Chapter 1
Sixty years of planning. Sixty years of simmering ambition, collecting every conceivable catalyst in secret, biding their time. All for this single night.
Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia stood in the heart of his hidden workshop, a carefully preserved stone tablet cradled in his hands like a holy relic. He traced the ancient, weathered carvings with a trembling thumb. Every calculated slight swallowed, every moment of feigned deference to the Mage's Association, every stolen artifact—it was all for tonight.
Everything was proceeding as foreseen. Even the Association's predictable, heavy-handed response: dispatching fifty of their finest magi to "cleanse" his rebellious faction in a single night. A move he'd anticipated, and prepared for.
He could afford to be calm now because of his first, magnificent summoning.
Lancer.
The crimson hero had needed only thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to turn the Association's elite into a grisly forest of impaled corpses outside the castle walls. True, the servant's personality was… abrasive. Arrogant. But after decades of playing the meek servant to the Clock Tower's whims, what was a little more groveling? If tonight succeeded, the groveling would end forever.
"Uncle?" The voice was soft, hesitant. Darnic turned to see his niece, Fiore Forvedge Yggdmillennia, wheeling herself into the chamber. Her intelligent eyes, the color of a clear sky, were fixed on him, confused by the unrestrained, almost manic smile on his face.
"Fiore. You're here. Good." Darnic exhaled, the tension bleeding from his shoulders only to be replaced by a new, feverish intensity. He held the tablet out to her, his movements reverent. "It's time. The honor… and the burden… are yours. Please. Do not fail."
Fiore's breath hitched. The weight of Darnic's expectation was a physical thing, but it was nothing compared to the significance of the object he offered. This wasn't just a catalyst; it was a piece of legend.
"I understand, Uncle." She nodded, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands as she took the stone. Guiding her wheelchair to the center of the elaborate summoning circle carved into the floor, she placed the tablet with utmost care upon the central dais.
"Does the ceremony begin?"
The question came not from a human throat, but from a coalescence of golden particles of light high above them. They gathered, solidified, and formed the figure of a man seated upon a throne that hadn't been there a moment before. He was dressed in the severe, elegant blacks and crimsons of a medieval noble, his face pale and stern, framed by dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. His presence filled the room with the chill air of a battlefield at dawn.
Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia. The Impaler. The王牌 Darnic had gambled everything to acquire. Summoned as a Lancer, his fame in this very land amplified his already formidable power to terrifying heights.
But Darnic was no fool. Sixty years of preparation taught caution. Who knew what relics the Association had hoarded in their vaults? If they grew truly serious, they could unleash servants of broken, legendary scale. Against such monsters, even Vlad might not be enough. He needed a wild card. A hero who could, by his very presence, rewrite the rules of the coming Holy Grail War.
"Indeed, my King," Darnic replied, bowing deeply.
"Then let us see if your efforts bear fruit," Vlad murmured, his dark eyes narrowing with interest. "The great hero of the Greeks. The 'Pure White Hope.' Even in my time, his tales were told. I find myself… curious."
Fiore felt the weight of every gaze in the room. As the most magically gifted of the Yggdmillennia, the responsibility for this, the most crucial summoning, fell to her. She took a deep, centering breath, the scent of ozone and ancient stone filling her lungs. Raising her left hand, the Command Spells—three crimson marks of absolute authority—glowed faintly on her skin. The words of the summoning chant, memorized until they were etched into her soul, began to flow.
"Let silver and steel be the essence."
"Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation."
Her Magic Circuits ignited. It was like forcing liquid lightning through her veins. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead, but her voice never wavered.
"Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall."
"Let the four cardinal gates close."
"Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate."
The air grew heavy, charged with prana. The carved lines of the circle pulsed with a blinding blue light.
"Shut. Shut. Shut. Shut. Shut."
"Repeat every five times."
"Simply, shatter once filled."
The wind began—a localized hurricane contained within the chamber. Papers flew, Fiore's silver hair whipped around her face. Vlad III rose from his throne, a look of sharp appraisal in his eyes. Darnic took an involuntary step forward, his face a mask of hungry anticipation.
Yes! This is it!
The pressure was immense, greater even than when Vlad had manifested. It had to be him!
"―――――I announce."
"Thy body shall serve under me. My fate shall be thy sword."
"Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail. If thou wilt obey this mind and this reason, then answer my call."
"Make an oath here. I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven. I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell."
Agony spiked through Fiore's circuits. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic taste anchoring her.
"From the Seventh Heaven, clad in three great words of power, come forth from the ring of restraint, Guardian of the Scales!"
As the final syllable left her lips, the wind became a vortex. The light from the circle coalesced into a single, blinding pillar at its center. Darnic squinted, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Clop. Clop-clop.
The sound was crisp, clear, and utterly, devastatingly wrong.
Darnic's triumphant expression froze, then shattered like glass. His mind went blank.
Horses. That's… hoofbeats.
The great hero of the Greeks… did not have hooves.
The light faded. Standing calmly in the center of the circle, beside the stone tablet, was not a man in white. It was a centaur. His lower body was that of a powerful, dappled grey stallion, his human torso muscular and clad in simple, traveler's garb. His face was kind, weathered by time and wisdom, framed by brown hair and a short beard. He looked around the room, a polite, slightly apologetic smile on his face.
"Archer. Chiron, at your summons. Although…" He tilted his head, taking in Darnic's look of profound disappointment and Vlad's raised eyebrow. "…you seem less than pleased."
"Ah…! Y-yes! Hello!" Fiore stammered, quickly bowing her head. "I am your Master."
"A failure, then," Darnic sighed, massaging his temples. "I prepared for this possibility, but seeing it happen is still a headache."
Chiron's gaze fell to the stone tablet on the dais. His smile softened, becoming one of deep, personal fondness. He bent—his equine body moving with a surprising, fluid grace—and picked it up. "This tablet… You were trying to summon my student."
Fiore nodded mutely. "Historical records suggest he carved this himself… depicting his first meeting with you."
"He did. And he gave it to me." Chiron's fingers, calloused and strong, traced the carvings with a gentleness that belied his size. The image was clear: a winged horse descending from a stylized sun, a boy tumbling from its back, and a centaur reaching out to catch him. "But this tablet can only summon me. A Heroic Spirit is, by definition, a dead legend. One who is not dead… cannot be summoned."
"A fascinating notion," Vlad interjected, his voice a low purr of interest. "You suggest the hero who descended into the abyss to battle the God of Time… still lives?"
"He does not die," Chiron stated simply, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "He is merely… trapped. My wish for the Grail is to use its power to open a path to where he is held." He saw no reason to lie about his objective. In the War to come, such things would become clear anyway.
"Well… at least we need not fear the Association summoning him," Darnic muttered, resorting to the cold comfort of pragmatism. This wasn't a total loss. From the calm, immense presence Chiron exuded, he was clearly a servant of the highest caliber, likely on par with or exceeding Vlad. A teacher of heroes was no small thing.
"Then welcome to our cause, teacher of Greek heroes," Vlad said, spreading his arms in a gesture of theatrical welcome.
"Let us strive together," Chiron replied. Then, his form began to glow. The immense body of the centaur shimmered and compressed. The equine legs shortened, fused, reshaped. In moments, where the legendary centaur had stood was now a tall, well-built man with the same kind eyes and weathered face. He now wore simple, modern trousers and a tunic, his presence less overtly mythical but no less potent.
"Archer…?" Fiore blinked, confused.
"A small measure to conceal my True Name," Chiron explained with a patient smile. "A centaur is rather conspicuous. I have compressed my spiritual core into a human form. There is a slight reduction in certain parameters, but do not worry. I can assume my true form at will. It is but one of the minor skills I acquired in life."
"With this, we have three servants secured," Darnic said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The emotional whiplash was exhausting. "We shall summon the remaining three tomorrow night. The seventh will no doubt arrive in due course. Let us hope the Association decides to… take it easy on us."
---
Clock Tower, London
In a private study that smelled of old books, expensive cigars, and anxiety, a man named Kairi Sisigou stared at the contract on the desk before him. His face, permanently set in a grim, weathered scowl that had earned him the nickname "Lionheart" in less polite circles, was currently twisted into an expression of profound unease.
"Stop making that dreadful face and sign it. We haven't all day," snapped the elderly magus across from him, Lord Belseburgo Fanlere. He tapped a bony finger impatiently on the mahogany wood.
"It's just… this clause," Kairi said, his voice a gravelly rumble. He pointed a thick finger at a line of ornate script. "'The designated catalyst shall be returned upon completion of the contract, or in the event of the contractor's death, by any means necessary.' Seems a bit… harsh. You won't even tell me what the catalyst is."
"Please understand. The artifact we are about to entrust to you is of such value that we deemed even the temptation to abscond with it a risk worth mitigating. Though I find the notion somewhat melodramatic." This came from the other man in the room, leaning against the window frame with an air of bone-deep exhaustion. He had long brown hair tied in a loose ponytail and dark circles under his eyes that spoke of endless all-nighters. Kairi knew him—most in the magus world did. He was Lord El-Melloi II, the current head of the Department of Modern Magecraft Theory, and a man who looked perpetually five minutes away from a nervous breakdown or a coma.
Kairi swallowed. Hard. "You're not exactly filling me with confidence."
"Sign this, and this is yours as a bonus." Lord Fanlere produced a small glass jar from beneath the desk. Floating inside a clear preservative fluid was a tiny, serpentine creature with multiple budding heads—a genuine, if juvenile, Hydra specimen.
Kairi's eyes lit up. Now that was a catalyst. "I'll sign."
He scrawled his name on the parchment without another word. A faint, binding magical energy sealed the pact.
"Excellent. Your profession's adherence to contract is one of its few redeeming qualities," Fanlere said, a rare smile touching his thin lips. He bent down with a grunt and heaved a large, sealed black box onto the desk. It was plain, unmarked, and secured with several layers of wax seals and magical wards.
"You will understand our caution the moment you see it," El-Melloi II said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Numerous Lords have spent considerable resources attempting to utilize it. They all deemed it 'worth the effort,' despite the lack of results."
Lord Fanlere, with the care of a bomb disposal expert, carefully broke the seals. He lifted the lid.
There was no radiant glow, no surge of ancient power. Nestled within protective velvet lining was a stone tablet. It was large, heavy-looking, its surface covered in intricate, worn carvings.
Kairi Sisigou's breath caught in his throat.
"That's… that's the 'Hero's Covenant'! The centerpiece of the Thyssen Museum in Madrid!" He'd seen it just that morning on a news feed, idly thinking what a fantastic catalyst it would make. And now it was sitting on a desk in London.
"No," El-Melloi II corrected dryly. "The one in Madrid is our forgery. A rather good one, if I do say so myself."
"You people stole a national treasure?!" Kairi's jaw dropped.
"Prefer the term 'strategic relocation for optimal application,'" Fanlere sniffed, his eyes glazing over with academic rapture as he gazed at the tablet. "This is no mere stone. It is a relic from the Age of Gods, a medium crafted specifically to record a hero's legend. It is said to be… theomachic. Forged by divine hands for a single mortal."
"It possesses the qualities of a Noble Phantasm," El-Melloi II added. "We have tested it. It is, for all practical purposes, indestructible by any magecraft we possess."
"You… you want me to use this as a catalyst?" Kairi's voice was flat with disbelief. It was one thing to admire it, another to be handed the keys to a myth.
"Obviously. Why do you think we mobilized so swiftly against Yggdmillennia's rebellion? We've monitored their attempts to summon him for years," El-Melloi II said.
"Then why give it to me?" Kairi leaned back, crossing his arms. "If all your Clock Tower elites failed, what chance does a freelance necromancer-for-hire have?"
"We have tried every conventional approach," Fanlere explained, pushing the box toward Kairi. "The legend states he bore the blessings of thirteen gods. A single spiritual vessel cannot possibly contain such a totality. So, we attempted segmentation."
"Seg… segmentation?" Kairi felt a headache coming on.
"Summoning a version of him that manifests only a single divine blessing, based on compatibility with a secondary catalyst. Every attempt failed. This is the final method to be tested." El-Melloi II's gaze was steady.
"Which is why you hired a necromancer who specializes in… unconventional spiritual manipulation," Kairi finished, sighing in understanding. "Fine. But you gotta give me something else to work with. I'm not going in for a random summon."
"Here. A splinter from the Round Table. A trifle." Fanlere tossed a small, unceremonious wooden box onto the desk. His demeanor was now one of bored dismissal, a stark contrast to his earlier reverence.
"Talk about a mood swing," Kairi muttered, tucking the Hydra jar and the wooden splinter box into his worn travel bag. He reached for the large black box containing the tablet.
Snap.
Fanlere's hand shot out, bony fingers clamping around Kairi's wrist with surprising strength. "Remember. Not a single scratch. Not a speck of dust out of place."
"Relax, old man. I couldn't damage this thing if I tried," Kairi said, trying to pry his hand free.
"Regardless. Success or failure, you will return it the instant the summoning is complete. We have another… project for it. There are other candidates who may yet succeed." Fanlere released him. "One more thing. There is a Master you should be aware of…"
Kairi flexed his wrist, dragging the heavy box closer. He peered at the tablet's surface through the open lid. The carving was intricate. A young man, carrying a large box on his back, stared resolutely forward. Above him floated twelve stylized figures—the Olympians. Below him sat a single, larger figure on a throne—Hades, presumably. But…
Kairi pointed at the bottom of the carving. "Why's the shadow so big? And why carve it at all? Seems like an odd detail."
"A stylistic choice, no doubt. Now, listen," Fanlere insisted, pulling a photograph from a drawer and slapping it on the desk. "This is important."
Kairi picked up the photo. It showed a woman with long, pale lavender hair that fell past her waist, wearing large, dark sunglasses. She was dressed in a stylish but practical modern coat, standing on a street corner. Her head was tilted down, her expression unreadable behind the glasses, but there was an unnatural stillness to her posture. She didn't look threatening so much as… profoundly isolated. A statue in a crowd.
"She is one of our Masters," El-Melloi II said, his voice carrying a note of grim caution. "Officially, she is our ally in this conflict. Unofficially… you would do well to maintain your distance."
"She's that dangerous?" Kairi asked, studying the photo. He'd faced plenty of dangerous people; he had a sense for it. This woman didn't radiate overt menace, but something about her felt… cold. Like the deep sea.
"It is not a matter of simple danger," Fanlere said, steepling his fingers. "Her name is Medusa. Her history is… complicated. Her connection to the one you are attempting to summon is personal, profound, and likely painful. Her motivations are her own, and they may not align with the Association's goals—or your survival. Consider her a force of nature. Do not get in her path."
Kairi stared at the photo a moment longer before tucking it into his coat pocket along with the other items. A gorgon, a stolen divine tablet, and a war for a wish-granting cup. Just another day on the job.
"Understood," he grunted, hefting the heavy black box. "I'll try not to get stepped on."