This Is My Holy Grail War [154]

In the Russian Far East, there was a modern city called Blanche. To the west of the city lay a peculiar ring-shaped mountain, while to the north, a straight-flowing river cut through the landscape. The river’s waters were crystal clear, and at its eastern estuary, a deep-sea port had been constructed for ocean-going vessels.

On the surface, this port looked no different from any other. Aside from the frequent sight of disheveled sailors downing vodka by the docks and casually tossing their bottles into the vast ocean, everything appeared mundane and ordinary.
But if one could peer beneath the sea’s surface, they would discover something unusual—an unnaturally precise rupture on the ocean floor.

Experts once claimed that a massive geological fault lay beneath the city, which had been built beside a naturally formed mountain range. The northern river, though unnervingly straight like a taut rope, was still lauded as a marvel of nature.

And so, the coastal city of Blanche became known as the "City of Miracles," a famed tourist destination renowned far and wide.

The city's fishing and shipbuilding industries flourished, and its open port attracted countless immigrants, shaping it into a diverse and cosmopolitan metropolis.

However, those who dwelled in the hidden side of the world knew exactly what these so-called miracles truly were.

The notion of nature’s divine craftsmanship was nothing but the belief of the ignorant. In truth, this was the site of a grand feast for magi—a battlefield of mystical devastation. The ruined landscape bore the marks of ancient heroes' Noble Phantasms.

Those summoned to this feast were granted the right to compete for the Holy Grail. Not the sacred chalice that bore divine blood, but an artificial miracle—an omnipotent wish-granting device, crafted by the Einzbern family to fulfill any desire!

Yet, ordinary people remained blissfully unaware. Lacking the qualifications to touch upon the mysteries of the world, they lived unknowingly under the control of others.

Marlon curled his lips in disdain, sneering at these foolish, ignorant Muggles. Not only did they lack any magical aptitude, but they also lived in the dark, oblivious—like a herd of simple-minded sheep!

The night was deathly quiet. At the docks, cargo ships were unloading their containers under the cover of darkness. High-powered floodlights illuminated the murky seawater, casting long reflections of the mechanical cranes.

Unloading cargo at night always brought unnecessary trouble and increased the risk of accidents. A single mistake could send a shipping container plunging into the ocean’s depths. Yet, some matters had to be handled at this hour. The port was too crowded during the day, making covert operations difficult and unexpected incidents hard to manage.

Magi would go to great lengths to conceal the existence of the supernatural, ensuring that outsiders never caught a glimpse of their family secrets.

Marlon Vegara Falkrein.

His lineage as a magus wasn’t deep. He lacked a powerful Magic Crest, and his mentor was nothing more than a commoner—not one of the illustrious masters of the Clock Tower.

But Marlon had a dream. He aspired to be a modern Solomon, a true sovereign of magecraft! Not just a mere "King of a Single Department" as defined by the Clock Tower, but the undisputed monarch of magic itself.

As a second-generation magus, Marlon’s father had not even been a magus when Marlon was born. His childhood education was no different from that of an ordinary person—until the year he first learned of magecraft. His father had stumbled upon the threshold of mystery, and Marlon had followed him into the hidden world.

At the time, he was merely ten years old. But the fantastical power of magic revealed his destiny, igniting an unquenchable hunger for strength. He swore to become the greatest magus the world had ever known!

Yet, others mocked his ambition as mere fantasy. Despite being his classmates, they flaunted their prestigious bloodlines and humiliated him without restraint. The old traditionalists disregarded fairness entirely, choosing to ostracize him.

Without a noble lineage or an inherited Magic Crest to support him, he lacked even the means to argue back. He could only be trampled underfoot.

Marlon Vegara Falkrein refused to accept this.
He would not accept this.

Gradually, he became obsessed with modern magecraft. The fusion of ancient mysteries with contemporary technology convinced him that he far surpassed those stubborn old relics and wastrels. But he needed proof—irrefutable evidence that his beliefs were correct.

Upon discovering records of the Holy Grail War, he abandoned everything and traveled to the Far East in secret. However, he had acted too hastily, and his budget was pitifully low—far from enough to afford the purchase of a Holy Relic.

Marlon had his pride. He would neither steal nor resort to petty theft. But how, then, was he supposed to obtain a Holy Relic?

That problem didn’t trouble him for long, because the Holy Grail War was no ordinary ritual—it was a war.
And in war, wasn’t it perfectly natural to seize an enemy’s relic? That wouldn’t be robbery. It would be the rightful spoils of battle!

Marlon lay hidden in the shadows of a warehouse at the docks, waiting to ambush an Einzbern family vessel. More precisely, he needed to steal at least one Holy Relic.

The Einzbern family was well-known, but their expertise lay in alchemy. They weren’t warriors—Marlon was sure of that.

The northern wind was bitterly cold. The rhythmic, undulating waves echoed in his ears as he waited anxiously. Time seemed to crawl at a glacial pace, making him feel as though dawn was already upon him. Just as he considered closing his eyes for a brief rest, he suddenly snapped to attention.

"The cargo is here. It’s time for payment, isn’t it?"

At last. The voice was distant and faint, but Marlon caught it.
Peering through the darkness, he spotted them—Einzbern homunculi.

Yes, it’s them!

After a brief exchange, the soulless dolls retrieved an object from the mercenaries hired by the Mage’s Association.

It was a scabbard.

That had to be a Holy Relic!

Marlon’s excitement surged. If this scabbard was what he suspected, then the Servant it could summon was undoubtedly a Saber!

Rubbing his hands together, his eyes burned with desire.

According to the records, the Saber class was unquestionably the strongest. If he could summon Saber, and then exploit the weaknesses of the other magi, victory would be within reach!

"No problem." After verifying the cargo, a white-haired homunculus gave a slight bow. As the two sides completed the exchange, Marlon recognized his opportunity.

Now’s my chance!

With a sharp press, he detonated the bombs he had planted throughout the docks.

Boom—!

The explosion engulfed everything in a sea of fire.

Marlon knew that while magi were hyper-sensitive to magical energy, they were utterly ignorant of modern weaponry. If he had used magic, they would have detected it instantly. But with technology? They were completely blind to it!

As the shockwave subsided and the debris settled, Marlon dashed toward the wreckage. Snatching up the scabbard, he turned to flee—only to be met with a furious outcry.

"Bastard! You’ll pay for my brothers’ lives!"

The furious roar behind him sent a chill down Marlon’s spine. He turned back to see countless white stork familiars patrolling the area, accompanied by a swarm of mercenaries with vicious expressions.

They were looking for him.

For the first time, sheer terror gripped Marlon. He suddenly realized—he hadn’t planned a proper escape route!

With no other options, he bolted. Running along the port, along the sea. If he found himself completely cornered, he would have no choice but to dive into the water.

The aftermath of the explosion kicked up thick clouds of dust. Taking advantage of the obscured visibility, he sprinted for his life.

Where should he run? In his inexperience, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Every ounce of his focus had been on stealing the Holy Relic. And now that he had the scabbard… it seemed his own life was hanging by a thread.

The pressure forced him into an unnatural state of calm. He didn’t panic. He didn’t act foolishly. Marlon knew his magical energy was limited, meaning they couldn’t track him using mana detection. This had always been a weakness, but today, it had turned into his greatest advantage.

By the time the dust and smoke had fully settled, he had already hidden himself.

To his left was a wall—scaling it would take him straight into the sea. To his right were rows upon rows of stacked shipping containers. The narrow space between them meant that no light could reach him.

All he needed to do now was find a way out, blend in, and pretend to be an ordinary civilian. That was his best shot at survival.

Moving cautiously along the shadows of the containers, he took care not to make a sound. Step by step, he inched his way forward.

He had no idea how much time had passed. His legs had long since gone numb, his body stiff from tension. How big is this damn warehouse?!

Just as he painstakingly shuffled his way to the exit, before he could step fully outside, he saw them—several mercenaries passing right by him.

Marlon held his breath, waiting in absolute silence.

To his astonishment, they didn’t notice him. They had already checked this area and had overlooked him entirely.

Concealed behind a dimly lit column, Marlon exhaled in relief.

They’re gone!

Elated, he scrambled out of his hiding spot, turning to run—only for his haste to betray him. He stumbled, and the scabbard slipped from his grasp, soaring through the air.

With a crisp clatter, it landed at the feet of a man dressed in a black suit.

The lighting near the dockside warehouses was dim, with only a few aged streetlights at either end of the road. Some flickered erratically, buzzing as if they might burn out at any moment.

Beneath the hazy glow of those faulty streetlamps stretched a damp concrete path that disappeared into darkness.

And there, standing motionless upon the cold pavement, was a strange man. His unsettling stillness sent a shiver through Marlon’s gut.

The man wasn’t even walking in the middle of the road. He was carefully tracing the path’s tactile paving, stepping cautiously along the bumpy surface meant for the visually impaired.

He wore dark sunglasses. A cane rested in his hand.

A blind man.

The scabbard had landed right at his feet, and the impact seemed to have made him pause.

"Hey, blindy," Marlon spat venomously. "Pick up what’s in front of your feet and hand it over."

The blind man tilted his head, puzzled. "What is it?" He nudged the scabbard lightly with his foot.

"None of your damn business!" Marlon snapped. He didn’t dare use magecraft—doing so could expose him. He was terrified that the Einzbern family’s people might double back. Even more terrified that those mercenaries would rip him to shreds.

But while Marlon feared them, he didn’t fear some random civilian. Least of all a blind one.

In fact, a surge of arrogance swelled within him. He could’ve just bent down and picked up the scabbard himself, but no—he wanted this fool to know his place.

"I heard an explosion just now," the blind man said, his tone calm. "And a lot of footsteps. You should be careful. It sounds dangerous."

Marlon’s eyebrow twitched. "Shut up and hand over the scabbard!"

"Is it yours?"

"Obviously!"

The blind man fumbled for a moment before finally picking it up. Just as he was about to pass it over, Marlon’s breath hitched.

A Command Seal had surfaced on the blind man’s hand.

It hadn’t been there before. It only appeared the moment his fingers touched the scabbard.

A downward arc. Two intersecting slashes.

Three strokes, forming the unmistakable crest of a Master.

A blind man… with a Command Seal?

How could the Holy Grail respond to a mere civilian?

What wish could a blind man possibly have?!

Realization struck him like lightning.

He just summoned a Servant!

And the catalyst—was the very scabbard in his hand.

Wait. Where was the scabbard?!

Marlon’s eyes darted around in panic, but it was gone.

In the blink of an eye, the Holy Relic had vanished.

"You bastard! Give me back my relic!" Marlon roared, fury boiling over. "That’s mine!" He had risked everything to steal that scabbard!

The blind man tilted his head. "What relic?"

The Servant had already been summoned! This bastard was mocking him!

Marlon saw red. He didn’t dare use magecraft, but that didn’t mean he was defenseless.

Reaching into his coat, he yanked out a silenced revolver. He didn’t care if the blind man could see or not—he pressed the barrel straight to his forehead.

"You lie to me again, and I’ll put a bullet in your skull."

He instinctively cocked the hammer, then realized something. This idiot can’t even see the gun.

Fine. He would make him understand.

He pressed the muzzle against the man’s forehead.

"A gun?" The blind man murmured. He had recognized the sound.

"That’s right." Marlon smirked. "Didn’t expect you to have good ears."

The blind man took a sharp step back, his voice suddenly tense. "What… what do you want?"

"Give me my Servant!" Marlon bellowed, beyond enraged. "You damn Muggle! Or I’ll blow your brains out!"

"I don’t have your—"

"Liar!"

Marlon pulled the trigger.

But he never got the chance.

A searing flash carved through the darkness—slicing open his throat before he could make a sound.

Blood gushed in torrents, drowning his voice in thick, bubbling agony. A heavy crimson mist clouded his vision.

He collapsed, choking on his own life. His limbs spasmed as he clawed at the wound, but his strength was fading fast.

And then, through the eerie silver glow of the moonlight, he saw him.

A figure, clad in black armor.

A warrior, standing tall in the night.

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

"I ask of you—are you my Master?"

The voice was deep, almost hollow, yet it struck Marlon with piercing clarity.

It should have been me.

Saber—the strongest class!

Those words should have been directed at him.

But they weren’t.

Pain. Rage. Utter despair.

Marlon struggled, trying to form words, to scream, to demand why he wasn’t chosen.

But he couldn’t even open his mouth.

Because Saber’s blade had already run him through.

To his dying breath, Marlon never understood the truth.

He had always thought the others were fools—whether they were magi or ordinary people.

But in the end, he had been the biggest fool of them all.

---

T/N: hmm is this an original war hmm

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!