Chapter 15:

Prince VS Pauper

He dreamt his Servant's dreams.

It had taken some time for Graham to realize what exactly he was seeing every time his mind drifted off and the scenes inside his head were replaced with those from the life of another. But, knowing what the mental link between Master and Servant entailed, he had expect to witness crumbling cities and raging seas, legends dying and legends being born anew. To his surprise, there were no eternal battles dredged inside his Servant's mind, no shell-shocked scenes of comrades slaughtered and friends forever lost. No enemies sprang back to life to haunt their shared dreams. Not a single memory of clashing blades or arrows darkening the skies. There was only a single scene- and a hundred variations of it- that he saw through the kaleidoscope of Archer's memories.

A sea forever raging against a castle's steadfast wall. A woman, child cradled in her hands, her eyes eternally locked with the horizon. Those were the constants of their shared dream- and Graham was adamant it was merely that. Because memories were static, unchanging things, as if chiseled in stone. But their dream was as fluid as the sapphire sea below the castle's ramparts. Sometimes the sun was setting, painting both sea and sky in a vivid shade of crimson. Others- it was rising, bright and vibrant and golden. He had witnessed storms as well, skies dull and dark, with jagged veins of lightning. But no matter if the sea was as still as a mirror or fighting to devour the castle and all in it, the woman and her child were always there.

Hers was an eternal vigil, it seemed. Raven locks swayed by the wind and almond eyes forever searching for something beyond the sea's crown of waves, she never left her spot atop the wall. But the child cradled to her chest was different each and every time, features in a state of constant flux. The hair was sometimes red or blond, others- raven. The eyes changed shape and color just as often, switching from forest green to midnight black and a dozen more.

And Graham slept and watched the scene his Servant had dreamt himself a hundred times inside his own mind. The Master found it to be a sad and lonely dream. But he couldn't, for the life of his, tell whether it was his Servant he pitied, or himself. Archer had woven his life into legend, dreaming only of the ones he had left behind. Graham had ran away from home at age 13, seeking a legend of his own and hadn't even for a second let the thought of looking back cross his mind.

And, he found it surprising, what saddened him even more, was that very same difference even existed. The Master had insisted on summoning his Servant without a catalyst- precisely because he had wanted to call forth a kindred soul, a proof of flesh and blood that one such as himself could achieve greatness. And as Archer dreamt of home, the young man realized he scarcely remembered his anymore. The mirror Graham had seen Archer as was evidently cracked and the Master couldn't decide if the reflection meant he was being found wanting, or merely different.

But, just as suddenly as it always appeared, the scene grew fuzzy and the sensation of simultaneously falling and flying up overtook him. Blue eyes blinked furiously at the onslaught of the autumn sun and Graham Crowley brought a hand up to hide them with all the grace of a hibernating bear upon awakening. His neck creaked ominously, apparently unsatisfied with his choice of a sofa's armrest as a pillow.

"Did I wake you up? S-sorry about that," sheepishly muttered a girl's voice, somewhere near.

Graham fought off the grogginess, which settled in after a sleep too short for comfort, and propped himself up. Ayaka, he found out, even with unkempt raven hair and eyes still somewhat red from crying, was cute when flustered. The bespectacled girl pulled back almost as if he was contagious and pulled up the knit blanket in her hand. Archer's Master couldn't decide if it was meant as an explanation or as a shield between them. Possibly both.

"I didn't want you to catch a cold," said Saber's Master, adamantly refusing to meet his eyes. He couldn't blame her, given their first two meetings. He didn't feel bad about it- empty jokes aside, he would have never acted on it had the Charm worked. Some said all was fair in love and war, but the mage was only willing to cheat when there was bloodshed involved. It wasn't a matter of morals. If he had to be absolutely honest with himself, he had to admit it was because of pride. Luring in girls with his eyes meant he himself was incapable of it otherwise. And one of the few things Graham could classify as 'hated' was being reminded of his limitations.

"Thanks," muttered Archer's Master and ran a hand through disheveled hair the same color as his eyes. "I appreciate it." Ayaka, apparently, saw things differently.

"Nonsense!" said the short-haired girl, a tinge of steel gleaming beneath the usual silk of her voice. She turned to face him with a speed that made him wonder how her neck didn't snap. That single word seemed to drain the majority of her newly-found confidence, judging by the way she bit her lip. And yet, the girl had apparently decided to voice her thoughts, come hell or high water. "It's just—I should be the one thanking you. If it wasn't for you, both Saber and I would be dead. Dead," she repeated the word as if to comprehend the weight of its meaning. "And we are your opponents in this War. You could've easily just killed us yourself right then and there. Not to mention the gems you used to keep Saber alive…"

Her words trailed off, voice wavering. Ayaka shifted her eyes downward, as if her gaze could pierce through the sofa and the floor and all the way to the Servant lying amidst the thaumaturgical circle in the basement. Graham couldn't blame her. She evidently had no experience with the grisly side of being a mage whatsoever. And even he doubted a stoic reaction would be an option if Archer was turned into a gruesomely elaborate representation of a porcupine.

"So I'll help you in this War however I can!" blurted out Ayaka, with clenched fists pressing down her plaid skirt. "At least until our debt is settled. I'm… I'm not much of a magus but Saber is really really strong."

Graham could've made several suggestions how to settle their debt, half-joking and half-serious. But that dream was fresh in his mind's eye, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth when he opened it to joke.

"Don't think it was purely of altruism that I saved you," he said instead, while trying to untangle the scarf which had turned into a mess while he had been asleep. This time, the blue-haired mage had needed an excuse to avoid eye contact. "It was precisely because I wanted to form an alliance with a Saber class Servant that I intervened. And if we manage to make an alliance with the final Knight class, victory is more or less certain."

"There can't be more than one winner in this War," said Ayaka, completely ignoring he had basically said her Servant had been apparently the sole reason Graham had bothered saving her life. At least the mage hoped she was ignoring it. The thought of someone thinking so less of themselves they would accept his words was frankly alien to him.

"I know that!" replied the mage and shook his head. "But I don't want to win it per se. My teacher and I are here to make sure no disaster happens when the Grail descends. We are to destroy it if there is something wrong with it, or make sure no catastrophic wish is invoked by its power. As long as this War ends with minimum casualties and collateral damage, I count it as a win."

"That's… very noble of you," said Ayaka, almost with disappointment.

"I told you, I'm not some hero, swooping in to save the day," said Graham and let out a bitter laugh. "The only reason I received these," said the mage and pulled down his scarf to expose the Command Spells intertwined like a laurel around his neck. "Is because the Grail recognized my desire to participate in the War and prove myself a competent magus. But since this selfish desire of mine can be realized without the Grail and by the War proper, I find no problem with it. Speaking of which, what is your wish for the Grail? Without recognizing one, it wouldn't have given you the Command Spells, even if you had a Class Card."

"I want to fix my mistakes, I guess," said the bespectacled girl, after some thought. There was determination gleaming in her eyes, even as her posture still showed uncertainty. "You can say that, just like you, I want to avert a disaster."

A part of Graham wanted to laugh. What kind of gruesome mistakes could his newest ally have made to warrant a Grail to be fixed? But since he was being counter to usual self anyway, the blue-haired mage refrained from it.

"Suit yourself. Not any of my business why you participate anyway."

Graham stood up and stretched, joints creaking. He had really needed that afternoon nap after the sleepless night in vigil over the half-dead Servant and the semi-catatonic Master. The autumn sun kept pouring in from the windows. Closing his eyes and letting his mind wander away from his body, the Master took a peek through his Servant's eyes. A scene seemingly taken from a disaster movie played inside his head. Archer was currently looking over the crumbled remains of what seemed a… castle?

Ayaka's hand, suddenly gripping his shoulder, yanked Graham back into his own body.

"Someone just crossed the Boundary Field," said the girl, warily eyeing the front door.

"Is he trying to enter the house?" asked the blue-haired mage and checked whether the decks were still in his pockets.

"He is just… staying at the edge of it," said Saber's Master, seemingly not certain what to think of it. "It's like he is waiting for us to come out. Could he have a Servant with him?"

"I doubt it," answered Graham after giving it some thought. "Only Assassin can sneak in like that and Archer reported her dead after a fight with Lancer. Caster can manipulate the Boundary Field but as far as I know she is still holed up in her Workshop. But then again, your Boundary Field is kinda small. The Servant can just be standing outside of it… Stay here, I'm going outside to check who our guest is."

Ayaka opened her mouth to protest, possibly unwilling to stand behind while he defended her home. Graham himself was unwilling to risk his new trump card ally so soon after securing her, so he was quick to cut her off.

"Guard Saber, okay? And if he has woken up we might need him. Archer is too far away now and I don't want to waste a Command Spell calling him if I can help it."

After weighing the suggestion in her mind, the bespectacled girl nodded and disappeared down into the basement. Graham ran a hand through navy blue hair, took a deep breath and opened the door.

A young man, mid-twenties by his looks, stood as still as a statue at the edge of Ayaka's lawn. The blond didn't stand out in any particular way, with his ordinary white shirt and blue jeans. Only what seemed like a cello case hanging off his shoulder marked him as anything less than mundane. His eyes, a mild forest green, quickly examined Graham from head to toe. The newcomer raised an eyebrow, as if surprised at what he was seeing. Archer's Master was just about ready to ask him what the hell he was doing there, when the newcomer spoke.

"I, Michael Norcroft, Knight of the Holy Church, challenge Servant Saber to a duel to the death!"

Of all the things Graham had expected to hear, that particular announcement ranked somewhere between zero and nil. He briefly wondered what Ayaka's neighbours would think if they heard said bombastic challenge. Never mind that- her location had apparently been discovered and the supposedly impartial Church once again wanted in on the War. Graham weighed the options in his mind. He had tangled with three of this particular batch of Buriers already. But back then Archer had been summoned, not to mention that psycho sword-wielding nutcase Waver had sent to 'help' him. On the one hand, this was only a single opponent. On the other, the Church wouldn't send a random nobody, be it a Knight or not, to secure-

And then it hit him. The knight hadn't challenged him to a duel. The knight had challenged Saber.

"Are you bloody mad?!" seemed like the appropriate response, so those were the exact words Graham blurted out. To his credit, the knight didn't seem fazed by his outburst in the least.

"You are his Master, I presume?" asked the blond, still rooted at his place and seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the danger of barging into a Master's Workshop. Graham only pulled down the scarf to show his Command Spells, neither confirming nor denying whose Master exactly he was.

"I was expecting someone different," said the knight with the tone one would discuss the weather. "At least our source of your location proved genuine."

"Different how?" asked Graham and put his hand behind his back in feigned innocence. A rune-inscribed card was already being pulled out of his sleeve. If only they weren't in a residential neighbourhood…

"Older," quipped the blond knight. "Taller, too. But that is irrelevant. I mean you no harm, Saber's Master. Relinquish your Command Spells and Servant and you can survive this War unscathed. I merely wish to have the chance of crossing blades with the Hero of the Sword. Whether you get caught in the crossfire is up to you entirely."

With each word out of the newcomer's mouth, Graham grew surer of his lack of sanity. Who in their right mind challenged a Servant?!

"You are just a human," replied 'Saber's' Master and twirled the card between his fingers, ready to hurl it at a moment's notice. "Why should I even bother sending my Servant after you when I can just kill you myself? What's more, you are on my territory now. I'm afraid you are at a disadvantage here."

"A mere human I may be, but I doubt your petty spells would be of any use to you, sir mage," said the blond knight with a genuine smile beaming on his face, which made Graham's insides churn. The nerve of that smug, sleazy git…

"Brave words. Care to back them up?" asked the mage, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Final warning, Master of Saber," said the knight, as polite as ever, and dropped the case on the ground. A spider-web of cracks erupted on impact. It opened on its own afterwards, a silver zweihander leaping handle-first into the knight's open arm. The blond lifted the ridiculous weapon effortlessly, with a single hand. "Choose to enter this fight and you will not enter another."

The one thing Graham hated more than being reminded of his limitations was someone arbitrarily imposing any upon him on their own volition. The mage wanted to think his had been a mature response, but inwardly doubted tacking off his free hand's fingerless glove with his teeth and hurling it at the knight's face was the adult thing to do.

He was thankful for the gentle coolness of the car's window. The incessant throbbing in his head made Waver Velvet wonder if his brain wasn't rearing up for a self-explosion. But, deep down, the long-haired mage knew that no such luck would be bestowed upon him. Fate, Lord El-Melloi was certain, had many more gruesome headaches in store for him in the future. And so, denied for the moment any aspirin or a quick death, the former Master settled for pressing his forehead to the taxi's window.

Buildings and people blitzed past, but the mage paid them no heed. For all its fame- or infamy from where he came from- Hartcroft was a city like any other. Its citizens, magical and mundane, were no different than the crowds he saw every day milling on the streets of London. Same thing, different landmarks. At its heart, America's center of all things magic had a certain uniqueness, undoubtedly. But the face it presented to the world failed to impress him. Maybe it was because instead of his second week, he was actually spending his third month there.

Maybe it was because Waver Velvet had already seen the city crumble and drown in a sea of flames.

The car horn of the taxi yanked him out of his memories, as a blue sedan in front of them lingered a bit too long on a green light. His headache didn't show any signs of subsiding. But it wasn't like Waver didn't have a good reason for it. Some would have argued Lord El-Melloi had nothing but such reasons since stepping out of the plane however long ago. And he was inclined to agree. The Sixth Holy Grail War had proven itself a grand mistake on the part of everyone involved shortly since its beginning. The small fact that Hartcroft was still intact so long into this War was actually a major improvement, in a way.

Sadly, steering events into a bloodless ending seemed downright impossible. Waver had escaped the first wave of disastrous events, true. But the pieces and the board had shifted in such a way his knowledge of the events was quickly becoming null and void. A traitorous voice inside him, curiously similar to the one of his predecessor, taunted him this War would turn even worse due to his meddling. The current Lord El-Melloi shook his head in irritation, long black hair mirroring his movement. No, Waver Velvet had wagered his afterlife on setting things right, and was bloody well ready to follow through on his intents.

Sicking Shinosuke on the Buriers, who had messed up the initial War at its very beginning, had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now that the eastern swordsmaster had somehow ended up dying to Albus Grimaldi and letting him have Berserker's Command Spells, Lord El-Melloi's masterplan was suddenly looking less than stellar. Only the small hope of these events negating the Grimaldi's need to summon Avenger kept Waver from pulling his hair out in frustration. Of course, that still left Avenger's Class card, hidden somewhere in the Cathedral, as a glaring flayed thread which could just as easily unravel his plans in the future.

Waver had hoped to interfere with the summoning ritual after the Grimaldi had rendered the good Cardinal one head shorter. But now he needed to find a way to sneak into one of Hartcroft's most guarded places to ensure the Cardinal's plan of joining the War at its closing stages didn't go through. And find a way to stop a Grimaldi-powered Berserker. Fun times all around, all things considered.

At least Graham had agreed to go along with his teacher's plan of rounding up all the Knight classes to take out the other four. And if anything could stop Berserker, it was those three in tandem. And maybe, if he could use the Volumen to trap the fleschrafting archmagus inside it, that problem could be sorted out as well. The gears turned inside Waver's mind as he struggled to outline a way to adapt to his ever-changing circumstances. The landscape outside shifted, as the towering concrete giants gave way to the plethora of brownstone houses at the edge of Hartcroft's Chinatown.

Rider would need to be the first to go afterwards. The El-Melloi part of him accused him of being biased towards that specific class, but Waver Velvet adamantly trusted his judgment of that particular Servant. He had seen the full extent of Rider's power the first time around. Even the renegade Caster, for all her magical prowess, would have never trapped and bled the then-Masterless Avenger dry of prana, if it hadn't been for Rider's suicide charge. Against the other six regular Servants, with a half-decent Master who could afford to waste two Command Spells… Rider could perhaps win the War overnight and live just long enough for his Master to make a wish upon the Grail.

Too bad- or perhaps thank the heavens- Rider was stuck with the younger Grimaldi. In a way, Waver felt an unspoken camaraderie to the boy. Lord El-Melloi had no way of knowing if Glen Grimaldi had ever wondered if he was pulling his Servant back from victory- but the solidarity was still there. Of course, that didn't mean Waver was going to allow for the boy to be in the War a minute longer than necessary. Fool me once…

At least the Reinsviel girl was Glen's enemy now, as Caster's Master. With the young Grimaldi's burning desire for the Grail, there was no chance for cordiality, much less any other attachments forming between them.

"We're here," announced the driver and slammed the brakes a bit more suddenly than needed. One Lord El-Melloi was nearly sent flying into the front seat.

Waver paid his fare in haste and was just as quick with exiting the car. The faded sign overhead did indeed indicate he was at the right place. "Mr. Miyu's Emporium of Wondrous Mysteries in Chinatown"- an outwardly tiny, unassuming shop amidst all the glitz and glitter surrounding it, with a name ten times more redundant than Waver had initially assumed. The mage fastened his yellow scarf for some semblance of protection against the autumn wind, looked up and down the deserted sidewalk and pushed the doorway open.

Its hinges cried out in pain, accompanied in disharmony by the sound of the small bell above. The shop looked significantly bigger on the inside, but it didn't surprise the magus. Only a step inside and Waver had already felt at least half a dozen bounded fields reacting to his presence. Sharp eyes scanned with professional curiosity the towering shelves, cluttered with seemingly nonsensical odds and ends. The English Lord had no other choice but to rely solely on his five senses inside the "Emporium". There was too much interference for a more thorough approach. Without even trying, Waver could feel prana pulsating in dissonant serenity from beyond the shadowed aisles. It was like every trinket had a little magical heart of its own, pulse forever at odds with the one of its neighbours.

Half the things in the little shop of curiosities were probably junk, true. But the other half made Waver feel like Professor Jones smack dab in Area 51, after a tornado had ravaged the premises. It was a clusterfuck of proverbial diamonds hidden beneath piles of literal trash. But it wouldn't have surprised him in the least if he happened to find the real Grail was stashed under someone's old umbrella.

A minute or two passed as Waver waited for the proprietor to show himself. Ignoring his craving for a calming smoke, the mage stepped inside the twilight of the aisles. The floor creaked ominously under his leather shoes. The whole atmosphere was so cliché it was ridiculous, at least in Lord El-Melloi's mind. He half-expected some git with a hockey mask to jump him from behind. But the only thing that threatened him were the clouds of dust, which attempted to suffocate him every time he moved something to look around the shelves. It was starting to down on him that the knowledge of Nia Smith buying the watch from here was useless, if he could never unearth it from underneath the mountains of shrunken heads and half-crumbling grimoires.

Eventually, after what seemed like an hour of sifting through junk and needless treasures, Waver happened upon his goal. It was as unassuming as ever in appearance. Just a gilded pocketwatch with a smeared face and a thin, almost ephemeral chain, attached to it. Anyone else would have thrown it away after picking it up, not even sparing a second glance before writing it off as yet another piece of useless paraphernalia. But Waver Velvet knew well enough this particular bauble was the sole reason he was currently sifting through the wares of a dilapidated Chinatown shop, instead of dying from blood loss amidst a ruined city on Christmas Eve. The mage ran a finger over the words engraved on the inside of the lid.

'The Fifth'

Lord El-Melloi had no idea when or where the watch had been created, or even who was the genius behind crystalizing a piece of True Magic. The 'how' Waver didn't even try bothering with. He was holding a miracle-machine, no more and no less. And the mage didn't need to know its inner workings to appreciate it. Still, this particular miracle had an astoundingly steep price to be realized.

An average magus, spending every single ounce of prana in their circuits, could probably manage no more than a sense of déjà vu. Albus Grimaldi, at the peak of his power, would merely jump back two to three minutes. No, to truly make use of the watch's power, you needed a miracle in and of itself. Alaya had been kind enough to provide one for him in exchange for the worst labor contract in existence- but he had no more souls to spare. Taking the watch now was merely a precaution- an attempt to prevent any other player getting the same idea such as him, if events unfolded differently than they desired.

"Find the thing you look for, hmm?" asked a suspiciously cheerful voice behind him.

The proprietor had somehow managed to sneak up behind him, with nary a peep coming from the aged and groaning floorboards. Waver had to look down to meet the inquisitive eyes of the owner, as the man barely reached to his chest. A wry smile was visible beneath the meticulously groomed Fu Manchu, as white as the miniature grandpa's stringy hair. The sleeves of his crimson silk robe were a tad too long, or maybe the Emporium's proprietor just liked obscuring his hands from view. Lord El-Melloi half-expected for the newcomer to ask him to wax his car.

"How much would this pocketwatch cost?" asked Waver and let the trinket hang between them, whirling in one direction, than the other, at the owner's eye level.

"This item veeery valuable. In my family for generations," said the owner in his suspiciously broken English and rubbed his chin in thought. "An appropriate price needed. More unique than other things here, yes, indeed."

"So what is it going be?" asked the mage and lifted an eyebrow, a mocking smile dancing on his lips. "A virgin, my firstborn child, a certain day of my life? Can't offer you my soul, though- already bargained that one away."

"Ten thousand American dollars!" announced the owner with a tone clearly showing he would accept no bargaining.

"Don't be ridiculous!" replied Waver and waved the offer off, brows furrowed in indignation. "This is too steep a price, you can't expect me to—wait, did you just say dollars? You are willing to sell me this for money?!"

"Economy still shaky," said the miniature proprietor and shrugged. "Pocket-watch have no battery anyway. Useless to me, you see." A tablet was suddenly magicked from somewhere in the depth of the man's sleeves and shoved under the Lord's nose. "You buy it nor not?"

Five minutes later Waver Velvet was back outside, his breast pocket one pocket-watch heavier. The Association's bank account was a bit lighter in turn, but Lord El-Melloi doubted his colleagues would question any transaction if he chalked it up as "Grail War expenditures". Waver shivered and fastened his coat. His long hair obscured much of his vision- the wind was picking up, despite the treacherous October sun still shining above and giving false promises of warmth. Some part of him wanted to be back at the Clocktower, dealing with his knuckleheaded students in the comfort of the warm marble corridors and the halls with roaring fireplaces. But another part of Waver- a boisterous part with an inappropriately loud laugh- knew he was making the right choice.

The Grail War had to be stopped from turning into a worldwide disaster at all cost. Waver's comfort didn't figure anywhere in the equation. He was just the best one for the job- and that was that. Or at least the other Lords saw it that way, giving him the 'honor' of participating as their representative. He didn't care much for the Grail. That damn thing had been a mistake since its very conception. No, his sole duty was in destroying it once and for all and making up for his apparent failure the first time around.

If Waver had been allowed any say, Graham wouldn't have been chosen to accompany him as well. But the Association had gotten hold of two Class Cards and it was precisely two Masters of their own they wanted. Wary of any other magus foiling his plan for the Grail's utter demise, Lord El-Melloi had been forced to choose from amongst his students. Tohsaka had been the obvious choice- but Waver didn't think the girl deserved to be dragged into yet another War so soon after the Fifth. The Edelfelt scion had the needed skill as well- but she had no experience in the warfare to speak of. Flat was Flat- immense talent coupled with equally staggering lack of common sense. So Graham Crowley was his choice by default.

Lord El-Melloi had always tried his best to treat his students with the same air of cool indifference, no matter their pedigree. Waver would've hated to grow up into a discriminating, stuck-up git after suffering under the tutelage of another. But when it came to Graham, the mage had to admit being a tad biased. The boy was only a first-generation magus. First! And he still had enough knowledge in his field to rival the likes of Rin and Luvia. With a crippling lack in the number of magic circuits he possessed, the boy had managed to circumvent his weakness with his study in Runelore and Elemental Transmutation. Really, the only thing Waver's student had, which was exceptional in its own right, was being an Average One.

Everything else he achieved through subterfuge and stubbornness in equal amounts.

Well, Waver mused as he lit up a cigar, the boy was quick to rile up sometimes. A touchy lad, that one, when it came to his abilities as a mage. Still, with so much at stake, Lord El-Melloi was optimistic even his knuckleheaded pupil would think before acting.

The setting sun peeked precariously between the tree branches, shining a dim light upon the faces of the silent duo now and again. The two young men, while obviously walking together towards some unknown destination, refused to acknowledge each other as they walked almost side by side. The forest was silent, with the only sound being the duo's footsteps. Few and far between, a rodent or two would scurry past them, racing to their hiding holes before the nocturnal predators began their nightly hunt. Dead leaves littered the trail and everything around it- a proverbial blanket of reds and yellows stretching as far as the eye could see.

Graham's midnight blue eyes were currently drilling a hole through the back of his opponent's skull. The young mage still hadn't decided whether he was lagging a step behind because he wanted to backstab the knight, or because he feared an ambush. His Professor would've surely tapped him on the head and chastised him for acting stupid, but there were situations where even Graham was willing to fight fair. Whoever this Church mook was, the mage had no intention whatsoever to allow his mockery to continue. He had enough annoying Fauntleroys do deal with back in London. With each step they took, his annoyance reached new levels. The gargantuan sword held over his opponent's shoulder attempted to decapitate the mage with every step the Knight took.

The trail finally came to an end- and a quite literal one at that. The Knight stepped aside, tilting his head in a silent question. The mage ran a hand through his blue hair, fighting an uneven battle with his bangs, billowed by the autumn wind. He stared at the scenery before him, slackjawed. It was a pit, plain and simple. Trees and grass and soil had apparently been just about evaporated mere days earlier, judging by the state of the land. The walls of the hole were smooth, indicating all the damage had been done by explosive force and certainly not by digging.

"A charming little clearing, innit?" asked the mage and didn't even bother sparing a glance at his opponent.

Not bothered in the slightest, the blond Knight slid down the pit, sword still lounging over his shoulder, as if it didn't weigh as much as a wardrobe. The light of the setting sun caught on his blade, making its silver surface turn golden. It was a strange sword, Graham had to admit. Excessively large, seemingly unfit for any precise maneuvers and- for some reason- the blade had two deep grooves running down both sides, as if it was made by three ordinary swords stuck together. The mage fixed his eyes on his opponent proper. Weathered jeans, plain white shirt, smugly neutral expression- the Knight's sole weapon seemed to be the one he was caring. Graham highly doubted any Church Knight moonlighted as a mage. They were held to a higher standard than Executors in general.

"You better prepare, sir mage," shouted the Knight from the other end of the pit, his green eyes fixing on Graham's still figure at the pit's edge. "Unless you have wisely reconsidered accepting my challenge in the stead of you Serv-"

"Ansuz! Hagalaz!"

The Knight had no chance to even finish his sentence before a hail of flaming bullets struck him dead-center. Blood gushed out, pooling down at the blond's feet. The mage, another set of rune-inscribed cards already fanned out in his hand, narrowed his eyes at his opponent. The Knight was as still as a statue, somehow retaining his balance after the magical barrage. What troubled Graham more was that he hadn't seen the flare-hail exist through the Knight's back. The blue-haired mage decided another salvo was in order. As long as he had the higher ground, he could just take pot shots at that smug fool until he bled to-

Graham actually saw the ground crack beneath the Knight's feet the second he lunged forward. To the mage, it looked like his opponent had covered the distance between them in the span of two seconds. At one moment the blond had been too busy bleeding out on the other end of the pit- and at the other his unnervingly calm green eyes were a meter away from Graham's blue ones, widened in shock. The silver sword seemed to split the sun in two as it soared overhead, like an ominous guillotine.

Time accelerated back to its usual speed as the Knight brought his sword down with enough strength to bury it almost hilt-deep into the ground. The mage's heart had leaped into his throat, blood screaming into his ears. Some part of Graham celebrated he had taken the time to inscribe the Raidho speed rune on his soles. Another part struggled with comprehending the truth that- even with Raidho- his speed paled before the one of his opponent.

The Knight attacked again before the mage could even begin coming up with a counterattack. As if it was paper, the blond yanked the sword out of the ground in a sudden sideways strike. With no time to react otherwise, the mage put his hands up to cushion the blow by the flat side of the blade- and was promptly sent flying down into the pit wall as the shielding runes on his clothing gave up in an instant.

It wasn't the first time the blue-haired mage had experienced his bones being broken. But it was the first time Graham felt what being embedded into a wall was like. A spider-web of cracks erupted from his point of impact, possibly mirroring the one spreading across his ribcage. The pulsating pain was too sharp for his brain to function properly. An array of cards was readied in hands, limbs working on instinct alone, but the mage was too deep inside the haze of pain to word out any incantation. Not that the Knight even let him make an attempt- Graham barely had the time and strength to move his head to the side before the giant blade could sink into it.

Not showing any signs of stopping with his vicious assault, the blond yanked his sword free with a horizontal slash which just about decapitated the mage. Sliding down, Graham bit his lip until it started bleeding, and resolved to suck up the pain. He was inside the Knight defenses- and he sure as hell wasn't about to let that pompous git kill him without a good shiner for a trophy. The Thurisaz inscribed on his fingerless glove glowed brightly as the mage pulled back his fist- and sent his best haymaker straight into the Knight's face.

It felt like punching a brick wall.

The Knight took the powered-up punch as if it had been a lovetap, neither flinching nor moving an inch. Holding onto his sword with his right hand, the blond used his left to literally facepalm Graham back into the wall of dirt. The blue-haired mage could swear he was able to hear his skull beginning to crack.

"What—the hell—are you!?" screamed out the mage, words muffled by his opponent's hand.

"Just a Servant of the Lord," replied the Knight, tone as polite as ever, as he proceeded to slam Graham into the wall one more time for good measure. "And a Knight of the Church. A pity, sir mage. Know that I take no joy in vanquishing you, but this sad Fate is one chosen by yours-"

Gathering what seemed to be his final strength, Graham grabbed onto his assailant's arm like a drowning man to a straw. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Uruz! Algiz! Isaz!"

The glove on the mage's right hand shredded to pieces as a faint glow shone underneath. The Circle of Five Elements, tattooed on the back of his hand, sprang to life at the same time the Knight's hand grew stiff and blackened. The mage was no leftie, but the augmented punch which followed still managed to shatter the Knight's hand into pieces. Amidst a rain of frozen chunks of flesh, the blond jumped backwards and skidded to a halt, a few meters away from where Graham crumbled into a heap.

"It seems you still had a few tricks up your sleeve, sir mage," said the Knight, almost as if he was praising him.

It took a few seconds for the mage to realize his vision wasn't going blurry. He was crying from the pain. The anger which arose alongside that particular epiphany gave Graham enough strength to get up on his feet. The Knight observed him, as if curious about his next move. And the blue-haired mage stared in horror as he watched the Knight's arm grow back like a gruesome flower. Bones materialized seemingly out of thin air, soon followed by muscles tethering themselves to the frame and finishing with a brand new layer of skin. The mage gulped when he realized his opponent was missing any wounds from the initial barrage as well.

And what the hell was that thrice-damned Knight anyway? He moved almost as fast as Servant and hit just as hard. Pain didn't seem to even register into his mind and Graham had just witnessed him regrow a missing limb as if it was nothing. The Master ground his teeth and desperately tried to make the gears in his head turn faster. The situation was bad- calamitously so. He highly doubted the Knight would fall for the same trick again- so the body liquid to ice strategy was out of the question. Still, it had taken the Knight at least some time to regenerate… Which meant sufficient enough damage would slow him enough for the mage to try removing either the Knight's heart or his head. If that kind of damage was enough to do in a Servant, Graham doubted his opponent could pull through. Or at least the mage hoped so.

Well, fortuna favet fortibus…

The mage sent the cards flying towards his enemy, paper turning into fire as he shouted the incantation. Once again the Knight was faced with a barrage of flaming bullets, red trails dancing in the air behind the fiery whisps. Graham's attack was swatted away effortlessly, flames seemingly melting into nothingness upon touching the silver sword. The blue-haired mage, already careering forward with augmented speed, didn't bother with stopping.

"Dagaz!"

The wind itself followed the direction of his punch. The Knight once again shielded himself with his sword, shouting something about how futile Graham's attempts were. The mage didn't know if it was the howling wind or the blood screaming in his ears, but the Knight's words were lost before reaching him. Graham was already in the wind funnel, with precious few seconds before the air rushed in again. Raidho wasn't going to be enough. Yet another incantation echoed out into the woods as the mage slammed his fist into the ground, coming to a momentary stop. For a second he was as still as a statue, stuck in a pose resembling a low start- and then the ground jutted out from beneath his feet, sending him dashing forward.

The Knight swung horizontally, but his timing was already off. Graham ducked beneath the swipe and once again managed to sneak behind his opponent's defenses. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as the mage halted right in front of his foe. Knuckle-strike, feet rooted, all momentum directed into the spear-punch. Graham Crowley had barely any innate prana to speak of- but he poured the majority of it into his attack.

"Tiwaz!"

The strike went sideways- the Knight managed to shift his body in the last second- but the mage's lightning-coated arm still went clean through his opponent's ribcage. Blue sparks crackled through the air, as Graham's eyes met the ones of his opponent. There was surprise in the Knight's green eyes. A genuine bewilderment at the turn of events. But nothing more- no pain, no worry- and certainly no fear.

The blond's left hook dislodged the mage from him and sent him reeling backwards. Graham had barely gotten back onto his feet when the Knight was upon him, sword cleaving through the air. The blue-haired man was just about to congratulate himself for dodging it when the blade sprouted a longer edge- one of golden light. It barely nicked him, cutting through cloth and skin- but his magic circuits screamed out in pain, as if someone had poured liquid metal into them.

Not giving him even a second to prepare, the blond swung his sword down, seemingly cutting apart empty air. The mage barely had time to conjure up a translucent shield before the shockwave sent him flying backwards. Wheezing for breath, Graham fought to stay upright. A few meters away, the Knight was once again hale and healthy. The gaping hole in his chest was closing just as the golden glow around his sword grew dimmer and disappeared. A disturbing theory crept into the mage's mind.

With another set of cards fanned out into his hand, the mage stared down his enemy. Graham doubted he made much of an intimidating picture- but he wasn't about to let that blond git think he was conceding victory. The Knight prepared to block the attack with his sword- only to blink in confusion as the thrown cards embedded themselves into the ground around his feet.

"Algiz! Eihwaz! Isaz!"

The runes on the cards resonated with his voice. With a flash of blue light, a dome of ice appeared out of thin air and enclosed the Knight. Graham rushed forward, a spike of ice forming into his outstretched hand at the same time as his adversary swiped away the dome with his sword, ice reverting to a bluish glow.

The mage hurled his makeshift javelin and his lips stretched into a smile as he heard it shatter into pieces when blocked by the sword. The Knight's counter-attack fell flat as the mage retreated immediately.

Graham was dimly aware he was running solely on adrenaline, prana reserves almost empty. But the triumph of discovering his enemy's secret was invigorating enough to keep him going for one more round. That lump of scrap wasn't an ordinary sword, indeed. The blade could absorb prana, steal it away and provide it for its owner to use. The whole fight he had been looking at things from the wrong perspective. His spells weren't being blocked- they were being downright cannibalized. His defense enchantments hadn't broken- they had been dispelled. Graham could see the duel from a whole new angle- one which possibly, just maybe, allowed him to get a glimpse of victory.

The sword could only absorb and expel prana. The dome of ice, being artificially constructed, had been reverted back to energy with a single touch. But the ice spike, created from cooling the water in the air around him, had shattered instead. The blade couldn't absorb genuine elements. Which was a welcome development, considering Graham's own reserves of prana were too depleted to conjure even a flimsy fireball.

The Knight remained rooted at his place, with only clothing damage to show for their scuffle. His expression was as infuriatingly stoic as ever. There was neither malice, nor acknowledgement in those green eyes of his. The blond was like a living doll, in a way. He walked, he talked, he bled- and yet somehow he was less animate than a machine. The man's very existence felt anomalous to Graham. The mage soon realized that it was wrong to describe the Knight as 'inhuman'. There was no inherent cruelty in his opponent's words or actions. Rather, the Knight could be considered an 'alien', for his lack of empathy clearly showed he was not even able to see those around him as similar beings.

In a way, the supposedly sinless Knight, in his detachment of humanity, had become the very epitome of conceit.

"You seem tired, sir mage," said the blond. "I am still willing to accept your surrender, provided you leave the War behind."

Graham let out a laugh. It was a wheezing cackle, setting his lungs aflame with pain. Each breath taken was a torment as his ribs grated inside him. His legs were barely holding him. His arms felt as heavy as lumps of iron. The gash across his chest had stained him crimson, body and soul flayed bare when the sword had raked across his magic circuits. The vague epiphany he probably had a concussion roamed somewhere in the back of his mind. If the mage had ever had a guardian angel, there wasn't a shadow of doubt it had fled the scene already.

"Quite the contrary," said the mage and beamed a mad grin from ear to ear. "I'm just- getting- started."

Once again the Knight turned into a blur, a single streak of silver trailing in his wake. The mage slammed his fist into the ground, his incantation lost in the roar of the land itself as a wave of sharpened rocks jutted outwards. A second later they were bifurcated, the enchanted sword slicing through as if they were paper.

"NAUTHIZ!"

The spell caught the Knight by surprise- the card had been hidden amidst the still airborne sliced rocks. The rune flashed once and then the paper burned away with a golden glow. The air grew distorted as the Knight hit the invisible barrier head on, his speed cut in half. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as the blond prepared to unleash another shockwave from his blade. The mage didn't have enough prana for another Raidho activation. Throwing any caution to the wind and ignoring the protests of his screaming body, he gritted his teeth and proceeded to do the only thing he could in such a situation.

The stupid and reckless thing.

He had seen Meissa do it, so why shouldn't he? The Circle of Elements on his hand glowed once more, but this time the mage looked inwards. There was electricity in his body, coursing through his every nerve. But it wasn't enough- and he had no prana to create more. So the only thing left was to use whatever amount he did have to substitute another element for it. And the human body had plenty of liquids, right?

The pain which engulfed him, in synchronicity with the blue lightning surging through his body, was only momentary. If Graham had to venture a guess- his pain receptors had probably shut themselves off in protest. His skin peeled and blackened, burning away in front of his eyes. But he was face-to-face with the Knight in an instant- and in that seemingly eternal moment, nothing mattered to the mage more.

The jewel he got his hands on was a sapphire, probably one of Luvia's favorites. He promised to himself to tell her later, after that whole shitty War was over, that he had used it for a good cause. The starlight glow spread to the cards fanned out in his hand as he roared his final incantation. The light raked across the Knight's chest and throat, sending blood gushing into the air. The blond barely pulled away, saving himself from total decapitation. The mage reversed his attack's momentum and the Knight's sword hand was detached in a flash of light.

With the last of his strength, the mage sent a kick into the Knight's chest, sending him crashing backwards. The silver sword fell point-first into the ground, embedding itself upright.

Graham's eyes stared at his fallen foe, drowning in his own blood, and the mage still had trouble comprehending what was transpiring. His gaze shifted to the sword jutting out right next to him, like a silent sentinel. If his theory about the blade's properties was correct…

The mage tentatively wrapped his fingers around the handle. For a whole single moment, nothing happened. And then the shockwave from the sword sent Graham hurling backwards. The mage, now nothing more than a crumpled heap of broken limbs lying on the ground, could only watch as the sword uprooted itself and jumped back into its owner's remaining hand. Flesh and bone sprouted anew as the Knight's neck reattached itself seamlessly and his right hand regenerated. In less than a minute, the blond was back on his feet. All the pain Graham felt couldn't compare to the one those green eyes inflicted as they looked down upon him.

"I feel obligated to congratulate you, sir mage," said the Knight, voice as calm as ever. "Truth to be told, few have come so close to defeating me. You show a modicum of cleverness, indeed. Alas, you made one grave mistake."

The blond raised the sword overhead, the last glimpses of the fleeting sun dancing along its blade. The three segments split apart and a golden glow poured out. Or not- on closer inspection, the light was being sucked in around the prongs of the trident blade. The wind changed direction, gathering in a veritable vortex surrounding the sword, dragging in more and more light alongside it. Golden streams poured out of both land and thin air, quickly pulled in by the glowing blade.

"Abdiel isn't a mere weapon!" shouted the Knight over the howling wind. "He would obey only another embodying his name- a true Servant of the Lord. One such as you, so bent on empirical explanations, may call Abdiel's wielder an 'artificial Saint'. For thirteen generations my family guarded it before Abdiel recognized a new carrier! But you, sir mage, may greet death knowing you faced me at my strongest. My Faith allows me to wield the sword, but it is on prana that he feeds. And what greater feast for him can there be than this false land created by magic?"

Graham wanted to punch, to shout, to scream bloody murder. He wanted to get up-drag himself if he had to- and bite that bastard to death. But his body had given up on him entirely. His voice was barely even there. The thought of using a Command Spell to call forth Archer crossed his mind, but he sincerely doubted he could outspeed the beam of light, if the Knight swung down as the mage invoked the spell. The young mage wondered what his Servant would tell him, if he could see him sprawled in the dirt. Some derisive quip perhaps. Another lecture on strategy and tactics. And his teacher would certainly join in on the scolding, only to poke his head and let him off the hook once again. It was somewhat funny actually, in a sick and twisted way, how mundane a man's last thoughts could be when facing death.

In his mind, the mage's last words were 'For what it's worth, I'm sorry.'

"Go bite the curb, wouldya?" he said to the knight and forced himself to watch as the sword came slashing down and a stream of light erupted outwards-

-And split in two as a black-and-crimson blur intercepted it a meter away from the mage. Two parallel walls of light entrapped Graham for several seconds, which to him were no less than eternity. His first thought was of Archer somehow appearing miraculously to save him, self-teleporting from half a city away. But as the dust cleared, the mage could plainly see it wasn't his Servant he owed his life to. There was no mistaking the black spiked armor and the red coat-tail billowing in the wind. Saber stood as stalwart as a living wall, cursed sword pointing forward. The red veins crisscrossing the blade danced in the fleeting light of the sunset.

But there was no helmet donned to obscure the black knight's features. Prematurely greying locks framed a pale face with a stone-carved expression of disdain. Only Saber's bright green eyes could make one doubt the black knight was too far gone into being a monster.

"And if that isn't the very epitome of chivalry," quipped the Servant, a smirk dancing on his lips. "Striking down a fallen foe! Good God, I must have fallen behind with the times. When I was alive most knights looked down on such pragmatism. Bad sportsmanship or something."

"I see your Servant is just in time for your rescue, sir mage," said the Knight, seemingly undisturbed by Saber's sudden appearance. "I guess I can finally have my proper duel now."

"His Servant?" echoed Saber, eyebrow raised. Graham didn't like the Servant's tone in the least.

"Saber's Master-would be-me!" announced a female voice somewhere above.

Ayaka was standing at the edge of the pit, hand clutching her chest as the black-haired girl fought for breath. There were sticks jutting from her shoulder-length hair and bloodied scrapes visible through the holes in her stockings. The image of his fellow, oh-so-proper, mage running through the forest made Graham wheeze out a laugh. He regretted it immediately as his lungs screamed out in pain.

"It matters not who holds the reins," said the Knight, barely sparing a glance at Ayaka, and shrugged his shoulders. "All that it matters is I can fulfill my duty now by-"

"Beating a hasty tactical retreat."

All four present looked in different directions, uncertain from where the new voice was coming from. With nary a fanfare, the newcomer slid down into the pit from the opposite end, hands shoved in the pockets of his camo pants. The needless sunglasses and Hawaiian shirt donned mid-autumn only made him look more ridiculous. Seemingly uninterested in the whole affair, the newcomer studied the other four for a few seconds… and casually waved a 'hello'.

"What is the meaning of this, Cyrus?" asked the Knight, a tinge of irritation creeping in his stoic voice.

"The Cyrus," pointed out the newcomer before continuing. "There has been an… unexpected development in the War. There is a new primary objective for you. Cardinal's orders."

"How do you even know-"

"Cardinal's orders," repeated The Cyrus and turned away to leave, hands still inside his pockets. "You choose whether to follow them."

The Knight threw a glance at Saber, almost like a child eyeing his Christmas present, and then at the back of his fleeting ally. Lips pursed, the blond bowed in the black knight's direction, grumbling under his breath.

"Apologies, Saber. It seems duty calls me elsewhere."

And then Graham could only blink in confusion as the Knight turned around and fled, back wide open. Saber sheathed his sword and let out an indignant 'hmph'.

"Someone else feel like dropping in unexpectedly?" he shouted at no one in particular.

Ignoring her Servant's temper, Ayaka slid down into the pit and rushed towards Graham. Black eyes from behind black-rimmed glasses met the mage's blue as the girl inspected his wounds. It took all of one second for Saber's Master to answer his unasked question.

"Allies are supposed to get each other out of trouble, right?"