Ruler—
A Servant who is summoned only under highly specific conditions,
an extraordinarily irregular case in which the Holy Grail itself calls forth a single mediator.
A Servant without a Master,
a Servant with no personal wish to manifest in the world,
a Servant granted the authority to supervise all other Servants alone—
that is the one known as Ruler.
She appears with a single mission:
to oversee the Holy Grail War.
A Ruler is summoned only when a Grail War deviates so drastically from the norm
that it threatens to induce collapse in the world's order.
Yet, the one summoned as Ruler—
Jeanne d'Arc—was undeniably troubled.
She had been summoned as Ruler,
she understood the role she must play,
and she understood that her appearance meant the Holy Grail War carried the potential for catastrophic consequences.
But what specific element was the threat to the world?
That was something Ruler had to determine herself by stepping into the battlefield.
At first she wondered if the cause was simply that the Grail War in Romania had shifted from the usual number—
seven Servants
to fourteen, a seven-on-seven Great Holy Grail War.
Yet that alone did not seem to be the reason.
The system allowing fourteen Servants was originally part of the Greater Grail in Fuyuki—
thus, a war with fourteen participants was not, in itself, a threat to the world.
Furthermore, irregularities surrounded her own summoning.
She had not been summoned as a pure Servant—
instead, she had been manifested by possessing a French girl.
Because she had a physical body, she could not dematerialize.
Her body required normal physiological activity—
most notably, food.
This did not hinder her ability to act as Ruler,
but because she couldn't dematerialize,
she was forced to travel from France to Romania by public transportation.
If such an absurd summoning was caused by the Great Holy Grail War itself,
then something powerful enough to interfere with the summoning of Ruler existed behind this war.
Thus Ruler carried a vague yet unshakeable sense of unease.
Night.
Trifas slept as if dead.
Its streets, steeped in the atmosphere of ancient times—as if rejecting modernity—
were wrapped in a silence wholly removed from urban bustle.
Fighting off drowsiness,
Ruler stepped outside the church where she was staying.
Her body, trained to a strict daily routine,
found sleepless nights nearly unbearable,
yet she had no choice but to adapt—
the war unfolded primarily at night.
She scooped a handful of holy water gathered from the church and scattered it into the air.
The droplets ignored physical law and began to trace a three-dimensional map of the city.
This was one of Ruler's privileges:
the ability to search for Servants.
"…One of the Red Servants is in Sighișoara.
A scout, perhaps."
Stationing a Servant in Sighișoara rather than Trifas might be a violation of the rules—
but considering Trifas lay under the control of Yggdmillennia,
this could be interpreted as an acceptable exception.
In that case, the fact that only six Black Servants appeared must mean one had been sent for reconnaissance as well.
As Ruler watched the three-dimensional map,
the Black Servants suddenly began moving—
not toward the town, but toward the forest.
"I see…
So tonight's battle will be held outside the city."
For some reason, one of the Red Servants was charging deep into the woods alone.
Two more followed behind in pursuit.
Three Servants in total seemed poised to attack the Black faction's stronghold.
To besiege a castle with half the number of forces—
it was the definition of reckless.
Even if the Reds possessed heroes who defied reason,
the Blacks were still heroes as well.
Some kind of accident?
Or simple foolish bravado?
"Well… so long as ordinary people aren't harmed."
With a small sigh,
Ruler began moving toward the forest.
■
The throne room of Millennia Castle—
normally the place for war councils—
was now a hall of lavish feasting.
A long table was filled with colorful dishes,
enticing the appetites of the gathered Masters and Servants.
"To think it would be this impressive…"
Darnic murmured in admiration.
Because of the number of participants and the variety of dishes,
a standing buffet had been arranged.
Only Lancer sat upon a chair, with homunculi bringing food to him—
but as the Black King, that was only natural.
"I didn't think you had this level of skill, Archer."
"Oh, it wasn't me alone.
The homunculi assisting were quite capable."
Archer replied proudly.
He had prepared the numerous dishes lining the table.
He had once mentioned being skilled in cooking during life,
which led to him being asked to cook for the gathering.
But of course, this was not simply for entertainment.
The Black faction was effectively besieged inside the castle.
Even with the Great Grail in their possession
and the defensive superiority the fortress offered,
remaining in a constant defensive stance exerted immense stress.
And food—
in any era—
was the simplest way to raise morale.
Even if collapse awaited eventually,
it was essential to maintain team cohesion and communication.
"Archer, what is this dish?"
Lancer pointed at the meal before him.
"That is grilled beef loin with seasonal vegetable étuvée.
I attempted French cuisine to suit Rider's origin.
Does it suit your tastes?"
"Indeed—delicious.
To taste foreign cuisine I never experienced in life—
truly a joy of the Holy Grail War."
Lancer ate with a cheerful mood.
"By the way, Archer—
with cooking talent like this, do you remember who you are?"
"I'm afraid not, Your Majesty.
Perhaps due to the irregularity of summoning four Servants at once, my memories remain indistinct.
But I believe I am a relatively modern Heroic Spirit."
"I see. A modern hero.
Then it is not strange for you to know foreign cooking.
Culture spreads with travel, after all."
"I wish I could at least recall my True Name…"
"Do not trouble yourself.
Your skill in battle is beyond question.
So long as you lend that strength in war, I have no complaints."
"My gratitude, Your Majesty."
Archer bowed and withdrew.
His memory truly was blurred—
but he had already recalled his True Name.
The loss stemmed not from a summoning error,
but from something inherent to his very being.
"My apologies, Lancer…"
If concealing one's name was basic Servant strategy,
then Archer would hide his just as Saber did.
Even in a Great Holy Grail War,
ownership of the Grail lay with the last remaining survivor.
After destroying the Reds,
the Blacks would inevitably turn on each other.
Thus even allies should not reveal their names lightly.
"Fha—fha—didn't think you'd be so good at this—amf, amf—"
"Swallow before speaking, Rider."
"Ng—puh!
Man, everything here is soooo good.
And the fact that you made dishes tailored to each of us?
That's stylish!"
"I'm glad.
Though I didn't account for era—
so there must be many French dishes unfamiliar to you."
Archer hadn't tailored the dishes by century.
He had matched cuisine to national origin,
but not to time period.
He lacked knowledge of ancient cooking,
and homunculi assisting could only prepare modern dishes.
For Lancer: Romanian cuisine.
For Rider: French cuisine.
For Caster: Spanish dishes.
For Saber: Dutch-German cuisine, since he didn't fit neatly into one country.
For Berserker: Swiss food—
unclear if she could even eat, but it was worth trying.
Berserker's Madness Enhancement was low enough that she could think rationally.
She could taste, though she could not voice her preferences.
She continuously followed Caules, attempting to take food directly from the table,
and he frantically intercepted her, plated it properly, and handed it back repeatedly.
Caster, the misanthrope, took only the minimum amount of food
and quietly conversed with Roche at the wall.
Saber stood silently behind Gordes, keeping his knightly role.
"He's as rigid as ever."
"Well, that's his Master's fault."
Rider's opinion of Gordes was merciless.
Saber obeyed Gordes' "Speak not a single word,"
and they exchanged no conversation at all.
"Will Saber follow every command unconditionally?"
"I bet so.
He is a Knight of Bestowal after all."
Rider stuffed more food into his mouth.
"And honestly, Archer—
you're the only one here who's easy to talk to.
Isn't that kinda a problem?"
"Caster hates people, Saber doesn't talk,
Berserker can't talk,
and Lancer's a king.
Hahaha, yeah, we're doomed."
The Black faction was a communication nightmare.
Only Rider was cheerful and talkative.
Others avoided conversation entirely.
They were aligned toward a common goal,
but they certainly could have more contact than this.
"Well then—my Master is calling for me.
Also, Rider—take this."
"Hm?"
Archer handed him a food container.
"There will be leftovers.
Give this to him."
"Oh! Thanks, Archer!"
Rider grinned and discreetly filled the container with food.
He couldn't risk anyone noticing and discovering he was hiding a homunculus—
especially Caster or his own Master.
Fortunately both were looking elsewhere,
and Archer subtly concealed Rider's actions with his large frame.
Thus Rider safely secured his provisions.
Once he confirmed Rider was done,
Archer departed and headed to Fiore.
"Enjoying yourself, Master?"
"Yes—thanks to you."
Caules, standing beside her, eyed Archer curiously.
"Tea, the webbed net, and now cooking?
What are you, man?"
"Well, I told Fiore—
I believe I imitated a butler in life.
Perhaps these are the skills I learned then."
"Hiring Archer…
that must've been one hell of a household."
Archer truly could do everything alone.
Caules, unusually grounded for a magus, couldn't help but think of reduced staff costs.
"Yes…
I'm curious what kind of person your former Master was.
Do you remember them?"
Archer frowned.
He didn't want to revisit those memories.
Fiore misread his expression as grief over lost recollection.
"You need not think too hard…"
"No—it's fine.
Some memories are simply unpleasant."
"Ah—my apologies."
Fiore remembered he had said something similar before.
"My former Master?
Hmm… The most vivid memory would be…
Yes—being thrown into the Thames in midwinter.
Hardly forgettable."
"…That's a lie."
"Perhaps.
But you should practice swimming as well, Caules.
You never know what may come."
"At the very least, I'm not planning on forced ice-water training."
Caules grimaced imagining it.
"Swimming, huh…
I envy you a little.
With my legs as they are…"
"That's not the point, sis."
As the banquet reached its height,
Darnic whispered something to Lancer.
Then he stepped forward, amplified his voice with magecraft, and announced:
"Everyone—
I trust you enjoyed the meal Archer prepared.
I hope it provided some relief amid war."
He looked around to confirm all were listening.
"However—
we remain in the midst of battle.
Our enjoyment means nothing to the enemy."
Suddenly the room darkened.
A white projection lit the wall.
Caster's surveillance golem.
On the screen appeared an enormous mass of muscle.
"According to Caster,
this Servant has been marching toward Millennia Castle day and night.
I believe this is the Red Berserker.
Likely his Madness Enhancement is too high—
he is rampaging uncontrollably."
In the image,
a pale giant charged through the forest.
Attacking a fortress alone was insanity,
but one could not expect sanity from a Berserker.
"What shall we do, Uncle?"
"We cannot waste this opportunity.
Three Servants will suffice to subdue him.
Furthermore…
this may be our only chance in this war
to capture a Servant alive.
If successful, Berserker could become our pawn."
The room buzzed.
Black was already one Servant short,
with Assassin yet to return.
Acquiring a Berserker—
especially one with little reason—
would be invaluable.
"Then let us hear your strategy, Darnic."
"Yes, my lord."
Thus the operation to capture the Red Berserker began in secret.
The giant was marching directly toward them,
but his movement was slow enough
that he would require a full day or two to reach the fortress.
During that time,
they would prepare.
Under Darnic's orders,
the Servants began to move.
■
The advance of the Red Berserker did not stop.
More than a hundred golems and combat homunculi burst forth from the castle—
an overwhelming number against a single foe,
yet to a Servant,
they were but dust.
The golems were Caster's creations,
but even they could not halt the Berserker.
Bronze giants were hurled, split apart, crushed.
The monstrous man carved a straight path through them,
swinging the sword in his right hand like a storm.
A Berserker being mad was normal—
but even so, this level of madness was rare.
He did not evade.
He accepted attacks with his body—
axe-blades, fists, everything.
His super-compressed muscles were harder than armor,
repelling the golems' strikes.
He would suffer scratches,
but nothing more.
Armor would only slow him down.
But even knowing this,
watching him throw himself into attacks with a smile
was enough to make anyone dizzy.
"Dogs of the oppressors—
at least sleep within my arms."
Defying the usual loss of speech associated with Berserkers,
he spoke clearly.
The Red Berserker could converse.
However, his thoughts were fixed—
unable to change.
His unwavering obsession with
"defeating the oppressors"
left no room for any other thought.
It was indeed madness.
Berserker pressed forward, crushing a hundred foes,
toward the "oppressors" waiting ahead.
■
The Black Servants were unsurprised by Berserker's rampage.
Golems and homunculi were cannon fodder.
To slay thousands meant nothing—
any Servant could do it.
The one to face Berserker was the Black Rider.
Compared to such a mountain of muscle,
the small and delicate Rider looked insignificant.
A single hit would be fatal.
Rider knew he could never withstand those fists.
"Well… I guess I gotta do it."
Fighting was a Servant's duty.
No matter how terrifying the foe.
He hated it—
really hated it—
but he had no choice.
"Here I go—!"
He launched himself like a bullet,
a lance already appearing in his hand—
golden and gleaming.
"W-waaah!"
He was blown away instantly.
"Hahahahahahahahahaha!
Dog of the oppressors,
I finally see you!"
The Berserker carved the earth with a single blow—
a shockingly agile strike for someone his size.
Rider had misjudged his speed.
"That was close—
I almost died!"
He brushed sand off his hair and shoulders,
tightened his grip on the golden lance.
"I can't beat that thing…"
He murmured.
Rider's firepower was nowhere near enough:
Even his strongest Noble Phantasm might work…
but he wasn't sure.
And he didn't want to waste large amounts of mana.
But Rider was chosen for the task
because he was the best suited for it.
"Well, I don't need to beat him.
Just gotta get this done quick."
He charged again—
recklessly,
yet effortlessly.
"Your arrogance… is admirable.
Come. Torment me."
Rider dodged lightly,
then thrust his golden lance.
Berserker received it with his body—
as always.
Then—
Something shifted.
Trap of Argalia.
"Here we go—
Touch it and you fall!"
He shouted the name of his Noble Phantasm.
This lance's true power was to force opponents into a fall.
Against Servants, it temporarily cut off mana to the lower body,
forcing a partial dematerialization.
Losing mobility in battle was death.
For a Berserker who took attacks head-on,
"touch and fall" was the perfect counter.
"Losing my legs… will not stop me."
Even so, he crawled forward with his arms,
dragging himself toward the fortress.
"Wow—what guts.
Well, not my problem."
Rider's job was done.
Golems swarmed Berserker.
One-ton bodies piled on him, trying to hold him down.
He crushed them with both arms.
"Do not belittle yourself, Caster.
Your golems perform admirably.
It is this Berserker who is abnormal."
Then the Black Lancer appeared before Berserker—
carrying the aura of everything the Berserker most hated,
most despised,
most wished to overcome.
■
The capture of the Red Berserker proceeded smoothly.
Lancer released his Noble Phantasm
and impaled Berserker cleanly,
deciding the battle.
All that remained was the ritual for Caster to temporarily make Berserker his Servant.
"Berserker is handled, then."
Archer murmured beside Fiore.
As an Archer, he took the rear-guard position.
He was not needed for the capture.
His role was to handle incoming enemies.
Particularly the Red Servants who might chase after Berserker.
"One Servant lost…
they won't leave him to die.
They'll send support."
"Yes…
but to think Saber and Berserker together couldn't defeat that one enemy…"
Two Servants had appeared to protect Berserker.
One of them was fighting Saber and Black Berserker to a standstill.
"So it's Archer on their side."
"Looks like it.
He has erased his presence completely.
I cannot find him at all."
Blending perfectly with the forest—
a true hunter.
"The possibility of sniping exists.
Master, fall back."
"And you—?"
"I told you before:
if Saber cannot defeat the enemy, then I shall."
Archer dematerialized,
moving to a chosen sniping point.
Fiore retreated deeper into safety.
Master,
one request.
"What is it?"
A telepathic message.
Can you connect me to Saber and Berserker telepathically?
"Yes, that is possible."
I will use my Noble Phantasm.
They must retreat on my signal, or they will be caught in it.
"Understood.
I will connect the link immediately."
Fiore sent familiars toward the battlefield.
Archer had already scouted sniping points across the forest since his summoning.
"Regenerative Noble Phantasm?
Annoying."
The enemy Rider fought with a simple lance and light clothing,
yet matched Saber and Berserker.
Black Saber could nullify all attacks below A-rank,
yet Rider was unharmed.
Both Berserker's blows and Saber's strikes were meaningless.
If his immortality was conceptual rather than physical durability,
then things were worse.
If their side could not fulfill the conditions to negate his immortality,
they could never win.
They might need to abandon their fortress to hunt down his Master—
a terrible risk without Assassin.
But dwelling on negatives helped nothing.
First, they must determine the nature of his immortality.
"I am the bone of my sword—
upon my bow, I set a blade."
The twisted blade devoured surrounding mana, sharpening its fangs.
A familiar appeared—Fiore's messenger.
A magical phone.
"Saber, Berserker—listen."
He transmitted telepathically.
"I will now fire my Noble Phantasm.
Retreat from Rider on my signal."
Berserker grunted in acknowledgment.
Saber said nothing—
which Archer took as assent.
He counted down.
"Three."
Berserker used Rider's kick to launch himself backward.
"Two."
Saber delivered a forceful sword strike to create distance.
"One."
Rider noticed too late.
Caladbolg II.
"My very core twists in madness—
False Spiral Sword!"
With the release of its True Name,
a bolt of spiraling lightning tore space itself asunder.