A magus had established his workshop within the hollowed shell of an abandoned factory. At its center, he was meticulously etching a summoning circle upon the cold floor.
As he traced the lines according to the ancient text, he whispered a low, feverish mantra to himself.
"...Yes. With the Holy Grail, I will finally reach the Root."
He did not hail from a storied lineage. His was a modern family of magi, lacking the weight of history or a prestigious crest. He was a practitioner of the new age, possessing little more than ambition.
The reason such a man had entered this conflict was obvious: the Grail itself. If the vessel was indeed the omnipotent wish-granter of legend, then surely it could bridge the gap to the Akasha.
Having been chosen by the Grail and granted the stigmata of Command Spells upon the back of his hand, he viewed this as his sole opportunity to ascend beyond the mundane world of magecraft.
Once the array was complete, he stood before the circle. He flooded the patterns with his prana, his voice rising in the rhythmic cadence of the contract.
"...Fill, fill, fill, fill, fill. Repeat five times for each. Set the time of completion to the break of dawn.
I hereby declare: Thy body shall be under my command, and my fate shall be determined by thy sword. If thou wilt submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail, and if thou wilt adhere to this will, this reason—then answer me!"
As the incantation took hold, the summoning circle began to radiate a faint, spectral luminescence.
Watching the light intensify into a blinding glare, the magus bellowed the final verse.
"Thou art the Seven Heavens clad in the three great words of power! Come forth from the Ring of Deterrence, O Guardian of the Scales!"
The workshop was instantly engulfed in a brilliant radiance. The magus instinctively shielded his eyes as the sheer density of the ether scorched the air. When the light finally receded, he slowly pried his eyes open.
Standing there was a woman wearing a skull-shaped mask. Her sun-kissed skin and the morbid visage of the mask made her identity immediately clear—she was one of the Hashshashins.
"...Servant, Assassin. I have manifested in response to your summons. Are you my Master?"
"...Yes. I am your Master."
"I am a shadow that knows only how to kill. Will you allow one such as I to serve at your side...?"
At her question, the magus gave a firm nod. Seeing this, the Assassin bowed her head in solemn acceptance.
"Then... all shall be as your heart desires. I shall offer you everything. This body. This soul. All of it..."
"...I understand, Assassin. I look forward to our partnership."
Acknowledging her words with a nod, the magus turned his back to her, beginning a final inspection of the workshop's defenses.
Assassin watched him for a moment before stepping off the summoning circle and gliding toward him with ethereal grace.
Feeling the sudden proximity of his Servant, the magus turned around with a look of confusion.
"...? Is there a prob—"
The words died in his throat. Assassin's masked face was inches from his own.
"...Ah?"
A soft, fleeting press of lips.
A sudden kiss. The moment the magus realized what was happening, he tried to pull away, but his body refused to obey. A paralyzing warmth surged through his veins.
'What is th—'
It was the final thought he would ever have.
A deluge of ecstatic pleasure, terrifying in its sweetness, struck his brain like a physical blow. His body buckled and convulsed; a moment later, blood erupted violently from every orifice of his face. He collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.
Feeling the life depart from him, the Assassin pulled back. She stared down at the corpse of her short-lived Master and spoke in a low, melancholic whisper.
"...You were not the one. Not my... ideal."
She released the grip she had on his head, and the body slumped lifelessly onto the cold concrete.
The Assassin turned and slipped out of the factory, her eyes drifting toward the distant, shimmering lights of the city.
Would she find her ideal there? Someone whose soul was strong enough to survive her poison...?
After a fleeting glance at the night skyline, she let herself vanish into the embrace of the shadows.
-------------------------------
"...I never imagined you would expend a Command Spell on something so trivial."
"...I'm sorry..."
"Still, it seems you received quite the lecture from Caster and Berserker yesterday, so I shall refrain from further comment. However, do be more careful, Lady Illya."
At Sella's words, Illyasviel looked as though her soul had departed her body. It was understandable. From the moment they had returned to the castle the previous night, both Medea and Elius had hounded her with unrelenting scoldings.
The lecture had lasted until the very moment she closed her eyes. Only after swearing a solemn oath never to use a Command Spell so recklessly again was she finally allowed to sleep.
Renewing that oath within her heart, Illya stepped into the grand bathroom to begin her morning soak.
"...I still do not understand. You could have ended both of them. Why did you allow them to live?"
Illya, preparing to ease herself into the tub, shook her head at Sella's question.
"Hmph. Killing them instantly would be boring. A rabbit is meant to be cornered, left to tremble in fear until the very last moment, don't you think?"
"But now that Berserker's identity has been revealed through Saber, shouldn't we have at least eliminated one of them while we had the advantage?"
Sella watched Illya settle into the warm water, her voice still laced with practical concern.
"It doesn't matter. Saber relies on her sword. So long as she cannot manifest Rhongomyniad, the holy lance, he has no weaknesses to exploit."
"Mm. Noble Phantasm... remains hidden."
Leysritt nodded in agreement with Illya's assessment. However, it was not tactical logic that Sella was worried about.
"...Milady, tell me. Were you... showing mercy to Shirou Emiya?"
"....."
Illya faltered for a heartbeat, her movements stiffening. But she quickly shook her head and smirked.
"Hardly. You know well enough that I'm missing those kinds of feelings. He is merely Kiritsugu's substitute... and I intend to make him suffer to my heart's content."
As she spoke, her face broke into the smile of a mischievous, albeit cruel, child.
***
At the Emiya Estate.
Shirou Emiya, Rin Tohsaka, and Artoria sat huddled around the low table. The air was thick with a grim, suffocating silence.
Shirou and Rin were still reeling from the sheer, overwhelming power Berserker had displayed. Artoria, however, looked worse than either of them; her lover and her most loyal knight had returned as her enemy.
Yet they could not remain paralyzed. They needed a plan. Rin lifted her head and looked across the table at Saber.
The King of Knights looked utterly despondent, and Rin felt a twinge of guilt for what she was about to ask. But information was their only lifeline.
"...Um, Saber. Did you... know Berserker in your past life?"
"...Yes. I did."
Artoria nodded, her expression so brittle she looked as though she might break into tears at any second.
The atmosphere in the room turned ice-cold. Rin winced—had she stepped on a landmine? Had she pushed her Servant too far?
Saber saw Rin's frantic concern and managed a weak, mournful shake of her head.
"It is... quite alright. It is only natural for you to ask."
"I... see. Then, what exactly was he to you?"
".....We were lovers."
The room plunged back into a silence far more deafening than the first.