This Is My Holy Grail War [194]

Through the power of magecraft, Anya shared Rider’s vision, witnessing the miracle that belonged to Rider alone.

In Anya’s field of view, she saw vast, verdant fields, where farmers toiled under the golden sun, their hoes and pickaxes striking the earth in rhythmic unison.

With the sun blazing overhead, they wiped the sweat from their brows. Simple and honest, these farmers smiled—until their expressions suddenly shifted to wary alertness. At Rider’s rallying cry, they instantly set aside their farming tools.

As if guided by an unspoken understanding, they all began to arm themselves. Their movements were swift and precise. Almost simultaneously, every farmer abandoned the fields, rushing into their homes. Moments later, they emerged, clad in mismatched leather armor, wielding short swords and hunting bows.

A piercing horn blast rang through the sky, its high-pitched call igniting their spirits. With burning resolve, they gathered on the muddy battlefield.

There was a certain fire in their eyes—Anya could see it, even though she was only viewing through Rider’s [Clairvoyance]. Hidden deep within their hearts was a yearning, unmistakable and raw.

Rider had once said he wished to use the Holy Grail to build an ideal land where people could live and prosper in peace. These men seemed to share that very dream.

As that thought crossed her mind, Anya suddenly snapped back to reality.

This land was beautiful, its mountains lush, its air crisp and clean. The soil beneath their feet was rich and fertile, and smiles graced every face. There was no sickness, no hunger, no sorrow. A vast, bountiful land stretching as far as the eye could see, an endless sky overhead…

This must be the ideal homeland that Rider dreamed of.

It was not a utopia free of worries, but a simple, honest land. Rider’s dream of peace and prosperity, at its core, was simply tranquility.

And now, these people had come together, raising their weapons to defend that dream—against the invading Archer.

The tyrant who had reduced an entire city to ruins.
The conqueror who had plunged Blanche into an apocalypse.

Please… Anya silently cheered for Rider.

But what happened next crushed all hope of optimism.

The farmers-turned-militia looked every bit like a proper army—their ranks were orderly, their morale high. But when Anya saw Archer’s forces within this mental landscape, worry gnawed at her heart.

Archer’s soldiers stood in perfect formation, their ranks arranged in precise, square battle arrays. Not a step too many. Not a step too few.

Armed to the teeth, they wielded long spears and carried crossbows on their backs.

By comparison, Rider’s militia was hopelessly outmatched. Their weapons and armor were far too crude. Instead of military-issued blades, they held hunting knives and short swords. Some even wielded sickles and hoes.

They couldn’t win.

Anya only needed a single glance to see the outcome. If things continued like this, they would lose.

What do I do?!

Panic seized her. She couldn’t just stand by and watch Rider fall.

The image of Blanche strewn with bones, its streets awash in crimson, flashed in her mind. The anguished cries of the dead still echoed in her ears, sending a shiver down her spine.

If Rider lost…

No!

She shook her head violently, forcing herself to dispel that thought.

Right. The [Command Spells].

She knew that a [Command Spell] was not only an absolute order—it was also a source of immense power. She could use it to strengthen her Servant. If she used it wisely, she could even enhance Rider’s soldiers.

The moment she realized this, the [Command Spells] on the back of her hand began to glow faintly, brimming with magical energy, ready to surge forth.

Through Rider’s [Clairvoyance], Anya saw what was happening within his Noble Phantasm. But since she was borrowing his vision, she couldn’t see everything clearly. She only knew that Archer’s army had arrived—then the battlefield erupted into chaos.

Screams and wails filled the air. The clash of steel rang endlessly. The battlefield was engulfed in a cacophony of war cries and death throes.

The battle had begun.

And Anya bore witness to its tragedy.

The warriors of both sides fought with reckless abandon. Corpses piled high.

Shattered terracotta soldiers lay scattered across the ground. Rivers of blood flowed freely.

She saw a militiaman impaled through the torso by a long spear, yet even as his life ebbed away, he clung tightly to his enemy.

Their bodies locked together, they bared their teeth at each other.

Using whatever they had—their fingers, their nails, their teeth—they tore at their opponent’s flesh in a desperate struggle.

This was a battle where there could be no survivors.

But Anya knew—Rider’s forces were at a crushing disadvantage.

If this continued, they would be defeated.

She could wait no longer.

Rider had insisted on saving this [Command Spell] as insurance—to restrain him after victory.

But none of that would matter unless they won. If they lost, then nothing else would remain.

Anya had just resolved to use the [Command Spell] when a chilling realization struck her.

She wasn’t the only one with a [Command Spell]. Archer’s Master undoubtedly had more—far more—while she possessed only a single mark. Even if she used it to enhance Rider’s strength, there was no guarantee he could overpower Archer. And in a contest of sheer numbers, she had already lost.

Scarlet blood spattered and sprayed, staining Anya’s vision in crimson. The terrifying color sent a jolt through her chest, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs.

Thump. Thump.

The sound echoed within her, steeling her resolve.

With a sharp exhale, she severed the connection to Rider’s vision.

As her sight returned to the confines of the carriage, reality snapped back into place. Rider had repeatedly insisted she stay hidden inside—for her safety.

But in truth, she might have been safer if she stayed by Rider’s side.

Anya poked her small head out of the carriage. Pale snowflakes drifted from the ashen sky, falling over the ruins of Blanche. The carriage, though simple in design, was surprisingly warm. Inside, she had felt cocooned in that warmth. But now, with just her head exposed, the bone-chilling cold sank into her skin.

This apocalypse had stripped the land of any sense of time. The sky could no longer tell night from day—only an unending, withered dusk remained.

Pulling the curtain tight around her neck like a scarf, Anya peeked outside with hesitation.

Her heart pounded wildly, gripped by an unshakable fear.

Step by step.

She lowered her feet onto the ground.

For the first time today, Anya walked through the streets alone.

Her heart slammed against her ribs with every step, as if it might burst from her chest. The anxiety clinging to her drenched her back in cold sweat. A lone, delicate figure traversed the twilight of a dying world.

The stench hit her first.

A thick, nauseating reek of blood and decay, the foul odor of death itself.

It invaded her nostrils, making her wrinkle her nose in disgust.

White bones littered the streets.

A single misstep could send her slipping on them. The rough concrete roads had been lacquered with a sickly sheen of congealed blood.

“This should be the right way.”

Anya’s eyes locked onto a dimly lit cobblestone path ahead.

The air at its end was thick with the stench of blood.

The very essence of life had gathered there, indiscriminately devouring all in its path. The ley lines of Blanche had been ignited by human hands, ravaging the land beyond recognition.

For the first time, Anya faced the two colors she feared most—red and white.

A normal child would have collapsed at the sight of such horror.

But she endured.

Her small shoes clacked urgently against the stone. Tap, tap, tap.

Saying she wasn’t afraid would be a lie.

She moved fast—too fast—almost breaking into a sprint.

Just ahead. Just ahead.

She kept reminding herself. Urging herself forward.

Anya couldn’t see the entrance to the Reality Marble, but she sensed the flow of magic in the air.

A world-eating mirage had left behind a patch of lush green.

And the faintest trace of a natural fragrance.

She ran a trembling finger over the crimson marks on her hand.

For the first time, she was no longer afraid of red.

Rider, pull me in.

Anya hesitated for a moment before issuing the command.

Coming here alone had been an enormous risk.

No.

Rider’s response was immediate, firm.

The cavalryman had no intention of allowing Anya to step foot onto this blood-soaked battlefield.

Rider wanted her to stay outside.

“Why?” Anya demanded.

“A Master and a Servant are partners, right? We share the same wish, so why can’t we fight together?”

“You’re just a child.”

Rider’s answer was blunt.

“But I’m a mage,” Anya shot back even faster. “A mage’s child is considered an adult the moment they can understand the world.”

“You don’t understand the world.”

“I do now. As of today.”

Anya’s voice was firm.

Then, as if to reinforce her resolve, she added, “I saw the battlefield—through your eyes.”

She wasn’t an experienced mage.

This was her first time controlling a familiar.

Perhaps it was luck, but her first familiar had turned out to be a legendary Heroic Spirit.

Yet unlike traditional familiars, Servants were not mere constructs.

No, they had once been human.

“Can we win?” Anya asked.

“We will lose,” Rider replied.

And she heard it.

The resignation in his voice.

“…Why?”

“I’m sorry. You need to leave. Get as far away from this city as possible…”

One after another, the words of defeat poured from Rider’s mouth.

Tears welled in Anya’s eyes.

“I won’t allow you to give up.”

Her voice shook as she cried out:

“In the name of the [Command Spell]—”

The red marks on her hand flared to life, igniting in brilliant light. A wave of power pulsed outward.

“Wait!”

Rider’s voice cut through their bond, desperate to stop her.

“If I lose this [Command Spell], I might—”

“Then win first before you fall into despair!”

The last of her [Command Spells] burned away.

A faint trace remained on the back of her hand.

“Rider, I order you—win the Holy Grail War!”

For a moment, silence blanketed the world.

Even their mental link fell mute.

Anya and Rider stood frozen in eerie stillness.

“…And you call yourself mature?”

A hollow laugh escaped Rider’s lips.

“If you were truly mature, you wouldn’t make such a naïve command.”

He laughed, self-deprecating and bitter.

Anya remained unmoved.

“Pull me in. I’m fighting with you.”

Rider still did not move.

Growing impatient, she added,

“That’s an order.”

“…You’ll die.”

Rider’s voice dropped, cold and unfamiliar—like that of a stranger.

"Pull me in."

Anya didn’t care anymore.

The moment she stepped into Rider’s Reality Marble, she noticed something had changed. Not long ago, this land had been lush and vibrant, a paradise of green hills and clear waters. But now, it had become another Blanche—another wasteland on the brink of apocalypse.

“…Sorry. You had to see me like this.”

Rider grinned, flashing a set of bright white teeth. His smile was as radiant as ever, yet the streaks of dried blood across his face made it all the more unsettling.

She had never been a skilled magus, and this was her first time commanding a familiar. Perhaps it was luck—her first familiar had turned out to be a legendary Heroic Spirit.

Rider looked battered and exhausted.

But at least, he hadn’t lost. Not yet.

Within the vast confines of the Reality Marble, two armies were still locked in brutal combat. They held the defensive position, the terrain working in their favor. That was the only reason Rider had enough breathing room to speak with his Master.

Anya recalled that it had been less than two hours since Rider had dragged Archer into this battlefield.

Yet now, the once fertile land was littered with corpses.

Neither side had the luxury to clear the dead. The battle was too fierce. For every soldier that fell, another stepped forward to take their place.

Bodies piled into mountains.

The rivers ran red with blood.

There was no doubt—Rider’s militia was being crushed.

The terracotta warriors pressed forward relentlessly, forcing them back.

Even in their own territory, the difference between militia and professional soldiers was painfully clear.

They were here to defend this land.

Yet, as the battle raged on, they had already lost several key strongholds.

And now, the enemy advanced once more.

Endless. Unyielding.

Archer, empowered by the mana supply from his Master, could summon an entire army by himself.

"You see it too, don’t you?"

Rider’s bitter smile deepened, weariness etched across his face.

“At this rate, we’re bound to lose. I don’t even know where I found the courage to think otherwise.”

Following Rider’s gaze, Anya looked into the distance—

And saw them.

A sea of black.

Countless soldiers clad in pitch-black armor, standing in perfect formation, stretching as far as the eye could see.

“…So many…”

She couldn’t help but whisper in awe.

In both quality and numbers, Archer had absolute superiority. No wonder Rider sounded so defeated.

Anya ran a hand over the faint engraving on her forearm, while in the distance, the enemy forces marched forward.

Then she turned to Rider, smiling softly.

"Hey, Rider… can we charge together?"

Rider blinked in mild surprise before nodding.

“…Of course.”

"Then shouldn't we sing a battle hymn?"

Tears glistened at the corners of Anya’s eyes, but she smiled through them.

"Let’s sing a song of victory—"

"And march onto the battlefield together."

She wiped at her tears, whispering under her breath.

"I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry, Mama."

"I’ve let you down."

Anya hated war.

Hated the color of blood.

Hated the stark white of bones.

But she could no longer turn away.

The entire city had been reduced to a graveyard.

She had no friends left.

And the one responsible stood before her.

If they didn’t defeat Archer, if someone like him got his hands on the Holy Grail…

She didn’t even want to imagine what would happen.

So, she opened her lips—

And began to sing.

"Look, the white cranes soar through the sky in flocks."

"The mighty river flows from the mountains, its waves crashing toward the heavens."

"Sing the song of victory—our triumph awaits just ahead."

Yes.

Just ahead—

An endless army of enemies.

Her voice carried magic.

This was the first battle hymn she had ever sung.

And perhaps, it would also be the last.

---

T/N: ooh... I hate when children die...

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!