This Is My Holy Grail War [206]

Dusk fell heavily upon the town. As the last streak of red faded from the horizon, a shroud of dark clouds enveloped the sky. Torrential rain hammered the earth, and in mere moments, the overflowing downpour turned streets and alleys into a latticework of rivers. The sky grew ever darker, clouds gathering in oppressive masses until the city was wholly swallowed in gloom.

The air was thick and muggy, tinged with the raw scent of earth. Passing cars sent sheets of water spraying in their wake.

The rain’s come late tonight. He was the Lord’s executer, a servant who only truly began his work once night had fallen. Alfonso wondered whether the rain would stop at all—if it didn’t, tonight’s purge would be far more difficult.

He frowned as he gazed down the endless road ahead. Looks like I’ll be running into Dead Apostles again. This was one of the worst nights he’d seen. The weather was unusually fickle.

He had to raise the file he was carrying above his head to shield it from the rain. The documents themselves weren’t waterproof, but at least the plastic cover kept the worst of the rain off.

Lord, have mercy on me, he prayed, as freezing water lashed his cheeks.

The file he held was important—a record concerning the Holy Grail War. But now it was serving as an improvised umbrella. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the war… more that he resented the suddenness of it all.

Alfonso had no desire for the Holy Grail, nor did he intend to summon a Servant. As the Church’s executer in this city, he had only one mission: to purge every Dead Apostle drawn here by the Grail’s lure.

He wasn’t a man who killed for pleasure, but there were those who, without question, deserved to die. The rain may have washed the scent of blood from his body, but it could never cleanse the memories of the slain from his mind.

Children, women, the sick and elderly—none could escape the devastation. The Apostles needed blood, and so they infected humans. And those bitten rose again, as mindless corpses…

Once turned, the dead became frenzied husks. And as an executer, it was Alfonso’s duty to protect the living—even if it meant killing his own people with his own two hands.

He had watched helplessly as his kin—brothers, sisters, neighbors—were turned into the undead. Shaking, he had driven his blade into their flesh.

He gritted his teeth and slaughtered them—husbands shielding their wives, brothers bonded by blood, innocent children. Alfonso could read the dead by their clothes, their expressions, their gestures. He saw the people they once were. Still, he suppressed his grief and raised his Black Key.

He stabbed with cold detachment, withdrew with blank indifference. Only when he killed the last of them did he weep. His tears, falling with the rain, soaked his clothes and mingled with the downpour. In the end, there was no telling where the rain ended and his sorrow began.

Alfonso remembered the vow he made when he first became an executer—to fight for the prosperity of mankind.

And yet now, he was slaughtering his own.

He prayed that someday, a cure would be found for this affliction. That the infected could be saved. That his blade would no longer need to pierce human flesh.

But until that day came, he had no choice. When he saw the infected, he had to grit his teeth—and kill them. He was the executioner…

“Lord of Hosts, purge my sins,” he murmured aloud, mouth open to the sky—only to taste the grit and bitterness of muddy rain. He was the Lord’s executer, a priest prepared to walk through Hell itself for the sake of humanity.

The rain usually stopped by nightfall in this region. The wet season followed a pattern Alfonso had grown used to. But the past few days had been erratic. Something in the land’s leylines had begun to shift. Not just here—he could feel the disturbances reaching out to the distant islands as well.

That morning, Father Ramon had informed him: all seven Servants had been summoned. The Holy Grail War had officially begun. Alfonso had to be ready for the aftermath.

Because of it, this once-quiet town was experiencing a strange kind of boom. Forces from outside had begun to gather. Unknown magi now numbered in the dozens.

Wiping the water off his compass, Alfonso pushed through the downpour. It took him a long time to finally find his way home.

His residence was a simple apartment. The only unusual feature was the reinforced steel door. No elaborate wards, no mystic sigils. Just steel. Alfonso pulled a warm key from his pocket and opened the door like any man returning late at night.

His clothes were covered in mud. He kicked off his soaked shoes in the entryway.

The apartment was neat, filled with standard modern furniture. Alfonso didn’t spare it a glance. He went straight to the kitchen. He was hungry, thirsty, exhausted—and a little sleepy.

Just as he was about to cook his dinner, the door knocked—loudly. No doorbell, just three heavy thud thud thuds that shook the frame like an earthquake.

Alfonso cracked the door just slightly, leaving the chain locked in place. Through the narrow slit, he saw a bald man.

A bald man, standing outside in the pouring night rain, asking to be let in. It was unsettling, to say the least. His gleaming scalp shone like a lightbulb despite the darkness and the downpour.

“Sorry, I don’t follow Buddha,” Alfonso said, trying to shut the door.

But the man grabbed it. He was strong. The steel door creaked and groaned as the two of them strained against it.

“No problem. I don’t either.” The bald man gave a thumbs-up and flashed a sunny smile. His teeth were so white Alfonso nearly went blind.

Salel—an Apostle. One of the rare few who could suppress his thirst for blood. He was under constant observation by the Church. On the surface, he seemed like a gentle, simple man, almost monk-like. But no one knew his true age, nor had anyone seen him fight. His strength remained a mystery.

“I smelled malt,” Salel said, trying to barge in. Alfonso pushed back, holding his ground.

That’s just a day-old biscuit. It smells like malt because of the flour, but that was yesterday.

Apostles were far stronger than ordinary humans—but Alfonso wasn’t ordinary either. His body had been partially replaced with mechanical prosthetics—not just for injury, but for combat.

The reinforced steel door screeched under their struggle. Any more pressure, and it might snap.

“I smelled malt,” Salel repeated, thick-skinned as ever, still trying to force his way in.

With a sigh, Alfonso let go.

BANG.

Salel stumbled forward with the sudden release and smacked his head on the floor.

GONG!

The sound was like a bell tolling. Alfonso winced—not out of concern for the Apostle, but for his floor.

Salel couldn’t walk in sunlight, but he never stole or killed. Night jobs weren’t easy to find—especially for a bald man. So every evening, like clockwork, he’d show up here to scrounge a meal.

The first time they met, Alfonso nearly cut him down on sight. But after a few conversations, he realized Salel was different.

He could speak. He had a will of his own. He could resist the bloodlust. When asked how he viewed blood, Salel admitted to suffering from "blood fever." It was painful to suppress, but he tried to endure. He’d smiled under the sun when he said it—back when that smile hadn’t blinded Alfonso quite so much.

Salel was a textbook drifter, only active at night. Seeing him dripping wet, Alfonso sighed. His bald head practically glowed under the rain.

Looks like he’s staying over again tonight.

Stuffing the dry biscuit into his mouth, Alfonso watched the Apostle devour leftovers like a starved beast. If the key to curing the Dead really lay in this man… well, it didn’t inspire much confidence.

Alfonso opened the file and pulled out the Grail War documents. He still didn’t understand the ritual very well. Now was a good time to catch up.

He didn’t bother serving Salel in the kitchen. A formal dinner wasn’t worth the effort for this shameless mooch. Instead, he sat in the living room and used the coffee table as a dining surface.

“By the way, Alfonso, I smelled other Apostles,” Salel said after finishing his meal. He scratched his head sheepishly and added, “They gave me a bad feeling. I smelled blood…”

“I already killed two of them. They were feeding,” Alfonso said, frowning. He looked at Salel seriously. “Speaking of which, it’s been a long time since you’ve had any ‘blood,’ hasn’t it?” He closed the file as he spoke.

Not all blood was suitable for Apostles. It had to carry magical energy and human genetic structure. If the quality was poor, then quantity had to make up for it.

Alfonso had known Salel for a long time, and never once had he caught the scent of blood on him. At first, he thought Salel had found a way to suppress the urge. Later, he realized the man was resisting through sheer willpower.

But the human mind and soul have their limits…

Alfonso frowned. He had started thinking of Salel as human—as a compatriot. He never afforded that to other Apostles.

He wasn’t sure how much longer Salel could hold on. He feared the man’s fall. If the thirst was never quenched, Salel would surely die. But if he tasted blood again… there would be no turning back.

Salel didn’t respond. The moment Alfonso uttered the word “blood,” veins bulged at his temple. His teeth clenched tight, grinding audibly—like they might shatter at any moment.

“I’m… not feeling great. They invited me, too,” Salel said, sitting rigidly upright. The words squeezed out between his teeth.

“They? You mean the Apostles?” Alfonso’s eyes widened. Apostles recruiting one another—that spelled danger.

“Yeah.” Salel nodded, his head flashing under the white ceiling light.

“What did you say?”

“I said no.”

“And then?”

“So I came here to mooch dinner,” Salel said simply. “I’m starving…”

He ate normal human food. Whether it truly sustained him was anyone’s guess.

“Are you still holding up?” Alfonso asked, genuinely concerned. “You don’t look much different.”

“Still managing… but I might need to sleep for a bit,” Salel admitted. “I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. My head feels foggy all the time.”

“Then rest here. No one will bother you tonight.” Alfonso opened the bedroom door. “It’s quiet. You can sleep soundly until morning.”

Though he lived alone, Alfonso often hosted other Church operatives. There was always a guest bed prepared.

“Thanks. You’re the best executer I’ve ever met,” Salel said gratefully.

“No need for thanks. I’m just helping a human being.” Alfonso emphasized the word human. He feared what would happen if this man fell. Then, once again, he’d have to become the executioner.

“Oh, right—there were Apostles in the South District. I smelled them,” Salel said, pointing toward the window. “You might want to check it out.” With that, he collapsed into bed and was asleep before Alfonso could reply.

Silence returned.

As Salel slipped into deep slumber, a white dove descended from the sky and landed on Alfonso’s shoulder. It was the messenger of Father Ramon.

“How is the vampire holding up?”

“His genes haven’t collapsed yet,” Alfonso answered vaguely.

Apostles didn’t live forever. Blood was more than sustenance—it was the key to maintaining their structure. Without it, their bodies would eventually collapse. Only the True Ancestors were exempt.

This area of study was taboo. No one could agree whether the cause was physical or spiritual. Alfonso wasn’t an expert. He left that to the scholars in the Church.

Salel was under close Church observation. If he could survive without blood, then perhaps the secret to curing the Dead could be found in him. And maybe—just maybe—executers like Alfonso would no longer have to cut down their own.

For who would choose to become a butcher, violating sacred doctrine, unless they truly loved humanity?

“Holy One, have mercy on their suffering. Heal them of their affliction.” He traced a cross over his heart.

And thus, Alfonso offered a prayer—for a Dead Apostle.

For in the eyes of God, all creatures were equal. Be they beast or monster.

But if Salel could no longer be saved…

Then Alfonso would be the one to end him.

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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!