It is said that the Throne of Heroes exists outside the boundaries of Time itself, standing at a convergence where past, present, and future merge as one. It is where all who inscribe their identity with their deeds into Humanity's memory are preserved as long as the race itself lasts. And, should the need arise, these imprints can be called forth into the physical reality, given life (of a sort) again for a sufficiently important cause. Perhaps the most well-known of such cases is the Holy Grail War that has ravaged Fuyuki City four times already, repeating itself every sixty years.

It is also said that Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg, the Wizard Marshall and Fourth of the Dead Apostle Ancestors, is an unrepentant, blatant troll who likes use his mastery of the Kaleidoscope for meddling in the affairs of others - mostly for his own amusement, questionable as that may be, but occasionally, for reasons much more noble or pragmatic. And as one of the people involved in creating the ritual of the Grail War itself, he was intimately familiar with the workings and circumstances of the event, particularly the corruption of the Grail itself.

Thus, in hindsight, those involved in the highly irregular, much too early Fifth Holy Grail War should really have realized just who to blame for the events that unfolded.

Not that it would have helped them in any way whatsoever.

The ancient, bearded man peered deep into the rapidly flickering array of screens, discarding scenes and coordinates one after other, correlations and possibilities swirling around in a maddened, kaleidoscopic dance.

The old man grinned suddenly, an image expanded, merging the array of screens into a single panoramic view.

A distant, minor, backwater colony. A doomed settlement. Inhuman, alien invaders with superior numbers and quality equipment, mercilessly burning, killing and enslaving the populace. A cry, an entreaty for help, for succor, for judgment. A golden-crimson flash of light and power in the air, accompanied by a swirl of golden motes. A vast spike of killing intent, a venomous hiss from the affronted king hovering above the lowly vermin, who dare to raise their weapons against the rightful ruler. Scores, hundreds of golden portals irising open, raining the destruction of the King's judgment on those who dared to invade that bland, out-of-sight corner of the King's garden. A young, red-headed woman writhing on the ground, blood trickling from her eyes and ears as prana overload scalds her circuits, her mind filled with static as the sight burned itself into her mind.

With a sharp, predatory grin, the elder magician spoke in a voice of gravelly thunder, a dizzyingly complex circle of arcane symbols outlining itself on the floor, the eldritch coordinates inherent to the Second True Magic shifting across all seven layers.

He could feel the distinct cadence of the ancient contract from all chosen Masters simultaneously as he adjusted the sidereal coordinates minutely, his smirk widening as he glimpsed each tool of his future plan, the chosen options for fixing at least some of his past mistakes - and simultaneously, provide him with quality entertainment. Immortality was quite tedious, after all.

Silver and iron to the origin. Gem and the archduke of contracts to the cornerstone.

The ancestor is my great master Schweinorg.

The young prodigy chanted, her short black skirt swirling in the unseen winds, her hand clutching her pendant (or the cross hanging from her neck?) as she chanted. With a fond grin, he gestured and the relevant layer of the circle flared in response. The grin transformed into a chuckle, as he considered her reaction - after all, she all but asked for this particular Heroic Spirit, what with her religion; never mind that she was not an avid practitioner.

The alighted wind becomes a wall. The gates in the four directions close, coming from the crown, the three-forked road that leads to the kingdom circulate.

Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill).

The damp, susurrating darkness threatens to suffocate the dim light of the summoning circle, as the dead-eyed, violated girl chanted in a flat tone, her body shivering in pleasure/pain as the worms within and without writhed in hungry ecstasy. With a furrowed brow, the observer set her layer of the kaleidoscopic circle alight, a bitter smile forming on his lips. While the dispatched Heroic Spirit may show mercy towards the girl, his attitude and the nature of his steed would surely grate on the monster that coerced the teen.

Repeat every five times. Simply, shatter once filled.

――――I announce.

Ah yes, the one who placed so much emphasis on duty and battle, and could likely misplace her trust. Well, that certainly would not do, now would it? The magician nodded to himself. Yes, with how the Heroic Spirit acted and looked, her enemies would never see her Servant coming.

Your self is under me, my fate(doom) is in your sword.

In accordance with the approach of the Holy Grail, if you abide by this feeling, this reason, then answer.

The blonde noble chanted, voice resonating under the cold night sky. Poise, breeding, and a thirst for knowledge beat underneath that voice, and Zelretch grinned. Yes, he had just the Heroic Spirit for this one - there could be no complaints about pedigree, power, or the vast trove of knowledge his preferred selection would bring to this partnership.

Here is my oath. I am the one who becomes all the good of the world of the dead, I am the one who lays out all the evil of the world of the dead.

Annoyingly, the very nature of this particular Heroic Spirit ensured that the summoner would be concealed even from him - not that it mattered, considering the particular set of skills and beliefs of the one dispatched from the Throne. Yes, even if all else failed, those who could not be saved would be given the mercy they deserved.

Yet, thou serves with thine eyes clouded in chaos.

Thou, bound in the cage of madness. I am he who command those chains.

Deep beneath the ancient castle, a small albino altered the chant slightly, and the distant, nearby Magician shook his head minutely. Always meddling with the system they helped create. Well, he would assist them in getting exactly what they wanted - a hero from the ancient times, a warlord beyond compare.

You, seven heavens clad in three words of power, arrive from the ring of deterrence, O keeper of the balance ―――！

And for the final, crowning touch, the Second Magician set alight the layer that would dispatch the one who caused it all - the one whose bone-headed determination and sheer inability to die was and would become a thing of legend. Certainly, the young redhead would do well to heed her guidance, if he wanted to pursue that childish, necessary dream of his.

Kaleidoscopic light flared seven times, at seven different points in space-time. None of them knew what went wrong or how, but all who were chosen by the Grail could feel the contract forming despite their disbelief.

Deep beneath the Einzbern castle, three homunculi stood before the ritual circle, staring dumbfounded at the creature towering above them. The being wore a battered, scuffed armor the color of blood, showing the wear and tear of countless centuries spent warring across infinity. Its visage was somewhat sharklike, the clawmarks across its head narrowly missing one eye a testament to its luck. The behemoth glared back at them, its blood-red gaze locked with the eyes of the small, childlike waif standing in front of it. Ilyasviel von Eiznbern had to suppress a shiver, as she could feel the age and power of the being pressing down on her, the contract leeching off her prana in unexpected quantities - and more worryingly, despite the Mad Enhancement, the creature seemed fully lucid and in command of its faculties. The monster's maw parted, flashing rows of serrated fangs, and the girl tensed, along with her two bodyguards, waiting for a roar of fury, a rabid attack, a frothing-mad outburst.

"Let's get it straight kid: are you my Master?"

Ilya blinked, as she heard not a shred of resentment or hostility in the deep basso rumble. Then she blinked again as the behemoth flashed a grin at her, and there was a twinge of fond, tolerant amusement across their bond.

"You'll learn yet, little girl. I'd be a very poor battlemaster if I was unable to harness and control the bloodrage." The grandfatherly grin sharpened to a predatory smirk as killing intent flooded the chamber. "And trust me, together, we can and will trample whoever stands in our way."

For some reason, Ilya could not resist joining in the booming laughter of the weird but strangely comforting being.

The old man leaned back in the chair, pressed a control on the armrest, and basked in the majestic sight of the ever-shifting patterns of Anadius' surface, the taste of decades-old whiskey and priceless cigars blending in his mouth.

Yes, this would do nicely indeed. Now, he only had to watch the show. And maybe do something to show his appreciation for Harper's taste in liquor and decor.