This Is My Holy Grail War [156]

Blades clashed, swords gleamed, and the air roared with power.

But this was no battle—only a one-sided slaughter.

The familiar had relayed a horrifying scene, unfolding at a grand, imposing port that Anya knew well.

A terrifying crimson glow painted the vision in blood. The nine-year-old girl recoiled in fear, her petite body trembling. She curled up in a shadowy corner, pressing her small hands over her dry eyes. Peeking cautiously through her fingers for just a brief moment, she gasped and shut them tight again in terror.

Blood—splattering, surging red.

"Is that… Saber? The sword of a knight…? Hmph!"

The Servant in the vision was clad in pitch black, like a ghost. Their face was obscured, their identity unknown. Yet, the sword in their hand—a long, slender, and razor-sharp knight’s longsword—drew every onlooker’s gaze.

"Who’s the idiot that summoned a Servant from Europa?"

Her uncle spat on the floor, cursing with disdain. "Can’t even exploit the loopholes in the rules? What an absolute fool." He sighed dramatically, shaking his head in exaggerated regret. "Ahh, that was supposed to be Saber’s spot! What a damn shame! Wasted on an imbecile!" He clutched his chest as if the loss physically pained him.

Her uncle was a harsh man, so Anya dared not speak. She dared not even open her eyes. She wanted to see nothing—nothing at all.

The room was freezing. The thick ice crusting the window blocked out the moonlight completely. Hugging her thin clothes tighter around herself, Anya quietly turned the doorknob, her small fingers hesitant against the cold metal. The icy touch sent a jolt through her, making her heart leap. Just as she was about to slip outside—

“Anya!”

She froze, her head turning mechanically. She swallowed hard, again and again. Her legs trembled. It’s so cold today…

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

Her uncle’s thick brows furrowed sharply, his mere glare enough to make her shudder.

“I… I just wanted to go out for a little while. Just a little… I don’t want to stay here.” Her lips trembled, her voice unsteady and soft, unable to form the words properly. She was afraid—afraid he would get angry.

“You are not going anywhere!” Her uncle gripped her shoulders tightly, his voice harsh and commanding. “The family crest has been passed down to you. You must use magecraft to help us obtain the Holy Grail!” His expression twisted in fervent madness. “We must win this war and reach the Root!”

The Root…

Anya had heard that word countless times since she was little. Every magus she had ever known was obsessed with it. But she didn’t care about the Root. All she wanted was—her parents.

A long time ago, her ancestors had been part of the Gregorian Choir—the Pope’s sacred singers. They carried out the will of the Lord… until one of them fell in love with a woman. A woman who was—unforgivably—a magus.

A priest was meant to devote his entire life to God. Marriage was out of the question. Worse still, she was a heretic. She was meant to burn.

But the priest defied the Church. He ran—fleeing Europe with a sacred hymn in his hands.

He and his beloved settled in the Far East, becoming the founders of a Russian magus family. Hidden from the world, they passed down their magecraft through generations—engraving it in their blood and carrying it through song. They stayed far from magi feuds, far from Executors, far from war.

Their magecraft was a cry from the soul—a sacred hymn that carried magic in its notes. But not everyone could sing it. Only those with true talent could imbue their voice with power.

Anya was one of them. That was why her uncle demanded she take part in this war.

Once more, their once-peaceful family had been dragged into conflict.

She wanted no part of it.

She hated war.

It had stolen her parents from her.

Even if she bore the family’s crest—she didn’t care.

She just wanted to go back.

Back to the days when her mother and father held her in their arms and smiled.

To a time when all she had to do was live quietly, simply.

“I don’t want to stay here.” Her voice cracked. She was on the verge of tears. “I don’t—I don’t want this!”

“Anya! How could you say such a thing?!”

Her aunt’s anger flared.

“It is the duty of every one of us to restore this family’s glory!”

Her aunt was not as harsh. She rarely hit Anya. Only a few times, in distant memory.

“Enough. Forget about her for now.”

Her uncle shoved Anya aside in irritation. She stumbled, falling onto the icy floor with a painful thud.

Gritting her teeth, she lifted her head—only to see him already turning away, his attention once more fixed on the familiar’s projection.

"This land does not abide by mere national borders. When they set the foundation for this war’s rules, they rejected Russian heroes… but they overlooked one thing." His voice was wild, crazed. He had been descending further into madness ever since he learned of the Holy Grail War. And her aunt—she was changing too. Becoming a stranger.

"The spirits of the Khitan people receive the same blessings here!"

A chilling incantation spilled from his lips.

Anya didn’t understand a word.

Because in that moment—

The room was swallowed in an eerie, blinding red light.

Red. Again, red!

A color she feared to her very soul.

The color that had painted the day her parents died.

Terrified, she shrank back into the corner. And then, from the summoning circle, a strange familiar appeared.

“I am Servant, Rider. Summoned in accordance with your call.”

His voice was casual, almost careless. His figure was clad in a bizarre black armor, his presence rough and menacing.

Anya had never seen him before.

But his face—something about it felt dangerous.

“Anya.”

Her uncle’s voice snapped her from her thoughts.

"From now on, you will use your song to aid Rider in battle. Understood?"

“I won’t sing.”

She shook her head violently. Her voice was firm—unwavering.

"That is not your choice to make!"

He stomped forward, raising a hand to strike her.

Anya could sing.

But she would never sing for war.

Never.

There was only one song she would sing in this moment—

"Call my name softly…"

Her voice drifted through the cold, dim room. For an instant—everything seemed to still.

She wanted it to reach them.

She wanted, more than anything, for her parents to call her name once more.

"What are you singing?!"

Her uncle grabbed her by the collar, shaking her, roaring in rage.

But she sang on.

"Call me at sunset…"

She remembered—how her mother used to call her home when the sun dipped below the horizon.

"I know we will meet again—this promise will be fulfilled."

Tears welled in her eyes. Her father had promised her that, hadn’t he?

"I will not grieve, nor will I cry."

The lyrics said so.

But her tears were already falling.

Her voice carried longing—pure, deep sorrow.

A thunderous roar of fury burst through the room.

"Sing a battle hymn! Not this pathetic drivel!"

A porcelain cup smashed against the floor, coffee and shards scattering everywhere.

No.

She would not stop.

"We will meet again, I swear…"

Her small face was red with tears. This was her soul’s cry.

She wanted—more than anything—

For her parents to call her name once more.

"You—how dare you sing that song?!"

Her uncle’s rage was a storm, his voice shaking. "We are fighting for the Grail, and you sing of peace?! Are you cursing us to die?!"

A slap.

Sharp and merciless.

Anya collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Her words came out in broken gasps, her breath shuddering.

But still—she sang.

"Call… my… name… softly…"

Rider grabbed the man’s wrist before his hand could strike again.

“She’s just a child, isn’t she?”

He stepped in front of Anya, his shadow covering her completely—like a towering mountain shielding her from the storm.

“Hating war is natural for anyone… especially a child.” Rider wiped away Anya’s tears. “The innocent are always the ones most worth protecting.”

“You’re just a familiar! How dare you—” Her uncle’s teeth clenched. A Servant turning against their summoner? That was an insult no magus, not even the most incompetent, could tolerate. And yet, here he was—betrayed. His hidden pride shattered in an instant. Though no one could see it, in that moment, his sanity crumbled.

“I’ll rip the Crest from her myself!” he roared. “As long as I win, I don’t care if Anya lives or dies! A useless burden—even if she has talent, she’s still trash!”

His eyes darkened, as if veiled by madness.

“Sorry, but I can’t just stand by and watch,” Rider said flatly. “This girl is under my protection.”

For the first time in her life—after growing up in a world where one wrong step meant pain—Anya saw someone stand up for her.

She lifted her head.

Rider stood tall, an immovable wall between her and her uncle.

But then, her uncle grinned—a twisted, violent smile that sent a chill through Anya’s bones.

“Oh? You dare stand in my way?” He sneered, lifting his hand. “Then—by the power of my Command Seal, Rider, kill her with your own hands!”

Anya’s breath caught.

The man who had just protected her—

Her uncle wanted him to be the one to end her life.

“You wanted to protect her, didn’t you?” The magus let out a cruel, mocking laugh. “Now you’ll learn what happens when you defy me! You’re nothing but a Servant—just a tool, a pawn!”

And then—

Red light flared once more.

Rider turned slowly. Anya saw him raise his weapon—a straight, unadorned bronze sword.

Am I going to die?

Mom… Dad… I’m coming to see you.

She had heard people say that the dead watched over her from heaven.

She had wanted to go there for a long time.

She looked at the blade—and smiled.

The sword came down.

A scream ripped through the air.

Her uncle’s right hand—marked with the Command Seal—was severed in a single, clean stroke.

And before he could react—

Shhhk!

A gust of wind howled, sharp as a blade.

Blood pooled across the floor.

Rider grabbed a cloth from the table and began wiping his sword.

Again. And again.

Even though the blade was already clean, he kept at it—mechanically, obsessively—as if he could erase the very fact that it had been stained with a certain someone’s blood.

“…So this is how far they’ve taken this wretched game,” he muttered, staring at the lifeless hand still marked by the Seal. He let out a heavy sigh. “And yet… the intent behind it was not false.”

Blood. Red. Again.

“…Betrayed once more. Fate has such a cruel sense of humor.”

With one final stroke, Rider severed the last remaining connection between the arm and its owner—ending her uncle’s life.

Her aunt shrieked.

In her panic, she shoved open the door and bolted into the night, fleeing without a backward glance.

Anya didn’t know what to do.

The cold wind rushed in, carrying flurries of snow through the open doorway.

In an instant, the blood on the floor froze over.

“…Hey, little girl.”

Rider’s form began to flicker. He was disappearing.

Anya had never seen a spirit with such a powerful presence before.

It reminded her of something—something immense.

A god.

That was the only word that came to mind.

She had dropped out of school because of the Holy Grail War.

“The Holy Grail,” Rider said suddenly. “Are you interested in it?”

She shook her head furiously.

She would never take part in war.

Rider scratched his chin, looking troubled. “That’s a problem. If you refuse to participate, I’ll disappear.”

Anya didn’t answer.

“I don’t like war either,” she said simply. Words weren’t her strong suit.

“Who does?” Rider gave a weary chuckle. “But sometimes, war is unavoidable. People take up arms not because they love to fight, but because they have to—to protect what matters.”

He looked at her.

“What about you? Do you have a dream?”

“I…”

He didn’t wait for her answer.

“The world is full of suffering. Children lose their parents. Parents lose their children.” His voice was calm, quiet. “Most of them just want to live in peace. But life is rarely so kind.”

To live quietly. Peacefully.

The words echoed in Anya’s heart.

They resonated with her.

“I wish…”

She had wanted to say she wished to see her parents again.

But then—

She thought of all the people who had suffered as she had.

So she changed her wish.

“I wish… no one would bleed. No one would die.”

Rider smiled.

A small, sincere smile—like someone savoring the taste of honey.

“I, too, have a wish,” he said. “I wish for a world where people live without hardship. Where they can work, rest, and thrive in peace.”

Anya didn’t fully understand.

She simply listened, eyes wide.

But one phrase stuck in her mind—

To live in peace.

“The Holy Grail is a miracle that can grant that wish,” Rider said. “I don’t want war either, my little Master. But…”

He lowered his head in a deep, solemn bow.

“…Will you fight, just this once? For the sake of the world?”

His sincerity was overwhelming.

“If we don’t fight, more people will suffer. More will bleed. More will die.”

Anya hesitated.

“…If we win, will it stop?” she asked quietly.

“Of course.”

Rider ruffled her hair gently.

“And if we don’t fight?”

“…Many more will lose their homes. Their families. Their parents.”

Her heart clenched.

She didn’t want that.

She didn’t want anyone else to feel what she had felt.

She nodded.

---

T/N: hmmm i wonder who this is

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!