"What should I do now…"
Inside one of the rooms of the swamp manor, warm rays of sunset poured in, so comfortable and drowsy they could put one to sleep.
Though he had carried the weight of fatigue from the entire day, Sigma's thoughts—normally expected to scatter—remained sharp and alive, as if it were morning.
He faintly remembered Francesca's words to him before the start of the false Holy Grail War, back when she first hired him:
"After you summon a Heroic Spirit, what you do with the rest is up to you!"
Closing his eyes, he drifted back into memories of the past.
An orphan from birth, he was picked up by the government, which recognized his aptitude in handling familiars. From then on, he was indoctrinated with training in magecraft and weapons until he became a magus-mercenary. Later subjected to human experimentation, his emotions were hollowed out, leaving him in an endless cycle of nights and days, year after year, nothing but that kind of life.
When the government he served was destroyed, he was immediately hired by the very people who had destroyed it. That was the extent of their relationship.
That government had once brainwashed Sigma into believing: "The government is capable, absolute, eternal."
But the instant it collapsed so easily, he understood it was all lies. In reality, nothing in this world was worthy of trust.
Why did the youth, stripped of emotions, continue fulfilling his duties without hesitation? Only to secure sleep and a daily meal. To him, raised in the environment he was, those were the most precious things imaginable.
He lived to survive. Nothing more, nothing less. That was all the earth had for him.
Once, beneath the burning desert sun, two camels carried men slowly forward.
Though they appeared to be a pair, the two riders hardly spoke as they traveled.
"…Sigma."
"What is it, Novia?"
The voice merged with the desert winds, turning the noise into something like background music.
"I was thinking… even if we're just partners, I should probably share something with you. Want some?"
Sigma glanced at the plastic bag swinging from Novia's hand. Inside were ordinary snacks from a shop—potato chips, gummies—most of them already opened.
But Novia seemed to be saying it casually, with no real intent to hand them over. Not that Sigma would have accepted them anyway.
He was far too cautious. How could a mercenary like him eat food from someone he had only just met?
Not long after Sigma had begun his career as a magus-mercenary, he had been betrayed by a comrade during an operation. When suppressing a criminal organization of magi together, that comrade lured him into an ambush, and Sigma was struck with a curse from behind.
And that traitor had been someone who grew up with him in the very same facility.
In the end, the survivor was Sigma.
"I still… I still have reasons to live! I have people I must protect to the very end! I want so many things! Even after that facility was destroyed, our homeland remained unchanged—so I must be the one to change it!
To prevent others like us from ever being born into this world again! That is my purpose! That is why I sacrificed everything—my time, my life, even you, my dearest friend!
For a greater cause, I had no choice but to sacrifice you!
Why did it come to this?! Answer me, Sigma!
You, with no great ambition, no will, not even the intent to have them—why did you kill me?! Why did you surpass me?! What belief gave rise to your strength?! For what reason do you live, if it means killing me?! For what… do you exist?!"
"I just don't like being hurt. I don't want to die.
As for why I use violence… it's because humans are forever prisoners of their bodies.
No matter how noble a person may be, the instant he is struck, his mind is consumed by pain.
…And you. That's a terrible joke."
Though the man called him his dearest friend before he died, Sigma never once thought the same.
When it was over, Sigma accepted his payment and, in the nights that followed, endlessly replayed borrowed DVDs of comedy shows.
From an outsider's view, it might have seemed he wasn't enjoying them.
But he was. His expressions were faint, but the joy was genuine.
Only one stray thought crossed his mind:
If only that man had told a good joke at the end, maybe it would've made his passing a little easier.
That was what the younger Sigma believed.
As for Novia, Sigma knew little, only that he came from elsewhere. They had become partners by coincidence, nothing more. As long as it didn't interfere with his survival, Sigma didn't care.
"By the way, Sigma. What do you do all day?"
"The same as anyone."
"You mean, studying at school from morning?"
"No. I've never been to school. No parents, either."
"You're so serious saying that. If it were someone else, they might feel guilty… but I'm the same as you."
"You don't seem like it. You live pretty leisurely, Novia."
"This is for glucose, to keep my brain running, to be efficient. Of course, I just like snacks too. Eating bread every day gets boring, you know."
Seeing the silver-haired boy's nostalgic smile, Sigma realized that Novia came from a completely different world than his own.
Whenever Sigma recalled his own past, what came to mind were the words of his so-called "parents":
"Listen closely, children of the same blood. Those you must destroy are the ones who would take something from us."
Even though he knew now those words were meaningless brainwashing, he could never forget them.
Not with hatred. Not with sorrow. Just as an immutable fact—his oldest memory. And with it always came the thought:
Are those words still influencing the way I live?
Whenever he thought of that, Sigma would ask himself: Other than my life, is there really anything left for me to lose?
"Ah, right, Sigma. Did you read that book I recommended?"
"No."
"Tch, and I was actually looking forward to your thoughts. Fine. Read it when you have time, and then tell me what you think."
The book was Les Misérables. Sigma briefly wondered—is it really that good?—but quickly forgot.
Later, after a few more missions together, Sigma thought to himself: This Novia really doesn't care about living.
On battlefields where he had no reason to interfere, Novia wasted energy rescuing trapped journalists and children. He would spend his pay to shelter unnecessary people, even donate it. His only redeeming point seemed to be that he could live on very little himself.
After some thought, Sigma concluded vaguely: He's not much different from my mother, who left following her own will.
But in truth, he knew there was a difference. Because magi—by nature—were nearly incapable of human emotions.
Even so, seeing children sing praises of Novia, Sigma realized: perhaps it wasn't that he hid his experiences because he was a magus-mercenary, but rather that he had accumulated a strong desire to proclaim his worth to the world.
After all, humans were social creatures, always yearning for a sanctuary to protect them. In common values, while people admired lone heroes over armies, the hero humanity longed for was always an absolute solitary figure.
Time passed—months, maybe years. Sigma couldn't recall. To him, survival alone was enough; the concept of time had no meaning.
He remembered one day, a wealthy client hired three hundred magus-mercenaries and over a hundred magi with one purpose: to kill a certain mysterious magus who had been obstructing his business for years.
From a normal perspective, the magus had been opposing child traffickers—a heinous act. But for magi, morality was irrelevant. Their logic was unchanging, no matter the age: a distinct order, even if it clashed with modern ethics. That was the world of magi.
Sigma was no exception. Though he thought Novia could never stomach such work, he didn't bother informing him.
But when Sigma arrived at the scene, he found a lone magus standing against the gathered group.
Along the way, he'd heard stories—that for the past year or two, this magus had interfered in the client's dealings. To Sigma, it sounded like nothing more than one side hiring against the other. In other words, black eating black.
"…That fast? Already?"
Though the mage's features were concealed, Sigma—who knew Novia well enough—recognized him instantly.
He had no intention of sighing. His only thought was: If he dies, he dies. After all, he never valued his life.
"Ahahaha! You bastard magus, you've been nothing but trouble for me these past years! Snatching away all those brats with magical talent! The big shots upstairs have been itching for your death!"
Bang!
With the client's cry, a bullet fired from behind Novia—by one of the very children he had saved.
He narrowly avoided it, but that alone was enough to tell him the reason.
Still, it didn't matter. Those children had no place to return to. All of them had been sold off by their parents. Though he couldn't personally put them on a ship to safety this time, if he could stall for just a little longer, it would be enough.
"Rip this man's flesh apart! Crush his bones! Burn him with light, pierce him with fire, freeze him, electrocute him, corrode him, shatter him—
Yes, gentlemen, don't worry about whether these brats scream or not—"
However, if even the function of leaving descendants for the future were to be lost, that would be troublesome. After all, such high-quality magical aptitude is rare and precious. Extreme care must therefore be taken with the heart and the nervous system. But—well, even in the worst-case scenario where the brain is destroyed, it doesn't matter. As long as the reproductive function remains, that alone is enough."
Compared to Novia, the employer's tone at this moment was far more like that of a magus—not deliberately cruel or mocking, but simply stating cold facts with detachment.
After hearing those words, Sigma's emotions showed no particular ripple.
For he was, from the beginning, a product of the government's experiments—a magus who had undergone countless trials where his life was disregarded. By the time he had even learned of the concept of "human rights," the nation itself had already been destroyed.
So when Sigma heard that these children would soon face such a fate, he neither felt sympathy nor anger.
And yet, though no emotion stirred in his heart, he still thought to himself and spoke out in front of everyone:
"You're going to die."
"I know. But—it's not a matter of good and evil, nor of right and wrong. I simply cannot remain silent. To act in ignorance is no sin. To know and do nothing is not necessarily sin either. But to have power, to have knowledge, and to still remain unmoved—that is a sin which cannot be denied.
Think of it this way: this world—forward lies the future, backward lies memory. Take one fragment, and it becomes a story. Today, this moment, is nothing more than a single tip of the iceberg among those countless stories."
The silver-haired boy canceled the magecraft concealing his face, intent on devoting all his strength to buying time.
"So perhaps, within that story, today might be a good day to die."
At that moment, Sigma realized—those words were not the feigned nobility of someone playing the saint. Just like his employer's earlier remarks, Novia was simply stating the truth as he saw it.
Some things move faster than words.
Some things are truer than words.
Because the true answer exists before the fact itself.
And then Sigma felt it. Not from outside—but from deep within. A feeling welling up inside him.
"You, you—listen well, child of our kin."
In his mind, he heard a voice. A nostalgic voice. Words that should have long since lost all meaning.
"What you must destroy are those who seek to steal something away from us."
A nostalgic voice. Words devoid of meaning.
Yet in this moment, that voice shook Sigma's heart.
I understand now. So that's what it is. All this time, I believed that everyone else lived in a different world from me. Whether magus or ordinary man, they had parents, blood ties, family. I thought none of it had anything to do with survival. But I was wrong…
It's like a weight too heavy for one person to lift. Alone, it is impossible.
But when many hands work together, that impossible weight can be raised with surprising ease. Between the "impossible to lift" and the "effortless to raise," there is a clear divide.
I stood aside, watching, telling myself it couldn't be done, refusing to lend a hand. I thought it was a game I could never win, so I never placed my bet. But—that was wrong.
If I had helped, perhaps that impossible weight could have been lifted easily. For so long, I have played the role of the bystander, believing I had no stake in whether things succeeded or failed before my eyes. I thought I had no reason to join in.
But no. I am not a bystander. I should not be one. I must take part myself…
The battle before me may look unwinnable. It may look not worth the gamble. It may look like there's no reason to help.
And yet—if I place my bet, if I participate, if I believe—perhaps I can change the outcome.
To stake one's bet on something is to trust in it. To trust in something is to be connected to it. To be connected is to exist.
And so, in this moment, Sigma's emotions—lost to experiments long ago—finally came into existence.
A dazed clarity. A quiet satisfaction. A sudden joy.
"As I am now… I despise this."
With that, Sigma drew his dagger with all his strength, and in the instant of distraction, thrust it into his employer's chest—piercing the heart, flawlessly, as always.
This would surely end his career as a mercenary. But Sigma no longer cared.
And so, until the night fell, aside from the magi who fled in terror at the slaughter, only blood and flesh remained—alongside the two who endured.
When daylight came, the faint moon still hung in the sky. An exhausted Sigma lay on the ground, gazing at the equally worn-out Novia.
Not out of particular interest—just that his eyes, following the drifting clouds, unconsciously settled upon him.
And the moment their eyes met, both laughed without meaning to.
"By the way, I found your mother's records. Unfortunately, she passed away more than ten years ago. But before she died, she left you an inheritance. I'll send it to you later."
"…Is that so."
"Of course. After all, a parent—no matter what kind—always remains in their child's heart."
At this, Sigma only gave a faint smile. Naturally, he knew Novia was lying—not exactly deceiving him, more like comforting him.
Because this job's reward was not money, but information about the destroyed "facility" and his own past. Carelessly, the employer had left the files accessible, and Sigma had secretly read them.
He was nothing more than the product of his mother being forcibly used by several men. For such a child, why would she care?
Not that she hated him. But she had her own "will"—and whenever she looked upon him, she would be forcibly reminded of her original circumstances. She could never truly accept him. But Sigma no longer cared.
His mother had once served under Kiritsugu Emiya. She was the woman he had named Maiya Hisau.
"By the way, Sigma. Did you ever read the book I recommended to you?"
"I did. Haven't finished yet."
"How far did you get?"
"The part where Jean Valjean is moved by Bishop Myriel."
"Oh-ho, that's a good place to pause."
"In truth, I haven't read it. Just skimmed the table of contents. But from your reaction, it seems I guessed right."
"…Hah. I was looking forward to your thoughts, you know. Fine then. When you truly finish it, talk with me about it."
The next day, the bloody incident became news. From then on, it became widely known that there were two mercenary magi with power equal to that of an established magical family. As for their employer, his death left his subordinates and rivals to divide up his assets, and thus no one remained to avenge him.
Back to the present, in the mansion by the marshes.
"Though that one is indeed formidable, if it comes to it, defeating her is not impossible. After all, the White Whale alone is enough to stand against Typhon, the primordial dragon of Greece."
From behind Sigma, a voice emerged from the shadows—his "captain."
These were his Servants, the many "shadows" that had manifested in the peculiar class of Watcher.
"So, boy. What do you think?"
"…There's no need."
Sigma shook his head and looked up at the sky.
"This time, I'm going to kill her—the one who destroyed my country. Francesca."