Before the true and false Holy Grail Wars reached their most terrifying proclamation of war—hours before Novia revealed his descent to all—another clash had already erupted in the northern canyon of Yukihara City (Snowfield).
The second round of battle between Servants had begun.
The King of Heroes, Gilgamesh, against Alcides, fallen into the path of vengeance.
"Oh? So it really is you."
The Archer who had ambushed the Hero King as he shifted into the city center muttered quietly upon seeing the golden warship descending before him. His words carried not only exasperation, but also a hint of self-mockery.
"A barbarian who dares to launch a sneak attack… I'll turn you into nothing more than a whetstone for my treasury's relics."
With that, Gilgamesh leapt from the prow of the golden ship and landed upon the high ground. Ten meters away, Archer Alcides calmly raised his bow. He did not waste words. As Gilgamesh spoke, Alcides released an arrow straight at the girl peeking nervously out from behind him.
This girl was Tini, chieftain of a clan that had dwelled in Yukihara for a thousand years. Her reason for joining the War was not the Grail itself, but to drive out both the magi and the Grail War that desecrated her homeland. She served Gilgamesh with genuine devotion, as though he were her sovereign.
The supersonic arrow streaked toward her face, only to be deflected by the Hero King's divine protection. But Alcides did not stop. He continued loosing arrows—not to kill the girl, but to provoke Gilgamesh himself.
Perhaps Gilgamesh had not realized it was provocation. Or perhaps he had, and simply grew agitated that Alcides would ignore him and target his Master instead. His voice remained level, but his tone now carried the color of wrath.
"So that is your ploy. For one obsessed with victory—or eager to snatch an easy win—yes, it is indeed the right choice. Even I, perhaps, might stoop to such tactics if the situation demanded."
Then, in the next instant—
"But it is because I am me that such deeds are permitted! You are no one, and cannot presume to act as I do!"
The King of Heroes threw open the gates of his treasury, unleashing a storm of Noble Phantasms upon Alcides.
Treasures surrounded him from every direction, swirling like a tornado. Alcides, his frame gaunt and lean, looked utterly fragile before such an assault.
Yet he swung his bow with his left hand, batting aside the downpour of Noble Phantasms at a speed beyond even the common sense of a Servant.
When the storm finally abated, he stood unscathed. Dust clung to his cloak. Around him rose mountains of discarded weapons, treasures shattered and piled at his feet.
Silence gripped the battlefield. Then Alcides laughed.
"...Heh. Heheheh… hahahahaha!"
It was a laugh laced with scorn.
"What is so amusing?" Gilgamesh asked flatly.
"You," Alcides said with venomous clarity. "──── You are far too weak."
He continued:
"All you can do is throw weapons blindly. You might as well hurl sand at me—it would be more effective. To be beaten by such a childish trick… one would have to be either unbearably fragile, or a beast that has lost all reason."
"Oh?"
Gilgamesh did not rage. Instead, the corner of his mouth curled into the faintest smile.
Alcides declared:
"Have you not heard them yet? The cries of that ceaseless tide, the voices of the maddening gods already melted into the world itself…"
"What?!"
In that instant, madness surged into Gilgamesh's mind. Though he crushed it with sheer will, even the briefest lapse on a battlefield could mean death.
And Alcides seized that very moment. He was upon the King of Heroes in a heartbeat, his bow shimmering with eldritch power as he swung it like an executioner's blade toward Gilgamesh's neck.
"Truly foolish."
But before tragedy could strike—
A torrent of sword-qi erupted across the battlefield, twelve blades of thirty colors each. The air itself quaked.
It was not Alcides' finishing blow, nor Gilgamesh's counterattack.
It was another Servant.
A strikingly young man had appeared from nowhere.
Tini recognized him—last night he had been taken to the police station, even broadcast on TV. Yet now, in person, his magical power was overwhelming. Greater even than hers, though she commanded the land's leyline.
"If you are foes, prepare for battle. If you are allies, stand down. But if you insist on crossing blades—will the two of you test yourselves against the Sword of the King?"
At his words, Gilgamesh narrowed his eyes.
"So this is what it means to trample upon another's joy… brat."
From his tone, Tini knew the King was in a foul mood. Almost slain mere seconds ago, anger was natural. Ordinarily, Gilgamesh would have spat something like:
There is only one true king under heaven, and all others are but mongrels.
Yet now she even glimpsed the faintest crease of worry on his brow. He too had realized: the youth before them was no ordinary swordsman, but a perilous foe.
"Heh… from your blade, I sense the tip of the spear that slew a god…" Alcides muttered.
"Oh? Not bad. You caught that," the youth—Charlemagne—answered with a grin. "This is Joyeuse. Though I've also set the tip of Longinus' spear into its hilt."
He spoke freely of his weapon and identity, as if it mattered not at all. Indeed, when he was brought into the police station, he had bluntly declared who he was to the chief and his Servant, Dumas.
"Joyeuse? The Holy Sword Joyeuse… You're Charlemagne?" Tini gasped.
"I do carry that name." Charlemagne laughed. "But in this young form, I prefer Charlemagne. Has a nice ring to it—makes me feel I'll only grow cooler from here!"
Gilgamesh, his arrogance dimmed but his insight clear, had already seen part of their true natures. Yet as King, he would never abandon his pride.
"To call yourself a king before me… so be it. This farce, I shall overlook with laughter."
Alcides' lips twisted with cruel malice beneath his beast-hide cloak. He notched another arrow, cursed with ominous power.
"How auspicious. From the start of this war, I am granted the chance to slay two kings… I am Alcides. Engrave this name upon your graves."
"Hahaha! Good! In that case, I accept!" Charlemagne's voice rang bright, his magical furnace igniting as holy light surged within him. "Rejoice, guardians—"
And thus, upon that canyon stood:
The Western ancestor cloaked in divine light.
The Hero King wreathed in golden radiance.
The Avenger, saturated in black mud.
The clash of kings was imminent—
But before blades could fall, a young girl's innocent voice resounded across the heavens.
And with it, a colossal crimson cross appeared above the endless battlefield.
At this moment, standing here were three presences:
the Western European progenitor wreathed in divine majesty,
the Hero King clad in radiant golden brilliance,
and the Avenger, his entire body seeping with pitch-black mudlike malice.
"Alright, time to bring this to a close! Not good, everyone, best to cool your heads a little. On the very first day, pulling out your trump cards already—what will you do later? I heard rumors, you know—about some people who were already throwing out their killer moves at each other in the desert before the real play even began! Hahaha!"
The instant the Heroic Spirits were about to act—
A girl's innocent, almost playful voice rang across the heavens,
and in the sky appeared a massive, burning red cross that loomed over the boundless battlefield.
Charlemagne widened his eyes in surprise.
Archedes narrowed his slightly.
The Hero King, meanwhile, gazed around with an expression as if he had just witnessed something highly suspicious.
They should have still been standing within a great canyon, sparsely dotted with grass and trees.
Yet, the moment the girl's voice resounded, their vision was wholly consumed by the sight of an endless, blood-red battlefield.
Already, the Hero King had drawn forth the Blade of Original Sin, its radiance flaring as he prepared to cut apart the illusion—
"Hahaha, but to keep the wrath of you three from swallowing me whole,
to make sure the 'egg' isn't shattered before it's even born,
I'll have to use a little underhanded measure.
So, for now—why don't you all just sleep for a while?"
The girl's voice reverberated across the land, a scorching tide of heat surging through channels of mana, sweeping toward the three Servants and the lone Master.
"Let me be the offering! To this world long overdue for ruin, I dedicate blessing, gratitude, and sacrifice!"
"To the mother Ate, who bore me as an incarnation of madness—I offer my thanks!"
"To the world of 'Holy Spirits,' who taught me the thaumaturgy of human madness—I offer my blessings!"
"To the savior who revealed to me the extremity of lunacy—you were never wrong!"
"Behold my offering! To all humanity awaiting absolution in this perishing world—I give myself as the sacrifice!"
As her litany rang out, the space around her warped, swallowing the illusory earth that had been conjured.
And at last, she cried aloud the name of her Noble Phantasm—the Grand Thaumaturgy she embodied.
"The Spiral Castle Never Was—Therefore, Madness in this World—"
But at that very instant, the girl's words were cut short. They would never again be spoken.
For in that moment, everyone present—Servant and Master alike, and indeed every soul in the city of Yukihara—heard that voice.
Like the crashing waves of the Mediterranean.
Like the revelation of death as a concept itself.
Minutes passed. Yet all now knew: the most terrifying of enemies was about to descend.
Thus, each Heroic Spirit reacted in their own way.
"...Impossible. That person... No, it shouldn't be... A ritual of this scale could never summon that being..."
Francesca, who had believed everything remained firmly within her grasp, was suddenly struck by naked terror. She knew—if it truly was him—then she would die.
Yes, she sought the Grail's outcome only to obtain the key to unlock the sealed Labyrinth of Scriptures. But beyond that? Winning or losing meant little. She had wanted only to savor humanity's struggle in this Grail War.
Yet with Novia's advent, fear took root. Not merely fear of Novia—but fear that the savior who had tormented her for centuries would arrive alongside.
"That's obviously my brother-in-law," Charlemagne muttered, utterly unperturbed—indeed, almost gleeful. "So that's why I've been manifested in such a youthful form? Then surely, my sister must be on her way too."
Tini, shaken by the violent upheaval, forced her mind into calm with magecraft and turned to the King she served.
"My lord... Forgive my presumption, but... do you know who that one is?"
"...."
The King of Heroes raised a brow.
Then, as though brushing the question aside, he shook his head, only to lift his chin again with a sneer more arrogant than ever.
"Heh. When he stands before me in person, I may deem him worthy of recognition. Until then, he is nothing."
Alcides, however, fell into silence. Unlike the others, when that shoreline dissolved, he had glimpsed a "shadow"—something that should not exist.
"My fate was to bear the so-called glory of a detestable god, reduced to a hound gnawing the steel remains of mountains. And you—you are the true end of my vengeance. I thought your Saint Graph was burned away... yet here you stand, in my path."
Even so, the radiance of that figure blazed undimmed before him.
Bound by thousands of writhing mud-hands, surrounded by everything drenched in black-and-crimson curses—yet still, the human-shaped light remained.
Its form glittered, its features unreadable. But Alcides felt it—that it was smiling at him.
"...You still look down on me... on men, don't you?"
Quiet fury filled the air. The vengeful hero reached toward the shining shadow.
The mud coalesced into hundreds of sharp lances, surging to pierce the white figure.
Piercing, rending, tearing—an overwhelming torrent of cursed power swelled to engulf it.
And yet, the figure of light did not vanish. It merely moved its lips.
Silent words.
But Alcides understood their meaning.
"When he appeared just now, he carried the brilliance you once entrusted to him. You cannot deny it. Even if you cast aside all that was, even if you erase your name and image from human memory, even from the record of this planet itself, leaving nothing behind—"
"Still, you are—"
Before the words could finish, the white world shattered.
"I am not like you, noble hero Heracles. I will never forget Megara. To me, there is only Megara."
Thus Alcides rejected the shadow, rebuking it.
Long ago, when gods drove madness into his very marrow, his beloved wife Megara chose death of her own will, saying:
"You have done nothing wrong. So please, do not hate the world. Do not hate your bloodline. You are noble—you can endure. But I cannot."
And when, moments before snapping the neck of a man who should have been his enemy and casting him into the flames, that man whispered:
"Father..."
To Alcides, whether justified or not, these memories of agony became the answer that led him to vengeance.
Even knowing his tale had been twisted, so what?
These things truly happened to him.
Thus he would take revenge upon the gods of Greece.
Upon Hera, the most hateful of queens.
Upon Iris, goddess of the rainbow.
Upon the remnants of steel who betrayed him.
The only one he did not seek vengeance upon was she who, when Hera and Iris moved against him, had tried in vain to dissuade them—the nameless goddess of madness, daughter of Nyx, who had shown him a fragment of kindness.
"That being bears the same mark as you—the wretched glory bestowed by a loathsome god."
And so, even if Novia was far too strong, even if Alcides could not hope to defeat him—what of it?
"The steel remains... I am no longer your hound."
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