"Big sis, you're not in Romania at all! Where the hell are you right now!?"
The next day at noon, Manaka Sajo received a phone call from her younger sister. Ayaka Sajo seemed very displeased that her hopeless sister had been lying to her.
"Don't be so worked up, Ayaka. Your sister is just out traveling."
"...By yourself?"
"Of course not. I'm with the one I love most, having the time of my life."
"Hah? A lover? Someone actually fell for you? Sis, you seriously need to get out more. Last time you told me you got bullied and even ran into a minotaur. Stop watching all that weird anime."
"Now that's just mean, Ayaka. You'll make your big sis cry... huh?"
While still on the phone, Manaka suddenly noticed that the two guardians who had been standing by Novia's side—Melusine and Typhon—had vanished. Even Novia himself seemed to have fallen into slumber, eyes shut as if disconnected from the world.
"Looks like something's come up. I'll hang up here, Ayaka. Oh—and don't forget to cover the rest of the payment for that apartment I bought."
Though she didn't fully understand what was happening, Manaka instinctively knew this was her chance. She ended the call immediately.
"Novia?"
She leaned close to the silver-haired youth, whispering softly. When he didn't respond, she took his hand and pressed it against her cheek, smiling in quiet delight.
And then, she saw it—the Command Spells etched onto his hand. They were identical to the ones she had once borne within the Labyrinth.
Which meant only one thing: after nearly a full day and night of waiting, Novia's summoning had finally succeeded.
"...Why? Why am I not his Master this time!?"
The forty-year-old maiden's disappointment was palpable.
For in this Holy Grail War, when nearly every Servant had already manifested, at the very last moment, Novia had forged a bond with something—no, with someone.
And so, his consciousness was lifted up, as though it had left the Earth far behind.
Within that vast darkness, he walked forward with a strange, nameless satisfaction. With each step, ripples spread through the void.
Tiny spheres, countless in number, drifted freely through the air—listening without resistance to the echoes of lost memories, guiding them to their resting place.
Novia even glimpsed the days of Rome, when so many had placed their trust in him without hesitation. He had always felt unworthy, believing he had done nothing to deserve it… yet when they looked at him, it was as though they were gazing at their own future—full of hope.
This place was at once clamorous, hollow, and brilliantly radiant.
And then, across countless folds of time and memory, Novia beheld—not Gaia, nor Alaya—but Humanity's Will itself.
No words were needed. With a single exchange of gazes, he understood Humanity's request:
For the sake of the world, you must prevent Alcides from erasing the very concept of "Heracles" from existence.
In silence, the silver-haired man touched the cross hanging at his chest and nodded.
"I accept."
And in the very next instant—every Servant, every Master, even the magi gathered in the snowfields—all heard it. Though their bodies remained where they stood, in their ears resounded the sudden crash of waves.
Waves like the Mediterranean's, yet carrying with them the concept of death itself.
The dawn tide approached, but instead of illuminating the horizon, the morning light turned the drifting mist black, steeped in the hue of death.
The sea stretched on endlessly, shrouded in that blackened dawn. Was this a world veiled? A distant horizon? Or perhaps, nothing at all?
They shut their eyes instinctively, listening to the waves, for beyond the crashing surf, all was silence.
And in that silence—whether it was the Chains of Heaven from the Age of Gods, the Ancient King of Heroes, the Avenger bent on erasing himself, the monster bound by fate, the gods descended upon earth…
Or the beings after the Age of Gods—the Western Ancestor of Europe, the embodiment of Plague, the writer who forged heroes, the assassin who no longer knew whose blade he carried, the mad zealot who mastered the techniques of countless predecessors, the man who sought to merge with the shadow of an elder, the special observers, the lunatic who learned "Illusion" from the Holy Spirit…
All of them understood the same truth:
The heavens wept blood. The seas roared with grief. The entire world, for that instant, was dyed in a single shade.
The revelation of destruction had come. It would destroy. And for the sake of survival, the world itself had chosen to descend.
From that day—sometime after the first century A.D.—human history continued only because of what had occurred on this shore.
The sky had no clouds. The earth had no wind. Only devastation remained.
A mysterious light source pierced the gloom, tearing apart the black mist to reveal ruins—collapsed walls, moss-choked stones, dust and silence.
The scars of battle lingered everywhere: shattered rock, splintered earth, blood and flesh abandoned to decay, severed limbs buried in the dust.
Claw marks, massive pawprints gouged into the ground—signs of three beasts that seemed ready to charge forth at any moment and annihilate what little remained of the fragile world.
Even now, the echoes of roars and howls seemed engraved upon the air, as if closing one's eyes would bring them to life again.
Yet all of it had already passed. What remained was this desolate shoreline, and beyond it, faint traces of green earth and blue sea—the promise of dawn.
As naturally as night yields to sunrise, so too had this battle faded into history.
Past generations would not remember. Future generations would not recall.
And then, from the heavens above the coast, a sea of light was born, stars falling like rain.
At the far end of the shore, among trees with seven branching limbs, shrouded in flame and thunder and veiled in black mist—he appeared.
The silver-haired youth, as though standing in eternity itself, manifested upon the coast. His eyes, deep as the ocean's abyss, opened wide to meet all who beheld him.
"Life is fleeting. Strife unending. Yet the great river that swallows all lies here, and though countless ages may pass, the world shall endure."
Just hearing him, the magi felt something bloom in their chests—a presence like a flower, without color, without form, yet carrying a fragrance one wished to embrace.
"What has been, will be again. What has been done, will be done again."
As if to answer his words, a gentle breeze swept through the mist, lifting his silver hair.
"There is nothing new under the sun. But remember this, all of you—"
The man gazed upon them all, and smiled.
"Even within the darkness, there shall be none."
And in that world—so easily mistaken for eternity—countless sparks of light rose into the sky, dissolving the illusion and covering the snowy city of Setsugen.
Thus ended the most terrifying declaration of war in the American Holy Grail War.
The magi of the city reacted in myriad ways. Some fled in terror. Others, beholding a miracle of legend, felt awe and even hope. Some schemed to wrest Command Spells from their Masters.
The faint magical surge, centered on Setsugen City, was so subtle that even the local magi barely sensed it.
And yet, this vision reached as far as the Clock Tower—the heart of the Mage's Association—and even the Eternal City itself.
Though no lives had been lost, the sight was so far beyond comprehension that both the Mage's Association, who had only intended to observe, and the Holy Church, who had chosen to remain neutral, were forced to reconsider. This was no trivial spectacle.
For upon the land of Setsugen had appeared an existence that silenced the magical world.
The man privately hailed as the "Holy Spirit," the First Pope Novia, whose unseen hand had shaped the course of Western thaumaturgy from the first to the fifth century—had manifested within the Holy Grail War.