This Is My Holy Grail War [203]

“Such peaceful air…”

Though Assassin had yet to fully manifest—his Noble Phantasm dormant, his body not yet materialized—his heightened senses, even in spirit form, allowed him to feel the subtle currents of air drifting through the space.

“I wonder what became of that city in the end… A war without a victor—how pointless.”

A solemn radiance bathed the great hall.

Assassin awoke from the darkness of rebirth. Around him was a sacred brilliance, yet he alone remained shrouded in pitch black.

In that gleaming sanctum, a blot of pure shadow formed—the only stain upon a field of light. No matter how brightly the church shone, it could not pierce the darkness cloaking Assassin’s face. Shadows obscured his features, swallowed his form whole.

He scanned his surroundings, taking in every detail. He thirsted for strength, for the Holy Grail. Today, a new power surged within him.

Assassin became aware of a presence—Angra Mainyu, the evil of humanity—pulsing inside him. This was no ordinary summoning. The Avenger class had been forcibly activated. The Einzbern, ever scheming, had clearly made their own modifications in pursuit of greater power. Using the corrupted remnants drawn from Fuyuki’s Grail, they had granted him a dual Class.

This was a grand ritual. The sacrifices offered by the summoners were immense; Assassin could still sense the residual mana clinging to the earth. The crimson summoning circle glowed faintly, and atop it, a red cloak lay draped—its color sharp and vivid. Assassin immediately understood its significance.

This was no random summoning. He had been chosen.

“I am Servant Assassin, summoned in accordance with your call,” he declared aloud. Yet even as he spoke, his gaze lingered on the cloak. He recognized it immediately: a relic of the King of Conquerors. Waver’s most treasured possession. But Assassin had only seen half of it.

“I ask you: are you my Master?!”

His voice crashed like thunder through the cathedral, the sheer weight of it shaking the rafters. The oppressive force of his words pressed against all present, making it hard to breathe.

In truth, he already knew the answer. He could feel the pulse of the contract—he had even glimpsed its inevitable end.

No one dared speak. Even the homunculi, lifeless constructs that they were, stood in silence.

“…Yes.” The unfamiliar magus finally opened his lips. His voice trembled, but there was no hesitation. He faced Assassin’s overwhelming pressure without flinching—a testament to his will. But Assassin didn’t respond directly. Instead, he addressed someone else.

“Would you mind if I broke the rules of the Holy Grail War… and summoned a second Servant? I am a magus, after all. I assume the Einzbern have no objections to bending the rules—again.”

He was speaking to the old man seated before the altar—not truly a man, but a terminal unit. A magical AI fashioned from flesh, created by mages with the sole purpose of completing the Holy Grail. After the disciples of the Magicians realized the Third Magic could not be reached, they had given up. But the AI had not. Its program never ceased. The Einzbern family’s goal had long since shifted from pursuing the Grail to winning it.

Magi were ruthless in their pursuit of ends—but the AI was something else entirely. It never rested, never relented. It would continue until it broke.

The Einzbern did not care about rules. They cared only for victory.

“They won’t object… so long as you win,” his Master answered calmly, the pressure still hanging in the air. That response caught Assassin off guard—this Master knew the Einzbern far more intimately than he had expected.

“Servant… summon… Servant?” the old man muttered hoarsely, coughing weakly. He didn’t argue, clearly accepting Assassin’s rationale. Though he appeared vigorous, Assassin could see through him—the old man’s life force flickered like a candle in the wind.

“The Holy Grail War summons seven magi as Masters to summon seven Servants. The Command Seals mark their selection,” Assassin recited, his voice slow and deliberate. “But I too… am a magus.”

“Can you maintain combat efficiency?” The old man’s tone remained skeptical.

Though not of the Caster class, Assassin had more than enough magical energy. He was a magus from the Age of Gods, and in this war, his mana output ranked at A+.

“Without question,” Assassin replied. The heavy fog obscuring his face made his nod seem ghostlike.

“Very well. I’ll have the spare relics collected at once. We’ll prepare a new summoning ritual.” The elder's tone shifted; he was now wholly committed to assisting Assassin.

But before that, he turned to Assassin’s Master with a question.

Cough, cough. 

Another dry rattle escaped his throat. His voice had grown slower, rougher. “To obtain the relic that allowed us to summon you, we’ve made many enemies. But it was worth it. This… this is the catalyst Lord El-Melloi himself called a surefire path to victory. This war—we will win it. Now then…” he gestured, “could you tell me Assassin’s parameters?”

The elder didn’t direct the question to Assassin himself, but to his Master—clearly placing more trust in the outsider mercenary than in the Servant.

“Everything’s A-rank or above… except Luck. I don’t yet know his Noble Phantasm, but with stats like these, he’s easily a top-tier Servant.”

“Marvelous! Simply marvelous! Ha ha ha!” In an instant, the old man lost all composure, cackling like a madman. He clapped and stomped, his glee almost frenzied. Assassin could hardly believe this was just an AI.

Assassin shook his head. His mind wandered—back to Heath, that little homunculus without a soul but somehow… achingly sincere.

“Summoning a Servant doesn’t require much,” Assassin said at last, unbothered by the elder’s mania. “Forget the relics—you don’t even need a magic circle. Words alone will do.”

He said it casually, but his preparation was meticulous. He hadn’t really dismissed the circle. He already had a relic, and as for the chant—what could compare to divine words?

“You don’t mind if I use this space, do you?” His body—like a ghost’s—drifted lightly across the floor. Then Assassin began to recite.

[High Speed Divine Words]

Black mana gathered in the air, coalescing without the need for a medium—no ink, no chalk.

The power responded to Assassin’s voice, weaving itself into a summoning circle midair. And during it all, he sat back comfortably on a church pew, perfectly at ease.

He hadn’t used his Noble Phantasm. He hadn’t assumed another Servant’s form. He sat there as-is, shadow-cloaked and spectral.

It was deeply unsettling.

In the bright cathedral, there sat a ghost.

“Just a moment longer. The preparations will be complete soon.”

The fully automated magecraft array didn’t demand much of Assassin’s attention. Even while casting, he had time to glance over at his Master and ask, “By the way, Master, what’s your name?”

Assassin didn’t particularly like magi as Masters, but they were partners now. In the days to come, they would fight side by side in the Holy Grail War.

“Marco Leisen,” his Master answered. Then asked in return, “Assassin… may I ask your True Name?”

How should I answer that? There was really only one response.

Assassin paused briefly, his gaze drifting over Marco from head to toe.

On Marco’s left hand were two prominent scars—wounds from a blade, most likely. The skin at the base of his right thumb was unnaturally smooth, contrasting sharply with the roughness of the rest of his hand. Clearly, it was newly grown flesh—probably the result of regenerative magecraft.

One eye was gray-black, the other pale gray-white. This wasn’t a naturally occurring case of heterochromia. Assassin could smell the lingering magic. Either the result of an experiment gone wrong—or, like the scars, a souvenir from combat.

This man was covered in wounds, yet his will was unshakable.

“An assassin doesn’t need a name,” Assassin replied, his voice calm. “Any killer with a name doesn’t deserve the title.”

He said it as though it were obvious, then added, for good measure, “True Names don’t matter. You only need to know my Noble Phantasm.”

“No problem here.” Marco nodded. “I came to fight, not to study history.”

“Will summoning another Servant put a strain on your body?” a soft voice chimed in.

It was Inka, speaking up for the first time in a while. Her voice was gentle, like a shy girl next door. There was concern in her tone as she looked toward Marco.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Inka. The more mana it takes, the stronger the Servant summoned. The real question is—how’s your body holding up?”

“She’s still recovering, but everything is on schedule,” Ahad interjected before she could answer. “When it comes to physical reinforcement and healing, we are quite confident in our capabilities.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Rather than fuss over details, let’s just see what sort of surprise Assassin has in store for us.”

Chhh— A faint sound, barely audible.

But Assassin heard it clearly: the subtle grind of teeth.

He caught the flicker in Marco’s eyes—deep hostility. The girl leaned against him, shrinking in on herself, not daring to speak. At a glance, they looked like a couple. But to Assassin, they felt more like two outcasts clinging to each other for warmth.

It seemed that despite their familiarity, Marco and Ahad weren’t on particularly good terms. Most likely, some sort of contract bound them together.

In the air above, black lines twisted and coiled, forming an intricate pattern. Like a work of art, it unraveled and then fell, imprinting itself cleanly onto the polished white granite floor.

Assassin had two relics in his possession that could be used to summon a Servant: [Durandal], the sword of the paladin Roland, and the scabbard of [Avalon].

[Durandal] belonged to Roland, one of the most renowned knights of Europe. But Assassin didn’t know much about his combat capabilities—only the general power of the Noble Phantasm. Roland’s abilities didn’t suit his needs. Assassin was after widespread, large-scale destructive force.

[Avalon], on the other hand, belonged to the King of Knights. The sword’s full power was a Noble Phantasm that could raze entire fortresses. Its raw destructive potential could compensate for his own limitations.

He chose [Avalon].

Under the stunned gaze of the Einzbern patriarch, Assassin set the golden scabbard upon the summoning circle.

Then, to better facilitate the summoning, his form shifted—from that of a dark mist into the image of Caster Medea.

You have acquired a higher-tier version of High-Speed Divine Words.
High-Speed Divine Words: C → High-Speed Divine Words: A

“I proclaim—”

His Divine Words began. The others only caught the first two syllables of the chant—after that, nothing more. Not a single word was intelligible to human ears.

Assassin chanted quickly. What would normally be an extended invocation was condensed into two seconds. The moment he finished, the black summoning circle began to glow with a dark, violet light.

He knew well that part of his mana came from the Avenger class—in other words, Angra Mainyu, the Evil of Man. That meant whatever Servant he summoned would inevitably be tainted by it.

He did it anyway.

Suddenly, three crimson sigils flared to life on the back of Assassin’s hand. The design resembled a strange sword. On the right side, there seemed to be a blur—perhaps it was meant to depict a shield. But together, the lines formed a complete set of Command Spells.

Whoom—

The summoning circle erupted in hellish fire, engulfing the church as if it were being devoured by an inferno. Then a gust of fierce, cutting wind scattered the flames, revealing a figure rising from within.

A Servant in black armor, cloaked in burning light, stepped forth from the blaze.

“Servant Saber, summoned under your command. I ask you—are you my Master?”

Artoria Pendragon.

But something was different.

Like Assassin, this Saber had been touched by the evil of the world. Outwardly, she looked nearly the same—but her signature ahoge, the iconic strand of hair that once danced freely atop her head, was gone. Her expression, too, was unnervingly cold.

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T/N: SALTER???? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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!