Griswald's head snapped up.
Blue light gathered in the air above the ruined street. Motes of energy swirled together, coalescing into a humanoid shape. The glow intensified—bright enough to cast sharp shadows across the rubble—then faded to reveal a figure perched on the collapsed second floor of a burned-out building.
A man.
Tall. Lean. Wrapped in a flowing cloak of pale blue with a fur-lined collar that caught the firelight. His hood was drawn up, obscuring most of his face, but Griswald caught glimpses of sharp features and a confident smirk beneath the shadow. A long wooden staff rested across his shoulders, both arms draped over it in a pose of absolute relaxation.
"You." The robed Servant's voice dripped venom. She'd retreated to the far end of the street, one hand pressed to her shoulder where the flames had caught her. Smoke still curled from the singed edges of her violet robes. "I should have known a piece of shit like you would crawl out of the shadows."
"Piece of shit?" The hooded man's smirk widened. "That's rich, coming from someone whose idea of foreplay involves hardware store supplies."
"I'll rip out your tongue."
"You'll try." He shifted his weight, the staff rolling across his shoulders. Not a single muscle tensed. "You've been trying for, what, three days now? Four? I'm starting to think you're not actually interested in killing me. Maybe you just enjoy the chase."
The Servant's amber eyes blazed. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Hard not to, when you keep showing up wherever I go." The hooded figure tilted his head. "If you wanted my attention, you could have just asked. I'm told I'm very approachable."
Griswald helped Mash to her feet. His heart hammered against his ribs. Another Servant. Another unknown variable in an equation that was already unsolvable.
Ritsuka appeared at his elbow, her face pale but alert. Olga emerged from behind a collapsed wall, her silver hair streaked with ash and dust. All four of them watched the exchange with the same tense uncertainty.
"Who is that?" Ritsuka whispered.
"I don't know." Mash's grip on her shield tightened. Her knuckles went white. "But given the staff I believe he must be a Caster."
The hooded Servant dropped from his perch.
He landed without sound. No impact. No displacement of debris. Just a smooth transition from falling to standing, as natural as breathing. The staff spun once in his grip before settling against his shoulder.
"Now then." He turned toward Griswald's group. The firelight caught his eyes beneath the hood—red, bright, gleaming with amusement. "I have to say, I'm impressed. That little mana transfer earlier? Bold choice. Unconventional. I approve."
Heat flooded Griswald's face.
"You—you saw that?"
"Hard to miss." The Servant's smirk turned wicked. "Though I'd suggest finding somewhere more private next time. Less romantic when there's a psychopath with hair-tentacles lurking around the corner."
Mash made a strangled sound.
"Don't be embarrassed, little shield." The hooded man waved a dismissive hand. "First times are always awkward. Trust me. I've had a few."
"You dare—" The robed Servant's voice cut across the street like a blade. "You dare turn your back on me?"
"I dare lots of things." He didn't look at her. "It's kind of my whole deal."
Movement.
Fast. Faster than Griswald's eyes could track.
The robed Servant crossed fifty feet in an instant. Her scythe materialized mid-leap, the curved blade catching firelight as it arced toward the hooded man's exposed back. Her hair exploded outward—dozens of iron chains streaking toward him from every angle.
Inescapable.
Certain death.
The hooded Servant didn't move.
Blue light blazed.
A rune materialized in the air between them. It hung there for a fraction of a second. Long enough for the robed Servant's eyes to widen. Long enough for her momentum to carry her past the point of no return.
Fire erupted.
Not a pillar this time. A wave. A wall of blue-white flame that rolled outward from the rune like a breaking tide. The robed Servant twisted mid-air, chains whipping around to form a barrier. The fire crashed against her improvised shield and sent her spinning backward.
She landed in a crouch. Chains smoking. What left of her robes smoldering.
The hooded man finally turned to face her.
"Too slow." His staff spun lazily. "You've gotten sloppy. All that time playing with chains and not enough time working on your fundamentals."
"I'll kill you."
"I get that a lot from women." Another rune flickered to life at his feet. "But at least your not trying to fuck me while you say that."
He moved.
She moved.
They collided in the center of the street.
Staff met scythe with a sound like breaking thunder. Sparks showered down. The hooded man blocked a chain-strike with his forearm—runes flaring along his skin—and countered with a sweep that forced the robed Servant back. She retaliated with a flurry of blade-work that would have bisected a lesser opponent.
He wasn't a lesser opponent.
Each strike found empty air. Each chain-lash met runic fire. The hooded Servant fought without urgency, without desperation. He fought like this was practice. Like she was a training dummy with delusions of grandeur.
Griswald watched them dance through the flames.
"We need to move," Olga hissed. "While they're distracted—"
The battle raged.
The Caster's staff carved an arc through the smoke-filled air. His fingers traced patterns that left glowing afterimages—runes that burned themselves into existence with each gesture. Three symbols materialized in rapid succession. Each one birthed a sphere of blue-white fire that screamed toward the robed Servant like hunting falcons.
"We should help him!" Ritsuka grabbed Griswald's arm. Her amber eyes reflected the flames. "He saved us. We can't just—"
"Are you insane?" Olga stepped between them and the battle. Ash streaked her silver hair. Her golden eyes blazed with something between fear and fury. "That's a Servant fight. We'd be obliterated in seconds."
"But—"
"And even if we survived," Olga continued, "what guarantee do we have that he won't turn on us the moment she's dead? He's a Caster. They're schemers by nature. This could all be an elaborate trap."
The robed Servant's hair exploded outward. Iron chains met fire in mid-flight. The collision spawned a rolling cloud of black smoke that swallowed the street. Steam hissed. Embers scattered like startled birds.
"He didn't have to save Mash." Ritsuka's jaw set. "He could have let her die."
"Or he wanted us alive for his own purposes."
The smoke billowed. Shapes moved within it. Impossible to distinguish friend from foe.
The robed Servant burst from the cloud's edge. Her scythe led the charge, blade angled low for a disemboweling strike. She'd circled around. Used the cover to reposition. Smart. Deadly.
He wasn't there.
He'd already jumped. His body twisted in mid-air with inhuman grace, cloak flaring behind him like wings. The scythe passed beneath his feet by inches. His palm thrust downward—another rune flared to life—and a lance of crystalline ice erupted from its center.
Shards hammered the robed Servant's position. She raised her chains in a desperate barrier. Ice shattered against iron. Fragments sprayed in all directions. One sliced across her exposed thigh, drawing a thin line of blood.
She screamed. Rage, not pain.
"Senpai."
Mash's voice cut through Griswald's racing thoughts. He turned. Found her watching him. Her violet eyes steady despite everything.
"What would you like me to do?"
The question hit him like a physical blow.
Right. He was her Master now. The Command Seals on his hand weren't decorative. They represented authority. Responsibility. The power to direct a Heroic Spirit in battle.
Except he had no idea what to do.
Olga's arguments made sense. The Caster was an unknown quantity. Helping him meant committing to an alliance they hadn't negotiated. And if Mash engaged the robed Servant, she'd be fighting on depleted reserves. The mana transfer had stabilized her, but she wasn't at full strength. Nowhere close.
But Ritsuka was right too. The Caster had intervened when he didn't have to. He'd bought them time. Possibly saved their lives.
He landed on a pile of rubble. His staff spun. Another rune blazed to life—this one larger, more complex. Flames gathered at its center, building in intensity.
The robed Servant charged.
Her chains preceded her. Dozens of iron tendrils snaking through the air, seeking to bind, to crush, to strangle. Her scythe followed, blade singing as it cut through smoke and shadow.
Cú released the spell.
Fire roared. A concentrated beam of blue-white destruction that carved a trench through the street. The robed Servant twisted aside at the last instant. The beam caught her chains instead. Metal glowed orange, then white, then simply ceased to exist.
She stumbled. Off-balance. Vulnerable.
Cú pressed the advantage. His staff became a blur. Strike after strike drove her backward. Each impact sent sparks showering across the rubble. His expression never changed—that same lazy smirk, that same casual confidence.
"Master."
Mash again. Patient. Waiting.
Griswald's hands shook. His mind raced through scenarios. If they ran, the Caster might lose. Then the robed Servant would hunt them down. If they helped, they might tip the balance. But at what cost?
"I..." His voice cracked.
The robed Servant found her footing. Her remaining chains lashed out in a desperate counterattack. Cú dodged the first. Blocked the second with a runic barrier. The third caught his cloak, tearing a ragged hole in the blue fabric.
He clicked his tongue. "This is a nice cloak, you know."
"I'll tear more than your clothes," she snarled.
They clashed again. Scythe against staff. Chains against runes. The street trembled under the force of their exchange.
Griswald's breath caught as the Caster's staff carved a perfect circle through the air.
Blue light trailed behind the movement. Runes materialized one after another, linking together in a chain of ancient symbols that pulsed with barely contained power. The circle completed. The Caster thrust his staff into its center.
Lightning exploded outward.
Not a bolt. Not a strike. A shape. The crackling energy twisted and condensed, forming legs, a torso, a massive head with jaws that sparked and snapped. A hound. Enormous. Built from pure electrical fury. It threw back its head and howled—a sound like thunder given voice.
Then it charged.
The lightning hound crossed the distance in a heartbeat. Its paws left scorched craters in the rubble. Its eyes blazed with white-hot intensity. The robed Servant's amber gaze widened for a fraction of a second before her chains whipped outward.
Iron tendrils wrapped around a collapsed pillar. Concrete and rebar tore free from the ruined building behind her. She swung the improvised weapon in a brutal arc, hurling several tons of debris directly into the hound's path.
Impact.
The explosion shook the ground beneath Griswald's feet. Lightning and stone detonated together in a blinding flash. Chunks of concrete rained down across the street. Dust and smoke billowed outward in a choking wave.
Griswald shielded his eyes. When he lowered his arm, the hound was gone. Dissipated. Nothing remained but scattered rubble and the acrid smell of ozone.
But the Caster was already moving.
His staff spun. Another rune blazed to life. Fire gathered at its tip like a condensing star. The robed Servant met his advance with her scythe raised. They collided in a shower of sparks. Staff against blade. Rune against chain.
She caught his next strike with a tendril of iron hair. Twisted. Tried to wrench the weapon from his grip. He released it willingly, letting momentum carry her off-balance, and drove his palm into her chest. A rune flared against her sternum.
The explosion sent her tumbling backward.
She recovered mid-flight. Chains stabbed into the ground, arresting her momentum. She landed in a crouch, one hand pressed to the smoking hole in her robes. Her amber eyes blazed with fury.
"Persistent little shit."
"I've been called worse." The Caster's staff reappeared in his grip. How, Griswald couldn't say. One moment his hands were empty, the next they weren't. "Usually by people I've slept with, though. This feels less personal."
More chains erupted from her hair. They filled the air like a forest of iron serpents. The Caster's runes blazed in response—fire and ice and lightning weaving together in a defensive tapestry that intercepted each tendril before it could find purchase.
Griswald watched them fight. His heart pounded against his ribs. His palms were slick with sweat.
The Caster had saved Mash. Had intervened when he could have stayed hidden. Had drawn the robed Servant's attention away from them when they were vulnerable and defenseless.
He didn't have to do any of that.
But he did.
The robed Servant hurled another chunk of debris. The Caster's fire consumed it mid-flight. She pressed the attack with her scythe. He parried. Countered. Their weapons sang against each other in a deadly rhythm.
"Senpai." Mash's voice was quiet. Patient. "Your orders?"
Griswald's jaw tightened.
Olga was right. This was dangerous. The Caster was an unknown. They had no guarantee of his intentions, no promise of alliance, no contract or binding agreement. Helping him meant taking a risk.
But not helping him meant something worse.
It meant standing by while someone who'd saved them fought alone. It meant watching from the shadows while a potential ally bled for their sake. It meant being the kind of person who calculated cost and benefit while others sacrificed.
Griswald had spent his entire life being overlooked. Dismissed. Written off as inadequate by everyone who mattered. His family. His teachers. The Clock Tower admissions board. Even Chaldea's staff had treated him as furniture—present but irrelevant.
He was tired of being irrelevant.
"Mash." His voice came out steadier than he expected. "Support the Caster. Help him take her down."
Ritsuka's eyes widened. Olga opened her mouth to protest.
But Mash was already moving.
She crossed the distance in three strides. Her shield materialized fully—that massive cross-shaped barrier that seemed too large for her slender frame. The robed Servant's head snapped toward the new threat. Her amber eyes narrowed.
"Oh? The little shield wants to play again?"
Mash didn't answer. She brought her shield up in a sweeping arc that forced the robed Servant to leap backward. Chains lashed out in retaliation. Mash caught them on her barrier's surface. Sparks flew. She pushed forward.
The Caster's smirk widened.
"Well now." He fell into step beside Mash without missing a beat. "Looks like your Master has some spine after all."
"Please focus on the enemy." Mash's voice was flat. Professional.
"I can multitask."
They moved together. Shield and staff. Defense and offense. Mash absorbed the robed Servant's strikes while the Caster punished every opening. His runes blazed. Her barrier held. The robed Servant found herself caught between two opponents who complemented each other perfectly.
Chains wrapped around Mash's shield. Tried to tear it from her grip. She planted her feet and held. The Caster's fire consumed the iron tendrils at their source.
The robed Servant screamed in frustration.
"You think this changes anything?" She retreated. Put distance between herself and her attackers. "You think a half-dead Servant and a wandering dog can stop me?"
Mash pressed forward. Her shield became a battering ram, each step driving the robed Servant back toward the collapsed buildings at the street's edge. The Caster circled wide, maintaining distance, his staff tracing patterns in the smoke-choked air.
"Keep her pinned," he called out. "Don't let her breathe."
Mash didn't acknowledge the command. She didn't need to. Her body moved with purpose, shield raised, feet finding stable ground among the rubble. The robed Servant's scythe crashed against the barrier. Once. Twice. Each impact sent shockwaves rippling through Mash's arms.
She held.
The Caster's runes blazed. Not fire this time. The symbols glowed a deep blue-green, and the air around them grew heavy with moisture. Water condensed from nothing—pulled from the atmosphere itself—gathering into a swirling sphere above his outstretched palm.
He thrust his staff forward.
The sphere erupted. A pressurized jet screamed across the battlefield, cutting through smoke and debris like a blade. The robed Servant twisted aside at the last instant. The water carved a trench through the concrete behind her. Stone hissed and cracked from the sheer force.
"Tch." She landed in a crouch. Her amber eyes burned. "Water? Really?"
"Seemed appropriate." The Caster's smirk never wavered. "You look like you could use a bath."
Her chains lashed out. Mash intercepted them. The iron tendrils wrapped around her shield's edge, pulling, straining. The robed Servant used the leverage to vault over Mash's head, scythe already descending in a killing arc.
Mash spun. Shield rising. The blade glanced off the barrier's surface with a screech of tortured metal.
Another water jet.
This one caught the robed Servant mid-recovery. It slammed into her side with the force of a battering ram. She tumbled across the rubble, limbs flailing. What remained of her violet robes tore away in ragged strips. She rolled to her feet, bare skin gleaming in the firelight, chains whipping around her in a desperate defensive screen.
"I hate water." Her voice dripped venom. "I hate it."
"Noted." The Caster was already preparing another spell. More moisture gathered. "Want me to stop?"
Her answer came in the form of a dozen chains screaming toward his position.
Mash intercepted. Her shield caught three. Her body blocked two more. The impact drove her back a step, boots scraping against shattered concrete. The remaining tendrils curved around her defense, seeking the Caster behind her.
Fire consumed them.
A rune flared at his feet. Flames erupted in a protective ring, incinerating the chains before they could find purchase. The heat washed over Griswald's face even from thirty feet away. He tasted ash on his tongue.
"Push her," the Caster commanded. "Now."
Mash charged.
Her shield led the advance. The robed Servant met her halfway. Scythe and barrier collided with enough force to crater the ground beneath them. Sparks showered down. The Servant's chains sought purchase on Mash's exposed limbs. Found none. Mash's gauntlets deflected each tendril with practiced efficiency.
The Caster's staff spun.
Water gathered again. Larger this time. A sphere the size of a man's torso, spinning with violent intensity. He held it. Waited. Watched the fight unfold with predatory patience.
The robed Servant caught Mash's shield in a two-handed grip. Her muscles strained. Iron chains wrapped around the barrier's edges, adding their strength to her own. For a moment—just a moment—they were locked together. Neither moving. Neither yielding.
The water jet hit her square in the back.
She screamed. Not pain. Fury. Pure, incandescent rage that echoed off the ruined buildings and shattered windows. The force sent her stumbling into Mash's counter-strike. Shield edge met sternum. Something cracked.
The robed Servant flew backward.
She crashed through the remains of a storefront. Glass exploded outward. Shelving collapsed. Dust billowed from the impact site like a miniature mushroom cloud.
"Did that—" Ritsuka started.
Movement.
The robed Servant burst from the wreckage. Her body was a mess of cuts and bruises. Her robes existed only as tattered strips clinging to her hips and shoulders. Water dripped from her hair—real hair now, the iron chains having reverted to pale violet strands that hung limp and heavy against her bare back.
She was breathing hard. Her amber eyes blazed with murderous intent.
"You bastard." Each word came out ragged. Broken. "You absolute bastard."
The Caster shrugged. "Guilty."
She charged.
Faster than before. Desperation lending speed to her movements. Her scythe became a blur of silver and shadow. Mash raised her shield. The blade crashed against it. Each strike drove Mash back another step.
The Caster circled.
His staff traced another pattern. Water condensed. He waited for an opening.
The robed Servant's chains reformed. Fewer than before. Weaker. But still deadly. They lashed at Mash's legs, her arms, her exposed throat. Mash caught them on her gauntlets. Redirected them with her shield. Gave ground slowly, methodically, drawing the Servant further into the street's center.
Creating space.
The Caster fired.
The water jet caught the robed Servant's legs. Swept them out from under her. She hit the ground hard. Rolled. Came up swinging. Her scythe carved an arc through the air that would have bisected a lesser opponent.
Mash wasn't a lesser opponent.
She stepped inside the swing. Let the blade pass behind her. Her shield came up in a brutal uppercut that connected with the Servant's chin. The impact lifted her off her feet.
Another water jet. This one horizontal. It caught her mid-flight and sent her spinning into a collapsed wall.
Stone crumbled. Dust exploded. The robed Servant lay in the rubble, chest heaving, pale skin streaked with grime and blood. Her scythe had fallen somewhere in the wreckage. Her chains hung limp. Useless.
"Stay down," Mash said quietly.
The robed Servant laughed. It was a broken sound. Jagged. Wrong.
"Stay down?" She pushed herself up on trembling arms. "You think this is over?"
The robed Servant rose from the scorched crater.
Completely naked.
Every scrap of violet fabric had burned away. Her pale body stood exposed to the blood-red sky—full breasts heaving with rage, the dark nipples hard points against luminous flesh. Her hips curved wickedly. Her thighs gleamed with sweat and soot. The only thing that remained was her hair, that impossible purple cascade that writhed and coiled around her shoulders like living shadows.
She laughed.
The sound echoed off the ruined buildings, high and crystalline and utterly unhinged. Her head fell back. Her body shook with mirth. The motion sent her breasts swaying, heavy and hypnotic in the crimson light.
"Is that all?" She spread her arms wide, presenting herself without shame. "A parlor trick? Some fire and smoke to singe my clothes?" Her amber eyes blazed with contempt as they swept across Griswald, Mash, and the hooded figure perched above. "You've accomplished nothing but making this more comfortable for me."
The Caster's smirk flickered. Just for an instant.
"Three opponents." The naked Servant turned slowly, letting them all see her. Every curve. Every line of muscle beneath soft flesh. "A dying shield. A worthless Master. And a tree huger hiding in the shadows." Her tongue traced her bloodied lips. "I've faced worse odds while half-asleep."
"Bold words," the Caster called down, "from someone who just lost her wardrobe."
"Bold words from someone who won't show his face." Her voice dropped to a purr. Dangerous. Knowing.
"Olga." Griswald's voice came out strangled. "What's she—"
"Quiet." Olga's hand found his arm. Gripped hard. Her golden eyes were fixed on the naked Servant with an intensity that bordered on terror. "Something's wrong."
The air changed.
Griswald felt it in his bones—a pressure building, invisible and immense. The temperature dropped. The crimson light dimmed. Shadows lengthened across the rubble-strewn street, reaching toward them like hungry fingers.
The naked Servant's hair stopped moving.
Every strand went rigid. Pointed straight up. Her amber eyes began to glow—not reflect, not catch the light, but glow—twin suns burning in a face carved from marble. Power gathered around her. Thick. Choking. Ancient beyond measure.
"She's preparing her Noble Phantasm!" Olga's voice cracked. "Everyone get down! Cover your—"
The naked Servant's head snapped toward the Caster.
Their eyes met.
"Cybele."
The word rolled across the burning city like thunder. The naked Servant's eyes blazed with terrible radiance, amber light pouring from them in solid beams. The air between her and the Caster shimmered.
Griswald's heart stopped.
Nothing happened.
The naked Servant blinked.
Her Noble Phantasm's light sputtered. Flickered. The beams of amber radiance struck the Caster's face and simply... dissipated. Like water hitting hot stone. Like smoke meeting wind.
"What—" Her voice faltered. Lost its predatory confidence. "That's not—you should be—"
The Caster pulled back his hood.
Blue hair. Sharp features. A confident smirk that seemed permanently etched into his face. But his eyes—
His eyes had no pupils.
Where irises should have been, silver runes blazed against crimson sclera. Ancient symbols. Protective wards. Each one identical: the Nordic rune for mirror, glowing with power that predated human civilization.
"Did you really think," he said, "that I wouldn't prepare for you?"
The naked Servant's face contorted.
"You—you knew—"
Her composure shattered.
"I'll tear you apart! I'll rip out those eyes and crush them beneath my heel! I'll—"
Mash moved.
She'd been edging closer during the exchange—shield raised, feet finding stable ground among the rubble. The naked Servant's attention had been fixed on the Caster. On her failed Noble Phantasm. On the rage and humiliation burning through her veins.
She never saw the charge coming.
Mash's shield caught her square in the chest. The impact lifted her off her feet, sent her flying backward toward the scorched wall of a collapsed building. The naked Servant twisted mid-flight, hair reforming into chains, reaching for purchase—
Green light blazed beneath her.
Vines erupted from the earth.
Thick as a man's arm. Covered in thorns the length of fingers. They burst through cracked asphalt like striking serpents, wrapping around the naked Servant's ankles before she could land. More followed—around her thighs, her waist, her wrists. They pulled, spreading her limbs, pinning her in place against empty air.
"No—" She thrashed. Strained. Her chains lashed out at the vines and found them unyielding—reinforced with runic magic that made them harder than steel. "Release me! RELEASE ME!"
Mash didn't stop.
She crossed the remaining distance in three strides. Her shield came up—not edge-first this time, but flat. A battering ram. A hammer blow meant to crush rather than cut.
The impact slammed the naked Servant into the wall.
Stone cracked. Dust exploded. The vines held her in place as Mash pressed forward, shield grinding against pale flesh, pinning the thrashing woman against ancient masonry.
A rune blazed to life on the wall's surface.
Silver light traced familiar patterns—the same symbols that burned in the Caster's eyes, the same ancient script that had summoned the vines. The naked Servant's amber gaze found the rune. Her eyes widened.
"Wait—"
Fire consumed her.
Blue-white flames erupted from the wall, engulfing the pinned Servant in an inferno that burned hot enough to melt the stone around her. She screamed—not rage this time, but agony. Pure and terrible and final. The sound tore through the burning street, echoed off the ruined buildings.
Then it stopped.
The flames died. The vines crumbled to ash. The wall collapsed in a cascade of scorched rubble.
And where the naked Servant had been...
Golden light.
Her body dissolved. Not burned—dissolved. Flesh became motes of amber radiance. Bone became streams of liquid gold. Her features softened, blurred, lost definition as she came apart at the most fundamental level. The light spiraled upward, beautiful and terrible, a pillar of luminescence that reached toward the blood-red sky.
The last thing to fade was her eyes.
Amber orbs, blazing with fury even in death, fixed on the Caster's face. Her lips moved—forming words that emerged without sound—and then she was gone. Nothing remained but settling dust and the smell of ozone.
Silence.
Mash lowered her shield. Her arms trembled. Her chest heaved with exhausted breaths.
The Caster dropped from his perch.
He landed without sound, cloak settling around his shoulders, staff tapping once against the scorched asphalt. His silver-runed eyes faded, normal crimson irises returning as he surveyed the aftermath of their battle.
Then he turned toward them.
Griswald. Mash. Olga emerging from behind her cover. Ritsuka limping through the hole in the ruined store's wall.
The Caster's smirk widened into something almost genuine.
"Well," he said, "that's one less snake in the garden."