I have no interest in your ritual. I have no wish that requires the Grail."

His words were decisive.

No trace of greed in his eyes.

His only concern was saving lives.

But wasn’t saving people a wish in itself?

Naskia pondered this for a moment before asking,

“Why?”

“These people have nothing to do with you.”

It was a test.

"I don't know."

He shook his head.

"I just... want to save them."

Even now, Naskia did not know his name.

In this burning hell, he was an angel amidst the flames.

In truth, no one knew his name.

To the world, he was a ghost.

A magus who wielded Mystery—who could not afford to be known.

If his deeds were exposed, if his identity were uncovered, the world would devour him.

The Church would hunt him. The Association would destroy him.

Still, he worked tirelessly, his hands moving in a blur.

Naskia had never seen a magus this skilled.

No hesitation. No wasted movement. Every action was purely for the sake of healing.

He was a one-man hospital.

Burns.

Poison.

Wounds.

He handled them all.

But it wasn’t just about saving them.

Both of them had another duty—

Ensuring the survivors forgot what they had seen.

The Mysteries of the world could not be exposed.

“Someone’s coming.”

Naskia’s voice was sharp.

With the barrier removed, the outside world had finally noticed the disaster.

Rescue workers were approaching.

Too little, too late.

The injured were too many.

Berserker continued pulling people from the upper floors—too many critical cases for the firefighters to handle.

And Naskia had to keep an eye on the structure itself.

If the building collapsed, it would be all over.

The healer’s face was flushed red from the heat.

But exhaustion?

He didn’t show it.

Firefighters were finally entering the hospital, yet he refused to stop.

“They can’t save them.”

His voice was hoarse but steady.

"If these wounds aren't treated immediately, they will die."

If he was seen using magecraft, his life would be forfeit.

The moment his magic was exposed to the public, he would become a dead man.

Every magus, every Executor, every force that upheld the Masquerade would come for his head.

“You can’t save them all.”

Naskia spoke softly, but firmly.

"Stop."

"Preserve your magic. You’ll save more lives in the future if you stay hidden."

It was a warning—

A reminder.

---

T/N: ...Emiya? reddish brown hair... and likes to save people...

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!