"Nothing, not even with that. Did we make a mistake?"

"I don't know." Roderick panted, "Did you?"

Roderick wasn't a stranger to experimentation, to hours of difficult trial and error until the right answer could be found. It was a way for him to learn the way of the gun, how to properly maintain them and how to use them to the best of their abilities. Dozens, if not hundreds, of weapons had passed through his hands, helping him memorize their unique properties. Being a swift learner was also a big plus in his book.

But words failed him when it came to Magecraft.

Patience was a virtue, though it had its limit. Roderick had just met his. Standing in a bunker and doing all sorts of activities he never even dreamed about, all in the vain hopes of learning how to cast spells, turned out to be a waste of time and a pain in his behind. Whenever he and Lyons prepared him for some kind of a big, hyped up event, they only met more soul-crushing disappointment. The older man was more frustrated of the two. He would open a book, read a few lines, scribble on the board, gave Roderick the basic understanding on how a spell would work, and then shake his head when the failure happened.

"I'm old, not a fool. I know what I felt and I do so now. It's hard not to. Nobody could become what you are today in such a short amount of time without it."

Roderick shrugged. He had no idea what to say. Lyons eyed him suspiciously.

"…Could it be that you still have doubts?"

"I won't lie. I kinda do. Everything you told me this past hour and a half is…" he shook his head and widened his eyes, "Wow."

Lyons rubbed his forehead.

"Didn't I tell you that belief is a necessary component of the whole process? You need to believe in what you do in order to make it work."

"You know how crazy it sounds? How would you feel if somebody, out of the blue, tells you that you are capable of setting someone on fire if you do funny things and say funny words?"

"This is not… ugh…"

"I try, okay? It's not even weird to me."

"Everything you do through Magecraft already exists in the universe. You're just making a projection and not making a never-before-seen miracle."

"If you say so…"

"Look, maybe we went too far today. You have all the right in the world to blame me for that. Just, go back to the dorm and rest. Tomorrow we will continue where we left off. Hopefully it will be time well spent."

Roderick sighed, "Ok… and I'm sorry."

"No need to be. Now go."

Roderick turned around and headed for the exit when he heard Lyons' gasp. It sometimes scared him how perceptive he could be.

"Wait!" he raised his voice, suddenly sterner, "Where did you get that?"

Roderick blinked, before looking down, where the finger was pointing at.

"What the…"

When he looked back at Lyons, all he saw was a man whose eyes were so transfixed at the anomaly that he failed to find whatever he was looking for on the table beside him. Roderick himself couldn't explain what was going on, why did was there a strange red mark on his right hand.

"I-I saw that! Somewhere in here. Where did I put it?" his trembling hands nearly tore the cover of a damaged book. He mumbled something, stabbed a page with his finger and looked back at the younger man.

"Boy, forget the rest. We need to talk."

"W-what's happening? Is it bad?"

"Very. Sit down."

Roderick gulped. He knew when Elder Lyons turned on his calm, deep, yet aggressive voice that he had to obey to every word that came from his mouth. In such moments there was an air of authority that surrounded him, that made him higher than a normal man in the eyes of others, which was, he thought, one of the reasons why he was the Elder.

"So far in your life you have achieved many things that other men could only dream of. You mastered combat, you discovered secrets, you even put a stop to things that threatened the Wasteland. Now, I'm afraid, you have been thrown into a mess that is far above your ability to handle it."

He raised the damaged book. Its covers were yellow and unintelligible.

"What I hold here is a book written by someone like you and me. We were lucky to find this copy in such a state and we think its writer tried to destroy it afterwards. In it there is a chapter covering the topic of a ritual. A relic from the Old World. That mark is part of it."

"Great. Just what I needed to hear. What's it all about?"

"The ritual itself is known as the 'Holy Grail War'."

"Holy grail? Like a cup or something?"

"I don't know all the details, but apparently the winner gets a free wish, without restrictions. Whatever it is, the Grail can make it real."

As soon as he heard that, Roderick jumped back on his feet, unable to process the sentence he repeated for several times in his mind.

"O-oi, every wish? That sounds-"

"Insane? Yes. Whoever created it must have been either very devious or very foolish."

"I can… I can even bring back… father?"

Lyons nodded. Roderick's heart skipped a beat. There was no justice in the way that his father died, forced to do the unthinkable to stop the Enclave from getting their hands on Project Purity. At some nights, when he couldn't get the much-desired sleep, he would go back to that scene that revealed to him a lot of truths about the world. His fists would punch the glass wall as he witnessed his own father's death. Panicking, he would rush to safety, unable to do anything as a hostile entity he never had encountered before put its claws on the Jefferson Memorial.

"There is a condition to fulfill, though. And that condition is for you to come out as a winner, fighting against six other competitors."

"I see… and I assume they are wizards as well?"

"Magi. Yes, they are."

"Well, if they bleed…"

"Oh no, no. It doesn't work that way."

"Huh?"

"You don't fight directly. You fight along with your Servant."

"A… Servant?"

"Spirit of people from ages and eras before ours. People from a past we have long forgotten, I think."

"Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me I can fight, side by side, with some historical figure? Like, say, the founding fathers? Or, or inventors?!"

"I don't know. It all depends on who you summon… or who hears your call. Meaning you have to perform the summoning act yourself."

"Ah, figures. I'm screwed then."

"No. We have to make it work. Failure is not an option here. If you don't summon a Servant, you will die."

"Why though?"

"Because a Servant is far stronger than a Human. Far stronger than anything in the Wasteland. Being a Master is a requirement."

Roderick rubbed his chin.

"Then, if I'm a Master… I give orders to my Servant, right? So then, if they are that strong, we could use their help to fight off the Supermutants and the Horde."

"You have to win the War first. Keep in mind that you won't be safe as long as the Holy Grail War is in effect."

"Alright. I get it." Roderick balled his fists, "What do you want me to do."

"Take some chalk. You're going to help me draw a circle on the floor. I have a drawing here on a page, but most of it is burnt away. The missing part should look like this one right here. Magecraft is as precise as science, after all."

Lyons and Roderick spent the next few hours drawing and perfecting symbols on the floor of the bunker. More than once did the former chastise the latter for doing even a slight error. The fact that they had to remake everything for several times gave Roderick a reason to believe that what they were doing was important in more ways than he could think of. A sigh of relief from the older man was the sign of a job that was done well.

"Never thought we could make it. These hands aren't as good as they used to be." he gave a humorless chuckle, "Now for the chant..."

As Lyons stuck his nose into his books, Roderick gave his 'masterpiece' another careful observation. A six-pointed star stood at the center of a circle, followed by a bigger circle, with many symbols decorating the space between them. A smaller circle stood at each point of the star, holding another symbol whose meaning was lost to him. When he looked at it as a whole, Roderick felt chills down his spine, reminding himself of the object found below the Dunwich building. The same feeling was present in both.

"There."

Elder Lyons handed him a book.

"You have to chant it all in one go. Take your time."

Roderick looked at the short text on the page, read it thrice, took a deep breath and began speaking aloud as his right hand stood above the circle. The words flew from his mouth, but his ears didn't pick them up. Clearing his mind of all thoughts, Roderick invested his emotions into each word with utmost care. Did he make it?

...

Nothing happened.

"Is it done?"

"...No..." Lyons looked like he couldn't allow himself to utter that word, "And yet we've done everything right. Did we miss something?"

The ex-Wanderer stood in silence as looked at the symbol on his hand. He didn't know what to expect, but it sure wasn't such an anticlimactic outcome. He refused to accept failure at that point. If he was chosen by the Grail or whatever, then he was willing to turn the whole Wasteland upside down just so he could once again see his father's smiling face. The frustration that the failure had built up within him burst out through tears that were forming in his eyes, blurrying the world.

I want it. I will get my wish at any cost. I will bring my father back from the dead.

And then, when his hope was at its peak, the symbol on his right hand shone brightly. Roderick's vision turned red.

"What's happening?!" Lyons rushed to his side, thinking of ways to help his younger assistant. Roderick crumpled on the floor, shaking and yelling through gritted teeth. His right hand slammed the circle. The red light that the symbol was emanating spread throughout the drawn symbols, reshaping them to fit better into the heresy that was unfolding in front of Lyon's eyes. His ears caught a faint, animalistic growl coming from Roderick.

"Through torment and adversity, I bind my soul with the spirit that is willing to answer my call, so that we can spread the joyous revelation to all mortals that roam the Earth, under His watchful gaze. Let the pain of my flesh and the sinful stains on my soul be appropriate servings to you, our King. With my heretical tongue, I, Roderick, shall now sing praise to you..."

Seven hopes, seven baits,

Seven fools that will soon be wraiths.

...

Earth trembled with each symbol turning several degrees brighter. Lyons watched in fear of being buried alive as dark red bolts flared and sprung up from the sigils, striking the iron walls and other objects with the intent of vaporizing them. He grabbed Roderick and threw them both on the ground, waiting for the madness to end.

But the madness had merely begun, as thousands of voices flooded the tiny Workshop, each whispering a stream of curses, pleas and noises that no Human could ever make. It all culminated when all the noise was sucked into the circles, focused into a single point, if a black hole had appeared. And then, a loud "boom!" threw both men backwards as a bright white light drained the color from their surroundings.

Some moments later, when his vision returned, Lyons saw a convulsing Roderick and a fog that hid a figure on the other side of the room. The fog dissipated not long after, revealing to him the kneeling frame that held a sword. Everything about them spoke of a time before theirs, belonging to an age of legends and myths. The figure, with their eyes closed, spoke up.

"Servant Saber, Artoria Pendragon, has answered your call. I ask of you, are you my Master?"

Only then did Lyons realize how neck-deep in trouble they all were.

Desmond wasn't dumb nor was he blind. He knew exactly what that symbol on his hand meant. He just never expected to be one of the chosen. The symbol was also big news for him. It meant that the Holy Grail War wasn't lost to history, which in turn made him think about the possibility of earlier Grail Wars.

Being a member of the secret services opened way too many doors to life. It made one uncover the many secrets that were hidden from the society at large. And with him being a Magus, that was one advantage that couldn't be ignored. Far too many times did he use his knowledge in the service of his family, not that he always liked it, but having less enemies to care about made life easier to bear.

It was through his connections that he learned of the Grail War and its implications. Of course, his family wanted a piece of the pie as well, so arrangements had been made to accomodate their request. That's how he ended up being a chosen for the War that was about to be unleashed if it weren't for the end of the world.

And now, two centuries later, he was reminded of his duty to a family that didn't exist anymore. When he had finally decided to discard life for good, it came back to him while whispering sweet nothings to his ear. The wish he wanted to make a reality was pointless in the current world and there was nothing in particular that he wanted. Still, there was this distant memory of a thrill, knowing that he would be part of something so far greater than himself.

He wanted to experience it again.

With heavy legs and a heavier heart, Desmond Lockheart went to pick up the books and the relic he took from Blackhall. The latter was stored away in an ornate wooden box, wrapped in some light brown, leathery cloth. It was a ring, old and worn, with a gem that lost its brightness. Looking at the ring, Desmond felt a pang of nostalgia he didn't know he had, followed by a sense of urgency. He looked at his right hand, frowned, and went back into the room. Waiting was pointless. If he didn't summon a Servant in time, he would be out of the game and dead, without a chance of fighting back.

"Time to get to work, Desmond."

Cutting his finger with a small knife, the Ghoul began drawing on the floor. It was ages since he had done some true Magecraft and most of the spells he knew were gone from his mind. Still, he did everything in his power to remember all the steps needed to summon a Servant. The newest Holy Grail War was, for him, just a continuation of the one he was supposed to participate in.

Power was the law for Desmond. He would win the War, even if he himself had no real wish he wanted to realize, just because he could. He didn't back down from any challenge and he certainly wouldn't do so now. Calvert was a coward. He didn't went all in when it mattered, like he did. That's why he won and Calvert didn't. And so, for nothing but a vain hope of attracting the attention of a strong Heroic Spirit, Desmond put the ring in the middle of the circle.

"Ah, looks like I still didn't lose my touch."

Admiring his handiwork, Desmond tried to recall the next step in the process, when his eyes caught a glimpse of something; a detail, one he couldn't remember he drew. He put the ring in the middle of an eye with three irises, each with a unique pattern.

"The hell..? Ugh, aaaah!"

He felt a pulse inside himself, a reverberating "badump!", like a beating of a heart, as he clutched his chest tightly. His raspy breathing turned into incoherent wheezes and coughs as his eyes widened as far as they could. Dizzying thoughts swarmed the mind without any hint of mercy. Beads of sweat dropped from his mutilated. Soon his lips moved as if they had a will of their own.

"You, who casts his gaze down from the heavens above, revealed to us with utmost clarity, the new gospel of life and of death. Born of Earth, but not from it, you give to us a new path we as people must take. Therefore, as a celebration for the upcoming times, the dawn of mankind, this humble soul presents to you the prayer of the ages…"

…
Seven nights, seven days,

Seven the winds that will scatter their remains.
…

The room exploded, washing the swamp in red light and scaring off all would-be visitors. A black shadow shaped itself out of the crimson storm, tall and proud. A Heroic Spirit answered the call, though Desmond was too busy trying to maintain his sanity in order to care. If he could regain control of his senses, he would have seen an individual with their back turned to him, wearing an armor of pure gold, bright like the pre-War sun on a clear day. The figure looked out from the destroyed window and into the fog of the swamp. Their words promised unbound wrath that seemed to build up like a volcano that was about to erupt.

"…What have you done to my Garden, you filthy mongrels?"

Silas had to accept the cruel reality. There was no way around the fact that he would need the aid of a Servant if he wanted to survive. The explosion followed by screams far down the corridor only solidified his fears. He waited for a few Scribes to run past him. He pushed a button on the wall to his right and entered into a small room. He found a young Scribe rummaging through lockers. While others fought for his sake, he was looting their home. Without thinking, Silas pointed a finger at him.

"Dark lightning!"

His Sorcery came into being the moment he shouted the words. A pitch black bolt exploded from his finger and struck the Scribe, stabbing his soul with fatality equivalent to a knife in the heart. The man yelped for a split second before dropping dead.

"Shit!"

Silas cursed his decision the moment he saw the Scribe's face, even more so when he found out what he was looking for. It was that one nagging youngster with whom he had a conversation before all hell broke loose. Unlike other cowards, he was looking for a weapon, either to defend himself or others. No matter, he thought, he could always revive him later, but right now he had a different problem.

The usage of Sorcery attracted one of Them like a bait for a fish. He could sense its presence as it kept diminishing the distance between them. Silas closed the door and reinforced it with another spell, then began engraving the seals on the floor with Magecraft, earning himself a nosebleed and a sore throat. The Thing was thirty meters away.

Silas, frantic with worry, came with the idea of further enhancing the seals by adding more symbols along with a third circle. He was aware of the risk, but the thought sounded way too logical to be ignored, like a stroke of genius when one wouldn't expect it. The Holy Grail War would be the least of his problems if the Horde got him first. He would gladly butcher his own soul rather than to fall in their hands. The Thing was now twenty meters away.

His work completed, Silas began chanting. Pressure built up on him with each sentence as the monster came even closer, heart banging in his chest.

"…It's not working!"

Silas stepped back from his piece. A surge of horror overwhelmed him. He could feel It's short, powerful legs stomping and bending the metallic floor as only ten meters of space was the only obstacle it had to surpass to get to him.

The mind went blank. It escaped into a fantasy to avoid confrontation with the brutal and illogical reality that was unfolding in front of him. Possible explanations sprung up as to why his Servant wasn't there. Maybe the Horde was somehow interfering with the process. Maybe he missed something. Maybe there wasn't enough magical energy for such a spell. Maybe no Servant wanted to answer the call anymore.

That's bullshit, he thought angrily. They were all supposed to have a wish they wanted to be granted. A Heroic Spirit is still a member of the Human race; a greedy, selfish bag of mostly water, even after their transcendence. That was the brilliance of the whole ritual, no matter how much he despised it. Bait the heroes of old in order to shed blood once again for people that wouldn't even be a footnote in the great book that is history.

But he had a wish too, damn it! He wanted his wish granted too! So what, was he supposed to die in such a tiny space? Was that supposed to be his coffin? If he dies, Magecraft dies with him. He was the last repository of pre-War knowledge, the only thing that would make the Wasteland a more bearable place. He would do everything in his power to save the very thing that made difference between the ordinary and the exceptional. Maybe he failed to destroy the Holy Grail, but now he had the chance to do something of actual importance.

"I'll get my damn wish, you hear me?!" he screamed at the ever-bending doors, "And neither you, nor them, nor anyone will stop me! My wish will become the new reality!"

With the spoken words, his right hand began to glow in an eerily red hue. Words that weren't his own spilled out of his mouth one after another. Silas could do nothing but watch as the brightness of the ceiling lights gradually diminished, until everything swum in complete darkness. All sounds of the world faded, except for the words and the blood that was pumping through his veins.

"Great One who aspires to govern our fallen race. With my blood I will consecrate these grounds, so that our offerings might appeal to your heightened senses. Let our glorious bloodshed be the chapter that will mark the end of history, for your will shall rule supreme. Make our hearts burn with regret, with pain and with chaos. With the song born from my soul that thirsts for meaning, let the curse that was whispered upon the chosen run deep into our veins, until there is nothing left..."

...
...
He rose on that dreadful day,

when Earth died in the fire.

The Sin of Man had paved a way,

for Him to bring his Mother's ire.

...

All thoughts died the moment his body erupted in a shower of blood from multiple cuts that grew over his body. He stood there, motionless, as his robes absorbed the warm fluid. Still, death didn't come to claim his life. The pain was immense, yet he didn't die. An incomprehensible amount of time later, the sigils, all the lines he had carved into the floor erupted like a volcano. Silas closed his eyes from the fear that he could go blind if he dared to look at it for a second longer.

Madness has claimed the room. The space began to bend in impossible shapes as a cacophony of voiced became louder and more assertive, willing to break his mind no matter how much soercery he used to defend it. Curses flew all over the place until all voices had settled on an agreement. And then, everything went back to normal right after a tiny shape uncurled itself inside the crimson light.

Silas' eyes darted around the room, trying to find proof of what had transpired. He found nothing. The presence of another being sharing the same room woke him up from his stupor, even more so than the banging at the door caused by the Thing that wanted to gut him like a mirelurk. It gave a small curtsy before declaring its identity with a pride Silas hadn't seen for years.

"Servant Rider has come to save the day! Let the brilliant Da Vinci take care of the problem, Master!"

And right on point, the door broke down. A pair of maddened, beastly eyes gazed at the two, letting the whole world know of its hatred with a howl that Silas' soul would never forget.