(Warning: This Chapter contains Disturbing Content involving murder, stalking, use of severe profanity and racial epithets. You have been warned)
He ran like the hounds of Hell itself were after him, which it truly seemed like. His pursuer had been relentless, chasing him down for the better half of a day, and he was panting like a dying horse. For the past three weeks, he'd been forced to evade a number of individuals hoping to claim the prize adorning his hand, but none had been this inhumanly persistent. For a moment, he could swear he felt someone's breath on his neck, so he surged forward with a boost of magical energy from his crest and adrenaline through his veins.
He stumbled on the uneven cobblestone street and went tumbling to the ground, shoving himself to a kneeling position while gasping ferociously. He heard the clack of heels on stone, and felt a shadow fall over him, causing him to whip around in absolute terror, then release a huge sigh of relief.
https/youtu.be/gweNNwVMClw?si=fL6hAFDjF2lXiTGM
"Hey man, didn't mean to startle you, but you look like a wet dog!" His friend's easygoing smile helped erase some of the tension in his chest.
"Sorry, I could swear someone was following me like the devil himself."
"Ain't nobody here except the two of us." He could never forget this strange, eccentric fellow with his red pants, snazzy black jacket, that slicked back hair and his devil-may-care attitude. He had only known him for about four months, but he had come to enjoy his friend's company.
"I can always count on you, Beryl!" He declared happily, before he felt something being rammed right between his ribs.
"No problem buddy," Beryl declared, his jovial tone not wavering in the slightest as he ripped the knife free of his friend's chest. "Glad we could help each other out!!!" He slashed again, carving a bloody swathe across his companion's neck. The last thing the poor fool would see was a river of red spilling into his hands…
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Beryl Gut slunk down beside the still warm body and sighed contentedly. "You don't mind if I talk or smoke, do you?" he inquired as he flicked some of the blood off of his knife. The corpse, of course, offered no response.
"Thanks. I remember the old rule about not blabbing your plans in earshot of the heroes when they can do something about it. Luckily, a guy named Dioland gave me a nice workaround: kill the target, and then jabber their ears off." He absentmindedly took out a large flask and began dumping its contents over the body of his victim.
"Ya know, you really didn't make it easy on me. I barely had a proper opportunity to come after you, but you were WAY too trusting." He took a satisfied puff from his cigar. "I originally took this job because the guy who hired me offered a shit-ton of money for it…but then I started really looking into this Grail War crap, and DAMN was I intrigued. A cup that can grant ANY wish you desire? A piece of shit like me just HAD to try and go after that." He smirked coldly towards the sky, allowing his wolflike teeth to gleam in the moonlight. "Yeah, the boss offered a nice paycheck, but this is literally a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! I just can't turn it away. Just gotta figure out how to do it…" He held up his left hand, revealing the red visage of a snarling wolf that had transferred seamlessly from his victim's hand to his own. "Ahh, so this moves right over to me since I killed you," he shrugged. "Ah well, I bet my gran'll have something on this Grail War crap in her diaries. I'll just have to get the rest from the grapevine."
Beryl Gut stood up and stretched, working the kinks out of his back.
"Thanks for listening to me jabber away," he offered to his postmortem companion. He took a satisfied swig of the remaining ale in his flask, then flicked his cigar out of his hand and strode away, not even glancing at the swiftly burning corpse he'd left behind.
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"I can't believe there's a Wiki for this crap…" Beryl declared with both incredulity and bemusement. "Ahh, the things idiots come up with…"
A few bodies with their throats cut (two large, one far too small) had sufficed to lay out the summoning circle. The catalyst he'd acquired through a few of his contacts was a fan that had once borne a regal, elegant design but now lay burnt and warped nearly beyond recognition. The image of warped beauty had tickled the sadistic magus's fancy. Now he stood within a deserted clearing, ready to begin his own unholy ritual.
"Heed my Words, my Will creates your Body, and your Sword creates my Destiny! If you heed the Grail's call, and obey my Will and Reason, then Answer my Summoning!"
Red lightning crackled and forked here and there, a few bolts coming dangerously close to striking Beryl himself, as if some force had massed, declaring that he must not press forward. Beryl did not seem to notice, the rictus threatening to split his face never wavering.
"I hereby Swear, that I shall be all that is Good in the World, and that I shall defeat all Evil in the World! But let thine Eyes be clouded with the Fog of Turmoil and Chaos! Thou, who art Trapped in a Cage of Madness! And I the Summoner, who holds thy Chains!
Seventh Heaven, clad in the three Great Words of Power! Come forth from the circle of binding, Guardian of the Scales!!!"
A great wave of light and smoke poured forth, forcing the magus to cough and wave irritably. When it cleared, the results spoke for themselves. Literally.
"Ahh, another chance to be with him…"
"Well this is some horseshit"
The two figures standing before Beryl were both women, but this aside they could not be more different.
The figure on the right was clad in an aquamarine kimono with white stockings, a few gold ornaments here and there and black geta sandals. She had pale white skin, pale green hair, a pair of white horns sticking out above her ears, and yellow eyes that almost looked like dull candlelight. Her age was difficult to determine, but she was definitely younger than Beryl, himself in his mid twenties. She bore an expression of serene joy, but there was something…off about it. Something inhuman. She bore no weapon, merely a fan in her hand.
The woman on the left was around Beryl's age, with slightly tanned skin and dark reddish-brown hair. Her "outfit" consisted of a black tank top that exposed her stomach, a pair of shorts that rode tight and exposed her thighs, held up by a large belt, a pair of black gloves that left her fingers bare and a pair of Army boots without socks, neither of them laced. Slung at either side was a brown leather holster bearing a pair of pistols. Her cold yellow eyes scanned the room almost lifelessly, as if completely detached from humanity.
Beryl was nothing if not pleased. "Well, looks like it worked."
"I am Berserker," the green haired girl declared. "So nice to meet you, Master…" She said this smiling at him in an adoring fashion.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," the gunslinger replied flippantly, not even looking in Beryl's direction. "The name's Archer X, the Hell do we call you?"
"Well, nice to meet your ass too. The name's Beryl, Beryl Gut."
Archer X snorted nastily. "Fucking Cupcake," she mocked.
And then she felt something sharp and growing steadily more hot pressed against her back.
"That's our Master you're disrespecting, Filth," Berserker growled. "Say something like that again, and well…I can't promise I won't rip your spine out." The gentle smile she gave Beryl immediately after sent a chill down Archer X's spine.
On the contrary, Beryl was not put off in the least by the…troublesome attitudes of his Servants.
"Berserker understands devotion, and Archer X gets the unfiltered desire to speak your mind, and I'll bet she's really good at violence…" He chuckled coldly, already envisioning the death and destruction the three of them could unleash.
"I don't know about you two, but I think this is going to be…spectacular…Heheheheheheh…"