This Is My Holy Grail War [161]

The morning light carried a crisp chill. The sun of Branche rose today without much warmth, signaling the imminent end of summer. Last night had not only witnessed the first battle between Servants but also brought the season’s first snowfall.

“Two Sabers—without notifying the Church. That means neither of them belong to the Three Great Families. The seven Servants haven't even all been summoned, and they're already fighting. Ignoring us has its limits.”

Naskia flicked her wrist in frustration, severing her connection with her familiar.

A cyan butterfly fluttered down from the air and, upon landing, transformed into a hairpin that nestled in her deep blue locks. With a natural motion, Naskia adjusted her long hair.

Naskia Zorgen. A native-born Russian. Her grandfather, Magiri Zorgen, was a renowned magus of great repute. Though now aged and frail, his name had once commanded immense prestige.

Her talent for magecraft had brought even greater glory to their family, casting a brilliant light upon their lineage—so much so that an entire generation at the Clock Tower lived in her shadow.

With her pale pink eyes and angelic presence, she was called the Angel of the Magecraft World—not only for her appearance but also for her abilities. Though still too young to stand among the pinnacle of magi, she was nearly unmatched among her peers.

Naskia's striking beauty made her the object of admiration for many young men. But she had her own troubles—such as the simple fact that she was still just a girl.

Education is the foundation of any family, whether among magi or ordinary people. That meant she was still required to attend school. And as the heir to the Zorgen name, she could not afford to tarnish the family’s reputation, especially in a place where many eyes were watching.

But Naskia had no interest in being a noble lady, nor did she want to go to school! Why should she have to study—and with ordinary people, no less?

Compared to the dull environment of school life, she much preferred isolating herself in a quiet corner, dedicating her time to the study of her family's magecraft.

So, she ran away.

Without hesitation, she fled. It wasn’t as if anyone could stop her. People called her a “lady,” but in truth, Naskia was nothing more than a delinquent at heart—one filled with defiance.

“Nana, why did you run off without saying a word?”

Before she could step into the basement, a dragonfly blocked her path.

Naskia knew instantly—it was her grandfather’s familiar.

“Ugh, Grandfather…” A vein bulged at her temple. “Why in the world must I be forced to mingle with those filthy commoners?” Her expression twisted in disgust. “So many of them, all crowded together… so revolting.”

“Because you’re still a child,” came the immediate response. Though slightly distorted through the dragonfly’s transmission, the voice was unmistakably clear. “Children should be carefree and spend their days in school.” His words dripped with affection.

“I refuse to attend some mundane high school! Why not send me straight to the Clock Tower?” Naskia pouted. “I can’t stand mortals.” Being unable to use magecraft in front of normal people made her skin crawl.

“The Holy Grail War, my little Nana.” Her grandfather’s voice was so saccharine it made her shudder. “The Clock Tower has its eyes on it as well. I wouldn’t feel at ease letting my precious sweetheart deal with those envious schemers.”

His hostility toward the Mage’s Association was unmistakable. Though he maintained polite relations on the surface, deep down, that resentment was etched into his very bones.

“Shut up! Don’t call me things like ‘sweetheart’—so disgusting.” With a look of pure revulsion, she smacked the dragonfly out of the air. As she walked away, she muttered, “Dragonflies are nowhere near as beautiful as my butterflies.”

She stepped into the damp, shadowy basement.

“Wait…” The dragonfly, still dazed from the blow, continued relaying its master’s message. “The holy relic, the [Command Seals], the timing of the summoning—are they all prepared?”

“I know! Everything’s set! It’s a relic from Khitan!” Naskia impatiently slammed the basement door shut, leaving the persistent insect outside.

So, at the very least, Saber is already accounted for. But who exactly is Saber?

As she traced the summoning circle, she replayed the familiar’s transmitted images in her mind.

In the pitch-black night, only the glint of two flashing swords could be seen. The familiar’s vision was too weak to capture clear details—just the flickering of sparks and the deafening clash of steel.

I haven’t even summoned my Servant yet, and they’re already fighting? How irritating.

The rules of the Holy Grail War had overlooked a crucial fact from the very start—this land, the Far East, originally belonged to the Khitan. Though Russia had seized it, and in the modern world it officially fell under Russian territory, the reality was more complicated. The local overseeing families were of Asian descent—black hair, black eyes, yellow skin—and had provided the land for the Grail War, becoming one of the Three Great Families.

This meant that the Heroic Spirits recorded in the Grail weren’t limited to Russia alone—another cultural sphere had its own claim.

“The Servants of Khitan should be strengthened, yet the system only accounts for the rejection of Russian Heroic Spirits. What a major oversight. How could such a mistake have been made?”

With clear dissatisfaction, Naskia placed a shattered stone tablet onto the summoning circle.

She couldn’t read the Chinese inscriptions on it, but when she acquired the relic, she had been told:

“This is a tablet cursing the Emperor.”

The stone was astonishingly durable, as if its creator had wanted it to last for eternity. But the one who destroyed it had been just as determined. While the text was still barely legible, rusted fragments of iron had become embedded in its surface—likely remnants from when the tablet had been shattered.

It was meant to ensure future generations would know that someone had cursed the Emperor.

Isn’t that just asking for death?

Naskia was well aware of how cruel the Russian Tsars had been—history lessons had drilled those horrors into her head. The constant condemnation of the Tsars' atrocities had grown so repetitive that she was sick of hearing it.

To her, both the Russian Tsars and the Emperors of the Central Plains were the same—equally tyrannical.

"Nana, open the door."

The dragonfly’s feeble voice filtered in—it seemed her grandfather was still unwilling to give up.

The basement was secured by a bounded field, and her grandfather, Magiri Zorgen, had only sent a familiar rather than coming in person.

The dragonfly had no power to lift the iron door; all it could do was wail helplessly outside.

"If you keep making noise, I swear I’ll rip off your mustache when I get back!" Naskia snapped. She’d had enough of her grandfather's meddling.

"You already did,"—or at least, she thought she heard him mutter, but the voice was so faint it could’ve been a trick of her mind.

"Tch, whatever."

No further response came. Maybe she really had scared him off.

...

The sun had just risen, its golden rays spilling over the horizon. This was the time when her magical energy was at its peak.

Naskia slowly raised her hand, revealing the swirling pattern of her [Command Seals]. At that moment, prana surged through her body, coursing like a raging river. She knew that by now, there weren’t many Servant classes left to summon.

At the very least, Saber was already taken—the most powerful class in the Holy Grail War.

“I declare...”

Her voice was soft, yet filled with purpose. Her long, blue hair lifted in waves as mana pulsed through the room, and a verdant light flickered in her pale pink eyes.

She never spoke loudly—mages preferred the shadows. Those who flaunted their presence would only erode the Mystery they sought to protect. The Zorgen family had drilled that lesson into her well, and caution was second nature to her.

The damp air of the basement made the atmosphere all the more chilling. Her delicate lips parted, forming each syllable with precise intent.

“From the Wheel of Restraint, come forth—Guardian of the Scales!”

Her heartbeat lurched, hammering against her ribs.

A crushing force descended upon her, threatening to bend her slender frame beneath its weight. But as the heir to the Zorgen family, she refused to bow.

She lifted her head with all her strength, though beads of sweat formed at her temple. Was this the drain of mana? No—the Grail supplied most of the energy for summoning. The real culprit was the unease gnawing at her chest.

“Berserker.”

The summoning circle's glow faded, leaving behind only a swirling mist. From within the haze, a hunched figure emerged.

Berserker? A Berserker...?

Naskia frowned. She hadn’t used a specific incantation to call for a Berserker-class Servant, and yet here he was. Did that mean she was the last Master to summon?

Her newly summoned Servant was gaunt, his skin a sickly yellow. Slowly, he lifted his head, his sunken lips devoid of color.

"You’re my Master, then? Little girl."

His voice was not brittle, as she expected, but instead laced with a terrifying, oppressive force.

He smiled.

It was not warm—it was unsettling. There was an aura of command and menace woven into that simple expression, seeping through every gesture.

“Yes, I am your Master.”

She instinctively raised her hand, letting the red glow of her Command Seals speak for itself.

But the real shock was… Berserker was lucid.

He wasn’t growling, wasn’t howling, wasn’t mindless. He was talking to her.

No madness, no uncontrolled rage. Just a cold, gloomy presence.

In the dimly lit basement, he stood like a mummified corpse, his lifeless gaze sweeping over her.

Berserker was old—but not elderly. His features were those of a middle-aged man, but not a single strand of facial hair graced his chin. His skin was bare and smooth, like a freshly peeled egg.

The strange Servant was quiet—eerily so. As Naskia sized him up, he, in turn, scrutinized her.

“Master… tell me, are you a scholar?”

His smirk was unreadable, his words calculated.

“No! Absolutely not!” Naskia shot back immediately. “I’d never waste my time studying!”

She despised school.

"Oh, oh? But your flowing blue hair… such an ethereal presence. Even the celestial beings pale in comparison."

For a Berserker, he sure knew how to flatter. His voice was syrupy, words dripping with honey.

Then, he posed his real question:

"Tell me… whose rule does this world now belong to? Who is Emperor?"

The question caught her off guard.

"The Emperor? The monarchy was overthrown ages ago."

The moment she answered, his expression cracked.

"What?!"

His entire face contorted in shock, his eyes plunging into an abyss of despair.

"Impossible… impossible…!"

Berserker stumbled backward, his body trembling as he collided with the cold cement wall.

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

Naskia frowned, fascinated by his reaction.

“Scholars…”

"What about scholars?"

Berserker’s voice darkened. His bloodshot eyes gleamed with an unholy light.

“Scholars are to blame!”

His breath came ragged, his fingers curling into fists.

“Damn them… damn them all! There is not a single good soul among them—they should all perish!”

His teeth ground together, a hatred so deep it bordered on madness.

Then, like a man possessed, he bellowed toward the heavens:

"Your Majesty… your humble servant cannot accept this!"

Tears fell.

"The scholars… those damned scholars! I will exterminate every last one of them—down to the very last soul!"

His rage had no outlet, no enemy to strike—only a furnace of vengeance burning inside him.

Definitely a Berserker, Naskia confirmed.

His mind was not set on salvation—only on vengeance.

“Master, you’ll stand with me, won’t you?”

He smiled. This time, his smile was not terrifying—it was expectant.

"Of course. As it happens, I know of twelve scholars who need dealing with."

She shifted the target of his wrath elsewhere.

"Excellent… excellent. One by one, we will find them, cut out their tongues, flay their skin!"

Berserker muttered darkly, his voice thick with venom. His anger didn’t boil over into an outburst—but beneath his calm facade, a volcano rumbled.

Then—

Boom!

The explosion did not come from Berserker.

A deafening blast shattered the morning air.

"What was that? Isn't this supposed to be an era of peace?" Berserker mused, his voice laced with suspicion.

"Wait here, I’m going to check it out."

Naskia flung open the basement door—accidentally knocking the dragonfly out of the air—before hurrying to the window.

Outside, flames engulfed the sky.

Thick black smoke churned upwards.

It was a hospital—a pure white building, with a large red cross emblazoned on its facade.

Branche’s most prestigious medical institution.

Not only was it well-known, but it was also situated in the heart of the city—where the streets were already filled with people.

That explosion…

Assassin’s retreat path.

Her slender finger tapped her chin. She had suspected their location, but had dismissed it.

Now, it seemed she had been wrong.

Her familiars flitted toward the scene, their delicate forms unnoticed in the lingering summer air.

Through their eyes, she heard the first cries for help from inside the hospital.

What do I do?

Her mind flashed with images of collapsed walls, rivers of blood, bodies crushed beneath rubble.

It was broad daylight. Acting now could expose her Mysteries.

But if she did nothing, more people would die.

Filthy, ordinary people.

Like squirming maggots, crawling over each other in mindless herds.

"Let’s go, Berserker."

"Where to?"

"To save them."

---

T/N: oohj another rin also idk who the servant could be... sickly looking... a beserker... middle aged AHHH idk

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!