Chapter 3

"It was discovered in the woods near Farnham, of all places. This whole time and I hadn't sensed it, but they had!?"

When she'd made her way to her mentor's study, Médée found the Vice Director not there. Instead, having to follow the breadcrumbs, she found her in Surrey, snarling at the leader of a group of Executors when she arrived. Pointing her gauntleted hand in his face, demanding an explanation, he explained that an unnaturally high concentration of unholy entities—ghouls, undead, spirits of the damned, the markings of an Apostle—was reported by the local priest. By the time her mentor caught whiff, the situation was already dealt with. Not their doing, but, the local priest's, who stood off to the side hands behind his back observing his own handiwork with seemingly stoic disinterest. Skimming over the pile of stinking, maggot-ridden corpses herself, bloody puncture wounds and cross-shaped seared flesh, clearly the man was once an Executor himself.

…. Though as if her mentor gave a damn.

Being shown a map of the surrounding countryside, the Vice Director quickly went over it. The Dead Apostle was still in the area, certainty. Hellbent and fury-fueled, certain. Biting her thumb after, she motioned her over.

Her mentor, usually straight faced and unflinching in everything she did, was dripping blood. Trickles ran over her hand, down her chin. There were drops on the ground.

"... Vice Director?"

Her mentor wiped the blood from her chin and looked over at her with a solemn expression. "Well?"

She recalled all she'd taken from those images: a skull face and demonic arm, the flash of crimson light cleaving dark shadows, breaking of the embryo—the incomplete Grail—the explosion and death of most involved; that man, blasting a girl dressed in blue and silver with frills, running away and dying just the same; the girl's broken body, her insufferable, childish laughter, mocking the knight as she took her last breaths; said knight, unamused, seething, dealing the death blow; those last words, blade stained with blood and black mud.

— … You can't be him. You never will be. You're just a...—

—… Father… What was I...—

None of these details—the Masters, the Servants, a Grail or no Grail, their victories and defeats, the who, the why—mattered, except the very last, shortly before they'd arrived yet whose trail had immediately gone cold again: the witch in white, strolling through the grimsly aftermath with her umbrella, humming an old, somber tune…

"Francesca. How many times do I have to…?" She went quiet, grumbling to herself. "And what did Lord El-Melloi II have to say?" she said after her anger subsided, lifting a hand for her to continue.

Médée paraphrased. The rituals in Babylon, the Subspecies Grail War in China, their missing representative, Sumire...

When she finished, the Vice Director crossed her arms. "Yes... But, given the… ambiguity… I want to be prepared for it. There's no telling what might happen… I'll arrange a team to investigate further. Once I have their names I want you to get in contact with them. You'll see them off."

"Yes, Vice…" She went to bow, then paused. Wait. If she wasn't going with them, then—?

Upon seeing her face, her mentor's expression darkened. "The last time I let you go off on your own, you ruined the reputation of three of Clock Tower's most prestigious bloodlines. I still have to go through the trouble of replacing them. I'm sending you to China with Gray." She held up two fingers. "There are two reasons, and I want you to handle them properly this time."

—§•δ•§—

"Here you go!"

A grand total of one book was dropped before her. Its cover was in poor condition, smelling of old parchment and soiled undergarments, scraped and torn. From what she could make out of the title on the binding, it was something having to do with the Holy Wars. Flatt sat down with an exaggerated huff, shaking dust from his hair. Putting his head down on the table, his eyes focused on the stack she'd collected, all relating to the history of the last 70 years regarding the Holy Grail Wars.

Her brow twitched. How could such a genius mind be in the body of such a fool? She opened the first page of the book. It practically crumbled between her fingertips. Turning through it carefully, from what she could make out, it was something having to do with two kings and a beast in the desert. A story, a fiction, a myth. A scary bedtime story to tell the children at night. In other words, worthless. Trash. She tossed it.

"Ah! Hey! I wanted to read that when you were done!" Flatt sprang up, chasing after it.

It was two days since she returned Japan and the finalized list of names of those the Vice Director chose was given to her earlier. First on it was Bram Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri, an utterly spoiled pompous ass even by her standards. That sister of his had been not better. Second, was Professor Lian Chao, one of the few magi of Asian descent present, with presence, in Clock Tower. Though his knowledge of curses and other such macabre subjects was profound , his talents were best suited behind a podium. She couldn't see him surviving the heat. Then, there was that Enforcer, Neil Ancrum. She barely knew anything about the man—or any of those special class rejects, even—save that his record for eliminations is far greater than his number of captures putting forefront along with herself. Last, there was that member of the Church, Kirei Kotomine. She didn't recognize the name, but, the Vice Director requested it personally and approved him.

She took a book from the stack, opened it, and started reading.

From what Lord El-Melloi II shared, the Third Grail War ended with it being stolen by the Yggdmillennia family, an annoying bloodline which welcomed lesser magi families into its ranks. They were like cockroaches; everywhere you went. She'd even encountered one in her Holy Grail War, and guessed that ghoul in Tokyo—the same who killed a little girl and fled the scene shrieking like one himself—had been a part of them, too. Her reasoning? No respectable magus would be so cowardly.

Anyway, there'd been two Grails: the Greater and the Lesser. The one stolen was the Greater one, "The Great Grail", he called it. The Lesser Grail, on the other hand, was destroyed by one of the participants. And of those participants, three survived to see the end. On the last day, Wilhelm Hausler and his Servant, a Rider class, encountered Lancer, mysteriously without its Master. Though they managed to defeat it and destroy the Lesser Grail, it'd all been a distraction for Darnic to get away with the Greater one. The actual Grail. Then, he vanished, and none of these books had any information as to where. The only big clue the magus was still alive were these smaller Holy Grail Wars. "Subspecies Holy Grail Wars", they'd been officially dubbed.

The original system for the Holy Grail Wars was the collaborative effort between three families: the Einzberns, who created the vessel to hold it; the Tohsakas, responsible for the gathering of the Heroic Spirits, the "Servants"; and finally the Makiris, who provided the Command Spells which allowed the Masters to control the Servants. A total of seven Masters were allowed to participate at any given time, each allowed one Servant for a grand total of fourteen participants. There were seven classes a Servant could be assigned based upon their strengths: Saber, Lancer, Archer, Rider, Caster, Assassin, and Berserker. Also, the number of Servant per class was limited to one.

In these flawed copycats, this new system, there could be multiple Servants per class. Meaning, she could have summoned two Caster class Servants if she cheated the system. Only, instead of seven, though all seven were possible, five was maximum. Her War had five participants. Lord El-Melloi II's had two. The one she'd wasted time investigating… at least three.

Of the seven, Saber was viewed as the strongest overall. One of the three knight classes, the other two being Lancer and Archer, they were usually Heroic Spirits who in life and legend were regarded as exceptional melee combatants, commonly with the sword. She'd lost and been humiliated by the Saber summoned during her own War, but, the Holy Grail War in China, Francesca and rumor of a rogue Enforcer with two others in tow… If there was one in this latest War, then...

—You foolish girl. Once, I desired revenge, too. Do you really think your wish will come true?—

If there was one thing her Servant—and her Servant's previous Master—had been good for, it was these conceptual tools sometimes left behind by the more powerful ones. Last time, she'd been foolish, but, now, she was prepared.

She had to succeed, no matter the cost or burden to bear, personal misgivings aside, this time was her chance to really prove it, and, when the day came...

—Something tells me to be wary of you in the distant future, and should it come to a duel between you and I, know that you are to hold nothing back. As I will unleash everything at you, in turn. Now, go, and take care of this before it grows ever more a nuisance—

She would have a place in the family. She would seize power.

—§•δ•§—

That night, her belongings packed, only the necessities, she looked over at her nightstand. Putting the witch's dagger in with the rest of her things, trinket included, Médée was about to make her way out the door and to her flight to the next place her mentor bade where she suspected there would be just more questions than answers instead of what she needed, when there was a knock on her door.

She stopped. Stood. Listened. Waited.

At this hour Lord El-Melloi II would be relaxing in his flat playing with himself and belching, fingers rapidly tapping away on some hand-held device in his hands glued to a television screen as she been forced to sit and watch like their first meeting. The start of it all, where she'd been sent on a hunt to Vietnam for sightings of a strange, mysterious spawn of undead creation that was simply just a coven of lesser spirits and the only thing they recovered was some ancient, unresponsive tablet but enough to convince her mentor that he had some value. If word already reached his ears, the one at the door was his apprentice.

Letting out a groan, she opened the door, but, instead of Gray, she was greeted by Flatt who smiled brightly.

"Take me with you and Gray! I already have my stuff ready!" He turned around, showing off his knapsack. "And my ticket!"

Her brow furrowed. How did he even…? Nevermind. She grabbed her own stuff and shut her door. Fine, whatever, this changed nothing. Walking down the street, it would take around thirty minutes for them to reach the airport, and she hoped listening to his mouth running a mile a minute was the only headache she'd have to deal with.

"... Do you even know where I'm going, Flatt?" she asked as they came to a crosswalk. The light was red. She hated London traffic.

"Nope, but Big Ben told me I could if I left him alone!"

"Right.." Wonderful.

Well, one more person wouldn't stop her. As long as neither of them got in her way, and knowing Gray, the girl should be waiting at the airport, awkwardly standing there since she returned to London, another assignment already in her, no, both, their laps, and sure enough, there she stood… along with the team her mentor put together, including Reines, Bram, and a school of Bram's admirers.

Next time she was going to choose her words more carefully.

—§•δ•§—

Lancer plopped down beside the box her Master lived in. Battling Caster really wasn't something she was looking forward to doing again, which was a first.

At least not without help.

Taking a drink of bottled water she'd swiped from some hapless man on the street and pouring the rest over her head to cool down, she slicked her hair back. Her body felt like it were still on fire, particularly nasty burn marks visible when they should've completely healed hours before. To think, getting burned alive was the only way for her to get any tanner. She would've laughed, if not for fear of waking her Master sleeping soundly.

Instead, she stretched and decided to check the bounded field around the perimeter starting at the alley entrance. It hurt to get back up, so sore with each step she took; she now knew what Conganchnes felt. His head over the cauldron, screaming—no true warrior, Munster, Connacht, or beloved Ulster, deserved to die in such a way.

"Ah, well," she said to herself, re-writing a rune that'd gotten smeared.

It meant she couldn't move around as much as she liked, but, there was nothing to worry about as long as she avoided the other Servants until she was fully healed. She only hoped she'd be ready to go when that time came. Yes, it was just a matter of time before Caster did something everyone—and not just those participating in this Holy Grail War, but, literally, everyone—would pay the price for.