At the center of Snowfield City, beneath the looming skyscraper, a breeze drifted by.
It came from the thunderclouds overhead, carrying with it a faint scent of nature.
"My lady, are we really just going to wait here? It's nearly nightfall already..."
Through the folds of the cloth covering her face, the zealot's confused expression could just be glimpsed as she turned toward the Black Princess, who sat casually sipping a glass of tomato juice.
Altrouge shifted her head and fixed the girl with sharp eyes.
"It's not easy for me to go up there. That thunder is practically a natural counter to the Dead Apostle blood in me. So, we'll wait it out here. There's no need to rush."
Saying this, she glanced up at the thunderclouds above, then at the relaxed crowd around them, seemingly oblivious to the danger.
It wasn't that the people here were overly optimistic—rather, the entire city was steeped in subtle, all-pervasive suggestion. Snowfield itself had been built specifically for the Holy Grail War.
The layout of public facilities and roads, the signs and billboards, even the choice of trees along the streets—everywhere were traces of magecraft, markings that would seem like meaningless symbols to an ordinary magus at first glance.
Even the coloring schemes followed psychological principles, designed to induce certain effects. The enchantments only activated when layered with countless other factors, quietly imprinting suggestions deep into the residents' minds.
To accurately gauge the extent of such subtle manipulations—where magic and non-magic systems intertwined—would require magi with extraordinary observational skill. People like Lord El-Melloi II.
And so, they succeeded in fooling passing magi, in quelling the doubts of sociologists wary of the city's rapid development, and in keeping the countless citizens who lived their lives here wholly unaware.
At its core, the city called Snowfield—and everything within it—was a sacrificial offering to the false Grail.
But now, the suggestions had been stripped away.
The reason no one saw the dreadful thunder overhead, or perceived the influence of Servants battling, was clear enough to Altrouge.
It was Avia's doing.
"I... I see."
"Of course. Dead Apostles have always been targets of persecution, in every age. Even those whose lineage dates back to the Age of Gods—if the deities had known of them, they would've hunted them down. After all, humans and Dead Apostles have always been natural enemies."
The zealot already understood what Altrouge was saying. Had she not sensed the aura of the Great Temple upon the Black Princess, her instincts as an assassin would have already driven her to strike. A zealot could never tolerate such taint.
She remembered well. During the Crusades—the age of Richard the Lionheart—there was a Dead Apostle Ancestor who commanded hordes of magical beasts upon the battlefield. His name was Nero Chaos. Since then, her hatred for Dead Apostles had only deepened.
"I... overlooked this. My apologies..."
The young assassin bowed her head to the one who had reached the Temple where she herself could not.
"No need for apologies. Eat something first."
Still sipping her tomato juice, Altrouge scanned the menu. Every item was exorbitant by human standards.
But when the dishes were served, their worth was undeniable. The brilliance of flavor and the joy it brought were beyond what gold could measure.
Hesitating for a while, Altrouge finally chose the chocolate cake. Her eyes lit up with childlike delight as she drew the plate closer. With the first bite, joy surfaced on her face—a joy she had not shown in many years.
"You should eat too." Altrouge puffed her cheeks full of cake, not voicing her impressions, but chewing happily as she looked expectantly at her Servant.
"..."
Before the zealot sat a strawberry cake, its sweetness practically inviting her to taste. Yet she did not lift her fork.
She merely watched her new Master. Since that great one, radiating divine majesty, had descended, the cold and silent Altrouge had transformed—suddenly lively, almost cheerful.
No, that wasn't quite it. It was more like the joy of someone who had finally, after so many years, met the person they had been waiting for.
Indeed, that was the truth.
Even though she had shown nothing before the zealot, Altrouge had secretly shed tears in that moment.
Mixing the star-shaped sugar sprinkles into her cake with a stick, she glanced at her Servant, still veiled. She thought quietly that perhaps she and this zealot were not so different after all.
As her new Master, Altrouge naturally understood her Servant's past.
Long ago, in the new empire that rose upon the ruins of the one she and Avia had once visited, there existed an organization founded by the old man of the Temple.
"You're not fit. You may have talent, but you lack creativity."
"And more importantly—you're not devout enough."
Such whispers filled the halls of the cult.
In the ceremony to select the next Hassan of the Cursed, the zealot stood alongside Hundred Faces.
The floor was lined with pale green mats, and the air carried the scent of dried flowers—an aroma that always lingered during their gatherings.
"And so, the next Hassan will be—Hundred Faces."
At that instant, Hundred Faces stood frozen, beautiful as a carved statue.
The zealot did not protest the elders' decision. It wasn't that she felt no regret. Rather, she truly believed herself lacking in piety, just as they said.
She always gave an impression of being distant, unapproachable. Not because she tried to be—but simply because that was who she was.
Though she understood this, she never sought to change. That was the path her faith had set for her.
She was steadfast in her belief, yet because her devotion strayed from the norm, she was scorned as a "zealot."
Even fellow believers of the same god scorned her. But she bore no hatred toward them. She believed it was only because her faith was not yet strong enough—she was not mature enough.
And so, despite being more devout than anyone else in the cult, and possessing exceptional skill, she was cast aside by the elders as "lacking creativity, insufficient faith." She never became the nineteenth Hassan.
Instead, she convinced herself she was rejected for her lack of devotion. And so, she doubled her efforts, living her life in fruitless pursuit of greater faith. She achieved nothing. Not even granted the dignity of martyrdom, she vanished—an obscure zealot, forgotten by history.
Yet even so, she never hated the world. Not once. For she was, to the very end, a zealot beyond salvation.
All of this, Altrouge now saw and felt through her Servant's eyes.
As for the cult elders' judgment—Altrouge scoffed. Compared to the True Ancestors in the Millennial Castle and how they treated her foolish younger sister, even those arrogant ancients were more honest. At least they didn't spout such baseless excuses.
She even thought that if the old man of the Temple truly cared, the first thing he would have done was annihilate those worthless elders. Though, knowing them, they would likely have denied him as their master once he moved against them.
"Be careful!"
As the zealot stared silently at her cake, she suddenly sensed the presence of a Servant approaching from the nearby intersection. She immediately tensed, ready to fight.
"There's no need. I am no enemy of Gaia's children. My name is Enkidu. This is my Master."
A figure stepped forward—so beautiful it was impossible to tell whether they were male or female. Flowing green hair framed a face that could steal the breath of any mortal.
In their arms rested a silver wolf.
It was the False Lancer—Enkidu, the Chains of Heaven—and their Master, the artificial silver wolf.
"A pleasure, then. I am Altrouge, and this is my Servant. What business do you have?"
She replied with a nod to Enkidu's introduction.
As a True Ancestor, she instantly recognized the aura radiating from Enkidu: a being one with the vast world itself.
It was as if nature itself had taken human form—akin to a god or spirit. As Gaia's daughter, she could sense it keenly.
Enkidu smiled gently, hair swaying in the breeze.
"Once this Holy Grail War is over, would you care for my Master?"
Elf rouge tilted her head, puzzled, and looked at the artificial being Enkidu set down.
She was reminded of her own pet, Cath Palug. She hadn't seen it in ages. The White Knight had once told her that during her long slumber, it often sneaked out for hundreds of years at a time. Even now, though she was awake, it still hadn't returned...
The Black Princess muttered softly:
"Your courage has grown, Cath..."
Then she nodded.
"Very well. I'll make sure someone looks after it."
"My thanks." Enkidu gave a small smile and bow, then turned their gaze toward the canyon, frowning.
"Gil... as I thought. If it could unleash such a roar, that means he has come."
Originally, Enkidu had little interest in the Grail War. Protecting their Master and clashing once more with their old friend, the King of Heroes—that was enough. Even Novia's declaration of war hardly stirred them.
But recently, Enkidu had sensed a familiar presence: Humbaba. The "girls" whom the Chains of Heaven could not save.
Unlike Enkidu, who remained unchanged—a clay doll bound by the gods—Humbaba had been cursed, forced to change.
She had been Enkidu's first friend. Each time they met, she would ask: "Do you still remember me?"
But under the gods' command, they were separated. At their last meeting, the final words Enkidu heard were:
"Who... are you?"
Afterward, Enkidu wandered, meeting many—Shanhant among them—changing form, breaking free of the gods, adventuring far and wide.
But never once did Enkidu forget those words, nor the record of Humbaba's existence.
Until the end—when Enkidu's own hands tore apart the maddened Humbaba beyond recognition—the sorrow never left them. The error sounded within their system, a cry of regret.
And so, they had come now, to see Humbaba once more in her suffering. That was why they crossed paths here with Altrouge and the zealot.
Moments later, Enkidu looked up. The Bull of Heaven, manifest upon the rooftop, vanished along with the goddess' aura.
They sighed heavily.
"So... she's dead. Humbaba... you..."
Disappointment weighed on them. Yet, perhaps it was for the best. If Ishtar had perished so quickly, maybe it was a mercy.
Altrouge sighed as well, speaking in a weary tone:
"All right, all right. I dislike seeing such gloom. Here, have some fruit. It's all that's left."
"Then I'll accept. Thank you."
Passing fruit to the silver wolf and tossing one to Enkidu, Altrouge turned back to her meal.
But Enkidu glanced once more at the rooftop, cradled the wolf, and began to leave.
"I see. Then I won't intrude upon your reunion."
Perhaps from the rush of sugar, Altrouge was slow to grasp the meaning.
Enkidu's words were clear.
"The great one... has already descended."
"...Eh!?"
Altrouge's head snapped up, crumbs still at her lips. Her crimson eyes were instantly drawn to him.
The zealot followed her gaze and saw the man walking slowly toward them. To her, he seemed to shine with blinding brilliance.
Altrouge held her breath.
I've missed you.
No matter how many years passed, no matter how the world changed—her heart would always return to that time. The memories sparked like fleeting starlight in her soul.
Her left hand twitched unconsciously, as though seeking the touch of the hand that had once held it.
"Avia."
She hadn't spoken his name aloud in so long. Just being able to call him filled her with overwhelming joy. She had never forgotten—not for a single day—but voicing it at last brought tears to her eyes.
The silver-haired youth drew nearer, step by step.
"Altrouge."
His voice, calling her name, struck her like a thunderclap of memory.
Yes... it's you. My beloved. The one I've sought for so long.
Countless stars had fallen upon Rome's night sky, and among them, one had always been hers.
And now—finally—she had found him again.
The feeling came faster than tears.
Altrouge whispered:
"I'm so glad... we could meet again."
Tears fell freely down her cheeks.
Novia looked into her eyes, those eyes like silver stars in the night, and said:
"I'm sorry. I came late."
She drew a deep breath and clasped his hand.
Whether in calm seas or raging storms, she wanted to face them together.
And as his hand closed firmly around hers, she tightened her grip in return.
"Yes... I understand."
Normally, her pride would have made her deflect, to act as though it didn't matter. But not today.
"Since I've waited so long for you... from now on, wherever you go—you must take me with you."
To the world's end.
To the depths of hell.
To the farthest shore of the void.
It didn't matter. So long as they were together.