Ken groaned. When he had been threatened with expulsion, and was forced to take this stupid test, he had not been expecting... this.
Of all things, he had to be sitting in a church acting as the mediator of some battle royale. Not only was it boring as heck, he did not even know the identities of those who were taking part. Having vague terms like 'Servant Saber' and 'Archer's Master' were supposed to help, but that was complete bulls-
"Who's there?" he asked, looking up as soft footsteps approached. The church had been abandoned, and it the sun had barely risen, so he had to admit he had been careless with the boundary field. Normal people could still enter, even though there was no reason for them to step foot here, and Ken was sure as heck not holy enough to give a sermon or listen to confessions.
"Are you the mediator for this event?" the intruder - a kid no older than twelve - asked.
"Who're you?" Ken asked, raising an eyebrow. Something about the kid made him feel really uncomfortable for reasons he could not explain. "If you want something, you should at least give your name."
The young boy was silent for a few seconds, as though considering his words. Finally, he nodded.
"I am Kirei," he introduced. "Kirei Kotomine."
Tetsu Hamada stared at the screen blankly for a few minutes, before finally closing his laptop. He should have known it'd be pointless, but a part of him still had to try. The result of said trying, however, was a brutal reminder of how stupid the idea had been.
"What are you doing, Master?" a man's voice, powerful and authoritative, yet without an owner, asked.
"I'm looking up additional information on the 'Holy Grail War' on the Internet," Tetsu replied, the very words mocking him as soon as they left his lips. "As expected, there's nothing useful. Or at all, actually."
"As I understand, this 'Internet' connects people across the world," the voice mused, as a man appeared out of thin air. While it would explain why Tetsu had been talking to an 'empty' room before, the sight of a man materializing out of nowhere was surely not a normal sight. "To think that such a wondrous creation would not contain the information you seek... Mages are truly protective of their secrets."
"Actually, I think they're just too stupid for technology," Tetsu replied offhandedly, recalling the time someone had blown up a computer trying to change the font in a document. Leaning back on his chair, he turned to face his Servant.
Broad shoulders. Muscular. Shoulder-length hair that dimly shown with a dull gold aura. The man was a statue depicting confidence and charisma, given life by something divine. And yet, despite his awe-inspiring appearance, there was something missing. If anything, he looked like a veteran warrior instead of a great Hero.
"What is it?" the man asked. "Surely you have not been mesmerized by my fine body, have you, Master?"
Tetsu resisted the urge to roll his eyes and scoff.
"Hey, Saber..." he said hesitantly.
"Yes?" The Servant replied readily.
"Are you really a King?"
For a moment, Saber did not reply. He merely stared at his Master, looking into his eyes as though appraising him. Tetsu held his ground against the intense stare, but it took a lot of effort.
"It would appear you are not mocking me," he said at last. "So I shall answer you honestly. Indeed, I am a King. I was entrusted with the lives of my people, and was able to fight for them until my last breath. I feel no shame in giving my life for such a cause."
"No, I don't mean that," Tetsu corrected quickly. "You just... don't feel all that... grand."
"Grand?" Saber questioned. "Did you perhaps expect me to be clad in gold and silver like an extravagant ornament?"
"Yeah, something like that."
Saber broke into gales of laughter.
"You amuse me, Master," he guffawed. "Such a queer image of kings! I assure you, I have no interest in vain trinkets or mountains of gold; a king should only ever bathe in the glory of victory and the praises of his people, and never riches. Does that disappoint you?"
"Of course not," Tetsu replied. "In fact, it's actually better for me if you're not some stupid show-off. Since you're strong too, I have no complaints. But I do have one more question:
"What's your wish for the Grail?"
Saber fell silent once more, earnestly thinking through his reply. Tetsu waited him out, observing the warrior with curious eyes. At least the man was not boring holes into his soul this time with those eyes of his.
"I cannot think of anything concrete," he said. "If anything, I wish to prove my strength to the world, as I have always done in life. I simply wish to win, for that would be a fine testament to my prowess in battle."
"Haven't you already slain a dragon?" Tetsu asked blankly.
"Indeed I have," Saber agreed. "However, I was heavily wounded from that battle, and perished soon after. It is not a result I can be satisfied with, and certainly not a true 'victory'. I believe I can do better. No; I will do better in this War."
"Good enough for me," Tetsu shrugged. "But mages are a cowardly bunch, you know? What if they cheat or gang up on you or something?"
"Tell me, Master," Saber said sternly. "Do you intend to chouse your foes?"
"Not if I can help it, no," Tetsu replied.
"Then that is fine," Saber nodded, satisfied with his answer. "I care not if others resort to underhanded means; the weak must depend on other factors to even the odds, so as to achieve a level playing field. I will not blame them, nor will I admonish them for their actions; I will win long as you, too, are righteous, I care not what vile schemes our foes can concoct. You should be more conscious of the fact that you have summoned the strongest Servant of the strongest Class, Master."
"Fair enough," Tetsu conceded. He had no doubts about his Servant's abilities; in fact, he was actually doubtful of this test precisely because of it. He had summoned the strongest Servant - one so powerful that his own input was rendered unnecessary. He could easily win this War with hardly any effort. Was this really enough for the Clock Tower to retract his expulsion verdict?
"I will be counting on your support, Master," Saber said, offering the teen his hand. "Together, we will surely emerge victorious."
Tetsu considered him for a few moments, and slowly took his hand. He was shaking hands with a real King. That in itself was far too surreal.
"But of course," he replied, grinning.
That is, until Saber's iron grip all but crushed his hand.
Shizuku Otonashi, a man of morals and discipline, was attempting to cheat.
Granted, he was not so much 'cheating' as he was 'trying to exploit any possible loopholes', but he knew there was little difference there.
"Ah, this is the life!"
He looked at the back of his hand, where an odd mark had been slapped on. It looked like a regular tattoo to those who did not know better, but when one considered his current situation, it was something far more important.
His Command Seals sat there innocently, glaring back at him as he inspected them. He had done his research on the Holy Grail War, and was well aware of what they were and what they could do. What he had not been expecting, however, was the quantity he had.
As every bit of information he could gather had told him, every Master was given three Seals without exception. And yet, inexplicably, Shizuku had five.
"That was refreshing! Your era is truly one of great marvels, Master!"
Had he somehow broken the rules unintentionally? Had there been an error in the system of the Grail? Was it due to the uncanny nature of his Servant?
"You really are a man of few words, huh. Need me to tutor you? I'm not the best with language, but being summoned as a Servant..."
Shizuku massaged his temples. He had gone through quite some effort to summon an unorthodox Servant, but he had not expected said Servant to be this unorthodox. Or annoying, for that matter.
"You're not very popular with the ladies, are you?" Caster asked, stepping out of the bathroom.
Shizuku's headache worsened. Despite being a female, Caster seemed to have no problem walking around in nothing but a towel. He could not tell if it was a cultural thing, a blatant lack of shame, or just plain stupidity. Not that he could blame her, since she looked like a ten-year-old and so this was appropriate ignorance.
"Being popular with 'ladies' like you is a crime," he countered. "Put some bloody clothes on."
Caster scrunched her nose.
"I won't question your tastes, Master," she said, her tone suggesting otherwise as her face showed equal parts disgust and mischief. "But I don't think bloodied clothes are attractive fashion-wise."
Shizuku swore under his breath.
"You're no fun," Caster pouted, twirling a lock of her white hair in her finger. "You need to lighten up more."
"I'm in a seven-way battle royale," Shizuku stated. "I fail to see how I can bloody relax."
"You need to cut down on your use of 'bloody'," Caster commented. "And don't worry; I may look like this, but I'm still the Pied Piper of Hamelin. I won't go down easily!"
The Pied Piper of Hamelin. Rather than a heroic legend, she was more of a myth. Taking away a large number of children from the town of Hamelin, after which none returned, she was an enigmatic existence whom, until recently, Shizuku had believed to be a he.
He had initially believed that a Servant like her, who had no known name nor cause of death, yet able to leave her identity in the pages of history, would be the perfect Servant for him. Even if they found out about her identity, there was nothing the other Masters could do to stop her. Her abilities were unavoidable and unstoppable – to the extent of being described as a plague or force of nature – and she had no known weaknesses (save her current childlike form). For a novice like Shizuku whose mind could easily be invaded, this was the best course of action. Or at least, it should have been the best course of action.
I really have terrible luck with women, he thought.
Caster, oblivious to her Master's suffering, had materialized her clothes and was wolfing down a packet of crackers.
"I thought Servants didn't need to eat," Shizuku wondered aloud.
"Eading heaups," Caster replied, her cheeks bulging. "Somwat."
"Don't talk with food in your mouth."
Or, for that matter, don't talk at all, he added in his head.
Caster nodded and swallowed, then went blue in the face as the food got stuck in her throat. Fearing the early death of his useless Servant, Shizuku rushed to get her a glass of water.
Yes, he thought exasperatedly. I do have bad luck with women.
Ran watched with mild intrigue as his Servant played around with rubble, or something. He could not tell from where he was.
"What're you doing, Archer?" he asked, unable to hold in his curiosity.
The Servant in question stood up and dusted the dirt off his gloves before replying. Dressed in a worn trenchcoat and sporting what looked like a cowboy hat, the Heroic Servant of the bow gave off the impression of some Wild West sheriff. Then he smiled, instantly changing the vibe that he emitted.
"Burying my trap," he replied lightheartedly. "Sometimes it's the simplest way that works best."
He looked around, surveying the empty construction site they were at. Thanks to Ran's boundary field, regular humans would be keeping out, which suited them just fine.
"Do you have to do it this early?" Ran asked. "It's barely noon."
"There's no such thing as being too careful," Archer replied. "I'll set up more traps in a bit, once I've confirmed the layout of this field. Then we can move on to turning this entire city into our stage."
Ran could not help but be impressed by his Servant's ambitious attitude. Sure, he liked to think big as well, but he was not this big a thinker. Not to mention it was too much work.
"Master," Archer called out, digging a hole in another pile of junk and dropping something inside. "Could you make the boundary field a little stronger? We want to be noticed."
It was then that Ran realized his Servant was actually compromising with him. He had wanted to start a fight right away, and Archer had agreed. Thinking back, a man who would go to such lengths to turn the entire London into his personal battlefield was definitely not rash. If they did things the Archer way, they would not be fighting at all tonight. But they were.
Having Ran set a boundary field was not only meant for repelling people; it was meant to attract the other Masters and Servants to this construction site, which would give Archer the initiative AND advantage. Even when compromising, his Servant had all his bases covered. With preparations this thorough, how could they lose?
"Now then, Master," Archer said, approaching the teen. "I know it is your motto to… ahem… 'Strike fast, strike fierce, strike first'. But for tonight's battle, we will have to take a more cautious approach, if you do not mind?"
"Eh, I'll live," Ran shrugged. "With a setup like this, I can't really fault you for anything. Do what you do best."
"I figured you might like it," Archer nodded. "You, too, are quite the prankster, after all."
He was, of course, referring to his summoning. For the sake of messing around, Ran had put a pail of water next to his summoning circle, intending to prank his Servant the moment it came out. Sure enough, Archer ended up with one foot in the pail the moment he stepped into this era. Not the best way to be summoned, that much was certain.
"You're never gonna let me live that down, huh?" Ran asked. He was already regretting that stupid, childish trick, but his Servant seemed to think otherwise of him. "I said I was sorry."
"Worry not, my Master," Archer replied blithely. "I expected nothing less from the one who summoned me."
"Is that supposed to be praise?" Ran asked dubiously.
"Who knows," Archer teased, shrugging his shoulders. "Depends on how you look at it. 'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder', as they say."
"You sound like Aka," Ran said.
"Aka?" Archer repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Who might that be?"
"A friend," Ran replied readily. "A little skinny and a literature nerd, but not a bad guy."
"Surely the target of your pranks, no doubt," Archer mused.
"Hey, that was just one time-"
"That aside, Master," Archer cut across him. "We should partake in some lunch. Eating properly is key to survival and health, you know."
"Do I look malnourished to you?" Ran asked, flexing his biceps. "And what's with the weird English? Just say 'let's eat lunch', dammit."
"Alas, I am an old man, Master," Archer reminded him with a wink. "It would be more fitting for me to act my age, no?"
"You're not even forty," Ran pointed out. "Are you?"
"The year begs to differ."
"Alright then, gramps," Ran said, a hint of mischief surfacing in his voice. He liked how his Servant was this easy-going; it made him feel at ease. "Let's go indulge in some cup noodles and play basketball!"
Archer raised an eyebrow. Whether he was questioning what 'cup noodles' were or expressing disapproval to Ran wanting to play around was anyone's guess. Ran, who was not one to read the mood or analyze things, merely interpreted it as the former.
"Cup noodles are the epitome of culinary convenience," he proudly declared, remembering the convoluted expression Aka had taught him (after some bribery involving a Shakespeare book). "Not to mention it tastes great, too."
"I see…" Archer said slowly. "Well, I hope you can procure it swiftly; wasting time is certainly not prudent in a battle like this."
"Don't worry; it's everywhere," Ran replied. "We just need hot water and wait three minutes for it to cook."
"Hold up, Master," Archer said, coming to a halt. "Did you just say three minutes?"
"Uh… Yeah…?"
"Am I to believe there exists something that can be used to substitute a proper meal," Archer said slowly and seriously. "And it can be prepared anywhere in just three minutes?"
"Well, yes," Ran nodded, unsure of how to react.
"Ingenious," Archer said, surprise and awe lacing his tone. "To think that Man has progressed thus far in the nature of combat rations… Color me impressed, Master."
"O-oh," Ran commented, adequately demonstrating his eloquence. "Then… shall we go?"
"In all honesty, Master," Archer said, flashing him a wide smile. "I would like that very much."
Night had fallen, casting a tranquil shroud upon the streets of London. The hustle and bustle of morning activities had dwindled, leaving a sparse population still littering its dimly lit streets. The night air was gentle and calm, with the occasional breeze caressing one's cheeks. It was the perfect setting for a late night stroll.
At the same time, it was a perfect night for murder.
The night air was taut, heavy, its stifling atmosphere barely masking the rancid stench of death. Splashes of crimson plastered the walls, its twisted curtains drawn to the sides for his vile act.
Assassin twirled the blade with his fingers, letting it dance along the tip as though alive. Red, sticky droplets flew through the air with each motion, blooming across whatever surface they touched with the softest of sounds.
His face wore no emotion, and his eyes without passion nor pity. He merely watched – observed – as his hand and blade slithered through the air and towards the prey. It was no longer possible to distinguish between the hand and the weapon anymore.
"I understand that you can gain prana or mana or whatever this way," Masahiro Takahashi – 'Hiro' – said, looking at his Servant's handiwork. "But do you have to make such a mess?"
"Strictly speaking, no," Assassin replied casually. He sounded unperturbed and unconcerned, as though this was a simple everyday conversation. They might have been talking about the weather judging by their tone. "But it's a matter of principle. It's like doing a test; not only do you fill in the answers, you'd make your handwriting neat too even though it's not required of you. It adds to the display as well as the overall experience."
Hiro nodded, mulling over those words. His Servant was, without a doubt, a connoisseur of grisly murders and mutilated corpses. Hiro was by no means a killer, nor was he a psychopath. Yet, he could not bring himself to mind the things Assassin did.
Upon his summoning, Assassin looked like a normal Englishman. He was well dressed, and when had asked for Hiro's name, he had been courteous. It was after that brief exchanged did Assassin become something else entirely.
Immediately after affirming the identity of his Master, Assassin has strode across the room, his gait calm and composed, and murdered Hiro's lecturer. It had been that one moment that changed Hiro's life.
His movements had been swift and graceful, natural to an uncanny degree. He had merely moved his hand – a simple flinging motion to the side – and his blade appeared, drawing a thin, gleaming string of pulsating red along its tip.
He remembered that moment, and was rendered spellbound by the beauty of that simple feat. At that moment, Hiro felt an odd tingling in his being, as though something dormant had been awakened. He had no interest in murder, but those movements had been so beautiful.
Turning back to his Servant, Hiro watched as Assassin gave his dagger a casual, almost lazy, manner. In the blink of an eye, the blade cast aside its dull red coating, instead sporting a vibrant shimmer as it reflected moonlight and the glow from distant streetlamps. The pristine shine made the blade feel eerily alive, as though it had spat out the cold blood wrapped around it because it was disgusting. Instead, it now possessed an unquenchable thirst for a fresher, warmer variant.
"Elegant," Hiro said. He might have realized it sounded like poor praise, but he just could not help himself. "As expected from Jack the Ripper."
The moment he said that name, Asssassin paused. It was a subtle detail and ever so brief, allowing it to escape Hiro's notice. Maintaining a few moments of silence, he turned to his clueless Master.
"Yes," he forced out, managing a rather strained smile. "Of course."
Hiro, not finding the response odd, turned to look in the direction of a random construction site. Assassin noticed this, and shook his head.
"I hope you're not intending to take the bait, Master," he said. "I have little combat capabilities, even if you have summoned me in London. Assassins are… well, assassins."
"I know, I know," Hiro said dismissively, his face and tone suggesting he was an old granny humoring her grandson. "I'll see that other Noble Phantasm of yours in action another day. For tonight, we'll just observe. Watch and learn and all that."
"Very well," Assassin nodded. "It would be best if you stayed behind then, Master; as long as you can see what I can, there's no need for you-"
"What're you talking about?" Hiro asked. "I've already dispatched familiars to observe from a distance – a few inside the field as distractions, and some just along the edge. We should have a good idea of what happens even when chilling at home."
"Your judgement is most sound, Master," Assassin chuckled.
It was the sound of footsteps that broke the silence.
From the confident and steady gait, it might have been a young man, possibly a soldier or a warrior. That impression, as it turned out, was not far off, but as the owner of those footsteps showed his face under the moonlight, it was clear he was no teenager or adult.
Grey hair danced under the moon's glow like trails of silver, stray strands flowing freely in the wind where they had not been tied into the neat ponytail at the back of his head. Dull clicks accompanied each step he took, drawing attention to their source – a set of weathered armor plats, woven meticulously to invoke a sense of vigor. Not that it mattered, for his jade irises were already life with the spirit of a thousand soldiers, casting an imposing aura upon his entire being.
"I have come to accept your challenge!" he roared, his voice powerful and authoritative. "Face me, O revered Heroic Spirit, so that we may engage in an honorable duel to the death!"
A deep rumbling sound was heard in the distance, and something began to draw closer. It approached, slowly but surely, closing in on the old Servant who appeared unarmed. When it was finally close enough to be discerned, he could not believe his eyes. It was not some fantastic beast or divine mount.
It was Archer on a motorcycle.
"This era sure has fun toys," the man chuckled. "Such a wondrous- whoa!"
Losing his balance, Archer fell, landing head first onto the ground. Hastily getting to his feet, the Heroic Spirit of the bow dusted his clothes off and fixed his dark red hair.
"That went well," he muttered. "Now then, I believe introductions are in order. Hello. I am Rider. And you are?"
"I would find it most perplexing that a Rider would put up such a risible display," the aged Servant said. "If you would be telling the truth, I shall offer my sincerest apologies for casting doubt. If you are indeed lying, however, you would prove most unworthy of being my opponent."
"You got me there," Archer replied, raising his hand in surrender. "I'm a normal archer, nothing more. I am not a rider of beasts, nor will I ever be; I hunt them down and leave none standing, after all. Even if being summoned to this era has taken away my broken English, it cannot take away my calling. I have been, and always will be, a Hunter. It matters not what my Class is."
"Very well," the grey-haired Servant replied. "While I cannot reveal my name, let it be known that I am the Heroic Spirit of the Spear, whose fate lies with the tides of War!"
Archer's eye twitched at that declaration. It would not be far-fetched to say that he was annoyed.
"Enough talk," he said, almost sighing as he did. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a crossbow – one that almost seemed too large for the coat to conceal. Without any warning, he pulled the trigger.
A small burst of light sprang forth from the weapon, piercing the air as it flew straight for Lancer's forehead. Before it could reach, however, it burst into several small sparks in mid-air, fading into the night air as they fell.
"It would appear you are no longer in the mood for conversation," Lancer mused. At some point, he had switched to a fighting stance, with his weapon brandished in his right hand. Returning to his standing posture, the aged Servant let his weapon come into view more clearly. And it was breathtaking.
The weapon was, simply put, exquisite. It looked simple in design, but there was overwhelming vitality in its form. Its dark green shaft gleamed like polished emerald, and as Lancer stood it upright against the ground, its unyielding frame gave off the impression that it could stand on its own, proud and staunch like a true warrior.
Its tip, if it could be called that, were made of two metallic blades extending upwards and curling smoothly and gently to the sides, leaving two sharp ends where they bent. The curved ends finished on two fine points, sleek and delicate, like a pair of small, folded wings. They were thin, almost fragile blades, but they practically emanated pride and bravery.
Or, as Archer saw it, arrogance and recklessness.
"A fair warning, bowman," Lancer said. "You would do well to increase the distance between us. My spear reaches far, and I fear your arrows may not travel fast enough."
"Thanks for your concern," Archer said coldly, pulling the trigger once more.
This time, several trails of light shot out in rapid succession, soaring across the air like tiny shooting stars. Almost effortlessly, Lancer deflected them with swift twirls of his weapon, rendering them powerless as they scattered like fireworks.
Deflecting the last of the projectiles, Lancer kicked off the ground hard, charging towards Archer at an impossible speed. It was no longer a matter of age; no normal human could be that fast. Arguably, no Servant could be that fast, with the exception of heroes from a certain Class.
Fully confident in his superior speed, Lancer charged in a straight line, his sights set on Archer's head. Archer, who either did not react in time or knew he could not avoid the blow, merely stood there.
And then, Lancer stopped.
It had not been his intention. It was not a ruse. Inexplicably, Lance just simply stopped dead in his tracks. It rendered him stunned for a brief fraction of a second, before an arrow of light stabbed into his gut.
Casting his eyes to towards the ground, Lancer spotted the cause of his abrupt halt. Hidden under a small, barely noticeable pile of junk and concrete was an old-fashioned bear trap. Slicing it open and taking another arrow – this time to the left shoulder, Lancer attempted to pull away from his opponent.
But Archer did not have any intention of letting him escape. Before his prey could adapt, he swiftly changed the flow of the battle; firing one last arrow of light, he pulled out a revolver from its holster around his chest and fired.
A loud report rang throughout the space, masking the sound of Lancer deflecting the arrow. Because of the glaring light from the arrow, the dull, ordinary-looking bullet slipped through his vision and tore its way into his heart – or it would have, if not for Lancer's reflexes; pivoting his weight on one foot, he turned, letting the bullet burrow into his left arm instead. Even though it looked commonplace, the piece of iron was not a normal human gun.
Understanding the disadvantage he was facing, Lancer dug his spear into a nearby pile of rubble and flung it up, creating a large cloud of dust and debris. It obscured his vision, but it also masked him from Archer.
Archer, on the other hand, paused, surveying the dust cloud with a sharp, focused gaze. This was not unexpected, but he decided to stop and collect his thoughts. He was not being cocky or overconfident; he merely had so much pent up anger that he was worried it would affect his performance. Losing his cool here would most certainly spell his doom.
When the dust finally cleared, Lancer was left out in the open, unscathed. Healing those wounds was not an impressive feat, but it did at least show his Master was not some incompetent third-rate.
"Shame," Archer said, his tone casual but his glare intense. "If you were more like a monster, the battle would've been over already."
"You would resort to such cheap tricks?" Lancer seethed, rage boiling over with every syllable. "Have you no shame, as a Heroic Spirit, in committing such cowardly acts?"
"Shame?" Archer repeated, his tone ice-cold. Even he had not foreseen this turn of events. How could a meeting between Heroic Spirits have gone so wrong? "This coming from someone whose 'fate lies with the tides of War'? Don't make me laugh."
"Do you have misgivings about War, bowman?" Lancer asked, his anger fading a little as it was replaced by mere annoyance.
"No, I do not," Archer snapped. "I understand it perfectly, and scum like you who treat it like a medal of honor are insane."
Blue eyes met green, and each man held the other's gaze. Whether they were stubbornly matching determination, or were searching the other for an answer that did not exist, was anyone's guess. Finally, it was Lancer who broke eye contact.
"It would appear there can be no compromise between us," he said solemnly. "Then there can be no understanding. It would be pointless to continue."
"What, you gonna run away?" Archer taunted, raising his crossbow once more. "What was that about an honorable duel to the death?"
"You have defiled the honor that true warriors possess," Lancer growled. "Slaying you has the same value as putting down a rabid dog. You are not worthy of facing us in battle. Should you wish to give chase, however, I shall most certainly oblige.
"But do not expect any mercy after the vile tricks you have displayed here."
You haven't even seen half of what I've prepared, Archer thought.
Turning his back on the enemy, Lancer went into spiritual form and disappeared, leaving the area and his supposed foe. When he was sure that he was alone, Archer lowered his weapon. Hesitating for a few minutes, he fished out a cell phone and did as he was instructed, punching in the only number he knew.
"Sorry, Master," he said. "But I need some time to cool my head, so chasing him is…"
"It's alright," Ran's voice came from the other end of the line. "We still have most of the traps, though we may have lost the element of surprise. We'll get him next time."
Archer heaved a sigh of relief. A more reckless Master would have told him to give chase, ditching his advantage and forcing him to fight without a clear head. Ran, for all his straightforward attitude, was no fool, and that one decision may very well have saved Archer's hide.
"In the meantime, get back here," Ran went on. He was observing the whole scene with a pair of binoculars in a building some distance away, so he either could not judge distance properly or he believed Archer could fly. Or both. "We have been 'constructive' enough for one night and-"
The rest of his terrible joke was interrupted by a bestial roar and rough impact on asphalt. The air suddenly changed at that moment, growing tense and heavy all at once. In such a situation, one would find it difficult to even breathe.
Despite that, a vicious killing intent still permeated the space, seemingly undeterred by the crushing atmosphere which it had created. At the center of this unearthly maelstrom of raw rage and fury, was a single Servant.
Unleashing a blood-curdling bellow, Berserker directed its rapidly surging bloodlust at Archer. The air visibly shook in its presence, threatening to obliterate all who dared to stand in its way.
"Mein Gott," Archer gasped.
Yes, I know there's a Jack the Ripper in Fate/Apocrypha. We did do our research. And trust us, this Servant is someone completely different. I haven't read Apocrypha, but I've checked her Noble Phantasms etc. and while there are similarities (they're supposedly the same person after all) they are largely different. Just FYI.
Again, reviews are welcome, and let us know what you think of it!
