Fate/Apocrypha Volume 1 Chapter 2.5

In the throne room of the fortress of Millennia, the Caster of Black used the flame of a Menorah to display the battle fought by that dog of the Association and his Saber of Red. The images were being projected onto the wall – like a movie – and watched by the Masters and Servants of Yggdmillennia.

All the Masters apart from Darnic looked crushed by Saber's fierce assault – one can feel overwhelming battle lust merely through the visuals on display. Despite being of short stature, the knight – a solid metal mass – sped around like a cannonball and disintegrated the golems.

The golems created by the Caster of Black are beyond comparison, possessing the power to fight evenly against low-ranking Servants. Yet they barely lasted one attack – three, at most – before being cut down.

"I suppose this is to be expected of Servant Saber."

Lancer said and Darnic nodded at his lord, unmoved.

"Strength rank B+, Endurance rank A, Agility rank B, Prana rank B… aside from Luck, all her parameters rank above C. Truly fitting for a Heroic Spirit of the Sword."

In particular, the Strength rank is extraordinary. A plus is a rare modifier that allows the particular value to multiply for an instant. And then there are the Anti-Thaumaturgy and Riding skills, both at B-rank – making Saber tenacious enough to only be damaged by A-rank thaumaturgy.

In the three Holy Grail Wars of Fuyuki, only the Servant of Saber ever manages to survive to the end – owing to their multifaceted strengths allowing them to cope with any situation, it is said. Anyone who witnessed the battle just now certainly cannot doubt this.

"What is particularly of note is that a certain section of her parameters are hidden."

As he is a Servant, Lancer did not understand, but Darnic can read the statistics of Servants as a Master. Yet he finds himself utterly unable to gain information on Saber's innate skills or Noble Phantasms. Despite feeling that he can recognize Saber's abilities or the design of the knight's sword, it seems as though he is prevented from recollecting.

Most likely, it is some kind of manifestation of a legend where Saber's identity was kept secret – perhaps an innate skill or a Noble Phantasm. In any case, this Red Saber is sure to be a formidable foe.

"And what of our own Servants? Saber, do you believe that you can defeat this knight?"

Saber nodded wordlessly at Lancer's question. As Gordes had commanded, he continued to maintain his silence even before his lord.

"O sage, how do you view this?"

Archer's smile was as calm as the windless sea when he replied.

"Certainly, this Saber is a difficult opponent. However, once we have determined the nature of the Noble Phantasm, I believe it will not bring us great trouble."

Lancer nodded, looking satisfied.

"Do you know who that Master is, Grandfather?"

Fiore asked.

"Yes, I have acquired information from our kin who infiltrated the Clock Tower. He is Shishigou Kairi, a necromancer and bounty hunter… a freelancer who takes any job."

"Earning money with thaumaturgy…? Filthy little peddler."

Gordes spat. To him, thaumaturgy is a field of research and not something that one should ever use to earn a profit. The other Masters feel much the same. There is great disdain – and in some cases, bewilderment – in their eyes. Only Darnic, having lived over a century on the path of thaumaturgy, and Selenik, who employs curses from the dark arts as part of her work, were coldly analyzing his actual strength.

"He is powerful."

"…Looks that way."

Necromancy is a thaumaturgy developed through corpses. Naturally, this craft – which raises simple zombies or gives birth to cobbled monsters – requires a large amount of dead bodies. And where does one acquire such an amount? No, not in the graveyard or the morgue – but on the field of battle. The greatest of necromancers flock to war. It can be said to be the fate of a necromancer to take the greatest of joys in gathering their resources after revolutions or coup d'etats… anything that results in genocide.

Since ancient times, there has never been an end to war – and necromancers have never been unaccompanied by danger. They experiment at the risk of putting their own lives on the line. They may even end up fighting their own rampaging creations. Still, there are few magi who would gladly throw themselves onto the battlefield – it was beyond irrationality.

The Shishigou family is already in its seventh generation of magi despite hailing from the Far East, where thaumaturgy can hardly be said to be flourishing. The treatise written by the sixth generation head, Shishigou Touki, had been highly praised at the Clock Tower so it was expected that his son Kairi would naturally pursue the path of a Clock Tower researcher. However, he was gone before the end of his third year, leaving his education behind.

Since then, he has trawled battlefields for corpses and stepped into the life of a bounty hunter, suppressing heretical magi for money.

His motives are unknown but, apparently, his skills and personality fitted the job. In ten year's time, the name of Shishigou Kairi had spread to the ears of even the thaumaturgical underground.

Of course, he had not completely cut off ties with the Association – doubtless he has been hired this time as well, working for some sort of great compensation. In fact, practically all of the Masters sent by the Association are of this type. The only exception is Shirou Kotomine, the priest sent by the Church.

There is absolutely no information on the priest aside from the fact that he belongs to the Assembly of the Eighth Sacrament. Of course, the Yggdmillennia has kin within the Church itself… but there is still little to no history concerning him. This means either his curriculum vitae is truly blank, or he is placed very deeply within the organization.

Regardless, aside from this unknown element, every single one of the other six Masters are elites among elites. Only Darnic and Fiore would be able to oppose them in a match of thaumaturgy.

But, unfortunately for the Masters of the Red camp, they must pay the price for using Servants by providing their own prana. That is not the case for the Yggdmillennia – although they are Masters and possess the Command Spells, the prana pathways supplying the Servants bypass them and lead to another. The Servants use up none of the Masters' own prana.

Of course, as a safeguard, they do provide the minimum amount of prana necessary – that is to say, the Masters are still the ones allowing the Servants to exist in this world. But aside from this core requirement being provided by the Masters, the prana that the Servants expend – using Noble Phantasms, auto-recovery or thaumaturgy – will all be shouldered by something else.

In this way, they can easily close the gap in terms of raw power. The more excellent the magus, the more prana his or her craft will consume – if it comes down to it, they may end up laughably struggling against their Servants for their own supply.

Anyone who believes that such a great war can be won with only ten days of preparation is greatly mistaken. The Yggdmillennia… no, Darnic has been putting everything in place since the moment the third Holy Grail War in Fuyuki ended.

"Battle approaches…"

The Lancer of Black murmured. Every Master and Servant in the room wordlessly agreed. In the depths of their hearts there is something inflaming each of them – and with this spark, they shall declare war.

It will not be long before the two sides commit and open hostilities. There is one thing that every participant of both the Yggdmillennia and the Association can agree on – this great war will revolve around the fourteen Servants.

But on that day… the fate of one moved.

***

Everything was in indistinct turmoil.

His bared nerves – his Circuits – pumped out prana. His soul was being melted… dissolved… disintegrated. He was clearly conscious yet unable to form thoughts.

A weak 'instinct' was protesting about some great pain… but to him, it sounded like nothing more than the cries of an insignificant creature.

No recognition… no thoughts… no formulation of logic possible. He could not assert himself. He could not even say for certain whether or not he was alive.

Yet there was something that he managed to gain simply by being here – 'information', for example, which led to 'time'. He received information and – given the time to process it – knowledge was created.

With knowledge, he was able to put into words the sensation that he could not have grasped before.

I am… alive.

It was a simple fact.

A fact that even a bawling baby would be able to unconsciously understand as obvious truth was, to him, something he had never even known until now.

Time flowed.

He acquired information.

He gained knowledge.

Once he became self-conscious, this cycle began to repeat at abnormal speed. From the start, he was a creature born with Magic Circuits as his foundation – his ability to comprehend knowledge was naturally incredible.

Many beings passed him by… humans, comrades and monsters.

The humans would watch them without much concern. Their comrades would look at them with some faint emotion in their eyes. The monsters' responses were various: some held no interest whatsoever; some had pity in their eyes; and some – appearing very curious indeed – wanted to investigate.

But there was still no change. The cycle of 'information' and 'knowledge' simply continued to repeat.

He took this rattling, chaotic mess of 'knowledge' and organized it, classified it, piled it up beautifully – like a library. However, as he stockpiled more and more outside information, he felt as though his heart was being plucked.

Unconsciously, he turned his eyes away from this sensation and continued to collect even more information. But the more he collected – the more he understood – the larger the sensation swelled and it became impossible to ignore.

If he were to measure his heart, about sixty percent would be taken up by it. But even though he could no longer turn away from the thing right before his eyes, he chose to defer.

But no one can accuse him of cowardice – for cowardice can only come into existence after one has understood what an act of courage is. He did not even know that he was being a coward – he simply did not want to see the thing before him.

Fate flows… twisting and turning, straying into aberration.

One human and one monster stood before his eyes. Both were individuals who had passed before him countless times before.

The 'code' of the former was 'Roche'. He was Master.

The 'code' of the latter was 'Caster'. He was the teacher.

"Let us once more attempt the insertion of the Magic Circuits."

Roche nodded at Caster's words.

"Then, let's use the homunculi here…"

He scrutinized the contents of their discussion. 'Magic Circuits' are the pseudo-nerves necessary for the operation of thaumaturgy. They act as the stem around which the flesh of the homunculi – like him – formed. So, what is the meaning of this 'insertion'?

He felt as though there were a worm crawling on his back. There was no mistake – it was his fate to die.

With this conversation which barely lasted a minute, his heartbeat – having maintained a steady pace ever since his forging – furiously surged.

He retrieved information on previous conversations. Caster and Roche had talked many times before regarding the golems… those puppets which were formed by earth and rock and rituals, more machines than artificial life. And the reason for the insertion of Magic Circuits… was to create golems that could perform thaumaturgy.

Consumption comes with the act of creation. If the creation is to be 'a golem that can perform thaumaturgy' then, naturally, the item to be consumed will be 'a homunculus that possesses Magic Circuits'.

He had felt a chill run down his spine. He finally understood why.

To be consumed is to be destroyed – and destruction equals death. He had known the word but could not understand it.

"Let's start with three units. Um… this one, this one and this one."

The finger pointed at him. The thought of such vivid death gripped his heart as though wanting to suffocate him. The sixty percent of himself that he had been averting his eyes from gave a solemn declaration.

You are going to die. You were just born – meaninglessly sealed in this prana supply tank – and you will now be consumed simply because someone laid eyes on you.

The pair left the room. He is certain that he has only a brief respite until death.

Despair assaulted him. This is what he has been turning his eyes away from. There was no meaning to his birth… no meaning for his existence.

And yet he cannot cry, scream or lament. He can only look on with his empty eyes.

But… is that really the case?

He thought and racked his brain. Is there really nothing that he can do? Or does he simply think that way? Right now, there is something that only he – and no one else – can do… at the very least, he can attain information, he can think, and he can fear the conclusion he has arrived at. He has managed to come so far.

So, let's try to take one more step forward.

Just as it was a coincidence which led to his being chosen, it was a coincidence that led him to grow an identity when he was shut in the supply tank and meant purely for supplying Servants with prana.

Nevertheless, these two coincidences coming together have the weight of fate to them.

Work…

For the first time since he was born, he moved a finger. Moving his hand and closing his fist, he attempted to raise his arm.