The Middle East—both wealthy and destitute, crude and extravagant.
A cradle of catastrophe, and the birthplace of endless conflict.
On the barren desert plain, brass shell casings still radiated heat. Dozens of small, thin figures scavenged them from the sand. Behind the children stood several overseers, rifles in hand, blood-soaked whips hanging from their belts.
Curses cracked through the air. Whips lashed. Gunshots rang out without warning. These terrorists squeezed every last drop from the child soldiers who already violated international law, stripping them of everything they had.
Then, a faint sob drifted in from afar.
In a land where numbness had become the norm, that crying cut through the air like a blade.
"Please… don't…"
A black-haired girl, no more than eleven or twelve, struggled helplessly. Her features marked her as East Asian.
A war correspondent's child, perhaps. She was strikingly cute, still carrying a fragile innocence. That only made it easier for the armed men—filthy, reeking of violence—to drag her away without hesitation.
Women held no status on this land. For these terrorists, law itself was meaningless. The rifles in their hands were authority incarnate.
Judgment. Execution. Final punishment.
All it took was a pull of the trigger.
No one dared resist. No one could resist men with guns. The girl was hauled away while the others looked on in silence. A few overseers adjusted their belts and followed, grinning.
They meant to savor her soft flesh together.
And her screams.
War had twisted them into creatures that fed on blood and wailing. They found pleasure in crushing the weak, traded another's agony for their own delight.
As the girl was dragged into a tent, a low wolf's howl rolled across the desert.
"Awooo—"
A lone cry, perhaps a feral desert wolf.
The armed men paid it no mind. Wolves were common here, and those beasts were clever enough not to rush into a camp bristling with firearms.
The next heartbeat shattered that assumption.
A black tide surged over the dunes.
Within that dark ocean burned eerie green lights—predatory gazes steeped in hunger for flesh.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Tens of thousands.
Hundreds of thousands.
Werewolves poured forward like a devouring tide, enough to swallow the world whole.
Nothing could stop them.
"Wh—" One terrorist froze, then dropped his rifle and ran. He didn't even warn the others still inside the tent.
As long as there was enough food, even wolves wouldn't slaughter everything, right?
That thought died with him.
His throat was torn out.
In under ten seconds, the werewolves crossed half a kilometer. Their speed dwarfed human limits. Vehicles were useless—no one escaped their scent or their claws.
This army, numbering in the millions, had never been discovered. Every terrorist they encountered either became food—
—or became one of them.
"Looks like we're short on rations today."
The voice was bright and childish.
A girl with flaxen hair stood among the werewolves, no more than fifteen or sixteen. Cute wolf ears twitched atop her head, and a fluffy tail swayed behind her. Delight danced across her face.
Listening to flesh being torn apart while smiling so innocently—if she wasn't an aberration, she was at least profoundly cunning.
"Awooo—"
A black-armored werewolf padded up beside her. Unlike the others, he wore heavy armor etched with glowing magecraft.
"Speak properly, you dead dogs," the wolf-eared girl scoffed. "I'm an elegant lady. I won't howl with you."
"Cough—" The werewolf nearly choked on his meal. He spoke in a hoarse voice. "We found a girl. Around eleven or twelve. Good potential."
"Oh?" The girl blinked, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Is she comparable to me?"
"Of course not, Lady Holo," the werewolf replied, reverence and envy mixed in his tone. "You are a flesh golem created by Master Rhodes. Your bloodline was replaced entirely with a pure werewolf Phantasmal Species. How could a mere human compare to the Master's masterpiece?"
"Good." Holo nodded. "If she poses no threat, keep her alive. Eat the rest. We already have plenty of 'brothers.' No need to expand further."
"As you command, Lady Holo."
The werewolf dipped his head and trotted away.
"Tch. Just what I'd expect from inferior creatures," Holo muttered, cheeks faintly flushed.
"Ah… I really do want to bear a litter of wolves for Master someday. Only his magnificent bloodline deserves my body…"
◇◇◇
Elsewhere—London, within a manor under Rhodes' control at the Clock Tower.
In a flower-filled garden, Rhodes and RyuZU sat across from one another, a chessboard between them. The only sound was the soft clack of pieces, serene and unhurried.
"Snap."
The white rook slid into place, blocking the king.
Rhodes smiled with quiet amusement as he held the white pieces.
"Check. You're still a bit lacking, RyuZU."
"Hmph." RyuZU moved her king out of danger. "A gentleman should go easy on a lady. That's how you find a girlfriend."
"Oh?" Rhodes glanced at her, eyes sharp with humor. "Do I need a girlfriend? Can't I just make one myself? Self-made is always closer to my tastes—and the right 'feel.'"
RyuZU's face flushed crimson.
"Master."
A light voice rose behind him. Shadows rippled, and the crude puppet Marianne crawled out of the darkness.
"We've received intelligence. Mr. Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald, a participant in the Subspecies Holy Grail War, has unfortunately perished."
Rhodes fell silent.
The sharpness in his eyes hardened into something cold and mechanical. One look at that pure rationality was enough to chill the spine.
He picked up a bishop and placed it gently on the board, sealing the black king's escape.
"The conditions are met," Rhodes said softly. "This time… checkmate."