This Is My Holy Grail War [60]

The "black shadow" Archer referred to could only mean one thing: the dark figure of Assassin, disguised as Lancelot, who had battled Lancer the previous night.

Is she talking about me? Assassin glanced around, quickly realizing Archer’s intent was focused entirely on her. The directness of Archer's attention caught her off guard.

"If you didn’t see any other blackened Servants last night," Assassin replied cautiously, "then yes, you must be referring to me." Her gaze remained fixed on Archer, scrutinizing the white-clad knight who had just driven off Berserker.

One thing was clear: this was no ordinary Servant. Archer exuded an aura of overwhelming dominance, a presence that spoke of a being far beyond standard parameters.

“A knight clad in black, shrouded in shadow…” Archer’s tone was laced with fascination, her lips curling into a grin. “Last night’s stormy rain illuminated your figure. Stunning, captivating… ah, I’ve been so eager to meet you.” Her words, delivered with an almost theatrical flourish, carried an archaic grandeur, exaggerated far beyond the norms of the modern era.

“...Huh?” Assassin felt a shiver run down her spine. Archer’s tone sent an uncomfortable prickle across her skin.

“And that knight over there,” Archer continued, her gaze shifting to Saber. She gestured invitingly to both of them. “You as well. How would the two of you like to join me? Become knights under my banner?”

Saber’s fists tightened, barely concealing her anger. Before she could speak, Assassin cut in, her voice sharp.

“Before you try recruiting others, perhaps you should first introduce yourself properly. What’s your name?” Assassin demanded.

“I have no name,” Archer declared with an unsettling smile. “In the realms of myth and legend, I am the nameless knight crowned with inevitable victory—a conqueror born of religious and secular conflict, now twisted by those same forces.” Her words turned bitter, her expression darkening. “To some, I appear as a saint, but to myself… I am a witch.”

“A witch?” Assassin’s expression tensed. “You’re saying you don’t even know your own purpose?”

“Hardly,” Archer replied with an amused laugh. “I am here to recruit three—no, two—knights,” she said, holding up three fingers before casually switching to two.

“You remind me of another king I once encountered,” Assassin said, her tone pointed. “A king who sought to recruit others, but did so with far greater honesty and boldness. He didn’t hide behind a veil, nor did his Master conceal themselves like yours.”

Assassin deliberately mentioned Iskandar, the King of Conquerors, hoping to provoke Archer into revealing her Master’s identity. “If you want to recruit me, you’ll need to show some sincerity.”

“My Master?” Archer tilted her head, resting her chin on a gloved hand. “That one is… complicated. Trapped in darkness, far beyond my reach. Even I cannot bring him forth.”

“Who is your Master?” Assassin asked, a gnawing sense of dread beginning to creep over her.

“He is death itself. The one who wishes to annihilate humanity,” Archer proclaimed, her voice swelling with pride. “His call for comradeship was irresistible. I answered it, as is only natural.”

Death… annihilation of humanity…

Assassin’s mind raced. Her instincts screamed the answer: This world’s evil.

A cold sweat trickled down her spine as the implications sank in. Archer’s words painted a horrifying picture—one of a burning Fuyuki, consumed in hellfire. Even as she shook off the chilling image, she couldn’t dismiss her growing anxiety.

“What do you think of this world?” Archer asked suddenly.

“It’s…” Assassin hesitated.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Archer’s voice lowered, taking on a sinister edge as if whispering directly into Assassin’s soul. “This fleeting world… so brief, so ephemeral. To be torn away from it after only a few days of existence, left with nothing but regret and loss. How tragic.”

Her words struck a nerve. They pierced deeper than any blade, sending a tremor through Assassin’s being. It was as if Archer had struck the very core of her fears.

“What are you trying to say?” Assassin’s voice trembled slightly.

“Join me,” Archer offered, her smile returning. “I have no interest in the Holy Grail. It will be yours once we’ve claimed victory.”

“Then what is your purpose in this world?” Assassin demanded, her voice laced with suspicion.

“My Master bears the weight of the world’s evil, seeking to purify it,” Archer said with unwavering conviction. “And I shall aid him by sending every sinful soul into the depths of hell. Together, we will bring about the world’s end. A final judgment upon this creation of so-called gods. The people of this world are steeped in sin, and I will cleanse it all.”

She’s insane…

The word surfaced in Assassin’s mind unbidden. Only the most deranged Servants would actively collaborate with the manifestation of the world’s evil to bring about an apocalypse.

Fear, dread, and fury churned within her. She feared the overwhelming power of these rogue Servants. She dreaded the inevitable death that awaited her. And she raged at the thought of a ruined world, where even survival would be meaningless. Yet, faced with Archer’s overwhelming strength, Assassin buried her anger deep within.

“Why?” she asked, her voice tight with frustration. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Do you know what memories fill my mind?” Archer mused, her tone growing distant. “Memories of ‘witches’ and ‘warlocks’ burned at the stake. From the moment of my birth to the day I was tied to the pyre, my life has been a story of persecution.”

She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Of all those memories, Jeanne d’Arc’s fate was the most vivid. The strangest thing about her? She bore no resentment.” Archer’s expression hardened, her voice laced with bitterness. “Crushed under the weight of religion and worldly power, she died without complaint. But her death—her suffering—is what gave me form.”

Archer’s identity was the amalgamation of countless tragedies, her spirit shaped by the collective hatred and anguish of the persecuted. Her summoning as the Heretical Knight—the apocalyptic conqueror—had been the natural response to her Master’s call.

“I am here to sound the horn of the world’s destruction,” Archer declared. Her gaze locked onto Assassin. “And you—your color, your form—you would be a fitting knight under my command. Tell me, what is your wish?”

“I don’t wish for the apocalypse. I just want to survive,” Assassin said, her voice firm. She had never hidden her desire to live, and having once been acknowledged by Iskandar, she saw no reason to do so now.

“Survival?” Archer’s smirk deepened. “To live a little longer, only to descend into hell later? Whether a hundred years or a thousand years, what does it matter? The wheel of time turns unceasingly. Nothing is eternal. Nothing but death.”

Her voice sharpened. “Some people live without leaving a trace. Others die and leave an indelible mark on the world. Which will you be?”

Leave a trace on this world…

Assassin stared at her bloodstained hands, her fingers trembling as they clenched into fists. The weight of Archer’s words settled heavily on her mind.

"Humans die three times: first, when the soul departs from the body. Second, when their ties to the world are severed. And third, when the last person who remembers them forgets their existence."

For Assassin, however, there seemed to be an additional, peculiar death: to be forgotten by oneself.

“Assassin, you’re no Heroic Spirit, are you?” Archer’s voice pierced the stillness, a sly smile playing on her lips. It was as if she had uncovered a secret Assassin had buried even from herself. “If you wish to survive, you don’t necessarily need the power of the Holy Grail. Become a wraith—a spirit of vengeance—and this world will be forced to remember you.”

The weight of Archer’s words sank into Assassin like a dagger. Hero or Anti-Hero, all who left their mark on history were forever immortalized in the Throne of Heroes. Their legends persisted in records and myths, etched into the world’s memory.

“So tell me, Assassin,” Archer pressed, her voice a subtle challenge, “what will you choose?”

Before Assassin could reply, a flash of silver steel swept before her. Saber stepped in front of Assassin, her blade raised protectively.

“Assassin,” Saber said firmly, her voice calm but commanding, “you’re mentally shaken. Leave this to me.”

Then she turned her gaze to Archer. “Apologies, Archer. But I, too, am a king, and Assassin is my knight!” Saber’s declaration rang out, clear and unwavering. “I will neither join your cause nor allow you to claim Assassin for your banner.”

Her words carried an unmistakable weight, a declaration of sovereignty. Saber had cut through Archer’s ambitions with a single stroke.

“So, this is a refusal?” Archer sighed theatrically. “I care little for the titles of kings or rulers, nor do I claim to be one by nature. I am only a king because the world placed a crown upon my head.” She paused, her piercing gaze falling upon Saber. “Even if you don’t wish to serve me as knights, you could still stand at my side.”

“That is not an option,” Saber replied coldly, her rejection absolute.

Archer turned back to Assassin, her gaze almost pitying. “We Servants were summoned into this world, born here, to sound the horn. Every living thing will remember this moment. Our names will be etched into history, forever engraved in this world’s memory.” Her voice grew wistful, carrying the allure of her twisted logic. “And so, we shall live on eternally.”

To declare the apocalypse merely to leave an indelible mark on the world, to cling to existence by being remembered as the harbinger of the end—this was the essence of Archer’s temptation.

Then, with a faint breeze, Archer vanished. Her parting words drifted through the air, a haunting echo:
"The knights are not yet assembled. Wait. The end will be declared soon..."

Her departure left behind a lingering chill. Her words, as mad as they were cutting, had struck at Assassin’s most vulnerable fears. To survive by becoming a demon, to proclaim the end of the world for the sake of existing—Archer’s logic was as insidious as it was tempting.

“Assassin, are you alright?” Saber’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. Concern flickered across the knight’s face.

“I’m fine,” Assassin replied after a moment, her voice steadier than she felt. “It’s just… Archer’s words left me thinking. But let’s not dwell on that. At least we survived tonight.”

She tilted her head back, gazing at the sky. Through the thin veil of clouds, the moon shone brightly, serene and distant.

We made it.

Far away, Rin clutched her hand, her fingers tracing over the remaining Command Spells on her skin. She had braced herself to use another, but somehow, Assassin had avoided pushing her to that point.

Assassin, is it safe now? Rin’s thoughts reached out through their connection.

Yes, I believe it is, Assassin replied, her emerald eyes scanning the desolate battlefield. Under the pale moonlight, the scars of their battle were etched into the ruined earth, a silent testament to the chaos that had unfolded.

The air, once thick with tension, now began to settle. The winds grew quiet, and the earth no longer trembled. Only the uneven ground and shattered stones bore witness to the fury that had erupted.

Reunited after the night’s brutal conflict, Rin, Saber, and Assassin regrouped. Even Shirou, still shaken from the events, joined them.

“It was Archer, wasn’t it?” Rin asked, breaking the silence. “What did she mean by saying her Master was ‘death’ or that he wished for the annihilation of humanity?”

“I don’t know,” Assassin replied with a furrowed brow. She hesitated, reluctant to reveal her suspicions about All the World’s Evil. “It might have been Archer trying to play mind games.”

Rin eyed her skeptically but didn’t press further. “I see. Still, I have an idea about Archer’s identity,” she said, her tone thoughtful.

“Archer’s identity?” Assassin prompted.

“Yes,” Rin nodded. “Her description fits perfectly: riding a white horse, wielding a bow, crowned as a king. Her purpose seems to align with the apocalypse. She must be the first of the Four Horsemen described in the Book of Revelation—the Conqueror.”

“The Knight of the Apocalypse,” Assassin murmured. The pieces were falling into place. She now understood the polluted Grail, the summoning of rogue Servants, and why Archer had been drawn into this war.

“But… how could the Grail summon such a Servant?!” Rin’s frustration boiled over. “First Berserker, practically a god before his apotheosis, and now a literal figure of the apocalypse?”

“It will be difficult to win,” Assassin admitted. “To defeat both Archer and Berserker, we’ll need power on their level.” She glanced toward Saber, then to Rin. “We can’t do it alone. We should form an alliance.”

“An alliance, huh?” Rin tapped her chin, glancing toward Saber. “Well, I suppose it’s not impossible. Shirou’s a novice, but his Servant… Saber is surprisingly capable.”

She then narrowed her eyes. “But only one can claim the Grail. It won’t grant wishes for four people. How do you plan to convince them?”

“Leave that to me.” Assassin puffed out her chest, a confident grin spreading across her face.

---

T/N: WOAHHH SABER? ASSASSIN IS YOUR KNIGHT? SELFCEST? heheh

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!