This Is My Holy Grail War [208]

My King, that man is an executer…
Through their contract, the vassal conveyed to Archer the identity of the one who had fought the Dead Apostle.

At first, Archer had assumed the man was just another repulsive servant of the gods. But now… it was clear—his soul, though human, was remarkably pure. This realization left Archer with conflicted feelings: a mix of disdain and reluctant admiration.

He stood atop the flickering streetlamp, his wine-red eyes gleaming like the world’s most precious gemstones. Head held high, gaze imperial, Archer surveyed the earth beneath him with contemptuous grace. He was a king by nature—everything, from treasure to wisdom, belonged within his grasp.

And yet, of all the priceless artifacts in his vault, one kind of treasure had never found its way inside: humanity itself. The kind of humans who sang of courage—those, Archer had always wanted to claim.

Rain lashed the earth in heavy sheets. Gilgamesh studied the black-robed executer with interest. Water slid down the man’s body in perfect arcs, tracing the lines of muscle and cloth as it fell to the ground. He hadn’t left after the kill; instead, he was praying for the dead. He traced a cross over his chest, his voice solemn and practiced.

Archer could hear the grief buried deep in the man’s heart—hidden, but real. The rain beat endlessly against the executer’s dark robes. Archer expected to see tears fall, but the man was already drenched. He couldn’t tell if the water running down his face was rain… or sorrow.

“The dead are gone. The living must carry on,” Archer muttered, watching as the executer offered prayers only for the infected corpses—not for the Dead Apostle, whose body lay in tattered pieces. “Why don’t you pray for that mongrel too?” he asked, resting his chin on one hand.

“I pray for humans, not monsters,” the executer replied with a frown, lifting his gaze. Only then did Archer get a clear look at his face—and understood: this man grieved for the dead because they had been human. He wept for those consumed by infection.

Archer glanced at the corpse on the ground. He knew full well—they had been human only moments ago. His initial rage at the Dead Apostle surged again… but now it was laced with something else. Excitement.

“Ha ha ha ha!” Archer laughed as he leapt from the tall lamppost. The king, who had always looked down from above, now stood on level ground with a mortal. “Tell me, foolish mongrel—what is your name?!”

“Alfonso,” the executer replied.

Rain poured down as Archer landed, soaking his golden hair. He released the barrier that had shielded him from the rain, allowing it to strike his regal face—just as Alfonso had done.

Even soaked in rain, I am flawless.

Thinking so, Archer pulled from his treasury a jeweled golden wine set—one flask, two goblets.

“Rejoice, mongrel. Rejoice, for you now stand in the company of a king,” he said with amused arrogance. “Come. Drink. A toast to victory—for you, too, have vanquished mongrels tonight.”

“…All right.”

Alfonso’s voice still carried suspicion, but he was already subdued by the king’s overwhelming presence.

Together, they stepped under the store’s eaves to avoid the rain. Outside the empty night shop, Archer poured him a drink. He lifted his goblet with elegance and sipped lightly.

Only the finest vintages rest in my vault. Today, you shall taste one.

Alfonso drank without expression. The clear liquor burned pleasantly down his throat, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. But after only two cups, he stopped. Despite an evident inner struggle, he didn’t ask for more.

“Oh? Only two? Are you saying my wine is unworthy?” Archer asked.

“No. But no matter how fine the wine, I cannot allow myself to be drunk,” Alfonso replied simply.

That answer earned him even more favor in Archer’s eyes.

My King, many eyes are watching. Please refrain from revealing your Noble Phantasms so carelessly.

Hmph. After such a glorious clash with Lancer, you still nitpick over these trifles? What a buzzkill, magus.

“Tch… I’d almost forgotten. Those mongrels lurking in the shadows…” Archer’s voice dropped, his teeth gritted with irritation.

“I was told the Servants summoned for the Grail War were all heroes. So I believed. But now—now I see the truth: among so-called heroes… there are mongrels aplenty!”

His voice thundered across the cloud-covered city.

“Look at this beautiful land! Look at its suffering people! You, summoned by the Grail, hailed as heroes—yet you feast on human blood while mankind bleeds. Where are your noble hands now? Why do you not act?!”

He stomped the ground. Cracks splintered outward beneath his heel as he shouted to the city beneath the storm.

“The Grail may call you heroes, but to me, you are nothing more than deceivers and thieves—vermin pretending at greatness!”

My King, please—calm yourself.

Hamit, flustered, tried to intervene, but Archer barked back.

Silence, mongrel! This is no concern of yours!

“To call this thing a wish-granting relic—what a farce!” Archer flung out his arm. “To summon mongrels like you alongside me—it’s an insult!”

He had entered this war on a whim. But after encountering Lancer, he had begun taking it seriously. And now—now his fury was genuine.

His roar echoed across the empty earth, but no answer came. It was like shouting into a still sea. No waves, no reply—only silence.

No one dared respond? So be it. Vermin are vermin. Even the Grail is a mockery, made by mongrel hands.

He turned, ready to leave—when laughter echoed through the dark.

Someone had answered him.

A Servant. A woman, perhaps?

Black mist swirled into the air. Wisps of purple light danced atop a streetlamp. Even before turning, Archer could smell danger. Whoever this was… actually posed a threat.

“Drinking with a mortal, Gilgamesh? That doesn’t suit your character,” a voice teased. Wind howled. The rain, too, seemed to welcome her arrival.

That’s a Caster. High magical energy, but low endurance and physical strength, the vassal reported, relaying everything he saw.

But why would a Caster leave her workshop? That makes no sense…

Dazzling magic. A sultry voice. Robes of royal splendor. And that stench—the stench of a witch.

“Oh? So the little rat in hiding knows my name?” Archer’s face twisted with contempt. “Then why haven’t you come forward to kneel before your king?”

He didn’t look at her. She stood above him now, and he would never raise his head to a rat.

“To look down on me from above… do you want to die, mongrel?”

Swish—!

Without ceremony, Archer tossed a Noble Phantasm at her like one might swat a fly.

What happened next defied expectations.

Caster—clearly a magus—drew a sword.

Hamit had said her physical strength was low, yet she shattered the weapon Archer threw at her.

Only then did Archer realize: he had thrown a spear.

“You dare destroy a treasure from my vault?!” he roared.

Above them, a golden sea bloomed—dozens of Gate of Babylon portals lit the sky, turning stormy black to blinding gold.

“Oh my. That was a treasure? It broke so easily, I assumed it was trash,” the witch said mockingly. “If you’re really mad… then draw that sword.”

At the mention of [Ea], Archer froze. He did not fling more weapons, nor did he draw his pride—his sword of rupture.

This Caster… not only knew his true name, but also his treasures. She even knew of [Ea’s] power—and yet showed no fear.

Archer’s face grew grim. He searched his memories, trying to place this “old friend.” But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t remember knowing such a witch.

He unlocked [Sha Naqba Imuru]—his omniscient, omnipotent vision—yet all he saw was a wash of white. Past, future… nothing. A blank void.

Instead of throwing more indiscriminately, he calmly drew sixteen B-ranked Noble Phantasms and aimed them. Not too powerful, not too weak. Enough to probe.

Now, he saw her clearly: a pure white mask with no facial features. It concealed her identity utterly. Past, future, present—nothing could glimpse her truth.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—

Weapons tore through the rain. Sonic booms cracked in the air.

But the witch danced between them like a swallow in flight. Light-footed, elegant, untouchable. It was almost… beautiful.

And despite the onslaught, she didn’t fall. She stood firm atop the streetlamp, not a scratch on her—or the lamp.

A vein throbbed at Archer’s temple. He suppressed it.

He would not treat this war as a game.

“You. Are you truly a Caster?” he demanded.

It would’ve made sense if she’d used magic. But she’d cut down his Noble Phantasms—every single B-ranked weapon—with a sword. They had been shattered, beyond retrieval. They were dead.

“Maybe I’m a Caster. Maybe Saber. Or Assassin. Or even Berserker.” The witch’s voice curled with laughter.

“Mongrel. Spouting nonsense.”

Archer began to raise the Gate again, summoning even more treasures.

“It’s pointless. No matter how many weapons you hurl, they won’t even scratch me,” the witch sneered. “Unless… you use [Ea].”

Her tone was derisive. “That kind of attack would only trouble an amateur.”

She’s trying to provoke me.

Archer saw it clearly now—she was plotting something.

So he didn’t attack.

He shifted to defense instead, curious to see what trick this witch would play next.

“Come on, Heroic King. Where’s that invincible presence of yours? You’re acting like a coward today. Draw your sword. Fight me for real.” Her taunts didn’t stop. “Without [Ea], you’re not even worth taking seriously.”

“A joke. You think I’d draw [Ea] for a rat like you?” Archer scoffed. No matter how angry he got, he wouldn’t waste his crown jewel on a worm. He was curious—what gave her such confidence?

“Oh? Why so quiet, mongrel? Tired of looking up at me from below?” Her voice cut like a blade. “I quite enjoy looking down on you from here.”

She crushed the streetlamp underfoot with a crack. Her provocations continued—but Archer only smiled.

Ah… you truly know me. You even found my reverse scale. It’s no easy feat to enrage me while I hold it down.

Though he wasn't yet angry, killing intent flared plainly in his eyes.

Caster… you want to provoke me? Think it’s that easy? You know me inside and out—my weapons, my habits. You even broke through my future sight. You came prepared. So I’ll respond in kind.

If you want to see me furious… then I’ll do the opposite. Let’s see what you do next.
Archer thought to himself.

“Hmph. To think such petty barbs could measure the heart of a king—how laughable, mongrel. You—”

But then, his ruby-red eyes ignited.

They blazed with fire—the kind that could burn down the world.

“MAGUS!!! DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH?!”

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T/N: when is the seggs

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!