Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did own FSN, I would at least be rich enough to own my own laptop.
Note One: Hurrah! This fic, and my other one, Infinite Paths, have both been recommended on TVTropes! Thank you to my loyal readers!
Note Two: Another note about the mechanics of this war. I have assumed that by some form of magic all remaining combatants will know the identities of any fighters who have been killed instantly, to provide a 'live update' as it were. It can be taken to be a part of the Heaven's Feel, much like Masters 'know' the stats of the Servants they look at.
O'Shea was shocked, and he didn't care who knew it; a steady stream of rather inventive profanity filled the mobile phones of his three allies as he stared at what was going on beneath them (the four Masters perched rather precariously on the roofs of a faraway building, observing the battle through military binoculars).
"What the bloody hell is that bastard?" he half-shouted, as the European Berserker's sword flashed once more, nearly decapitating Cetanwakuwa's Lancer, who was hard-pressed to avoid it.
The other three made no comment, their jaws slipping unconsciously as they watched one lone figure fight off four Servants – two among whom were Sabers, supposedly the mightiest of all classes. The stats of the Berserker flashed across their eyes as he moved, a reinforcing counterpoint to his rage.
The Berserker ducked gracefully under the slash of Kent's Saber, sliding forward and nearly taking off a knee. A+ rank agility.
Archer's futile hail of bullets caught the Berserker flush on his unprotected back, but the beast shook them off as easily as if they were made of paper. A++ rank Endurance.
He stopped O'Shea's Saber's powerful, armoured fist with his hand and swung in a graceful arc with the hilt of his sword, sending the Saber careening backwards, making a foot-deep dent into the wall. A+ rank Strength.
Lancer's thrown spear somehow slightly missed its mark, scoring a gouge into Berserker's shield rather than his torso. B+ rank Luck.
And the four Masters knew that his Berserker had not yet fully activated his Mad Enhancement, which would further boost his skills. In a simple sense, they were terrified. What was this mad beast? An army by himself? Some sort of God given form?
And then as the four Servants unconsciously closed together as one, trying to overwhelm Berserker with the sheer weight of numbers did the four Masters get their answer, as the Personal Skill that had allowed Berserker to fight on an even footing with the four burned itself into their minds.
O'Shea was the first one to verbalize it. "A-Rank Strength of the Outnumbered." he said. "Well, f—k me." An incredibly rare skill, as the name suggested it gave the warrior a boost when his foes outnumbered him. Berserker's ranking in the skill meant he was essentially fighting with stats boosted by one-and-a-half ranks.
"In any case," said Kent, breaking the silence and watching his Saber be parried again, "he isn't unbeatable."
The other three shifted uneasily, not reassured. Their options were to fight Berserker as is and hope to overwhelm him, to call away three Servants so they could fight him one-on-one and negate his skill, or to retreat. The first assumed they could beat him, doubtful if he activated Mad Enhancement as well. No Master wanted to send his Servant to be the one-on-one fighter. And the third option meant the loss of pride of the entire United Kingdom, since one man had fought away four of their strongest weapons.
Luckily, their decision was made for them. "R-reinforcements incoming!" yelped Jill, her enhanced eyes scanning the distance. "Seven hostiles!" At a rough estimate, that meant a minimum of three Servants. "They look like the Europeans."
Kent gritted his teeth, considering the options. "We pull back." Reinforcements would neutralise the Berserker's advantage, but it would descend into absolute chaos – a four on four Servant battle, and there were just too many unknown factors for Kent to consider fighting that way.
Even the normally bellicose O'Shea didn't demur, and the four Servants were recalled in all haste – O'Shea's Saber grumbling slightly, but the other three seemed to take the loss philosophically and they disappeared. The last thing they heard before fleeing the area was Berserker's roar that they were cowards and unfit to be men.
It had been a dismal day for the United Kingdom.
"Ha!" laughed Pollux. "Our cowardly enemies have fled before my Berserker!"
The European Union had reached the battlefield just in time to hear Berserker screaming insults into the distance and smashing the nearby building with his sword in frustration.
"Excellent work, brother." remarked Castor, eyeing the silently fuming Berserker, who was visibly irritated at not being able to fight. "We fended off a Servant, and now we fought off another group. The war goes well."
"Of course," remarked the golden Rider, draping an arm casually over Berserker's shoulders, "We Greeks are fearsome warriors. No one can stand before us!" Then, ignoring Berserker's growl (which seemed to convey a sense of disdain for the golden man and a harsh command not to count them both in the same category) he walked over to the uniformed Rider and stared him in the eye. "I told you, did I not, that we should have assisted my fellow Greek?"
The other man gave no reply, staring evenly into the eyes of the golden Rider. Slightly unnerved, the golden Rider turned and observed, "Some warriors show no courage whatsoever." The other Rider refused to be drawn by this comment, turning away to examine the battlefield, and Franz sighed in relief. The last thing they needed was a fight between the two Riders.
"Darling, are you hurt badly?" cooed Alessandra, examining her Assassin's shoulder. "Can you still fight?"
"I can." said Assassin. "But my identity is compromised."
"Never mind that, darling." she replied. "We'll just have to use you better."
"Also, Master…" said Assassin, and there was steel in his voice, "I will not use It again unless I have to. I had to use it to save your life, but I will not use it casually. It is the memory…" he sighed, "of my greatest mistake."
Even Alessandra was slightly intimidated by the force in his voice. But then, she could understand him. Forcing Marcus Junius Brutus, an honourable man who had betrayed a friend who trusted him implicitly, to revel in his betrayal again and again? No, she would not do it unless she had no other choice. Silently, she nodded.
This reassured Assassin, who dissipated into spiritual form once more to heal himself faster.
"So tell us, Berserker," said Pollux, "as much as you can about your opponents."
"- I repeat, I know who the other Assassin is. It's Marcus Junius Brutus." Izanami's harsh voice rang in Sa'd's ears as his communications earpiece buzzed with her information.
"How do you know?" came the slightly petulant voice of Wei, who Sa'd had no doubt considered the fact that Izanami had been in the first battle an affront to his pride.
"His Noble Phantasm was called Et Tu and he was with the Europeans." hissed Izanami. "Who do you think he could be, you fool?"
Silence over the link once more, although Sa'd wondered if the slight background disturbance he could hear was the sound of the Monkey King's laughter at his Master's expense. It sounded a likely thing, and Sa'd let himself sigh quietly. Wei would no doubt be even more angered by this, and seek out battle to 'prove' his superiority. Perhaps he would have a quiet word with him later.
Sa'd was still pondering this when, with a harsh rending sound, the pipe of one of the washbasins split open and a jet of water shot out to catch him squarely in the back - completely unawares - and sending him colliding into the wall with the sheer pressure of the water.
Whirling around as best his water-soddened robes and disoriented mind would allow him, he froze. For in front of him were two figures, one smiling at him and one staring blank-faced, the two undoubtedly Servants. And from the water that was swirling around the feet of the latter, he could tell that this was his assailant.
Swearing in his native tongue, Sa'd scrabbled backwards, releasing his magic in a harsh stream of sand that would have flayed the skin off any man and chipped away even at the strongest metal. Of course, his assailants were no mere mortals, and the sand stream dissipated harmlessly as a flare of unfocused prana from the Servants caught it.
"Assassin!" screamed Sa'd, voice cracking. "Come to me!"
Such was the power of a Command Seal that a Servant who was miles away, hunting for his own prey, instantly transcended otherwise inviolable space and time to appear before his Master. It took but a second for Assassin to sum up the situation, and resort to what he knew was his – and his Master's – only chance.
"Zabaniya-" he called, beginning the activation of the unique Noble Phantasm that all Hassan-i-Sabbah had, the ultimate representation of the men who had brought the word Assassin into the dictionary, the absolute leaders of the Hashashin.
He was too late. It had taken him but a second – and yet in a fraction of that time the other Caster attacked, his magic informing him that a Command Seal had been used and allowing him the luxury of a second extra to prepare his assault. To someone as powerful as Caster was, it was as if he had an eternity to prepare. And for someone who looked like he was in his eighties, Caster attacked with all the speed and ferocity of someone sixty years his junior.
"Net of Hephaestus." called the Caster, and a Noble Phantasm representing the golden net used by the Greek Forge-God Hephaestus to capture his wife and her lover – both Gods – shimmered into existence around Assassin, wrapping his outstretched arm tight to his body and sending him stumbling into the wall, where he wriggled helplessly. The bonds of the Noble Phantasm had been forged by a God to ensnare another God, and few Servants could escape it once trapped, even if Caster was only using a weakened version of the original item. To an Assassin, who was little more than useless in a straight fight, it might well have been unbreakable.
Sa'd stared in uncomprehending terror. His mind whirred frantically, telling him that the net was a Noble Phantasm of Greek origin, and concluding that the Caster was some ancient Greek hero – and yet the Caster was dark-skinned and didn't have the traditional Greek features; a contradiction that left the rational part of Sa'd's mind stumbling to form a conclusion. Was this Caster indeed Greek? Was he a non-Greek who somehow had a Greek Noble Phantasm?
Simultaneously, the visceral part of Sa'd's mind kicked into high gear, the rising adrenaline triggering the instinctual flight response of an animal facing its predator. Turning on his heel in a flash, Sa'd kicked off the ground, flying forwards in an almost perfect textbook football tackle, arms braced in front of his head as he crashed through the window that was behind him. He was one floor up, but he would take his chances with the drop.
For a brief moment, Sa'd believed he would make it, as he flew out of the window like a missile, curling his legs up to land better. Then something hit him painfully on the back of his head, and everything went dark.
The other Caster stared impassively, lowering his hand from where a bullet of water had emerged to drive itself into Sa'd skull, the bullet continuing onwards to make a large crater in the wall of the opposing building. With a dull thunk, Sa'd's corpse landed on the frozen roads of the city, the pooling blood crystallising in seconds.
Assassin slowly began fading away, his link to the mortal coil severed unceremoniously. For Sa'd al-Malik and Hassan-i-Sabbah, the war was over.
And the message went out to the remaining fighters and the world governments. The Grail World War had claimed its first victim.
"No…" said Ved, collapsing into a rather comfortable sofa placed in the building he had chosen for his base. "Sa'd – Sa'd is already dead?!"
Archer said nothing, watching his Master silently as he stared blankly into the darkness.
"Archer." said Ved, snapping to attention with a jerk. "We will show these –" he swore in Hindi "what we can do. No more hiding."
Archer nodded. "An excellent decision!" he roared. "We will take to the skies tomorrow and destroy all we come across."
Ved nodded, his jaw clenched in determination, his entire body tensed.
"This is Wei." buzzed his earpiece. "I am going on the hunt tomorrow." Wei's normally well modulated voice seemed to crack slightly in anger.
"So am I." replied Ved, and had the pleasure of listening to what he took to be a stunned silence from the other end. Wei considered him a coward, he knew. No doubt it would surprise him that Ved would set out in revenge of Sa'd.
"Don't get in my way." came the eventual reply.
"Or mine." cut in Izanagi, who had clearly listened to the entire conversation.
"Fine." replied Ved, and the airwaves were silent once more.
"This is abominable!" shouted a man, gesturing at a slight figure who was wearing traditional Arabic robes. "Your mage has been defeated in less than a day! What are our brave warriors to do without capable help?"
"Indeed." continued another. "I had expected your territories to send us proper warriors, not incompetents."
The third made a harsh murmur of agreement.
The man they were speaking to rose, his robes shifting in the slight breeze from the air-conditioning. "My friends," he said, placatingly. "I do not deny that Sa'd al-Malik has dishonoured our name, and for that his family will be punished."
"How is that going to help us?"
"However," continued the man, unruffled, "our top mages have been – working hard on this problem for the last few hours, and we believe" he paused for effect "we have discovered a loophole."
"When you say 'believe'-" started one man.
"A poor choice of words, honourable delegate." replied the Arab, folding his hands. "I misspoke. What I meant to say is, our mages havedefinitely discovered a loophole in the Heaven's Feel."
The air suddenly grew thick, and an aura of palpable tension was almost visible. Loopholes in the rules of such an important event were of crucial importance. It was no exaggeration to say that most nations in the world would give half their territories for one.
"What sort of loophole?"
Instead of replying, the Arab clapped his hands, and the door opened.
A man dressed in the traditional all-concealing Arabic robes walked in. But what drew everyone's attention was the figure trailing behind him, a being who radiated power beyond men. Dressed in a loose white robe, with some jewellery hanging off it and a golden crown framing a bearded, regal face, the man was clearly a Servant.
"My friends." said the Arabian delegate, an ill-concealed smile of satisfaction on his face. "Please welcome Khalid Issam…and his Servant, Avenger."
So there's the chapter! How was it? Reviews are my lifeblood .
Fate Mundi Bellum: Statsheets has been updated.