The Middle East—at once wealthy and destitute, crude and extravagant.
It was the cradle of disaster, the very fault line of the world's endless wars.
On the barren desert plain, brass shell casings still radiated heat. Dozens of scrawny children scavenged among them while a handful of overseers stood idly behind, rifles in hand and whips stained with blood dangling from their belts.
Curses, whiplashes, even the sharp crack of gunfire echoed across the wasteland. These terrorists, with ruthless methods, squeezed everything they could from the child soldiers—an army in flagrant violation of international law. They stripped them of everything.
At that moment, a faint sob drifted from the distance. In a world where every heart had long gone numb, the sound stood out like a scream.
"No… no, please…"
It came from a black-haired girl, no older than eleven or twelve, her features unmistakably Japanese.
Probably the child of some battlefield reporter. She was terribly cute, the delicate beauty of a girl still unspoiled—dragged away by a handful of filthy militants gripping their rifles without a shred of pity.
Here, women had no standing to begin with. And to men like these, no law applied. The guns in their hands were law enough—execution, judgment, and final punishment, all at the pull of a trigger. Life taken in the crudest, simplest way.
No one dared resist them. No one could resist men with guns. The girl was yanked away, the rest looking on in silence. A few overseers even hitched up their pants and followed with leering grins.
Clearly, these vile creatures planned to enjoy her together—the softness of her body, the broken cries and sobbing pleas.
Years of brutal war had warped them into monsters feeding on blood and despair, finding joy only in crushing the weak, in turning the screams of others into their own twisted pleasure.
And just as the girl was dragged toward a tent—
A low wolf's howl split the air.
"Awooooo—"
A lone silhouette in the distance. Probably just one of the desert wolves that roamed the wastes. The militants didn't care. Wolves were plentiful, but never suicidal enough to charge a camp guarded by dozens of rifles.
But the next instant, the soldiers' expressions froze in horror.
A black tide surged over the horizon. Within the sea of darkness glimmered countless eerie green eyes. Hungry stares, cold as death, fixed upon them—the gaze of predators who craved flesh.
Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Millions.
Werewolves.
A tide of Werewolves vast enough to swallow the world crashed down upon the lonely camp.
The momentum was absolute—unshakable, unstoppable!
"Wha—" One militant faltered, then dropped his gun and bolted. He didn't even shout a warning to his comrades. In his mind, as long as the beasts had enough food, surely they wouldn't slaughter everyone.
That thought died with him—his throat ripped out a heartbeat later.
Seven, maybe eight seconds. That's all it took for the Werewolves to cross half a kilometer. They moved at ten times human speed. Even with vehicles, no one could escape their razor-sharp claws and uncanny noses.
This was an army of millions—never once detected by any power. Because no one had ever survived their attacks. Those who weren't eaten became one of them.
"Looks like dinner won't be enough tonight."
The clear, youthful voice carried across the pack.
It belonged to a girl with long flaxen hair, about fifteen or sixteen. Wolf ears twitched above her head, and her fluffy tail swayed happily. Her face was bright with joy—or perhaps just the dark delight of someone who could laugh sweetly while listening to the tearing of flesh and the screams of the dying.
"Awooo—"
One massive Werewolf bounded to her side. Unlike the rest, he was clad in heavy armor that gleamed faintly with magical light.
"Speak properly, you damn mutts!" The wolf-eared girl scoffed. "I'm a proper lady. I'm not howling along with you."
"Cough, cough…" The armored Werewolf nearly choked on his half-chewed meal, then rasped in a hoarse voice, "We found a girl. About eleven or twelve years old. Good potential."
"Oh? Really?" The girl blinked, then smiled, sly and amused. "Think she can compare to me?"
"Of course not, Lady Holo." The Werewolf bowed his head, envy in his tone. "You're Master Rhodes' masterpiece—a Golem of flesh and blood. Your bloodline has been reforged into that of a pure Werewolf Phantasmal Species. How could a mere human compare to his creation?"
"Good. Since she's no threat to me, keep her alive. As for the rest—eat them. We already have plenty of 'brothers.' No need to expand further."
"Your will, Lady Holo." The armored Werewolf dipped his head and slunk away.
"Tch. Lowly mutt." Holo muttered disdainfully—yet her face burned red with a blush.
"Ahh… I still want to bear Master's wolf cubs so badly… Only his glorious bloodline is worthy of my body…"
◇◇◇
Elsewhere—London. Within the manor under Rhodes' control near the Clock Tower.
In a garden overflowing with flowers, Rhodes and RyuZU sat across from each other at a chessboard. The courtyard was hushed, save for the faint click of pieces, peaceful and serene.
"Clack." The white rook slid into place, cutting off the king. Rhodes twirled the white piece in his hand, smiling playfully.
"Check. Still a bit lacking, RyuZU."
"Hmph… A gentleman should let a lady win once in a while. That way you might actually get a girlfriend." RyuZU huffed, moving her king away from his encroaching rook.
"Oh? Why would I need a girlfriend? Can't I just make one myself? One designed exactly to my taste—in both looks and… feel." Rhodes chuckled, casting a sidelong glance at RyuZU's pretty face. The implication painted her cheeks crimson.
"Master." A lilting voice came from behind him. Out of a pool of shadow crawled Marianne, the crude doll-like familiar. "News received: Lord Kenneth El-Melloi Archibald, participant of the Sub-category Holy Grail War, has unfortunately perished."
"…"
Rhodes fell silent. His sharp eyes glinted with frigid clarity. Just one glance into that machine-like reason was enough to chill the soul.
The next moment, he plucked up the bishop and placed it down with a soft click. The black king's escape was sealed.
"The conditions are met. This time—finally, Checkmate."
◇◇◇
Author's Note: According to the main Fate timeline, Maiya Hisau should already be in her twenties before the events of Fate/Zero, and Sigma would have been born. But since the protagonist exists in the parallel world of Fate/Apocrypha, the timeline won't align exactly.