[20:35]
[5:23:55:00]
Same time of night. Same bone-deep cold. Same invisible countdown ticking toward zero.
The only thing that changed between Holy Grail Wars was the people dumb enough to get dragged into them.
The docks.
Wind came in off the black water like a living thing — sharp, wet, carrying the taste of salt and rust and the kind of cold that didn't just bite, it gnawed. Even with the row of shipping warehouses acting as a windbreak, it still cut through clothing like it wasn't there.
Crystal pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and tried very hard not to shiver.
She failed.
"Lancer," she said through chattering teeth, "is anyone actually going to show up?"
The man standing at the edge of the dock didn't turn around. He didn't need to. His voice carried back to her on the wind — calm, confident, with the easy assurance of someone who'd been doing this for a very long time.
"They will. A provocation this blatant? Any Servant with even a shred of warrior's pride won't be able to resist." He paused. "Master, if the cold is bothering you, please — wait inside the warehouse. There's no need for you to suffer out here."
"No!" Crystal said, louder than she intended. "I'm staying right here. Right beside you."
A beat of silence.
Then Lancer turned.
The moonlight caught him perfectly — because of course it did. Flowing blue hair swept back from a sharp, angular face. A sleeveless green battle suit that hugged a lean, athletic frame like it had been painted on. And beneath his left eye, a small beauty mark that somehow made every other feature more striking by contrast.
He smiled. And when he smiled, Crystal forgot what cold felt like.
"Truly," he said, his voice dropping into something warmer, "this is a cup worthy of granting wishes. I swear upon my spears, Master — I will deliver you victory in this Holy Grail War."
"Mm," Crystal managed, which was the most coherent sound she could produce while her brain was actively short-circuiting.
Okay. Cards on the table.
Crystal was not a strategist. She was not a fighter. She was not a genius or a prodigy or any kind of special. Before the system had snatched her out of her life and dumped her into this nightmare, she'd been a factory worker pulling twelve-hour shifts in a packaging plant. No college degree. No grand ambitions. Just a girl trying to make rent.
But Crystal did have one area of expertise that the system had apparently decided was relevant to interdimensional death matches: she was an extremely dedicated reader of romance novels.
And she recognized the trope she was living in immediately.
Beautiful, loyal warrior bound to serve an ordinary girl? Check. Ancient hero sworn to protect her with his life? Check. Smoldering eye contact in the moonlight while dramatic wind tousled his hair? Check, check, and check.
This was it. This was the plot. She was the heroine of her own story, and the gorgeous spear-wielding legend standing before her was her leading man.
What was all that "loyal boyfriend" discourse online? The debates about who the best fictional husband was?
Irrelevant. Crystal had the real deal standing three feet away from her, swearing oaths of devotion under the stars.
And that wasn't even the best part.
One million dollars. A full million, sitting in a bag back at their hotel room. Cash. Just handed to her by that young priest at the church like it was pocket change.
If Lancer hadn't been standing right there, Crystal might have tried flirting with Kotomine too. Not because she was disloyal — she was very loyal, thank you — but because there was something about a well-dressed man of the cloth handing you a million dollars in cash that activated certain primal instincts.
Wealthy. Handsome in that quiet, forgettable way. Vaguely mysterious.
Focus, Crystal. You have a Lancer. Stay on task.
In any case, Crystal's face had twisted into the kind of smug, self-satisfied grin that would have been alarming on anyone who wasn't currently living out their fantasy.
She'd spent the entire day shopping — real shopping, with real money, for the first time in her life — and when Lancer had suggested releasing his presence to issue an open challenge to every Servant in the city, Crystal had agreed without a second thought.
Why wouldn't she? She was the Chosen One. The protagonist. The girl destiny had plucked from obscurity and handed a handsome warrior and a bag full of cash.
When the fighting started, she'd crush the ugly ones and recruit the good-looking ones into her personal collection.
Life was good.
Standing at the dock's edge, Lancer caught a glimpse of his Master's expression out of the corner of his eye — that slack-jawed, drooling, slightly unhinged grin — and made a silent, solemn vow.
I must obtain the Holy Grail.
And use its wish to cure whatever affliction has befallen my Master.
I owe her that much, at least. For placing her trust in me so completely.
Poor, noble, deeply confused Lancer. What a pair they made.
But none of that mattered right now.
Because the moment Lancer had released his presence — flaring his spiritual energy across the city like a beacon lit on the highest hill — the entire game had changed.
Every player in the city felt it. A pulse of raw power radiating from the docks, unmistakable in its intent. Not hiding. Not subtle. A direct, brazen challenge to anyone brave enough — or stupid enough — to answer.
Come find me. Come fight me. I dare you.
And the city responded.
Somewhere in the shadows, cold eyes watched from behind a skull mask. Tracking. Cataloguing. Reporting back.
Somewhere else, an Emperor in Spirit Form chuckled and told his Master to stay put.
Somewhere further, a player who'd been lying low immediately changed course.
And somewhere on the cross-sea bridge connecting the mainland to the port district, someone decided they'd seen enough.
The whole city was a powder keg, and Lancer had just lit the fuse.
The first to arrive at the docks — not to fight, but to watch — was a man who looked like he hadn't slept in three days, carrying a woman in his arms like a bride.
The man moved fast. Supernaturally fast. His suit was rumpled, his tie loosened, dark circles under his eyes so deep they looked like bruises. He had the exhausted, hollow-eyed appearance of a salaryman who'd been working overtime for six months straight. But his movements were fluid, precise, and utterly silent as he slipped between the warehouses and found a vantage point overlooking the dock.
The woman in his arms, meanwhile, showed absolutely no intention of being set down.
"Could you loosen your grip just a little, Master?" the Swordsman asked, his voice strained. "I believe you're crushing my ribcage."
"No." The woman — Vivian — tightened her arms around his neck and pressed her face against his chest. "I'm not letting go. I want to stay in your arms forever."
"...That is genuinely quite heavy."
Vivian's head snapped up. "Are you calling me fat?"
The Swordsman's expression didn't change. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. With the practiced calm of a man who had survived countless life-or-death situations, he said, very carefully:
"I'm talking about... the weight... of love."
A pause.
"Hehe." Vivian nestled back against his chest, mollified. "I knew you loved me."
Love. Well. There wasn't much of that, if the Swordsman was being honest with himself. But the survival instinct? That was running at full capacity. His Master was clingy, demanding, and had a jealous streak wider than the ocean they were currently overlooking.
But she was also smart.
Because unlike Crystal — who'd agreed to her Servant's challenge without a second thought — Vivian would never have allowed something so reckless.
The math was simple. There were seven players. Six of them were enemies. While the enemy was in the open and you were hidden, you held the advantage. Sticking your neck out before you had to was idiotic. Even the most reckless gambler wouldn't take those odds voluntarily.
So Vivian's plan was straightforward: get to the docks, find a good vantage point, and watch from a distance. If an opportunity presented itself — a wounded Servant, an exposed Master — they'd strike from the shadows. If not, they'd treat the whole thing as a free intelligence-gathering session.
Sound plan. Conservative. Smart.
The problem was that Vivian wasn't the only one who'd had that idea.
Because the moment Lancer's presence had flared across the city, every player had turned their attention to the docks. And while some were content to simply observe from afar, others had decided that the best show wasn't just the main event — it was the audience.
Why fight Lancer yourself when you could force someone else to do it for you?
All you needed was the right push.
And so — without warning, without announcement, without the slightest hint of killing intent beforehand—
A searing column of light erupted from the direction of the cross-sea bridge.
It screamed across the harbor like a falling star, cutting through the darkness with blinding intensity, aimed directly at the stretch of warehouses where the Swordsman and Vivian were hiding.
Not at Lancer.
At them.
"GET DOWN!"
The Swordsman's body moved before his mind finished processing. Pure reflex. Pure instinct. Centuries of combat experience compressed into a single, explosive burst of motion.
He threw Vivian.
Not gently. Not carefully. He hurled her toward a gnarled tree growing between two warehouses — thick trunk, dense foliage, enough cover to survive what was coming. She flew through the air with a startled yelp, branches catching her like a rough net.
Then the Swordsman turned to face the incoming strike.
His katana cleared its sheath in a single motion — a blade that caught the light in strange ways, its edge shimmering with an iridescent glow that shifted between colors like oil on water. He held it horizontally, both hands on the grip, feet planted, and met the attack head-on.
"Invincible — Sword!"
The words left his mouth in a snarl.
BOOM.
The impact hit like a freight train. Not a laser, despite appearances — the beam of light was actually a massive cylindrical projectile, dense with magical energy, designed to punch through barriers and flatten anything behind them.
The Swordsman's blade caught it. Held it. Deflected the worst of the force.
But the sheer momentum drove him backward — his feet carving trenches in the concrete as he skidded, smashing through one warehouse wall, then another, then a third, until he finally came to a stop in a shower of splintered wood and concrete dust—
—directly in front of Lancer.
Their eyes met.
The dust settled around them in slow, lazy spirals. Two Servants, face to face, close enough to reach out and touch.
The Swordsman's suit was torn. His hair was disheveled. A smear of concrete dust ran across his cheek. He looked, frankly, like he'd just been fired out of a cannon.
A flicker of awkwardness crossed his face.
"...This wasn't exactly how I planned to make my entrance."
Lancer studied him for a long moment. Then his gaze flicked past the Swordsman — toward the smoking trail in the sky, the shattered warehouses, the trajectory of the blast — and he pieced together what had happened in about two seconds.
Someone had forced this man onto the stage.
A third player, hiding in the distance, had launched an attack designed not to kill the Swordsman but to push him — physically, violently — into a direct confrontation with Lancer. Removing an observer from the shadows and dropping them right into the spotlight.
Clever. Ruthless. And utterly shameless.
But it didn't matter.
Because regardless of how he'd gotten here, the Swordsman was standing in front of Lancer now. And that made him a target. A canvas. A perfect opportunity to demonstrate, to every set of eyes watching from the darkness, exactly what Ireland's Child of Light was capable of.
Lancer's expression didn't change. His posture shifted — subtle, fluid, the kind of micro-adjustment that separated trained fighters from everyone else. His weight settled. His breathing slowed.
And then, with a flourish that was equal parts lethal and theatrical, he brought his weapons to bear.
Two spears. One long, one short. Both wrapped in strips of runic cloth that pulsed with a faint, otherworldly glow. He held them crossed before his body — the long spear in his right hand, the short in his left — and the air around him sharpened, as if reality itself was bracing for what came next.
The Swordsman exhaled slowly. His grip tightened on his katana. The iridescent edge hummed.
"This guy's got moves," the Swordsman murmured.
"Right back at you," Lancer said with a grin.
And the docks erupted into war.
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