This Is My Holy Grail War [202]

"Are you afraid of death?"

The voice was faint, as if its owner didn’t dare raise it too loudly. With a slight bow, Marco swirled the wine in his crystal goblet and offered a graceful salute.

In the glamorous banquet hall, Marco wasn’t indulging in food, sipping wine, or dancing a tango with a partner. Instead, he headed straight for the host’s round table and said something that, by social standards, was quite unpleasant.

At that moment, only one person sat at the table. Marco had waited for this opportunity—timing his approach precisely to catch the man when he was alone. He slowly pulled out a chair, brushed off the dust with care, and then sat down cautiously. His gaze was fixed ahead, careful not to lose composure.

Among the noise and revelry of the ballroom, this round table stood out in its silence. A pristine white tablecloth covered the surface, with only a single desk lamp set upon it—almost excessively clean.

Marco watched as the man lifted his head. Beneath a fringe of gray hair, a pair of withered eyes met his. Marco feigned composure, but unease stirred beneath his calm.

He was taking a risk—dancing on the edge of a blade. One misstep and he’d be torn to pieces. Because while the man before him sat in a wheelchair, no one would ever dare underestimate him.

Kenneth. Lord of the Clock Tower. The host of tonight’s gathering.

If he were to take offense, a single word from him could mean Marco’s death. But the risk was calculated—Kenneth needed his services. Marco had gambled that one bold line might catch the old man’s attention.

Kenneth had aged rapidly—presumably a lingering effect of the last Holy Grail War. No one spoke much about it; it had become a kind of tacit secret.

His body was deteriorating by the day. Everyone who had seen him knew his life was nearing its end. That was exactly why Marco had dared to approach him.

The path to the Root was long, and magi needed to ensure that their research would continue unbroken. Magical crests had to be passed down to the next generation. Marco was a calibrator, and maintaining, repairing, and transplanting magical crests—all of that fell within his domain.

The wine in his glass spun in lazy circles. Marco didn’t even dare meet Kenneth’s gaze, instinctively watching the slow swirl of red instead.

"Hm?" Kenneth looked at him with faint surprise. "I don’t recall seeing you on the guest list. My memory must be getting worse."

His tone was clearly hostile, but Marco let out a quiet sigh of relief. At least there was still room to continue. If Kenneth had simply flown into a rage, Marco wouldn’t have known how to salvage the situation.

"I am Marco Leisen, a calibrator," he began his self-introduction. He spoke of his training, his accomplishments—he even threw in a bit of flattery about his efficiency. "Not long ago, I completed a perfect crest transplant for the Tohsaka family. The head died an unnatural death, but the procedure went smoothly. Crest work has always been my forte. To date, I’ve never had a serious rejection."

He finished speaking, but Kenneth remained silent. Marco sipped his wine, doing his best to appear calm, though the silence was beginning to gnaw at his nerves.

Kenneth wore a formulaic smile as he looked at him—icy and unmoving. The ballroom’s bright lights fell across the deep wrinkles of his face, making him seem like a fearsome lion. Despite his age, there was the aura of a calculating elder about him.

Marco felt the urge to explain why he had spoken so bluntly, but reason screamed at him to shut up. Kenneth knew exactly what he meant—saying more would only expose his unease. His thumb tapped rhythmically on the head of his cane, anxiety tightening his chest until he could hardly breathe.

"I don’t require a calibrator’s assistance. At least, not at the moment." Kenneth waved a hand dismissively, like a stubborn old man. His voice was hoarse, but to Marco, it was a godsend. It meant he hadn’t been outright rejected.

"This banquet—is it for that matter, then?"

Yes, this was precisely why Marco had come, clinging to whatever leverage he could find. This wasn’t the first potential client he had approached, either. He had been knocking on doors, attending event after event, just to find work. "To pass down the name of El-Melloi, of course you’d invite all the luminaries of the world to witness it."

"That’s right." Kenneth nodded.

Then why are you still clinging to life like this? Why not just die already? Marco confirmed that Kenneth needed a calibrator and allowed himself that one venomous thought.

"Then why reject a calibrator’s help?" Confidence returned to Marco’s voice. He was sure he could land this job. Whether it was maintaining a crest, transplanting it, or cleaning up afterward—he could offer full-service solutions. "If you're so worried about the crest being lost, shouldn’t you be protecting it more carefully?"

"What you say is reasonable. But I must decline." Kenneth said coldly, "I appreciate your offer, but matters like this are better left to one’s own bloodline."

Already found someone else? Fine. Live forever, why don’t you. Marco touched the brim of his gentleman’s hat, adjusting his tie with an inward grumble. He had just been about to offer Kenneth his business card—well, that was ruined now.

"Then I won’t impose further." Though bitterly disappointed, Marco masked it with the manners of a gentleman, offering a graceful bow as he withdrew.

There were far more magi of repute at this party than he’d expected. Since he had hit a wall with the host, it was time to try someone else.

Marco left the round table and, without shame, drifted into the heart of the banquet. Magi were secretive by nature—beyond family and neighbors, most only ever chatted briefly with former classmates.

And even among classmates, tensions ran high. All of Marco’s peers were calibrators—an extremely niche profession with little demand and fierce competition. Whenever they met, it was all cold stares and thinly veiled disdain. Friendship was rare; avoiding outright conflict was already something to pray for.

"Good evening, madam." Once again, Marco lifted his glass with elegance, flashing a polished smile. He offered a toast and asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"How bold of you, flirting with women at the Lord’s banquet. Aren’t you afraid you’ll get kicked out?" The blonde woman smiled as she poured him half a glass of red wine. Her every movement was graceful, her gestures charming and refined.

Her amber eyes nearly stole his soul—such a noble lady was the stuff of his dreams. But dreams were lush, and reality was lean. Right now, what he needed most was money.

"I only saw that you were sitting here alone, madam," Marco replied smoothly. "You seem a bit… friendless."

Indeed, despite her beauty, she stood out like a sore thumb from the rest of the crowd. It seemed no magus wanted to get too close—at most, they shared a few words before drifting away.

Marco guessed she wasn’t local—likely a guest invited from a prestigious family abroad, here at the Clock Tower for the occasion.

"When you’re in a foreign land, it’s hard to decline social obligations from the family." She shrugged, clearly exasperated.

"If there’s ever anything you need, I’d be honored to help." Marco pulled a business card from his tuxedo and handed it over.

"Oh, a calibrator?" She looked mildly surprised, then smiled with sly amusement. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Grumble... His stomach growled. A server passed by just then. Marco took a token piece of cake, more for show than for appetite.

He was hungry—he hadn’t eaten much for breakfast, no appetite for those dry, tough rolls. But there were too many eyes on him at the banquet. At most, he could nibble on a sweet or two to maintain appearances. He wouldn’t let hunger tarnish his poise.

Though his belly rumbled, Marco refused to touch coarse food. He hated hard bread—these cakes suited him much better. But with no job, money had become tight. He’d long since begun cutting back, tired of living on bread, warm water, and salt. Edible, yes—but flavorless, like chewing wax.

Perhaps it was just the times. Even as a rare calibrator, finding work had become difficult. Big families had in-house specialists; small ones barely had crests to pass on.

He smiled with practiced elegance and waved farewell to the young lady. Then, slipping the bite-sized chocolate cake into his mouth, he immediately regretted it.

Stomach acid churned, and saliva flooded his mouth.

Forcing himself to stay composed, Marco wove through the gathering of nobles and scions, hoping to find a break. But aside from handing out a few cards, he made no headway.

If only they’d all die—then there’d be jobs for me. Marco clenched his teeth and cursed them silently.

Despair clawed at him, so deep that the noise of the ballroom faded to a dull murmur—until the first woman who had taken his card finally spoke again, bringing him back to reality.

“Ah? Looks like Lord El-Melloi has done something quite extraordinary.”

“Hmm?” Marco frowned, only just now noticing the stir that had overtaken the entire hall. What was going on? He’d been too distracted to catch it earlier.

“No way!”

“Weber Velvet?! Who is that? Do you know him?”

“Sounds like some nouveau riche upstart!”

“Insane. Absolutely insane!”

“Becoming a Lord after only a single generation? There’s a limit to how much of a joke you can make something!”

“All this… all of this was just for him? That’s absurd!”

Not even Lord El-Melloi himself could silence the waves of voices rising in confusion and outrage. From their heated chatter, Marco grasped the situation: Kenneth had passed on the title of Lord El-Melloi to someone else. But Marco didn’t catch the specifics—he didn’t care about the power games at the top of the pyramid.

Just let this boring party end already.

His temples throbbed. He’d run his mouth all night and still hadn’t found a single job. He was already living off borrowed money, scraping by day to day.

He couldn’t be less interested in the politics of Lords and their legacies—unless one of those legacies came with a paying contract.

The grand banquet came to an end. When the cold moon hung high in the sky, Marco still hadn’t secured a single commission. Half-dazed, he wandered home, walking the whole long distance in a kind of fugue.

Back in his flat, the polished mask he wore fell away. He collapsed face-first onto the couch—still dressed in that formal black tailcoat, looking every inch the refined gentleman. But when morning light poured through the blinds, his sorry state came into full view.

His top hat had rolled somewhere beneath the window. His cane had long since disappeared. The apartment looked like a filthy garbage heap—papers strewn across the desk, tangled and soaked in the sharp stench of alcohol. There was no trace of a noble magus here. This was the den of a drifter.

“Urgh…” He groaned, clutching at his aching temples, and staggered toward his desk—not to work or search for files. Certificates of merit, medals, even his research notes were crumpled and tossed carelessly onto the floor. He couldn’t care less about past accolades. What he reached for instead was a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet.

Gulp. He took a long, burning swig, letting the alcohol numb everything—the anxiety, the hopelessness, the shame. In truth, Marco was a drunk. He loved the feeling of sinking into oblivion.

He looked like a refined and elegant magus on the outside, but Marco knew the truth: he was a washed-up failure.

Cough, cough, cough, cough! The liquor went down too fast. He hacked violently, his face turning a sickly red. Eventually, he stumbled back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch—except he missed, and slid off into a heap of garbage on the floor.

That was when the doorbell rang.

A moment later, a young man’s voice called out from beyond the door. “Good afternoon, sir. You’ve received a special letter.”

“Leave it outside. I’ll get it in a minute.”

“Understood.”

It was that letter that made Marco claw his way up from the pile of trash. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet, waited until he was sure no one was watching, then stepped outside to retrieve it.

He opened the envelope. Inside was a formal invitation, which read:

To the Esteemed Mr. Marco,

Greetings. We have received your card. Due to the untimely death of our family head, we are in need of a calibrator to transplant the magical crest. We sincerely invite you to provide your expertise.

Gregorian Calendar, XXXX Year, X Month, X Day

— Angelo Wuyue

[Attached: Address]

Marco skimmed it quickly, then folded the letter closed.

A job.

He rushed to the mirror and began fixing his appearance. It took considerable effort just to locate both of his gloves amidst the garbage. As for the hat? Lost cause. But no matter—he washed his hair quickly, dried the black strands with a blow dryer. Though his living conditions were grim, his bathroom was surprisingly well-stocked—like a woman’s vanity, everything needed for grooming was meticulously arranged.

The mirror reflected a handsome young man with chestnut-brown hair. No one would ever guess how decayed the soul beneath that surface had become.

Dead man’s money. But so what? Marco thought, smirking at his reflection.

He arrived at the specified location—a sprawling estate by the sea, overlooking the white cliffs across the channel.

“Welcome.”

The first thing he saw was a maid. Then, from within the house, a portly man with a beard stepped into view.

“You’re the calibrator we invited, yes?”

“I am.”

“I’m Angelo—the letter was sent by my maid, on my behalf.” The bearded man came down the steps and gestured politely. “I hope that didn’t offend you.”

“Not at all,” Marco replied with a nod, and entered the seaside villa at the host’s invitation.

The hallway stretched long into the distance. Marco walked and walked, unsure how far he had gone, until finally Angelo raised a hand to signal that they had arrived.

“She’s inside. Just remember to bring out the crest.”

Marco found the instruction odd. The letter had clearly said their family head was dead. So why was she in a bedroom?

He had questions, but money was money. Suppressing his doubt, Marco stepped inside.

It was a young girl’s bedroom, the walls soft with pink wallpaper.

“They said… you’re here to cure me,” a frail, red-haired girl murmured from the bed. She lay there quietly, her voice as delicate as a thread—like she might stop breathing at any moment.

Marco felt the magic coming off her—it was fragile, but powerful. There was no mistaking it: the magical crest Angelo referred to was carved into this girl’s body.

So she’s the real family head. But then why claim she was dead?

Marco wasn’t stupid. The moment he saw the girl, he understood.

A magical crest is the most important thing to a magus family. Everyone covets it. And this girl, with her weak body, had no way to protect it.

She was like a piece of juicy meat, with the nearest guardian looking to devour her whole. The girl couldn’t even run. And even if Marco wanted to help, he couldn’t—not in someone else’s workshop.

He didn’t fancy his chances at saving a girl under these circumstances. He’d likely end up hunted instead. The Wuyue family wasn’t exactly powerful, but they weren’t nobodies either. Marco had no support network. His former classmates were rivals, his mentor long dead, his family line nearly extinct.

Angelo had hired him to extract the magical crest—Marco could tell, even though nothing had been said outright. One glance at the girl, and everything became clear.

And it wasn’t just Angelo. Likely, everyone in the Wuyue family had their eyes on that crest.

This was bad. Marco had thought it was a legitimate commission. If he’d known the truth, he would’ve tossed the letter straight into the trash.

“You lied to me?!” Marco slammed the door shut behind him and stepped out of the room, furious.

“‘Lied’ is such a harsh word,” Angelo said, waving a hand. “She’s as good as dead already. If you don’t talk, and I don’t talk—just extract the crest, and no one will know.”

“You’re planning to kill her?” Marco asked flatly.

“A magus shouldn’t concern himself with such things. Only with profit.” Angelo scowled. “Her life doesn’t concern you. All you need to do is remove my crest.”

But removing a magical crest wasn’t that simple. It was like extracting an organ—deeply embedded into the body of its host. If you moved recklessly, or killed the bearer outright, the crest could be irreparably damaged.

Marco now understood why Angelo had gone through the trouble of hiring a calibrator: he wanted the crest whole and intact.

“Whether she lives or dies doesn’t matter. I just want the crest. If you do it well, I’ll pay you handsomely,” Angelo said, patting his round belly, a greasy smile spreading across his face. “Trust me—enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life.”

Exaggerated? Probably. But the promise sank its hooks deep into Marco.

Because Marco needed money. He hadn’t had steady work in a long time, and the debts were piling up. If he couldn’t pay them off, he’d have to offer up something else in collateral. And if he failed even then… the Department of Thaumaturgical Law might come knocking.

“I…” Marco hesitated for a long time, standing stiffly at the threshold of the bedroom. He struggled internally before finally stepping back inside.

But this time, he didn’t speak to the girl. He just sat down quietly by her bedside.

He’d thought making money off the dead was already low. Turns out, making it off the living was even darker.

The red-haired girl lay in bed, her eyes drifting now and then toward the window. Occasionally, Marco caught her gaze and followed it. Outside, a bird was dancing through the air, wings outstretched, carefree and alive, letting out sweet, trilling calls.

Her eyes were full of longing. Marco saw it all.

“What should I call you?” he asked.

“Inka. Just call me Inka,” the girl replied, timid and soft. “And you?”

“You can call me Marco.”

The room was filled with paintings—many of them beautifully rendered—but one caught his eye. Not because it was any good, but because it looked like a child’s scrawl.

It was a red bird, wild with uneven lines, long tail feathers, and claws gripping a rock. The figure was just barely discernible.

A phoenix? The mythical bird of rebirth, rising from the ashes?

The painting was awful, the kind only a child would make. But when Marco looked at Inka—so fragile, so worn—he understood exactly who had drawn it.

“You painted this, didn’t you?” Marco asked.

“Mm.” Inka nodded.

“Why did you want to learn painting?” he asked, puzzled.

“Papa always liked to collect famous paintings, but I… I didn’t know how to draw,” she said, her voice halting. “I studied for a long time, but this is all I can manage.”

She flushed pink, clearly embarrassed by how clumsy it looked.

“I like phoenixes too,” Marco said. Rebirth from flame… if only I could be reborn from my own ruin.

“You figured it out?!” Inka’s eyes lit up as she tried to sit up, but her frail body gave out under the effort. She gasped, trembling, sweat running down her pale brow. She was clearly in pain—yet still managed a small smile.

“Why a phoenix?” Marco asked gently.

“I wanted to see the world outside. I kept imagining it, dreaming of sketching it all down. But… I never got the hang of it. I couldn’t even hold a pencil steady.”

She kept speaking, voice soft and wistful. Marco already knew why she couldn’t draw well. It wasn’t about talent—it was her body, too weak to let her try.

“I practiced so long… and all I could manage was a crooked phoenix,” she said. “But one day, I hope I can…”

“…Be reborn. Like the phoenix.” Marco blinked, and a tear slid from the corner of his eye.

He stood up straighter. His fists clenched, joints cracking. His jaw tightened until it bled.

Like the phoenix—reborn from ashes!

Right now, Marco stood at a crossroads.

He knew now that the girl wasn’t dead. She was just sick—very, very sick. But her guardian wanted that crest. And if Marco went through with the procedure, he’d get a massive payout.

Money…?

To hell with money!

Bang! The door burst open with a crash.

“What’s going on?” Angelo snapped, clearly impatient at Marco’s return from the bedroom. “When are you going to start?! I didn’t pay you to waste time standing around! If you won’t do it, get the hell out!”

There was a flicker of killing intent in his voice.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Marco said. But his eyes had changed. The black of his irises turned a piercing blue.

Facing Angelo head-on, the man didn’t even have time to react…

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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!