The city of pearls, Kingston. Now a sprawling hub of commerce and trade, this settlement on the western coast of North America had its humble beginnings as a fishing town in the late nineteenth century. After the two World Wars, Kingston saw a spike in immigration as people of all ethnicities flocked to the city for the promise of opportunity and built communities that blossomed into the ornate cultural centres that have lasted to the present day.

One of the relics from that era is Saint Martin Secondary School. The schoolhouse had been torn down and rebuilt several times, but outside of those few years of interruption, the campus in the Saint Martin neighbourhood on the intersection of Saint Martin Street and 49th is a constant in the city of Kingston. In fact, the institution has been there long enough that no one truly knows which came first, the school or the street.

Strangely enough, the neighbourhood around the school has always been residential despite being nestled deep within the center of Kingston. There have been petitions to urbanize the area, though every proposal fell through. The end result is a gated suburban paradise nestled within a busy metropolitan cityscape. In such a setting is where our story begins.

In the season where cherry blossom petals flutter through the air, a girl dressed in the signature grey and maroon uniform of Saint Martin Secondary gazes off into the distance by the ornate fountain in front of the school. What could she be thinking of? Is it love? Is it friendship? Is it something to do with the trials and tribulations that this coming school year could bring? Who knows?

As it turns out, she had been waiting for someone. An Asian dressed in a white button-up and faded jeans approaches the girl, who waves at him from her wheelchair.

The young man's sleeves are rolled up above the elbow, revealing the firm arms of a marble statue. Slightly softened by wear, his shirt collar is left open with the top three buttons undone, revealing a jade coin pendant on a red string around the man's neck. This Eastern Adonis wears his long black hair in a low ponytail that rests on his shoulder, only just long enough to hang over his breast pocket. He can't be any older than his early twenties, still young enough to have some boyish features and just old enough for the light of prime to shine through.

"Miss Victoria, I regret to inform you that your appointment with Doctor Stevens must wait another hour. It seems he is running late today," he says.

"It's fine, I understand. Being a doctor must have its own difficulties," replies Victoria. "Lancer, is it alright if we stop by the cafe over on the 54th?"

"As you wish."

With the young lady's permission, the gentleman pushes her wheelchair as she begins recounting her school adventures to him. Such is life for the pair in the last few days. Not quite strangers. Not quite warmed up to each other either. Not quite a master, not quite a servant.

But this story isn't about the two of them… or more accurately, this story isn't only about the two of them.

Just out of earshot, a youth also wearing a St Martin's uniform reaches his hand into the coin return slot of an old vending machine to find two dollars in change.

"Huh. Free drinks," he remarks as he uses his newfound wealth to purchase an iced tea, which he stows away in his backpack for later. Putting on a pair of headphones and picking up a few stones he seems to take a fancy to, the boy continues on his way.

With messy long black hair and a pale grey hoodie under his uniform jacket, he looks like the average teenager in Kingston. He is a student from a respectable school in a very peaceful neighbourhood, most likely someone with decent grades and alright future prospects — regardless of having spent most of their classes daydreaming and most of their free time doing anything other than their homework.

And people who are under that impression that would have missed the mark, yet they wouldn't be entirely wrong either.

His grades are just high enough to meet the standards of St Martin's and avoid expulsion. While other teenagers try to disguise their disinterest in school, this one makes no attempt to hide the fact that his mind isn't all present during lessons. When asked about anything beyond a week into the future, he always drops a variation of his usual reply, "I'll figure it out when it happens, I guess." To sum up his character, he's someone who has given up on their future prospects and become complacent with living with what little is available at hand.

On the other hand, if someone were to ask the young man himself as to why he lives life the way he does, he'd respond with a scathing diatribe on the state of society and how the world has gone mad. He'd claim that there's no point in getting a good education since people listen to the charismatic, not the learned. That there's no point in obtaining a business degree because all you need for a business is capital and a shriveled black heart. That there's no point in reaching for success when high status comes with a host of people who will drag you back down. The teenager would grumble pessimistically until he arrives at the end of his rant where he sighs and says with a smile, "But this life I'm living, this environment around me... it's not so bad either."

At the end of the day, in spite of all his complaining, he still cares a lot more than he would like to admit. He smiles and greets the elderly, who were stayed behind in Kingston while their children left to seek fortune elsewhere. He thanks the drivers who service the bus routes in the city, no matter how late they are. And even if the young man is a student who eats lunch with a different social circle each day, he makes an effort to remember everybody's names.

To be unable to decide if you love the world or if you hate it. To be unsure of where to go in the future, yet hide it behind a mask of indifference. This is the crossroads of life known as youth .

It is this sort of not-quite-ordinary teenager that we follow for our story. A strapping young lad half-way through his sixteenth year of life. From another point of view, he can be seen as someone nearing their expiry date as protagonist material with no worlds saved, epic battles, or magical girlfriends. Just one of many people in this world, going through the motions and meandering through life. Typical but also atypical. Then again, if every individual is unique to a degree, what is the point in drawing a line between normal and abnormal?

Arriving at the base of a hotel in the downtown core, the highschooler looks up at the building and sighs. The Shangri-La. There are probably a hundred or more hotels around the world bearing that name and likely not even under the same company at that. With the lobby being made of glass and marble, one would assume the average person can only dream of living in one of the suites at the Kingston Shangri-La.

Truthfully, the youth would prefer not having to go downtown and confront the reality of his personal financial situation. Be that as it may, it can't be helped if he has been summoned personally. To a luxury penthouse and every day for the past week no less.

"Young man, are you not heading in?" asks a somewhat familiar magenta-haired woman with what seems to be a metal mailing tube slung over her shoulder.

To which the young man in question replies, "... Right."

Without any more words exchanged, they approach the front desk, check out the elevator key and get on their way to the top floor. A painfully silent ride. Neither party has words to say, and neither party is willing to get to know the other either. After all, their alliance together is temporary at best.

As soon as they arrive at the extravagant penthouse suite on the sixty-second floor, a golden-haired teenager greets them cheerfully, "Salut, Mademoiselle McRemitz, Monsieur Szeto! Come quickly, our meeting will begin shortly."

The two arrivals only nod in acknowledgement allowing the teenager to lead them into the living room where a young woman lounges on the couch reading a firearms catalogue. The lady's hair is a dirty blonde in contrast to the smiling boy's vibrant gold locks. Clad in taupe cargo pants and a grey t-shirt under her flight jacket, she dresses like she shops at a military surplus store. Neither McRemitz or Szeto know who the girl is, only what she is.

Szeto clicks his tongue, "Hey, Elizabeth. I get it. You summoned some spunky blonde girl as your Servant. You don't have to bring her everywhere like it's show-and-tell."

"My name is Jean-Paul Élisabeth Pierre Laurent-Thomas," the blond corrects Szeto. "And I will have you know that I most certainly did not summon… what did you say… some spunky blonde girl as my Servant. My Archer is Her Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon Bonaparte."

Without looking up from her magazine, Archer comments, "I wasn't Napoleon yesterday when you introduced me, and I'm still not Napoleon today. Maybe we can try again tomorrow? But if you ask me, I think the result is going to be the same."

"She's Napoleon, I'm sure of it," insists Archer's Master.

Before the conversation could progress any further, the owner of the hotel suite enters the room. "Welcome fellow Masters. I'm glad to see we number no fewer than last we met—"

"Your words don't interest me, Englishman. Make it brief," interrupts Archer.

The host purses his lips before continuing. "Of course. As was agreed beforehand, the order the four of us summon our Servants in is first I, then Laurent-Thomas—"

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur Irving," objects Jean-Paul. "I must insist in the cases where only my surname is used, that you append the title of baron. I understand we are operating as an alliance, but it simply will not do to forget such a thing... or have you done so on purpose to provoke a reaction from me?"

Once again, Irving purses his lips. "Of course not. My apologies, Baron Laurent-Thomas. As I was saying, according to the order we agreed on, after the baron are McRemitz, and Szeto—"

This time, it is McRemitz who cuts the Englishman off. "Caster. I summoned a Caster."

Szeto freezes. Considering what he will be using as a catalyst, striking the Caster Class from the list of possible Servants is a death sentence. So far Irving's Saber, the baron's Archer, McRemitz's Caster, and a mystery Rider have been summoned.

The Rider most likely belongs to a Master who is unaffiliated with the Clock Tower. No one in this alliance had heard anything about the Association sending another competitor. As this outsider is in command of Rider, the class renowned for their Noble Phantasms, it stands to reason that the first move of this alliance of Clock Tower magi should be to target Rider's faction.

Nobody has seen Irving's Saber before, which is a good move on the Englishman's part. At least in Szeto's eyes, it is pretty obvious that with the positions that each Master has in the hierarchy at the Clock Tower, Irving is being put on a pedestal above the rest of the Clock Tower's Masters.

Regarding Archer, the unspoken agreement amongst the individuals in the penthouse who are not named Jean-Paul Élisabeth Pierre Laurent-Thomas is that the girl resting her combat boots on the coffee table is most definitely and absolutely not Napoleon Bonaparte.

As for Caster, there is nothing much else to say other than they were summoned, and only McRemitz knows what they look like.

"... Are there any developments regarding the War that we need to share? No? Then our meeting is adjourned. Please. Show yourselves out," hisses Irving through gritted teeth.

The meeting ended as swiftly as it began. Standing in the hotel lobby, the visitors look at each other. Szeto clears his throat, "You know, I figured that none of us liked the guy to begin with, but aren't we pushing him too far? Now he's definitely going to kill us all once this alliance becomes unfavorable for him."

All three of the Masters subordinate to Irving have reasons for disliking the Englishman, ranging from being indebted to him to having been recently forced into a poor business deal by him. As such, the trio were more than ready to throw fuel into the proverbial fire as soon as Archer had started it.

The military surplus model snorts, "With what? His dinky Saber Servant?"

Jean-Paul looks slightly uncomfortable as he tries to explain the concept of classes to Archer, "Napoleon, we are still dealing with a Saber . While I also do not like Monsieur Irving very much either, I feel that dismissing his Servant as just a Saber is a mistake."

The fact that a Servant of such high status would be willing to let someone address them by first name is a wonder. Then again, the Servant in question does seem quite different from what one would expect of a Heroic Spirit.

"I don't give a rat's ass about that. God didn't side with Englishmen in my day, and I don't believe God will side with them now either."

Ah, at least she's made it quite clear that she's French.

Turning to Szeto, Jean-Paul claps him on the back, "Anyways, that's tough luck for you, Monsieur Carter Szeto. Only Lancer, Assassin, and Berserker are left, yes? My condolences. Quite unfortunate really. Born with good Circuits, yet living with abysmal luck. Your Mystic Eyes are of a relatively useless type and you aren't in line to inherit your family's Crest. Truly unfortunate, unlike I, Jean-Paul Élisabeth Pierre Laurent-Thomas, heir to the Laurent-Thomas barony, magecraft, and fortune. Even so, not everything is for naught. I believe in you and your ability to seek further heights. After all, every genius rises from the mundane, and every fortune starts from a single franc."

Of course, the French don't use francs anymore, but Carter doesn't feel like pointing it out to the fake Frenchman.

"I do wish you best of luck, even if you cannot summon a powerful servant like Napoleon. Ah, would the two of you like to join Archer and I for supper? I know of an absolutely wonderful establishment—"

"Declined. Sorry Elizabeth, I'm going to enjoy my last dinner by myself."

It seems as if Jean-Paul has yet to figure out why people don't like him.

"Mais enfin! I believe I just mentioned my full name, Monsieur Szeto! Jean-Paul Élisabeth Pierre Laurent-Thomas! At least use Jean-Paul or Pierre if you're going to shorten it!"

The fake Frenchman's protest is left unheard as Carter had already left. So had McRemitz, coincidentally.

Inside a small Chinese restaurant named TB Café, Carter enjoys what might be his final meal, at least by his reckoning.

Curry and beef brisket on rice. A simple dish, though out of all the restaurants in Kingston, Carter enjoys the more homely flavors that TB Café offers. The chef here bakes their potatoes before adding them into the curry. Baking the potato chunks forms a skin keeps it from dissolving completely in the curry, which prevents the dish from gaining a more starchy flavor from the potatoes dissolved.

As the highschooler savours his dinner, a clean shaven European wearing a navy peacoat enters the café. The stranger looks to be a fairly handsome fellow in his mid-twenties, yet at the same time unremarkable and bland. He has a face that would fade into the crowd as one of the many handsome blonde men in the city.

Noticing the stranger heading towards Carter's booth, the highschooler acknowledges him with a curt nod, "Hello there."

"Mister Szeto," the newcomer returns the greeting as he takes a seat across from the young magus. "Good day."

While Carter does not recognize the stranger, it seems the stranger in question at least knows who Carter is: a Master candidate. Likewise, the highschooler can tell that there's something off about the man before him. Instinctively, the magus checks the wrap on his left hand, only to find that his Command Spells are still concealed. Whether the lotus-shaped markings are visible or not shouldn't matter however. If one knows what they are looking for, identifying a Master is an easy task.

"Participating in the Holy Grail War, yes?" asks the European. "My name is Manfred and I have come today representing Rider's faction."

Immediately, the gravity of the situation sinks in for the teenager. The adult across the table has the same presence as some of the magi at the Clock Tower, meaning that despite his attempt to blend into society, Manfred doesn't seem to quite fit the bill. An apt comparison would be like spotting a crow mingling with a flock of gulls. He most definitely isn't just a no-name representing Rider's faction. That much is obvious from the slight haze around him.

The gentleman clasps his hands together and puts them on the table where Carter can see them. "Be at ease. You have my word that no harm shall come to you during our meeting. I would like to propose an alliance."

"If you've come here knowing who I am, you must already know who I'm allied with. Are you sure whoever sent you knows what this means?"

Carter refuses to meet the man's eyes, occupying his vision with the gentleman's hands instead. It is very clear that the highschooler isn't the sort who enjoys conversations with strangers. The thought of Rider's faction deeming Carter important enough to negotiate with chips away at the young man's confidence. After all, this means he is important enough as an asset for others to seriously take note of, and that is something the young man had not prepared for. Also, despite the European promising not to kill Carter, there's always the possibility that this promise would be broken now that Carter has nowhere to run. Humanity isn't known for being kind and courteous in times of war.

"Naturally. It is because we believe you to be the most likely Master to accept our offer. Out of the four magi enlisted by the Mage's Association, you are the weakest and least remarkable. This means once all the outsiders have been eliminated, you will be the first to die, and at the hands of allies no less. Surely, you have already considered that possibility?" Manfred explains. "As such, I believe it would be to our mutual benefit to join forces."

Cautiously, the teenager poses a question to the blond man, "Hypothetically, if we were to join forces, what would your plan be then?"

"You will be our inside man in this War and provide us with information on each of the Clock Tower's Masters as well as advance notice on any movements they make. Together, we create opportunities to eliminate each of the other Masters. As for what you receive from this alliance, I can guarantee that my faction will come to your aid in the event they discover your betrayal. I do not believe you are in a position to ask for more than that."

Carter doesn't give his reply just yet. If he accepts this offer and his allies hear of it, he might not have to wait for everyone outside of his alliance to be eliminated before being disposed of. That's praying that whoever he summons tonight doesn't kill him first. Given the catalyst his family provided him, the latter is much more likely.

Even so, the offer tempts Carter. In the event no party finds out about his deal with Manfred and assuming Carter's Servant decides to cooperate, all that is left to do is ensure that the other two other outsiders are dealt with. After that, turning against the Mage's Association Masters should be easy, provided Carter makes sure to isolate each member first before picking them off. The alliance had never been that stable in the first place.

Alexander Irving has a decent amount of support behind him. That itself isn't much of a reason to dislike him. However, the Englishman also has a pretty rotten attitude when it comes to dealing with people with lower status. It is plain as day that the side he shows his allies is a facade. Turning the other members of the alliance against Irving would not be too difficult a task.

McRemitz is an Enforcer, so she would be an exceedingly difficult opponent to fight alone. This danger is even greater when accounting for the unknown Caster that she is contracted with. Carter himself doesn't have any qualms about getting rid of the Irishwoman. They only met recently and barely spoke anyways.

As for Jean-Paul… Carter would feel bad about killing an upper class twit who has yet to fully grasp what he's getting into. At the same time, the fake Frenchman would not be missed very much.

The young magus pauses. It disturbs him that his first thoughts after receiving this offer from the Rider faction are thoughts about eliminating his allies. Then again, these "allies" are probably plotting to kill Carter all the same. But before all that, there's always the chance that German would simply have Carter killed after he's given up every morsel of information he has.

Noticing that the younger man is seriously considering his offer, Manfred takes his leave. "My apologies for interrupting your dinner. I understand this is a difficult decision to make. Please do take your time. Unfortunately, I can only spare you three nights to decide. Have a nice day." — he turns back towards Carter — "One last thing. Do not come looking for me. I will come looking for you when the time comes."

There's no way Manfred wouldn't know that Carter has yet to summon a Servant. Anyone versed in magecraft can tell if a Master has a Servant contracted since the magus would leak mana like mad… So why would their faction still choose to offer an alliance if that were the case?

An odd thought comes across the young man's mind. Perhaps the Master of Rider is an idiot like a certain Elizabeth?

He shakes his head and beckons for the waitress, "Miss, check please."

Finishing the remainder of his milk tea, Carter pays the bill and leaves a generous tip. He absentmindedly takes detours on his way home, flexing his fingers and holding them up to the sun as he meanders around the suburbs.

Passerby occasionally notice the dark-haired highschooler from across the street, giving him a second glance before writing him off as just another teenager with some wild fantasies going off in his head. While Carter is of that age and does indeed have such outlandish thoughts in his head at times, today isn't one of those days.

Dipping down to his left, Carter picks up a small stone and bounces it in his palm as he continues on his leisurely promenade. Despite the monumental task of fighting in a Holy Grail War that awaits him, he shows no sign of unease, simply deciding that it's too late to burden oneself with worries.

"Worst comes to worst, I'll simply grovel at the feet of whomever I summon."

The art of summoning itself has never been Carter Szeto's forte. Neither has the art of magecraft in general. The art of grovelling however...

That aside, the young man might be a Master in the Grail War and he most definitely is one of the least prepared ones, but by no means is he actually meant to emerge victorious. but when the Irvings "requested" that the Situ Clan send a candidate to Kingston, the patriarch refused to send one from his immediate family, deciding instead to send a disposable branch family child. With Carter's remarkable Magic Circuit quality and quantity, only someone within the clan would have realized that this course of action was not simply to keep the heiress safe, but to prune a withered branch from the family tree.

Owing to the fact that the disgraced branch family that Carter hails from hadn't seen a proper magus in four generations, as well as the fact that the main branch cut off relations to the point of stripping their surname from the fallen branch, Carter had little formal training in magecraft which limited his repertoire of spells to what he could teach himself. A crying shame, seeing as he has the makings of a more-than-decent magus and would have been well-loved by any other family. When the Asian finally met other magi his age, he tried to interact with them and discuss theory but was only shunned in response.

With a flick of his wrist, Carter throws the rock he had been holding onto at the ground. The instant the stone left the youth's hand, a series of small magic circles appeared in the path of his throw. A rune glows on the pebble as it flies through the air, accelerating as it passes through each formation, ricocheting at an impossible angle once it touches the circle on the asphalt. Not even a second later, a deafening crack rings through the street and a bird drops dead from one of the nearby trees.

The reason Carter Szeto's peers avoided him is this. Because no one would teach him anything, the young magus consumed any knowledge he could get his hands on. He learned to perform almost all spells below a certain difficulty. As for those beyond his current level or restricted to practitioners from certain bloodlines, he would cobble together frameworks and theories from different systems in an attempt to recreate them. If magecraft is an imitation of Mystery, Carter's magecraft is an imitation that imitation.

The dark-haired youth makes his way to the dead bird, examining the grotesque corpse. It is clear to him that this bird wasn't alive to begin with — or at least it wasn't alive when he used his runes on it, judging by the amount of inorganic parts. A familiar belonging to another magus, no doubt. To Carter's knowledge, this isn't something anyone from his faction would cook up.

Reaching into his school bag and tearing off a corner from a handout dated last year, the teenager scribbles a short memo before dropping it into a tiny cloth pouch. Taking a deep breath, he summons his messenger with a loud whistle.

A feathery black friend of his dives down from the sky, and makes himself comfortable on Carter's shoulder. People usually joke about being paid in peanuts, though in Carter's eyes it doesn't seem to be a problem if the employee actually prefers it that way. Satisfied with his pay, the crow picks up the pouch and flies away in the direction of Alexander Irving's suite. What the Englishman chooses to do with the warning doesn't concern Carter. After all, the young man is just a sacrificial pawn in this war.

"Ansuz," he mutters, noticing the festering corpse had been completely ignored by the messenger crow, he set the body on fire. "I suppose even scavengers have standards."

Since the Irvings managed to provide their representative with a state of the art workshop, it was only natural the Situs provide one for theirs. In the Saint Martin neighbourhood, the Situs purchased a luxury apartment about a ten minute walk from the school that the suburbs were named after. Being outfitted to suit the needs of any practitioner of the Situ magecraft, the apartment given to Carter is nothing to scoff at. Of course, most of the equipment prepared is far beyond the teenager's ability to use. A cruel joke.

In the two bedroom apartment, the south bedroom and its accompanying facilities were traded for a workshop. Renovating the rooms was the hard part, and fortunately for Carter, the workshop was completed to begin with. All he did was rearrange the furniture in accordance with the principles of feng shui, install his personal equipment, top up on resources, and prepare consumables such as runestones and talismans.

The catalyst that was provided to Carter by the patriarch is none other than a scrap of the Dragon Robe of China, meaning the Servant summoned using it would more likely than not be an emperor of the Asian country. Although this particular piece of fabric dates back to at least the tenth century, there stands a decent chance that any emperor from after that era could be summoned by association. The many generations of rulers in China of the same species of volatile monarch found in every civilization; however, the more famous individuals in this category are especially known for being ruthless and calculating.

Suppose one such individual is summoned in a grail war only to be greeted with an unmotivated, serotonin deficient Master who is slightly older than a child. There would be no guarantee that the Servant wouldn't kill Carter on the spot, having decided that this war will not be worth their time. Without question, the Situ Clan's patriarch knew what he was doing when he sent Carter this catalyst. It is a white elephant for the young man, specifically meant to get him killed.

As such, the preparation and rehearsals Carter put himself through means very little. The adventure ends here if he bungles the ritual. The adventure ends here if his Servant kills him. Even if the Servant contract is completed, there is still a chance the immature magus will not be able to sustain his Servant and die after having his mana wrung dry.

In spite of that, the Asian still managed to pull himself together and dry run the procedure every day. Normally, Carter is the type of person to throw his hands up in defeat and resign himself to play it by ear on the day of. Even so, the highschooler made an effort to cradle the faint ember of hope. Hope that through this Grail War, he might find something. Something to complete himself. Something to change himself. Something to free himself.

"... Come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the heavenly scales!" the dark-haired youth chants, struggling through the final line of the incantation as he shakes and sweats from the strain. The ritual was easier than he expected, yet still much worse than he had hoped. At least his circuits aren't burning as badly as he thought they would, but the back of his left hand, where his Command Spells are branded, itches like it had touched poison ivy.

Carter squints, shielding his face from the violent wind and searing light that fills the workshop. Not even five seconds later, the light fades away and the gale is reduced to a faint draft. Once his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, he notices the form of a young woman around his age standing in the magic circle inscribed on the hardwood floor.

The dragon's incarnation stands in all her regal grandeur, unfazed by the soft fluttering of her imperial regalia as the residual breeze caressed it. The court garments in question are woven from fine silk in the color of hydrangea blossoms and embroidered with mahogany patterns, then finished with a goldenrod trim. Under the extravagant finery is a layer lotus white, almost translucent even, a sight that evoked a sense of purity. And beneath that ethereal white, caressing the petite frame of a young woman, is a carnation pink dress.

His eyes drifting upwards, Carter looks upon his Servant's face for the first time.

Days or even weeks can be spent singing praises of the maiden's elfin features and flawless skin. A poet can write a thousand words for a hundred verses and their efforts would still be in vain as it is simply impossible to translate her beauty into words. Yet what draws the young magus' gaze is not the fairy's cherry lips or lascivious lashes, but her hair. Wisteria tresses tied in a ponytail and forelocks parted in the middle. The left drawn back to join the tail from which her violet locks flow, the right left to dangle as is. Adorning her lavender waves are several golden accessories, from brooches to hairsticks, and finally, an ornate headdress with blue tassels. As the last breaths of wind are extinguished, the Servant opens her eyes, surveying the workshop before landing her amethyst gaze on the highschool student struck dumb in awe.

Without any room for doubt, the summoning was most definitely successful. However, there is one wrinkle to iron out. The Servant called forth is not a man, but a young woman.

A woman?

Having gathered his wits, Carter's mind begins to race as he attempts to figure out the identity of his Servant. The Dragon Robe of China, being a garment that the ruling monarch wore in life, would presumably only function as a catalyst for anyone who held the post of Emperor of China. Could it be that historians are wrong and that an emperor who was recorded as a man was in actuality, a woman? After all, Jean-Paul seems pretty convinced that his Archer is actually Napoleon.

No. That's not very likely considering the fact that there are too many records that confirm the numerous past emperors as male. If the record books say the ruling monarch is a man, then they must be a man. So this narrows the Servant's identity to women who were related to the Dragon Robe.

Among the many dynasties of China, notable female monarchs are scarce. Or rather, to Carter's knowledge there was only one.

He drops to his knees, greeting the lady before him in her native tongue, "This one who is beneath you greets the Sacred and Divine Empress Regnant."

Kneeling is something Carter had planned from the beginning, since someone as venerated as a past ruler of China deserves no less than that. If he did not kneel his head would roll. Now that he is at a comfortable height for beheading, there are only two courses of action. Either he lives, or his Servant has an easier time separating his head from his body.

"Oh? So even in this era, our name has not been forgotten. And fully knowing who we are, you still have the audacity summon us," she says coldly. Her red lips curl into a smile as she looks down at the young man. "Amusing indeed."

A cold chill falls on the workshop and several robed figures emerge from the shadows. From the air of hostility, it seems to Carter that the worst case has come to fruition.

His head hits the ground hard enough to leave a bruise.

"This unintelligent one would not dare," he stammers, pressing his forehead into the ground. His word choice becomes even more self-deprecating words as he tries best to keep his head and torso well acquainted.

"We expected little of this present age. Even so, we are presented with a child who not only knows of our name, but pays their respects to us. Very well, it has been determined thus: Make your case, and only then will it be decided if you are worthy of our assistance."

Sweating profusely, he tells the Empress of his situation, starting from the main family's demands, to meeting the other Masters. As if he was force fed a truth potion, the boy gave up everything he knew. The Irving family's magecraft, Jean-Paul's Archer, McRemitz's Caster, the Rider faction's offer, and even the familiar he shot down earlier in the day.

"What is your name?"

"This worthless commoner bears the surname Situ and the given name Xuan."

"And what do you seek from the Grail?"

Carter pauses. By now, he has regained some sense of composure and can think properly again. He always knew it to be true, yet it is only now while he is kneeling before a monarch brought back from the depths of history that it really sets in: Depending on his answer, his life could end here. In an effort to emphasize his wish, he chooses a slightly stronger pronoun for himself.

"What this little man wishes for is change. To overturn the future that is forced upon this body and reach forward towards a different one."

An eerie silence settles on the workshop. Seconds drag on to minutes and minutes to hours. The grain in the hardwood floor has become all too familiar to Carter.

"Interesting. We have decided that your journey will be worthwhile. Our pact is sealed. Situ Xuan, raise your head," the Sacred and Divine Empress Regnant declares. "We shall deign to speak your language for you have honored us in ours. Assassin, Wu Zetian. As long as we find you to be entertaining, we shall allow you to serve us."

Profiles

Saber

Master: Alexander Irving
True Name: "[Irving's] dinky Saber Servant"
Gender: ?
Height/Weight: ?
Parameters:

Class Skills:

Personal Skills:

Noble Phantasms:

Carter's Notes:
I haven't met them yet.
Irving hasn't said much about his Servant either.

Archer

Master: Jean-Paul Élisabeth Pierre Laurent-Thomas
True Name: Napoleon?
Gender: Female
Height/Weight: 159 cm, 44 kg
Parameters:
Strength B
Endurance C
Agility A
Mana B
Luck C
Noble Phantasm B
Class Skills:

Personal Skills:

Noble Phantasms:

Carter's Notes:
Spunky blonde girl. Looks to be about 19 years of age.
I don't think she's Napoleon, but she sure as hell is French if her dislike for Englishmen is anything to go by.

Caster

Master: Bazett Fraga McRemitz
True Name: ?
Gender: ?
Height/Weight: ?
Parameters:

Class Skills:

Personal Skills:

Noble Phantasms:

Carter's Notes:
I haven't met them yet.

Assassin

Master: Carter Szeto (Situ Xuan)
True Name: Wu Zetian
Gender: Female
Height/Weight: 150 cm, 45 kg
Parameters:
Strength D
Endurance E
Agility A
Mana B
Luck A
Noble Phantasm B
Class Skills:

Personal Skills:

Noble Phantasms:

Carter's Notes:
Petite, purple-hair. Probably 15 years of age.
It seems she would have preferred it if she were summoned younger. I probably messed something up during the summoning. Well, it can't be helped.

A/N:

In Classical Chinese, individuals avoid using "I/me" and tend to use third-person descriptors when talking about themselves. Particularly, when speaking to someone of higher standing, one favours using more self-depreciating words as a sign of humility. These third-person descriptors are often two characters long; however, as you can see in this chapter, translating them to English makes the sentence feel slightly chunky.

The Servant profiles will only be posted in chapters we learn something new about a Servant. The "Notes" section of the profile will be written by different characters at times, so if you enjoy little throwaway tidbits about the story, please remember to read them.