The sun had fully risen by now, flooding the town with golden morning light and shaking it awake like an alarm clock nobody asked for.
Streets that had been quiet and empty an hour ago were suddenly alive. Shopkeepers propping open doors. Cars crawling through intersections. The smell of fresh bread and coffee drifting from cafés. The steady hum of a small city going about its morning routine, completely oblivious to the fact that seven people had been dropped into their midst to fight to the death.
Must be nice, being oblivious.
Amber walked through it all with her suit jacket pulled tight around her shoulders and her stomach growling loud enough to draw concerned looks from passersby.
The bundles of cash were stuffed into Archer's coat pockets. The smell of a dozen different breakfast spots drifted past her nose — fresh pastries here, sizzling bacon there, the warm sweetness of maple syrup from a diner across the street. Any other morning, she would've already been through the door of the nearest restaurant with a menu in her hands.
But right now, food wasn't what was occupying her thoughts.
It was the priest.
Something about that encounter was sitting wrong. Like a splinter she couldn't quite reach — small enough to ignore, sharp enough that she couldn't.
She ducked into a narrow side alley, away from the foot traffic, and spoke in a low voice to the empty air beside her. To anyone watching, she'd look like another crazy person talking to herself. Fine. Let them look.
"Hey. Back at the church — what was that about?"
Archer's voice materialized beside her ear, warm and amused despite the invisible body it came from. "Hm? So you noticed something was off, too."
"Not really noticed. It's more of a... feeling. Like something didn't add up, but I can't point to what exactly."
"Ha! Same here." The Emperor's tone shifted — still casual, but with an edge of seriousness buried underneath. "I couldn't find a single concrete thing to criticize. His story checked out. His demeanor was appropriate. He said all the right words, made all the right gestures. And yet..."
"Your gut says something's wrong."
"My instincts say something's wrong. And my instincts conquered Europe. So yes — I'd trust them."
Amber chewed her lower lip. "Then why did you drink his oatmeal?"
A pause.
"...Because it smelled delicious."
"You're unbelievable."
"I am an Emperor. I deny myself nothing."
Amber pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly. Alright. File that under things to worry about later. Right now, she needed a plan.
"So what do we do next?"
The moment the words left her mouth, she felt the shift in the air. Even in Spirit Form, Archer's personality was so overwhelming it was practically tangible.
"Oi, oi, oi. You're the Master here. You're seriously asking me what to do?" A huff of mock offense. "Where's the initiative? Where's the fire? Where's the commander I saw charging into that church like a cavalry regiment?"
"I call it respecting my Servant's expertise."
"And I call it being indecisive, but fine — I'll humor you this once." His tone lightened again, turning playful. "First things first: we go shopping. Get you out of that disaster of an outfit. You look like you escaped from a halfway house, Master — no offense."
"Plenty taken."
"After that, we eat. Properly. Then we take stock of our situation and figure out our resources."
Amber frowned. "...Shouldn't we be looking for the other participants? You know — the people who are trying to kill us?"
"Oh-ho!" Archer's laugh was delighted, almost gleeful. "I didn't expect that! The little kitten wants blood! You're more aggressive than you look, Master."
"I'm being practical."
"And I'm being strategic. Charging out to hunt enemies on day one, with no intel, no preparation, and a Master who can barely stand — that's not aggressive, that's suicidal." His voice dropped half a register, the humor fading into something sharper. Something that sounded less like a Servant making conversation and more like a general briefing his staff. "The most important thing right now is patience. We wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For the early bird."
A beat of silence.
"The early bird," Amber repeated flatly.
"Every battle has someone who moves first. Someone who's too eager, too confident, or too desperate to sit still. They stick their neck out before they've assessed the field — and in doing so, they reveal themselves. Their position. Their Servant. Their strategy."
The grin was audible.
"We let them make the first mistake. And then we decide how to respond."
Amber considered this for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
For all his bluster and theatrics, Archer was sharp. Really sharp. Behind the booming laughs and the imperial ego was a mind that had orchestrated some of the most audacious military campaigns in history. The muscles were decoration. The brain was the weapon.
Having an Emperor as your strategist made up for a lot of things. Like the fact that Amber herself had no idea what she was doing. Like the fact that she'd been a normal college student less than twenty-four hours ago — fresh out of finals, no combat experience, no knowledge of magic or war or survival.
Scheming and fighting were not in her skill set.
Having an external brain to handle that part? Invaluable.
The only real concern was Archer's combat power.
Because as famous as Napoleon was — and he was very famous — his legend was historical, not mythological. He was a conqueror, a tactician, a force of nature in his own right. But he wasn't Heracles. He wasn't Gilgamesh. He didn't have divine blood or enchanted weapons forged by gods.
Against other Servants with similar backgrounds — historical heroes, legendary warriors, famous generals — Archer could hold his own. Trade blows. Maybe even come out on top.
But against the monsters? The Servants pulled from myth and legend, the ones carrying Noble Phantasms that could reshape geography? The demigods and divine spirits and ancient horrors?
They'd be ground into paste.
Amber clasped her hands together and, for the first time in her life, started praying to every god, saint, and higher power she could think of.
Please let the other Servants be normal. Please. No demigods. No dragon slayers. No sun gods. Just... normal historical figures. Please.
And just as Amber finished her prayer on one side of town—
On the other, Father Kirei Kotomine finished his.
The heavy church doors groaned shut, pushed closed by hands that moved with careful, deliberate precision. The last sliver of morning light narrowed to a thread, then vanished. Darkness rushed in to fill the void, swallowing the pews, the altar, the stained glass windows — all of it consumed by shadow.
And the man standing at the center of it all was no longer Kirei Kotomine.
The warmth drained from his face like water through a cracked cup. The gentle smile evaporated. The soft, priestly eyes hardened into something cold and calculating, and the posture — that careful, humble posture of a man of God — straightened into the taut readiness of a predator who'd just finished setting his trap.
Maverick stared into the darkness of the empty church.
And the darkness stared back. Because it wasn't empty at all.
From the shadows between the pews, figures emerged. One by one. Then in pairs. Then in clusters. Men, women, tall and short, young and old — each one wearing a different face, each one concealed behind a white skull mask. Different heights. Different builds. Different weapons held in different grips.
Hassan of the Hundred Faces. All of them. Every personality. Every fragment. Stepping out of the darkness like they'd been woven from it.
The tallest among them — lean, angular, with the bearing of someone who'd spent their entire life moving through shadows — spoke first.
"That wasn't easy, Master." The voice behind the mask carried a note of dry amusement. "But at least one took the bait."
Maverick leaned against a pew, crossing his arms. The priest's robes still hung from his frame, but the man wearing them couldn't have looked less like a holy man.
"Everyone's still cautious," he agreed. "First day. Nobody wants to commit. But one showed up, and that's a harvest."
"Shall we execute the assassination now?"
"No."
The word came fast and hard, leaving no room for debate.
"Not yet." Maverick's eyes swept across the assembled Hassans — a room full of identical masks and different faces, every one of them watching him, waiting. "In this Holy Grail War, you are my trump cards. Every single one of you. And a trump card is only a trump card when it's played at the decisive moment. Use it too early, and it stops being a trump card at all. It's just... a card."
Silence held the room for a beat.
Then the tall Hassan laughed — a soft, rasping sound behind the mask. "Trump cards." The word came out like he was tasting it. "You know, Master, most people who summon us see us as bottom-tier. Expendable. The worst possible draw in a Holy Grail War."
"I know."
"And yet you're calling us trump cards."
"I'm calling it like I see it."
Another pause. Then, from somewhere in the cluster of masked figures, a different voice — smaller, lighter — spoke up. "We're starting to like you, Master."
Maverick didn't smile. But something in his expression softened. Just a fraction.
"I need you to track her," he said, all business again. "The girl and her Servant. Follow them. Map their movements. Learn their patterns. But the requirement is simple, and it is absolute: do not be discovered. Even if the trail goes cold. Even if you lose them entirely. You do not let them know you're there. Blown cover is worse than no intel."
"Understood."
The tall Hassan responded with a single word — and then, between one heartbeat and the next, he was gone. No sound. No movement. One moment he was there, and the next the space where he'd stood was simply empty, as if he'd never existed at all.
Maverick didn't react. He'd expected nothing less.
Instead, he turned and dropped heavily onto a church pew, the wood creaking under his weight. He stared down at his hands.
They were shaking.
He flexed his fingers. Clenched them into fists. Opened them again. Still shaking. A fine, persistent tremor that he couldn't will away no matter how hard he tried.
Because the truth was — for all the calculated confidence, for all the planning, for all the "Kirei Kotomine" theatrics — Maverick was still just a guy. A regular person. No special abilities. No combat training. No mage lineage stretching back generations.
When Archer's eyes had locked onto his across the church nave, Maverick had felt genuine, bone-deep terror. The Emperor's gaze had been like staring into the barrel of a loaded cannon. One wrong twitch — one micro-expression out of place, one heartbeat too fast — and that massive Servant would have put a fist through his skull before he could blink.
He'd been seconds from death.
And he'd smiled through it. Poured oatmeal. Made small talk. Played the part of a gentle priest while his heart hammered so hard he was amazed it didn't crack his ribs.
But he'd pulled it off.
Barely.
Maverick's trembling hands clenched into fists one final time, and this time, they held.
His plan was simple. It could be summarized in three principles, and none of them were particularly clever. They were just... practical.
First: play to your strengths.
Hassan of the Hundred Faces was an Assassin. Bottom of the barrel in raw stats — a 0.9 damage modifier that meant she'd lose a straight fight against almost any other class. The "true" Hassan was supposedly an Alter Ego-class Servant, which told you everything you needed to know about how the Throne of Heroes rated the Assassin version.
But stats weren't everything. The Assassin class came with Presence Concealment — the ability to erase one's own presence entirely, becoming invisible not just to the eye but to magical detection. For combat? Mediocre. For information gathering? Priceless.
And Hassan of the Hundred Faces took it a step further. Her Noble Phantasm — Zabaniya: Delusional Illusion — allowed her to split into dozens of independent personas, each with their own personality, skills, and appearance. Dozens of invisible scouts, spread across the entire city, feeding information back to a single Master.
Total surveillance. Complete information control. Knowing where every player was, what Servant they had, what they were doing, and where they were going — all without being seen.
In a Battle Royale, information was king. And Maverick had just crowned himself.
Second: turn the enemy's strength against them.
This was why he'd raced to the church before dawn. Why he'd dealt with the original priest — quickly, quietly, and without hesitation — and taken his place.
The Church Overseer was supposed to be neutral. A referee. The person everyone came to for information, for shelter, for resources. It was a position of trust.
And Maverick had stolen it.
Because the Church's influence in a Holy Grail War was enormous. Remember the subjugation of Caster in the Fourth Holy Grail War? That operation had been coordinated by the Church. They'd used Command Spells as incentive, rallied every Master and Servant to cooperate, and directed the entire assault.
The Church didn't fight. But it could make other people fight. For you. Against each other. Wherever and whenever you wanted.
So when Maverick's Assassins reported back that a particular Servant was too powerful to handle alone? He wouldn't have to handle them alone. He'd put on the priest's smile, call an emergency meeting, and point every other player at the target like a loaded gun.
Manipulation through trust. Victory through deception.
It wasn't heroic. It wasn't honorable. But Maverick wasn't here to be a hero. He was here to survive.
Third: keep a low profile.
This was the simplest principle, and also the most important.
The system had said this was the first Holy Grail War. Nobody had experience. Nobody knew the meta. Nobody had enhancement points or System Shop advantages from previous rounds.
Which meant that if Maverick sent his Assassins out right now to slit throats, they'd probably succeed. A player caught alone, without their Servant materialized, was effectively defenseless. One kill would be easy. Maybe even two.
But after that?
Word would spread. The remaining players would panic. They'd band together, shore up their defenses, keep their Servants manifested at all times. And then every eye in the city would be looking for the Assassin — the invisible predator picking people off in the dark. The camper. The snake in the grass.
Nobody trusted a camper. Even if Maverick claimed he'd already met his kill quota, nobody would believe him. Why would they? He wouldn't believe it if the roles were reversed.
Gambling on human nature was how you got killed. Maverick refused to gamble on anyone's nature — including his own.
So he'd wait. Like Amber and her Emperor were waiting. Like the other five players were probably waiting. He'd let the eager ones make the first move, watch the chaos unfold through a hundred invisible eyes, and strike only when the moment was perfect.
The early bird gets the worm.
But it's the patient hawk that gets the early bird.
Maverick leaned back against the hard wooden pew and exhaled slowly. The trembling in his hands had stopped. In its place was something steadier — not confidence, exactly, but resolve. The kind of grim determination that comes from knowing the odds are against you and choosing to fight anyway.
His tired eyes drifted closed for just a moment—
—and then a warm, fragrant aroma drifted under his nose.
He opened his eyes.
A cup of coffee hovered in front of his face, held by a small, delicate hand. A girl in a simple white dress — one of Hundred Faces' personas, the youngest-looking among them — stood beside the pew, mask tilted slightly to one side, offering the cup with both hands like a gift.
Maverick stared at her.
Then he stared at the coffee.
Then, slowly, a real smile — small, tired, but genuine — crept across his face.
"...You made this for me?"
A tiny nod from behind the mask.
Maverick took the cup. The warmth seeped into his cold fingers immediately, and the rich scent of dark roast filled his lungs.
He took a sip.
It was terrible. Way too bitter. Clearly made by someone who had never operated a coffee machine in their life — or their afterlife.
It was perfect.
"Thank you." He stood up, rolling his shoulders, feeling something like energy returning to his limbs. "Alright then. Let's pull ourselves together."
He lifted the cup.
"And let's win this Holy Grail War."
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