This Is My Holy Grail War [155]

A suffocating sense of oppression nearly rendered Saber speechless.

Mana... mana... That insatiable thirst for power clawed at his mind. Servants were spiritual beings, and mana was their lifeblood. Yet, the magical energy flowing into Saber’s body was pitifully scarce—so thin it was barely there at all.

He had once wielded an inexhaustible supply of mana, especially when fueled by the homunculi of the Black Faction. But now, everything had reversed. It was as if someone raised on the vast plains had suddenly been thrust into the thin air of the highlands, gasping for breath in an oxygen-deprived world.

Saber only snapped out of his near-suffocating state when he noticed a gun aimed directly at his Master.

That moment, Saber became keenly aware of the mana coursing through the gunman’s body. Though he had yet to take on a physical form, his Pure Eyes had already activated.

This ability, though rankless, was imprinted upon his very soul. It allowed him to perceive the truth with unnatural clarity. As a Servant inherently attuned to magical energy, Saber could see through the man’s disguise at a glance.

He's a magus.

The amount of mana within the gunman wasn’t much, but it was unmistakable.

To Saber, the firearm posed no threat at all. But his Master had no means of defense—if he were shot, it would mean death or grievous injury.

Saber made his decision instantly.

He had no love for magi. Simply hearing the word magus filled him with fury.

Three times he had participated in the Holy Grail War. And every time, the magi he encountered had been insufferable. None more so than Kirei Kotomine, that sanctimonious fraud who had masqueraded as an Executor only to fully embrace magecraft.

Both by instinct and principle, Saber could not allow this magus to seize control of his Master’s Command Seals.

The moment he saw the gunman move to pull the trigger, Saber materialized from the void—his blade piercing the magus’ throat in a single decisive thrust.

Without even sparing a second glance at the corpse, he turned to his Master.

"Servant, Saber. Summoned in accordance with the ritual."

"I ask of you—are you my Master?"

Beneath the moonless sky, Saber appeared as little more than a shifting shadow—a pitch-black silhouette that seemed more akin to a vengeful specter than a heroic spirit. His very presence was chilling, almost demonic.

Yet, his Master showed no sign of doubt or hesitation. It was as if he had accepted Saber’s existence as a given.

Only then did Saber realize something odd.

His Master was blind.

"Your voice… it's strange. Do I know you?" The blind man—William—spoke cautiously, his tone edged with wariness. Perhaps he had heard the sound of the magus collapsing. Or maybe, he had even detected the faint, wet sound of blood pooling onto the pavement.

"No," Saber replied. "But now you do."

With that, he smoothly shifted the conversation. "Do you know what the Holy Grail War is?"

"I don’t," William admitted, shaking his head.

A civilian. A complete outsider, unknowingly dragged into the Grail War.

Saber could tell—his Master had no powerful mana reserves. Perhaps, he lacked even the ability to protect himself.

But oddly enough, Saber felt no frustration.

If anything, he was relieved.

No reckless orders from an overzealous Master. No risk of his Master exposing their identity through careless use of magecraft.

As long as the Command Seals remained hidden, no one would ever suspect that this blind man was a participant in the Holy Grail War.

The mana flowing from his Master was negligible. Under normal circumstances, Saber would have immediately assumed the form of Artoria, relying on Instinct and Avalon for survival.

But not this time.

Even though maintaining his Noble Phantasm consumed little mana—far less than the energy-devouring Mana Burst or high-grade Thaumaturgy—he knew he had to conserve every last drop.

It was fortunate, then, that Saber’s natural mana consumption was minimal. Had another Servant been summoned, William likely would have been drained dry the moment the summoning was complete.

With only D-rank mana, Saber’s reserves and output were limited.

Yet, even this was no small feat.

He must have some magical lineage, Saber thought. Perhaps not much, but at least enough to summon me.

For a magus from the Age of Gods, this level of mana was hardly an issue. More importantly, Saber was not a Caster—he didn’t rely on spells.

As long as he remained in this world, his combat abilities wouldn’t wane.

A Servant like him did not need to rely on magical bombardments or incantations. He needed only his sword.

"Wait a moment. I’ll explain the Holy Grail War to you soon," Saber said, striding toward the magus’ corpse.

Beneath the shadows, a faint violet glow flickered. Thin, thread-like tendrils of light reached from Saber’s fingertips, burrowing into the dead magus’ body.

Though breath had long since left the man, his body still retained traces of vitality. His mana, too, had yet to fully dissipate.

It would be wasteful to let it go unused.

Through ancient incantations, Saber absorbed the lingering magical energy.

His gaze then fell upon a metallic glint near the body—an old-fashioned revolver equipped with a silencer.

Even from a distance, he could tell: this was a fine weapon.

The night air was freezing, yet the magus' coat—an aged leather jacket—was tattered and threadbare.

Saber hadn’t noticed before, but now that he looked closer… this magus had been dirt-poor.

He searched the corpse’s pockets but found nothing of value—only half a box of bullets.

Is this guy really a magus? Saber scoffed internally.

Mundane weapons posed no threat to Servants. A mere bullet could never pierce spiritual form.

But to a human Master, a single shot to the head was lethal. And unlike magecraft, firearms had no mana signature—no detectable traces.

A truly indispensable tool for survival.

Testing the revolver’s weight in his grip, Saber found it surprisingly comfortable.

"How is he?" William’s voice broke the silence, his tone grave.

"He’s dead," Saber answered flatly.

Once, he would never have spoken of death so lightly.

But after witnessing countless Holy Grail Wars… after crossing swords with Sasaki Kojirō himself… he had long since become indifferent.

"You… killed him?"

William's voice spiked in alarm. His sunglasses nearly slipped from his face.

"Yes," Saber affirmed. "And this is just the beginning. More will die before this is over."

"Why?!" William's face paled beneath his dark-tinted lenses.

"Because this is war."

Saber’s words made him flinch.

"What war?!"

"The Holy Grail War," Saber repeated.

"I don’t want to be part of it."

Without hesitation, William turned to leave.

The dim moonlight barely illuminated his retreating figure. The flickering streetlamps did little to reveal where the road would lead.

His dark silhouette was swallowed by the night.

"Tell me… do you have a wish?"

The sound of footsteps came to an abrupt halt.

Half of William’s body had already disappeared into the darkness.

He did not turn back.

Instead, he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself,

"My home isn’t far from here."

He sounded hesitant. As if he had already guessed the answer.

"Then why did you come to this port?"

Saber’s low, rasping voice slithered into his ear. Like a devil whispering in the dark.

"I wanted to hear the sound of the ocean," William admitted honestly.

"And what color is your Command Seal?"

Saber’s reply came without hesitation.

"Red. The color of blood."

William was silent for a moment.

Then, in a firm voice, he spoke.

"I want to walk out of the darkness."

"I see... I see."

Saber suddenly took William’s hand.

A normal person might have recoiled in fear upon feeling the touch of an arm that was barely tangible—more ethereal than real. But a blind man would sense only the icy chill of the contact, nothing more.

"Master, follow me for now. We need to take cover. Someone is coming."

Without the slightest urgency, Saber guided William toward the warehouse. Once his Master was safely hidden inside, he issued a calm but firm warning.

"Don’t speak. If you do, you’ll die. The enemy is here."

With William concealed, Saber made no attempt to hide himself.

He stepped boldly into the open, standing directly beneath the glow of a streetlamp.

It didn’t take long before an unusual group of magi surrounded him.

These were not the kind of researchers one would find at the Clock Tower. If anything, they were better described as Magicians rather than Magi.

They did not devote themselves to the study of magecraft.

They fought for survival.

Each one carried modern firearms, and above them, white storks circled ceaselessly through the air.

Saber recognized these familiars.

Ilya had used them countless times before.

The Einzbern family’s magecraft.

These men had ties to the Three Founding Families.

They were mercenaries.

No homunculi in sight. Perhaps because they aren’t suited for combat, Saber speculated.

He lacked any ability to suppress his presence. On the contrary, his existence was like a beacon.

Ordinary magi had never seen a spirit as powerful as him.

And in the dead of night, Saber burned like the sun.

"May I ask which Servant you are?"

The instant the words left the magus' mouth, an icy aura spread outward, paralyzing the gathered men in place.

Saber scanned his surroundings. If they dared to approach so boldly, they must have a contingency plan.

Yet, his detection yielded nothing.

Though Saber lacked the refined tracking abilities of some, his Pure Eyes granted him extraordinary sensitivity to the flow of magical energy.

No mundane barrier—no wall, no structure—could obscure his vision.

And yet, within a thousand-meter radius, he detected no trace of any other Servants.

An Assassin, perhaps?

As Saber coolly assessed the situation, the white storks in the sky launched their assault.

But before their silver-white magical bullets could even touch him—before they even got close—they simply… vanished.

It wasn’t just the innate magic resistance granted by his class.

It was his mastery over magecraft itself.

The instant those bullets entered his proximity, they were unraveled—consumed—converted into nourishment for his own power.

Using modern magecraft against an ancient hero?

How utterly foolish.

The pitch-black shadow that was Saber shifted forward.

A piercing, grating sound shrieked through the night.

In an instant, the sky was filled with cascading feathers—no, not feathers.

Falling strands of hair.

The white stork familiars had been obliterated, reduced to nothing but drifting remnants.

A cold northern wind swept past, carrying those scattered locks into the vast, indifferent ocean.

The attack had triggered something.

Saber’s crimson eyes gleamed like embers in the dark.

The black-clad swordsman, illuminated by the pale moonlight, had become death incarnate.

With the slightest press of his thumb, the spring mechanism of Avalon was released.

As Durandal left its sheath, it traced a perfect silver arc beneath the moon—

—and blood rained upon the earth.

Plip.

This wasn’t a battle.

It wasn’t even worth describing.

---

T/N: when did Avalon get a spring mechanism lmaooo

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!