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Chapter Text

Fuyuki City — Riverside Docks — Midnight

The fog hung thick over the river, muffling the low hum of the city beyond. Somewhere in the mist, hurried footsteps slapped against wet concrete that was fast, desperate, uneven.

A man in his mid-twenties wearing a cheap office suit just stumbled toward the dock lights, gasping. His briefcase slipped from numb fingers, papers scattering like dying birds.

Behind him, the mist stirred. A glint of something pale. Something smiling.

The man dared a glance over his shoulder...

Too late.

A shape blurred from the shadows, knocking him off his feet. Cold hands slammed him against the metal side of a shipping container. He tried to scream, but a clawed hand clamped over his mouth.

The creature leaned close: gaunt, feral, with a mouthful of jagged teeth that didn't fit a human face. Its eyes burned with hunger.

Another figure stepped out of the fog: a woman this time, her long, matted hair clinging to her bloodless skin. Her hands twitched in excitement as she watched.

The man thrashed. Futile.

The male vampire grinned wider, whispering in broken, sibilant Japanese: "Ssshhh. We'll be quick. No pain. No pain at all."

The dock lights flickered. Died.

A scream tore through the night. It ended as quickly as it began.

The river swallowed the sound.

Fuyuki City — Abandoned Street — Later That Night

A young man stood at the mouth of an alleyway, studying the city beyond. It smelled wrong. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, feeling the familiar weight of his gear. The whip, the vials, the stakes. A thousand years of Belmont blood humming in his veins.

He crouched by the puddle of rain and saw the stain: faint, but there. Blood. Washed thin by the storm, but unmistakable.

The hunter straightened with a quiet sigh. "Already feeding," he muttered.

He tapped the hilt of his whip lightly against his boot — an old Belmont habit — and scanned the skyline. Fuyuki was about to learn what real monsters looked like.

Good thing Victor Belmont come prepared.

Victor moved through Fuyuki's streets like a ghost — coat collar turned up, eyes flicking from alleyways to rooftops.

The city was too clean. Too polished. He hated it already.

Neon signs buzzed overhead, advertising ramen shops, bars, and late-night convenience stores. Couples laughed in the distance. Cars rolled by. And beneath it all... the smell of something wrong.

Victor paused at a vending machine, pretending to study the selections. In truth, he was watching the reflection on the glass.

A man loitered across the street, twitchy, glancing around like prey. His clothes were dirty. His hands kept flexing, like the way people did when adrenaline wouldn't leave their system.

Victor pushed a few yen into the machine, popped a can free, and crossed the street casually.

The man flinched as Victor approached.

Victor opened the can, took a sip. Grimaced. Too sweet. Typical.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Victor said, voice low and casual.

The man's eyes darted around. "D-don't know what you're talking about."

Victor gave a tight, humorless smile. "You're right. Not ghosts. Something worse."

He let the words hang there. Heavy.

The man swallowed hard. His fingers trembled.

Victor stepped closer, his presence towering without even trying. Belmonts had long perfected the art of being uncomfortably real to the superstitious.

"Tell me what you saw," Victor said. "Or next time, it'll be you bleeding out in an alleyway."

A beat of silence.

Then — the man cracked.

"I was down by the docks," he whispered. "There was — there was something wrong there. People are disappearing. You hear screams and... and when you go to check — there's nothing. Just blood. Blood and —"

He gagged.

Victor nodded, almost approvingly. Not bad for a first lead.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded bill, and tucked it into the man's pocket.

"For your trouble. Now forget you ever saw me."

The man stumbled away into the night, clutching the money like a lifeline.

Victor watched him go, then turned toward the river district. "The docks", he thought. "Makes sense. Less witnesses. Easier feeding".

He cracked his neck, feeling the old tension settle into his shoulders. His hand brushed the hilt of his whip again.

"Looks like it's gonna be a long night."

He tossed the unopened can of soda into the trash and disappeared into the mist. And the next step was to set up a safe house.

After an hour of searching, Victor found the perfect building for his base of operations.

It was an old boarding house, tucked between a rusted hardware store and an abandoned laundromat — close enough to the docks to keep an eye on things, but far enough to avoid too much attention. Windows boarded up. Dust clinging to the walls like old cobwebs.

Perfect.

He jimmied the lock with a flick of a worn tool from his coat and slipped inside. Darkness swallowed him whole. Victor moved by instinct, drawing a lighter from his belt and flicking it open. The small flame danced against cracked wallpaper and exposed beams.

He took a slow walk through the space: One front room, big enough for maps, gear, planning. Two back rooms, bedrooms maybe, good for resting or stashing supplies. And a basement, judging by the rusted door half-hidden under old rugs. Could be useful or dangerous.

Victor ran a hand over the walls. Solid. Sturdy. It would do.

He dropped his duffel bag onto the dusty floor with a heavy thud. The familiar weight of Belmont heirlooms inside reassured him. Holy water, relics, stakes, whip oils. He could set up a half-decent warding perimeter if he had to.

He pulled a faded chair into the center of the room and sat backward on it, arms resting on the backrest, surveying the space.

Home sweet home.

Victor muttered under his breath, "Not the worst place I've slept."

He pulled out a folded paper map of Fuyuki, smoothing it on the cracked table.

First things first — mark out hunting grounds. Docks. Warehouses. Alleyways.

Then find patterns. Track their movements.

He paused only once, leaning back to glance around the dim room.

Maybe, just maybe, if things went south, this place could shelter others too. He wasn't naive. Form what his relatives said, this place was a hotspot for the infamous Holy Grail War. And it was bloody business. Friends were rare. Allies even rarer.

But if it came down to it, he wasn't about to let people get chewed up by monsters — human or otherwise — because he didn't prepare.

Victor Belmont had a job to do.

And now he had a base to do it from.

He scratched a rough X on the map over the dockyards and lit a candle beside it. The flame burned low and steady in the gloom.

The hunt had begun.

Chapter Text

The docks were a maze of shadows and salt-stained air.

Victor, the twenty-one year old was clad in his worn Belmont jacket bearing the family crest as he prowled along the empty warehouses. His boots made almost no sound against the cracked concrete, years of hunting had taught him how to move like smoke. His brow is furrowed, his expression unreadable, save for the glint of frustration behind his eyes.

Every step was measured. Every breath, deliberate. Something was wrong here. More wrong than usual.

"Definitely here. Nest somewhere near the river—three drained bodies in a week."

The Belmont blood in his veins hummed. And deeper than that — the Speaker magic he barely dared to call on — it whispered against his skin.

There.

A side alley, half-choked with garbage and rusted barrels. Victor slowed, frowning.

Scorched into the ground was a mark — faint, almost scrubbed away by weather and time, but still there. A summoning circle.

Old. Improperly made. Unstable.

Victor crouched beside it, tracing the outer ring with two fingers. He muttered a few words in the old tongue — a Speaker's tongue — half a prayer, half an inquiry.

Magic answers magic.

The moment he spoke, the circle flared to life.

Victor frowned as the faint prickle raced up his fingertips. His Speaker magic rarely tangled with magecraft, but when it did, the results were unpredictable — like striking flint against steel. Too late, he realized he might've sparked something.

"Damn Speaker blood—never played nice with Western magecraft."

Wind howls through the broken stained glass. Rain taps against the fractured roof like soft footsteps. Lightning flashes—and the Holy Grail responds.

"I didn't chant anything. Didn't even finish the sigils... What the hell?"

Victor swore under his breath and stumbled back. Pale blue light pulsed from the lines, etching themselves brighter against the concrete. Something ancient stirred.

Before he could intervene, the light surged upward and a column of energy piercing the night sky.

Victor reached instinctively for the whip at his hip, but before he could draw it — the light twisted into a form.

A woman.

Clad in shining armor, her expression calm and inquisitive. The flagstaff rests across her back, and her sword glows faintly in the dark. Her expression was calm, determined — as if she had stood against hundreds and never wavered once.

The circle sizzled out. Silence fell.

"I am Ruler. Joan of Arc. Who calls upon me in this Holy Grail War?"

Victor stared at her. She stared back. They stare at one another in silence—until Victor pulls a dagger from his coat and steps into the circle.

"Wait—before you do anything rash—"

Then she knelt, planting her banner into the cracked ground, and spoke in a voice clear as a church bell.

"I was summoned by the Grail's will… and your proximity. You hold a relic that links you to heroism—and bloodlines meant to fight evil."

She gestures subtly to the Belmont crest on his back.

Victor squints, slowly lowering the dagger.

He then exhaled. "...Wasn't exactly intentional," he muttered.

Joan frowned slightly in confusion, her blue eyes searching his face.

"You have not summoned me... yet I am here." She says calmly.

Victor gives her a deadpan look.

"Yeah, no kidding. Did the Church send you? Because if this is about the missing people—"

"No."

"Okay… I've met a few ghosts in my time, but you? You talk like a soldier and a saint."

She smiles at him. "I have been both. And you've stumbled into a war you know nothing about."

"Yeah? That'd make three this year."

Her tone shifted more seriously. "This one is different. This is the Holy Grail War. Mages from across the world have gathered here to battle through summoned spirits—Servants—for the ultimate wish-granting relic."

The Speaker magic still prickled along Victor's skin, alive and humming. He scowled at it like it had betrayed him — which, to be fair, it kind of had.

"Just my luck."

He thought as he adjusted his coat and crossed his arms. "Alright. Guess we're stuck together now."

Joan rose smoothly, banner in hand, calm as sunrise. "You are my Master?"

Victor opened his mouth to protest — and hesitated. He let the words hang in the misted air. A Master. He hadn't come to Fuyuki for this damned ritual, but walking away from a summoned Servant — a Ruler, no less — felt like courting disaster. Better to keep her close than leave her wandering into some other mage's clutches.

He exhaled then resigned. "Looks like I am. Not by choice, mind you."

Somewhere in the shadows, rats scattered. The city groaned under the weight of secrets.

Victor Belmont had come to Fuyuki to hunt monsters. He hadn't expected to summon a saint.

"Alright, since you're here anyways, let's get two things straight:" He started firmly.

He raises two fingers.

"One: I didn't mean to summon you. The war, the Grail, the politics? Not my problem. I came to this city hunting something else."

Joan watches him. Calm. Curious.

"And two: I don't give orders unless I'm in a fight. You're free to walk."

A beat. The rain fades to a soft patter. A moment of clarity in the storm.

Joan steps forward, studying him.

But looking at the determination in Joan's eyes, a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Maybe... just maybe... this wouldn't be the worst mistake he'd ever made.

Joan rose to her full height, her hand resting lightly on the shaft of her battle standard.

"You... are not a traditional Master… and did not summon me. Curious." she said carefully.

Victor gave a short, humorless laugh. "You don't say."

"You remind me of someone." She says gently.

Victor tilted his head. "Good someone, or bad?"

She gives him a small smile. "A good man. Burdened with duty. But not blind to it."

He glanced around — no threats. Yet.

Satisfied, he holstered his whip, hands back in his pockets.

"You said this is a 'Holy Grail War,' right?" he asked. "Supposed to be seven Masters, seven Servants, fight to the death for some magic cup?"

Joan nodded. "Yes. That is the general understanding."

Victor snorted. "Great. Sounds like a cultist's fever dream."

Joan stiffened slightly, her pride in the sanctity of the Grail shining through, but she caught herself. "Patience. He does not understand yet."

"You really did not mean to summon me?" she ask after a moment.

Victor shrugged. "Didn't even know I could. Was poking around some bad magic, that's all. My Speaker blood must've... crossed wires."

He kicked a loose pebble aside and muttered, "First time that's ever backfired this bad."

Joan tilted her head slightly, studying him. She sensed no malice. No hunger for power. In fact, he seemed... annoyed by the whole thing.

"You truly have no interest in the Grail?" she asked, her tone almost disbelieving.

Victor met her gaze squarely.

"I'm here to do a job," he said. "Hunt monsters. Kill what needs killing. That's it."

A pause.

"And if that damn cup gets in my way..." He shrugged again. "I'll smash it too."

Joan's eyes widened, just a little. In all her visions of the Grail War, she had never imagined encountering a Master so utterly indifferent.

Joan tilted her head, studying him anew. Most Masters she'd known — in legend and truth — were ensnared by desire. His indifference unsettled her, yet stirred a sliver of curiosity she hadn't expected. Perhaps, in this war, God had given her an unlikely ally.

Yet there was no lie in his voice. He truly cared nothing for the prize. "A reluctant Master... yet untainted by ambition. Perhaps Providence had a hand here."

"You really are... unlike the others," she said quietly.

Victor smirked. "I get that a lot."

The wind tugged at their clothes, carrying the smell of salt and rust.

Joan lowered her banner, resting it against her shoulder. She seemed to come to a decision.

"Very well," she said. "If you have no wish to use the Grail selfishly... then I shall assist you in your hunt."

Victor blinked. "You serious?"

"I am summoned to serve," Joan said simply. "And to protect the innocent. If there are monsters prowling this city...Then our goals align. But I will not ignore the Grail War if it threatens the innocent."

For the first time that night, Victor's lips quirked in a dry smile.

"Deal." he said. "I could use someone who knows how to fight."

Victor then offers a handshake.

"Victor Belmont. Last of the line. I don't need a wish—but if you're sticking around, I won't turn down backup."

Joan nods, grasping his hand with a soldier's grip.

He paused, squinting at her armor.

"You... do know how to fight, right? You're not just for show?"

Joan smiled back, faint but steady. "Would you like me to demonstrate?"

Victor barked a short laugh. "Maybe later, Saint. Just don't expect me to start wearing robes and chanting spells."

She then gives a dry response. "Good. I was worried you'd try to be polite."

He chuckles and gestured with his head toward the city skyline.

"Come on. If we're working together, you're buying the first round."

Joan blinked, confused. "First round...?"

"Coffee," Victor clarified, already walking. "Or tea. Whatever you like. Long night ahead."

And just like that, was the forming of an alliance between a monster hunter and martyr.

And the true war was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

The door shut behind them with a muted click, sealing out the cool night air and the distant hum of Fuyuki’s restless streets. Victor Belmont slipped the chain lock into place out of long habit, fingers deft despite the weight of recent events.

“Not much, but it’ll do,” he muttered, shrugging off his coat and hanging it by the door.

The safe house was sparse but orderly — a modest, nondescript apartment on the city's outskirts. Maps of Fuyuki were pinned to one wall, marked with faded ink and coded notations. Shelves lined with weathered tomes and small vials of alchemical mixtures shared space with a rack of weaponry carefully hidden under a canvas cloth. A Belmont’s workspace, practical and precise.

Joan of Arc drifted inside, gaze calm but discerning as she absorbed her surroundings. Her fingers ghosted over the worn table where notes and relic fragments rested — a quiet appreciation of the methodical preparation of her new Master.

“A hunter’s den” she thought.

But there was something almost... reverent about the way everything was kept. Not merely tools of destruction, but artifacts of duty.

Victor’s voice broke the silence. “I did promise you tea.”

He moved into the small kitchenette, setting a battered kettle on the stove. The burner clicked and hissed to life. “It’s nothing fancy. Just Speaker style — bitter and black, keeps you sharp on cold nights.” His lips twitched at his own understatement. “Or in our case, wars and vampire hunts.”

She smiled faintly. “I’ll trust your judgment, Master Belmont.”

He glanced over his shoulder, arching a brow. “Victor. Just Victor. I don’t stand on titles. And you don’t need to pull rank with me either, Ruler.” There was no malice in his voice — just that blunt Belmont pragmatism. “We’re working partners for now. That’ll work better if we talk plain.”

Joan inclined her head in graceful agreement. “As you wish, Victor.”

Steam began to curl from the kettle, and for a rare moment, the quiet between them was companionable rather than tense. Both warriors, both sworn to duty, now navigating uncertain ground together.

Victor set down wards by muscle memory, hands steady and sure. Joan stepped inside behind him, gaze drifting over the modest space. Spartan, yes — but solid, practical. She approved.

“This is… humble,” she observed, her tone measured.

Victor snorted. "Trust me, it’s better than sleeping in a gutter."

He etched the last sigil into the doorway and straightened.

Shrugging off his jacket, he revealed a battered undershirt and a choker bearing a small crest — a miniature of the emblem on his jacket.

Joan’s eyes flicked to it, curious. Victor noticed, but said nothing.

Instead, he nodded toward a battered folding table in the corner.

"Sit. We need to talk."

Joan complied gracefully, resting her standard against the table’s side.

Victor sat across from her, one boot propped on the chair leg, radiating the casual defiance of someone who’d fought authority his whole life.

“Alright, ground rules."

Joan folded her hands neatly. "Of course."

“Like I said before, I don’t give a damn about your Grail War politics" Victor said bluntly. “So if another master gets in the way,  then we’ll deal with 'em. But I’m not going out of my way to play your little magic bloodsport.”

Joan’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded slowly.

"And I," she said, "am tasked with ensuring the Grail War remains fair, just, and hidden from the public. If the monsters you hunt interfere with that — or if you endanger civilians — I must intervene."

Victor tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the table.

"Intervene how?"

Joan didn’t flinch.

"Force, if necessary."

A slow grin spread across Victor’s face — not mocking, but genuinely amused.

"You’ve got spine, Saint. I’ll give you that."

He leaned back in his chair.

“Fine. We keep civilians clear, and you don’t ride me about my methods. Deal?”

Joan hesitated — not because she distrusted him, but because his methods were still an unknown.

Still, her instincts whispered: He is rough, but not evil.

"Deal," she said finally.

The silence that followed was companionable, if a little wary.

Joan broke it first.

"You mentioned... your family."

Victor’s expression shifted — just a flicker — but he didn’t shut down.

“Yeah,” he said. “Belmonts. Family of monster hunters. Old as dirt.”

Joan tilted her head. “Belmont… I have heard that name. In ancient chronicles.

Men and women who fought the darkness when others fled.” Victor chuckled dryly. “Not much has changed.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “My mom taught me some Speaker magic before…” He trailed off, voice rough-edged.

Joan did not pry. Instead, she offered a piece of herself in return.

"I was a shepherd’s daughter," she said softly. "Called by visions to lead my people in a time of war. I fought not for power, but for peace."

Victor gave her a long, considering look.

"No offense," he said gruffly, "but peace don’t usually come from swinging swords."

Joan smiled — not offended, but sad.

"I know."

The city hummed beyond the thin walls — neon buzzing, tires hissing against wet streets.

Victor rose, stretching his arms.

"Alright," he said. "First light, we start hunting.
You’ll keep an eye on the Masters. I’ll sniff out the bloodsuckers."

He smirked over his shoulder.

“Keep up, Saint."

Joan rose as well, shouldering her standard with quiet dignity.

The first grey light of dawn crept through the thin curtains, painting the safehouse walls in muted silver.

Victor stirred first, moving with quiet efficiency. By the time Joan emerged from a brief wash, hair neatly tied and standard leaning by the wall, he’d already brewed something dark and bitter in two chipped mugs.

He set one on the table near her. “It’s not church wine, but it’ll wake you up faster.”
There was no smirk in his voice — just a dry practicality.

Joan took the mug with a small nod of thanks, settling across from him. For a few minutes, they shared a silent, unhurried stillness — two warriors at ease before duty called.

Victor stood near the narrow window, tugging on a clean, worn jacket — plain and inconspicuous compared to his usual long coat. He was built like a fighter honed by necessity, not vanity — broad-shouldered but lean, with the rangy, coiled strength of someone who’d spent his life climbing castle walls and clearing crypts. His dark brown hair, tousled from sleep, fell just above sharp-set eyes — a deep hazel flecked with gold, always alert even in stillness.
There was something in his face — the strong jawline, the proud nose, the old scar notched under one eye — that echoed portraits of long-fallen Belmonts: a legacy worn plainly, whether he liked it or not.

His clothes were muted — dark canvas trousers, scuffed boots, a faded shirt under the jacket. Practical, unremarkable. The Belmont crest, once bold on his jacket back, remained hidden beneath the collar of his shirt. His whip and gear, compacted and concealed, rested comfortably at his side.

“Subtle enough?” he asked, arching a brow as he adjusted his sleeves.

Joan glanced over him, her gaze sharp but calm. “For someone of your lineage? Subtle indeed.”

Victor chuckled under his breath, grabbing the folded city map off the table and sliding it into his satchel.

“Let’s get moving. Daylight means loose lips, if you know where to listen.”

Joan draped her cloak over her shoulders and followed without hesitation, their footfalls echoing lightly on the old wooden floor as they stepped out into the waking city.

The rain had stopped, but the streets still glittered with puddles under the neon lights. Victor adjusted his jacket collar and led the way down Fuyuki’s cracked sidewalks. Joan walked a few steps behind, hood up and hands tucked neatly under her cloak. For someone who radiated holy calm, she blended surprisingly well.

They had agreed to start small: taverns, markets, bus stops — anywhere the city’s common folk might whisper about disappearances without official ears listening.

Victor knew the signs. You didn't ask about "monsters" outright. You listened for fear in people’s voices. You watched for eyes that darted toward dark alleys without meaning to.

And right now?

There was fear.

Plenty of it.

Inside a cramped ramen shop, Victor leaned casually at the counter, chatting with the bleary-eyed owner. Joan lingered nearby, quietly listening.

"Missing people?" Victor said, tone easy. “Shame. You hear anything weird lately?"

The old man grunted, wiping down the counter.

"Bah. Young ones going missing all the time now. People say it’s gangs... maybe worse."

"Worse?" Victor prompted.

The man hesitated — glanced at the door — then lowered his voice.

"They say some folk go pale before they vanish. Sickly. Like all the blood’s been drained outta them."

Victor's jaw tightened slightly, but he only nodded.

"Thanks, old-timer. Keep your doors locked at night."

He tossed a few coins on the counter and left with Joan at his side.

They continued down the street.

"You suspect vampires," Joan said quietly.

Victor didn't answer right away. He stared ahead, scanning the darkened alleys like a wolf scenting a distant threat.

"Could be," he said finally. "But no proof yet. And there’s worse things than leeches crawling in the night."

He shot her a sidelong glance.

"You believe in 'em?"

Joan's expression didn't change.

"I have seen many forms of darkness. It would be foolish to dismiss any possibility."

Victor gave a grunt of approval.

"You’re sharper than you let on."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips.

"And you are more cautious than you pretend."

They shared a small, brief moment of understanding.

They made a few more stops. At an abandoned bus stop, a frightened woman clutched a rosary too tightly. In a tea shop, an old man swore he'd seen "something with glowing eyes" by the riverbanks.

Each story was fractured, uncertain.
But together, the pieces formed a pattern.

Something was hunting here.

Something that left fear like a bloodstain on the city’s heart.

Victor ducked into a narrow alley and unfolded a battered city map marked with fading notes. Joan watched silently as he began marking new points.

"Disappeared here... and here... sightings over there..." he muttered. "Closing in around the river."

Joan stepped closer, peering at the map.

"You have done this before."

Victor chuckled dryly.

"Since before I could grow a beard."

Joan studied him — the hard set of his shoulders, the careful way he mapped danger.

He was no reckless killer. He was a soldier, a protector — rough-edged, but shaped by long duty.

"Victor," she said, soft enough that he almost didn't hear. "Why do you fight?"

He froze for half a heartbeat — then tucked the map back into his coat.

"Because if I don't," he said roughly, "nobody else will."

He started walking again without waiting for an answer.

Joan followed, thoughtful.

Chapter Text

A grimy warehouse near the river that was abandoned years ago, now reclaimed by rust and shadows. Victor planted the last of the blood-smeared talismans around the perimeter, muttering to himself. Magic from his Speaker side — subtle, almost natural — seeped into the ground like oil, staining the air with a faint, bitter tang that only certain creatures would notice.

Nearby, Joan stood watch, calm as ever.

"This should stir the nest," Victor said, wiping his hands on a rag. "If any leeches are sniffin' around, they'll come running."

He set down a small crate near the center: rotted meat, soaked in blood. A grotesque but effective bait.

Joan approached, her cloak stirring in the night breeze.

"And then?" she asked.

"Then," Victor said with a sharp grin, "we bash their heads in 'til they stop twitching."

Joan gave him a look that was half amused, half exasperated.

"Crude... but effective."

Victor opened his mouth to reply but stopped.

Joan's eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting.

Victor tensed immediately.

"You feel that too?" he asked, reaching instinctively for the hilt of his whip.

Joan nodded, her expression sharpening into focus.

"Servants. Two of them. Close, very close. They're fighting."

Victor let out a low growl.

"Wonderful. That's all we need. Two magical juggernauts throwing fireworks around right when we're about to spring a trap."

Joan turned toward the distant skyline, where a faint hum of energy prickled at the edges of reality.

"I must observe," she said firmly. "It is my duty to learn who fights in this war."

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered under his breath.

"You just had to drag me into a war zone, didn't you?"

He hefted the crate of bait under one arm and kicked over a nearby barrel to hide it clumsily.

"I swear, I'm gonna die choking on politics before a vampire even lays a finger on me..."

Joan gave him a sidelong glance.

"You are free to remain here."

Victor scoffed.

"And miss a brawl between mystery meatheads? Not bloody likely."

He cracked his neck and started walking beside her.

"Fine. But if we get vaporized by flying lances or something, I'm haunting you first."

Joan's soft laughter drifted over her shoulder as she led the way into the night.

Victor and Joan crouched low behind a ridge, overlooking the wide, deserted stretch of dockyard where the battle raged.

The air crackled with raw energy.

Victor whistled low under his breath as he watched the two figures below. Saber, shining in silver armor, and Lancer, darting like a viper with twin spears.

"Now that's a fight," he murmured, half to himself.

Sparks flew as their weapons clashed again and again, the sound of steel striking steel ringing through the night air.

"You fight well, Lancer," Saber said, her voice steady even as her blade struck against his twin spears. "Your form is flawless."

Lancer smirked, twirling his shorter spear with casual grace.

"And you, Saber. I almost regret that we're enemies. Almost."

Their weapons clashed again, the ground cracking beneath them from the sheer force of their strikes.

Joan observed quietly beside him, arms folded.

"They are both... exceptional," she said, almost reverently. "So much spirit."

Victor leaned on one knee, watching critically.

"They're fast. Real fast. Wouldn't wanna take a punch from either of 'em."

He kept a sharp eye on the surroundings — just in case. You could never be too careful in a city crawling with monsters.

For a while, neither spoke — simply watching the elegant, brutal dance unfold under the stars.

And then —

A crack of thunder, and an enormous chariot, pulled by snorting divine bulls, burst across the battlefield.

Victor swore under his breath and reached instinctively for his whip.

"The hell is that?"

Joan, however, smiled.

"Another Servant," she said.

The chariot crashed to a halt between Saber and Lancer, and atop it stood a burly man with a crimson cloak and a thunderous laugh.

Rider — tall, broad-shouldered, a crimson cloak billowing behind him — bellowed with laughter.

"Hah! What a magnificent sight! Two warriors battling under the stars! It would be a shame to waste such talent on petty squabbles."

Saber narrowed her eyes, lifting her sword cautiously.

"State your intention, Rider," she demanded.

Rider planted his hands on his hips.

"My intention? Simple! I seek to gather the finest warriors under my banner! Join me! Swear loyalty to Iskander, King of Conquerors, and together we shall claim the Grail!"

Lancer chuckled under his breath.

"Tempting offer," he said wryly. "But I've my own oath to fulfill."

Saber stood resolute.

"I serve no king but the one to whom my sword is pledged."

Rider sighed dramatically.

"Ah, loyalty. A rare and precious thing. But I respect it. Still, should you ever tire of fruitless battle, know that my campfires are warm, and my wine plentiful!"

"Rider," Joan said, recognizing the aura immediately.

Victor gave her a sidelong glance. "Guy sure knows how to make a pitch. Just don't take too long, ok?"

Joan simply nodded, brushing dust from her cloak, and stepped forward calmly as Rider called out to the combatants. Standard in hand, she carried herself with quiet certainty — a calm that weighed heavier than steel.

"And who are you, fair maiden?" Rider called, his voice booming, grin wide.

Joan dipped her head in respectful greeting. "I am Joan of Arc — Ruler-class Servant of this war."

She planted her standard into the earth. A soft divine pulse rippled outward from the banner, neutral but undeniable. It wasn't hostile, yet every Servant on the field felt it — the unmistakable pressure of a Ruler. Even Rider's jovial tone faltered. Lancer shifted his grip, eyes narrowing with new wariness.

Saber furrowed her brow, gaze locked on Joan with sharp focus. She felt the weight of the aura and knew it for what it was: authority earned, not demanded.

"You would deny us our honor?" Saber asked, her voice edged with challenge, not anger.

Joan's reply was gentle — not rebuke, but reminder. "No. But I would remind you of your purpose. This is not a place for vanity."

Lancer lowered his spear slightly, eyes flicking between them. "A Ruler? In this war?"

Saber remained measured, though her posture shifted. "This war has no precedent for your class."

Joan nodded once. "I was summoned not for glory or desire, but to oversee the conduct of this war. Balance must be kept."

Her gaze swept across them — stoic, heavy, tired. Not of them, but of the pattern they repeated.

"Another war. Another stage of pride and bloodshed..." she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

From the nearby tree line, Victor leaned against the bark, arms crossed, jacket securing him from the breeze. He remained silent, watching. She had this under control.

"…Gotta say," he muttered under his breath, "she's handling this better than I would've."

He tilted his head toward the trio of Servants. "Saber looks like she bathes in honor. Spear guy's polite. The other one? He's got 'chaos' written all over him."

A few feet away, Waver leaned closer to Rider, eyes wide.

"She's legit," he whispered. "That mana signature is insanely stable. Like a walking holy firewall."

Rider chuckled with approval. "A lovely lady with conviction! The world could use more like her."

Elsewhere, behind a veil of distance and command seals, Tokiomi Tohsaka frowned.

"A Ruler-class?" he muttered. "That wasn't in the summoning protocols. The war is straying from its foundation. I don't like this."

And then — the air itself changed.

Golden ripples shimmered above them, space peeling open like a divine wound. From the light strode a man clad in opulent gold, goblet in hand, eyes brimming with ancient disdain.

Gilgamesh had arrived.

He stood on top of the street light, robes of crimson and gold fluttering behind him like banners of conquest. In one hand, he held a goblet of wine; in the other, nothing — for his weapons, like his judgment, needed no sheath.

He looked down on the field as if surveying ants.

"So," he said, voice rich with contempt, "the mongrels gather like flies. How fitting."

His gaze passed over Saber with cool familiarity, then paused briefly on Joan.

"A second knight? How dull. And here I thought the Grail would summon warriors, not relics of dead piety."

Joan did not flinch. She returned his gaze calmly.

"You mock honor, yet call yourself a king."

Gilgamesh laughed — short and sharp, like a blade through silk.

"I am the King. There is no mockery in truth, only scorn for the unworthy."

Victor, still watching from the trees, muttered to himself. "This guy sounds like he gargled a thesaurus... soaked in ego."

Rider raised an amused eyebrow. "You sound like quite the arrogant fool, golden one."

Gilgamesh turned slightly, eyeing Rider as one might a particularly amusing statue. "You are loud, Rider. A boisterous hound with delusions of empire. But at least you entertain me."

Lancer's grip tightened on his spear. Saber's sword hand twitched.

Tension grew — then snapped.

A surge of madness burst across the battlefield, heralded by the roar of a beast. From the shadows charged a monstrous figure in black armor: Berserker. He dropped from above like a thunderbolt, warping the space around him. His corrupted presence hit like a mallet of chaos, and his black armor reflected nothing but madness.

Joan instinctively stepped forward, standard raised.

"Berserker," she murmured. "His presence burns like a curse."

Gilgamesh's expression twisted.

"A filthy mongrel dares appear before me?"

Berserker did not reply, only lunged. His first strike aimed directly for Archer, blade flashing with murderous intent. Gilgamesh responded by having portals of light opened behind him in a golden arc as weapons burst forth like divine judgment.

Steel met madness. Sparks flew as the two legends clashed, power crashing through the air in bursts of fire and shock.

Rider and Waver scrambled back. Lancer shielded Saber. Joan stood firm.

But the tide shifted.

As Berserker twisted through a gap in Archer's defense, his eyes snapped toward Saber, and without hesitation, he redirected — leaping toward her with unnatural force.

Joan moved on instinct.

She stepped between them, standard glowing faintly as she intercepted the swing meant for Saber.

The blow landed with explosive force.

Her staff caught the strike, divine energy flaring — but Berserker's raw strength tore through, raking her side. Joan staggered, a sharp breath escaping her lips as pain rippled across her face.

She looked up — just in time to see Berserker raise his blade for a killing thrust.

"No—!"

A sharp crack split the air.

Victor's whip snapped forward, coiling with holy energy as it struck the flat of Berserker's blade, knocking the weapon off course. Sparks flared at the point of impact — not enough to wound, but enough to make the beast pause.

From the trees, Victor stepped onto the battlefield at last, coat catching the breeze, eyes sharp.

"Took you long enough to make your speech," he muttered. "I got bored."

Joan blinked at him — a rare crack in her composure. "Victor! What are you—"

"You're good with holy banners. I'm better with lunatics." He responds while stepping in front of her.

Joan sighed, but a small smile tugged at her lips despite the danger.

"You could have waited for my signal."

"And miss my grand entrance?" he said, rolling his shoulders. "Nah."

Berserker roared again, now focusing his murderous gaze on both of them.

He walked past Joan, who clutched her side but remained standing, and planted himself squarely between her and Berserker.

"You don't get to lay a hand on her," he said flatly. "Not while I'm here."

Berserker snarled, gears of madness grinding louder.

Rider grinned.

Saber, cautious, took a defensive stance beside Joan.

Lancer raised an eyebrow. "And who, pray tell, are you?"

Victor's expression didn't change as he gestured to Joan. "Her Master. And judging by the company, the most normal one here."

Berserker roared — no words, only hate — and lunged again.

Victor moved first.

His whip cracked with surgical precision, striking the ground in front of Berserker's foot. The holy energy in its leather coils hissed like a snake striking oil — not enough to hurt, but enough to throw off balance.

Berserker stumbled half a step, and in that opening, Joan surged forward.

Her standard swept in an arc, catching Berserker's next slash and redirecting it away from Victor. Divine sparks flared where corrupted blade met consecrated cloth, and for a moment, the impact lit the space like lightning in fog.

Victor circled to the side, low and fast, eyes sharp. Joan moved with practiced poise — defending, not striking — but with each swing, she bought Victor space.

They didn't speak.

They didn't need to.

Berserker lunged again, faster than before — blade like black flame — and this time Victor was ready. He ducked the strike, rolled low, and snapped his whip at Berserker's leg. The holy thread wrapped once, then slipped — the armor too thick for purchase — but it was enough to slow him.

Joan planted her standard like a ward, divine light pulsing outward. Berserker slammed into it, snarling as it repelled him mid-swing, forcing him back two steps.

"You alright?" Victor called, keeping pace around the giant.

Joan nodded once, her breathing measured.

"Persistent bastard, ain't he?" Victor muttered, muscles tensing.

Joan parried a glancing blow with her flag, divine magic reinforcing her guard. Despite the chaos, she kept her voice calm.

"We are not his true targets. We must not escalate this."

Victor scoffed, barely dodging a follow-up swipe. "Not escalating's a bit tough when he's tryin' to slice my head off."

Berserker's red eyes flared brighter, locking onto Victor now. He came at him with a bestial roar.

Gilgamesh watches the fight from above while his narrowed eyes flick to Victor's jacket—the Belmont crest embroidered in faded silver on the back. "Belmont... I have not heard that name in an age." He thought.

Victor didn't retreat. He sidestepped, cracked his whip at the exposed shoulder joint, then drove forward — planting his boot into Berserker's abdomen. The blow didn't stop him, but it broke momentum.

Then Berserker pivoted suddenly — faster than before — and drove a crushing elbow toward Victor's skull.

Joan moved like wind and light, intercepting again — her standard catching the blow just enough to deflect it wide.

Victor skidded back, boots dragging across the concrete. "That was close."

Berserker howled. He raised his blade again.

And that was when Gilgamesh, still watching from above, clicked his tongue.

"Enough. I tire of this dog's tantrums."

With a golden shimmer, more portals opened — a second volley of divine weapons rained down. Berserker snarled and leapt back, retreating into the mist with unnatural speed, black armor vanishing between blinks.

Silence.

The pressure eased. The madness peeled back.

Victor slowly straightened, whip lowered but ready.

Across the field, Lancer and Saber resumed their clash — blades flashing, the world narrowing around them once more.

Victor gave Joan a quick glance. "You good?"

She nodded, wiping blood from the edge of her cloak. "He will return."

"Yeah." Victor coiled his whip. "And next time, I'll be ready."

In the background, the second duel escalated briefly — Lancer smiling, Saber pressing harder. Their blades clashed once more.

And then, just like that — Lancer pulled back.

"I yield for now," he said, saluting. "Until next time, fair King." Then takes his leave.

Saber lowered her blade cautiously. She takes one last look at the new pair as she departs with Irisviel.

Victor and Joan remained a moment longer.

"Now they know we're here," Victor said.

Joan glanced toward the empty air where Berserker had stood. "They were going to find out eventually."

Victor exhaled, slowly re-coiling his whip.

"That was a whole lotta noise for a whole lotta nothing," he muttered.

Joan pressed a hand lightly to her side, the pain dull but manageable. "A small price to keep the others safe."

Victor gave her a look. "You know you didn't have to step in for Saber, right?"

"She was not the one Berserker targeted. I was."

"Yeah. Doesn't mean you had to stand there and catch it." He looked away. "You've got guts, I'll give you that."

She offered a faint smile, tempered by fatigue. "So do you."

A quiet footfall approached them. Rider and Waver, having lingered on the outskirts, stepped forward — Rider's hands on his hips, the usual grin on his face.

"So, you're the one keeping this saint company," he said, glancing between them. "Not the sort I expected — and that's a compliment."

Victor raised an eyebrow. "You expected someone taller?"

Rider barked a laugh. "No, no. I expected someone... stiffer."

He extended a hand — not as a gesture of alliance, but of acknowledgment. "A warrior who protects his Servant — even one not bound by the usual rules. That earns respect in any era."

Victor shook it — briefly, firmly. "I'm just doing my job."

Waver looked between the two, muttering to himself, "That guy really is her Master... That explains the whip."

Rider gave Joan a playful nod. "Take care of your Master, lovely Ruler. He looks like the type to get into trouble."

"I usually arrive just in time," she replied smoothly.

With that, the pair turned and vanished into spirit form, leaving the night quieter than before.

Victor rolled his shoulders. "You gonna lecture me for jumping in?"

Joan looked at him sideways. "Would it matter if I did?"

"…Probably not."

A beat passed. Then, more softly: "Thanks. For shielding me."

"I'll do it again," he said simply. "If needed."

From his basement, Tokiomi Tohsaka watched through Archer's vision, lips pressed in a thin, thoughtful line.

"So... the Ruler-class has a Master," he muttered. "Unorthodox. Not summoned by the Church."

Kirei Kotomine, standing silently beside him, responded without turning. "And yet effective."

Tokiomi's eyes narrowed. "We'll need to factor them into our calculations. The war is already off-script."

Kirei gave no reply — but his gaze lingered where Victor had stood.

In another part of the city, Waver Velvet sat on the floor of a shabby room, legs crossed, notebook open and filled with scribbles.

"A whip," he repeated, chewing the end of his pencil. "A hunter. Not a magus... but he moves like he's fought monsters his whole life."

Rider's voice drifted in from behind. "He has that air, doesn't he? I wouldn't mind having him on my side."

Waver grunted. "You say that about everyone you like."

Elsewhere — Caster's Lair

Somewhere deep within the labyrinthine alleys of Fuyuki's harbor district, a hunched figure writhed in manic ecstasy before a flickering scrying pool.

Caster stares wide-eyed into the scrying pool, his face a twitching mask of awe and madness. The real Joan of Arc. He clutched at his face with trembling hands, eyes wide and bloodshot, gasping between fits of almost religious sobs.

Behind him, his Master — Ryuunosuke Uryuu — watched with lazy amusement, arms crossed, a slight frown on his lips.

"Hey, hey, what's with the waterworks, partner? You see an ex-girlfriend or somethin'?"

"Her… it's really her…! My saint, returned to me! Glorious, radiant flame of Heaven! Joan... my Joan…!" His voice was a reverent whisper, broken and deranged.

"She's kinda pretty. Not my type though."

Ignoring him, Caster clutched his chest. "She's here… she walks the earth once more! And she brought a beastly champion with her—how poetic! My divine bride, let me cleanse this world for you!" He wheezed, eyes unfocused.

"I don't think she's into you, bro. Kinda looked like she wanted to stab you with that flag."

His grin twisted — wild, adoring, deranged. "She will be. She must be. No matter what her eyes say now… she will remember. Come, Master. We must prepare! We must offer her a grand tribute worthy of her divinity — blood, sacrifice, devotion!"

He spun on his heel, the tattered ends of his robe flaring like the wings of some grotesque angel. "I shall make this city her altar."

Ryuunosuke scratched his head, then shrugged."Eh. Sure. Long as I get to play too."

He grinned, trailing after his deranged partner as they vanished into the misty streets — leaving only a trail of madness and murder behind them.

Chapter Text

In the rotting sub-basement of an abandoned Fuyuki warehouse, the vampires gathered beneath cracked concrete beams and rusted iron piping. The air stank of mildew and old blood, thick enough to choke a mortal man. But to them, it was comforting — a veil of rot shielding them from the city above.

Lucatiel, ever the calculating one, leaned against a broken pillar, arms folded over her sleek armor. Her golden eyes shimmered faintly in the darkness. A smaller fledgling vampire, barely older than a human boy, stepped forward hesitantly. His ragged cloak did little to hide his trembling.

"I-it looked like a trap, mistress," he stammered toward Lucatiel.

Lucatiel silenced him with a sharp glance, her expression unreadable.

Marceline, lounging lazily atop a pile of shattered crates, chuckled low in her throat.

"A trap? During the Grail War?" She arched a delicate eyebrow, trailing a claw idly through the dusty air.

"Sounds like mortal problems. Mages. Servants. The usual. Maybe some poor sap thought our brethren were easy prey."

Lucatiel tilted her head, considering this grim possibility. Then she shook it off with a sharp movement, her voice cold and firm. "No. If it were a true predator... we'd know." She turned her sharp gaze to the others.

"Still. We must assume we are now within the Grail War's radius of bloodshed. Masters and Servants will become active, violent, unpredictable."

She swept her hand across the room like a black-winged shadow. "Alright, everyone. From this night forward, none of you hunt without my permission. We move in pairs. We do not draw attention."

The meeting had begun to break apart — shadows slithering into deeper shadows — when a younger vampire, bolder than most, spoke up.

"Forgive me, Lady Lucatiel," he said hesitantly, "but... why are we even here? Why Fuyuki? Why now?"

Heads turned. The question lingered in the stale air.

Another voice, this one rougher, piped up from the side.

"And what's so special about these 'Servants,' anyway? Just ghosts, aren't they?"

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the room. Out of the gloom emerged Agramain, one of the higher-ranking elites — a towering figure clad in dark tattered robes, his skin pale and almost translucent, stretched tight over a powerful frame. His crimson eyes burned with ancient knowledge.

He regarded the fledglings coolly, as one might view particularly ignorant children.

"You ask why we are here," Agramain rumbled, his voice like grinding stone. "Why we hide and slither through this city like rats instead of ruling it outright."

He leaned down, making the fledgling who spoke shrink back instinctively.

"It is because the Holy Grail is no mere trinket."

The fledglings shifted uneasily, their blood thirst dimming into fearful curiosity.

Agramain straightened, his voice growing louder, carrying across the hall like the tolling of a funeral bell.

"The Grail that stirs the bloodshed in this city... can grant wishes." He spread his arms wide, as if encompassing the heavens and the earth. "True resurrection. Ultimate power. Freedom from the fetters that bind us to the shadows." He let the words hang there, letting their meaning sink into even the dullest minds. "Servants are keys to that power. Each one fallen, each one defeated, brings the Grail closer to manifestation."

He smiled then — a thin, joyless smile full of old malice.

"And when that day comes, we shall not grovel in darkness any longer. We shall reign."

Murmurs swept the room — awe, excitement, terror all blended together.

Lucatiel watched silently, her sharp gaze unreadable. Marceline giggled somewhere high in the rafters, amused at the grand speeches.

Veyron, however, bared his teeth in something like a grin.

"Hmph. So we bide our time... and wait for the fools to slaughter each other?"

Agramain inclined his head.

"Yes. Let them tear themselves apart. Let the mortals and their toys bleed themselves dry. We will take what remains."

"And if a Servant wanders too close..." Marceline mused, her golden eyes gleaming like twin moons.

"...we feed," Veyron finished, clenching his fists eagerly.

Agramain's smile grew colder.

"But remember this: the Masters and Servants are not to be underestimated. They are the chosen of the world, warriors of legend and magic. Cross them without care, and you will find your ashes scattered by dawn."

The fledglings bowed their heads, chastened.

In the farthest shadows, unseen by all but the keenest eye, something older still stirred. The ancient will that bound them here... that whispered of victory and blood and dominion. It watched through unseen eyes. Silent. Patient. Hungry.

The blood moon above Fuyuki shimmered faintly through cracks in the roof, as if in answer.

The forest is deathly quiet after Berserker vanishes in a blur of shadows, leaving only his master's retreat in the wake of Rider's chariot and Saber's stunned silence. The faint hum of magical aftershocks hangs in the air like static. Victor and Joan walk in silence, the echo of the earlier battle still lingering. A narrow path by the mist-covered riverside. The late night air is damp, with only the silver shimmer of the moon lighting the path.

Joan of Arc lowers her halberd slowly, eyes watching the tree line with a calm, vigilant grace. A quiet breath escapes her lips—until—

Victor Belmont steps out from the shadows behind her, dusting off his jacket and rotating his wrist. He adjusted the strap across his chest, with his holy whip coiled at his side.

"...You talk too long when you're trying to sound diplomatic. I was starting to think you forgot I was still out here."

Joan looks back over her shoulder, only mildly exasperated. "I was working."

"Looked more like sermonizing to me." He grinned

She then folded arms, lifting an eyebrow at him. "Forgive me for trying to stop a bloodbath. Some of us take the 'holy' part of our callings seriously."

"Yeah, and you almost got skewered while sermonizing."

"Peace is worth speaking for—even if others won't listen. If war is all they know, then someone must remind them there's another path."

"You ever notice how people who say that usually get stabbed first?"

She exhales, part amused, part exasperated. Then— Before she can reply, a voice slithers through the fog.

"Ahhh… at last. The divine light graces me again."

Caster steps from the mist, arms outstretched like a penitent priest. His eyes are glazed with religious madness.

"My Saint. My salvation. My Jeanne. You're real. The Grail has answered my prayers!"

Joan's expression turned from mild shock to sternness. "...Gilles."

Victor narrows his eyes

"You know him?" He asked her in a sharp tone.

"Yes, Gilles de Rais. He was once my friend. A good man. Before... everything." She answered in a measured and calm.

"It is you… Jeanne d'Arc. My beautiful savior. You've returned to me at last. The fires, the screams, the false accusations—none of it matters anymore. You're here now."

She stepped forward, her voice firm but gentle.

"You've been consumed by grief, Gilles. This isn't salvation, it's corruption."

He turned ecstatic, mistaking her pity for compassion. "Even in your judgment… your voice… it brings light to my wretched soul!"

"The past cannot be rewritten, Gilles. You've twisted your grief into madness. This isn't salvation. It's corruption."

"They lied to you. They burned you! But I—we—can make it right. I will deliver your justice. Your vengeance. A new world where the flames never touch your skin again!"

The hunter sighs dramatically, clearly annoyed with the interaction. "Great. Vampire sightings, rabid servants, and now you're a saint someone's obsessed with. See, this is why I like the woods. Fewer obsessed lunatics."

Caster started kneeling before her. "Let me prove myself. Let me offer you the Grail, and plunge this world into the salvation it denied you!"

"I do not seek the Grail." She sternly told him.

"No… no, that's not right. You should want it. You should want me. Was it this ruffian next to you!? You need no protector, Jeanne!"

"Alright, that's enough." Victor places himself protectively between them. "I let you try, but now I'm stepping in before he gets creepier—which, at this rate, is about five seconds away."

Joan then gives a resolute look. "I will not fight you, Gilles. But I will stop you from harming anyone else."

Angered by her rejection and closeness with Victor, his desperate look turned into a deranged grin.

"Then test me, Saint! Let us burn this world and rise again from its ashes together!"

Caster twirls his cloak dramatically and vanishes into the mist with a shriek of laughter, leaving behind an unnatural chill and a lingering trace of mana in the air.

"Was he always that deranged?"

Her expression softens. "No. Once, he was brave. Kind. Now… he is what remains when grief becomes rot. A reflection of how far the righteous can fall."

He paused, understand the deeper meaning of their connection.

"Just so we're clear—you're never trying to talk down a creep like that again without backup."

A faint smile appears on her face. "Noted. Next time, I'll let you speak first. That'll surely help diplomacy."

Deep within the damp, rotting cavern that Caster and his Master have made their lair—dark magic pulses from every surface. Grotesque night creatures twitch in their cages. The air is thick with malevolent tension.

Gilles de Rais returns from his latest failed encounter, face twisted with fury. His robe is tattered, eyes wild—barely human. His feet splash through dark water as he storms in, muttering and snarling.

"She looked at him. She spoke for him. Stood beside him like a chosen knight. Not me. Never me…"

"Whoooa, whoa, hey hey! Back so soon? No body parts for the altar this time? Did your girlfriend slap your hand again?" Ryunosuke asked.

"Do not call her that! She is purity. Divinity itself. And she has been defiled by his presence!" He snapped in a murderous tone.

The serial killer just laughed. "Oh wow, you really are spiraling. Don't tell me you're actually jealous of that whip-wielding Van Helsing reject?"

"She stood beside him… by that 'ruffian.' As if I were nothing to her."

Ryunosuke raised an eyebrow at him. "You're ranting like a jilted lover in a bad romance play. C'mon, man. You know none of this was real. She was never yours. You're just—"

SILENCE!

Magic surges. The creatures around them screech and convulse. Caster's aura explodes with madness. His shadow elongates like writhing tendrils, nightmarish and serpentine.

"If she will not return to me willingly… I will carve her from the world. Burn the filth from her soul. And he—he will be the first to fall." He concluded while gritting his teeth.

His master then grew an amused look. "Yeah, okay. Go full monster. It's more fun that way."

The stone chamber beneath the Fuyuki chapel was quiet, lit only by dim candlelight and the glint of polished steel from the blades hung on the far wall — ceremonial, but never merely decoration.

Father Risei Kotomine stood at the head of the long table, gloved hands resting atop a parchment-filled folder. His expression, as always, was calm — but the lines beneath his eyes suggested wear.

Seated to his right, his son, Kirei, listened in silence.

"There's been an update," Risei began, voice low and even. "An observer confirmed that the unidentified Master traveling with Ruler revealed his name last night during the skirmish. He introduced himself simply as Victor."

"Victor," Kirei repeated, without inflection.

"Victor," Risei said again, then allowed a beat to pass. "And from what we've been able to gather… Victor Belmont."

Even in the silence that followed, the name carried weight.

A younger priest, seated across from them, shifted uncomfortably. "Belmont? As in… those Belmonts?"

Risei gave a subtle nod.

Kirei, still leaning back in his chair, finally spoke. "They're still active?"

"Apparently," Risei replied. "We've had no confirmed sightings of a Belmont in nearly three generations. Rumors, at best. It seems this one has kept his bloodline — and mission — alive."

The younger priest frowned, glancing over the pages in front of him. "But why now? What does a vampire hunter want with the Holy Grail?"

Kirei's voice was quiet. "That's assuming he came for the Grail."

Risei folded his hands. "There have been disappearances across Fuyuki in the weeks leading up to the war — some going back months. People vanishing without a trace, corpses drained and discarded near the riverbanks. We were preparing containment measures when the war began."

Another pause.

"But now," Risei continued, "we have a Master with no official registry. Aligned with Ruler, moving independently. Skilled. And if he is a Belmont… then it's possible this war is not the only thing he's here to fight."

A longer silence followed. Kirei's gaze had grown unreadable.

"You believe vampires are involved," the younger priest said, half-accusing. "We would have felt it. That sort of evil doesn't go unnoticed."

Risei met his gaze, calm but firm. "What I believe is irrelevant. What we cannot afford is chaos."

"And what do we do with this… Belmont?"

Risei looked down at the folder, then closed it.

"For now? Nothing. Publicly, we acknowledge only seven Masters and seven Servants. Ruler's presence is already deviation enough. Adding a Belmont to the narrative would create confusion. Panic."

Kirei added, "And if the vampire rumors are true, admitting them would suggest we allowed them to root here. That would undermine the Church."

"So we lie?" the younger priest asked, unable to hide the disapproval in his voice.

"We contain," Risei corrected. "And we observe."

Kirei's eyes lingered on the candle flames, their glow dancing in silent rhythm.

"Send another Assassin," Risei said after a moment. "Quietly. If he is truly one of them, we need to know what he's preparing. And whether his presence will help… or interfere."

No one in the room spoke for a long time. The candles burned low. Somewhere above them, the cathedral bell tolled once — soft, distant. As the other priests began to gather their papers, Kirei remained still, eyes half-lidded, fingers steepled under his chin.

A Belmont… alive and active, in the middle of their holy war.

He had never met one before. Only read the archives — names etched in blood and ash. Hunters who walked outside the Church's authority, sanctified by their own legacy. Unruly. Unyielding. Unholy... but effective.

And if the stories were true… if there were vampires lurking behind the curtain of this war… then perhaps fate had invited something even darker to the table.

Kirei's gaze flicked toward the closed folder on the table.

He did not smile. But something moved behind his eyes — the faint glint of curiosity sharpening into interest.

"A hunter of monsters among heroes and madmen… Let us see what he reveals when the blood  begins to flow."

He stood, silent and unhurried, as the light dimmed behind him.

Chapter Text

The Tohsaka estate, as always, was dimly lit—its grand walls casting long shadows, a silent monument to tradition and power.

Kirei stood at attention, his posture immaculate, his voice as calm and measured as ever.

“As we suspected, the Master aligned with Ruler has been identified,” he reported. “His name is Victor Belmont.”

Tokiomi, seated with steepled fingers, barely concealed his frown. His brows furrowed in thought, eyes narrowing as if trying to parse a particularly troublesome equation.

“Belmont…” he repeated, the word slow, cautious, as if tasting something unpleasant. “I have heard that name in the old records. Hunters. A family that meddles in things they ought not to. Heretic blood. Dangerous ideas. A will tempered not by magic—but belief. And worse, he's already fought a Servant and survived.”

Archer, lounging on the low couch nearby, idly swirling wine in a crystal goblet, glanced over with mild interest.

“Belmont,” he echoed, voice low and faintly amused. “Ah, yes… the line of mongrels who made a sport of killing monsters. So they still exist.”

He tilted his head slightly, golden eyes narrowing in thought.

“Primitive creatures, Belmonts. Amusing, in a way. They believe themselves righteous, yet refuse to bow to proper kingship. A defiant pest, not a worthy bloodline.”

Kirei’s gaze shifted subtly toward Archer but betrayed nothing.
“The Church intends to keep his presence... contained. Officially, he does not exist within the parameters of this war.”

Tokiomi’s frown deepened. “A complication, then. If he were merely a heretical hunter, that would be one thing. But if he is a Belmont…” his fingers tapped lightly on the table, “and he has aligned with Ruler, this could upset the balance. Even Joan of Arc seems fond of him."

Kirei’s voice was even, almost thoughtful.

“The Church is hesitant to acknowledge the possibility of vampires in Fuyuki. They fear that confirming such a presence would expose their failure to protect the city.”

Archer chuckled, low and sharp. “How delightful. The so-called guardians of faith, too afraid to name the darkness that walks among them. A fool, then. Holy woman or not."

Tokiomi exhaled slowly, as if making a decision.

“Then we must be certain. If this Belmont has come to Fuyuki, it is not merely by chance. We need to understand his motivations. The whip, the symbols, the refusal to play the war's game. He’s not here for the Grail—yet he won’t leave.”

Kirei inclined his head. “I will deploy Assassin to observe them. Quietly.”

Archer sipped his wine, his smile thin and cruel. “Send your shadows, then. Let them scurry after the hunter and his saint. We shall see how long they last.”

Tokiomi gave a single nod, eyes distant with calculation. “Do not engage. Watch, and report.”

Kirei turned without another word, the candlelight catching the faint gleam in his eyes.

From the darkness beyond, as if summoned by the mere thought, a whisper stirred—Assassin, unseen but ever-present, already moving to obey. The door closed softly behind Kirei, leaving the Tohsaka estate in the quiet hush of flickering candlelight.

For a moment, neither man spoke.

Tokiomi reached for a crystal decanter, pouring himself a small measure of wine with the same precision he applied to his magecraft. The glass clinked softly as he set it down, his fingers tapping a measured rhythm against the stem.

Gilgamesh remained sprawled on the chaise, one leg draped lazily over the arm, golden eyes half-lidded. His goblet caught the firelight, liquid shimmering like molten rubies.

“A Belmont,” Tokiomi murmured, almost to himself. “An anomaly. The Grail was meant for magi… not relics of bygone superstition.”

Gilgamesh chuckled—low, smooth, a rich sound filled with disdain. “They are mongrels, Tokiomi. Scavengers in the dark, chasing things they barely understand. The idea that such a creature could stand among heroes and kings... laughable.”

Tokiomi’s expression barely shifted, though a faint line of tension crept into his brow.

“Perhaps. But even mongrels have teeth, Gilgamesh. If the stories hold true… Belmonts have hunted creatures of the night for centuries—creatures that have eluded even the Church’s vigilance.”

Gilgamesh tilted his head, a thin, almost amused smile playing on his lips. “An interesting distinction. The Church fears what they cannot control. The Belmonts, it seems, simply kill it.”

Tokiomi’s gaze sharpened. “That is precisely what troubles me.”

For a moment, they sat in thoughtful silence—the master and his king, each considering the implications in their own way.

Tokiomi sipped his wine, voice measured.

“If there are indeed vampires at play in this war… and if this Belmont hunts them, not for the Grail, but for some other purpose… it introduces a wild card. His goals do not align with ours. That could disrupt the balance of power.”

Gilgamesh’s eyes glinted—sharp, cold, entertained. “Let the mongrel chase his prey. If he becomes troublesome, I will cut him down myself.”

Tokiomi did not argue. But in the flickering candlelight, his gaze remained distant, the weight of a magus lord calculating unseen variables.

“The Grail must not fall into unworthy hands,” he murmured.

Gilgamesh’s smile widened, slow and feral. “Then let the hunt begin.”

The penthouse air was thick with the subtle scent of brandy and polished wood. Fuyuki’s skyline shimmered beyond the glass, but within the room, tension hung heavier than the city fog. Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald sat behind his polished desk, one hand idly swirling a glass of brandy, the other tapping against the dark wood in an impatient rhythm.

Lancer stood nearby, arms folded, his posture relaxed but alert, as if ready to be summoned into battle at any moment.

Sola-Ui stood nearby, arms folded gracefully across her chest, her sharp gaze occasionally flickering toward the window—though more often, it lingered on the quiet figure of Lancer standing at attention by the wall.

“So…” Kayneth mused, voice sharp and tinged with disdain, “the so-called ‘Ruler’s Master’ is a Belmont.” A hunter of beasts, little more than a mongrel in the annals of history. And now, he fancies himself a Master in a contest of true magecraft.”

He scoffed, swirling his glass. “The sheer audacity.”

Lancer inclined his head slightly, his tone careful, measured.

“I’ve heard whispers… in the old stories. A clan that hunted creatures of darkness. Vampires, demons… things that preyed upon the innocent. Even so, Master, his skill in the last skirmish was… notable. He defended Ruler with precision and decisiveness.”

Sola-Ui’s lips curved faintly, her gaze sharpening as it flicked toward Lancer. “As was yours, Diarmuid.”

Her voice was soft, but there was a lingering warmth in it—a subtle current of admiration.
Lancer’s gaze shifted, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features, but he bowed his head in quiet acknowledgment.

“I serve as best I can, my lady.”

Kayneth’s expression tightened, though whether at Sola-Ui’s praise or the subject at hand, it was hard to say.

“Fairy tales and peasant superstitions. What relevance do such stories have in the modern era? The Holy Grail War is a contest of true magecraft, not folklore and sharpened sticks.”

Lancer turned his gaze outward, toward the dark skyline of Fuyuki. His tone was calm, but edged with quiet conviction.

“Perhaps. But if the tales hold any truth… a man who has spent his life fighting the unnatural may possess skills that even magecraft cannot easily counter.”

Kayneth exhaled through his nose, dismissive. “That hunter is an aberration. An unsanctioned variable. He has no place in this war—nor does that Ruler Servant of his. They are interlopers. The Grail is not meant for the hands of heretics and hunters—it is a prize for those of true lineage. Of proper blood. For proper magi alone.”

Lancer remained silent, but there was a thoughtful glint in his eye. He had seen the hunter’s stance, the way Victor moved—deliberate, controlled. Not a mage, perhaps, but a man well-acquainted with danger.

Kayneth continued, voice low and certain. “This… Belmont may have skill, but it will not avail him against true magecraft. Nor will it save him from the likes of us.”

Sola-Ui’s gaze lingered a moment longer on Lancer, then drifted lazily toward the window, lips curling in the barest smile. “We shall see.”

Lancer nodded, but there was a subtle tension in his shoulders, as if part of him disagreed—but his loyalty to Kayneth bound him.

“I understand, Master. Still… we should not underestimate him.”

Kayneth waved a hand dismissively. “We will proceed as planned. The Belmont is of no consequence. Once I claim the Grail, his little games will end alongside the others.”

His voice dripped with cold certainty.

But Lancer’s gaze lingered on the horizon, thoughtful. His instincts whispered otherwise.

The afternoon sun bathed the streets of Fuyuki in pale gold as Waver Velvet walked briskly, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, the hem fluttering slightly in the breeze. A notebook peeked from his inner pocket, worn from use, dog-eared and marked with his cramped handwriting. Rider ambled along at his side, hands behind his head, utterly unbothered by the quiet tension radiating from his Master.

“Still thinking about them?” Rider asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His voice rumbled like distant thunder, playful but edged with curiosity.

“Of course I am,” Waver muttered, his gaze fixed ahead but not really seeing the street. His mind was elsewhere—specifically on the two figures they’d witnessed battling Berserker. The man, dark-haired, wielding a whip that shimmered with faint blue light. And the woman, clad in armor, sword gleaming in the moonlight. Together, they had held their ground against Berserker. That wasn’t something Waver could ignore.

Especially not after he’d spotted that crest—the symbol stitched into the man’s jacket: a crimson insignia, faded with time but unmistakable once he’d cross-referenced it in the musty corners of his borrowed texts.

“The Belmont family,” Waver muttered under his breath, almost like a curse, and glanced at Rider as if expecting some grand proclamation from the King of Conquerors.

Rider hummed, as if tasting the name on his tongue. “Monster hunters, yes?”

“More than that.” Waver’s voice sharpened, eyes narrowing. “They’re not just hunters—they’re a lineage. A whole family of… well, exterminators. Vampires, demons, creatures of the night—they’ve been at it for centuries. And that man—Victor Belmont—he’s one of them. I matched the crest on his jacket to old records. It wasn’t easy, but the threads are there.”

He tapped the side of his notebook, the pages filled with notes and barely-legible scrawl. Names. Dates. Battle records from scattered sources—some Japanese, some European. All converging on that name: Belmont.

“And that woman—Joan of Arc—he fights with her. Like equals. That’s what I can’t make sense of. The Belmonts usually fight alone. Or if they do have allies, they’re not… Servants. He’s not a proper Master, Rider. He’s not on any registry. Yet here he is, in the thick of the Grail War, fighting side-by-side with a legend. That’s… That’s not how this is supposed to work.”

Rider let out a low chuckle, rubbing his chin as if pondering a puzzle. “Perhaps the Grail saw fit to grant him a warrior to stand with. Or perhaps they found one another, drawn by shared purpose. Either way, they fought well together, did they not?”

“They fought Berserker to a standstill,” Waver muttered. “And they lived. That’s more than most could say.”

Rider’s eyes gleamed, his tone turning almost admiring. “A man who faces monsters and lives… That is no ordinary mortal.”

“No,” Waver agreed softly, his brow furrowed. “But that’s the problem. We don’t know where he stands. Belmonts have a history of… singular focus. They kill monsters. Period. They don’t take sides in human conflicts unless the monsters are involved. So why is he here? What does he want from the Grail?”

He paused, kicking a loose pebble on the pavement, his voice lowering as if speaking the thought aloud might summon trouble. “He’s not a proper Master... he doesn’t have Command Seals, or at least none we’ve seen. What if he sees us as monsters too? We’re Masters in a war for a wish. And there are… vampires involved in this war. If he’s here to end them…”

“Then we should invite him to drink with us!” Rider said, laughing, the booming sound echoing down the street. His grin was broad, his confidence unshaken. “A man like that—he has the strength to stand beside kings, does he not? And I like men who know how to fight.”

Waver scowled, glaring up at him. “You would think that. But we can’t afford to trust him yet. Not until we know his intentions.”

“And what will you do, boy?” Rider asked, raising an eyebrow, his grin turning sly. “Spy on him? Track him like a frightened hare?”

“I’ll observe,” Waver snapped, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed his nerves. “We need to know if they’re friend or foe before we risk anything.”

Rider clapped a hand on Waver’s shoulder, nearly sending him stumbling. “Bah! Allies or not, we’ll face them when the time comes. For now, let us see what fate has in store. If he stands with Joan of Arc… perhaps he is worth our trust.”

Waver crossed his arms, half-grumbling, half-accepting Rider’s words, but his eyes stayed sharp, calculating. Watching. Always watching.

Later that afternoon, the city was alive with weekend energy: the sizzle of food stalls, chatter of families, the distant beat of street musicians echoing through the air. It was the kind of afternoon that could almost make you forget there was a war lurking just out of sight.

Almost.

Waver trailed behind Rider, his notebook clutched under one arm, eyes sharp as they cut through the crowds. After that brutal clash with Berserker, Waver had been restless, digging through every scrap of information he could find. The Belmont crest—Victor's jacket had practically burned itself into his mind. He'd found fragments in old tomes, whispers of a family that once hunted creatures of the night. Nothing concrete, but enough to make him wary. Enough to make him wonder how that quiet, dangerous man had ended up here, standing alongside a Ruler-class Servant.

And then they saw them.

Joan was the first to catch Waver’s eye—a golden-haired figure in a sharp, slightly rumpled school uniform jacket, the tie loosened casually, skirt neat but simple. Her thigh-high socks and polished loafers gave her a kind of soft, unassuming presence, a striking contrast to the weight she carried in battle. She looked like she could have been any other student lingering after class. Except for the way she held herself—balanced, purposeful. Not relaxed. Never fully relaxed.

And beside her… him.

Victor Belmont, in the flesh. He cut a different figure entirely: a fitted navy-blue henley, sleeves casually rolled to the elbows, dark denim that hugged his frame just enough to suggest a man ready to move, to fight, at any moment. The black bomber jacket slung across his shoulders had seen better days—scuffed at the edges, sleeves pushed back to reveal forearms flecked with faint old scars. A simple leather choker rested against his collarbone, the subtle glint of the Belmont crest at its center catching the sunlight—a quiet, private tribute to a lineage he'd never advertise out loud.

His boots—worn, scuffed leather, ready for rough terrain—echoed softly against the pavement as he walked beside Joan, shoulders squared but tense, eyes sweeping the crowd like a predator in the wild.

Rider noticed them first, of course, grinning wide as a man who’d just stumbled upon an old friend in the most unlikely place. “Ah! The Saint and the Hunter!” he boomed, striding forward without a care in the world. “Fancy seeing you here! I was hoping we’d meet again!”

Joan paused, blinking in polite surprise before a warm smile spread across her face. She inclined her head graciously, her hands lightly clasped in front of her. The loose braid draped over her shoulder shifted as she nodded. “King of Conquerors. It is a pleasure.”

Victor didn’t say a word—just watched, his gaze narrowing slightly, shoulders straightening like a coiled spring. Waver noticed the way his hand twitched at his side, not quite a fist, not quite open. The kind of man who measured every conversation in the space between breaths.

Rider’s grin widened, ever the bold one. “You two fought well the other night. Berserker is no easy opponent to survive. A toast to your grit, eh?”

Victor’s reply was blunt. “We didn’t die. That’s all.”

His tone wasn’t rude, but it was flat—distant, like he was speaking through a wall of caution. His eyes flicked to Waver for the briefest moment, sharp and assessing, as if he could see straight through the nervous student and into the threads of the war behind him.

Joan, ever the diplomat, softened the air with her voice. “It was a difficult night. But thank you. We are… grateful to still stand.”

Her glance toward Victor was subtle, almost unnoticeable—an unspoken Victor, please, not here. But he remained rigid, a statue carved from iron.

And when Rider, with his ever-present charm, leaned forward with a grin and said, “Well then, why not join forces? We could all benefit from a little cooperation, wouldn’t you say?” Joan hesitated.

There was a flicker in her eyes, a faint tilt of her head toward Victor.

And that was when Victor spoke. Low, measured, firm. Final.

“No.”

Just that. No explanation, no apology. His gaze hardened, a faint crease between his brows as if the very idea of alliance was an insult. Waver could see it, the weight behind that single word. No teams. No allies. This isn’t a game, and I won’t trust you. It wasn’t arrogance—it was survival. The look of a man who had lost too much to ever risk it again.

Joan’s expression softened, but she didn’t argue. Her hands shifted slightly, a quiet grace in her posture, as if to say This is how it is. I will follow where he leads.

Rider chuckled, not offended in the least, though there was a glint in his eye now—keen, thoughtful. “A lone wolf, eh? I can respect that. But be careful, Belmont. Wars like this… they eat men who think they can stand alone.”

Victor didn’t flinch, but Waver noticed the way his jaw tightened, the briefest flicker of something in his eyes—a shadow. He said nothing, just gave a curt nod and turned, walking away with Joan in step beside him.

Joan cast a final, fleeting glance back—just for a moment, like the faintest trace of what if—before disappearing into the crowd.

Waver let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of Victor’s presence lingering long after he was gone.

“That man,” Waver muttered quietly, voice tight, “he’s not like the others. He’s… dangerous. Not in the same way as the Servants—but dangerous all the same.”

Rider grinned, folding his arms as he watched the spot where they had vanished. “Oh, I know. He’s a man walking a lonely road, boy. But those are the ones the stories remember—for better, or worse.”

And the city swallowed them back into its flow, leaving only whispers in their wake.

Einzbern Castle

The rain had started to fall—light, almost a mist—veiling the city beyond the manor windows in a cold, grey haze. The study was steeped in quiet tension, lit only by the muted glow of a desk lamp. Rain whispered against the glass, a soft counterpoint to the storm brewing in their thoughts.

Kiritsugu sat in a worn chair, a cigarette between his fingers, the tip glowing faintly as he exhaled a long, measured breath. The smoke curled into the air, like a predator waiting in the dark. His eyes weren’t on the chessboard in front of him. They were far away, calculating, always calculating.

“That man, he’s an anomaly,” he murmured, voice low, thoughtful. “The man who fought beside Ruler—no Command Seals. A eighth Master. And not one accounted for in the system. No Master registration. No trace in the usual channels.”

Across the room, Maiya leaned against the wall, arms folded, her eyes cold and sharp. “A variable. Unregistered, unconfirmed. His presence complicates the War. He fought like a professional. Clean form, controlled strikes. That whip—old-fashioned, but effective. He wasn’t just flailing around. He must be treated like the others—an obstacle.”

Kiritsugu’s gaze narrowed slightly, recalling the way Victor moved—precise, calculated, yet almost restrained. A man who knew how to fight... and when to hold back.

Irisviel’s voice broke the tension, soft yet uncertain. “But he stepped in to stop Berserker and fought to protect Ruler. That is not the action of a man who seeks destruction for its own sake.”

Kiritsugu’s response was immediate, a flicker of cold steel in his tone. “Or it’s a calculated move to gain trust. Step in when it benefits him... and vanish when it doesn’t.”

Saber, standing near the window, turned to face them. Her expression was composed, but her eyes glinted with quiet intensity. “He may be a threat... but that does not make him an enemy. Perhaps he simply chose to do the right thing.”

Kiritsugu’s gaze snapped to her, the faintest furrow creasing his brow. “We don’t get to assume ‘the right thing’ in this war, Saber. Everyone has a motive. And if he’s not a formal Master, that makes him unpredictable—dangerous.”

Saber held his gaze, unflinching. Her thoughts drifted back to the battle—the way Victor had moved, shoulder to shoulder with Ruler, yet always a step apart. Not reckless, but cautious. Focused. The glint of the crest at his throat—a subtle but intentional marker. He fought as though it mattered, yet when it came to introductions... he withheld his name.

“I don’t think he’s seeking the Grail in the same way as the others,” Saber said quietly. “He seemed... burdened.”

Kiritsugu’s lips thinned, his features carved in shadow. “A burden is no excuse. He’s still a Master in the War. If he stands in the way of the Grail…he’s an obstacle. And obstacles must be removed.”

Maiya’s voice was cold, cutting. “Or hiding something.”

Irisviel’s hands folded tighter in her lap. “Either way... he didn’t give a name. Not even to Ruler. He seemed… kind. In a quiet way. Not unfeeling, but... guarded. I wonder what drives him.”

A beat of silence.

Kiritsugu’s eyes darkened, his mind sharpening like a blade honed on stone. “Exactly. Until we know what he’s after... we watch. We don’t engage unless forced to.”

Maiya’s nod was subtle, her posture never wavering. “Understood.”

Saber turned back toward the window, her expression unreadable. Yet deep inside, something tugged at her—an echo of familiarity in the way Victor carried himself, in the way he fought with conviction yet seemed weighed down by it. A man of purpose... or perhaps of ghosts.

She didn’t say it aloud.

For now, they had no answers—only questions.

But Saber couldn’t shake the sense that he was a piece on the board none of them had accounted for. And that kind of piece could change everything.

Safehouse, Late Night

The soft hum of the safe house’s old refrigerator buzzed faintly in the background, but the air between them was anything but calm. Joan leaned back in her chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest, a rare frown tugging at her lips. She looked at Victor with a look of sharpness, disappointment, and deeply concern.

“You were rude today,” she said, voice carrying a quiet, steady insistence. “Rider was being polite. And Waver... he’s just a boy trying to navigate a nightmare. You could have been more civil.”

Victor stood by the window, his arms crossed, shoulders tense. The faint streetlights outside caught the edges of his dark henley, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, and the subtle gleam of the Belmont crest on his choker. His bomber jacket hung off the chair nearby, like a shadow waiting to be picked up.

He stared out into the dark, his profile sharp and unyielding.

“You call that polite?” he muttered, voice low, tight.

Joan arched an eyebrow, waiting.

Victor finally turned, meeting her gaze head-on, and there was an edge in his voice—a quiet, simmering frustration that had been building since the fight with Berserker.

“Waver’s a Master. Rider’s his Servant. That makes them a team, no matter how friendly they act. They asked us questions and offered help like it’s all casual. Like they’re not competitors in a war that’ll tear this city apart.” His tone sharpened. “They watched us fight Berserker, and now they come offering pleasantries?”

Joan’s frown deepened, but she didn’t interrupt.

Victor paced a step, hands moving as he spoke, the frustration leaking into his posture.

“I’ve seen it before—people get friendly when they want something. Maybe they’re curious why I’m standing next to you without any command seals. Maybe they’re wondering how the guy with the whip fits into their little chess game.”

Joan’s voice softened, but her eyes didn’t waver. “Not everyone has an angle, Victor.”

He stopped, turning back toward her with a look that almost—almost—bordered on pity.

“Everyone has an angle in a war, Joan. And the moment we forget that, we’re done.”

The room settled into a heavy silence, the weight of Victor’s words hanging between them.

Joan’s arms loosened slightly, but her voice was firm. “Rider and Waver aren’t like the others. Waver... he looked scared, not scheming. And Rider...” she shook her head. “He seemed like someone who wanted to make the best of a bad situation. They didn’t have to talk to us. They could have attacked.”

Victor exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck, a bitter scoff in his breath.

“Or they could be gathering intel. Testing the waters. Seeing if we’re a threat.”

Joan frowned, her patience thinning. “Victor, you can’t shut everyone out.”

“I’m not shutting people out, Joan. I’m keeping us alive. That’s the only way I know how.”

A sharp crackle of something—a shift—outside the window snapped his attention. His eyes narrowed, and his whole posture tensed like a wolf catching a scent.

He didn’t even glance at Joan when he muttered, “Stay here.”

Before she could argue, he was at the door, slipping outside with a predator’s grace.

The cold air hit him like a wall, but he barely noticed. His gaze swept the street, scanning the darkness, the hair at the back of his neck standing on end.

He spoke into the night, voice sharp, cutting through the stillness like a blade unsheathed.

“I know you’re there. Step lightly, or don’t step at all.”

For a breath, nothing moved. Then—a ripple. A figure in the shadows, too faint to see clearly, tensed, hesitated—then retreated. Fading into the night like smoke in the wind.

Victor’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t follow. He stood still, listening. The presence was gone. For now. “A flicker of hesitation. Whoever it was—Assassin, most likely—they didn’t want to risk it.”

Victor’s lips curled faintly—not a smile, but something colder. ‘Coward,’ he muttered. When he came back inside, he was quiet, shoulders still tight, his gaze distant as he shut the door.

“Someone was watching,” he said, voice low, but not surprised.

Joan straightened in her chair, concern flashing in her eyes.

“Who?”

Victor’s lips tightened. “Assassin, maybe. Or one of the others. Either way, they didn’t want to be seen.”

He dropped into a chair across from her, running a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe the weight of the night away.

Joan’s eyes softened again, the earlier tension fading—just a little.

Victor leaned back, exhaling slowly, the choker at his neck catching the light. His voice, when it came, was quieter, but firm.

“They’re all watching. All of them. And the second we let our guard down, we’re next.”

Joan didn’t argue this time. She simply watched him, a shadow of worry flickering in her expression.

Outside, the city settled into uneasy silence. But in the shadows, the pieces were still moving. And somewhere out there, the night whispered promises of blood yet to be spilled.

Chapter Text

Fuyuki Church — Underground Hall, Night

The shadows of the Church pulsed with quiet life, ancient stone drinking in every whisper and footstep like blood to the soil. The air was still—too still. Assassin emerged from the darkness, materializing before the altar like a ghost stepping through a veil. He kneeled, head bowed, cloak still dripping faintly with night mist, though no footsteps had marked his return.

Kirei Kotomine stood with his back to him, hands clasped behind him. The silence lingered a moment longer before his voice broke it—low, calm, exact.

"…He saw me," the shadow whispered.

Kirei didn't move. "Explain."

Assassin's voice slithered through the cold air, a thing without breath, without form.

"I made no sound. I disturbed no air. I moved as I always do—unfelt, unseen. But the hunter…Belmont… he turned." The whisper grew sharper, tinged with something like offended disbelief. "He didn't hear me. He knew. He felt me."

Kirei's brow furrowed slightly.

"I remained beyond the radius of any normal detection. My presence was masked. Still, he spoke. Called me out. His tone was not surprised. He knew where I was."

A long silence followed.

Then, Assassin added, almost reluctant. "His threat… was not bravado. He could have struck if I lingered."

Kirei turned his gaze slightly toward the flickering candlelight.

"Curious," he murmured. "No magecraft you could sense?"

"None. No bounded field. No spell-formulae. No incantation. No wards. Nothing active—and yet… something was there. A presence in the air. Like he heard more than sound."

Another pause.

Then a final, grudging whisper. "It was like… the world whispered to him. I've observed mages, trained killers, even other Servants. None have felt me like that—not without magic. This man is… something else."

Kirei studied him, thoughtful. "And Ruler?"

"She said nothing. She remained inside. If she sensed me, she made no move to reveal it."

Kirei stepped down from the altar slowly, the heels of his shoes echoing across the stone like a clock ticking down. "So. He has no command seals, no formal summoning, and yet he senses Servants like a predator smells blood."

Assassin did not speak.

Kirei turned, looking toward the stained-glass window that filtered moonlight in pale streaks across the floor.

"No magecraft… and yet he sees through illusion."

Kirei remained silent for several heartbeats, absorbing the report.

At last, he spoke, quiet but firm.

"Then we were right to be cautious. Victor Belmont is not merely a hunter. He is something older. Something trained to detect the inhuman."

Assassin's form rippled, uneasy.

"He will be difficult to approach again."

"Then don't." Kirei turned fully now, eyes glinting. "For now, we observe. If he can sense you…then he can sense others. Let the others underestimate him. Let them believe him to be a fluke. That will be their mistake."

Assassin bowed lower, though the shadows seemed to tremble faintly.

"And what of the Church's silence?"

Kirei's voice was smooth. "We say nothing. We let the hunter remain the mystery. Even to those who pretend to be gods."

The shadows recoiled, and in a blink, Assassin was gone.

Kirei remained alone in the hall, eyes narrowed faintly.

"A man with no magic… who sees what isn't there."

He closed his eyes, a faint echo of something—interest? amusement?—tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Curious."

Safehouse, Morning Light

The early sun filtered through the blinds in soft slats, casting warm lines across the hardwood floor. A kettle hissed faintly on the stovetop, the comforting scent of black tea mingling with the cool, clean scent of morning rain still clinging to the windows.

Victor stood barefoot on the balcony outside, bomber jacket thrown loosely over his shoulders. His eyes were closed. Hands relaxed at his sides. Still as stone.

Joan watched him from the open doorway, arms folded gently, leaning against the frame.

She said nothing for a long while. Just watched as his breath moved in sync with the wind. Calm. Rhythmic. Listening.

Finally, she spoke. "You sensed someone last night. Before they even made a sound."

Victor opened his eyes. "Yeah. Assassin." His tone was matter-of-fact, but not dismissive.

She stepped out beside him, her arms still folded, but her gaze curious. "You didn't cast any spells. No magic circle. No incantation. And yet you knew they were there."

Victor nodded slowly. "I didn't need to cast anything. I was already listening."

Joan raised an eyebrow. "To what?"

He glanced at her, then back at the street below. His voice was steady, not unkind—but measured, like someone who had given this explanation before and rarely found it welcome.

"Speaker Magic isn't like magecraft," he said. "It doesn't draw on incantations, runes, or circuits. It isn't about imposing will on the world. It's about attunement."

"Attunement?" Joan echoed softly.

Victor turned to face her more directly now. "Everything speaks, Joan. The wind, the floorboards, the iron in the walls. They remember motion. They echo it. A Speaker doesn't force change. We listen to what's already there. What the world is already telling us."

She looked at him—not confused, but thoughtful.

He continued, gesturing to the wooden rail of the balcony. "When Assassin crept near, the air pressure shifted. Not enough for most to notice. But the wood beneath the balcony... it tightened slightly. The insects went still. The sound of night held its breath."

Joan blinked. "You noticed all that?"

"I listened," he said again. "That's what a Speaker does."

There was a pause. A breeze passed between them, gentle but cold.

Joan leaned against the railing. "That's… beautiful, in its way. But if it's so natural, why don't more mages use it?"

Victor let out a quiet scoff—more tired than bitter. "Because they don't respect it."

He looked down at the street, hands in his jacket pockets now. "To most modern mages, Speaker Magic is considered primitive. Low-grade. Folk craft. They think it's soft. Weak. Not enough theory, not enough power." He shrugged once. "They want results. Flash. Force. Formulas. The idea that you can listen your way into power? They'd laugh."

"But it's not weak," Joan said quietly.

"No," Victor agreed. "It's precise. And alive. It's harder to learn. It asks for humility. Most mages don't have that."

He paused for a moment before adding, "It's why my mother's side never got along with traditional mage clans. They respected the world's voice. Not the world's laws."

Joan tilted her head slightly, studying him. "You trust this magic more than your weapons."

Victor nodded. "It's the difference between knowing there's a trap… and walking into it because your spell didn't trigger."

Joan smiled faintly. "And here I thought you were just naturally paranoid."

Victor allowed himself a small breath of amusement. "That too."

They stood in silence for a beat longer, the morning settling around them in golden hues and low city sounds.

Joan finally broke it, her tone gentle. "Thank you. For explaining."

Victor didn't look at her, but his voice was softer now. "I trust you enough to know you won't treat it like a joke."

Joan nodded, her gaze still on him. "Never."

Midday, Fuyuki City – Downtown Market District

The city was loud and alive with weekend activity. Crowds moved between stalls, chattering, buying fruit, haggling for goods. Children's laughter echoed off brick walls. It would've felt almost normal, if not for the signs.

Victor slowed his pace, his eyes locking onto a cork board nailed to a cracked brick wall.

"Joan," he called, voice low.

She turned, hands tucked into the pockets of her uniform jacket. Her casual look made her blend in—almost. But the intensity in her expression always set her apart.

He stepped closer to the wall. Several flyers fluttered in the breeze. At first glance, they looked like lost pet posters or community events—but one, in particular, caught Joan's attention.

A child's face. Grainy and slightly faded. Smiling awkwardly for a school photo. Missing.

Her breath caught. "This is the third one we've seen today."

Victor's jaw tightened. "Same age group. Similar areas." He scanned the details—time, date, last seen. "All after sunset. All within residential zones. Mostly quiet neighborhoods. No sign of forced entry listed."

Joan turned to a nearby street vendor, her tone polite but firm. "Excuse me, do you know anything about the children who've gone missing?"

The old woman at the cart looked up, startled. "Ah... yes. There have been a few, sadly. The police haven't said much. But... one boy's body was found near the riverbank. Two others haven't turned up at all."

Victor's hand clenched slightly in his pocket.

The woman glanced around, lowering her voice. "People are saying... strange things. One girl was found with no eyes. Another with her tongue gone. The police aren't talking, but the parents... they know something's wrong."

"Thank you," Joan said gently, offering a comforting nod.

As they walked away, Joan's expression hardened. "This isn't just missing children."

"No," Victor said. "It's deliberate. Staged. The injuries... they're ritualistic."

Joan's voice dropped. "You think it's Caster?"

Victor didn't answer immediately. His eyes swept the street like they were tracking smoke only he could see.

"Not certain. But the timing fits. After his first appearance... the disappearances spiked. This feels like a prelude to something bigger." He frowned. "But he's not making demands. Not sending messages. No signature. No patterns mages would recognize."

"Then what is he doing?" Joan asked.

Victor's eyes narrowed. "Taking. Not for attention. For something else."

A pause. Then he added, "We're not looking at a mage. We're looking at a predator."

Joan's fingers curled at her sides, her voice low and sure. "Then we'll find him. We have to."

Victor nodded slowly, though his gaze was distant—already working through the puzzle.

He muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her: "Kids vanish. Some show up mutilated. No signs of arcane residue. No bounded fields. No wards. Either he's using a different kind of magic... or it's not magic at all."

Joan looked to him, uncertain. "Then how do we find him?"

He glanced at the sun overhead, then back to the quiet alleys behind them. "We follow what the Church won't. We go where the streets go quiet. The city's talking. We just have to listen."

Joan stepped forward beside him. "Then let's listen."

Together, they moved deeper into the city. Behind them, the flyer fluttered in the wind—forgotten by most. But not by them.

Nightfall – Fuyuki's Old Riverside District

The sun had long since dipped below the rooftops, leaving the sky a canvas of deep indigo, smeared with the orange glow of distant streetlights. The city felt quieter here. Not empty—but watchful. The kind of silence that pressed against your ears, like the world was holding its breath.

Victor and Joan walked in step down a narrow, sloping street, their shadows stretching long behind them. No cars. No barking dogs. No children laughing through open windows.

Just quiet.

Victor's jacket fluttered slightly in the breeze. One hand rested near his hip, close to the hidden whip holster under his coat. His other hand adjusted the choker lightly at his neck — absentminded, focused.

"They don't patrol here anymore," he muttered.

Joan looked around. "Too many disappearances?"

"Too much fear," he corrected. "Fear's a fog. Makes people stop asking questions."

They reached a crumbling stone bridge overlooking a narrow waterway. The reflection of the moon shimmered across the current like something alive.

Joan leaned against the railing. "Victor," she said softly. "Why are you still doing this?"

He paused. "Hunting?"

She nodded. "You don't owe these people anything. You're not part of this war. You could have walked away."

Victor was quiet for a long moment. The wind moved through the branches above them like a whisper.

"I used to think that too," he said finally. "That I could stay out of it. Just clean up the messes nobody else noticed."

He looked at her, his voice low. "But it doesn't matter if you're asked. It matters that someone does it. And when you can fight and choose not to? That's when the monsters win."

Joan's eyes softened. "That's what I've always believed. Even when they burned me for it."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and real. But not bitter.

Victor nodded. "You still carry that conviction."

"I have to," she said. "Even if the world forgets."

They stood there, side by side in silence, bound not by duty imposed—but by duty chosen.

And then—Victor stilled.

A sound.

Barefoot steps on stone.

Joan turned quickly, her eyes sharpening. At the end of the alley, partially obscured by the

flickering lamplight, a few children stood. Alone. Dressed in pale nightclothes. Eyes vacant. Not scared. Just... wrong.

Then another. Emerging from the shadows.

Then another.

Victor's voice dropped. "That's not right."

Joan stepped forward slowly. "They're enchanted."

Victor's hand hovered over his whip handle. "No bounded field. No aura. This is deep magic. Old, personal. Might be spiritual manipulation… or worse."

The children began walking. Slowly. Deliberately. Toward the derelict edge of the riverbank.

Joan's expression hardened. "We follow."

Victor nodded once. "No lights. Stay behind me."

The children moved silently, barefoot along the overgrown path, eyes vacant and hollow, their nightclothes stained with flecks of dirt and dried blood. Victor and Joan followed from a distance, staying in the shadows, their steps light and deliberate as they end towards the riverbank catacombs..

Victor whispered, "They're not alive in the traditional sense. Whatever Caster did, they're caught between."

Joan's grip on her sword's concealed hilt tightened, her expression solemn. "Souls twisted in limbo. They're being used."

The trail led beneath a collapsed archway, into an underground stone corridor—likely part of the old aqueduct system beneath Fuyuki's riverside. The air grew damp. The smell of mold and iron deepened. Not rust. Blood.

Joan stiffened. "He's here."

Victor said nothing. His body moved like a shadow at her flank, all his senses sharpened.

Then they heard it.

A giggle.

Light flared ahead—sickly, unnatural, green-blue. Torches made of twisted bone lined the corridor as they stepped into a crude chamber, half-flooded and reeking of death.

And at the center stood Caster.

Blue-robed, barefoot, eyes gleaming with euphoric madness. He spread his arms like a maestro in the center of a concert hall.

"You came!" he cried joyfully. "Oh, my radiant Jeanne! At last, you've graced my little cathedral of love!"

Joan's breath caught. Her eyes fell upon the "artwork."

Dozens of children's bodies—some dead, some barely alive—had been arranged along the walls, sewn into grotesque poses like religious icons. Their skin was carved with holy symbols — mockeries of Christian iconography. Some had candles embedded in their flesh. One twitched as it breathed, too weak to scream.

Victor stepped protectively in front of her, whip loosened in his grip.

Caster beamed like a proud lover. "Each one... a hymn in your honor. Their innocence sacrificed so that you might understand the depths of my devotion. Look how their silence sings to you, Jeanne!"

Joan stepped forward, slowly, her voice calm—but thunderous in its conviction.

"This… is evil."

Caster froze mid-rant.

She went on, her voice never rising, but sharper than any blade.

"This is not love. This is butchery. You twist the memory of God and innocence into something foul. These children were not yours to take. And I will never accept this."

Caster's grin twitched.

"But I did it for you, Jeanne! Don't you see? They were worms—useless, forgotten, unloved. I gave them purpose. I gave them to you!"

Joan's gaze was icy now. "You gave them pain. You desecrated their souls. You are not Gilles de Rais—you are only the shadow of the man I once knew."

The name hit like a whipcrack.

Caster twitched. Then snapped.

The giggle returned—higher, shrill, unhinged. "You deny me? Again?! After everything? Fine. If you won't return my love willingly, then I'll make you see! You will kneel, Saint! In awe of my miracle!"

Magic flared around him—liquid shadow spiraling into grotesque tendrils. The moaning children twitched, reacting to his surge of madness.

Victor was already moving. "Get ready!" he barked.

Joan drew her blade, the steel singing as it cleared its sheath.

"By God's mercy," she whispered, stepping forward, "you will not harm another child."

Caster screamed in rage—magic tearing from his form like a storm of howling phantoms. The chamber exploded into chaos. The water on the ground rose like writhing hands. Bone-laced tendrils surged from the walls, reaching, grabbing, screeching like dying children.

Victor's whip cracked out in a glowing arc, severing two tentacles mid-lunge. "Keep moving!" he shouted, eyes tracking Caster's position even as shadows buckled under the spellwork.

Joan surged forward beside him, blade in hand, shield crackling with a faint shimmer of holy energy. Caster's magic hissed as it met her divine aura, repelled like oil against fire. The way she moved—deliberate, knightly—cutting through the grotesque landscape without hesitation, made her feel untouchable.

Caster's grin twitched as he backpedaled. "Still the noble saint! Still the cold marble statue! But marble shatters!"

He lifted both hands. Screams echoed—not from his mouth, but from the walls. Dozens of children's mouths opened in unison—enchanted corpses vomiting cursed ichor and distorted hymns. The sound struck like an anti-prayer, a sonic weapon meant to twist stomachs and shatter focus.

Victor recoiled for half a second—but his fingers flared with a subtle Speaker gesture. He grounded himself, boots spread, one hand pressed to the stone.

"The floor's humming wrong—brace!"

Joan barely ducked in time as the ground cracked and ruptured, a burst of skeletal hands reaching up. Victor snapped his whip into the stone above, swinging them both to a ledge just as the floor collapsed into a writhing pit of teeth and phantasmal wailing.

"Together, they're too fluid," Caster muttered to himself, blood dripping from one corner of his mouth. "Too synced. I remember now—the whip cracked to drive her shield forward. He buys her moments. She gives him cover. No. No, no. We can't have that."

Caster shrieked, this time with purpose, slamming both hands onto the water's surface. A shockwave burst outward—magic-infused sound vibrating through the walls.

Victor and Joan were flung apart, tossed like dolls by the concussive blast. Victor slammed into a column with a grunt, disappearing behind a veil of rising dust and crumbling stone. His whip lay somewhere out of reach. Joan barely caught herself—her shield took the brunt of the wave, but the force drove her back, boots skidding along the soaked stone.

"Victor!" she called—but heard no answer.

Caster's voice rose like a hymn. "Perfect. Just the two of us."

He stepped forward, arms wide, the corrupted glow of his spell work dancing along the jagged chamber walls. The children's bodies—his so-called artwork—twitched faintly with residual magic, as if they were marionettes straining to dance.

Joan drew herself up, sword held in both hands now, her breath slow, steady. Her stance shifted subtly—more aggressive now. No longer the balanced, shield-forward stance she used when working with Victor. This was the stance of a lone knight.

Caster spun, giddy with unhinged delight. "Do you remember, Jeanne? The days we fought side by side? When my blade defended your purity, when I shed blood in your name?"

Joan's grip tightened.

"I remember," she said softly.

And then she struck.

She lunged forward, blade aimed straight for his chest. Caster barely dodged, shrieking as her sword scraped his shoulder.

He flung out a hand, and tendrils of magic lashed at her—but she was already moving, ducking under one, vaulting over another, slashing through a third.

"You were glorious then," he gasped, eyes alight with devotion and madness. "Your voice stirred armies. Your courage—incalculable. I would have razed heaven for you!"

Joan didn't falter. "And you chose hell instead."

Her blade carved into a summoned phantom mid-lunge, dissipating it in a burst of blue fire. She weaved through the battlefield, precise, fluid—graceful as a dancer, deadly as a blade in the night.

But every blow she struck, every clean movement, came with a ghost.

Gilles de Rais, as he was—resplendent in silver and blue armor, rallying the French flank at Patay. Gilles, laughing under a twilight sky, sword still wet with English blood. Gilles, pledging loyalty to her with a hand over his heart and a fire in his eyes that she once mistook for faith.

And then—

Gilles, as he became.

Laughing among burning bodies. Singing lullabies to corpses. Claiming his murders were "gifts" to her.

"I prayed for you," Joan whispered as she deflected another cursed tentacle. "Even after the trial. Even when they told me what you became. I prayed you'd find peace."

Caster shrieked, spinning in a mad flourish, his magic coiling around her like a serpent. "You burned! And they called you a saint! Why not me, Jeanne? Why not me?!"

She broke through his spell, cleaving the tendrils in a radiant arc. Her eyes burned with holy fire.

"Because I never murdered children and called it devotion."

Caster's fury snapped like a whip.

With a guttural cry, he slammed both hands into the blood-slick floor. The very walls groaned — and from behind her, three phantom limbs shot forward, spectral and massive.

Joan pivoted, slashing one aside, but the second wrapped around her leg. She twisted—but too late.

Caster surged forward and slammed into her, driving her into the wet stone with brutal force. Her sword clattered to the ground nearby.

He loomed over her now, panting, robe billowing like a twisted priest's vestment, eyes wide with frenzied joy. One hand pulsed with eldritch light, pressing against her shoulder to hold her down.

"You'll understand, Jeanne," he rasped. "When I show you the world as I see it. The world you abandoned."

Joan gritted her teeth, struggling beneath his weight, divine light still flickering against his spell. But his magic was wild and driven by obsession—it crackled like a current, biting at her with the raw emotion of a broken soul.

And still, her eyes did not break.

"I didn't abandon the world," she said, voice low but resolute. "I gave my life for it."

Caster raised his hand higher, a spiral of cursed glyphs forming in the air.

And for a heartbeat, in the cold silence beneath his looming form, she remembered the pyre.

The roaring fire. The mocking crowd. The choking smoke.

The quiet, final prayer.

"I died with no one left beside me—not my King, not my country... and not Gilles. He was  supposed to protect the flame, not drown it in blood. I fought for hope. And he—he turned that  hope into rot. If even the bravest knight could fall into madness... then what chance does any  companion truly have? Was it fate that left me alone—or was it my faith that failed?"

Her fingers trembled. Her eyes closed—just for a moment.

But the air shifted.

The stones underfoot hummed—not with magic, but with warning.

A pressure rolled through the chamber—not heavy, but resonant, like the first tremble before an earthquake.

A second later—crack—a pulse erupted from the rear of the room, and the air snapped like a taut wire.

Caster turned, just in time to see him.

Victor.

He strode through the half-collapsed archway like a ghost surfacing from a grave. No incantation. No flashy spell. Just a man wrapped in a shimmering aura of raw, unseen attunement — the very world leaning in to speak with him.

Speaker Magic danced invisibly at his heels—shimmering heat in the stone, whispers in the air pressure, the tension of the catacombs singing through his body like a symphony only he could hear.

His whip unraveled at his side, tip glowing faintly. Every step forward was measured, timed between the unnatural pulses of the corrupted chamber.

Caster sneered. "You again? A failed Master with a toy and a frown—"

Victor raised a hand.

The walls answered.

Water in the chamber flattened, suddenly still. Dust motes froze mid-air, caught between motion and silence. The spell Caster was weaving above Joan flickered, destabilized by something beneath it.

Speaker magic didn't erase Caster's magic—it found the frequency that held it together... and nudged.

The glyph shattered with a wail.

Joan's shield surged to life again as the pressure on her lifted. She gasped in air and scrambled back to her feet, sword in hand.

Caster's expression cracked, just a bit.

"You dared interrupt a moment of devotion?!"

Victor didn't yell. He didn't need to.

His voice was low. Steady. Deadly.

"You twisted her memory. You tortured children. And you think you're owed love?"

He snapped his whip forward.

It sang.

The strike wasn't raw force—it was precise, aimed directly at the fractured rhythm in the floor where Caster stood. The magic beneath his feet unraveled, forcing the Servant to leap backward as the very ground betrayed him.

Caster raised both arms, summoning a wall of bone-laced tendrils and cursed flame.

Victor didn't flinch.

He didn't have to see the attack. He heard it coming — the heat cracking the air, the stone groaning beneath the sudden pressure shift, the vibration of movement through the corpse - stained walls.

He slipped under the fire burst before it fully formed, whipping one tendril in half mid-leap, landing beside Joan.

"I owe you one," she breathed, shield raised again.

Victor's eyes stayed locked on Caster, cold with fury. "You good to stand?"

Joan nodded, stepping forward beside him. "I've stood in worse."

"Then we finish this."

Side by side again—one shielded in holy light, the other in the quiet harmony of the world itself — they advanced.

Caster stumbled back, the glee in his expression faltering. "No. No! This isn't how it goes. She's mine—this is my salvation!"

Victor's voice cut through the madness. "She's not yours. And I'm not letting you hurt anyone else."

Caster screamed—and the chamber screamed with him.

But this time, he wasn't facing a fractured knight or an unarmed Speaker.

This time, he faced both — together and ready.

The chamber howled. Caster's magic bled into every surface—twisting walls, water, even air into a nightmare canvas of screaming limbs and shrieking color. He moved like a conductor mid - crescendo, robes flaring with each gesture, phantoms bursting into form with every note of madness he summoned.

But Joan and Victor moved in tandem.

She went high — shield raised, blade glowing with holy light, cutting down screaming illusions as they surged forward.

He went low — gliding between the pulses of dark magic, his whip cracking at the tendrils' joints, disrupting spell circles before they could fully ignite. His feet barely made a sound, but the earth responded to his every step, like it recognized him as its own.

Joan deflected a cluster of phantom blades with her shield and called, "Left flank!"

Victor didn't hesitate—he snapped his whip toward the wall. A bolt of pressure rippled from it, striking a weakened column with pinpoint precision. The stone collapsed onto a batch of summoned abominations just before they could close on her blind side.

"Thanks," she muttered.

Victor's voice was calm, even as sweat trailed his temple. "Eyes on him. I've got the rest."

They were closing in.

Caster screamed. "NO! No no no no no—why must you always ruin it?! Even death didn't break your judgmental eyes, Jeanne!"

He thrust his hands downward—blood magic pulsing outward in a wide radius. The floor split, vomiting a tide of black ichor and malformed limbs.

Victor moved first. He planted his palm on the ground. His voice dropped into something deeper, rhythmic—a murmured Speaker call.

The pulse of corrupted magic met an unseen wall—the earth's own vibration, harmonized by Victor. The surge faltered.

Joan leapt through the opening.

Her sword flashed once.

Then twice.

Caster's shoulder split open in a spray of black smoke and shrieking energy. He reeled back, nearly falling—but scrambled away with a wild, desperate motion.

"Do you feel it, Gilles?" Joan's voice rang across the chamber. "This is the difference between love... and mercy."

Caster snarled, clutching his ruined arm. "You call this mercy?! After what you let them do to me? You left me to rot! To be judged!"

"You made your own judgment," she said coldly. "And you never stopped failing it."

Caster's eyes went wide. For the first time, there was something real behind them. Not devotion. Not madness.

Fear.

"No," he whispered. "Not yet—not here. The curtain hasn't dropped."

He turned sharply, blood trailing behind him. A burst of blinding blue light flared beneath his feet — a pre-laid teleport glyph, scribbled into the bones lining the floor.

Victor lashed out with his whip, trying to disrupt the escape, but the glyph activated too fast.

"Damn it!"

Caster vanished in a flash of smoke and screaming laughter, his voice echoing off the walls as it faded: "You'll see me again, my saint—my judgment! Our final act isn't over!"

Silence.

Only the sounds of dripping water and ragged breath remained.

Victor exhaled hard, shoulders dropping, magic dispersing around him like a breeze finally dying down.

Joan sheathed her sword, her shoulders trembling—not from fear, but fury held tight beneath a calm surface.

She whispered, "I couldn't stop him again..."

Victor, still watching where Caster had disappeared, replied quietly, "Next time."

Their eyes met. They didn't need to say it. Next time, they'd be ready. Together.

The stillness didn't last. The pulse that followed—the echo of the world being forced to listen — reached far beyond the blood-soaked stone.

In a clearing near the Einzbern forest, Saber opened her eyes mid-meditation. The pulse of magic had come and gone in an instant—but it wasn't magecraft. It didn't force anything. It resonated. She stood slowly, brushing the leaves from her coat. Her gaze turned south, toward the river.

"That was no ordinary spell…" she murmured. "It was Victor." Her fingers hovered near her sword. "And it felt like... the world answered him."

From the top of the Fuyuki Bridge, Rider straightened, grinning wide beneath the stars.

"That boy again," he said, amused. "He's not shouting for the world's attention—he's listening for its breath."

Waver stared toward the horizon, his notebook clutched tightly. "No active spell form. But I felt it ripple through the structure of the bridge... like something aligned with the earth itself."

Rider laughed. "He doesn't cast like a mage. He moves like a storm you don't notice until your feet are wet. I like him."

Perched on a rooftop above the market district, Lancer paused mid-step. A faint, harmonic pressure echoed through the ground beneath his boots. He frowned.

"That wasn't magecraft," he muttered. "But something reacted. Something aware." He turned away, letting his cloak ripple behind him. "A strange ally she's chosen."

High in the skeleton of an unfinished building, one of Assassin's faces clung to the wall, trembling faintly as the wave passed through. Not hot. Not cold. But aware. They whispered in fear, more to themselves than to Kirei.

"He hears the world whisper. He senses us without seeing." Another voice from a different mask hissed back. "He's no mage. But no blind hunter either. He is… connected." The face melted into shadow, deeper than before. "Avoid him. Avoid the Listener."

Inside the Tohsaka manor, Archer sipped his wine lazily. He stopped just long enough to acknowledge the shift. Barely. A pressure. Not hostile. But persistent. Like a child knocking at the gates of heaven. He scoffed.

"Hmph. That mongrel dares rattle the world like it might listen to him?" He turned away from the window, disinterested. "Let him prattle. He is beneath me. For now."

Above a crumbling clocktower, Berserker crouched in silence. The moment passed through him not as logic, but as memory. The resonance struck something deep—like hearing a name you used to know. His breath hitched, distorted through madness. One cracked gauntlet trembled slightly. A knight beside a saint. A forgotten bond. A flicker of loyalty. The madness reasserted itself with a hiss, but he remained still, locked in place, staring at the city below.

Far beneath the city's foundation—beneath blood, stone, and silence—something stirred. Eyes opened. Watched. Smiled. The Speaker's pulse had reached even here. It wasn't strong. But it was precise. And ancient.

"A Listener…" the voice rasped. Dry. Dead. Knowing. "The world remembers you. The dirt still bends to your kind. But you cannot hear what's buried with me." A cold breath exhaled in the dark, curling through bone. "Soon, Speaker... I will show you what the world forgets."

The dark deepened.

Chapter Text

The morning air was heavy with silence as Victor and Joan made their way toward the Church, each step carrying the weight of the night before. The horrors of Caster's lair still clung to them — bloodied children, twisted rituals, and the cold truth that not all could be saved. Joan's fingers brushed her rosary with quiet reverence, while Victor's jaw remained set, eyes distant. They had fought back the monster, yes—but too late for the ones already lost. The survivors haunted them; the dead lingered louder. And as the Church loomed ahead, neither spoke, knowing the grief between them said enough.

Flashback: Post - Battle Debrief – Riverbank Catacombs

The silence after the battle was heavy. Not peaceful. Just emptied — as if the catacombs  themselves were holding their breath.

Victor sheathed his whip with a practiced flick, his aura slowly fading as the Speaker resonance  around him settled. The stone beneath his boots still hummed faintly, like the world hadn't yet  forgotten what just passed through it.

Joan lowered her sword, the light dimming from its edge. Her shoulders rose and fell with each  breath.

"Victor," she said softly. "The children."

They turned—past the broken tendrils, past the shattered glyphs, and toward the far corners of  the chamber where the remaining victims had been left behind.

Some were curled up, trembling in torn nightclothes. Others sat blank-eyed, rocking or mumbling  to themselves in broken phrases. A few clung to the walls, too terrified to move. Every one of  them bore Caster's touch—cuts, carvings, restraints made of bone, or worse.

Joan moved first.

She stepped carefully, her armor half-flickered away into her casual clothes, softening her  appearance. Her expression was gentle—but her eyes held steady.  She knelt beside a girl, maybe eight years old, whose arms were wrapped around her knees. Her  wrists were bruised. Dried blood painted the side of her face.

Joan didn't speak immediately.  She simply placed a hand gently on the girl's shoulder.  The child flinched at first — but didn't pull away. Slowly, shaking, she looked up.

Joan met her gaze. "It's over. He's gone now. You're safe."

The girl began to cry — no sobs, just silent, shaking tears that spilled down her cheeks.  Joan pulled her into an embrace, holding her close like she had once been held before the fire.  No questions. No pushing. Just warmth.

Victor moved from child to child, kneeling beside a boy whose arms were covered in strange  glyphs. The child stared at him wide-eyed, clearly afraid — but not screaming.

Victor didn't try to force words.  Instead, he reached into his jacket and slowly offered his canteen. "Drink."

The boy stared. Then, tentatively, took it.

Only after his first sip did Victor say, "We're not going to leave you here. Not a single one."

Another child, slumped against the wall, let out a ragged sound—half-breath, half-sob.  Victor turned to him and sat beside him, not touching, just present.

"I know," he said quietly. "What he did… I can't take it away. But I'm here now."

The boy muttered something — broken Japanese, a whisper about "blue fire" and "painted  angels."

Victor didn't ask for clarity. He just listened.

Joan, still holding the little girl, looked across the room at him. Their eyes met.

In that moment, without words, they both knew: this is why they fought. Not for victory. Not for  glory. For this.

Joan whispered to the child in her arms, gently brushing hair from her face.  "You're going to go home. You'll see the sun again."

A sob erupted from another corner — a boy who had been tied to the wall, cuts on his face shaped  like grotesque crosses. He began screaming, inconsolable.

Joan went to him next.

Victor rose silently and stood at her back — not to shield her, but to anchor her.

Together, they worked.  They weren't healers. They weren't saints.  But they were present.  And for these children, tonight  —  that was enough.

Church Inquiry – Interrogation Room

The interrogation chamber was as sterile and silent as the grave — just as the Church preferred.

Joan and Victor were led in without chains or threats, but the presence of the two black-robed Executors flanking the table made the power dynamic clear.

The meeting chamber wasn't grand. It wasn't meant to be.

It was white, windowless, and featureless — by design. No distractions. No warmth.

At the head of the table sat Father Risei Kotomine, clad in immaculate ecclesiastical robes, hands folded like stone atop a dossier. His face was calm, lined with age, but stern. A priest of diplomacy — but one who weighed sins like currency. In the background, silent and observant, stood Kirei — his son, arms folded, face unreadable as always.

Joan bowed her head. "Father Risei."

"Ruler," Risei said with the calm dignity of a practiced politician. "You are well, I hope. We are grateful you responded to the Caster incident so swiftly. The cleansing team found the site consistent with your report. I regret what you had to witness."

"I did what I was summoned to do," Joan replied calmly. "Caster is still at large. But we rescued survivors."

She paused. "They were children. He was using them."

The air in the room seemed to tighten.

Risei's eyes softened only slightly. "We have already dispatched cleansing personnel to the site. And we will ensure the children are taken into the Church's care and receive appropriate treatment."

Victor, standing beside her with arms crossed and his Belmont pendant exposed, exhaled slowly through his nose—but said nothing.

Risei's eyes turned to him.

"And you," he said flatly. "Victor Belmont."

Victor inclined his head, but made no move to bow.

Risei continued. "You are not a Master. You bear no Command Seals. You were not summoned, nor selected. Yet you've engaged in multiple combat events within the Grail War. You've interfered—quite directly."

"I didn't realize saving children was interference," Victor said, voice low.

"That depends on whether your presence invites greater harm," Risei replied. "The Church has the right to question foreign elements in this conflict."

Joan interjected, firm. "Victor has acted with my cooperation. Without him, I would not have been able to repel Berserker, nor stop Caster from completing his latest atrocity."

Risei regarded her for a long moment, then offered a thin smile.

"I do not question your competence, Ruler. But the Church must evaluate all agents active in the war—especially those with… unorthodox affiliations."

His gaze sharpened.

"Your family has… a history. A violent one. Always operating outside of proper Church sanction. Always meddling with forces they neither accepted nor respected. And your method of magic," he continued, now flatly, "is equally concerning. The echoes from last night reached this very building. Unrefined. Subterranean. A ripple through creation, not an act of control. Speaker Magic, is it not?"

Victor didn't deny it. "And?"

Risei's voice was still calm, but now laced with disdain.

"A primitive art. Not holy. Not heretical, but untethered. You don't draw power from the Lord. Nor from the structured systems of magecraft. You speak with stones and streams and call it wisdom. Rooted in superstition. No structure. No Scripture. No elegance. It's a wonder you're not burning sage and muttering at trees."

Joan spoke, not liking the overseer's undertone. "With respect, Father," she said, "he has saved lives. That speaks louder than structure."

Risei turned to her, still polite. "Yes, and we respect your position as Ruler. But you must understand—we must assess threats. Even unconventional ones."

Victor's gaze hardened. "So saving children now warrants investigation?"

"No," Risei replied, tone ice-cold. "Listening to the earth and bending its resonance in the middle of a Holy Grail War—that warrants investigation."

Victor shrugged. "Worked well enough against your rogue Servant."

"That's precisely the issue," Risei snapped, eyes narrowing. "You shouldn't be able to counter Caster. That's not your place."

His lips then curled into a mockery of sympathy. "So I must ask… What exactly are you doing in this war, Victor Belmont?"

Victor didn't blink. "Cleaning up what you missed."

Risei raised an eyebrow. "You're not a Master. You're not summoned by the Grail. And yet you interfere. Boldly, recklessly. With no jurisdiction."

Joan stepped forward. "He acts with my sanction. And with purpose."

Risei gave her a polite nod—then turned his full gaze back to Victor, voice growing sharper.

"You've inserted yourself into a ritual older than your family's heretical bloodline. You use magic the Church does not recognize. And worse—you've killed under that power, without seal or sanction. That makes you a liability. Not an asset."

Victor's tone turned dry. "Is that what you told the survivors we carried out? That I was a liability Risei's eyes flashed. "You weren't protecting them. You were disrupting a delicate balance."

Victor's jaw clenched. "You mean the 'delicate balance' where Caster carves up children while you sit on a throne of incense and denial?"

A long silence followed.

Victor's voice was colder now. "You're not scared of me. You're scared of why I'm here."

He stepped forward, just slightly.

"You know Belmonts don't come unless there's something worse than a Servant hiding under your city. You just don't want to admit it."

One of the Executors stirred, but Risei raised a hand to still him.

"There is no vampire threat in Fuyuki," he said flatly. "No confirmed sightings. No spiritual signature. What you think you've seen is likely the residue of Caster's rituals."

Joan frowned. "That residue predates Caster's arrival. There are markings… shadows. Feeding patterns. He's not the only predator out there."

Risei waved it off. "Paranoia. War-born anomalies. Nothing the Church cannot contain."

Victor's expression didn't shift—but the disgust behind his eyes was unmistakable.

"You say you care about the Grail's sanctity. Then ask yourself — why does the dirt remember fangs?"

Kirei shifted in the back of the room, but said nothing.

Risei closed the file in front of him.

"If you interfere again, Mr. Belmont, you risk becoming an enemy of the Church. You are not a Master. You are not a Servant. You are not meant to be here."

Victor leaned in slightly, voice razor-sharp.

"And yet I'm the only one acting like the war isn't the only thing killing people."

The silence was absolute.

Kirei's voice finally broke it.

"We'll be watching," he said calmly.

He looked at Victor, not with judgment — but with intrigue. As if watching a new weapon being forged.

Victor stared back, jaw clenched, eyes hard. The silence hung thick for a moment more — then he turned on his heel and followed Joan toward the exit.

They made it halfway to the door before Victor paused.

He didn't look back. But his voice — low, cutting — rang clearly across the chamber.

"You let children die while you debated definitions. If this is your idea of guardianship, then at least keep your participants on leashes."

A pause.

"Before the next one decides ritual murder is just part of the war."

Joan said nothing—but her eyes flicked sharply toward the Church officials, her silence speaking volumes.

Neither Risei nor the Executors replied. But Kirei's faint smile didn't fade.

And then turned to follow Joan out.

The doors closed behind them.

Behind them, Risei muttered under his breath to Kirei: "He'll complicate things."

Kirei didn't look away.

"He already has."

Tohsaka Manor – War Room

The study was quiet, lit only by the low crackle of the fireplace. Tokiomi Tohsaka stood by the decanter, swirling a glass of wine with absent grace. Archer lounged nearby in an armchair, red eyes half-lidded, listening without looking interested. The scent of incense mingled with the sharper tang of pride.

Kirei stood near the window, hands folded behind his back, his tone calm and clinical as he recounted the Church interrogation.

"The Ruler - class Servant, as expected, defended her companion. She confirmed his presence at both the Berserker and Caster engagements. As for Belmont himself... he was uncooperative."

Tokiomi scoffed softly. "A wild dog with no master. The fact that the Church allowed him to walk out is an embarrassment."

Kirei didn't look back. "He was not intimidated. Nor particularly impressed by Father Risei's authority."

"He's a vagrant," Tokiomi said dismissively. "A practitioner of tribal sorcery. He speaks to rocks and calls it insight."

Kirei finally turned, his gaze unreadable. "And yet, that 'insight' disrupted Caster's magic in a manner few modern mages could replicate."

Tokiomi's eyes narrowed.

Gilgamesh gave a faint laugh.

"Oh? So the mongrel barked loud enough for even you to hear it?" He leaned forward slightly, grin widening. "Tell me, priest… was it desperation or defiance?"

Kirei tilted his head. "Neither. It was control. He reacted without panic. He acted without ritual. The world answered him—and he did not ask it to bow."

That gave Gilgamesh pause. Just for a moment. "…Interesting."

Tokiomi frowned deeper. "That kind of anomaly should be extinguished. If he's not part of the system, then he threatens it."

Gilgamesh waved a hand. "And yet the system could not stop him." He smirked at Tokiomi. "You would do well not to underestimate a man who can shake the ground by listening to it."

From the far wall, a ripple in the shadows stirred.

Assassin's voice emerged—soft, but tense.

"He saw me. Again. Not with magecraft. Not with vision. The earth told him where I was." The words were almost a confession.

Kirei didn't blink. "He recognized your presence the moment you crossed the threshold."

Assassin hesitated, then added: "The resonance he emits is… unlike anything I've encountered. It does not burn. It does not repel. It informs."

Tokiomi set his glass down harder than necessary.

"This is absurd. You're all speaking of him like he's some sort of grand caster. He's a heretic. A relic."

Kirei's voice was quiet now. "Then we must ask ourselves… why is the war bending to make room for a relic?"

Silence.

Archer rose from his chair, cape billowing softly.

"Let him move," Gilgamesh said. "Let him dance around with his whip and his whispers. If he proves entertaining, I may even let him speak to me."

He glanced at Tokiomi with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "If he doesn't amuse me... then I'll end him."

Assassin receded into the wall, quiet as breath.

Kirei, however, turned back toward the window.

"Whether he amuses us or not… he changes things."

He folded his hands behind his back again, murmuring to himself.

"A hunter who doesn't seek the Grail. A man the world listens to… but the Church refuses to hear."

Outside, the wind whispered through the sakura trees.

And somewhere beneath the city, something even older was still listening.

Somewhere Beneath Fuyuki – The Hollow Sanctuary

The chamber was vast and lightless — an underground vault where stone had withered with age and moisture. No torches. No candles. Only the faint glow of blood-fed sigils pulsing faintly across the ceiling like dying stars.

The air stank of old soil, rot, and memory.

They knelt before him — three silhouettes cloaked in mismatched armor and black cloth, faces half-covered, teeth faintly glinting when they breathed. His elites. Each of them turned by his hand. Loyal. Hungry.

Above them, on a raised dais, he sat.

Or rather… he loomed.

All that could be seen clearly were his eyes — wide, unblinking, luminescent yellow with slitted pupils — and his hands, long and corpse - pale, the fingers crooked and bent unnaturally like the branches of a dead tree. One hand drummed absently on the stone, each tap echoing far too loud in the silence.

When he finally spoke, his voice came in a breathy rasp — dry, weightless, like leaves dragged across old stone:

"The pulse… it sang across the roots. Through soil. Bone. Stone. I felt it."

He leaned forward, fingers tightening slightly as if reacting to the memory of it.

"Not magecraft. No circles. No fire. Resonance."

The three elites remained silent, heads bowed.

"A Speaker," he hissed, the word curling like mold.

The silence deepened.

"More dangerous than a Crest-bearer. They do not carve the world… they listen to it. They do not command — they understand."

He flexed one bony hand slowly, as if testing invisible threads between his fingers.

"And the world, in its old age… has not forgotten how to whisper back."

A tremor passed through the chamber — not from his voice, but from the weight of the old magic layered in the air.

One of the elites, Lucatiel, finally spoke. "Shall we hunt him, Master?"

The pale hand waved once.

"No. Not yet. He is not alone. And not ignorant. A magician who stalks the old ways walks softly… but he walks toward us."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing into thin slits of gold.

"You will not feed openly. Not in the northern districts. Not near the river. Not until I say. We are no longer feeding on sheep."

His fingers tapped again — once, twice, thrice.

"You will feed like wolves. Quietly. Or not at all."

A pause.

"If the Speaker hears you… he will hear me. And I am not ready for the light to find my name."

The three bowed deeper, in unison.

"Yes, Master."

He stood slowly — inhumanly tall in the gloom, silhouette lost in the curve of his own cloak. His fingers curled around a staff of twisted iron.

The chamber dimmed even further.

"Go now. Feed slowly. Hide your trails."

His voice thinned to a whisper.

"Soon… even the Grail will listen."

The elites vanished into the cracks of the stone.

And their master remained behind — watching, unblinking. Waiting.

The three elites moved silently through the underground arteries of Fuyuki, their forms cloaked in shadow, the stench of iron and death clinging to their silken breath. The stone tunnels pulsed faintly with residual magic. Their master's orders still echoed in the walls: "No open feeding. No exposure. The Speaker is listening."

The pulse of Speaker Magic had long faded, but its impression still lingered—like a ripple through deep water.

Lucatiel walked at the front, sharp-featured and hooded, her fingers constantly flexing as if feeling for vibrations. Agramain, hulking and cloaked in animal furs, followed close behind, brooding and silent. Marceline — younger in appearance, draped in fine, blood-dyed silks — trailed just slightly behind them, swinging a small charm between her fingers like a child playing with a toy.

None of them spoke for some time.

Eventually, Lucatiel broke the silence.

"He wasn't wrong. It wasn't magecraft."

Agramain grunted. "No flames. No symbols. No command words. Just… presence."

"Do you think he's serious?" Marceline asked, voice sing-song and echoing softly. "All this fear over one little pulse? One human?"

Lucatiel didn't turn. "It wasn't magecraft. That makes it worse."

Agramain grunted agreement.

Marceline twirled her charm. "So what? A Speaker? I've read about them. Nature - lovers. Vibe - catchers. Old monks who talk to the wind and die in forests."

Lucatiel stopped walking and turned just slightly, her hood casting a shadow over her sharp eyes.

"He didn't just talk to the wind. He disrupted Caster. Mid-ritual. He rattled the city's bones. That wasn't luck."

Marceline tilted her head. "So what do we do about him?"

"Exactly what we were told," Lucatiel replied. "We don't make noise. No showy kills. No patterns."

Agramain growled low in his throat. "If he can feel us in the earth… then every corpse becomes a lighthouse."

Marceline smirked. "Come on, you're both acting like we've got a priest breathing down our necks."

Lucatiel didn't look at her. "It's worse than a priest."

Marceline twirled the charm once more, then grinned.

"What if it's a Belmont?~"

Silence.

Agramain froze mid-step. Lucatiel turned sharply, her voice suddenly ice.

"Don't say that name again."

Marceline blinked. "What? It's just a joke."

Agramain's voice rumbled like a tombstone shifting. "You think it's funny? That name is a curse."

Lucatiel's eyes were wide now, darting to the walls like even the stone might hear them.

"You say it too loud, and you call one. And if one's here…" She trailed off, mouth tight. "…then the night ends early."

Marceline rolled her eyes. "And now you sound like the old ones. 'He rattled the bones,' 'the sky went black,' 'a Belmont turned the rivers red'— it's all ghost stories. Boogeymen you tell spawn to make them behave."

Agramain turned slowly, his bulk nearly filling the narrow tunnel. "They're not stories."

"Oh, come on," Marceline said with a chuckle, throwing her hands in the air. "You both act like saying the name is gonna summon him right here."

Lucatiel snapped. "DON'T. Say it!"

That stopped Marceline in her tracks.

Agramain's voice was a low rumble. "Say it again, and you'll walk back to the master alone."

Marceline blinked, surprised at their reaction. "…What? You really believe that old superstition?"

Lucatiel's expression was stone. "It's not superstition if it kills you."

Marceline huffed and looked away, tone still teasing but a touch quieter. "You're both paranoid." She twirled the charm once more, slower this time. "Tch. Scary fairy tales."

But she didn't say the name again.

The three fell into silence once more, their steps echoing across wet stone.

Lucatiel moved on, sharper now, her senses pulled taut. "He doesn't use the Grail. He doesn't play by rules. That's what makes him dangerous."

Agramain didn't follow immediately. He stood in the tunnel's mouth, staring into the dark ahead "If it's true… if there's a Belmont here… then the master's kingdom is already at risk." A growl built in his throat—quiet, personal. "But if I kill him… he'll see me." He flexed his claws once. The stone beneath his feet cracked slightly. He said nothing, then followed the others into the dark.

Behind them, the tunnels pulsed once more—soft and slow, like a heartbeat buried under centuries of earth.

Abandoned Warehouse – Matou Hideout

The warehouse creaked with every passing breeze. Rusted nails, rotted beams, and the occasional scurrying rat. It smelled of mildew and neglect—appropriate, Kariya thought, for a man like him. He sat on a broken crate, hand trembling as he pressed a cloth to his leaking mouth. More blood. More every day. The worms squirmed behind his ribs like parasites whispering curses.

Across the open space, Berserker stood still as a statue—armor glinting with residual mana, his shadow flickering unnaturally as if it didn't quite agree with the light in the room.

They hadn't spoken in hours.

But then again, Berserker didn't speak.

He growled.

Kariya exhaled shakily, wiping his lips, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling.

"Saber. He was going to kill her. He would've torn her apart—if those two hadn't stopped him."

Images flared in his mind—Joan of Arc blocking Berserker's descent with divine clarity, and Victor, crackling with strange, grounded magic, driving him back with that unnatural whip. Not magecraft. Something older.

Something honest.

"It wasn't a spell that pushed you back," Kariya thought, looking toward Berserker. "It was someone who doesn't need a title to stand tall."

A harsh sound broke the stillness. Berserker clenched a fist, metal creaking, rage simmering just below a scream.

Kariya flinched—but didn't move. "He's still mad," he rasped aloud. "About her."

No response.

Just that slow, furious breathing.

Kariya leaned back against the wall, breath ragged. "So am I. But this war… it's changing. Every day another lie peels back. And then there's him."

He looked toward the far wall, eyes distant.

Victor Belmont.

"Not a Master. Not a proper magus. But still walking into battles like he's been doing it his whole life. Like he knows what the cost is—and still pays it. He's not like Tohsaka. Not like the Church, either. No rituals. No arrogance. Just… purpose."

He closed his eyes for a moment.

"I should treat him like the others," he murmured. "But… he's not like them, is he?"

A sharp metal rattle echoed—Berserker stepped forward, voice warping into a twisted growl of frustration. His form shimmered, momentarily destabilized by emotion. He remembered Victor. The way that whip cracked, the way the earth had felt wrong. His mad eyes narrowed into slits of fury.

He hadn't forgotten how they stopped him. From claiming her.

Kariya looked at him, and despite the pain, forced a strained smile. "You hate him. I know. But maybe that means we should listen."

Another pulse of rage radiated off Berserker.

"But I'm not trying to stop you," Kariya whispered. "I'm trying to survive."

He coughed hard, blood hitting his sleeve.

"And maybe… just maybe… he's the only other bastard in this war who's not here for the Grail."

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The building groaned again under the weight of silence. And the madness behind Berserker's armor burned on—furious, but listening.

Safehouse – Late Night

The safehouse was quiet, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the stovetop light and a flickering bulb above the dining table. The chaos of the day still lingered in their bones, but here, at least for now, the walls didn't scream. The scent of garlic and herbs drifted lazily through the dim apartment, mingling with the low sizzle of a pan and the muted clink of metal against ceramic. The overhead lights were dimmed, leaving the kitchen cast in a soft golden hue.

Joan sat at the table, her hair unbraided and loose, falling gently over the shoulders of her long, flowing white nightgown. It was simple, elegant, and a little old-fashioned—fitting her timeless air. It fell just above her ankles and caught the light like thin silk, a quiet contrast to the steel and flame that usually defined her presence. Her expression, however, was distant —haunted by the faces of children they couldn't save.

Across the kitchen, Victor worked quietly, stirring a simmering pot on the stove. He wore a fitted white tank top that clung to his lean frame, every line of muscle built from years of combat rather than vanity. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his bare feet moved soundlessly across the floor. His hair was damp from a quick rinse, a towel slung around his neck as he focused on plating dinner with surprising care. He looked—tired. But alive.

Joan finally spoke, softly.

"I should've been faster."

Victor didn't turn around, but his voice was steady.

"You were exactly where you needed to be."

She looked down at the tabletop, her hands curled around a cup of water.

"I still hear them. The ones who didn't make it. I think I always will."

He stirred once more, then turned off the flame. "Yeah," he said. "That doesn't stop."

He plated two servings and walked them over — stew and rice, something warm and simple. He set hers down in front of her with a nod.

"It's not divine cuisine, but it sticks to the ribs."

Joan blinked. "You cook?"

Victor gave a faint smirk, settling across from her. "Someone had to feed me when I was on the road. Besides, I figured… after today, we could both use something real."

"You didn't have to—"

"I did," he said, sliding into the seat across from her. "And I didn't make enough to argue."

A faint smile touched her lips. She picked up the fork. "Thank you."

They ate in relative silence for a few minutes — just the sound of clinking utensils and quiet chewing. The weight of the night still lingered, but the meal grounded them. Warmed them.

"Even the ones we saved… they were broken. What Caster did — it wasn't just cruelty. It was…mockery."

Victor nodded slowly, chewing before answering.

"Yeah. That kind of pain doesn't go away clean. You don't walk it off."

He leaned back in his chair, setting his plate aside. "But they lived. That matters."

"Still, I wasn't fast enough."

Victor studied her for a moment, then stood, walking toward the kitchen counter. He poured them both tea, handed her a mug, then leaned against the fridge.

"Joan," he started in a casual but honest tone, "My ancestors hunted creatures like Caster across centuries."

"You know what they learned?"

"That it never stops. That there's no clean win. Only fewer losses."

He glanced at her. "You keep moving forward. Not because it gets easier… but because someone else might live longer because of it."

She was quiet for a long moment. Eventually, she broke it again. "You really believe what you said? About how it never stops?"

He nodded, eyes down on his bowl. "Yeah. It's how it works in my family. We don't get perfect endings. We get smaller losses. And the hope that the next time… we'll be a second faster."

She leaned back, finishing her bowl. "It's a hard life."

"It's the only one I know," Victor replied. Then, more gently: "But you didn't fail them, Joan. You fought for them. And the ones who lived—that was because of you."

She looked down again, biting her lip — processing.

Then she said, quieter: "Not just me… because of us."

Victor looked up, surprised — but pleased.

Joan looked toward the window now, her brow furrowing.

"There's something else."

Victor nodded slowly, finishing the last bite of stew. "Caster wasn't the only predator."

She turned to him. "You've been thinking that too?"

"Yeah," he said. "The disappearances before Caster appeared — his spree didn't start until after the war began, but the deaths started earlier. On top of that, they don't follow Caster's rhythm. No ritual patterns, no magical residue, no taunting signatures. Just vanishings. Silent. Strategic."

Joan crossed her arms lightly. "It's older, then."

"Older and patient," Victor said. "Caster's magic is loud — bloody symbols, flair, fanfare. The other killings? They're quiet. Clean. Like someone feeding without a trail."

A beat passed between them.

Joan's voice firmed. "Then we'll find them next."

Victor stood slowly and stretched — shoulders and core flexing for just a moment as he tossed the dishes in the sink. He moved to the cork board on the wall where he'd been pinning notes and maps. He tapped a map with three pins placed tightly near the river.

"No spiritual residue. No glyphs. No bounded fields. It's not ritual — it's instinct."

Joan stood beside him now, her nightgown brushing against his arm as she leaned in.

"Then Caster's not the only one hiding underground."

Victor frowned. "No. And the city's been too quiet since our fight. It's like whatever's down there is holding its breath."

Joan placed a hand on the edge of the board, her voice soft but firm.

"We'll find it. Together."

Victor looked at her, the tension in his shoulders relaxing slightly.

"We will. But first…"

He stepped away from the board, stretching with a tired grunt. "Tomorrow, we make a pit stop."

She arched a brow. "Where?"

He smirked faintly, the first hint of mischief returning to his face. "Somewhere off the grid. A place I haven't been in a while. It has stuff I don't carry around unless things are going south."

Joan tilted her head. "Important?"

He paused at the doorway to the hall, one hand resting on the frame.

"Let's just say… I've got gear stashed where the world forgot to look. Time to wake it up."

Joan watched him disappear into the dark hallway, the faintest shimmer of moonlight catching on the Belmont crest around his neck.

She exhaled, slow and steady, and followed. "Then we'll go together."

The city wasn't done bleeding yet. But neither were they.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of a space heater buzzed in the modest living room as Kiritsugu Emiya sat across from the parents, a steaming cup of untouched tea cooling in his hands. The mother's grip never left her son's shoulder, as if releasing him might somehow invite the past horror back. The boy sat beside her, swinging his legs as he colored furiously, tongue poking out in concentration.

"I—I just don't understand," she said, her eyes darting anxiously toward the small figure sitting on the couch. "They said the children… they would've all been… if not for those two. The police haven't told us anything. You're sure you're with the special unit?"

Kiritsugu offered a polite, measured smile. "We understand this has been a difficult time. We're only here to ensure the safety of your family and others involved. Can you tell me, in your own words, what your son described to you? About the people who rescued him."

"We're grateful you're investigating," the father said, his voice still rough from sleepless nights. "But you'll have to forgive us. His story's… hard to believe."

Kiritsugu offered a thin, practiced smile. "Please, don't worry about what's believable. We're interested in any details, no matter how unusual."

The father shifted uneasily. "Ah—he's been… he's been calling them his heroes. He talks about them a lot." He looked down at his son with a tired but grateful smile. "To be honest, we owe them everything. If they hadn't shown up, I… I don't know what would've happened."

The mother gave a small, shaky laugh. "We're just thankful he came back to us… and that he's still smiling."

Maiya sat nearby, silently observing, her gaze sharp, her hands resting on her lap but always ready.

"They saved your son," Kiritsugu prompted gently. "But anything you can remember—what they looked like, what they did—that would help us track them down. We need to verify who they are."

The boy glanced up, eyes bright despite the faint bruising around his neck—a grim reminder of how close he'd come to disappearing.

"It's okay," Kiritsugu coaxed. "I just want to know about the people who saved you."

The boy's face lit up instantly. "Oh! You mean the nice magic man and the knight lady!" he blurted, all at once.

Kiritsugu's gaze flicked to the boy, who was now holding up his drawing triumphantly. Crayon marks scrawled across the paper in bold colors. A man with a long whip, surrounded by a glowing light, and a woman with a glowing sword and shining armor.

"I drew them!" the boy chirped, pushing the paper toward Kiritsugu. "The magic man and the knight lady!"

Kiritsugu accepted the drawing without blinking. "Can you tell me about them?"

"They were so cool!" The boy's words tumbled out fast. "The magic man had this… this glowing light all around him. It was everywhere—like the air got thicker when he was fighting! He even made the ground shake. And he had a big whip like whoosh!" The boy slashed the air enthusiastically. "And the knight lady had shiny armor and a glowing sword. She was really nice — she said we'd be safe with her. The magic man gave me a candy and said I was brave."

Kiritsugu's gaze sharpened slightly. So Saber's instincts were right. A magical pulse strong enough for even a child to feel it. "What else do you remember?" he asked.

The boy grinned. "The knight lady stood in front of us when the scary monster flew at us." He scrunched his face, trying to remember. "Her sword went all glowy when she was mad. She called the magic man by his name. I think it was... um... Victor? And he called her Joan."

"Joan of Arc… and Victor…" Kiritsugu repeated quietly, mentally cataloging the description. Saber's earlier report of a unique magical pulse aligned with this. Not a modern magus. Not a Master in the standard sense. Someone else.

His mother ruffled his hair, smiling softly. "He's been talking about them ever since. Over and over. I think it helps him process what happened."

"But it's true!" the boy insisted, puffing out his chest. "The bad monsters were real! I saw them! The magic man made them go boom! And the knight lady's sword went all shiny when she got mad!" He looked up, eyes bright. "She protected us."

The boy's mother rubbed his back, her own eyes misting. "Whoever they are, we want to find them. We… we want to thank them properly."

"I understand," Kiritsugu said, voice steady, but his gaze drifted toward Maiya for a heartbeat. They had something more dangerous now: a rogue agent in the war, one who survived an encounter with Berserker and Caster.

As they rose to leave, the father clasped Kiritsugu's hand tightly. "Thank you. I don't know what would've happened to my son if they hadn't stepped in. We owe them his life."

Kiritsugu offered her a shallow smile, the kind meant to put people at ease. "We'll find out. Thank you for your time."

Outside the apartment, a bit of the winter air bit against his skin as Maiya followed silently behind him. They walked away from the family's door before she spoke.

"First names. Victor and Joan."

Kiritsugu lit a cigarette, shielding the flame from the breeze. "Elemental aura strong enough to physically affect the environment. It's not modern magecraft. Too instinctive. Too raw."

Maiya glanced at him. "Speaker magic?"

"Or something similar," he said. "But it doesn't follow any formal structure. It's not taught—it's wielded. And it's strong enough that even a child could feel it."

"They saved the children," Maiya said, voice low but steady. "And they took down Berserker and Caster. Alone."

"That's what makes them dangerous," Kiritsugu replied coldly. He lit a cigarette, shielding the flame with his hand as they walked toward the stairwell.

"Saving the children could have been strategy. Building goodwill. Or a personal code. It doesn't matter."

He exhaled, the smoke curling around his face as his thoughts hardened into something ruthless.

"They survived a fight with two Servants. They shouldn't have. That means they're not just participants in this war. They're outliers. And outliers…" He flicked ash from the tip of his cigarette. "…are unpredictable. I don't trust them."

Maiya glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "Do you plan to eliminate them?"

"Not yet," Kiritsugu said. "But if they interfere again, we'll have to."

His grip on the cigarette tightened briefly.

"Heroes like that… they're always the ones who ruin the plan."

Without another word, they descended the stairs, the echo of their footsteps fading as they slipped back into the shadows of the war.

The soft grind of stone against stone echoed as Victor pushed open the concealed door, its heavy weight sliding aside with the help of a hidden mechanism. The entrance had been cleverly disguised, tucked behind the ruins of an abandoned warehouse—one of those forgotten spaces the modern world had left to rot.

He held the door open for Joan, who stepped through with quiet curiosity. They'd both traded their battle-worn gear for something far simpler, the casual clothes felt out of place against the ancient stones, but somehow fitting for this part of their journey.

As they passed through, Victor dragged his fingertips along the door's edge. For just a moment, a faint shimmer rippled across the surface, sealing it shut behind them with a quiet finality. Joan caught the flicker of magic and the way the air subtly changed as the entrance disappeared without a trace.

"A ward?" she asked.

Victor gave a small nod, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Sort of. The door won't open unless you've got Belmont blood or… you know Speaker magic well enough to ask the stone politely." His lips quirked in a half-grin, but there was weight behind the words.

"A lock that knows its family," Joan mused.

"Yeah. One of many."

They walked further into the narrow passage, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the thick silence of stone and earth. The corridor curved gently, like a path well-traveled but long since abandoned by anyone but him.

"This isn't the main Belmont Hold, is it?" she asked, glancing at the carvings etched along the walls — symbols of protection, family crests, faint echoes of a lineage older than most remembered.

"No," Victor said simply. "That place is… somewhere else. Still standing. Still waiting."

Joan looked over at him, intrigued by the weight in his tone. "You don't sound like you've left it behind."

"I didn't," he said. "Nobody really leaves the Hold. You can walk away, but it's still yours. Still calling to you when it needs you." His voice softened, almost like he was speaking to a memory instead of her. "The old weapons, the heirlooms, the monster logs… all of it's there. Locked away behind doors that only open for people like me. Or someone who knows the Belmont way."

He ran a hand along the cold stone, the touch almost reverent. "I only brought what I needed. What I could carry. This place is… mine. I built it. A piece of the Hold, but not the Hold."

Joan's gaze lingered on him as they walked. "And the other place? It's safe?"

Victor's smile was small, but certain. "Let's just say it knows how to keep out uninvited guests. It's still there, exactly where it's always been."

He didn't need to say where. For those who knew the Belmont story, that was enough.

They reached the final door, its edges traced with faint magical runes. Victor pressed his palm to the stone, and the seal responded with a soft pulse beneath his skin, recognizing him as one of its own.

With a low click, the door began to open.

"Come on," Victor said, stepping through as warm, golden light spilled out from within. "Welcome to the Sanctum."

Joan stepped inside first, her boots brushing over smooth stone, and immediately her breath caught.

The Sanctum stretched out before her — not sprawling like a castle, but large enough to feel like another world tucked beneath the skin of this one. It hummed with life in its own quiet way. Lanterns flickered to life as they crossed the threshold, responding to Victor's presence, casting long shadows across the walls lined with shelves, weapon racks, and ancient tomes.

Joan turned slowly, taking it all in—the wood, the stone, the iron. The smell of leather, old paper, and faint traces of incense clung to the air. Every surface held stories. Every blade, every book, every charm was something chosen. Something earned.

"You built all of this," she said, her voice soft, reverent.

Victor dropped his bag on a nearby worktable with a dull thud. "Yeah. Piece by piece."

Joan's fingers brushed over the spine of a thick, weathered bestiary, its pages worn from handling. She trailed along the edge of a shelf, her eyes landing on jars of preserved herbs, vials of holy water, and bundles of wooden stakes—carefully carved, not mass-produced. She passed a row of daggers with silver inlays, a crossbow of Belmont make, and a familiar coil of standard leather whips.

But what caught her eye were the more intricate weapons — daggers balanced for throwing, compact crossbows with custom mechanisms, weighted stakes sharpened to a needle point.

"You're precise," Joan murmured, almost to herself. "You prefer control over brute force."

Victor, now unpacking maps and scattered notes, glanced over his shoulder with a small grin. "You've been watching me fight long enough to figure that out."

She turned to face him fully. "I've seen Belmonts in stories—knights with great hammers, flaming whips, charging headfirst into monsters. But you… you're measured. You strike exactly where it hurts most."

Victor's grin softened. "I grew up knowing the big weapons are meant for the big monsters. You don't bring the Morningstar to a fistfight." His hand hovered over a wooden stake, perfectly balanced for quick throws. "I trained for precision. To end fights before they get messy."

He glanced around the Sanctum, a flicker of something like pride — or maybe peace — in his expression. "But it's not just about the weapons. The journals, the logs, the monster research… I picked the things that mattered to me. Things I could carry forward."

Joan's eyes sparkled with curiosity as she wandered deeper, her fingertips lightly trailing the edge of an old Belmont shield hung on the wall, its metal dulled by time. She found a worn leather-bound book, its cover embossed with the Belmont crest.

She opened it carefully. Inside were detailed hand-drawn diagrams of night creatures, scribbled annotations in margins, battle records. It wasn't just a manual—it was a diary of hunts.

"This is incredible," she breathed, eyes wide like a child stepping into a fairy tale. "I've never seen anything like this. Your people… you've been doing this for generations."

Victor leaned against the table, crossing his arms, watching her explore. "It's not a pretty story, most of the time. Just generations of people picking up whips and going to work. Fighting until someone else can live another day."

"But you kept all of it," she said, her gaze flitting from books to weapons to carefully cataloged relics. "You didn't run from it."

"No," Victor said quietly. "It's part of me. Even when I wanted to walk away, it followed me."

Joan closed the book carefully and looked back at him. "I think that's why I'm here. You're not just a hunter. You remember why you fight."

A flicker of something passed across Victor's face. Maybe gratitude. Maybe something heavier.

"Not many people get to see this place," he admitted, his voice low but honest. "But I trust you."

Joan smiled gently, stepping toward him. "Thank you for showing me."

Victor gave her a half-smile, but there was something relaxed in him now—like the Sanctum allowed him to breathe in a way the battlefield never could.

"Well," he said, pushing off the table, "since you're here, I might as well show you the good stuff."

Joan raised an eyebrow, teasing. "There's more?"

"Oh yeah," Victor chuckled, walking toward a heavy wooden chest with reinforced iron bands. "There's always more."

Victor knelt beside the heavy wooden chest, its surface scorched in places, the iron bands etched with faint glyphs—protective seals from another time. He undid the latches carefully, as if muscle memory alone guided his hands.

Joan lingered just behind him, curiosity burning in her chest.

With a low creak, the lid lifted.

Inside, resting atop layers of folded cloth and aged leather, were weapons of unmistakable craftsmanship.

Victor reached in and pulled out a boomerang shaped like a cross, its silver edges glinting under the lantern light.

"This," he said, holding it up for her to see, "is the Cross Boomerang. Special alloy, treated with alchemical rites to keep it from snapping on return. It can hold a blessing for a short time, which makes it hit harder against vampires and night creatures."

He twirled it once in his fingers, expertly catching it by the handle. "Great for clipping wings. Or heads. Precision, fast, and it comes back if you know how to throw it."

Joan's eyes lit up. "You can call it back? Like a trusted blade?"

"More like it knows how to come home," he said with a smirk, placing it on the table.

He reached in again and withdrew a sleek, reinforced crossbow, smaller than traditional models but built for quick draws and rapid firing.

"This is my custom crossbow," he explained. "I don't carry the big ones. This one's light, fast to load, and it fires silver bolts, wooden bolts, even blessed water capsules if I prep it right."

He gestured toward a nearby rack lined with specialized bolts — some silver-tipped, some carved from sacred woods, others with small glass vials embedded at the tip.

"Tactical flexibility," Victor continued. "I built this so I can adapt in the middle of a fight. Not all monsters drop to the same song."

Joan brushed her fingertips across the neatly arranged bolts, marveling at the craftsmanship, the careful preparation behind each tool.

Her gaze was then drawn to the next weapon Victor reverently laid on the table — a whip, its handle dark wood polished by time, the leather coils meticulously treated. The Vampire Killer.

Even Joan, who had only heard fragments of legend, knew that name.

"The Vampire Killer," Victor said, almost in a hush, as if speaking its name too loudly would wake the dead. "Every Belmont has carried it. This isn't a replica. This is the whip."

Joan's breath caught. The whip seemed to hum faintly, like it remembered every hand that had ever wielded it. Leon. Trevor. Richter. And now—Victor.

"This isn't something I swing around for every skirmish," Victor said, his thumb brushing over the leather grip. "It's not just a weapon. It's a legacy. And every time you crack it, you remember that."

Joan could see it in his posture—the weight of history settled over his shoulders, not as a burden, but as a mantle.

"Will you use it soon?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Only when I need to," he replied, coiling the whip with careful precision. "It's for enemies who demand that level of force. Caster wasn't one of them. Berserker was dangerous, but not… not yet."

Joan's eyes drifted toward the chest again, her curiosity pulling her to the one item Victor hadn't touched.

Her lips parted, the weight of that weapon's legend falling over her like a shadow. "And that?" she asked.

Victor's gaze followed hers, and his expression turned solemn.

"The Morningstar," he confirmed. "One of the most powerful heirlooms in my family's history. It's not just sacred—it's final. Once I draw that… I'm making a statement."

He pressed his hand firmly against the chest. "And I'm not ready to make that statement yet."

Joan looked at him, sensing the gravity of his words.

"You're saving it," she said, understanding dawning in her voice. "For the end."

Victor nodded once, meeting her eyes. "For him. Whoever he turns out to be."

There was a long, steady silence between them, the weight of the future settling over their shoulders.

Then Victor broke it with a casual grin. "But until then? The rest of this will do just fine."

Joan's smile returned, soft but genuine. "I think you've got more than enough 'good stuff' for now."

Victor laughed, slinging the crossbow over his shoulder and pocketing the Cross Boomerang. "Stick with me, and I'll show you how all of it works."

The clack of boots against stone echoed through the Sanctum's training hall — a modest but well-worn space Victor had carved out for practice. There were scratch marks on the stone columns, gouges in the wooden dummies, and the faint outline of long-since cleaned scorch marks along the walls.

"This is where you practice?" Joan asked, stepping into the space, her hands folded behind her back as she took in the controlled chaos of it.

Victor spun the Cross Boomerang lightly in his hand, its balanced weight perfectly suited to his grip. "It's not as grand as the training grounds in the old Hold, but it gets the job done."

Joan gave him a playful smile. "Show me."

He raised an eyebrow. "You want a demonstration?"

"I want to see what a Belmont can really do."

Victor's grin sharpened. "Careful what you ask for."

In one fluid motion, he launched the Cross Boomerang across the room. It whirled through the air in a silver arc, slicing through the wooden stakes he'd set up as targets. With a practiced sidestep, Victor twisted his wrist, and the boomerang veered sharply, circling back to his waiting hand.

Joan clapped, genuine delight in her eyes. "That's incredible. And you can control its path?"

"With practice." He tossed it again, this time ricocheting it off the wall to catch a mock vampire dummy from behind. "It's not just about throwing. It's about reading the angles, knowing how the weight will carry."

He holstered the boomerang and slung the crossbow into his hands, loading a silver bolt in one smooth motion. "Quick reload, precision fire," he said, loosing the bolt at another target. The impact split the wooden 'vampire' at the chest. "Against night creatures, you don't always get a second chance."

Joan nodded, absorbing his every move with fascination. "You don't waste motion."

Victor lowered the crossbow, giving her a half-smile. "Fighting's not about showing off. It's about surviving. The faster you finish a fight, the fewer chances they have to kill you."

He stepped over to a rack and grabbed a simple training whip, not the Vampire Killer itself, but close enough in handling. With a quick crack, he sent it lashing across a target, wrapping it around the neck before yanking it off balance.

"Whips are about timing," he explained, coiling it with practiced ease. "You don't swing it like a sword. You guide it. Feel the weight. Trust the rhythm."

Joan's brow furrowed in curiosity. "Could I try?"

Victor's eyes glimmered with amusement but no hesitation. "Sure."

He passed her the training whip and guided her grip. "Start slow. Feel the pull when you swing. Don't muscle it — trust the arc."

Joan's first attempt cracked wide, missing the target by a wide margin.

Victor grinned. "Not bad. Try again."

By the third try, she managed a solid strike, the leather snapping against the target's side.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "It's… harder than it looks."

"Welcome to my life," Victor said, his voice laced with teasing.

They spent a little more time running through basic drills, Joan asking thoughtful questions, Victor giving pointers without overcomplicating. It was a rare, quiet pocket of time — two warriors not at war, but sharing.

Eventually, as they packed up, Joan's wandering gaze drifted to the far wall where a tall, dust-shrouded object leaned. Something about it caught her , she walked over and carefully peeled back the cloth.

A portrait gazed back at her — a man clad in noble armor, his expression proud but gentle, his long blond hair tied back, his stance noble yet familiar. Joan's breath caught. There was something in the set of his jaw. In the shape of his eyes.

She called over her shoulder, "Victor? Who's this?"

Victor approached, his gaze falling on the portrait as if he'd seen it a thousand times.

"Leon Belmont," he said quietly. "The one who started all this. The first vampire hunter in our bloodline."

Joan looked back at the portrait, then at Victor. "You look just like him."

Victor gave a small, self-conscious shrug. "Yeah. I get that a lot."

"He was… your ancestor?" she asked, brushing a bit of dust from the corner of the frame.

"More than that. He's the reason I'm here. The first to make a stand against the night. His fight became our curse. And our duty."

Joan studied the portrait a moment longer, then let the cloth fall back into place, tucking it carefully.

"Do you ever wonder if you're walking his path? Or if you're making your own?" she asked softly.

Victor's gaze lingered on the covered portrait. "Every Belmont walks a path shaped by the ones before. I just… try to make sure mine leads somewhere worth going." He finished as he recovers the portrait.

Joan smiled gently. "I think it will."

He slung his crossbow back into place with a half-smile. "Come on. War's not going to wait for us."

They walked out together, the door sealing behind them with a quiet thud, leaving the Sanctum — and its legacy to wait for their return.

The fetid cavern that Caster called his workshop buzzed with the sound of flies, the rank stench of rotting flesh clinging to the damp air. A pile of mangled corpses lay stacked haphazardly in one corner — failed "art" discarded like crumpled paper.

Caster sat slumped near a stone altar, his long fingers draped over his knees, his expression sour and distant. His normally manic eyes were dull, his mouth pulled in a rare, childlike pout.

"Hmph."

A long, theatrical sigh escaped him, his shoulders sagging deeper. "It's so unfair, Ryūnosuke. That ruffian and his knight—they should have fallen into my beautiful nightmare. They should have despaired. But they… they cut through it. They rejected me."

From the corner, Ryūnosuke looked up from where he was thoughtfully arranging a fresh row of victims — bound, gagged, wide-eyed, their muffled screams only adding a twisted sort of ambiance to the cavern.

"Aw, don't be like that, Bluebeard," Ryūnosuke chirped, practically skipping over with a bounce in his step. He crouched beside his Servant, grinning with that childlike wonder that somehow made him more terrifying. "You were amazing back there! The way you painted the streets red? The kids screaming? The whole town was trembling. It was a real masterpiece!"

Caster sulked harder, hugging his knees. "But they didn't break. That ruffian, Victor, they say he's just a hunter, but he wields a magic I don't understand. It bit through my spells like they were nothing. And Joan — she carried the light. She carried His banner." His voice dipped into a trembling fury. "She defied me. She repelled my beauty."

His hands trembled, not from fear, but from raw, seething frustration. "My art… rejected. Again."

Ryūnosuke tilted his head, genuinely trying to process his Servant's despair. "But… isn't that part of the fun?" His eyes gleamed with his usual, unsettling enthusiasm. "If everyone fell for it, there wouldn't be any challenge! Don't you think it's more exciting when someone actually fights back?"

Caster blinked, momentarily thrown by the sincerity.

Ryūnosuke sat beside him, still grinning. "You know, back home, I used to think the best part of the game was when people ran. When they screamed. But now I get it. The best ones — the ones who fight? They last longer. They're more interesting. They make the final moment so much tastier."

Caster's pout twitched, his eyes flickering with a dim spark. "You… you really think so?"

"Totally!" Ryūnosuke beamed, his voice practically bouncing. "Think about it: that Victor guy? And that Joan chick? They're like… your magnum opus! They'll push you to your limits. They'll resist you, over and over, until the very end." He leaned in, whispering like he was sharing a juicy secret. "Doesn't that make you feel all tingly inside?"

Caster's lips curled, the sulk beginning to unravel, replaced by a slow, creeping grin. "Tingly, yes… yes, perhaps you're right. Perhaps… they're not obstacles. They're part of the art. A necessary contrast to elevate my masterpiece."

"That's the spirit!" Ryūnosuke cheered, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "And hey, you know what would really cheer you up?" He gestured enthusiastically toward the fresh batch of captives. "We can make something extra special tonight! Something with lots of color, lots of moving parts. I'll even let you pick the screams this time."

Caster's grin widened, his eyes regaining their manic gleam. "Oh, Ryūnosuke… you always know just how to lift my spirits."

"Anything for my buddy!" Ryūnosuke chimed, genuinely happy.

As they began their grotesque preparations, their laughter echoed through the cavern — a sound that was, in its own horrific way, oddly warm.

It was the laughter of two monsters, delighting in each other's company — monsters in perfect harmony.

The Vampire Nest pulsed with an uneasy silence, the kind that gnawed at even the lowest of the night's creatures. Deep in the labyrinthine tunnels, a knot of lesser vampires huddled together, their voices pitched low, almost whispering, their sharp ears constantly swiveling toward the shadows.

"I don't like this," one muttered, wringing his clawed hands. "The Master said we had to pull back — hide ourselves. But why? We're not prey."

Another clicked his teeth anxiously. "It's not just the pullback. He said something worse." His voice trembled, as though simply recalling the words summoned their weight. "The one in the city… the magic user. The Master called him a 'Speaker magician.'"

The first vampire frowned, confused. "What's that? I thought mages were all the same."

"They're not." The third, the sharpest of the bunch, whispered as though the walls themselves might eavesdrop. "Whatever a Speaker magician is, it's serious. I've heard of mages. But this one… he's different. The Master never gives orders like this unless it's something real. He's worried."

The second vampire shuffled nervously. "We're not supposed to hunt freely anymore. Not without permission. What if the Master finds out we're talking like this?"

A tense silence settled, their unease festering.

"Too late for that."

The cold, honeyed voice slithered from the shadows, sending the minions jolting to attention as Marceline's lithe form emerged, every step slow, deliberate, predatory.

The air felt heavier in her presence.

They immediately lowered their gazes, shoulders stiff, terror flashing in their crimson eyes. An elite had heard them. To be overheard complaining, doubting the Master's orders, was suicide.

"My Lady Marceline—" one of them stammered, his voice cracking. "We—we didn't mean—"

She raised a single, lazy finger, silencing them instantly.

Her smile was disarmingly soft. Almost kind. "That's enough. No need to panic." She circled them like a viper sizing up a nest of field mice. "It's only natural to question things when you're stuck underground, starving, bored out of your minds."

The minions said nothing. Their trembling hands betrayed them.

"I heard your little worries." Her grin widened, playful now, though her eyes glinted with quiet amusement. "You don't need to be afraid. I'm not going to run to the Master and tattle on you. In fact…" She paused in front of the boldest one, the one who first complained. "I agree with you."

Their heads snapped up in shock.

"You do?" the bold one croaked.

Marceline leaned in just enough to make him flinch. "Of course. Hiding? Skulking? That's not our way. We own the night."

"But the Speaker magician—"

She waved her hand dismissively, as though brushing away smoke. "He's dangerous, yes, but the Master is playing a long game. We don't need to. I know how to avoid him. I can cover your movements, make sure no one above notices if you continue your hunts."

The minions exchanged wary glances, still afraid to openly agree, but the allure of fresh blood gnawed at their self-control.

Marceline softened her tone, coaxing them closer. "You don't need to fear the Master's wrath. If anyone asks, you were following my orders. And you know the Master's trust in me." She tilted her head, her fangs flashing. "When you're with me, you're untouchable."

The bold one hesitated, but the temptation pulled at him like a hook behind his ribs. "You're sure? He won't… find out?"

"I'm sure." Her grin sharpened. "Besides, it'll be our little secret."

The fear didn't fully leave them, but it morphed—replaced by something else. Hope. Excitement. A dangerous sense of freedom under her wing.

They didn't realize they were trading one noose for another.

Marceline's eyes glittered with a mix of thrill and condescension. Let the Master play his cautious game. Let him watch the magician from the shadows.

She would remind the streets who ruled the night. She would dance in the blood again.

As she turned to lead them out into the city's underbelly, their hurried footsteps followed eagerly, desperate for the taste of the hunt once more.

None of them saw the faintest curl of satisfaction at the corner of her lips—a predator, emboldened by her own blind arrogance.

And none of them noticed the rat, small and unassuming, perched in the tunnel's shadow, its beady eyes gleaming as it watched them leave.

It twitched its nose, then scurried away, unseen, unheard — but not unwatched.

Chapter Text

It had been a few nights since the battle with Caster — a few precious nights where the city seemed to hold its breath. The streets were quieter, the chaos that once rippled through Fuyuki momentarily stilled. Caster had fled, his nightmares withdrawn from the surface, and for a time, it almost felt like the war had paused.

But quiet was rarely peace.

A small squadron from Marceline's hunting band prowled carefully through the shadows, their movements sharp, but their discipline dulled. No longer did they hunt openly; now they moved with caution, snapping up isolated prey in the margins—quick feeds, fast kills, in and out before anyone noticed. Marceline had assured them they could take their hunts where they pleased — quietly, of course, but without fear.

And they believed her.

One of them snorted as he dragged a lone man into an alley, already sinking his claws into the human's shoulder. "Easy pickings. Told you the humans get lazy after a few quiet nights."

Another crouched over the kill as the first fed, his tongue flicking against his fangs. "I don't see why the Master's so worried about some random magic user. One of us could snap his neck just fine."

"Keep your voice down," the third hissed, glancing anxiously over his shoulder. "The Master's ears are everywhere."

The first vampire pulled away from the now lifeless body, licking blood from his fingertips. "The Master's ears aren't here. Marceline said she'd cover us. You worried she's lying?"

The second laughed. "She's an elite. She can say what she wants."

The third shifted uneasily but said nothing. Their little circle of bravado wasn't as solid as they thought.

Then — a sharp clatter echoed nearby. The sound of metal hitting concrete.

All three vampires whipped their heads around, eyes locking onto a figure half-concealed by the shadow of a closed storefront—a young man, frozen in terror, staring directly at them.

"There!" the first vampire snarled, lunging forward.

The man bolted, his panic loud against the dead silence of the street, his footsteps a frantic drumbeat as he sprinted away.

The second vampire hesitated. "Should we even chase—?"

"He saw us!" the first barked, already in pursuit. "We can't leave witnesses!"

The third called after him. "The sun's coming! You'll run out of time!"

But the first vampire ignored him, the thrill of the chase burning too hot. He gained quickly, each leap shrinking the distance between them. "Run, little human! No one's going to save you now!"

The man cut through a narrow side street, the vampire just a breath away from grabbing him — until his keychain slipped out of his pocket, catching the flickering streetlight.

A small silver charm—a warding talisman, old, worn, but still faintly charged.

The vampire skidded to a halt, his outstretched claws recoiling instantly as the charm sparked weakly in response to his presence.

"You've got to be kidding me," the vampire hissed, baring his fangs but unwilling to close the gap.

The human's terrified eyes met his for one brief, suspended moment. Then the man turned and ran toward the lights of the busier streets, disappearing into the city's pulse, where crowds and sunrise would soon swallow him.

The vampire's fists clenched. "Tch. Coward. Lucky break."

The third vampire caught up, scowling. "Did you get him?"

The first spat on the ground. "The bastard had a ward."

"A proper one?"

"Old junk. Faint charge. Probably from his grandma's jewelry box. But enough to buy him a few seconds." He sneered. "And now it's almost dawn."

The second vampire, finally catching up, grimaced as he glanced at the paling sky. "Marceline won't like this."

"She doesn't have to know."

The third arched a brow. "Really? You think she won't find out a human got away?"

The first vampire clicked his tongue, looking back toward the city. "We'll just say he slipped through. We'll clean it up later."

But as they retreated into the tunnels, they didn't realize how much the human had seen. And nobody noticed the rat perched in the shadows nearby, its nose twitching, its beady eyes glinting.

The hunting squadron slipped back into the Vampire Nest just as the pale edge of dawn crept over the city skyline. Their footsteps were quick, but not quick enough to avoid what was waiting for them.

Lucatiel stood near the entrance arch, arms crossed, her crimson eyes sharp beneath her hood. There was no fire in her expression — just the quiet, watchful patience of someone who only needed facts to hurt you.

"You're late." Her voice was smooth, but the weight behind it was heavy enough to press the minions to silence. "Much later than sanctioned."

The squadron faltered, exchanging nervous glances. None of them dared to speak.

Lucatiel tilted her head slightly, her gaze cutting through him like a blade. "The Master's orders were not vague. Quick feeds. No exposure. No delays."

One of them finally found his tongue. "We — ran into… a complication."

"A complication?" Lucatiel's cold amusement flickered for a heartbeat. "You mean a witness escaped."

The squadron froze.

"How did you—" the second vampire began.

"The rats talk," Lucatiel cut in smoothly, her lip curling just enough to make them recoil. "The Master's eyes are never far."

The boldest of the group swallowed hard, carefully choosing his words. "We had to find a better hunting ground. Crowds were thinner tonight."

Her hand twitched at her side, just enough to make the nearest vampire brace instinctively. "Your little excursion was not as clean as you thought."

"Is there a problem here?" Marceline's voice drifted in, smooth, honeyed, as she strolled into the chamber, arms folded, chin held high with lazy confidence.

Lucatiel's gaze flicked to her but didn't bow. "Your squadron returned late. And they left a survivor."

Marceline waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, come now, Lucatiel. Don't be so rigid. The boys just needed to stretch their legs a little. It's not as if they stormed the human's temples in broad daylight."

Lucatiel's jaw tightened. "The Master gave explicit instructions. This will be reported."

Marceline's eyes sharpened just a fraction. "I told them I'd take responsibility. If there's blame to hand out, hand it to me."

Lucatiel's gaze hardened. "So you'd like to stand between them and the Master's punishment?"

Marceline's grin widened. "Gladly."

There was a long pause.

Lucatiel's voice dropped like a quiet threat. "Then you will stand alone when the Master responds."

Her words were neither angry nor mocking—just inevitable.

Her gaze lingered on them for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then she turned on her heel and vanished into the deeper tunnels, her steps echoing like a slow metronome of judgment. The weight of her warning lingered, settling heavy on the squadron's shoulders. For a few seconds, they dared to believe they were safe.

Until Marceline spun on them, her grin gone, her eyes burning.

"You idiots!" she snarled, her voice cracking like a whip. "I told you to be careful, to stay quick, to avoid mistakes—and what did you do? You got greedy! You let a human slip through with nothing but a warding trinket!"

The bold one, still rattled from Lucatiel, stammered, "We—we didn't expect her to have—"

"Didn't expect?" Marceline's claws raked across the stone wall, carving deep scars in it. "Did you think this was a game?"

"That's the point," another added quickly. "You said you'd protect us."

Marceline then smiled, but it was the kind that put the sharpness of her fangs on display—a lazy, satisfied grin that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Oh, don't worry, I am protecting you," she said sweetly. "But it's funny, isn't it? I told you to be careful. I told you not to get messy. And now I hear one of you let a human get away?" Her head tilted just enough to seem playful.

The minions flinched. "It—it wasn't our fault! The human had a warding charm, we didn't expect—"

Marceline let out a soft, amused hum. ""Didn't expect" again? Oh, you sweet little idiots." She slowly walked past them, dragging her fingers along the nearest minion's shoulder like she was petting a nervous animal.

"I gave you my word, remember? I said I'd cover for you." Her claws trailed lazily along the back of his neck, just enough pressure to make him shiver.

"And I will. I'll keep Lucatiel busy. I'll keep the Master's attention elsewhere."

Her smile sharpened. "But that doesn't mean I'll let you make me look stupid."

The squadron stiffened, dread creeping up their spines.

Marceline's tone was still soft, still almost sweet. "You embarrass me again, and I won't need the Master's punishment to deal with you. I'll rip your throats out myself. No speeches. No warnings. Just crack—" she snapped her fingers lightly by the nearest minion's ear, making him flinch. "And you're gone."

Her grin widened, pleased with their fear. "Isn't that fair? I think that's fair."

The minions quickly nodded, their bravado from earlier fully collapsed.

"Good," Marceline purred. She patted the bold one's cheek mockingly, then turned and sauntered down the tunnel, her voice drifting lazily over her shoulder.

"Next time, don't get caught leaving crumbs behind."

Her footsteps faded into the deeper halls, but the weight of her words—and the consequences they'd narrowly dodged—settled heavy on their backs.

They'd survived Lucatiel's judgment. They weren't sure if they'd survive Marceline's mercy.

Victor and Joan found him by chance while combing through the city in daylight. They had been following the faint trail of vampire attacks—disappearances, strange bloodstains, whispered sightings—but hadn't expected to stumble across a survivor.

It was a local café on a quiet street, a place that didn't attract too many eyes. The man looked like he hadn't slept in days, his nerves frayed, his leg bouncing under the table like he couldn't sit still even if he wanted to. Joan had gently approached him, asking if he was okay.

The way he'd blurted out, "I saw them—fangs, blood, they pulled him into the shadows—" had quickly made it clear he was the one they were looking for.

The man's hands wouldn't stop shaking. Even now as he sat across from the two strangers who had agreed to speak with him. He wasn't sure who they were, but they didn't laugh when he said the word "vampire." That was good enough.

His tea sat untouched. He stared at it like drinking it would somehow break the spell and drag him back to the nightmare he'd barely escaped. Victor leaned forward, his gaze sharp, calm, focused.

"Start from the beginning," Victor said. "What exactly did you see?"

Even sitting down, his nerves were still frayed, jittering through his hands. He clutched his tea like it was the last warm thing in the world. "It was fast. I—I didn't really know what I was seeing at first. These people — or I thought they were people — pulled this guy off the street like he weighed nothing. Dragged him into an alley. And then they turned, and they saw me."

His voice faltered, eyes darting between Victor and Joan. "You believe me, right? I'm not… I'm not crazy, am I?"

Victor sat back in his chair, arms crossed, calm but watchful. Joan, seated beside him, offered the man a gentle nod.

"You're not crazy," Joan said softly. "You're lucky."

The man gave a hollow laugh, part disbelief, part relief. "Yeah. Lucky."

Victor pressed, his tone firm but even. "How many?"

"Three—no, four, I think. One of them chased me. He was fast. I thought I was dead." The man rubbed his face, his voice cracking. "But he stopped. Just — he froze. I didn't understand why. I just kept running."

Victor's eyes narrowed slightly. "What stopped him?"

The man blinked, as if just remembering. He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out his keychain—a dull silver charm dangling from it, worn but intact.

"My grandma gave me this. Said it'd keep bad spirits away." He let out a short, hollow laugh. "Never took it seriously. Thought it was just a lucky charm."

Victor's gaze flicked to the talisman but said nothing.

The man's grip tightened around the charm as if he finally realized what it might have meant.

"I was lucky. I shouldn't have made it out of there." His voice cracked, a strained attempt at humor slipping through. "God, I really hope Dracula's just a story."

Victor withheld a smirk. "My ancestor Trevor would say otherwise…"

Joan's smile was soft but steady. "You're safe now. We believe you."

Victor kept his tone even. "Tell me exactly where this happened."

The man quickly nodded and reached for a napkin. His hands still trembled as he drew a rough street map, marking a quiet service tunnel near an old subway access point. "They dragged the guy down here. It's not a place people usually notice. Dead zone. No cameras. It's like they knew where to hunt."

Victor studied the drawing carefully, then folded the napkin and slipped it into his coat. "Is this the only place you saw them?"

The man nodded. "Yeah. I — I didn't stick around to find out if there were more. Is this enough to find them?" he asked, hope and fear bleeding into his voice.

"It's more than enough," Joan said, offering him a small, reassuring smile.

Victor's eyes lingered on the talisman again before finally leaning back in his seat.

"Listen carefully," he said, his voice low and firm. "You were lucky. You won't be again. If you see anything like this, any signs of them, you run. You don't investigate. You don't get brave. You find people. Light. Noise. And you stay there."

The man frowned, guilt flickering in his expression. "But what if I see someone else—what if I can help?"

Victor's gaze hardened. "You can't. Not against them. Not alone."

Joan stepped in, her voice softer, more reassuring. "He's right. Please, you've already survived something most people don't walk away from. You don't need to test your luck again."

The man gave a shaky, reluctant nod. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I… I get it."

Victor's tone softened just a fraction. "You did the right thing talking to us. Keep that charm on you."

The man pocketed the keychain, his small laugh still tinged with disbelief. "Yeah. Maybe I'll buy a dozen more. Just in case."

Joan gave him a small, encouraging smile. "Take care of yourself."

As the man left, Victor and Joan rose from their seats.

Joan glanced over. "That talisman. It actually worked?"

Victor's eyes stayed on the door. "Barely. It startled the vampire. Bought him a few seconds. Enough to run. The vampires weren't hunting carefully. That's what saved him. But the next one won't hesitate."

Joan's brow creased. "You think they're getting smarter?"

Victor's jaw tightened. "No. I think they're getting desperate."

He slipped the napkin into his pocket and started toward the door. "Let's move before this trail goes cold."

Joan followed, her expression grim but steady. "The city feels quiet."

Victor's faint smile didn't reach his eyes. "Quiet's never a good sign."

The safehouse was quiet, the morning sun filtered thinly through drawn curtains. Inside, Kiritsugu stood at the far window, staring out into the street with that deadened calm he always wore when he'd made up his mind. A fresh dossier lay on the table beside him—photos, map markings, scribbled notes in sharp pen.

Maiya stood across from him, loading the last magazine into a compact rifle case, the metal clicks quiet but deliberate. They'd already packed the van for surveillance. The plan was in motion.

"We tracked them leaving their safehouse earlier," Maiya reported. "Their movement patterns consistent. Same streets, same time window. They'll pass through the industrial quarter if they keep to it."

Kiritsugu tapped the map lightly. "We intercept here. It's isolated enough to avoid exposure. If we act quickly, we can eliminate them before they vanish again."

A flicker of golden light shimmered behind them as Saber materialized. She didn't waste time.

"You're making a mistake."

Kiritsugu didn't turn around. "They're an unknown variable. One that's already interfered in a Servant-level engagement and survived."

"They saved civilians," Saber said, stepping forward. "They've intervened where others didn't. That doesn't make them enemies."

Kiritsugu's eyes stayed fixed on the map. "It makes them a threat to the Grail. We don't know their agenda. They aren't bound by Command Seals, and they've acted beyond any Master's reach. That kind of free agent is unacceptable."

Saber's jaw clenched. "So is every Servant in this war. But you're not targeting them."

Maiya closed the rifle case quietly, her stance unshaken.

"They've drawn Caster out once already," Saber continued. "If anything, we should be coordinating with them."

Kiritsugu finally turned, meeting her eyes with that cold, unreadable focus. "The man uses magic that doesn't align with any Clock Tower discipline. And the woman—" he paused, frowning. "Her magical presence registers near Servant-class levels. That doesn't concern you?"

"She is a Servant," Saber said firmly. "I don't know how, or why, but I know power when I sense it."

Kiritsugu's voice was flat. "Exactly. She's unclaimed, unchecked, and independent. If she enters the Grail War fully, we lose our advantage."

"You don't know that she even wants the Grail," Saber snapped. "You fear them because they don't fit into your system. That's not strategy, it's fear."

"They don't get the benefit of the doubt," Kiritsugu said, eyes narrowing. "Not in this war."

Saber's expression hardened. "You're making an enemy where there doesn't need to be one."

Maiya glanced at Kiritsugu, waiting for the final word.

"I'll take that risk," he said coldly.

He turned to Maiya. "We move before sunset. Prepare the drones. I want eyes on them the moment they step into the district."

Maiya nodded and slipped into the hallway without a word.

Saber remained, unmoving.

"They are not your enemy, Kiritsugu," she said quietly. "But you may become theirs."

Then she turned and walked away, golden light flickering around her as she vanished — leaving him alone in the silence, sharpening the edge of his resolve.

The early evening air carried a gentle breeze as Saber walked the riverbank, dressed in her black suit that concealed the truth of who she was. Fuyuki's calm never lasted long, but in these rare, quiet moments, she could pretend the war wasn't closing in from every direction.

The aura reached her before the man did. Familiar. Steady. Not hostile.

She found him leaning against the bridge rail, overlooking the glint of water beneath fading sunlight. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a long coat, his presence was as steady as she remembered.

"Evening," Lancer said with a nod. "Didn't expect to find you here."

"Nor I you," Saber replied, stepping closer, hands tucked in her jacket pockets. "But I suppose even knights need a moment away from the war."

Lancer chuckled softly. "Especially when it's this strange of a war."

They stood beside each other, quiet for a few seconds, both watching the river move.

Lancer glanced over. "You felt it too, right? That blast of magic when Caster disappeared?"

Saber's expression shifted slightly—her usual calm tinged with curiosity. "Yes. A pulse, but not magecraft. Something older. Wilder. It didn't feel like a Noble Phantasm either."

"No," Lancer agreed. "But powerful. Enough to drop a Servant-tier threat. And not from one of us."

Saber's eyes narrowed faintly. "It came from that pair."

Lancer gave a half-smirk. "The swordswoman in the white armor and the man with the whip."

"Joan and her Master," Saber said softly.

"They're not part of the war," Lancer added. "At least, not officially. But they've already defeated Caster once."

Saber nodded. "And saved children while doing it. That's not something many Masters would risk."

"They're strong," Lancer said. "More than I expected. I felt that pulse from a rooftop. He doesn't move like a mage."

"No," Saber agreed. "He moves like a warrior."

A beat passed.

Lancer tapped a finger against the railing. "And her… whatever she is, she's not just some anomaly. She's a Servant, but not one summoned through the Grail."

"Strange," Saber murmured. "But not evil."

"That's what worries some people," Lancer said, glancing down the street. "A Servant who doesn't follow the system. A mage who uses magic we can't define. Strong, smart, and unaffiliated."

Saber looked over at him. "You sound like you're impressed."

"I am," he said, grinning. "I'm also wondering how long they'll stay outside the game before someone decides they don't get to be."

Saber didn't respond immediately. Her gaze returned to the water.

"They're not our enemies," she said at last.

"Not yet," Lancer agreed. "But you and I both know how fast that can change."

They stood in silence for a few seconds more — knights sharing not just a truce, but something almost like understanding.

"If it comes down to it," Lancer said, "I hope it's a clean fight. Them or us."

Saber nodded slowly. "No monsters. No tricks. Just will and steel."

Lancer smiled faintly. "The old way."

He pushed off the railing, giving her a slight bow. "Until next time, King of Knights."

"And you, Knight of the Spear," she replied, returning the gesture.

They parted at the fork in the path — no clash of blades, no final words.

The sky had darkened by the time Saber returned to the safehouse. The lights inside were dim, warm, and soft in contrast to the sharp chill of the evening outside. The scent of herbal tea drifted faintly from the kitchen, where Irisviel sat curled on the couch, leafing through a book she clearly hadn't been reading.

She looked up immediately.

"There you are," Irisviel said, voice light with relief. "I was starting to wonder if you'd found another Servant to duel mid-walk."

Saber offered a small, tired smile as she removed her coat and set it neatly by the door. "No battles tonight."

"Good," Iri said, setting the book down. "Kiritsugu and Maiya have been moving equipment again. I think something's about to happen."

Saber's expression flickered — just a breath — but she nodded. "He's preparing to confront Victor and his partner."

Irisviel blinked. "Already?"

"He considers them too dangerous to ignore."

Irisviel sighed and shook her head. "They saved children, Saber. They've done more to stop Caster than most of us."

"I told him that," Saber said quietly, stepping into the room. "He didn't listen."

Irisviel watched her for a moment, then gently patted the cushion beside her. Saber hesitated before sitting, arms resting on her knees.

"Did you see something out there?" Iri asked gently. "You've been quiet."

Saber stared ahead at the low glow of the lamp. Her voice came carefully measured.

"I ran into Lancer."

Iri tensed slightly. "Was there a fight?"

"No," Saber replied. "No blades were drawn. We spoke."

Irisviel relaxed. "And?"

"We're not enemies tonight," Saber said. "But we both know that can't last."

There was a pause.

"You didn't tell him anything… about Kiritsugu's plans?" Iri asked.

"No." Saber's voice was flat. Firm. "That's not my place."

Another pause, longer this time.

"Then what did you talk about?" Iri finally asked.

Saber's fingers curled slightly around her knees. "Victor. Joan. The magic pulse we all felt when Caster vanished. He felt it too."

Irisviel frowned. "What did he say?"

"That they're strong. Different. And that their existence unsettles the others."

She didn't say how much she agreed.

"And what do you think?" Irisviel asked softly.

Saber's answer came without hesitation. "I think they don't deserve to be hunted."

Irisviel nodded slowly, watching her with gentle eyes. "Then maybe you'll be the one to stop it. If it comes to that."

Saber didn't reply.

She just sat there in the low light, silent and still.

She had faced countless enemies. She had known kings and tyrants, heroes and monsters. But tonight, she felt something different. A weight she couldn't name. A choice she hadn't made yet — but knew was coming.

Outside, the wind brushed the windows, as if the war were exhaling between battles.

Chapter Text

The sun had just begun to sink behind the rooftops of Fuyuki, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the quiet street outside Victor's safehouse. Inside, the air was calm but charged—one of those silences that came before a storm. Boots were being laced, belts adjusted, gear checked twice.

Victor moved with ritual precision. He wasn't in full armor, but close: reinforced jacket, whip holster at his side, blessed throwing knives in a shoulder rig. He fastened the strap on his glove and ran a hand over the inside lining of his jacket — checking for holy water, oil, and a collapsible stake in one fluid motion.

Across the room, Joan sat on the edge of a bench, fastening her gauntlets. Her armor had been subtly modified for the modern world — layered beneath a coat, sword concealed in a plain scabbard. She looked calm, but alert. Thoughtful.

"Victor," she said suddenly, her tone soft but steady. "Before we head out… may I ask something?"

He glanced up. "Go for it."

She paused. "What are they like? Vampires."

Victor blinked, then let out a short breath. Not annoyed — just calculating how much to say.

"They vary," he said, adjusting the leather grip on his whip. "Some act human. Some barely remember how to. The old ones are worse. Smart, fast, cruel. They don't rush. They hunt."

Joan nodded, absorbing his words. "And you've fought them for a long time, haven't you?"

He was quiet for a beat too long.

"...Yeah," he said, and trailed off.

When he didn't continue, she gently asked, "Was it your parents who taught you?"

Victor tightened the strap on his belt a bit too quickly. "Vampires have weaknesses," he said, pivoting without looking up. "Sunlight, obviously. Holy water, blessed ground, consecrated weapons. Stakes work if you know what you're doing — but it has to hit the heart. A lot of people forget that part."

Joan's expression didn't change, but she watched him carefully. She caught the shift — the dodge. But she let it slide. For now.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver vial, holding it up. "This batch of holy water is fresh. Blessed yesterday. Use it if we get cornered or outnumbered. Won't kill a strong one, but it'll burn, break focus, give you space."

She accepted it wordlessly, still listening.

Victor continued, his tone steady again. "As for the talisman that guy had? It worked because it was made with intent. Old symbols, faded blessing, probably passed down without anyone realizing what it was. That kind of charm carries residual energy. Doesn't ward off everything, but enough to make a lesser vampire hesitate."

Joan turned it over in her mind. "Like a faint echo of holy ground?"

"Exactly," Victor said. "To them, it's like static. Just enough to make them flinch. Doesn't stop them, but buys time. And sometimes that's all you need."

Joan gave a short nod. "Good to know. I've faced demons and beasts before, but never a vampire. I'd rather not underestimate something I've never fought."

Victor holstered the vial again and slung on his jacket, checking that everything was where it needed to be.

"You'll know one when you see it," he said. "They pull the warmth out of the air. Older ones don't cast reflections. The smart ones fake it with magic, but the ancients? They want you to know what they are. Makes the fear set in faster."

Joan stood, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword. "Then let's be the ones they fear."

Victor cracked a faint smile. "Now you're thinking like a Belmont."

Outside, the sun slipped below the city skyline.

And the hunt began.

From the rooftop, Kiritsugu watched the pair move through the city below — calm, methodical, too sharp for civilians.

"They're heading for the old subway path," Maiya murmured beside him.

"They're walking into something," Kiritsugu replied coldly. "Good. Let's see how they handle it."

He didn't lower his scope.

The room reeked of mildew, blood, and old stone. Flickering industrial lights cast sickly yellow patches across the cracked concrete floor. Rows of rusted pipes hissed faintly overhead like serpents watching the play unfold.

Caster stood in the center of the underground chamber, arms spread like a conductor preparing for a symphony. Around him, the hostages were lined up — bound, gagged, and trembling. Adults. Children. A boy no older than eight, clutching his mother's hand with white knuckles. His father sat beside them, bleeding from the lip. In the far corner, the man who had once escaped — the one with the talisman—now sat slumped, dazed, as if hope had left him the moment he was dragged back into the dark.

"This," Caster whispered reverently, "is far more beautiful than last time."

Ryūnosuke twirled a length of wire like a child with a ribbon, pacing casually along the edge of the chamber. "You really outdid yourself. We've got the emotional stakes, the symmetry, the returning characters…" He flashed a grin. "Feels like a sequel."

"They'll come," Caster said softly, his eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. "The knight and her tamer. And the other one—our ghost in the rafters. I can feel it. We've baited three beasts with one offering."

Caster's gaze shifted as something familiar caught his eye. He slowly approached the boy and his parents, boots echoing against the concrete with eerie calm. The boy froze, his body pressed tight against his mother's side.

"You," Caster said softly, crouching before them. "I know you."

The mother pulled her son closer, eyes wild with fear, but Caster didn't even look at her. His attention was fixed solely on the child.

Ryūnosuke knelt beside the boy, who tried not to cry. "You remember him, right? The one she carried out last time. Heh… What do you think'll break first? Her sword arm or her composure?"

Caster didn't answer. He was gazing upward now, sensing the currents beyond the walls. The third presence was near — just out of reach. The same unseen force that had watched his last failure from the shadows, that had remained untouched even as his magic failed. He still couldn't tell if it was a curse, a creature, or something older.

He stood, towering over them.

"Let's see if they're as heroic when they have to choose who to save… and who to lose."

Ryūnosuke clapped quietly, grinning from ear to ear. "We're building something real now, Bluebeard. A performance with history. I can feel it."

"I don't care who arrives first," Caster said. "Let them tear each other apart. Let the knight bleed and the master scream and the beast in the dark finally show its face."

He lifted one hand, magic already coiling through his fingers like smoke.

"This time, we'll be ready."

The undercity air was thick with rot and moisture. Old railway corridors gave way to sealed tunnels, service ladders, and forgotten stonework — parts of Fuyuki that didn't appear on any modern map.

Four vampires moved in silence through the dark.

They weren't elite. Not like Marceline. Not like the others. But they followed orders — and Marceline's latest command had been clear: Fix your mistake. Clean up the witness. Leave no more traces.

They didn't know about the hostage chamber up ahead. Or the magic coiled like barbed wire around its threshold. Or that Caster himself was preparing to bait and break more than just a pair of hunters tonight.

They just smelled blood.

One of them paused, sniffing the stale air. "You smell that? Human. A lot of them."

Another hissed. "Don't be stupid. This part of the tunnels's been dead for years."

"Yeah, but… it's fresh."

They exchanged wary looks. Even they, low-tier as they were, could feel it — the tension that clung to the stones here. Like something watching. Like something waiting.

The boldest among them growled low. "We finish the sweep. If the humans we lost ran down here, we find them. No screw-ups this time."

They crept forward, unaware that they were not the only predators in the dark.

The tunnels grew colder as they descended.

Victor led the way with his flashlight angled low, the beam sweeping over cracked stone and rusted rail remnants. Every few steps, he stopped to check for fresh signs—drag marks, footprints, magical residue. Something felt off. The silence wasn't natural. It was staged.

Joan followed close behind, her footsteps silent but purposeful, hand resting near her sword's grip beneath her coat. She could feel it too—that sinking weight in the air. A holy instinct warning her they were entering something profane.

Victor broke the silence first.

"We're heading deeper than usual. If we run into something strong — vampire, night creature, or worse — I need to know what you can throw at it."

Joan nodded. "Holy light, primarily. Enough to sear or purify unholy beings. Barrier wards, but they take time. I can summon a flame-blessed strike, but it's not infinite."

Victor raised an eyebrow. "That'll hit a vampire hard. Especially if it's old."

Joan met his gaze. "I've never fought one. Demons, yes. Witches. Possessed. But never something… like this."

"You'll know it when it hits your instincts," Victor muttered, eyes scanning the walls. "They make your blood slow down."

She studied him for a moment, then spoke gently. "You're calm. More than most people would be walking into something like this."

Victor glanced over his shoulder. "When you start training before you can spell your own name, it sticks."

Joan blinked. "Since you were a child?"

He gave a small shrug. "Toddler, technically. That's what happens when you're born into the family business."

Her expression softened, but she didn't press. She filed it away — not as pity, but as understanding.

They walked in silence a few steps more before Victor spoke again — quieter now.

"If we run into another Servant… if it's him again…"

She stopped walking.

Victor turned to face her. "I need to know if you're alright. I know what happened last time rattled you."

Joan's gaze flickered, but her posture stayed solid. "It did. But I'm still here."

"Still here and stable aren't always the same."

A pause passed. Then she said, quietly, "It won't stop me from doing what must be done. But I won't lie — facing him again… it will hurt."

Victor nodded once. That was enough. Honest and solid. No bravado. Just truth.

He turned and kept walking.

"If it comes down to him again," he said, voice steady, "we end it. Together. Quick."

Joan walked beside him, eyes forward. "Together."

The tunnel ahead forked — left into a collapsed passage; right into a corridor faintly lit by something unnatural. Not electric. Not fire. A sickly, pulsing glow — like light being bled from the walls instead of cast from them.

Victor and Joan slowed.

He crouched low for a moment, pressing his glove to the concrete, then ran two fingers through a fine powder near the floor — ash and chalk. It tingled faintly against his skin. Magical residue.

Joan raised her head slightly, nostrils flaring like a knight tracking a demon through old woods. "Do you feel that?"

"Yeah," Victor muttered. "Thaumaturgy. Same flavor as last time."

Her eyes narrowed. "Caster."

Victor rose slowly to his feet, brushing his hands off on his jacket. "I set a trap once. Not far from here. Couple weeks back. Simple layout, three blind corners, reinforced ward triggers to scare off anything with fangs."

Joan glanced at him. "The one we abandoned after Saber and Lancer started fighting?"

He gave a faint nod. "Had to leave it half-primed. This place feels the same… but sharper. Cleaner. Intentional. Someone studied us."

They stepped forward slowly, the glow intensifying with each step. Far ahead, just visible at the edge of their sightline, was a faint shimmer of light magic—twisted and wrong. It pulsed like a heartbeat.

Joan stared. "It's bait."

Victor's jaw tensed. "Yeah. And he's daring us to take it."

She didn't move right away. Neither did he.

Then he asked, quieter this time, "Are you ready to face him?"

There was a pause.

Joan exhaled slowly. "No. But I have to."

Victor watched her, his expression unreadable for a moment. "You sure? You don't have to pretend with me."

Her voice was steady. "It hurts to see him like this. To remember the man he was and look at what he's become. But I won't falter."

He nodded, not saying anything right away. Then: "Good. Because if this goes bad, we'll need each other steady."

Joan placed a hand on her sword. "I trust you."

Victor cracked a faint smile. "And I've got your back."

Another beat passed before Joan said, more to herself than him, "Last time, we saved who we could. But he got away. He kept going."

Victor didn't look at her — just stared into the flickering dark. "He won't this time."

Her hand tightened on her blade. His fingers hovered near his whip.

"End it?" she asked.

Victor gave a grim nod. "End it."

The warded barrier shimmered as Victor reached out with his gloved hand. The magic sizzled faintly — reactive, but not sealed. It wasn't meant to keep people out.

It was meant to lure them in.

With a flick of his wrist and a whispered Speaker sigil, the energy parted just enough for them to pass through.

They stepped into the chamber.

The light was low, flickering with a sickly yellow hue from conjured glyphs lining the walls. The air was heavy — dense with the scent of fear, sweat, and blood. And in the center of the room, just like last time, were the hostages.

Adults and children. Gagged. Bound. Some huddled together, trembling. Others slumped against the wall in defeat.

Joan's breath caught for half a second.

Victor's jaw clenched. "Damn it…"

Near the front, one man sat with his back to a concrete pillar, head low. His jacket was torn, his arm bruised, but his face was unmistakable.

"The witness," Victor muttered.

Joan spotted the child next. "The boy… from before."

He was clinging to his mother, who stared forward with glassy, wide eyes. His father was beside them — bloody, but breathing.

The flicker of recognition in the boy's face — fear laced with fragile hope — stabbed straight through her.

"They used them to draw us back," Joan said, voice low, eyes scanning the perimeter.

Victor didn't respond. He was already moving — slow, methodical, whip at the ready, checking for magical traps with each step.

"Stay close," he said. "If we can break the sigils binding them—"

A snarl echoed through the corridor behind them.

Victor spun, whip drawn.

Joan turned on instinct, blade half-drawn from its sheath.

From the shadows of the tunnel behind, a pair of eyes gleamed red. Then another. Then more.

Four vampires stepped into the threshold, crouched low like predators caught in the middle of someone else's ambush.

Victor swore under his breath. "You've got to be kidding me…"

Joan's eyes narrowed. "They weren't part of the trap."

"No," Victor muttered, "but now we're all caught in it."

The hostages whimpered as the vampires growled and stepped forward, caught between fear and opportunity.

And above them all, hidden behind illusions and arcane barriers, Caster watched the scene unfold.

His stage was full. The audience was bleeding. And the performance was about to begin.

The air in the chamber twisted — not from movement, but from magic.

A ripple echoed across the room, like the surface of a pond disturbed by an invisible hand. Arcane illusion peeled back like torn silk. And then they were there.

Caster stood atop the raised platform above the chamber's far end, cloaked in unnatural light. Ryūnosuke beside him, arms spread wide in mock theatrical flourish.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Ryūnosuke announced, grinning like a man on stage. "Welcome to tonight's performance. We've prepared a new cast, new lighting, and all the blood-soaked drama your souls can bear!"

Joan stepped forward slowly, her eyes never leaving the two figures above. "That's him," she whispered. "That's Caster."

Victor's voice was low. "And he must be his master."

Ryūnosuke beamed and leaned over the railing. "Oh, you know me? That's flattering! Name's Ryūnosuke. Let me guess, you're the one who burned down our last venue. Victor, right?"

Victor's eyes never left him. "We were overdue for renovations."

"Oooh," Ryūnosuke cooed, eyes sparkling, "you've got a mouth on you. You must be the famous "ruffian" that my pal here hates so much. I've been dying to meet you."

Joan kept her sword low but ready. "Caster," she called, voice unwavering. "You desecrate this world with every breath you draw. I won't let you harm the innocent again."

Caster smiled with cold amusement. "Ah, my saint returns… and brings her tamer. Delightful."

But he wasn't looking at them.

He was staring at the vampires.

The squadron had frozen mid-step, fangs half-bared, confused and angry. They hadn't expected mages. They hadn't expected hostages. And they definitely hadn't expected another Servant.

Caster tilted his head slowly. "Now this is new."

Ryūnosuke leaned over again, eyes glittering. "Are those—ohhh Bluebeard, look! Fangs. Glowing eyes. That's new! Are these yours?"

"No," Caster murmured. "But how exquisite. Uninvited guests. True creatures of the night… and not mine. Fascinating."

Joan's eyes locked on the vampires — her first time seeing them. Her breath hitched, just slightly, as the reality struck her. They weren't monsters from scripture or art.

They were real.

Gaunt and bestial. Eyes glowing like coals. Hunger visible in every motion.

Victor stepped half a pace in front of her, voice low. "Don't break focus. They'll test your nerves. That's how they win."

She nodded. Just once.

The vampires began backing up, realizing they'd walked into a crucible. Two masters. Two servants. Caster above, charged with magic. The hunters below, steel and holy fury in their hands.

"This is a trap," one of them hissed. "We were sent to hunt. We weren't told—"

"Shut up," another growled. "Get ready. We're boxed in."

Victor's whip uncoiled silently at his side. "Now they know," he murmured. "They weren't briefed on who we are."

Joan glanced at him. "That matters?"

He gave a tight nod. "Yeah. Because the moment they realize who I am, they'll panic."

Caster's expression bloomed with delight. "Oh, this night is divine."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "Everyone here is expecting blood. Let's make sure it's not the hostages'."

All three factions stood locked in place.

Tension poised like a dagger on a thread.

Caster raised one hand into the air, fingers curled like a puppeteer.

The circle beneath his feet glowed red, then violet, then black. Glyphs pulsed and twisted midair like they were alive.

"Let's raise the curtain," he whispered, "and scatter their sense of order."

With a sudden snap, the room darkened — and then screeched.

Black shapes burst from the walls like ink given form — twisted familiars with stitched mouths, too many limbs, and eyes that blinked in unnatural rhythms. They shrieked like dying birds as they descended on the chamber.

Ryūnosuke cackled. "Go on, go on! Make it beautiful!"

The vampires hissed, startled by the shrieking familiars as they darted through the air like living blades. Two familiars struck one of the vampires — shredding its coat and peeling away skin like paper.

"The hell is this?!" one of them snarled.

"They're not with us!" another snapped. "Caster's lost it!"

Victor didn't hesitate. "Joan, protect the hostages. I'll hold the left flank."

He darted forward, whip in one hand, holy dagger in the other. A vampire lunged — Victor met it mid-air with a crack of his whip that lit up the air like a thunderclap. The creature screamed as the strike burned through its flesh.

Another came at him low, but he turned, ducked, and drove the dagger straight into its stomach.

Joan raised her blade, light gathering along its edge. "By His will — begone!"

A flare of holy light exploded around her, incinerating one of Caster's familiars in mid-flight and knocking a vampire back with a burned chest.

Ryūnosuke ducked behind a broken pillar, laughing. "Oooh, she glows when she fights! She glows! Bluebeard, I love her!"

Caster paid no attention. He was muttering, adding new sigils to his spell, his eyes locked on the ceiling, drawing symbols midair with fluid, elegant motion.

Victor turned toward Joan for a split second. "We need one of them alive."

She deflected a vampire's claw with a precise upward slash, then pivoted behind the creature and dropped it with a hard kick to the back. "What?"

"I need one to interrogate later. We don't know how many are in the city."

"Then you'll need to move fast."

"Yeah," he grunted, cracking his whip into another's leg mid-leap, "working on it."

More familiars dropped from the ceiling like living shrapnel. One got too close to a bound hostage — Joan reacted instantly, launching a blast of holy light that shattered it in a burst of ash and noise.

A vampire scrambled to guard one of the humans, throwing itself in front of a familiar and catching its talons in the shoulder. It screamed in rage — not at the pain, but at the loss of control.

"They're trying to keep the humans alive," Joan realized, blade flashing. "They're… protecting them?"

Victor snarled as he drove a stake into a vampire's collarbone. "They see them as livestock. They're guarding their stockpile."

A flicker of horror crossed her face, but it hardened fast into steel.

Then the ground cracked beneath them — Caster's spell reaching critical mass.

Red-black vines of magical filth coiled along the stone, creeping like veins, and from the glyph above, a monstrous shriek poured down — a summoning.

Caster's voice rose like a sermon: "And now, for the second act…"

High above the chaos, on a nearby rooftop, the drone's screen glowed blue in the dark. Its lens fed live footage to the tablet in Maiya's hands — chaotic, blurred flashes of motion and violence underground. Blood. Light. Familiars. Vampires.

And then — clear frames. Faces. Weapons. Spells.

Joan. Victor. Caster. And something else.

"Vampires," Maiya said softly. "They're real."

Kiritsugu didn't flinch. His eyes were locked on the screen, expression like stone.

He watched Victor cleave a familiar in half with his whip, watched Joan shield hostages with radiant light — and watched the blood-soaked madness spiral further out of control.

Then he said it, voice low and final:

"It's time to get it ready."

Maiya looked at him. "Everything?"

He nodded once. "All of it."

The glyph above Caster pulsed once — twice — and then ruptured.

With a scream that sounded like rusted metal tearing through a cathedral bell, the summoning circle poured black ichor down into the center of the chamber. The fluid coalesced midair into a twisted abomination — a patchwork beast of fused limbs, antlers, and screaming faces sewn into its ribcage. Each head writhed and moaned like it was begging for release or more pain — no one could tell which.

Caster spread his arms. "Behold! A chorus of torment, stitched from the screams of failed saints and faithless kings!"

The beast dropped to the floor with a sickening thud, the impact cracking stone. It reared back, letting out a howl so loud it shook dust from the ceiling.

Joan flinched from the sheer sound — so did the vampires.

Victor didn't waste time.

He slammed his palm to the ground. A circle of Speaker runes spiraled out from his glove, and from the air itself came a dome of ice — reinforced with glowing threads of holy energy. It snapped into place around the hostages like a fortress of crystal light.

He gritted his teeth. "That barrier won't hold forever."

"Long enough to finish this," Joan said, stepping forward again.

Across the chamber, the vampires scrambled back from the abomination.

"Damn it — Caster summoned that?" one hissed.

"It's out of control," another growled. "We get the humans and run—now!"

"Forget hunting," a third said. "This is survival."

They started to coordinate — two flanking the ice dome, two watching the hunters and the monster, eyes darting.

The vampires were retreating from the abomination, their coordination cracking under pressure. Joan's blade lit with holy fire as she moved to intercept—

But behind Victor, a familiar voice rang out:

"Heyyy, demon slayer~!"

Victor didn't even look.

He pivoted slightly — just enough — and drove his boot backward in a clean, brutal arc.

CRACK.

Ryūnosuke's face met the sole of Victor's boot with a wet crunch, and the deranged man collapsed to the floor in a heap — out cold before his body hit the ground.

The chamber didn't even pause.

Joan blinked, glanced down, then back at Victor. "…Well, that works."

Victor adjusted his stance, still staring down the beast. "Announcing your sneak attack. Genius."

The abomination screeched again and charged, limbs flailing, heads wailing. Familiars swarmed around it like living armor, shielding it from direct hits.

Joan's blade ignited with holy fire. "Ready?"

Victor cracked his whip. "Let's end 'Act Two' with a bang."

They charged — knight and hunter — into the heart of hell.

The stitched abomination lunged.

It moved like an avalanche made of limbs — too many, too heavy. Its shrieking heads twisted in and out of its body, forming grotesque maws that tried to bite as it charged. Familiars swarmed around it like armor, lashing at everything in their path.

Joan surged forward first, holy light erupting from her blade. "On me!"

Her strike cleaved through the air, a radiant arc of fire catching one of the outer limbs. The blow seared through flesh — but the thing barely flinched. A smaller, broken face twisted along its shoulder and screamed back at her.

Behind her, Victor raised one hand, palm crackling.

"Cover left!"

Joan pivoted smoothly, trusting the cue. She deflected a leaping vampire, slamming it into a pillar as Victor unleashed a blast of lightning from his open palm. The Speaker magic lanced forward in a jagged spear, catching the abomination across its midsection and halting its charge.

Electricity crackled over its body — but only for a second. The thing absorbed the pain. Roared louder.

Victor cursed and shifted again, this time conjuring a wall of fire between the ice barrier protecting the hostages and an oncoming vampire.

"Ice next," he muttered, flipping a vial in his free hand. "Joan, circle wide!"

She obeyed without hesitation, darting to the right and slicing through two familiars mid-air with a wide, flaming arc. One vampire tried to intercept her, but Victor snapped his whip into its leg, yanking it off balance before driving a silver dagger into its back with practiced force.

Joan didn't even have to look back. "Thank you."

"Just paying rent," Victor said dryly.

The monster screamed again and surged toward Joan.

Victor hurled the vial — a burst of freezing mist erupted, ice climbing up its legs like fast-growing roots. Joan used the moment to leap upward, her blade glowing white-hot.

"For the innocent — fall!"

She drove the sword down in a powerful two-handed strike, plunging it through one of the main torsos, holy fire pouring from the impact like a burst dam. The flesh sizzled. Several of the faces shrieked in harmony.

Victor dashed in as the beast buckled, his whip glowing with Speaker-infused energy — pure kinetic force. He lashed it around the creature's neck-like appendage and yanked, snapping vertebrae and dragging it off-balance.

Another vampire tried to dive for the hostages — Joan turned mid-spin, flinging a disk of pure light from her off-hand, slicing clean through its arm and sending it fleeing.

They met in the middle, back to back, bodies heaving with effort but eyes locked.

"You still good?" Victor asked.

Joan nodded, sweat along her brow. "So long as you're still standing."

"Plan?"

"Keep pushing it into the warded glyphs behind it. They'll weaken its core."

Victor grinned, electricity sparking along his fingers. "Then let's carve it up."

They moved in unison — Victor flanking left, unleashing small bursts of controlled flame and Speaker shockwaves to herd the beast. Joan circled right, keeping pressure on its limbs, using the light barrier from earlier as a fallback point to protect the hostages.

The abomination shrieked again, now backed against the glyph-inscribed wall.

Joan stepped forward, gathering every ounce of divine power she had.

Victor joined her, hand glowing with condensed flame, whip sizzling.

Together, they struck.

Her sword pierced its core. His flame erupted from within.

The creature howled its final scream — then burst apart in a shockwave of fire, light, and ash.

Silence.

Then the barrier around the hostages fell gently, flickering out as the magic receded.

Joan lowered her sword.

Victor rolled his shoulder.

They looked at each other — tired, bloodstained, but standing.

Alive.

Together.

The chamber stank of burnt flesh and ash.

The vampire squadron lay broken across the stone — limbs twisted, faces burnt, bodies reduced to twitching embers. Victor had moved like a force of nature, cutting through them with precision and fury. Whip strikes left scorched bone. Fire spells erupted beneath their feet. When one lunged for a hostage, Victor incinerated it mid-air with a blast of pure flame.

Only one remained alive — barely.

He crawled backward, chest heaving, blood leaking from a gash above his brow. Victor approached slowly, dragging the whip behind him like a serpent.

"You get to live," he said. "Congratulations."

The vampire hissed, unsure whether to fight or kneel.

Victor creates a sphere of holy fire in one hand. "Try to run and I will burn your legs off."

High above the chaos, Veyron watched.

Perched in the shadows near a shattered ventilation shaft, his red eyes gleamed as they scanned the battlefield. The slaughtered vampires. The holy flame. The collapsed stitched beast. The hostages, still breathing. The defeated caster and his downed master.

And then his gaze landed on the man at the center of it all — whip still crackling with residual energy.

There was a crest on the back of the man's jacket.

An ornate sigil — stylized and sharp, a cross entwined with a beast's tail.

Veyron narrowed his eyes.

He didn't recognize the emblem, but the feeling it gave him was… wrong. Old. Dangerous.

He memorized the shape.

Then he slipped away, quiet as shadow, to report back to Lucatiel.

Meanwhile, Caster stood alone beneath the shattered remnants of his summoning glyphs, blood dripping from his mouth. His illusions had all flickered out. The stitched beast was gone. His familiars burned away.

Ryūnosuke lay unconscious nearby, a broken doll in the wreckage.

Joan approached slowly, her blade still glowing with light, the edge humming like a heartbeat.

"Joan of Arc," Caster whispered, with a strange, almost reverent smile. "You shine just as you did when the flames kissed your skin."

Her eyes narrowed, calm but unwavering. "And you've fallen even further than I imagined."

His smile tightened. "Still judging me, Jeanne?"

"No," she said. "Just mourning you."

That hit something.

Gilles' lips twisted, bitterness seeping into every line of his face. "You mourn me? How generous. How pure. As always."

"You were my friend," she said softly. "My commander. My comrade in arms. You fought beside me — bled beside me. And now you desecrate everything we swore to protect."

He flinched. "And you… stayed the same."

Her grip on the sword tightened, but her voice never wavered. "No. I died in agony. I cried out for God while fire consumed my lungs. But I never turned away from the light."

His eyes flickered — jealousy and pain fighting behind the madness. "That's why I hate you. You still shine. And I—" he barked out a bitter laugh, "I have nothing but shadow left."

"You had the chance to turn back."

"And do what?" he snapped. "Beg forgiveness? Crawl before the Church that burned you? That let us die?"

Joan's jaw clenched, but she said nothing.

Gilles' eyes locked on hers — then flicked, for just a heartbeat, toward Victor.

A cruel grin tugged at his mouth.

"Is that your new saint? A monster slayer with a whip and clever words? He walks beside you like he's earned it."

Joan didn't flinch. "He's nothing like you."

"Oh, I know," Gilles hissed. "He isn't drowning. He hasn't seen Hell. You're drawn to him because he hasn't been tainted. Yet."

"He walks through darkness and doesn't let it touch his soul," she said. "He helps me carry the weight. Something you stopped doing the moment you let despair consume you."

Gilles staggered forward a step, bloody but smiling through the pain. "You don't pity me. You pity what we were."

"I pity what you could've been," she said, raising her sword. "What we could've been. But I won't let your hatred drag more souls into damnation."

He stared at her, trembling.

Then quietly, almost broken: "You were my light, Jeanne. But your light never reached me."

A silence passed like a final breath.

Joan lowered her sword slightly, just for a moment. Her voice cracked — but only once.

"Then this is mercy."

She said it not as a warrior, but as a woman who once believed in him. She then raised the blade.

The drone feed stabilized, showing the aftermath of the battle — burning corpses, blood, broken summoning circles. Joan with her sword raised. Victor interrogating a wounded creature.

Maiya touched her earpiece, voice quiet but clear. "Everyone's in position. No Servants outside the blast radius."

Kiritsugu didn't blink. His finger hovered over the remote.

"They're all grouped," Maiya added. "We can end this war here."

A beat.

Then Kiritsugu spoke.

"Do it."

A feeling — cold, impersonal, unnatural — crept up the back of her neck as she froze.

Victor stopped moving too. His hand clenched, his breath held.

Something wasn't right.

A pulse rippled through the ground. Not magical. Not divine. Something colder. Human.

Victor's eyes sharpened. "That's not spellwork."

Joan turned toward him, alarm rising in her voice. "It's a bombardment. Precision-guided."

He didn't waste time. "We've got seconds."

They both turned — toward the hostages.

Joan raised her left hand and planted her sword in the ground. Her eyes flared with golden fire.

"By God's mercy…"

A beam of light exploded upward from her chest — pure divine radiance spilling outward like a dome woven from sunrays and scripture. It curved over the hostages, forming a barrier of holy energy that shimmered like stained glass.

Victor dropped beside her, both palms hitting the stone.

"Layering yours. Don't fight me on this."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

A second barrier spiraled into existence — ice-laced Speaker magic, webbed with glowing glyphs. Where Joan's dome was divine, Victor's was elemental — a wall of sacred frost designed to absorb and ground the kinetic shock.

The hum in the air deepened—then howled.

Caster's face turned toward the ceiling. His grin faded.

"That's not her doing," he muttered. "No saint calls thunder like that."

He extended a hand toward Ryūnosuke's crumpled body. "We're leaving."

With a flick of his fingers, a teleportation glyph flared — and they vanished in a burst of black light.

Nearby, the vampire Victor had captured looked up, eyes wide.

It had no miracle to save it as it screamed.

A silver missile sliced silently through the cloudline, guided with surgical grace.

Then,

Light.
Heat.
Collapse.

The explosion didn't boom — it punched. The tunnels convulsed under the blast, swallowing stone, fire, and bodies. Earth cracked open. The air burned.

The divine shield still stood.

Cracked, glowing faintly, but intact.

Inside, the hostages stirred, coughing, dazed but breathing.

Victor knelt beside the edge of the dome, hands burned, jacket half-singed, frost still clinging to his sleeves from the Speaker strain.

Joan stood at the center, eyes dim, shoulders trembling.

But she had not fallen.

Her barrier — God's answer to her prayer— had held.

Victor glanced at her, voice raw. "You all right?"

Joan nodded slowly. "I… asked for His protection."

Victor looked around at the surviving civilians. "He listened."

She gave a faint smile. "He always does. When it matters most."

Victor turned his eyes toward the ruined ceiling, then toward the scorched spot where the vampire had once been.

"…Damn it," he muttered. "My lead's toast."

The rooftop wind cut across the skyline, cool and quiet — completely at odds with the devastation buried beneath the earth.

Maiya lowered the drone controller slowly, her expression unreadable.

"It's done," she said quietly. "Direct hit."

Kiritsugu didn't respond right away. He was staring at the live feed as it flickered and stabilized—showing a slow tilt of smoke, broken stone, and bodies that no longer moved.

Joan and Victor… were still there.

Alive. Standing.

His eyes narrowed.

"Barrier magic," he muttered. "That was divine… and something else."

Maiya stepped beside him. "They survived?"

"Barely," Kiritsugu said, voice flat. "They shielded the civilians."

He lowered the tablet.

"Too good. Too fast."

"You want to strike again?"

"No," he said, turning away. "Not without losing our cover."

Maiya nodded silently.

Kiritsugu cast one last look over the city — his expression cold, calculating.

"Let's fall back."

They disappeared into the rooftop stairwell without another word.

From the edge of a high, shattered building — farther back, where no drones reached — Veyron watched the distant plume of smoke and the faint pulse of a divine shield slowly fading.

The light disappeared.

But the shapes within… hadn't.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, crouched low in the shadows.

"Damn."

Even from a distance, he'd recognized the symbol on the man's jacket. He still didn't know what it meant, but it didn't matter. That man had killed Marceline's entire squad.

And survived a bombing.

Veyron turned, vanishing into the night with silent steps.

He had seen enough.

Lucatiel would want to hear this.

The tunnels were scorched and crumbling, but the protective dome of light had held. Now it flickered gently before fading away — its purpose fulfilled.

Joan exhaled, steadying herself against the nearest wall. Her sword dimmed, the divine fire withdrawing from its edge.

Victor stood beside her, breathing heavy, his jacket ragged and lined with ash. The cold mist of his Speaker sigils evaporated into the air.

The hostages stirred — coughing, trembling, but alive.

Joan moved first, lowering to one knee to help a dazed woman untangle the ropes around her wrists. "It's over," she said gently. "You're safe now."

Victor walked past her, untying a man slumped against a broken pipe. Then he paused.

In the crowd, a small pair of arms wrapped tightly around a woman's leg.

The boy.

His eyes locked onto Victor.

For a moment, he just stared — like seeing a myth standing in front of him again.

Victor raised an eyebrow. "Still drawing?"

The boy blinked, then nodded quickly, eyes brimming with tears.

Victor smirked, just a little. "Your parents are definitely thinking about moving now."

The boy ran to him, crashing into his leg in a tight hug.

"Thank you again," the boy said, muffled into his pant leg. "You came back."

Victor stood still for a moment, looking down. His hand hesitated — then rested gently on the boy's head.

"I said we would."

The boy's parents approached slowly — eyes wide, hands still trembling. The mother looked at Victor, then at Joan, then back at her son.

"We didn't believe him," the father said quietly. "About the magic. The knight. The man with the jacket and the whip."

The mother's voice cracked. "He drew pictures of you. We thought it was… trauma. Or fantasy. But you—"

"You were real," the father finished. "You came back for him. For all of us."

Victor gave a soft, tired shrug. "It's what we do."

They didn't say anything more. They didn't need to.

Joan, nearby, was helping the last of the civilians to their feet when the escaped man from before approached her.

He was limping, scraped, but alive. His face looked different now — like something had shifted in him. Less disbelief. More understanding.

"I didn't think I'd see either of you again," he said.

Joan turned to him. "We're just glad you made it."

He nodded, swallowing hard. "Last time I was lucky. This time… you made sure I stayed that way."

He looked down for a second — then gave a small, respectful bow.

"Thank you, Miss Knight." Joan smiled gently.

Victor and Joan gathered the survivors near the tunnel exit — where broken light from a shattered street grate bled into the stone.

"We'll escort you above ground," Victor said. "But listen — this isn't over."

Joan stood beside him, sword still drawn but lowered. "There are things moving in this city. This wasn't a random attack. Until it's over… stay close to your homes. Don't wander. And if you see something — run."

Several of the rescued adults nodded quickly, others murmuring quiet thanks. The child's father put a hand over his son's shoulder protectively.

Victor opened the rusted emergency hatch and gestured them through. "Go. Stick together. Get to a police-safe zone if you can"

They began to climb out, coughing from the ash, squinting into the city night.

As they emerged into the cold air of the surface, the group huddled under a cracked overpass —exhausted, shaken, but alive.

The woman who'd spoken to Joan earlier, the one who had bowed, turned to the others with wide eyes. "We should move. Just… get out of here. This city isn't safe anymore."

Her husband nodded. "Or at least start going to church again."

An older man muttered, "That was no street magician. That was like a knight and some monster-slayer."

But not everyone was solemn.

A young woman — tall, maybe twenty-one, streak of blood on her temple and a jacket two sizes too big — watched Victor disappear into the shadows beside Joan.

She sighed, dramatically, hands on hips.

"If I ever see him again…" she declared to the survivors, "…I'm gonna have his kids."

Several heads turned.

The older woman blinked. "Excuse me?"

"What?" the girl shrugged. "He's hot, and he literally saved our lives. Chivalry does something to a girl."

One man coughed awkwardly.

Someone else muttered, "You're not wrong, but damn."

The night air was cold, crisp, and free of ash.

Victor and Joan had walked for nearly an hour, winding through side streets and abandoned corridors, after slipping away. The city lights flickered in the distance now, far enough that the silence finally felt… clean.

Victor had said almost nothing since.

Joan glanced at him — his footsteps slower, shoulders heavier with every block.

"You alright?"

"Fine," he muttered, though it sounded like a lie even to himself. "Just… holding it together until we got clear."

"You did more than hold it together."

He gave a small grunt of acknowledgment.

Then without warning, he staggered.

Joan moved instinctively.

Victor crumpled forward, and she caught him, one arm around his chest, the other steadying him before he hit the ground.

"Victor!"

He didn't answer right away. His breath was ragged, shallow. The strain had finally caught up to him. Every spell, every whip strike, every ounce of magic he'd poured into the battle—and then reinforcing a divine shield against a tactical strike?

Too much.

"Damn," he rasped, barely conscious. "Knew I was pushing it…"

Joan gently lowered him to the ground, guiding his back against a low stone wall. She pressed two fingers to his neck — his pulse was fast, too fast. Alive, but drained.

"Speaker magic takes from the body," he muttered hoarsely. "Doesn't warn you. Just… stops you."

She knelt beside him, her face calm but firm. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Didn't want to worry you," he mumbled. "Or drop the barrier."

"You could've died," she whispered.

He gave a tired, broken laugh. "Would've made your one fan very disappointed."

Joan rolled her eyes — gentle, but tight with concern. "You're impossible."

"I'm exhausted," he corrected. "Big difference."

She shook her head and gently draped his jacket tighter around him. "Rest. Just for now."

Victor didn't argue. His eyes closed. Breath slowed.

The silence returned — not the kind that came before the storm, but the kind that followed survivors.

Chapter Text

The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, curling through the rafters of the church like smoke from an old confession.

The chamber was dim but active — Risei Kotomine stood at the head of the meeting table, flanked by other senior members of the Holy Church, each one somber, robed, and visibly disturbed. Kirei sat further down the table, calm and impassive as ever, fingers steepled.

"The events of last night," he said carefully, "were far more than a mere Servant skirmish. They were unprecedented. Not in scale, but in composition."

The assembled clergy murmured among themselves. Kirei, seated silently toward the far end, watched with practiced detachment.

Risei continued, "We received this information through Assassin. While he kept a safe distance, he observed Kiritsugu Emiya and his associate monitoring the battlefield via drone. Assassin used their feeds to document the battle without exposing himself."

One priest leaned forward. "And what did he confirm?"

"Servant Caster and his Master. Vampires. And the presence of the rogue Master, Victor Belmont."

Gasps and muttered oaths filled the air.

Another priest grimaced. "The hunter again. And now vampires? Does anyone else see the pattern here? He draws darkness like a wound draws rot."

"But he fights it," someone else said cautiously. "He intervened. Saved hostages. Again."

A different voice: "And the Ruler-class Servant, Joan of Arc — she shielded the civilians."

More murmurs. Some exchanged uneasy glances.

"Holy shielding and Speaker Magic," Kirei noted calmly. "A potent combination. Few Servants could survive what was deployed — let alone protect others from it."

A younger priest scoffed. "That man has no understanding of restraint. If anything, he attracts Caster. Or worse — invites chaos. And now, a bombing? We cannot ignore the possibility that his presence escalates this war."

"But he saved civilians," another countered, tone cautious. "Twice now. The boy, some of which were consistent victims of Caster… Assassin's report confirms it. Belmont and the Ruler-class Servant are actively trying to prevent casualties."

"That's not the point," the first shot back. "He's a wild card. A mage with no Clock Tower registration, no ties to the Church, and clearly no reverence for the system. He's dragging this war into the dirt."

"But he fights Caster," a third added quietly. "And so far, he's the only one doing it consistently. That has to count for something, especially since Ruler tolerates and fights alongside him."

"Which is exactly the problem," snapped an older bishop. "That kind of coordination is unnatural. It undermines the structure of the Grail War. The system is not meant to accommodate vigilante Masters."

"That's not the issue," the elder replied. "This Belmont acts outside the Church. He answers to no mage's code or divine authority. And yet he uses holy tools? Weapons built to kill? He has no right to meddle in this war."

"But..." a younger voice offered, hesitant, "...the Belmont lineage predates the Holy Grail War. By several centuries, actually. Perhaps his insight would be beneficial."

The room went very still.

"Are you suggesting we cooperate with him?" another priest asked, incredulous.

"I'm suggesting we might be fighting something older than the Grail itself," the young man said, voice firming. "And if he—"

He didn't finish. The glare from Risei and the others silenced him.

Kirei watched the exchange with a flicker of amusement behind his calm eyes.

Then, a different priest leaned in. "What do we tell the others? The other Masters and Servants? About the vampires?"

A tense pause.

Risei answered firmly. "We tell them nothing."

"But—"

"No," Risei cut him off. "We do not spread fear. We do not disrupt the war further. If these creatures exist, then Victor Belmont is the anomaly that draws them out. He handles it. Quietly."

"Or dies trying," someone muttered.

"Either way," Risei concluded, "the Church will not publicly acknowledge the existence of vampires. We will not affirm fairy tales. Not now. Not ever."

The debate fell into reluctant silence.

Kirei finally folded his hands, breaking the stillness. "So we continue to observe?"

Risei nodded. "And if Belmont overreaches… we cleanse the board."

Kirei bowed slightly. "As you wish."

But behind his calm expression, his thoughts were far less composed.

"A Belmont, surviving where others flinch. Ruler shielding the weak. Vampires crawling into the  cracks of Fuyuki… This war gets more interesting by the hour."

Kirei smiled faintly to himself.

As the last of the priests filed out, their voices trailing down the stone corridor, silence returned to the church hall — calm, cold, and watchful.

Kirei remained seated, unmoving.

From the shadows, Assassin emerged.

"Master," came his whisper, low and steady. "As you requested."

Kirei didn't turn. "What did you observe of their combat?"

Assassin stepped closer, eyes unseen beneath his hood. "They fight as one. Not like Servant and Master. Like soldiers trained in tandem."

Kirei's brow lifted faintly. "Explain."

"Victor Belmont leads with efficiency. His movements are controlled — built for execution, not spectacle. He uses elemental manipulation — fire, ice, and lightning — but his whip is the primary weapon. It extends his reach. He uses it to disarm, entangle, or cripple."

Kirei nodded once, silent.

"He flows between ranged and close-quarter combat. No wasted movement. His fire attacks are short bursts — precision flame. His ice seals paths. Lightning disrupts enemy patterns."

"And Ruler?"

"She fills the gaps. When he moves, she protects. When he strikes, she counters. Her fighting style is deliberate, calculated but overwhelming when it lands. Holy flame. Cleansing strikes. She does not hesitate to kill if it protects another."

Assassin tilted his head slightly.

"There is no verbal coordination. They speak with motion, with trust. Like wolves in tandem."

Kirei's fingers folded neatly.

"Effective."

"Yes," Assassin said. "And dangerous."

Kirei stood slowly, walking toward the altar at the end of the church hall.

"The Belmont," he said aloud. "And the saint."

He let the words hang there, like incense on stale air.

"They do not act like players in the war. They act like defenders of the world."

He glanced back over his shoulder.

"Which means eventually, someone will try to remove them from it."

Assassin bowed once, and vanished into the silence.

Kirei remained still, gaze fixed on the far wall.

"Symbols burn brightest just before they're extinguished."

The scent of ash was gone.

In its place: soft lamplight, clean linen, and the faint smell of something warm simmering nearby.

Victor stirred, groaning softly as consciousness dragged him back into the world. His body ached. His muscles were tight and sore, like they'd gone three rounds with a dragon. His head throbbed with the leftover pulse of magical backlash.

He was… in bed. His bed.

The safehouse.

He blinked slowly at the ceiling.

"Still alive," he muttered hoarsely.

The door creaked open.

Joan entered quietly, holding a bowl of porridge in her hands. Her armor was gone — replaced by the school uniform. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. And for once, the light around her was just lamplight — not divine.

She saw him awake and smiled, relief washing across her face.

"You're up," she said softly. "You scared me."

Victor shifted slowly into a sitting position, biting back a groan. "You brought porridge?"

"I didn't trust you not to fall on your face if you tried cooking," she said, placing the bowl carefully on the nightstand.

He gave a dry chuckle. "Fair."

Then, memory hit.

The battle. The vampire. The shield. The bomb.

Victor exhaled hard. "Damn it…"

Joan tilted her head. "What's wrong?"

"The vampire I trapped," he muttered. "We had him. We could've gotten real intel. Weaknesses. Location. Maybe even a name. And then someone tried to bomb the whole city block."

Joan lowered her gaze, voice quiet. "I failed too."

Victor looked at her, confused.

"I couldn't strike Gilles down," she said. "He escaped. Again. The vampire lead was yours. Caster was mine. And I failed you — as your Servant."

There was real hurt in her voice.

Victor sighed and leaned toward her, resting a hand gently against her cheek.

"Hey," he said, softly but firmly.

Then he pinched her nose.

Joan blinked, surprised. "What—?"

"Don't go blaming yourself," he said, smirking just a little. "Blame the asshole who tried to nuke us."

Joan blinked again. Then laughed — just once, short and real.

Victor smiled, then let his hand fall away.

"You held that shield," he said. "We saved them. That's all I care about. We'll get Caster next time."

Joan nodded slowly, her expression softening. "We saved them."

Victor reached for the bowl and winced. "Alright. Let's see if your porridge can kill a man faster than a stitched demon."

She smacked his shoulder — lightly, carefully.

Victor picked up the spoon with the kind of caution usually reserved for cursed relics.

Joan stood nearby, arms crossed, watching him with a strange mix of hope and pride.

He scooped up a modest bite of the porridge, sniffed it, then finally tasted it.

He barely got it onto his tongue before—

Ptffft!

Victor immediately turned and spat it back out into the napkin with dramatic flair, coughing once like he'd been hexed.

Joan blinked, stunned. "Victor!"

He looked at her, eyes wide with exaggerated betrayal. "What did I do to deserve that?"

She gasped, offended. "That was my first attempt at cooking here!"

"That explains it," he said, setting the spoon down like it had personally insulted him. "The texture's confused and the flavor's missing in action."

"I followed what I thought were instructions," Joan said, defensive now. "And I didn't want to wake you flipping through your books."

Victor leaned back on one elbow, smirking. "Next time, flip through a cookbook instead of the "Book of Revelations", Joan."

She stared at him. Then crossed the room, grabbed the spoon, and defiantly took a bite herself.

The moment she tasted it, her expression shifted ever so slightly.

"…Alright, it's not ideal," she admitted, still chewing like she had a point to prove. "But it's warm. And it didn't kill you."

"Only because I've built up immunity to magical trauma."

Joan rolled her eyes but couldn't help the tiny smile tugging at her lips. "Next time, you cook."

"I always cook," Victor said flatly. "There's a reason we haven't been poisoned yet."

She gave him a look, then gently set the bowl aside. "Fine. But I'm not apologizing for trying."

He softened. "You don't have to."

A pause. Then:

"…But I am hiding this bowl."

Joan whacked him lightly with a pillow.

Somewhere outside the edge of Fuyuki's quiet residential sprawl, a pair of figures stood near a low-rise, nondescript apartment building — completely forgettable to anyone not looking.

Unless you were tracking Servant-class spiritual signatures.

"Here," Waver Velvet said, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. "This is definitely the place. Two distinct presences — one is definitely a servant, and this feels… something divine. I don't think she's Saber, though."

"Of course not!" Rider boomed, folding his arms with a grin. "That's Ruler and her Master. The ones who toppled Caster's chaos circus and survived a holy bombardment."

Waver winced. "You don't have to yell it."

"We're outside!" Rider exclaimed. "How else would they know we're here?"

"We could knock. Or use words that aren't yelling through someone's door like a festival announcer."

Rider ignored him.

Instead, he stepped forward, tilted his head toward the second-story window, and shouted:

"VICTOR BELMONT! SAINT JOAN! I AM RIDER, KING OF CONQUERORS, AND I COME TO GREET YOU IN GLORY AND FRIENDSHIP!"

A distant dog barked.

Waver slowly dragged a hand down his face. "And now the entire block knows."

Inside the safehouse, Victor had just finished hiding the cursed porridge bowl when the booming voice outside hit like thunder. He froze mid-step.

Joan, seated on the couch with a towel across her lap, looked up slowly. "…That's new."

Victor groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fantastic. The friendly Servant found us. Loudly."

She rose and moved to the window, carefully pushing the curtain aside. "It's Rider and his Master."

"I gathered," Victor muttered. "No one else introduces themselves like they're storming the gates of Troy."

Joan hesitated. "We should hear them out."

Victor gave her a flat look. "Joan."

"They're not attacking. And Rider's been known to be… amicable."

"And also impulsive, unpredictable, and one misread joke away from leveling the neighborhood."

She smiled sweetly. "So you two might get along."

Before Victor could argue further, she moved to the door and opened it.

Outside, Rider stood proudly, arms crossed and beaming like he'd just conquered another kingdom. Behind him, Waver Velvet looked like he wanted to melt into the sidewalk.

Joan nodded politely. "Rider. Waver. Please, come in."

Victor stood off to the side as they entered, arms folded, posture still guarded.

Rider immediately sized up the room, then the people. "Modest, but sturdy. Good choice for a hunter's den."

"More like an abandoned boarding house that hates it's tenants," Waver muttered under his breath. "I think the plumbing actively hates us."

Victor raised an eyebrow. "You followed us just to compliment our flooring?"

"We tracked you," Waver corrected, "because you left a magical footprint the size of a train station after that mess last night."

Joan offered a small bow. "You saw the battle?"

Rider grinned wide. "Saw it? Everyone felt it. That divine shield, the unique magic, the aftermath — magnificent!"

Victor narrowed his eyes slightly. "We weren't putting on a show."

"No," Rider said, suddenly more solemn. "You were protecting people. And you succeeded. I came to say that was worthy of respect."

The room quieted.

Joan gave him a sincere nod. "Thank you."

Victor looked between them — still tense, but a little less so.

Waver sighed. "Just so we're clear, this isn't an ambush or a weird alliance proposal. He just really wanted to say hi."

"I figured," Victor said, rubbing the back of his neck. "No one else knocks first."

The tension had just started to settle when Rider clapped his hands together with a booming grin.

"Well then! Now that formalities are out of the way — I'm here for a reason."

Victor's eyes narrowed slightly. "I figured."

Joan tilted her head. "What sort of reason?"

Rider gave an exaggerated sweep of his arm, like he was addressing a royal court.

"A King's Banquet. A meeting of monarchs, warriors, and those who bear the burden of power. Myself, Saber, and Archer will be attending to discuss our ideals as kings. I'm extending the invitation to you two — as honorary guests."

Waver looked vaguely horrified. "You said you'd ask one more person. Not… two. Not them."

Rider ignored him.

Victor blinked once. "You want us to sit around a table and talk about royal philosophy with Archer?"

Rider nodded proudly. "Yes! All great warriors deserve a place at the table."

Joan glanced at Victor, then back to Rider. "Thank you. We accept."

"No," Victor said immediately.

The room stilled.

Joan looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"I'm not going."

Joan's brows furrowed. "Victor, this could be a chance to make allies. We've been working alone since the start. If even one Servant listens—"

Victor shook his head, firm. "I'm not trusting anyone else in this war."

Joan stepped closer, voice lowering. "Not even enough to talk to them?"

"We barely walked away from the last trap. The only reason those people are alive is because we nearly died saving them." He looked at Rider. "And somewhere in that mess, someone dropped a bomb on our heads."

Rider's expression turned more serious. "You think it was one of the other Masters?"

"I think trusting the system nearly got us both killed."

Joan frowned, clearly torn.

Victor met her gaze. "You want to go? Go. I won't stop you. But I'm not stepping into another room full of liars waiting to make their move."

Joan exhaled slowly, shoulders tight with tension.

Rider raised an eyebrow. "You think I'd betray you?"

"I don't know you," Victor replied bluntly. "That's the problem."

Waver muttered under his breath, "Well, this is going about as well as expected."

Rider looked to Joan. "If your Master doesn't come, you're still welcome. I meant what I said. You've earned a place at the table."

Joan gave Victor one last glance — searching for hesitation. Despite everything… she knew this might be the only chance to build bridges. He gave her none.

"…Then I'll attend," she said gently. "As your guest."

Victor nodded once but didn't look away. "Don't lower your guard. Not even for a second."

"I won't."

As Joan and Rider exchanged a few final words near the door, Waver's eyes wandered across the safehouse.

His gaze landed on something hanging off a nearby chair — Victor's whip. Coiled neatly, dark leather glinting faintly under the low light, its metal tip resting like a coiled warning.

Waver glanced left. Then right.

Then, very casually, he reached out toward it.

"Don't," Victor said instantly, voice sharp as steel.

Waver froze mid-reach.

Victor's eyes didn't even lift from where he was leaning against the wall. "Don't. Touch. My stuff."

Waver pulled his hand back like he'd almost grabbed a live wire. "Right. Yep. Noted."

Joan gave them both a look. "Play nice."

Victor's glare didn't soften. "I am playing nice. He still has both hands."

Rider laughed heartily on the way out. "Oh, I like this one."

The room was dark and damp — an abandoned subway corridor sealed off from the public long ago. Filth pooled between the cracks of the floor, lit only by the flickering green of an emergency backup light.

Caster stood near the far wall, slowly dragging a charred finger across a cracked tile, sketching runes into the concrete absentmindedly. His robes were scorched in places, and the side of his face still bore the blistered remnants of magical backlash.

Across the room, Ryūnosuke sat on an overturned crate, one cheek purpled and swollen from a very personal lesson in why you don't monologue behind Victor Belmont.

He groaned, rubbing his jaw. "God, that guy's legs are made of iron. I think he knocked a tooth loose. Am I still pretty?"

Caster didn't look at him. "No. But you never were."

"Ouch," Ryūnosuke muttered. "Emotionally, that hurts more."

Caster was quiet for a beat. Then, in a soft murmur:

"There was something… unnatural about those interlopers."

"Besides your favorite church girl and her boy toy with a whip fetish?"

Caster stopped carving.

He turned slowly, eyes hollow with rage and reverence alike.

"She glowed like she always did. But now she has a new saint. A companion in her purity. A second savior."

He spat the word like poison.

Ryūnosuke raised an eyebrow. "You mean the guy who drop-kicked me into a coma?"

Caster's mouth twisted. "He's more than muscle. He moves with purpose. A blade tempered by the years. He kept her alive. He gets to protect her."

"Ohhh," Ryūnosuke said with dawning realization. "You're jealous."

Caster's voice dropped to a low hiss. "She was mine."

Ryūnosuke grinned, despite the pain in his jaw. "Well, he sure kicked like he thought she was his."

Caster whipped around. "Enough."

The room pulsed with raw magical static for a moment.

Ryūnosuke held up both hands. "Okay, okay. Sensitive subject. Got it."

Caster exhaled slowly, then turned back to the wall. His fingers resumed carving.

"We put our art on pause. For now."

Ryūnosuke blinked. "We're… not killing anyone tonight?"

"No. Not until I'm sure."

"Sure of what?"

"That there are more of them. Vampires. Nightkin. I saw their blood. I heard their shrieks. Their presence wasn't summoned. It was instinctual."

Ryūnosuke tilted his head. "Oh yeah, I almost forgot about them. So you think we've got neighbors?"

A twisted smile curled across Caster's lips. "If so, I want to meet them. Understand them. Maybe… create something beautiful together."

"Y'know," Ryūnosuke said, "I'd say that sounds nuts, but after last night, I'm game for a little vampire diplomacy."

Caster chuckled, low and bitter. "But if Joan… and her new saint cross our path again…"

He turned, eyes burning.

"…They'll be the opening act for my next masterpiece. And this time, there will be no curtain call."

Ryūnosuke popped his jaw and winced. "Just make sure you get him first. I don't wanna get kicked in the face again"

Caster smiled.

It wasn't a kind one.

The vampire hideout beneath Fuyuki was quiet — too quiet.

Veyron's boots echoed softly as he entered the inner chamber, his cloak frayed and flecked with ash. Several vampires looked up from tending weapons or blood stock. They stiffened when they saw him — and saw that he was alone.

Lucatiel stood near the map table, posture straight, coat immaculate. She did not turn.

Agramain sat silently nearby, arms crossed, crimson eyes cool and watchful.

Marceline, lounging against a stone pillar with arms folded, was the first to speak.

"Well, well. The elusive Veyron returns. You're late. Again. Where's the rest of the squad?"

Veyron stopped at the center of the room and bowed—not to her, but to Lucatiel.

"They won't be returning."

The room froze.

Lucatiel turned slowly. Her tone was calm, but firm. "Explain."

"They followed the scent trail as ordered. But they walked into a trap."

Agramain's gaze sharpened.

Marceline straightened. "What kind of trap?"

"A layered one. Caster was there — but so were others."

Lucatiel stepped forward, folding her gloved hands. "Other Servants?"

Veyron nodded. "Two, along with their Masters. One of them — Ruler, I think — used divine light to shield the hostages. The other…"

He hesitated.

"Used elemental magic. Not magecraft. Sharp. Efficient. Killed like he'd done it a thousand times."

Lucatiel's expression narrowed. "Describe their formation."

"They weren't improvising. Their movement was coordinated. Intentional. They protected hostages like it was second nature."

Marceline scoffed. "You're telling me my entire squad got wiped out by a stitched-up Familiar and a couple of do-gooders?"

"No," Veyron replied flatly. "I'm saying your squad got outclassed by someone who hunts for a living."

Lucatiel's gaze lingered on him. "You're withholding something."

"I didn't get a clear look," he admitted. "But he wore a jacket. Moved like a predator. And there was a crest on his back — not mage-born. Looked old. European. Possibly familial."

Lucatiel went still.

Agramain's red eyes flicked with interest.

"Were you seen?"

"No. I kept to the high ground. Long enough to see them survive a bombing."

That silenced the room again.

Lucatiel's tone darkened. "A bombing?"

"Human in origin," Veyron confirmed. "They shielded the civilians. One with divine light. The other… Speaker magic. Mostly likely the one our Master referred to."

Marceline muttered under her breath, "So now we're in the middle of the Grail War."

"No," Lucatiel corrected. "Now someone in the Grail War knows we exist."

Her eyes narrowed in slow realization. "Wait. You said Ruler's Master used speaker magic, but did he had any weapons?"

Veyron nodded. "Yes, a whip. He used it effectively with precision strikes. Combined with fire and ice. It wasn't improvised, but practiced."

Agramain spoke again, voice low and gravelly. "You said he had a crest on his back. Did you recognize it?"

"No," Veyron said. "But he wore it like it meant something. Like it's who he is."

Lucatiel froze. Her breath caught, just for a second.

"Draw the crest," she ordered. "Now."

Veyron stepped to the map table, grabbing charcoal and parchment. He sketched the memory with swift, confident lines: a stylized cross encased in ornate wings — aged, bold, worn with pride.

Lucatiel's hand trembled as she reached for the paper.

The oldest elite stepped forward and stared at it without blinking.

Lucatiel whispered, "No… it can't be."

Agramain's voice was absolute. "The symbol of the Belmont clan."

The room erupted.

Marceline blinked with uncertainty, then smirked. "Wait, a Belmont? Oh, please. That's just a boogeyman story for our kind."

"Be serious!" Lucatiel snapped. "Do you have ANY idea what this means? A Belmont is here. In Fuyuki. During our hunt."

The middle elite then took a subtle step back, instincts overriding bravado.

Agramain didn't flinch. "If that's true, then the war has already shifted. And if the Master of Ruler is a Belmont…"

He glanced at Lucatiel, his tone grave.

"Then we tread carefully. Not for our sake — but for his."

"Why?" Marceline asked in a empty-minded tone. This infuriated Lucatiel and got in her face.

"Because the Belmonts, who are real, have hunted and murdered our kind for fucking centuries! With ancient weapons and magical items that have exterminated armies of us, including COUNT DRACULA himself, through the same fucking centuries!"

She then took a deep breath, and continued.

"Now, if there's one here now, whom not only is part speaker magician but also contracted with a servant of the Holy Grail War of all things, I'm sure you understand how spoiled our situation is, and could ruins the master's plans! Am I making myself clear now?"

The "young" elite stayed quiet during her rant, but is NOT impressed by being talked down to in such a way.

Lucatiel turned toward the map, her voice laced with a rare edge of fear.

"Agramain, what should we do? If we're not careful…"

She looked at them all, eyes cold but shaken. "…we won't be hunting this city anymore. We'll be running from it."

None of them noticed the small pair of beady eyes watching from the shadows above — a rat, still and silent, perched high on an iron support beam just out of torchlight.

It turned and scurried into a narrow tunnel that twisted into the underbelly of the district.

Far below, in a cold chamber carved from stone and damp earth, the rat emerged into darkness lit only by moonlight pouring through the cracks in the ceiling. It scuttled over bone piles and ancient, torn cloth until it reached a pair of unmoving feet.

The figure stood motionless — tall, hunched, and unnaturally thin. Its fingers were long, claw-like, almost spider-like in how they twitched at its sides. Pale skin stretched over an emaciated frame. Its ears were elongated, sharply curved; its scalp hairless, the bone structure beneath tight and corpse-like. What little of its face could be seen in the moonlight was gaunt and drawn — but the eyes…

…those eyes were wide, hollow, and glowing with a hunger that had waited centuries.

The rat stopped at its feet. The creature slowly leaned down.

It did not speak.

But it smiled.

A whisper, dry and cold as a coffin lid, echoed in the stone chamber:

"…So… a Belmont walks the earth once more."

A pause — then a soft, rasping chuckle.

"And dares to claim himself as a Master."

Chapter Text

It was around midnight at the Einzbern Castle. Moonlight bleeds silver across the tree line. The air is still, heavy with the silence that comes before ceremony — or battle.

A sudden crack splits the stillness. The wind howls.

A column of light pierces the night sky as a golden chariot, wreathed in lightning, crashes down just inside the entry hall. Hooves of divine bulls dig trenches into the floor, snorting steam. The chariot skids to a halt in a blur of raw power and theatrical flair.

At its helm stands Rider in his casual clothes, grin wide and proud.

Behind him: Waver Velvet, gripping the edge of the chariot for dear life.

And beside him was Joan of Arc, in full silver armor, helm tucked under one arm. Her presence is calm, grounded. Divine.

Waver groans. "Couldn't we just walk through the front gate like normal people?"

Rider roars with laughter. "Nonsense! A king must make an entrance worthy of his station!" He turns to Joan with a smile. "Though I still say you didn't have to wear all that armor. This isn't a coronation."

Joan's tone is light but resolute. "I came as myself… and as Ruler. It felt only right to appear in full."

Rider shrugs. "Very well. You wear it well, saint."

They then turn their attention to the sound of footsteps approaching from the stairwell in front of them. Saber runs in with her "Master", standing poised in full armor with her hand resting near her sword hilt. Her expression sharpens at the divine chariot.

She steps forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "Rider… you came here for battle?"

Rider steps down from his chariot with a confident stride. "No battle today, King of Knights."

He throws his arms wide, his tone light and almost theatrical. "I came to drink!"

Saber blinks. "Drink?"

He gestured grandly behind him. "We bring wine and company, not blades. You received my invitation, did you not?"

"I thought it was a ruse," Saber replies warily. "An excuse for provocation."

Rider winks. "It was a whim… but not a false one."

Her posture shifts subtly. She's caught off guard, even if she doesn't show it. She glances past him to Joan — then to Waver—before her gaze returns, more cautious than hostile.

Joan steps forward, offering a calm nod. "We come in peace. As guests. Not combatants."

Saber studies her closely. Her eyes pause on the armor, the bearing. The presence that feels almost… sacred.

She nods once. "Very well. I will not refuse hospitality."

Irisviel approaches with a composed smile, breaking the tension with grace.

"You're all welcome," she says warmly. "Please, this way. The courtyard is this way."

The air was crisp, but not cold, carrying the faint scent of pine from the surrounding forest. The courtyard of Einzbern Castle lay still under the moonlight, silent save for the wind brushing through treetops from afar. Both Irisviel and Waver stood on separate ends of the courtyard as they watch the three servants sit together in the center.

Rider's barrel of wine has already been tapped, and wooden cups are handed out without ceremony — save for Rider's booming pride in his selection.

"An Iskandari vintage," he declares. "Fermented under the sun of conquest, for warriors, not cowards!"

He thrusts one toward Saber.

She eyes it, unimpressed. "So long as we are not poisoned tonight."

Rider laughs heartily. "What would be the fun in that? I want you sober enough to appreciate what a true king drinks!"

Joan accepts a cup as well, though she doesn't sip — just holds it politely.

"Come on, Saber. No need to have such a gloomy mood. Both you and Ruler should have been in more fashionable clothes like I am."

The green eyed servant downed her drink in one sip, then urged her cup to the large man for more.

Before Rider could refill it, a sudden ripple of gold shimmered behind them — like arrogance taking shape.

Archer materialized on the side of the courtyard, cloaked in his gold armor, his presence somehow louder than the chariot that preceded him. He looked around with cool disdain.

"This castle is vulgar," he muttered. "It reeks of unfinished ambition."

Saber narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing here, Archer?"

"Ah, well he was the first one I invited to our little gathering. Ruler's was more recent"

"Even then, I do not require permission to appear before mongrels," Archer replied flatly.

Saber scowled. "Still as insufferable as ever, I see."

"You're a little late, don't you think Goldie?" Rider asked "Though it stands to reason that you traveled by foot unlike myself."

"You actually chose to hold a banquet of kings in such a depressing place? How will you compensate me for the rudeness of calling me here?"

"Ah, why don't you just relax yourself? Here, start with a little drink," he says, offering him a wooden cup.

Archer takes the wooden cup and has a sip, which he scoffs at for its mediocre taste. "What is this disgusting swill? You really thought we can discern a hierarchy of heroic spirits with this?"

"You don't like it? This cask was among the very best I could find at the city market place this afternoon." Rider responded in a disappointed tone.

"You are pitifully ignorant of true drink, of course you believed that. Stupid mongrel."

With that, Archer open a portal from his 'Gate of Babylon' and pulls out a golden wine jug and four gold cups. "Now behold, and acknowledge your calling. This is the beverage of a true king"

Joan stared in awe witnessing this as she receives her cup. 'His noble phantasm is more versatile than I thought.'

Archer poured himself a measure and fixes his gaze to the Ruler-class servant.

He paused, lips twitching into something between a smirk and a sneer.

"And what is this? A saint at a meeting of kings?" He looked to Rider. "Have you confused valor with sovereignty, Rider?"

Joan held her ground. "A king may rule from a throne," she said evenly, "but some serve without one."

Archer scoffed. "So says the martyr who mistook fire for salvation."

Rider stepped in before the tension could rise further.

"Now, now. This meeting is meant to be a Grail discussion." he said firmly. "She may not be a king — but as a warrior who's fought and bled to protect others. That deserves a seat."

Saber glanced between them all, her suspicion fading to thoughtfulness.

Archer simply sipped again and turned away, unimpressed.

Joan glanced at Rider, her voice low but sincere. "You didn't need to do that."

Rider gave a small smile. "Maybe not. But I wanted to. You're not a king, true. But tonight isn't just about titles. It's about those who bear weight on their shoulders."

He raised his cup. "Let the banquet begin."

Perched high among the shadowed eaves of the castle walls, Assassin remained utterly still.

He blended into the darkness, cloaked in stillness and silence — an observer unseen, just as he was trained to be.

Below, the so-called "Banquet of Kings" played out: cups raised, egos flaring, words sharp but civil — for now.

"They've gathered," Assassin whispered through the veil of his mind. "All four. Rider, Saber, Archer… and Ruler. Shall I engage, Master?"

A moment passed. Then, cold and composed, Kirei's voice echoed in return. "No. Remain hidden. Your eyes are more valuable than your blades."

Assassin inclined his head ever so slightly. "Then what would you have me do?"

"Listen." Kirei replied. "Listen for anything... interesting. Alliances. Secrets. Doubts. The kinds of things people reveal when they feel safe."

A brief pause. "Especially if the saint speaks."

Assassin's gaze narrowed behind the mask, his attention sharpening. "Understood."

And with that, the shadow among the stone vanished once more into stillness — unseen, unheard, ever watching.

The four servants continued to drink their wine as they discuss the Grail and the topic of the finest wish for it.

Then Joan finally asks the big question.

"I've heard much from each of you already," she said, voice calm and even. "But I'm curious, what do you truly seek from the Grail?"

Saber's eyes flicked to her, clearly surprised that the Ruler would be the one to ask. Rider grinned, clearly pleased.

It was Archer who answered first, swirling his golden chalice like he was entertaining a child's question.

"I seek nothing from it," he said flatly. "It already belongs to me."

Joan tilted her head slightly. "Then why remain in this war at all?"

He smirked. "To make certain no one else mistakes themselves as worthy. It is mine by right, and I simply find amusement in watching the unworthy struggle toward it."

Saber frowned. "You have no dream beyond possession?"

Archer glanced at her. "Dreams are for those who lack power. I have all that I desire."

Joan said nothing at first. Just nodded once, as if mentally filing his answer under "expected."

She turned her gaze to Rider next.

"And you?"

Rider leaned forward, eyes alight. "To live again — not merely as a wraith bound by time, but as a man with breath in his lungs and soil beneath his feet. I seek the Grail to return to the world... and conquer it in full!"

Saber scowled. "So you'd throw the world into chaos again? For your ambition?"

"No," Rider replied without hesitation. "To bring it under one banner. My banner."

He lifted his cup in toast. "To conquest! To glory!"

Joan studied him carefully — not judging, just absorbing. "You truly believe the world would follow you?"

"I do," Rider said. "Because I would give them something to believe in."

"That sounds less like a king," Archer drawled, "and more like a street performer with delusions of divinity."

"Bold words from someone hiding behind glitter and gold," Rider fired back, grinning wide.

Saber's eyes narrowed. "None of you speak of service. Or sacrifice. Only possession and power."

"Because kings do not serve," Archer said coldly. "They are served."

Saber gripped her cup tightly.

Joan's voice cut gently through the rising tension.

"And yet history remembers those who served with purpose… more than those who ruled with fear."

Archer eyed her again, something unreadable behind his gaze. Rider, meanwhile, looked intrigued.

"You speak from experience, saint?"

She met his eyes evenly. "I died because I believed in something greater than myself."

A pause.

"I wonder how many kings can say the same."

Saber's voice broke the silence, quiet but unwavering. "That is hardly fitting of how a true king should behave."

Her words peaked everyone's interest, and Rider is the first to respond. "Oh? Well then, let us hear what you would ask of the Grail, if you were to win it."

"My wish for the Grail… is avert Britain's fate of destruction."

She looked down for a moment, then back up. "To erase my failure. To give my people a future I could not."

Rider's expression shifted. He leaned forward slowly, no longer grinning. "You would wish away your kingdom's fall? Rewrite its fate?"

Saber nodded. "Yes. A king's duty is to protect. I failed."

Joan's expression turned mournful while Archer started chuckling under his breath. Causing Saber to glare at the latter. "Archer, what's so amusing?"

"You call yourself a king, and praised by all as such? And yet you feel regret? How can I NOT laugh, it's such nonsense!" He replied turning to full blow laughter.

Rider set down his goblet with a soft clunk. His voice lost its warmth.

"That is not the way of kingship."

Saber narrowed her eyes. "Then tell me Rider, what is?"

"To shoulder the weight of your people's choices," Rider said. "To stand tall, even if the world crumbles beneath your feet. A king must not regret."

"I do not regret serving my people."

"But you regret how it ended," Rider replied, firm. "You deny your legacy. A king doesn't ask the world to rewrite history, they teach the world how to remember it."

Archer, still sipping from his golden cup, smirked with amusement. "Touching. The loud fool has principles."

Saber's grip tightened around her cup. "Why is that humorous to you? I carried the burden of my country until it broke me."

"And now you seek to erase it," Rider said, rising to his feet. "That is not noble, it is cowardice."

Saber stood too, glaring at him. "Then what would you call conquest, Rider? Glory? Or arrogance?"

"Better than being a king that is a slave to their own right."

"Except kings are martyrs to their ideals."

Rider closed his eyes in disapproval and picks up his cup. "That is not the way a person should live."

"If I rule a nation as its king, I cannot expect to live as a person." She rebutted. "King of conquerors, you seek the Grail merely for your own benefit, and as such you could never understand that. You…who became a ruler, only to satisfy your endless greed!"

"A king without greed is even worse than a figurehead!" He snapped back at her.

Their voices rose, conviction clashing like drawn swords beneath the stars.

Before either could go further—

Joan rose from her spot, breaking her silence while staying calm as ever.

"Enough."

Her voice was quiet. But it cut through the courtyard like a blade of light.

Both Rider and Saber paused — surprised by the sudden gravity in her tone.

Joan stepped forward between them, eyes clear, presence composed.

"There is no right or wrong in what you seek."

She looked to Saber. "To undo suffering is not shameful."

Then to Rider. "And to inspire the world is not folly."

She let the words hang in the air.

"These wishes, your ideals, are not contradictions. They are reflections. Of who you were. Of what you left behind. Of how history remembers you."

Her gaze softened.

"No king rules without cost. No legend forms without pain. The Grail merely amplifies that truth."

Rider's demeanor calmed down, arms crossed.

Saber hesitated, then followed suit, tension bleeding from her shoulders.

The night air seemed to settle with them.

Archer, still reclined, glanced at Joan with a curious flicker in his eyes, but said nothing.

Joan returned to her spot.

"Let us speak not as rulers of the past," she said gently, "but as those who still understand what the world needs."

Tension had eased, but silence still lingered in the wake of Joan's words.

Rider leaned back in his spot, studying her with renewed interest. His tone, when he spoke, was no longer booming — but sincere.

"Well said, saint," he rumbled. "Words that calm the storm and leave no shame behind… I can see why the world calls you what it does."

Joan gave him a small smile. "I only spoke what I believed."

"That belief," Rider said, tapping his goblet, "carries weight. You are no king — but perhaps, in some ways, you shine brighter than one."

Saber looked at Joan quietly, no longer guarded — just thoughtful.

Even Archer, while still smugly sipping his wine, inclined his head ever so slightly. "It is… unexpected. Your presence. And your restraint."

"A saint at the table of kings," Rider mused. "And somehow, you're the one who makes us feel like children arguing over toys."

Joan chuckled lightly. "That was not my intent."

Rider raised an eyebrow. "Then what was? You appear with your Master, out of nowhere. No affiliation. No formal summoning record. And yet you fight like a general, speak like a priest, and carry yourself like a queen without a crown."

Even Saber turned more fully toward her now. "It's true. Your presence has reshaped the war. No one expected you."

Joan hesitated for a breath. Then she said, very simply:

"I wasn't supposed to be summoned."

The air around them crackled again.

"…Pardon?" Rider said, blinking.

Joan folded her hands neatly in her lap. "My Master… Victor Belmont. He didn't summon me by design. It was an accident. A misfire of circumstances, of timing, of spirit."

Archer raised an eyebrow. "And yet you stand here, bonded to him? You follow him?"

Joan nodded. "Yes. Though he holds no Command Spells."

Saber straightened. "No Command Spells? Then… how?"

"Because we chose to stand together," Joan said. "That was enough."

Even Rider looked momentarily stunned.

Archer scoffed, but it lacked venom. "No Command Spells, no plan, no pedigree… and yet the two of you leave a deeper mark than most."

Rider laughed, this time not mockingly, but with something bordering on admiration.

"This war," he said, shaking his head. "What a strange and glorious chaos it has become since you two arrived."

He looked up toward the stars.

"I wonder what the Grail thinks of such accidents." Rider muttered, rubbing his chin. "Still can't believe he got you to follow him without those. Though, after meeting the man…" He grinned. "I suppose I can believe it."

Saber turned to him, brow furrowed. "You've met her Master?"

"Three times now," Rider replied proudly. "Victor Belmont is an interesting fellow. Sharp eyes, sharp tongue, and an even sharper whip."

Saber's expression turned thoughtful "Belmont…"

Joan gave a soft nod. "Victor is no ordinary magus. He comes from a lineage centuries old. A family whose purpose has never been fame or fortune… but the eradication of evil."

She looked at each of them in turn.

"He comes from a long line of hunters, vampire hunters to be exact. A family bound by purpose, not status. For generations, they've hunted that which feeds on the blood of the innocent."

Saber stiffened slightly — genuine surprise flashing across her face.

Rider, already knowing, just grinned wider. "Ahh… just hearing about your Master's lineage makes me wish that he took my invitation even more. I would have loved to hear more about this warrior dynasty from his voice."

Archer raised an eyebrow but said nothing, golden eyes gleaming with veiled interest.

Joan continued, her voice calm and resolute.

"Victor came to Fuyuki not for the Grail — but because he sensed a familiar pattern. Disappearances. Mutilated bodies. Graves disturbed. The marks of a hidden nest."

Saber's voice was quiet, serious. "You believe vampires are real, and are active during the war?"

Joan nodded. "I was skeptical at first, until I actually saw them. Just the other night when confronted Caster and his Master again. I could never imagine creatures like them being real. They felt darker. Twisted. Beyond magecraft."

Archer scoffed. "Vampires. Hmph. Lurking rodents, too cowardly to rule, too arrogant to die. It would be just like them to skulk through the edges of a war they don't understand."

Rider frowned, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I've fought beasts, tyrants, false gods… but never a vampire. If what you say is true, then this war is more complicated than we thought."

Saber's eyes narrowed. "If such creatures exist, they need to be stopped before more civilians are harmed."

Joan glanced her way. "That is what Victor has been doing since he arrived. Alone. Silently. Even before he met me."

Rider's tone softened. "I knew he was a hunter. Didn't realize he was that kind of hunter."

"He has no Clock Tower records. No Church backing," Joan said. "The institutions reject him. But the people he saves? They don't."

Saber looked contemplative now — processing the idea. "And the Church refuses to intervene?"

"They refuse to acknowledge it," Joan said. "To them, it's easier to let the war proceed untouched by superstition, and instead pin . Safer to call us anomalies."

Archer smirked. "Of course, the Church chooses silence, and allow a nest of rodents festers under their noses. How predictably dull."

Rider shook his head. "Then let them hide. But if these beasts reveal themselves during my war…" He downed the rest of his goblet. "I'll ride them into the dirt."

Saber met Joan's gaze again, more steady this time. "Thank you for telling us. I swear, if these creatures show themselves, I'll not stand idle."

Joan offered a small but grateful smile. "That's all I ask. Be ready."

Her face then turned curious. "Though Ruler, I must ask. What exactly happened when you and your Master encountered Caster again?"

Joan's gaze turned downward, shadows casting lines across her face.

"We had our chance," she said quietly. "A real chance to end it."

Rider leaned forward, intrigued. Archer simply listened in silence. Saber remained still, but her attention sharpened.

"Caster had taken more civilians," Joan went on. "Another grotesque display, more lives twisted into something monstrous. Victor and I arrived first… but we weren't alone."

She looked up, her voice gaining steadiness.

"I mentioned before, a vampire squadron appeared during the encounter, possibly a scouting team. Caster lured us in as a 'mock performance' to kill everyone present, even creating a grotesque familiar to do so." He face then turned a bit tender.

"But Victor and I managed to fight it off together and destroy it before could do more damage. We then split —Victor trapped one of the vampires, trying to get a lead on their location or hierarchy. I stayed on Caster."

Saber's expression darkened. "You had him?"

"I did," Joan nodded. "He was wounded. Cornered. I could have ended it. Could have stopped whatever horrors he was preparing."

She paused, her tone heavy.

"Then the sky lit up."

Rider blinked. "A Noble Phantasm?"

Joan shook her head. "No. Something worse. A bombing. Human-made, but strategically placed. An entire block was set to go up in flames."

Archer raised an eyebrow, amused. "Ah. So a mongrel with modern toys."

Joan didn't rise to the insult. "We had no choice but to protect the people trapped there. I used my full divine shield to protect the hostages. Victor supported the shield with ice magic and force to reinforce it from below. It drained us both."

"And Caster escaped," Saber said grimly.

Joan nodded. "He and his Master vanished while we were shielding the civilians. We lost the vampire, too. All of it, gone in an instant."

The air swayed between them.

Saber said nothing for a long moment. But behind her composed exterior, her thoughts churned.

"Kiritsugu."

The timing. The strategy. The cold calculus behind it.

She didn't say his name, but the suspicion weighed heavily on her.

And the anger. That he would do this. That he would sacrifice a tactical victory to eliminate two wildcards, even if they had hostages in their care.

Joan watched Saber quietly, noting the tension in her posture. She said nothing, but something in her expression suggested she understood.

Rider exhaled slowly, his expression less jovial now. "So the saint and the hunter nearly stopped a monster… and were punished for it."

"I don't care that it was meant to kill us," Joan said. "I care that it nearly killed the innocent. Again."

Saber's hand clenched subtly at her side.

Joan continued, softly. "That's the kind of enemy we're truly fighting. The one that doesn't care who dies, so long as they win."

Her voice hardened just a little. "And it's not just the monsters lurking in shadows."

No one argued.

Even Archer, for all his disdain, gave her a quiet glance of... acknowledgment, if not approval.

Joan looked around them, her gaze steady.

"I know we all have our own goals," she began, voice calm but unwavering. "Our own reasons for being here. But I'm asking — not as a Servant, not as a Ruler — but as someone who's seen what's coming…"

She leaned forward slightly, armor creaking faintly. "If any of you see signs of the undead, of unnatural movement in the city — disappearances, shadows that don't belong — please be vigilant and ready. My Master believes there are more dangerous and feral vampires out there."

Archer raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what does the hunter theorize now?"

"He suspects there's a leader," Joan said. "An older one. A mind that's organizing this chaos, keeping it hidden. Not an accident. A design."

Saber frowned. "A vampire commanding others… in the middle of the Grail War?"

"It's not the war that concerns him," Joan replied. "It's what might come after — if we all spend so long fighting each other that we don't notice something darker pulling the strings."

She let the silence linger.

"I understand if you all may not be looking for an alliance," she said. "But do keep your eyes open. If something moves in the dark… don't ignore it."

Her gaze passed from Saber, to Rider, to Archer.

Rider was the first to speak. He crossed his arms, thoughtful.

"If this hidden threat exists, then it's more than just a hunter's problem. No king worth his salt would let vermin fester beneath his rule.

He looked up at the stars. "I won't abandon the war. But I'll keep my eyes open. And if I see this 'leader' of yours…" He grinned, eyes lighting with fire. "Then he'll know what it means to cross a Conqueror."

Saber looked down at her lap for a long moment before speaking.

"I cannot forsake my duty to the Grail," she said, voice low. "But I will not let innocents be devoured in the shadows while we posture for power."

She looked at Joan, resolute. "If I encounter anything unnatural… I will act. Even if I'm not standing beside you."

Archer swirled the last of his wine and tilted his head, watching his reflection in the gold.

"Vampires," he said dryly. "A pitiful breed. Obsessive. Fragile. Too arrogant to submit, too weak to rule."

He set his goblet down with a faint clink. "Such rodents are disgusting to even gaze upon, I wouldn't bother breathing their way. However, if one dares rise high enough to interfere in my war, I will put him down like any mongrel that overreaches. Not for your sake… but because I find such ambition offensive."

Joan nodded slowly. "That's all I ask."

For one brief moment, the kings had listened. The stars stretched overhead like silent witnesses to everything spoken — and left unsaid.

Rider stood first, his goblet empty and his laughter subdued. He gave Joan a respectful nod.

"Well, the wine is just about finished, I would say this is where our banquet ends." he said. "What a curious night, but a worthy one. And we the next time we see each other, it will be in battle. And I wish you luck on your mission, Ruler."

Joan inclined her head. "Thank you for listening."

He then turned to Saber. "Saber, I don't recognize your actions as a king. But I can see the loyal of protecting your nation and people, even though you failed. Till next time."

He then summoned his chariot, collected his Master, and they ride off. They vanished into the sky, his presence fading like thunder that had finally rolled past.

Archer was next. He didn't speak, didn't offer pleasantries. Just gave Joan one final glance.

"Be careful, saint," he said with a smirk. "You walk among fools who think they can defy history."

"And Saber, continue to follow the path you believe in. Your agonizing burden… it's almost beautiful. So tragic, it could almost be art."

He laughed as he shimmered into golden light and disappeared.

Joan watched them go, then turned to Saber.

"I meant what I said," she offered softly. "If you ever need aid against the dark, Victor and I will stand with you."

Saber gave a small nod. "I believe you."

As she and Irisviel escort her back to the castle entrance, Joan says one last line to enliven the other servant's spirit.

"You carry your kingdom even now, Saber. That weight is not weakness. It's love."

Saber's eyes widened just slightly.

Joan smiled. "Even if the world doesn't understand your wish… I do."

She finally took her leave, her silver armor catching the last gleam of the castle lights as she vanished beyond the entrance gates.

Silence fell again.

Only Saber and Irisviel remained at the entrance

A soft wind passed through the castle, ruffling Saber's hair.

She didn't move.

"Irisviel," she said quietly.

Irisviel stepped forward. "Yes?"

Saber's eyes didn't leave the front.

"…Do you believe her? That vampires exist?"

Irisviel hesitated. "I don't know. But the way she speaks… she believes it."

Saber exhaled, her breath fogging faintly in the night air.

"I've seen many things. Spirits, curses, sorcery…" Her voice tightened. "But if even half of what she said is true… then we are not the only ones fighting for the future of this city."

She clenched a hand at her side.

"We could've stopped Caster. That was our chance to cooperate."

She turned her head slightly, her voice dropping lower.

"And he took it from us."

Irisviel looked concerned. "You mean—?"

"I don't have proof," Saber said flatly. "But the timing, the method… who else would strike with such precision? Without regard for the innocent?"

She looked to the sky — frustration, disappointment, and betrayal flickering across her face.

"I trusted he would fight with reason. But this... this was sabotage — not just of the mission, but of everything we stand for."

She looked back at the fading fire, her expression unreadable.

"Victor Belmont may not be a true Master by title... but he and Joan fight with more conviction than most who carry Command Spells."

A long silence followed.

Then, quietly:

"I wonder what that says about the rest of us."

She turned and walked slowly from the entrance, her footsteps soft against the floor — leaving behind only embers, drifting upward into the dark.

"A nest hidden in the city. And a leader among the undead, moving unseen beneath the war."

Assassin had watched the banquet unfold. He had heard the kings clash. He had listened as the saint, with no throne and no crown, spoke truths the others would not.

He did not serve ideals. He did not hunger for glory. But he watched. And in watching, he had learned to recognize the shape of something larger than a war.

He knew the pulse of chaos when he felt it.

"Joan of Arc doesn't just seek an alliance. She asks for caution, for vigilance."

"Not strategy. Not manipulation. Just eyes open."

The whispers swirled across his fractured selves. A rare pause followed.

Then, quietly — almost like a confession:

"Perhaps… that is worth considering."

He dissolved into shadows, his bodies slipping from the rafters like smoke caught in a breeze. The fire behind him hissed and cracked.

Fuyuki slumbered.

But the shadows did not.

Chapter Text

The safehouse was quiet. Too quiet.

Victor buckled the last strap of his vest, fingers moving from muscle memory more than conscious thought. His jacket hung nearby — worn, battle-tested, with the Belmont crest stitched into the back like a silent vow.

He exhaled, slow and steady, eyes flicking toward the whip laid out beside a set of glass vials. Not the Vampire Killer just yet. Just his standard holy whip, burn-scarred but reliable.

"Not bringing the big guns," he muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders. "Means I'm still pretending this isn't the final act."

He chuckled dryly. The room didn't laugh with him.

Victor scooped up a vial and tucked it into a hidden belt slot. Then another. Holy water. Liquid silver. Powdered mistletoe, just in case.

Joan would've made a joke about that one.

He froze for a second, just long enough to feel the weight of her absence in the silence.

"…Talking to yourself again, Vic," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's a bad sign."

He slid the last dagger into his boot and grabbed his jacket. As he shrugged it on, his eyes landed on the crude map he'd pinned to the wall.

The bombing site. Still cordoned off, still smoldering in places. The vampire they almost caught? Vaporized in the chaos. The civilians? Alive. Caster? Gone.

Victor's jaw tightened.

"Maybe someone didn't want us finding out what that bloodsucker knew."

He traced a finger down the map, where lines marked past feeding grounds, disappearances, and movement patterns. There was something organized about it all. Too clean. Too quiet.

"Could be a Forgemaster," he muttered. "Or worse."

A thought scratched at the back of his mind like a rusty nail.

"…Dracula?"

The word left his mouth like a curse. Not likely. Not with how the last resurrection ended, as Julius stated in his diary.

"Unless someone's playing puppet master. Or… someone new."

He grabbed his whip and clipped it to his belt.

"If it's Dracula again," he said to the empty room, "he's hiding too well."

He turned toward the door, pausing only to glance at a folded note on the table — Joan's handwriting. She had left it the day before she left for the banquet.

"Be careful."

He tapped the edge of the note once with his fingers.

"Always."

And with that, Victor Belmont vanished into the night, toward ash, debris, and whatever truth lay buried in the ruins.

The blast site still reeked.

Victor crouched low behind the yellow caution tape, stepping over twisted rebar and blackened concrete. The moonlight bled across the ruins like a ghost, turning everything cold and bleached.

Cratered earth stretched before him, the epicenter of the explosion. Singed metal and melted asphalt formed a grotesque crater, and the lingering scent of scorched ozone still clung to the air like sulfur on skin.

Victor adjusted his grip on the whip at his side but didn't draw it. Not yet.

"Too clean," he murmured.

He stepped deeper into the site, boots crunching broken glass beneath him. No signs of feeding. No bloodstains. No human residue left behind in panic. Just silence and ash.

"They didn't want a cover-up," he muttered to himself. "They wanted a reset. Like clearing the board."

He knelt by a chunk of fallen concrete, brushing aside soot to reveal a scorch pattern underneath. Sharp, precise — like magic channeled into a directed force.

Victor frowned.

"This wasn't some vampire panicking. This was tactical."

He stood slowly, eyes scanning the empty skyline.

"A Master probably did this," he muttered. "One with firepower and no care for casualties."

But which one?

He didn't have enough to go on. No lingering mana signature, no fragment of a catalyst. Even the smell in the air felt tampered with, like someone tried to erase the scene after the blast.

"Damn," he whispered. "Someone was really trying to wipe us out."

His boots shifted over broken concrete as he moved farther in, eyes scanning for anything out of place. Nothing moved. Not even the wind.

Then —

A soft skitter.

Victor turned.

A single rat perched on the rim of a cracked concrete pipe. Its red eyes locked onto him. It didn't twitch. Didn't scurry. Just stared.

Victor stared back.

"…You're bold."

The rat blinked. Then, as if satisfied, it turned and disappeared into the pipe.

Victor's frown deepened.

"Something about you wasn't right," he muttered.

It had felt too still. Too present. Like it was watching — not fleeing.

Victor turned and walked back through the wreckage, hand brushing the hilt of his whip. The wind picked up as the brunette moved beyond the crater, boots brushing through overgrown weeds and broken chain-link fencing. The city had long since turned its back on this part of Fuyuki. No eyes here. Just silence and shadow.

But he felt it now.

That prickling tension at the edge of his spine. Not the kind born of night creatures or feral vampires. This was something more… refined. Polished. Controlled.

He kept his pace steady, unhurried. Turned a corner. Stepped down a cracked alley between two bombed-out warehouses.

Then stopped.

He glanced over his shoulder — empty street. Dim lights. Still air.

"I know you're there," he said aloud. "Not the first time I've been followed."

Silence.

Victor stepped forward into the alley's dead end. A perfect trap. Deliberate.

He rolled his shoulders and exhaled. "Let's not waste time."

For a beat, the night said nothing.

Then the shadows rippled.

From the opposite rooftop, a liquid hiss echoed — and something slithered downward like mercury made flesh. A silver mass hit the pavement and immediately reformed into a smooth, mirrored barrier — alive, shifting, swirling.

A voice followed, cold and clipped.

"Bold of you to walk alone, cur. Without a Servant. Without spells. Without power."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "You always monologue before attacking?"

From the mist stepped Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald. The silver of his alchemic weapon, Volumen Hydrargyrum, swirled protectively around him like a serpent forged from quicksilver.

Victor immediately stepped back, one hand on his whip, the other near his vials.

Kayneth raised an eyebrow, amused.

"I suppose I should be impressed that you're not running. But then again, I expected as much from a primitive bloodline clinging to dying traditions."

Victor smirked faintly. "Says the guy creeping in the dark like a knock-off vampire."

Kayneth's eyes flashed.

"You presume far too much. I merely came to see for myself what kind of fool dares to meddle in a Holy Grail War without understanding its rules."

Victor shifted his weight slightly, eyeing the shimmer of the mercury. Fast, reactive. Too many forms to anticipate easily.

"And here I thought only vampires were this obsessed with hierarchy."

Kayneth stepped forward. Volumen Hydrargyrum pulsed in rhythm with his movements — twisting itself into needle-thin tendrils that hovered midair, pointed at Victor like a hundred fangs.

"Let me educate you, Belmont. You're no mage. You're no Master. You're just a relic, dragged into a world that's outgrown you."

Victor flexed his fingers over the whip hilt.

"Funny. You talk like someone who's scared his world's changing."

Kayneth's voice turned to ice.

"I'm going to teach you what it means to defy proper magecraft."

The mercury shot forward, striking like a spear. And Victor moved.

The alley gave way to a half-collapsed chain-link fence. Victor slipped through without looking back — he'd already felt the mercury coiling behind him like a hunting snake.

Ahead, a derelict train depot loomed out of the dark.

Shattered glass windows. Graffiti-covered loading platforms. A skeletal roof missing half its panels. One rusted engine car rested on a half-buried track like a gutted corpse. Twisted steel and forgotten rails littered the ground, creating a graveyard of metal and silence.

Victor moved fast, sliding behind a rusted support pillar as the first tendril of Volumen Hydrargyrum lashed out.

It struck the pillar with a screech of metal. Sparks burst. The silver mass slithered back into the air, re-forming into a floating sphere.

Victor crouched low behind cover, heart hammering.

"Too fast. Too reactive."

He flicked his fingers, muttering a Speaker incantation — lightning magic built into his breath like a whisper. A sharp spark danced between his knuckles. He whipped his hand around the corner—

A bolt of pure lightning arced through the air toward Kayneth.

Volumen Hydrargyrum pulsed once.

The mercury shifted with unnatural grace — a sheet of silver snapped forward and caught the bolt midair. It reflected it. The magic discharged into the depot's rusted ceiling with a violent crackle of energy.

Victor ducked, cursing. "So it reacts to velocity. Can't get a fast spell through… at least not directly."

From the far side of the depot, Kayneth stepped calmly onto the rail platform, arms folded behind his back. He hadn't moved an inch.

"Fascinating. You wield elemental magic like a street performer, and yet you actually thought that would work."

Victor stood slowly, whip unfurling from his belt.

"Gotta say, for a guy hiding behind liquid armor, you talk a big game."

Kayneth's gaze sharpened. "This—" he gestured to the floating mercury "—is not armor. It is an extension of magecraft at its peak. It calculates, protects, and adapts before the conscious mind can act."

He raised one hand and a small glyph lit beneath Victor's feet.

Victor barely jumped aside as the platform erupted in a blast of alchemical fire.

He rolled across the debris, jacket nearly catching on broken rebar, and came up breathing hard.

"Figures. You can cast while it protects you…"

Kayneth smiled faintly. "I don't waste time gesturing like a child. Magecraft is precision. Legacy. You wield elemental chaos like it's a toy."

Victor stood again, slower this time, hand crackling with low fire.

"Speaker magic isn't about legacy. It's about survival."

He hurled the fireball — not fast, but arcing. Kayneth didn't even flinch. The mercury shield shifted again, forming a dome as the flame splashed harmlessly over it.

Then Kayneth gestured.

A dozen silver needles shot from the mass — arcing toward Victor from three angles.

Victor yanked his whip free with a sharp crack, striking two from the air — but the third sliced across his thigh, drawing blood.

He gritted his teeth and dropped to one knee. "Damn. He's just toying with me now."

Blood trailed down Victor's thigh, soaking into the edge of his pants as he ducked behind the rusted engine car.

Above, mercury hissed along the beams, reshaping itself into a needle-bladed latticework that hovered with surgical stillness. It mirrored Kayneth's smug posture atop the platform — arms behind his back, gaze sharp with contempt.

"You should've stayed in the shadows, Belmont," Kayneth said smoothly. "Your little entrance into this war with that Ruler-class relic? Cute. Bold, even. I'll give you that."

Victor pressed a hand to the gash on his leg and winced.

"But you overplayed your hand," Kayneth continued. "You and your saint made quite the stir. Drawn attention. Unsettled expectations. And while you distracted the others with superstition and showmanship, I've had time to reinforce everything."

His eyes glinted.

"Lancer and I remain untouched. Safe. Calculated. Untouched by foolish emotion or nostalgia for dying bloodlines."

Victor slowly rose behind the engine car, gripping his whip tighter. His voice came low and dry.

"You love hearing yourself talk, huh?"

Kayneth smirked. "You mistake confidence for vanity. Typical of a bloodline raised on folklore and sentiment. You're not even a proper magus. You chant weather spells like a schoolboy casting firecrackers."

Victor let him speak. Let the words wash over like cold rain. His pulse had slowed now. His mind had caught up. He wasn't trying to break Kayneth's barrier head-on anymore.

He was watching the man behind it.

Arrogant. Composed. Too confident to dodge. Too proud to adjust.

Victor's breath slowed further.

"Yeah," he muttered, almost to himself. "That's your weak spot, isn't it?"

Kayneth tilted his head. "What?"

Victor stepped forward, deliberately limping from the wound. He didn't hide the pain. He wore it like bait.

"You think you've got this whole fight mapped out. Shield on autopilot. Magic from a distance. A fortress of mirrors."

He let lightning crackle faintly across his palm again — not fast enough to trigger the shield, just enough to threaten.

"But you're used to people playing by your rules."

Kayneth frowned. "And you think I'll entertain yours?"

"No," Victor said, and threw a spark at the ceiling.

The lightning arced upward—harmless. Useless.

Until it hit a rusted-out support beam weakened by the earlier fire spell.

CRACK.

The beam gave out. A section of the hanging roof — girders, glass, and all — collapsed between them with a screech of metal and shattering glass.

Volumen Hydrargyrum immediately moved to protect Kayneth from above.

And for one split-second, Kayneth lost his forward coverage.

Victor was already moving.

He slid across the debris, drew one of his glass vials mid-motion, and smashed it against the floor. Holy mist burst outward in a flash of silver-blue light.

The mercury recoiled from the divine material.

Victor leapt through it.

Whip crack.

He brought it down hard, not at Kayneth — at the ground. Right behind him.

BOOM.

The whip's enchantment ignited a shockwave, blowing up debris and dust in every direction.

Kayneth staggered back, coughing, his vision blocked—for the first time in the fight.

Victor landed hard on his good leg, panting, crouched behind a shattered bench.

Not a win. But a turn.

He wiped his mouth, tasting iron and smoke, and grinned through the blood.

"Guess you missed that part in your books," he rasped. "We don't fight clean. We fight smart."

Smoke and dust blanketed the depot in thick, choking haze. For the first time in the entire encounter, Kayneth wasn't in control.

He coughed once, waving his arm to clear the fog, and commanded Volumen Hydrargyrum to spread out like a dome.

"Impressive," he admitted, voice edged with frustration. "You're a tenacious little rat. But tricks don't replace superiority. They never do."

Victor didn't answer right away.

He moved silently through the depot, sticking to the ruined rail lines and crouching low behind a rusted beam. Every few seconds, the mercury mass slithered past — reacting, scanning — but Victor stayed out of its line of sight.

He had no illusions: one mistake, one wrong move, and Kayneth could end him. But he had something the professor didn't.

Instinct. Improvisation. And desperation.

He drew a chalk stick from his pocket — crude, fast-reacting Speaker chalk infused with ancient sigils — and scribbled a lightning glyph on a collapsed beam near the far wall.

Then another.

And another.

Each one hummed softly, almost inaudible beneath the slow ripple of mercury.

"If I can't go through it… I'll go around it."

Victor reached into his jacket, pulled out a thin vial of blessed salt, and poured a short line across the depot floor. He wasn't trying to trap Kayneth — he was marking safe zones for himself. Pathways. Anchors.

The Belmont mindset wasn't about firepower. It was about strategy. And survival.

Across the room, Kayneth's voice rose again.

"Still hiding? Cowardice suits your kind. You're nothing but a failed magus, clinging to dying myths. I should leave you alive so the rest can see how weak the Belmont name has become."

Victor rolled his neck and stepped out of cover, just enough to be seen.

"I got a counter-lesson for you."

He snapped his fingers.

The lightning glyphs flared.

A trinity of arcs interlinked in midair, forming a blinding cage of electricity. Not fast enough to pierce the mercury — but enough to disrupt its flow, interfere with its reflexive programming.

The dome around Kayneth wavered.

Victor sprinted.

Kayneth snapped his hand up, mercury rushed to form a wall.

But Victor threw two vials mid-charge: one of blessed salt, the other a flashburst crystal laced with Speaker fire.

BOOM.

The flash seared into Kayneth's vision — and for a split second, Volumen hesitated, uncertain whether to defend its master from light, fire, or assault.

Victor dove through the smoke, came in low—and cracked the whip, not to strike, but to wrap around Kayneth's arm.

The shock enchantment traveled through the whip, past Kayneth's coat, and into his core.

Kayneth screamed.

The mercury collapsed into a chaotic liquid mass, reacting blindly now, panicking without coherent commands.

Victor used the whip to pull Kayneth forward and slammed his shoulder into the mage, sending him crashing into a pile of broken rails.

Both men hit the ground hard.

Victor groaned, rolled, and barely got to one knee, whip still clutched in one shaking hand.

Kayneth lay stunned, coughing blood, his barrier inert and scattered like spilled mercury.

Victor didn't approach. He didn't need to.

He just said, breathless but firm:

"You're right. I'm not a mage. I'm a Belmont. We don't do rituals. We do endings."

Kayneth groaned somewhere behind him, struggling to rise — bloodied, furious, humiliated. Victor knew the man would come back swinging, pride wounded far worse than his body.

Sure enough, he heard the snap of alchemic mercury reforming.

"I'll kill you," Kayneth spat. "You miserable cur—!"

Victor turned, whip already raised—

And then Kayneth screamed, then everything stopped.

Red eyes.

Fangs.

A presence he could feel in his bones.

A blur of black and crimson shot through the depot like a thrown blade. Something sank its claws into Kayneth's side.

"…Impossible," Kayneth rasped.

The vampire looked down at him with faint disinterest, like he was something she stepped over. Then she slammed a heel into his side with inhuman strength, sending him flying into a pile of bent scaffolding with a hollow metallic thud.

Victor instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, whip at the ready, shoulder still aching from the last blow.

Long, silky black hair. Pale skin, flawless and cold. Her crimson cloak fluttered slightly as she stepped down from the railing, her boots barely making a sound.

Her red eyes glowed in the dark.

She didn't attack immediately. Instead, she stood atop the platform, perfectly poised, her black cloak fluttering gently in the stale depot air.

Her voice was smooth. Unbothered.

"You're the one who caused me all that trouble." She smiled faintly. "He described you perfectly. The whip. The jacket. The look of misplaced righteousness."

Victor didn't answer right away. He was sizing her up.

The cloak. The confident walk. The control. Not a grunt or scout — a leader.

"You led that squad," he muttered. "The one I burned down."

She raised a brow, amused.

"'Burned down' is one way to put it."

Her smile was lazy. Insincere. There was no grief. No outrage.

"You didn't kill anyone I cared about. But you wasted time. You exposed movement. You made me fix your mess."

She leapt from the platform, landing without a sound.

Victor stepped back.

"She doesn't care about them," he thought grimly. "Only the disruption I caused."

The vampire walked a slow circle around him, nails elongated like claws, glinting faintly in the half-light.

"You're truly not what I expected. I imagined some old man with garlic and crosses."

Victor rolled his shoulders.

"I'm full of surprises."

She lunged.

Victor barely got his whip up in time, deflecting the slash — but the force knocked him back against a pile of loose rebar. His ribs flared in protest.

She didn't press the attack. She tilted her head.

"You're tired."

"Yeah," he panted. "Fought a mage with a god-complex before this."

"Then this'll be over fast."

She blurred forward again — too fast. Victor threw a spark glyph at her feet, but she pirouetted around it and drove a kick into his side, sending him skidding across the depot floor.

He rolled to a stop near one of his old glyph circles and barely managed to pull himself to one knee.

She watched him without moving, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"You look like you're waiting for help," she said.

Victor didn't reply. He was watching her foot placement. The way she hovered near the broken train car. Close quarters.

He wasn't going to overpower her. But he could still outsmart her.

She lunged again.

Victor parried with a low arc of flame from his palm. She vaulted over it, kicked him in the ribs mid-spin, and landed several feet away in a crouch.

He gasped, stumbling back. His leg screamed in protest from the earlier wound. He raised his whip again, breath shallow. Every breath felt like a gamble; every step, a scream muted by stubborn will.

Marceline giggled. "Are you already at your limit? How disappointing."

Victor didn't rise to the bait.

He lit another glyph under his boot, shifting the terrain. A blast of ice erupted upward — but she dodged effortlessly, landing on the opposite beam with catlike grace.

He gritted his teeth. His spells were slowed. His reactions dulled.

But he couldn't afford to lose.

"You're not walking away from this," Victor growled.

Marceline's eyes gleamed.

"I don't need to walk away. I only need to take your heart."

Victor braced himself for round two. He circled her slowly, whip in one hand, the other hovering near a Speaker glyph etched into his palm. His heartbeat thudded behind his ribs, off-beat and ragged. He could feel the gash in his leg from Kayneth: hot, aching, and now bleeding more freely after the fall.

Marceline didn't attack.

She stalked him.

"You hide pain well," she murmured. "But I can smell it. The limp. The way your left side tightens when you breathe."

She stepped closer, almost gliding.

"Let me guess — broken rib? Torn muscle? Internal bleeding?"

Victor growled low. "Worry about your own blood."

Marceline chuckled, circling around him again.

"You must've looked better before tonight. But I'll admit…" Her eyes swept over him in a deliberate, slow gaze. "You're a little too handsome for a hunter. Must be that mixed blood. Shame if I had to ruin that face."

Victor's jaw tightened. "Flirting with food now?"

"Just playing," she said, her voice like velvet dragged over a knife. "Isn't that what this is?"

She moved fast and drove her claws straight for his wounded thigh.

Victor shouted as pain exploded up his leg. He fell hard, rolling, whip lashing out wildly to force her back.

Marceline danced away, smirking.

"See? That's the difference between your kind and mine. You fight because you have to. I fight because I enjoy it."

Victor gritted his teeth, pushing himself upright with effort. Blood ran freely down his leg now. His breathing was labored, but his hands were steady.

"You talk too much," he spat. "Just like the rest of your kind. All theater, no teeth."

"Oh, I have teeth," she purred.

She lunged again — this time feinting low before clawing high, slashing across his jacket. Sparks flew as the enchanted fabric deflected part of the blow, but the impact still threw him back.

He slammed into a concrete pillar and slumped, chest heaving.

Marceline strolled toward him, eyes glowing, fangs just barely visible now.

"You're lucky I'm not here to kill you, Belmont."

He looked up at her sharply, whip coiled loosely in his bleeding hand.

"Oh?" he rasped.

"No. I just want to see how much it takes to break you."

She leaned in close — too close.

"And then maybe I'll let you live… for a little while longer."

Victor didn't respond with words.

He pressed his hand against the pillar behind him.

And triggered a glyph.

BOOM.

The lightning trap exploded point-blank between them, sending both fighters flying in opposite directions.

Victor hit the ground hard and stayed down, coughing, limbs screaming. Victor's body screamed with every movement. Blood soaked into his torn jacket, and the copper taste in his mouth refused to fade.

But Marceline?

She hit the far wall and staggered. Her cloak smoked slightly. Her playful grin… wavered.

Victor wiped blood from his mouth and pushed himself upright, barely standing.

"Try not to get too attached," he muttered. "I'm not your type."

Marceline advanced, her playful mask cracked, now replaced with wrath.

"That hurt," she said, voice low and seething. "You should've taken the compliment when you had the chance."

She leapt with blistering speed, claws extended, fangs bared—

A blue flash intercepted her mid-air.

CLANG.

A spear rang out against claws.

Marceline flipped backwards, barely landing on her feet, claws sparking from the impact.

Standing between her and Victor was Lancer, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, his twin spears crossed in a ready stance.

Victor's eyes widened as he tried to sit up. "What the hell—?"

A faint burn ignited on Kayneth's hand from across the depot — the sign of a used command spell, still glowing faint red. The mage smirked from his place near the wall, still half-sitting among the rubble.

"I may not like getting dirty," Kayneth muttered. "But I know when to bring in the sword."

Lancer didn't even look back. "Stay down, Belmont. I've got her."

Victor coughed. "Great. Now you show up."

Marceline licked blood from her knuckles. "Ah, a knight. I was wondering when I'd get a real challenge."

Then she moved.

She clashed with Lancer in a blur of blue and red. Spear met claw, step met shadow. Marceline's agility gave her an edge in evasion, but Lancer's reach, speed, and technique kept her fully occupied. For once, she wasn't playing.

Victor, still grounded, managed to stagger to his feet using his whip as a crutch.

Lancer twirled his yellow spear once and swept low.

Slash.

Marceline screamed.

Her arm hit the ground, severed cleanly at the shoulder.

Black blood sprayed across the concrete.

She stumbled back, hissing like a feral cat, eyes wide in disbelief.

But then—

Victor cried out.

A blade of Volumen Hydrargyrum slashed across his back from behind — Kayneth's sneak attack striking true while Lancer was locked in combat.

Victor dropped to his knees with a grunt, teeth clenched, hands trembling.

Lancer turned, eyes flashing. "Master—what are you doing?!"

Kayneth simply adjusted his collar and wiped blood from his lip. "Cleaning up the mess."

But in that moment of distraction, Marceline moved.

Her body shimmered — then burst into a swarm of black bats, which screeched and scattered through a hole in the ceiling.

She was gone.

The severed arm sizzled on the floor for a heartbeat longer before dissolving into ash.

Silence filled the depot.

Victor groaned, then yelled up toward the ceiling, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?"

Still kneeling, he forced himself upright with a grunt. His back throbbed with heat where Kayneth's mercury had slashed him, and his leg wasn't much better. Blood stained the floor beneath him in erratic drops.

Across the room, Kayneth groaned — still alive, barely conscious and slumped against a pile of scorched piping.

Lancer stepped up beside Victor, his expression tight with concern.

"…Can you help stabilize him?"

Victor gave him an incredulous look. "You're asking me to patch up him?"

"I'm asking for your help, not his," Lancer said plainly. "He's my Master. And I don't want him to die like this."

Victor sighed, muttered a curse under his breath, then limped toward Kayneth.

"Fine. But I swear, next time I see that pompous ass, I'm kicking his teeth in."

Lancer gave a faint smile. "That's fair."

Victor knelt beside Kayneth, opened a small flask from his belt pouch, and muttered a Speaker incantation under his breath. The liquid shimmered as he poured it over the wound — not curing it, but sealing the worst of the bleeding with a soft glow of elemental force.

Kayneth winced, groaned… but stabilized.

Victor wiped sweat from his brow.

Lancer watched him work, arms crossed.

"I owe you," the Servant said simply. "If not for your grit, I might have arrived too late."

Victor glanced up, tired but still burning with defiance. "I didn't do it for him."

"No," Lancer replied. "You did it because it was right."

The two men held each other's gaze for a beat — not friends, but fighters who understood the cost.

Then Lancer nodded once, lifted his Master effortlessly, and turned to leave.

"Until next time, Belmont."

Victor leaned back against the wall, breath shallow.

"Yeah. Just make sure next time comes with less drama."

Lancer smirked. Then he and Kayneth disappeared into the shadows of the depot.

Silence returned.

Victor stared at the cracked ceiling, then down at his blood-soaked clothes, the sting of torn muscle, and the warm trail of blood along his ribs.

He exhaled slowly. Then muttered:

"Joan's gonna have a field day when she sees me like this…"

He dragged himself upright with a groan, already dreading the lecture.

Perched on the rusted fire escape of a nearby building, Kariya Matou crouched low in the dark, breath shallow, sweat beading along his brow despite the cool night.

Beside him, Berserker loomed — completely still, save for the ever-flickering distortion that veiled his form like a glitch in reality.

They had seen it all. Victor's arrival. The ambush. The vampire's entrance. The battle. The betrayal.

Now, only silence lingered… save for the faint fluttering echo overhead.

A flock of bats wheeled through the sky above the depot, arcing high into the night like a bloodstained comet.

Kariya's gaze followed them, brow furrowed beneath his hood.

"That woman…"

He whispered it more to himself than to Berserker.

"I doubt she's just some pawn."

The bats faded into the distance. No trace of magic. No flashy vanishing spell. Just primal, ancient movement. Pure instinct and power.

Berserker let out a faint growl—not aggressive, more like curiosity. His distorted vision fixated skyward, tracking the path long after the bats were gone.

Kariya swallowed hard, his voice low.

"She wasn't like Caster's usual monsters. Too composed. Too precise."

He stared back down at the depot below.

"I thought maybe I'd approach Belmont tonight. Offer a truce. Something."

Victor, bloodied and limping, had just disappeared from view, retreating deeper into the ruins.

"But…" Kariya frowned. "With Kayneth stabbing him in the back? Not the right time."

Berserker gave no reply, but the crackle around his form intensified — agitation or agreement, Kariya couldn't tell.

He rubbed the side of his temple, grimacing. "Damn it. Things are spiraling. Between Caster's madness and that thing flying off…"

He looked again at the sky.

"…I don't think we're just dealing with Servants anymore."

Marceline staggered through the underground tunnel, her cloak torn, one arm burned and barely clinging to her side. Her healing was already kicking in, but not fast enough to erase the ache — or the humiliation.

Her bare feet padded against the cold stone as she reached a cracked stone archway leading into the nest's antechamber: a large, candlelit cavern lined with gothic pillars and faded murals older than the city above.

She hissed softly, clutching her ribs. "Stupid Belmont… stupid knight…"

The bats she'd morphed into had scattered, but her body had only just reformed properly. She could already imagine the whispers. The jeers. The scent of weakness.

But the chamber was silent.

She paused, looking around.

No guards. No peers. No one to mock her failure.

Just silence.

And then—

White eyes opened in the dark.

A shape unfolded from the shadows like it had always been there, waiting.

"You reek of failure."

Her breath caught. Instinct overrode pride, and she dropped to one knee.

"…Master." she breathed. "I didn't expect—"

"No," the voice interrupted, gliding closer. "You didn't."

Behind her, faint squeaking began — like wind rustling through dry leaves.

Dozens… then hundreds of rats emerged from cracks in the stone. Their red eyes glowed faintly as they surrounded her.

His voice echoed without echo, flat and ancient:

"You revealed yourself to a Belmont. You revealed yourself to a Servant. And you return… maimed. Empty-handed."

Marceline swallowed her panic, trying to recover her poise.

"I—I thought I could handle him. He was wounded. If that Servant hadn't interfered—"

"You thought."

His shadow stretched, unnatural and alive, reaching toward her like a tide.

"You failed. And now… you pay the price."

Marceline's composure snapped.

She dropped to both knees, lowering her head in terror.

"Please, my lord—please! Have mercy! I didn't mean— I won't fail again! Please!"

A single rat crept up her arm, its tiny claws pricking into her scorched skin.

She flinched, whimpering.

"Please… Master— Lord Orlok…"

The shadow loomed over her.

The rats stopped circling.

And the lights dimmed.

"Mercy is for mortals."

Then darkness engulfed the chamber, followed by an explosion of Marceline's scream: raw, primal, and laced with terror.

Chapter Text

The iron door creaked softly as Joan stepped into the safehouse, her boots brushing against the welcome mat that she insisted on keeping despite Victor thinking how utterly pointless it seemed in a place like this.

She exhaled slowly, letting the quiet of the room embrace her. After the long night at the banquet: tense words, fractured ideologies, and Rider's thundering presence — it was strange to be met with stillness. No debates. No wine. No kings.

Just the low hum of the city outside… and a tiny, subtle scritch-scratch across the floor.

Joan's eyes drifted down.

A rat.

Small, gray-furred, its little eyes glinting with awareness just a touch too sharp. It sat by the wall,

staring at her — not scurrying, not sniffing. Just… watching.

Joan tilted her head.

"Well… aren't you curious."

She knelt slightly, smiling despite herself. After everything: divine wars, flaming ideologies, blood-soaked battlefields — there was something oddly grounding about a rat that wasn't running for its life.

The rat blinked once.

Then it turned and disappeared into a narrow crack near the radiator, its tail flicking behind it like a quiet farewell.

Joan stood still for a moment longer, frowning lightly — not out of fear, just… something else. A feeling she couldn't name.

She shook it off with a quiet chuckle. "I'm getting as paranoid as Victor."

The Ruler-class servant failed to notice the other rat waiting silently near the windowsill. Watching her go.

Still smiling, she turned toward the living room and went to make tea. The rustle of her armor echoed softly behind her.

Joan moved quietly through the safehouse, the faint smell of tea brewing trailing behind her as she approached Victor's door.

She hadn't seen him since the banquet, he said he had things to "check out." She figured that meant more scouting, maybe a lone hunt. But something in her chest pulled tight the closer she got to his room.

She knocked once, then pushed the door open.

"Victor, I—"

Her voice caught.

Victor sat on the edge of the bed, shirt off, half-turned as he cleaned a long gash across his ribs with alcohol and gauze. His jacket was tossed carelessly on a nearby chair, singed and stained. His body was bruised, his leg bandaged, and the dull red scrape down his back looked fresh.

Joan's hands flew to her mouth.

"Victor."

He didn't flinch, didn't look surprised. He didn't even turn fully to face her.

"Oh. Hey," he said, casually, like he wasn't covered in evidence of a fight-to-the-death. "You're back early."

She stared. "You're — what happened to you?!"

Victor gave a half-hearted shrug and hissed as he pressed down on the gauze. "Mage. Vampire. Long night."

She rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside him. "You should've called me. You should've waited."

"I didn't exactly have time to send a formal invitation."

She sighed. "You're lucky you didn't bleed out."

"I've had worse," he muttered. "And probably will again. Occupational hazard."

Joan shot him a look, equal parts horrified and exasperated.

Her eyes then scanned the damage, gentle fingers hovering over his shoulder. Her gaze slipped lower for a second, and caught the lean, sculpted lines across his chest and stomach. A slight dusting of old scars. Fresh bruises. A clean, toned shape earned from years of training and combat.

Her face flushed, and she quickly looked away, focusing back on the gash near his ribs.

Victor glanced down at her with a raised brow.

"…You okay?"

"Huh?" she blinked.

"You got real quiet." He squinted. "You sick or something?"

"I—I'm fine," she stammered, ears pink now. "Just — worried. About your wounds."

He grunted and turned away, stretching slightly. "Oh. Yeah. Makes sense."

And just like that, it passed over his head completely.

No teasing. No smirk. Not even an ounce of awareness.

Joan, still red in the cheeks, exhaled hard through her nose and grabbed the gauze from him. She used more force than necessary and began patching the deeper wounds with practiced hands.

"You're reckless," she said, voice stern. "Charging in alone like that. Against mages and vampires? What were you thinking?"

Victor sighed like a man accepting his fate.

"Here it comes…"

She frowned, working carefully. "You promised me we'd face threats together. And then you go and nearly get yourself killed again."

"I didn't 'nearly get killed.' I won."

"You're bleeding."

"I've bled before."

She paused, then quietly: "That doesn't mean you always have to."

For a moment, the only sound was her working — wrapping, cleaning, applying balm.

Victor's shoulders finally relaxed.

"…Thanks," he muttered.

Joan gave a small, tired smile as she tied the last bandage in place.

"You're welcome. Idiot."

A bit later, Victor leaned back against the headboard as Joan finished securing the last of the bandages. Her hands moved with gentle precision, but her eyes were still scanning him like she was expecting another hidden wound to surface.

"All patched up," she murmured, voice soft now. "Try not to open any of those up again. For at least a day."

Victor chuckled faintly. "I'll do my best. No promises."

Joan sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off her gauntlets with a quiet sigh. A moment passed in silence — heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Then she looked over at him. "I assume you're going to ask how the banquet went."

Victor nodded. "You know it. Especially since you got back in one piece and didn't follow it up with an explosion."

She smirked slightly. "Close, but no explosions."

He raised a brow. "That's new."

She folded her hands in her lap. "It was… intense. All three kings were there. Rider, Saber, and Archer. Mostly philosophical debate at first, then it nearly turned into a shouting match."

Victor leaned his head back, one arm over his stomach. "Yeah, sounds about right. What happened?"

"Rider essentially mocked Saber for her ideals as king, she got mad, and Archer laughed in amusement." Joan replied

He just smiled. "That must have been fun to watch."

She continued. "I spoke a little about our mission. I hinted at the vampires, confirmed what we fought with Caster. Told them there might be a greater threat at play."

Victor looked over at her now, a little more alert. "How'd they take it?"

"Mixed," she said. "Rider seemed intrigued. Archer didn't seem to care, but he didn't deny it either. Saber… stayed quiet, but she lingered afterward. I think she believes me."

Victor hummed. "It's something, at least."

A pause.

"Your turn," Joan said gently. "What happened to you?"

Victor shifted a bit, jaw clenching for a second before relaxing.

"Went back to the bomb site. Thought I could find clues, maybe see if anything was still lurking." He exhaled through his nose. "Instead, I found Lancer's Master."

Her expression tightened. "You fought?"

"More like I got jumped. He was waiting, probably suspected I'd poke around." Victor glanced at her. "Got roughed up pretty bad at first. His magecraft used mercury for auto-defense, barriers, reflective nonsense — real high-end."

"But you beat him," Joan said, half proud, half surprised.

"Barely." He chuckled bitterly. "Had to get creative. Blew up half a roof on us. Used salt and fire like a lunatic."

She gave him a look. "That does sound like you."

"Thanks," he deadpanned. "Then, right when I think I'm in the clear, some vampire lady shows up and nearly finishes the job."

Joan's brows rose. "You fought another one?"

Victor nodded, serious again. "Quick. Arrogant. Treated it like a game. Said I was 'causing problems' for her. Probably the one leading the squad from that night." His eyes darkened. "She got away, no thanks to the jackass."

Joan looked at him for a long moment, then said quietly, "You should've waited for me."

"I know," he said, almost too quickly. "And I probably will next time."

She didn't respond right away, but her expression softened. "Good."

The room settled again into quiet. Two warriors, bruised and bandaged, but still standing. Still together.

After a long pause, Victor smirked a little and added, "You should've seen his face when I won."

Joan gave a small laugh. "I'd rather not. I might throw something."

The conversation drifted into silence again. The kind that settled between people who didn't need to fill the air with words — just presence.

Joan stood after a moment, brushing dust from her armor, her voice soft but firm.

"I'm glad you came back," she said, her eyes still on him.

Victor looked up from where he was rewrapping a small cut on his wrist. "Would've hated to miss another lecture."

She gave him a playful glare, then stepped closer, this time her expression more serious.

"I mean it." Her tone shifted. Gentler. Real. "I know you're strong. I know you've survived worse. But you don't have to keep doing everything alone."

Victor blinked, caught off guard by the weight behind her words.

She continued, quietly, but resolutely:

"I'm still your Servant. You can depend on me, Victor. You should depend on me."

He didn't respond right away.

He looked down at the fresh bandages, then at her hand still slightly smudged from tending to him.

His eyes lingered on hers for a moment — the concern in them not forced or ceremonial, but human.

Finally, he gave a small nod. "Okay."

Joan smiled, but didn't push further.

"Good." She turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. "Try to sleep. I'll stay on watch for a while."

Victor smirked. "Let me guess, so I don't wander off and get into another fight?"

She grinned faintly. "Something like that."

He gave a mock salute as she disappeared down the hall.

Once alone, Victor leaned back into the pillow, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting over the bandaged gash on his ribs.

"…Depend on her," he muttered to himself.

And for once, it didn't sound like a bad idea.

The morning light cut through the velvet curtains of the hotel suite, but Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald didn't notice it.

He lay propped against a stack of pillows, bandaged and bruised, a grimace twisting his face with every shallow breath. The scent of antiseptic still clung to his skin, clashing against the floral scent of the expensive room.

Fury burned hotter than any of his wounds.

"That lousy heretic—" He seethed under his breath, clenching a fist that trembled not from weakness, but humiliation. "A Belmont Of all things…"

Lancer stood near the window, arms folded, gaze distant as he mulled over the night's encounter.

"With all due respect, Master, it wasn't just him."

"I know that!" Kayneth snarled, sitting upright too quickly and wincing in pain. "I'm not blind, Lancer. I know there was a second presence. A woman, a dead apostle, or something close to it."

"Maybe," Lancer murmured, voice steady. "Definitely not Caster's doing. She fought with purpose. Focused."

Kayneth scoffed. "I don't care what she was. It was supposed to be my trap. My demonstration of superiority. And instead I had to be rescued, by him, and you asked him to stabilize me." His voice dripped with disdain. "That low-blood, backwater street magician."

"I asked him because he knew how to treat your wounds," Lancer said, still calm. "You'd be dead otherwise."

That only seemed to incense Kayneth further. "You had no right to lower yourself or me to that filth. You call yourself a knight?"

The room stiffened.

Before Lancer could respond, Sola stepped in from the hallway, carrying a tray with tea. Her voice, as ever, was like silk hiding a blade.

"Perhaps it's fortunate that someone did save your life," she said sweetly, setting the tray down. "Lancer acted with good judgment. It speaks to his honor."

Kayneth's eyes narrowed. "Don't start."

Sola continued, ignoring him. "Besides… it's quite fascinating. That Belmont fending off a Magus and a dead apostle on the same night. You have to admit, he's proving to be a complication worth watching."

Her gaze flicked to Lancer, then lingered just a little too long.

Lancer didn't react.

Kayneth grit his teeth. "A complication that should've been removed. Instead, I was made a fool of. Slashed. Beaten. Burned." His hand clenched again. "All that planning, all that prestige, wasted on some glorified hunter."

"It was close," Lancer said. "He barely walked away. But he fought with conviction. Clever, too. He earned that win."

"And I'll repay it tenfold," Kayneth hissed. "Next time, I'll crush him and his pathetic Servant both. No more games."

Lancer's gaze slid toward his Master, unreadable. He didn't voice the thought that burned in his mind — that Kayneth's arrogance had nearly cost him everything last night. Instead, he bowed his head slightly, masking his misgivings behind a knight's composure.

Sola smiled faintly, pouring tea, though no one reached for it.

Outside, the city carried on, unaware that one Magus had lost more than blood the night before.

He'd lost control.

And the cracks were beginning to show.

The nest's great hall was silent save for the faint scratching of claws on stone. Lucatiel and Agramain stood in uneasy stillness, their postures stiff. They had been discussing the previous night's events in hushed voices when the air seemed to grow heavier — colder.

From the shadows at the far end of the hall, something moved.

The pale, angular shape of Lord Orlok emerged from the darkness, tall and deliberate, his spider-like hands folded behind his back. His eyes, cold and reflective, fixed on the two elites.

Neither had expected to see him outside his chamber. That he had chosen to come to them was… never a good sign.

"My elites… ," Orlok said, his voice low and drawn, every syllable deliberate. "How…curious… to find that my most trusted servants… are keeping secrets from me."

Lucatiel dipped her head instantly. "Count Orlok, we only sought to—"

"Do not," Orlok's hiss sliced through her words, "call me Count again." His thin lips curled back, revealing too-long teeth. "I am no shadow of Dracula. You will call me master, or lord. Nothing else."

The faint skittering in the dark corners grew louder. The rats. Dozens of them. Watching.

Orlok's gaze shifted between them, his head tilting unnaturally. "A Belmont… in this city… for how long? And you… did not think… I should be told."

Agramain swallowed, his voice carefully measured. "We… underestimated his significance. He—"

"—is a Belmont," Orlok hissed, the first true bite in his tone. "And you… allowed… one of your own… to engage him. Alone." His lips curled in the barest suggestion of a sneer. "Reckless. Sloppy. Exposing us… to the little war… these Magi are playing."

Lucatiel forced her voice steady. "Marceline acted without orders. She—"

"She… is yours," Orlok said, stepping closer. The rats followed his movement, tiny claws scratching against the floor. "And therefore… her folly… is yours."

The two stood rigid as he circled them, never blinking, his shadow stretching across the hall like a living thing.

"Do you think…" His voice softened — almost a whisper now, which somehow felt more dangerous. "…that my patience… is endless?"

"No, my Lord," both said in unison, the words tumbling out quickly.

Agramain, usually so composed, cut in with an uncharacteristic urgency. "Forgive our incompetence, my Lord. We acted without full knowledge. Had we known the Belmont was in the city from the first instance, we would have moved differently. Please… grant us the chance to make amends."

They both edged forward, foreheads now pressed to the cold stone, voices trembling in unison. "We beg you, Master… grant us one more opportunity to serve you."

The vampire lord pondered over this for a moment, whether to also punish them for their discordance. But figured it would be more trouble if he disposes his strongest followers so soon.

Orlok leaned in closer, so close they could hear the slow pull of his breath. "One more chance… but understand this… you all stand… on thin ice."

The rats surged a little closer, their black eyes catching the dim light. Neither Lucatiel nor Agramain dared move.

"You will not… make me come out here… again," Orlok continued. "The next time… I hear of a Belmont… it will be because he is dead. Or because you are."

He straightened, turning without another word, his cloak trailing across the stone like smoke. The rats parted for him, following in his wake, until the hall was empty once more.

Only when the sound of claws faded did Lucatiel and Agramain release the breaths they had been holding.

The ice under them had not yet cracked. But it was close.

The last echo of Orlok's footsteps faded into the blackness, the swarm of rats trailing after him like a living tide.

From their shifting mass, the vermin parted to deposit a crumpled figure onto the cold stone floor. Marceline lay there, trembling — her pale form curled in on itself. There were no visible wounds, but the look in her eyes told a different story.

Lucatiel's lip curled, but she kept her voice level. "Do you have any idea how close we just came to being erased!?"

Marceline didn't look up.

"That reckless little display of yours nearly brought the Lord's wrath down on all of us," Lucatiel continued, stepping closer. "If you ever again—"

"She won't," Agramain interrupted with a smirk, now leaning against a pillar. "Because the last time she 'handled things herself,' she failed spectacularly." His eyes gleamed with malicious amusement. "What happened, Marceline? You seemed so confident the other night."

Marceline finally stirred, pushing herself to her knees. She shot him a venomous glare before staggering toward the far corner of the hall.

Her voice cracked with fury. "That damn Belmont…" She slammed her fist against the wall, the impact echoing through the chamber. "He made a fool out of me!"

Lucatiel crossed her arms. "You did that yourself."

Marceline's lips pulled back in a snarl. "I'll tear him apart… slowly. I don't care how many others I have to go through to get to him."

Lucatiel's tone cooled. "Good. Because removing him now isn't just about your pride. Strategically, a Belmont running free in this city is a liability we can't afford."

Agramain grinned, his fangs glinting in the dim light. "I like this plan already. I've been dying for some sport."

The three exchanged a look — different motives, but a shared target.

Revenge. Strategy. Sport.

Whatever the reason, the result would be the same.

The Belmont, and anyone who stood with him, was now marked for death.

Satisfied with what he heard, Orlok turned and proceeded to vanish into the shadows, his swarm of rats scattering into the streets like living smoke. They skittered into drains, gutters, and alleys — spreading through the city as the night wind carried their whispers.

Miles away, the heavy front doors of the Einzbern castle shut behind Kiritsugu and Maiya, their boots leaving faint wet marks on the polished floor. The air inside was quiet — until Saber stepped forward from the shadows of the entry hall, her eyes hard.

"Kiritsugu," she said evenly, though the steel in her voice was unmistakable. "The bombing in the city… That was you, wasn't it?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he removed his coat, setting his gun case on the table. "If you already suspect, why bother asking?"

Her glare deepened. "Because I need to hear you admit it."

Kiritsugu finally met her eyes. "Yes. It was me."

The tension spiked instantly. "Do you realize what you've done?" Saber's voice rose, her hands clenching at her sides. "That was Ruler's best chance at destroying Caster! We could have ended his murders, and you—"

"I wasn't targeting only Caster." His tone was calm, almost detached. "That strike was meant to kill all of them. Ruler. Her Master. The vampires."

Saber stepped forward, the sharp ring of her armored boots echoing. "You sabotaged an ally's battle for the sake of your own strategy?!"

"They are not allies," Kiritsugu said flatly. "They are participants in the Holy Grail War. That makes them enemies."

Her jaw tightened. "Ruler and her Master have fought to protect civilians, they have acted with honor—"

"They've also fought other Servants," Kiritsugu cut in. "Or have you forgotten that fact because you like them?"

Saber's teeth clenched at the implication.

Kiritsugu continued, his voice cooling even further. "In the end, they're after the same prize as everyone else. If you think they'll hand it over to you out of friendship, you're dreaming."

Saber's hands curled into fists at her sides. "Your actions from the other night, your dirty tactics, will stain our cause and our victory. There is no pride in this. Do you think the Grail will reward treachery?"

Kiritsugu's expression didn't shift. "There is no pride in war, Saber. There's only survival — and every participant has their own motive for winning. Yours. Mine. Ruler's. Even the vampire's."

"You speak as if that justifies killing anyone who isn't you," she shot back. "But a war without honor is nothing but slaughter."

His voice hardened, the calm veneer cracking. "War is slaughter. Dress it up in chivalry all you want, but people die for someone else's goal. That's all it's ever been."

Before Saber could retort, footsteps approached from deeper in the castle.

"Enough, both of you," Irisviel's voice cut through the tension. She stepped between them, her white dress a stark contrast to the storm in their eyes. "I understand why you're angry, Saber — Ruler and her Master have done good in this war. But Kiritsugu isn't wrong either. This is still the Grail War, and they are still potential enemies."

Saber's jaw tightened. "So you would condone this?"

"I didn't say that." Irisviel met her gaze. "I'm saying that both of you are right — and both of you are wrong. The Grail is important, but so are the lives at stake now. Balancing those two is the challenge you face together."

Maiya, silent until now, shifted against the doorframe. "And sometimes you can't balance them at all," she said flatly, her eyes on Saber. "Sometimes survival means doing what others call dishonorable. Kiritsugu understands that."

The knight's eyes flicked between them, her displeasure plain. She gave no reply — only a curt bow of the head before striding past them toward the stairs.

Kiritsugu exhaled slowly, his gaze following her retreating form.

Irisviel glanced between them, her voice softer now. "You're both fighting the same war. Try not to forget that."

Neither Master nor Servant answered. And in the thick, unspoken space between them, it was clear — they still weren't seeing the same battlefield.

Finally, Saber turned sharply on her heel. "One day, Kiritsugu, you will regret the allies you cast aside."

She strode out of the hall without another word, the echo of her boots fading up the staircase.

Kiritsugu exhaled slowly, as if the exchange hadn't unsettled him at all. "I'll take that risk," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

The faint glow of a desk lamp cut a small circle of light in the otherwise shadowed room. Kariya sat hunched over a spread of old, dust-laden books and scattered notes, his fingers absently drumming against the spine of one thick tome.

He turned another page, eyes scanning the jagged script:

"Dead Apostles — turned from humans into blood-feeding immortals through a True Ancestor's  curse, or by another Dead Apostle's bite. Possessing unnatural speed, strength, and sorcery. To  be killed on sight by the Church."

Kariya's lip curled slightly as he read on.

"Extinction is the official stance… though remnants may still hide in the shadows, adapting their  methods to survive."

He remembered the events of the night before — the flicker of pale skin, the glint of fangs, and the sudden transformation into a flock of bats.

That detail snagged in his mind.

The accounts in his books described some Apostles taking on bestial forms, but this was different. The shift had been instantaneous, seamless — almost like smoke dispersing. And the number of bats had far exceeded any mundane creature's colony.

That woman, the one from last night, hadn't fought like any Apostle in the texts. Her movements were almost playful. Predatory, but theatrical.

He frowned, flipping back to a page detailing Caster's ritual murders.

"No signs of vampiric feeding. No bodies drained of blood."

Caster's work was chaotic. This was something else entirely.

Kariya leaned back, the wood of his chair creaking. "So there's more than one predator in this city."

His gaze drifted to the rain-streaked window, his thoughts darkening.

If Dead Apostles were truly supposed to be extinct… then whatever stalked the streets of Fuyuki was not supposed to exist.

And it wasn't alone.

Kariya closed the last book with a dull thump. His mind kept circling the same conclusion — whatever that woman was, she wasn't alone, and she wasn't working with Caster.

Which left him with an uncomfortable truth: there was another threat in Fuyuki, and it was organized.

His fingers tapped against the table as he considered his options. The Belmont… He'd watched him fight. Relentless, clever. And if his Servant was half as capable as the rumors suggested, then Victor might be the only one in this war who could counter something like that.

It wasn't a pleasant thought — trusting another Master — but Kariya knew his own limitations. If Berserker's fury could be pointed at the right targets, and Belmont's experience brought into play…

His thoughts were broken by the faintest whisper of movement behind him.

Kariya's head snapped up — and froze.

The tall, faceless figure of Assassin stood in the corner of the room, half in shadow. A phantom. A ghost.

Kariya's breath caught. "…You— but, Archer killed you."

Assassin tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "Not all of me." His voice was smooth, almost dispassionate. "And death… is not such a simple thing for one such as I."

Kariya's mind raced, but Assassin stepped forward, cutting through his thoughts.

"There is a meeting tomorrow," the Servant said. "At the church. All Masters are expected to attend. You… will be there."

Kariya narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Assassin's posture didn't change. "You will learn… when you arrive."

Before Kariya could press him further, Assassin melted back into the shadows, disappearing as if he'd never been there at all.

Kariya sat in the silence that followed, his pulse still quickened.

A meeting with the other Masters… at the Church.

If they were calling everyone together, then something significant had shifted in the war.

And if Assassin was walking the streets again, alive and well, then Kariya suspected the game was far more complicated than any of them realized.

Chapter Text

The morning was gray when Victor and Joan made their way toward the church. For once, both were dressed down, their armor and weapons tucked away beneath the guise of ordinary clothes. The cobblestones beneath Victor's boots scraped in rhythm with his simmering mood.

"Of all places…" he muttered, tugging at the collar of his jacket. His jaw tightened as the church spire came into view. "I hate being here. And I hate being anywhere near the other Masters right now."

Joan glanced sideways, catching the weariness that clung to him more than his injuries. "You're still unsettled from last night," she said softly.

"Unsettled?" He gave a humorless laugh. "I lost another vampire lead. That's what unsettles me. First Caster slips through our fingers, and now this one vanishes after that blonde jackass stashed mercury in my back — literally."

Joan's lips pressed into a faint line, her steps slowing. "He attacked you while your back was turned?"

Victor shrugged as if the memory were just another scar. "That's how mages fight. Arrogant, but still dangerous."

For a moment, Joan's composure cracked — the knightly discipline in her features hardening with quiet disappointment. "Such conduct is disgraceful for one who calls himself a Master. A knight would never… no, I suppose that is the difference."

She exhaled, steadying herself before her voice softened again.

"And yet you still chose to heal him."

Victor rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Lancer asked me. It didn't sit right to leave him bleeding out, even if he deserved it."

Joan's expression eased into something warmer, her eyes lingering on him with quiet pride. "That choice speaks of your heart, Victor. Mercy in the face of betrayal — it reminds me why you are different from them."

He looked away, ears pink. "Don't go turning this into one of your lectures again."

A faint laugh escaped her, cutting the edge of tension. "Then I'll save it for another time."

They continued up the path toward the church. Victor kept his gaze forward, muttering, "Important or not, I'll never like being herded into a room full of mages."

"Your dislike doesn't matter," Joan replied, her voice calm but firm. "What matters is how you carry yourself in front of them. You're not just representing yourself, but me as well."

He sighed, long and reluctant. "Fine. I'll play nice. Doesn't mean I'll trust anyone in there."

As the church steps loomed, Joan slowed her pace and touched his arm. "One more thing. It's strange, is it not? That only the Masters were summoned. No Servants permitted inside."

Victor frowned. "Yeah. That's been bothering me too. Doesn't feel right."

Joan gave a small nod, steel flashing in her eyes. "Go on ahead. I'll remain outside. But don't worry," her gaze flicked toward the heavy wooden doors, "I'll be listening."

Victor grunted as he mounted the steps. "Great. A room full of mages. Just what I needed today."

Joan lingered at the front gate, watching him disappear into the church. Her fingers curled against her arms. It wasn't only the wounds from last night that worried her — it was the memory of the cold stares, the whispered animosity from the clergy, even in her presence.

Victor carried himself as if such things rolled off his back, stoic and unbothered. But Joan wasn't certain it was the whole truth. She resolved to ask him later, when the weight of the war wasn't pressing between them.

The interior of the church was dim, its high ceiling swallowing the light of the few candles burning along the walls. Rows of pews stretched in silence, broken only by the scattered presence of the Masters already gathered.

Waver sat stiffly near the middle, shoulders drawn up as though bracing against invisible pressure. Beside him loomed the empty confidence of Rider's absence, his Master trying to blend into the woodwork.

A few rows ahead, Tokiomi's immaculate figure occupied a pew with the stillness of a man born to command, his gloved hand resting lightly against his cane. Kariya kept to the shadows along the far right, a hollow cough occasionally breaking the hush.

Closer to the front, Irisviel sat composed, her pale features serene, though her eyes scanned the others carefully. Kayneth sat not far from her, his presence wrapped in hauteur despite the faint signs of recovery still clinging to him.

The heavy doors creaked open, drawing every eye. Victor entered without ceremony, his jacket pulled tight around him. He scanned the room once, then wordlessly crossed to the far left. Sliding into a pew near the back, he slouched with deliberate indifference, one foot propped casually on the bench before him. His arms crossed over his chest, posture radiating disinterest as if daring the room to call him out.

The silence that followed was telling.

Tokiomi's lips curled faintly downward, though he masked it with practiced elegance. "Uncouth. No sense of decorum. Hardly fit for this company." His thoughts dismissed Victor as one would a common ruffian.

Kayneth let out a thin breath through his nose, a trace of disdain curling his words. "So the heretic joins us at last… though by the look of it, he mistakes this gathering for a tavern."

Waver, from his seat in the middle rows, shifted uncomfortably. His eyes flicked toward Victor, then away. "Sitting like that, away from everyone… he's cutting himself off. That's the last thing you should do in a room full of enemies."

Victor didn't so much as glance at their reactions, his disinterested gaze fixed forward. To him, the whole affair already smelled of wasted time.

The hush deepened as the sound of measured footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. A side door opened, and from it emerged Father Risei, flanked by several priests. At his shoulder stood Kirei, expression as impassive as stone. The gathered clergy moved with an air of solemnity, their presence reinforcing the church's dominion over the war.

Risei's eyes swept the chamber, pausing briefly on each Master before settling, just for a heartbeat, on Victor. He cleared his throat, his voice echoing with the authority of long practice.

"Masters. Thank you for attending on such short notice. There is much that must be addressed, for the sanctity of this War is under threat."

At his signal, one of the priests moved aside, and in the dim light, the faint outline of an Assassin materialized against the far wall — a shadow given form, its masked gaze blank and unreadable.

A ripple of surprise went through the chamber. Waver stiffened in his seat. Kayneth's jaw set, and Tokiomi's brow furrowed slightly, though his composed mask did not falter.

Risei continued smoothly, hands folded at his chest.

"I see some of you are confused. Yes, Assassin remains active in this War. Contrary to appearances, his role is not ended. His Master has allowed him to be retained for a specific duty: surveillance. He exists to ensure no unauthorized interference undermines the both the Mage Association and Holy Grail War."

Though the words were calm, the subtle weight in Risei's tone pressed heavier when his gaze flicked again, almost casually, toward the back pew where Victor sat with his foot up.

Victor rolled his eyes, but he said nothing. He knew a barb when he heard one.

Risei let the implication hang for a moment, then inclined his head. "Now. To the matter at hand. The enemy most pressing upon us all: Caster and his Master."

The priest's voice darkened. "They have caused havoc within Fuyuki. The disappearances, the killings, the grotesque displays in the river: all are their doing. These atrocities predate even the summoning of the Grail, extending back into the days before this War began. And now, their violence has escalated to a degree that can no longer be tolerated."

His words carried a rhythm of condemnation, carefully crafted to ignite the Masters' outrage while narrowing their focus to one enemy alone.

But from his seat, Victor's eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching along his jaw. "So they're pinning everything on Caster. Convenient. Not a word about the vampires."

Across the aisle, Waver shifted uneasily, glancing from the clergy to the other Masters. Kayneth's expression soured further at the mention of Caster, as though the reminder of his rival's chaos was salt poured on his wounds. Tokiomi sat in silence, listening, but his composed features revealed nothing. Kariya coughed lightly into his sleeve, his sunken eyes narrowing as though weighing every word.

Risei spread his arms, the picture of righteous duty. "Caster and his Servant are a stain upon this Holy Grail War. Their removal is not merely the task of one Master, but the responsibility of all."

The overseer let the echoes of his condemnation settle before continuing, his tone dropping into something almost grave.

"There is, however, another layer to Caster's heresy. Evidence suggests that he has begun creating Dead Apostles to further skew the balance of this War. These abominations are the true source of the disappearances and killings throughout Fuyuki. A vile corruption of magecraft that mimics the oldest nightmares of humanity."

He paused, letting the words hang, then added with the faintest tilt of his head:

"And, as you know, Dead Apostles are so often mistaken by the ignorant for the vampires of legend."

His gaze swept the room but lingered, however briefly, on Victor sitting in the back with his slouched, half-disinterested posture. The jab was subtle but sharp enough for anyone to catch. Victor's eyes narrowed. The lie wasn't for truth's sake, but it was for him. They weren't just burying the vampires; they were digging his grave with their words.

A sharp sniff of disdain came from Kayneth's direction. The magus didn't bother to hide the way his gaze cut toward Victor, as though Risei's accusations merely confirmed what he already believed.

Across the chamber, Tokiomi's eyes lingered on Victor, thoughtful and cool. He said nothing, but the faintest narrowing of his gaze carried judgment, and calculation.

Waver's throat tightened as Risei's words echoed. His gaze flicked to the back pew. "Are they…aiming this at Victor?" The thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Victor hadn't exactly made friends, but watching the Church twist the truth with such ease sent a chill through him.

"If they can turn the room on him that fast, what chance do the rest of us have if they decide we're next?"

A cough broke the silence, rough and raw. From the shadows at the far right, Kariya raised his voice.

"That's not… entirely accurate," he rasped, his tone thin but insistent. "I saw one myself. Last night. It turned into a flock of bats, scattered, and reformed again. From what I've read, that isn't what a Dead Apostle does."

A flicker of unease rippled through the room — Waver leaning forward in curiosity, Kayneth's brow furrowing, and even Irisviel's eyes narrowing in thought.

Risei, however, did not falter. His expression remained serene, his voice heavy with authority.

"Yes, the Church is aware of your encounter, Master Matōu. What you describe is consistent with Caster's pattern of corruption. Dead Apostles are dangerous precisely because they adapt and evolve. It is not unthinkable that, in his blasphemous experiments, Caster has crafted variants…enhancements that differ from what the Mage's Association has recorded."

The firmness of his tone smothered the ripple of doubt. To anyone less discerning, it sounded like the final word of an experienced overseer.

Victor leaned back, jaw tight. "Enhancements, huh? More like a neat little excuse to cover their tracks." He resisted the urge to speak, his fingers tightening against his crossed arms. The game was clear: keep the lie tidy, make him look like the outlier.

Risei clasped his hands, his voice carrying the full weight of the Church's authority.

"Know this: Caster and his Master are now the highest-priority targets of this Holy Grail War. Their eradication is paramount. To ensure no hesitation—" he raised a hand, letting the words land slowly, "—any Master who delivers their defeat will be granted full restoration of all Command Spells used. This is the Grail's decree, overseen by the Church."

A murmur rippled through the pews. Waver's eyes widened at the incentive, Kayneth straightened despite the stiffness in his injuries, and Tokiomi's lips pressed thin, thoughtful but unreadable. Kariya said nothing, though the tension in his jaw betrayed unease.

Risei's gaze sharpened. "And let me be absolutely clear. Any association with Dead Apostles, be it protection, collusion, or willful ignorance, marks one as no better than the heretics themselves. Such a stain will not be tolerated."

Across the aisle, Irisviel's hands folded more tightly in her lap. Risei's tone was even, measured — yet every word pressed like a weight against young Belmont. She could feel it in the way the other Masters shifted, the way suspicion lingered in the air.

"They want to isolate him…" she realized, her chest tightening. The thought disturbed her more than the threat of Dead Apostles. Ruler's master had fought with honor from what she heard, even shown mercy where others would not. To watch the Church condemn him in all but name felt wrong, but voicing that here would only paint another target.

The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the steady scrape of candle flames.

Finally, Risei spread his hands as if in benediction. "That concludes our business. Remember, the rules of the Mage's Association exist for a reason. Anything outside their bounds will not be taken lightly."

The dismissal was clear.

The Masters got up and began to file out at their own pace. Waver kept his head down, avoiding eye contact; Kayneth left with his nose high, masking his humiliation in pride; Tokiomi moved with the deliberate poise of a man who never questioned his own standing.

At the very back, Victor stood, brushing the dust from his jacket. He shrugged while muttering under his breath as he turned toward the doors. "Rules and half-truths. That's all that was."

Without another glance, he strode out into the morning light, already anticipating Joan's questions.

"Victor Belmont."

The voice was hoarse, ragged — and close.

Victor turned sharply, his posture shifting as instinct brought him on guard. Standing a few steps away was Kariya Matōu, his gaunt frame hunched, pale skin marred by the faint tremors of his sickness. His sunken eyes flicked from Victor to Joan, whom approached to her master's side.

"What do you want?" Victor's tone was clipped, more warning than question. His hand twitched near his side, ready out of habit.

Joan stepped forward, lightly resting a hand near Victor's arm. "Wait." Her voice was soft but firm. "Let him speak."

Kariya gave a small nod, recognizing the tension. "I'm not here to fight. Berserker is… at bay. I promise. He won't attack you." His breathing hitched, but his words carried an odd sincerity. "I only want to talk."

Victor's eyes narrowed, suspicion carved into every line of his face. "Talk, huh? Last time I had 'just a talk' with a another master, I ended up getting battered and sliced in the back."

"Victor," Joan said, glancing at him. Her look wasn't rebuke so much as plea — a reminder that not every enemy had to be an enemy yet.

Kariya raised his hands slightly, palms open in weary concession. "Then let's do it somewhere public. Neutral. No tricks. Just words. That's all I'm asking."

Victor's jaw worked silently as he weighed the man, every instinct screaming to turn away. Finally, with a sharp exhale through his nose, he gave a reluctant nod.

"Fine," he jabbed a finger toward Kariya, his voice low and edged. "But if you twitch wrong, it ends here."

"Fair enough," Kariya rasped, not flinching from the threat.

Joan's eyes lingered on both men, tension taut between them. "Then let's hear him out," she said, though her posture betrayed just how guarded she still was.

The scent of aged wine lingered in the lavish cellar of Tokiomi's mansion. Bottles lined the walls in endless rows, glimmering faintly in the soft lantern light. Gilgamesh sat at the head of the table as though it were his throne, sipping leisurely from a jeweled goblet. Across from him, Kirei Kotomine stood with his usual measured stillness, hands folded loosely behind his back.

"The gathering has ended," Kirei said, his tone calm, almost clinical. "As expected, the Church directed all blame upon Caster. His crimes, his depravity, the disappearances — all conveniently ascribed to him. They employed the term Dead Apostle to align the matter with the Mage's Association's rules. It is a fiction, but one easily digested."

Gilgamesh chuckled low, the sound both disdainful and amused. "A simple lie to pacify mongrels. Replace truth with familiarity, and they bow their heads without protest."

Kirei inclined his head slightly. "But there is a secondary aim. Risei believes the Belmont's presence disrupts the order of the War. By weaving this story, they isolate him. They paint him as an outsider, an element that cannot be trusted."

The King of Heroes swirled his wine, golden eyes narrowing with amusement. "Yes, I noticed. The mongrel hunter was practically singled out with every word, though they lacked the courage to say his name. Tell me priest, is this merely convenience, or something older?"

Kirei's voice carried no hesitation. "Older. The Belmont clan has long been despised by the Church. Their power over monsters and the supernatural inspires fear. Their methods: unorthodox, bordering on heretical invite suspicion. Their independence is resented, for they bow to no hierarchy, no doctrine. For centuries, the Church has considered them a rival authority beyond their control. Paranoia has hardened into policy, and hatred has become tradition."

Gilgamesh leaned back in his chair, lips curving into a knowing smile. "So. Not merely a scapegoat, but an ancient wound reopened. How droll. The mongrels fear what they cannot control, so they replace it with a story fit for their little rules. And the fools lap it up without question."

Kirei inclined his head. "It is not merely convenience. Risei believes Belmont's presence is disrupting the War's order. This narrative allows the Church to isolate him — and in doing so, reaffirm their dominance."

The King of Heroes gave a slow, satisfied laugh, rich with scorn. "How pitiful… and how amusing. The mongrel hunter carries centuries of enmity upon his back, whether he wills it or not. Tell me, priest — when the noose tightens, will he choke… or bare his fangs?"

Kirei answered, mainly to himself. "That, too, is what I wish to see."

He let the words hang in the wine-scented air before turning his gaze fully upon the priest. "Kirei… you are enjoying this, aren't you? The isolation, the suspicion, the tension gnawing at the edges of their fragile alliances."

For a moment, Kirei was silent, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he allowed the faintest of smiles to cross his lips. "It is… compelling. To watch how easily men and institutions betray themselves when pressed. The more the order frays, the more… possibilities reveal themselves."

His voice lowered, almost thoughtful. "I find myself curious what greater chaos still waits to be drawn out."

Gilgamesh's laughter rolled through the cellar, rich and triumphant. "Excellent, priest. At last you begin to sound less like a dutiful hound and more like a man of taste. Yes… let the mongrels tear at one another. Their misery is a spectacle worthy of kings."

Kirei's smile faded back into neutrality, though his eyes betrayed a lingering glint of anticipation.

The sound of hoofbeats faded as Rider's chariot touched down on the outskirts of Fuyuki, starlight glinting off its wheels. Waver clutched his coat tightly against the night air, his expression tight with frustration.

"So that was it," Waver muttered bitterly. "The Church throws everything on Caster, slaps the label of 'Dead Apostles' on it, and conveniently leaves out everything else. And everyone just nods along."

Rider crossed his arms, his massive frame looming like a monument in the night. His voice carried a weight that silenced the boy's ranting.

"Hmph. To lay the burden solely on one foe while ignoring the greater danger… such cowardice reeks of politics, not war." His eyes narrowed, hard as steel.

"Then they used it as an excuse to cast suspicion on that Belmont lad. I will say this plainly, boy: I disapprove. A warrior who risks his life in battle deserves respect, not scorn. The Church should know better."

Waver hesitated, then lifted his chin. "I agree. But maybe… we can do something about it."

Rider's brow arched, curiosity flickering. "Oh?"

"If we search for these… 'dead apostles' ourselves, we might not only track down Caster but also prove to Victor and Ruler that we're not their enemies," Waver said. His fists tightened at his sides, his voice wavering but steady.

"I don't want them to think we're like the others. And besides—" he exhaled sharply "—I've wanted to look into those disappearances for some time now. Whether it's vampires or Dead Apostles, something's been preying on this city long before the war began. If it spirals further, it won't just draw panic… it'll draw the eyes of every faction straight to us."

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. Then Rider's booming laugh shattered it, rolling across the night like thunder. "Ha! Well said, boy! To fight not only for your own wish but for the sake of trust and order, now that is a companion worthy of a king!"

He clapped Waver's shoulder with a force that nearly toppled him. "The Belmont and his saint remind me of men I once fought beside — warriors who carried the weight of nations and still pressed forward, even when the world spat on their efforts. To have such allies is no small thing.

The large servant then nodded his head in approval. "Very well! We shall hunt these creatures and show that Rider's camp does not abandon comrades to the slander of cowards. Ha! This war grows more entertaining by the day!"

Despite himself, Waver felt a small spark of pride beneath the ache in his shoulder. Rider's conviction was infectious.

As they began their walk back toward the city, Waver's eyes caught something moving in the corner of his vision. A rat skittered across the street, stopping to twitch its nose in their direction before darting into the shadows.

Waver frowned, hugging his arms tightly. "…Rider, have you noticed? There've been… a lot of rats around lately."

The king only laughed, unconcerned. But Waver couldn't shake the chill running down his spine.

The three of them sat at a lonely park bench beneath the glow of a flickering street lamp. The hum of distant traffic and the rustle of leaves filled the silence between them. It wasn't an ideal meeting place, but its public openness gave all of them some measure of security.

"Alright, what did you want to talk about?" The hunter started.

Kariya looked worn and pale, his scarf hiding most of his twisted skin. He shifted uncomfortably before finally speaking. "I… followed you the other night. After you fought Kayneth."

Victor's brow twitched, his posture stiffening immediately. "So you were tailing me." His voice carried a sharp edge. "And you thought now was a good time to bring that up?"

Kariya raised his hands, defensive. "I wanted to approach you, only to talk. To suggest we work together. But then I saw him," his expression hardened as he recalled it, "your fight with Kayneth… and that thing that came after. I know that wasn't Caster's doing."

Victor leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Funny. Good memory for a guy who ran."

"Victor." Joan's voice was soft but firm, cutting through his hostility. She turned toward Kariya, her expression calm but watchful. "You backed away because the timing wasn't right. That I can understand. What matters is why you're here now."

Kariya exhaled slowly, lowering his hands. "Because what I saw… confirmed what I've suspected. There's more in this city than just Servants and Caster's twisted games. And the Church pretending they're just Dead Apostles doesn't sit right with me." He glanced between the two of them. "You've faced them before, haven't you?"

Joan inclined her head. "Yes. Victor and I can confirm there is a greater threat at work. If you seek answers about what you saw, then you already know the truth."

Victor crossed his arms, still glaring at the man. "If you're here for some easy alliance, don't expect me to jump at it. Not after you admit you've been skulking around behind my back."

"I don't expect trust," Kariya said flatly, his voice raw. "But I do expect survival. For Sakura. For the people in this city. If the others keep turning a blind eye, then someone else has to act."

The duo noticed the name he singled out but didn't comment on it. Joan studied him for a long moment, then gave a slight nod. "Then talk, Master of Berserker. Let us hear what you have in mind."

Victor muttered, "This better be worth it."

Kariya didn't flinch at Victor's tone. Instead, he lowered his gaze, his hands tightening around the edge of the bench.

"I don't blame you for being suspicious. This war… it turns people against each other. Makes allies into enemies and brings out the worst in everyone. Would have never participated if not for my situation." His voice was rough, but there was no bitterness aimed at Victor, only weariness.

"But know this, I'm not your enemy. Not now. Not with everything else happening in this city. What I saw that night convinced me more than ever: there's something growing out there, and it's not just Caster."

Victor leaned back slightly, arms still crossed, studying him with sharp eyes. For a moment, silence pressed between them, broken only by the faint buzz of the streetlamp overhead.

Finally, Victor exhaled through his nose. "You talk a good game. And maybe you mean it. But I'm not about to shake hands and call this an alliance. That's not how I work."

Joan glanced at him with a hint of disappointment in her eyes, but Victor pressed on while his tone softening just enough to cut the edge. "But, what I can do is be civil. If more of those things show up, and we cross paths, then fine. We deal with it. But don't expect me to trust you just because we had a nice chat in a park."

Kariya gave a small nod, unaffected. "Civil is enough. For now." He looked directly at Victor, his tired eyes glinting with sincerity. "So long as you're fighting them, I'll know we're on the same side where it counts."

Joan's expression eased into a faint smile. "That is all we can ask."

Victor grunted, adjusting his jacket as if brushing away the weight of the conversation. "Good. Then let's leave it there."

The three sat in uneasy quiet for a moment longer, none of them entirely trusting, but none leaving the bench either.

Kariya shifted on the bench, lowering his voice so it carried only to the two of them. "I should warn you — Tokiomi and Kirei aren't to be underestimated. You saw how the Church spun things tonight. That didn't happen on its own. They already made you the scapegoat once, and they'll do it again if it keeps eyes off themselves."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "So you're saying it was their doing?"

Kariya gave a weary shrug. "I know what it sounds like, coming from me. My history with Tokiomi makes me an easy man to dismiss. But even if you doubt my motives… don't ignore what you saw. The Church doesn't fear Caster. They fear you. That's why they're trying to box you in."

Victor let out a low scoff, unconvinced but listening all the same. Joan, however, regarded Kariya carefully.

"Then why tell us this?" she asked.

Kariya met her gaze, and for a fleeting moment his voice carried a quiet conviction. "Because out of all the Masters, yours seemed the most trustworthy. Not because of your background, or your legends. Because when it came down to it, I saw you fight and then heal someone who'd just tried to kill you. That's not something most of us would've done."

The words hung in the night air. Victor shifted uncomfortably, not knowing how to respond. Joan, sensing his hesitation, offered a small, warm smile.

"It's enough that you'll hear him out," she said softly to Victor, then looked back at Kariya. "And thank you, Master of Berserker. Integrity is rare in this war."

Kariya inclined his head. "I'll do what I can to keep Berserker from advancing on you again. I can't promise perfection… but I can promise I'll try."

Victor exhaled through his nose and gave a reluctant nod. "That's all I'll ask."

For a moment, there was still tension between them, but it no longer carried the same sharp edge. Instead, a tentative understanding lingered — fragile, but real.

Kariya slowly pushed himself up from the bench, his movements stiff, as though every step cost him effort. He gave the pair a faint nod. "That's enough for tonight. Thank you for hearing me out… both of you. I'll be in touch if anything else happens."

Joan rose as well, her expression soft with quiet concern. "Before you go…" She hesitated, then stepped closer, her voice carrying the calm warmth of someone who had seen too much suffering to dismiss it. "You look unwell. Forgive me, but… are you carrying some illness?"

Kariya blinked at her tone — not pity, not prying, but genuine care. He let out a short, rough laugh that held no humor.

"It's… part of my family's magic. A curse I was born into, you could say. Nothing you need to worry yourself over. It's not something that can be healed."

Joan's brows knit together, her eyes gentle yet firm, the way one might look at a wounded soldier refusing aid. "Even if it cannot be healed, it should not be borne alone. Please, at least promise me you won't neglect yourself entirely."

For a fleeting moment, Kariya's features softened — almost as though he'd forgotten what it was like for someone to speak to him that way. He gave the smallest nod. "I'll… try."

Victor folded his arms, watching, but kept his thoughts to himself.

Joan inclined her head, her smile faint but earnest. "That is all I ask."

Kariya adjusted his scarf, hiding his expression as he turned away. "Worry about yourselves first. That'll be enough."

With that, he melted into the darkened streets, leaving the saint and the hunter standing side by side.

Victor tugged at his jacket with a grunt. "Strange guy. But… not the worst."

Joan's gaze lingered on the shadows where Kariya had disappeared. "No… only burdened. And yet, even the burdened can still show kindness."

The two walked side by side through the quiet streets, the night air cool against their faces. Neither spoke at first, until Victor broke the silence with a sharp exhale.

"Well… of all the lunatics running around, I think Kariya might be the most decent Master I've met so far." He smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Waver's probably second place, but only because he's a pain in the ass sometimes."

Joan chuckled softly, shaking her head. "I did not expect such rankings from you."

"Yeah, well. When you're stuck in this mess, you start handing out medals for basic human decency."

They turned down a quieter street leading back toward their safehouse. Joan glanced at him sidelong, her expression growing more thoughtful.

"Victor… forgive me for asking, but why is the Church so openly antagonistic toward you? Toward your family?"

Victor's stride slowed. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the cobblestones as if weighing whether to answer. Finally, he sighed.

"It's not one thing. It's everything." He gestured vaguely with one hand. "The Belmonts have been dealing with them for centuries. We fight monsters, protect people, and in return? The Church looks at us like we're the problem. Too dangerous, too independent, too… outside their little system of control."

His voice grew harder, edged with something bitter.

"My ancestors were treated like hired blades one day and heretics the next. Some were exiled, excommunicated and even massacred. Even when the Belmonts saved villages or crushed Dracula's army, the whispers never stopped. 'Why do they have so much power? Who gave them the right?' That kind of crap sticks to a family."

Joan listened quietly, her eyes softening as he went on.

Victor let out a humorless chuckle. "You'd think by my generation it'd get easier, but no. Once, my great-grandfather saved a village from Dracula's beasts. The next day, a bishop denounced him because he didn't kneel."

His eyes glinted with sadness. "That's the story of my family: we do their work, and they hate us for it. Suspicion. Fear. Always waiting for us to slip so they can be proven right. Doesn't matter what I do — in their eyes, I'll always be a Belmont who never belonged."

For a moment, the only sound was their footsteps.

Joan's voice was gentle when she finally spoke. "That is a heavy burden to carry… one no man should bear alone."

Victor shrugged, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. "It's not like I get a choice. Being a Belmont isn't something you can put down. Doesn't matter what I want — the world keeps reminding me what I am."

She looked at him, about to speak further, but he shook his head with a faint smirk. "Don't worry, I'm not about to spiral on you. Just saying… if the Church wants to glare at me, fine. I'll glare back harder."

Joan's smile faded. "I know that weight, Victor. The Church once called me chosen, their holy banner. I gave them my faith, my life. And when their need ended, they turned on me. The same hands that praised me as a saint bound me as a heretic."

She looked at him steadily. "So when I say I understand, I speak as one who has lived the same betrayal. And yet you still fight for them. That speaks louder than any suspicion ever could."

Victor didn't answer, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested her words struck something in him. He spoke again, his voice lower than before.

"…Y'know, I never really said it. Back at the church, the first time we went…" He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes fixed anywhere but on her. "Thanks. For having my back. I didn't expect you to step in like that."

Joan blinked, surprised by the sudden admission.

Victor gave a small, lopsided shrug, a faint hint of embarrassment creeping into his tone. "Sorry it took me this long to say it. Guess I'm not great at… that sort of thing."

Joan's expression softened, touched by the rare show of humility. "There is no need to apologize. I only did what was right."

He glanced at her then, just for a moment, his usual guardedness giving way to something quieter — a flicker of gratitude, genuine and unspoken. "…Still. I appreciate it."

Joan smiled, warm and gentle. "Then that is enough for me."

With that, they continued down the road toward the safehouse, the weight between them a little lighter than before.

Unknown to them, a lone rat lingered on the rooftop opposite the safehouse, its beady eyes glinting in the moonlight as it watched Joan and Victor disappear inside.

When the door shut, the creature's whiskers twitched. The air grew heavy as a shadow stretched unnaturally across the stone.

"…So. The girl in armor was not merely a knight, but the Maid herself." Orlok's voice slithered through the rat's tiny frame, ancient and dry as bone dust. "Jeanne d'Arc… carrying faith like a torch in this mire of blood. How amusing. Another zealot walks the board, not unlike that blue-mad Servant who rants of his goddess. Saints and fanatics… their souls burn brightest before they break."

The rat's body stiffened, head tilting at an unnatural angle as his will moved it.

"And yet she clings to the hunter — a Belmont." A low chuckle echoed, soft and cruel. "Saint and slayer, side by side… amusing. History births strange bedfellows."

For a heartbeat, silence pressed in, broken only by the faint scurry of unseen claws.

"…The Grail hides its truths from them. But not from me. If I can unravel this much already… then perhaps I am closer to its heart than they realize."

The shadow deepened, rats beginning to stir all across the rooftops as if in answer to their master.

"Yes… it is time I moved beyond the nest. If my designs are to bear fruit, I must shape this war with my own hand."

The shadow withdrew, and the rat darted into the dark, leaving only the false Count's words lingering in the night air like a curse.

Chapter Text

A few days passed in uneasy silence. The city breathed as if the Grail War had paused: no battles, no sightings of Caster, no new reports of carnage. For the Masters, it was the closest thing to calm they could hope for. For the people of Fuyuki, it was just another weeknight.

The streets were nearly empty at this late hour, save for the uneven steps of a man weaving his way home. The smell of cheap liquor clung to him, his coat askew, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He muttered half-finished complaints about his foreman, about the hours, about his aching feet.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, something shimmered.

At the mouth of a dark alley stood a woman. Pale skin caught what little light there was, her figure framed by shadows like a painting too vivid to be real. Her eyes seemed to glow faintly, inviting, entrancing.

The man blinked, sobering for an instant. "…Well, ain't this my lucky night," he muttered, grinning through a slur. He adjusted his crooked tie as if that would somehow impress her.

"Pretty girl like you standin' out here all alone? Dangerous place, sweetheart. Maybe I oughta walk you home, huh?"

She didn't answer, only tilted her head. The faintest smile curved her lips, patient, almost amused.

He chuckled and stepped closer, lowering his voice like a conspirator. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Don't worry, I'm a gentleman." His laugh turned into a hiccup. "Mostly."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a shimmer like starlight flickering in the dark. She stepped back, deeper into the alley, as though inviting him to follow.

"Hey, hey, don't be shy," he said, stumbling after her. "I know a game when I see one." He spread his arms wide, grin widening. "You want me to chase? Fine. I can chase."

The shadows thickened the further he went, the sounds of the street fading behind him. The air grew colder, heavy, as though the alley swallowed him whole.

He slowed, uneasy now. "Heh… alright, that's enough. Where'd you—"

She was suddenly behind him. A hand, cool as marble, traced lightly along his jawline. Her breath brushed his ear, sweet and mocking.

"Got you," she whispered.

The man froze, his voice breaking into a nervous laugh. "H-hey now, that's… that's cute. Real funny. You— you're a tease, huh?"

Her smile widened, revealing the dim gleam of fangs. "Oh," she purred, voice velvet and cruel, "I haven't even started teasing yet."

Her grip tightened on his chin, forcing his head back. The game was over. The last thing he saw were her eyes — no longer warm, but hungry. The man's scream never carried far. By the time it left his lips, his strength was already gone.

Hours later, his broken body crawled across a rotting floor, leaving a smear of blood on the wood. He gasped like a dying animal, clawing toward the weak glow of a doorway.

Marceline's grip tightened on his collar, her strength unrelenting as she half-dragged, half-guided his failing body across the street.

"Oh, don't tell me you're giving up already," she purred, her fangs still glistening with his blood. "You wanted me, didn't you? Such a gentleman, chasing a lady into the dark… and now you crawl away the moment it gets interesting."

His shoes scraped the stones, leaving a faint red trail behind them as she laughed softly, tugging him closer. "Come now, little moth. If you're going to burn, at least do it properly." With a sharp pull, she shoved him through the threshold.

Inside the abandoned house, the air stank of decay. Damp mottled the walls, and every creak of the rotting floorboards carried the sour reek of blood. Dozens of victims lay scattered across the floor: still breathing, but barely. Their bodies trembled on the edge of death, their eyes glassy, souls already slipping.

Marceline trailed after him leisurely, almost amused by his desperate struggle. She watched him collapse just shy of the others, shuddering helplessly, still alive but only barely.

From the shadows, Lucatiel let out a sharp laugh. "You always do this. Playing with food until it can barely crawl. What's the point, Marceline? A clean kill would be faster."

Marceline crouched beside the man, brushing blood from his cheek like a lover. "And far less entertaining. What's the fun in a meal if it doesn't try to run?" Her lips curved into a cruel smile. "I prefer to savor the moment."

The man whimpered as her nails traced his skin.

Lucatiel folded her arms, her tone cutting. "Savoring wastes time. You risk spoiling the prey before it's useful."

Before Marceline could answer, a deep, commanding voice silenced them both.

"Enough."

Agramain stepped into the room, his presence blotting out their bickering. His gaze swept over the man, then over the moaning bodies piled across the floor, and settled with cold intent.

"Bickering does nothing. Focus on the plan."

He raised his hand toward one of the gasping victims, their chest rattling with shallow breaths. The chosen one's eyes widened slightly, caught between terror and hope.

"We need newborns," Agramain said, voice steady, almost ritualistic. "More hands. More eyes. A tide of fangs waiting in the dark. Only then will we have the numbers to strike."

Lucatiel tilted her head. "Against the Belmont."

"And his servant," Agramain confirmed. A cruel satisfaction flickered in his eyes. "Let them think these days of silence mean safety. We will answer with blood and fire."

Then, without another word, Agramain drew his own wrist to his mouth. His fangs split flesh, and dark blood welled. He let it drip into the lips of the dying victim, forcing them to swallow. Their body convulsed, shuddering violently as the first spark of undeath ignited within them.

The room filled with weak moans and the sound of ragged breaths turning into something darker.

Marceline smirked, dragging her near-dead prey fully inside. "Then let's get to work."

The basement of the home they 'occupied' smelled of mold and candle smoke, the walls papered with scrawled notes and crude sketches of past "masterpieces." Ryuunosuke sat slouched across a chair, tossing a knife lazily from hand to hand. His pout was childlike, though the dried flecks of blood on his coat made it monstrous.

"This is booooring," he groaned. "No art, no screams, no fresh paint. Bluebeard, you promised me that the War was supposed to be fun. And here we are, hiding like rats. You sure we're still playing the same game?"

Caster, hunched over a parchment map of Fuyuki spread across the floor, did not raise his head. Chalk runes and glowing sigils pulsed across its surface, threads of magic weaving out in spectral lines. His fingers tapped thoughtfully on the wards as though listening for a faint heartbeat.

"I sympathize, Ryuunosuke," Caster replied, voice heavy with indulgent patience. "I too miss our gallery. The canvas of flesh, the choir of dying hymns… exquisite, yes? But restraint, my friend, is the seasoning that makes the feast divine. And what a feast awaits us."

Ryuunosuke leaned forward, eyes lighting up with a boyish grin. "You mean those vampires, huh? Real, actual vampires! I thought they were just stories, like mummies and werewolves. But no — fangs, coffins, the whole package! Man, it's like we stumbled into a movie marathon and they all turned out to be documentaries!"

He laughed, spinning the knife before driving its point idly into the wood.

Caster's grin widened. "The elegance of it all, is it not? Beings who straddle the line between life and death, humanity and monstrosity. The Church calls them abominations, but I…" His voice turned reverent, eyes alight with devotion. "…I call them fellow artists. They craft fear as we do. They sculpt with mortality."

He swept a hand over the glowing map, where several dots of crimson pulsed faintly in the city's shadowed districts.

"And soon, we shall find them. Speak with them. Study their anatomy, learn their methods. To interview such legends, to see what blood and despair has made of them — oh, the knowledge! The inspiration!"

Ryuunosuke clapped his hands together, almost bouncing in his chair. "Yes! Yes! We gotta talk to them, dude! Can you imagine? Fang to fang, artist to artist! Maybe they'll even let us join in their games!"

A sudden scurry interrupted his giddiness. A rat darted across the edge of the room, its black eyes reflecting the candlelight.

"Tch," Ryuunosuke muttered, tossing a knife toward it and missing by inches. "Great. Vampires are one thing, but rats? Ugh. City's starting to feel like a damn infestation."

Caster's eyes sharpened. He snapped his fingers, and a coil of azure light shot from his hand, freezing the vermin mid-scurry. The rat twitched, suspended in the air, its squeal strangely hollow.

Ryuunosuke raised an eyebrow. "…It's just a rat, right?"

Caster leaned closer, his grin widening. "No… not just a rat. Something rides within it. A presence foul and ancient." His fingers tightened, and a pulse of magic stripped away the veil: the rat's eyes burned with an unnatural gleam, its tiny body shivering under the weight of something greater.

"I feel it now," Caster whispered, voice trembling with excitement. "An echo of darkness. A tether. Whoever commands this vermin leaves trails, trails that lead straight to their nest."

Ryuunosuke's grin returned, sharp and eager. "Heh. So the rats know the way home. Then let's follow the trail and pay our new friends a visit."

Caster chuckled, releasing the rat and watching it scurry back into the shadows. "Yes… lead us, little one. Lead us to the heart of this infestation."

Elsewhere in the city, daylight brought no comfort. Though the sun rose, whispers of rats and vanished loved ones clung to the streets.

Morning sunlight spilled over Fuyuki's marketplace, but the air felt strained, brittle. The usual chatter of vendors and customers carried on, though more than a few stalls now advertised strange new wares — powders, traps, and charms hastily branded as rat repellents.

Victor walked beside Joan, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, scanning the crowd with the sharp, restless eyes of a hunter. His voice was low, edged with irritation.

"Too quiet. Haven't heard a peep out of the blue-mad bastard in days." He spat the words like venom. "That doesn't mean he's given up — it means he's planning something worse."

Joan followed his gaze, noting the people buying sachets of dried herbs, talismans scrawled with warding symbols, and cheap poisons disguised as medicine. Her expression darkened. "The city feels uneasy. They may not know why, but they can sense it. Their instincts tell them something is wrong."

Victor's eyes flicked toward the repellent stalls. "Rats. Hnh. Figures. Nature always feels it before people do. Vermin scurrying out in the open? That's never a good sign."

They walked on in silence for a moment, the weight of the quiet pressing in.

Joan's voice softened, almost contemplative. "Perhaps this stillness is a test — the false calm before a storm. Evil thrives in silence, when people let themselves believe they are safe."

Victor grunted. "Yeah. And silence doesn't last long in wars like this. We need to be ready when it breaks."

As they passed another row of stalls, Victor noticed a woman weaving frantically through the crowd. Her hair was unkempt, her hands clutched a folded photograph, and her voice rang sharp with desperation.

"Please— please, has anyone seen him? My husband, Emito— he was supposed to be home last night—" She thrust the photo forward, her eyes darting wildly from face to face. "He said he'd be back after work, but he never came home. Someone must have seen him—"

One by one, passersby averted their eyes, excuses tumbling from their lips. A few shook their heads with pity before moving on.

Victor and Joan exchanged a glance before stepping closer.

"Ma'am," Joan said gently, resting a hand on the woman's arm. "We may be able to help. Can you tell us what happened?"

The woman's eyes brimmed with tears as she clutched the photo to her chest. "He… he always walks the same way home. He wouldn't just disappear. I know something's wrong. People have been whispering—about killings, about monsters at night—" Her voice cracked. "Please… tell me it isn't true."

Victor's jaw tightened. "Rumors like that don't come from nowhere. How long has he been missing?"

"Since last night. He said he'd be home before midnight, but…" She shook her head, trembling. "They say— people say there are serial killers roaming the city, dragging folks into alleys. Some call them vampires, but that's—" She stopped herself, her voice falling into a whisper. "That's impossible, isn't it?"

Victor and Joan held her gaze, the weight of unspoken truth heavy between them.

Joan's voice was steady, though her eyes softened with sympathy. "We will look into it. I promise you, we will not ignore this."

Victor glanced again at the stalls selling rat-repellents, then at the desperate woman clutching the photograph. His hand curled into a fist in his hoodie.

"Storm's closer than I thought." he muttered.

The library smelled of old paper and dust, but Waver had long since tuned it out. He hunched over a spread of newspapers, police reports pilfered through subtle magecraft, and his own hand-written notes. His pen scratched furiously, connecting times and locations with the precision of a man desperate to prove himself.

Rider leaned over his shoulder, arms folded, expression caught somewhere between curiosity and boredom. "You're starting to look like a scribe, boy. You sure this is the way to fight a war?"

"Don't interrupt," Waver snapped, though his voice trembled with the effort of focus. He stabbed the page with his pen. "See? The killings Caster left behind — brutal, messy, designed to make a spectacle. Bodies torn apart, displayed like some kind of… deranged art show. Everyone knew it was him."

He flipped to another page, pointing at a list of names. "But these new disappearances are different. Quieter. No grand displays. People vanish on their way home — their bodies aren't found until much later, if at all. And when they are…" His throat tightened, but he pressed on. "…They're pale. Drained. Like something bled them dry."

Rider frowned. "It's not him, then. Too neat. Too secretive."

"Exactly." Waver tapped the timeline. "Caster's been completely MIA for almost a week. No sightings, no killings. But these attacks keep happening. Which means someone, or something else is behind them."

He hesitated, remembering the King's Banquet. Ruler's steady voice. The warning she'd given about vampires. At the time, both Saber and Archer were either skeptical or had dismissed it as superstition — Rider included.

"…Vampires," Waver muttered. "They were right. Ruler and her Master. We all thought it was some Belmont paranoia, but the evidence— it fits too well."

Rider's eyes narrowed slightly, the memory flickering back to him as well. He chuckled, not unkindly. "Ha! So the maiden and her hunter weren't chasing shadows after all. Hnh. Looks like we'll have to admit they were onto something this whole time."

Waver leaned over the map, his pen circling a cluster of disappearances that ringed a neglected district of the city. "They're not just hunting. They're nesting. And if we don't deal with them soon, the War won't be the only thing threatening this city."

Rider clapped him on the back with a booming laugh. "Good! Then it will be a battle worth remembering. Monsters, kings, magi — let them all come. We'll carve our legend from their corpses."

Waver grimaced under the weight of Rider's hand, but his expression stayed grim, eyes fixed on the map. "…No legend will matter if the city drowns in blood first."

The young master then sat back, tapping his pen against the table, jaw tight. The thought gnawed at him: Victor's grim certainty, and how quick he'd been to dismiss them for the banquet.

"…We need to do more than sit here." His voice was quieter, but resolute. "If these attacks keep spreading, people are going to keep dying. And if Ruler and her Master really are on the trail of these things, then maybe— maybe we can back them up."

Rider arched an eyebrow. "You mean ally with them? Hah! You were bristling at that Belmont boy not long ago."

Waver flushed. "I didn't say ally. I said prove ourselves. If we scope out the city, if we can spot these… vampires… and stop them before they claim more victims, it'll show we're reliable. That we're not dead weight. Maybe then, Ruler and Victor will take us seriously."

Rider's booming laugh shook the shelves. "So the little mouse wants to impress the hunter and the saint! Very well. A king must respect the courage of those who act, not just those who boast." He grinned, teeth flashing. "And truth be told, boy, I'd much rather be out there, breathing the night air, than hunched over these papers like a monk."

Waver glanced back at the circled cluster on the map — the district where the disappearances seemed to knot together like a spider's web. His hand tightened into a fist.

"…Then that's where we start. Tonight."

Rider clapped him on the shoulder, his grin widening. "Good. Let us hunt the hunters, then — and show this city that Alexander the Great bows to no shadow, be it man, magus, or monster!"

The Matou estate was as cold and suffocating as always, the halls steeped in a stench of mold and decay that clung to every shadow. Kariya moved quietly through the corridors, ignoring the faint rustling under the floorboards. His focus was on the one light left in this wretched place.

He slid open the door to Sakura's room. The little girl sat curled on her futon, clutching a worn stuffed toy to her chest. She looked up at him with wide, tired eyes, and tried to force a smile that didn't quite reach her face.

"Uncle Kariya… you came back."

Kneeling beside her, he brushed her hair gently from her face. "Of course I did. I'll always come back for you."

For a moment, they simply looked at each other — two weary souls trying to smile through the weight pressing down on them.

"…Are you okay, Uncle Kariya?" Sakura asked softly.

He forced a crooked smile. "Don't worry about me. I can handle a little pain. What about you, Sakura? How have you been holding up?"

Her smile faltered, eyes dropping to the futon.

"…Grandfather, and… my brother. They're mean to me." She hugged the toy tighter. "They say I'm not good enough. And the worms—" Her words faltered, eyes clouding with pain and shame.

Kariya felt his stomach twist. He forced his trembling hands still and gathered her into his arms, holding her as though she might break. "Sakura. Listen to me. None of that is your fault. You don't deserve any of it."

His voice cracked, but he pressed on, whispering fiercely into her hair. "When I win this War, I'll take you away from here. No more worms, no more cruelty. You'll have a home where you're safe. Where you can smile without fear."

"Really?" Her small fingers tightened on his sleeve.

He shut his eyes, holding fast to her fragile hope. "I promise."

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Sakura's breath hitched, and when she pulled back just enough to look up at him, there was the faintest smile on her lips. It was small, fleeting — but real.

"…Thank you, Uncle Kariya. I know… you mean it."

Kariya's chest ached at the sight, equal parts joy and guilt. He smoothed her hair, willing himself to believe that smile could last forever.

The words of his oath still echoed in his mind, sharp as a blade. "Could I do it alone? Could I really fight through this hell by myself?"

His thoughts flicked to the Belmont boy and the saintly girl — their conviction, their fire. "If I told them the truth… if I asked them for help… would they fight beside me? For her?"

He buried the thought, pulling Sakura back into his arms. For now, all that mattered was the girl who had found a little comfort in his embrace.

"I'll make it right," he whispered again, as much to himself as to her. "No matter what it takes."

Later that night, once Sakura's breathing had steadied into the soft rhythm of sleep, Kariya gently tucked the blanket around her shoulders. He lingered a moment longer, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face before quietly sliding the door shut behind him.

His own room was dark, lit only by a candle and the pale glow of the moon filtering through the paper screen. Sitting at a low desk, he unrolled a sheet of parchment and dipped his brush into the inkwell.

For a long moment, his hand hovered above the page. What words could possibly carry the weight of everything he wanted to give her? The promise of safety, of love, of a future free of worms and cruelty? His throat tightened, but he forced the brush down.

"Dear Sakura,"

The ink bled into the paper, stark and final. Kariya sat in silence, staring at the words as though they might shatter him. Slowly, his hand began to move, writing line after line with the quiet desperation of a man who knew time was slipping away.

The candle burned lower as he wrote, but he didn't stop. Not until his hand finally stilled, and he set the brush aside with a weary sigh. Folding the page carefully, he pressed it to his lips for a fleeting second before tucking it into an envelope.

Tomorrow, or the day after, or perhaps long after he was gone — she would read it.

For now, he blew out the candle, leaving only the moonlight to witness his vow.

The study of the Hyatt suite was once again filled with the scent of expensive incense, the soft glow of wards tracing across the walls as Kayneth sat at his desk. His posture was rigid, every movement deliberate, as though he were determined to erase all trace of the weakness that had humiliated him only nights ago. Bandages peeked out from beneath his immaculate robe, but his eyes burned with cold resolve.

Sola-Ui lingered near the window, her expression unreadable as she sipped tea. Lancer stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, watching his Master carefully.

"At last," Kayneth said, steepling his fingers, "we may return to the war with proper footing. The alchemical therapy has mended my circuits, and the tinctures have restored my strength. Which means we begin the next phase immediately."

His eyes gleamed. "We will find Caster's den, annihilate him, and secure the prize he carries. The Greater Grail will recognize my triumph, and a command spell shall be restored to me."

Lancer inclined his head respectfully. "That much I can agree with, my lord. Caster's threat must be dealt with before more innocents are slaughtered." His tone sharpened slightly.

"But beyond that… these other creatures roaming the city, these so-called Dead Apostles, they are no ordinary anomaly. They endanger the balance of the War itself. Should we not turn our attention to them as well?"

Kayneth's eyes narrowed. "Irrelevant."

"With respect, Master—"

"I said irrelevant!" Kayneth snapped, his hand slamming against the desk. The wards shimmered faintly with his irritation.

"The Apostles are vermin, a distraction spawned from Ruler's reckless meddling. This Belmont upstart drags the War into chaos, and all the while that heretic saint plays arbiter. No, Lancer — our course is clear. We will cut out the root of the corruption: Ruler and her master. Only then will the War return to proper order."

Sola-Ui stirred, setting her cup down with a quiet clink. "Your anger is not misplaced, dear Kayneth. They have undermined the Grail's sanctity from the start. Victor Belmont thinks himself above the natural order of mages, but he will learn humility."

Lancer's jaw tightened. "You would make Ruler an enemy? She is no mere interloper, she exists to keep the Grail War from collapsing. Strike her down, and the balance may tip further still."

Kayneth leaned back in his chair, a cold smile forming. "Balance? This War belongs to the lords of magecraft, not to zealots and foreign hunters meddling in affairs beyond them. Her master, Victor Belmont, will pay for his insolence, and through his fall, my name will be restored to glory."

Lancer met his gaze, his voice firm but restrained. "And what of the innocents who will suffer in the meantime?"

Kayneth waved a dismissive hand, already turning back to his maps and notes. "Collateral. The War demands sacrifice. Do not concern yourself with matters outside the duel."

Silence stretched between them, tension humming like a drawn bowstring. Finally, Lancer lowered his head, though his eyes still burned with quiet disapproval. "…As you command, my lord."

The meeting dissolved soon after. Sola-Ui lingered at Kayneth's side, murmuring reassurances as she adjusted his bandages with careful hands. Lancer excused himself with a bow and left the study, the heavy door shutting with a quiet click behind him.

The corridor was dim, lit only by the soft glow of magical sconces. For a moment, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne simply stood there, his reflection faint in the polished floor tiles. Then, with a quiet sigh, he pressed a hand to his face.

"So this is to be my path. My Master sets his eyes on revenge, blind to the greater evil before us. And I… am bound by oath to follow."

He began walking down the hall, the rhythm of his footsteps sharp against the silence. His thoughts circled like hounds on a scent.

"These Apostles… their hunger is not unlike that of the fae beasts I once hunted. Left unchecked, they will spread death far beyond this city. Ruler sees it. Even Belmont, for all his roughness, fights with the heart of a man who wishes to shield others. Should that not be the true spirit of a Holy Grail War — to prove one's worth through the defense of humanity, not its sacrifice?"

His hands clenched briefly at his sides. "Yet my oath binds me. Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald is my Master, and I cannot turn my spear against his will. Honor demands loyalty. And yet… what of the greater honor? The code I swore in life — to protect, to serve, to stand as a knight worthy of remembrance?"

He paused at a window overlooking the city. The streets were quiet, but even from this distance, he felt the wrongness seeping into them — a subtle stirring of hunger and shadow.

And then, unbidden, memory surfaced.

A banquet hall lit with gold and laughter. The moment when Grainne's eyes met his, her voice whispering the cursed geas into his ear. The weight of it, dragging him away from his sworn lord.

Fionn's gaze — cold, betrayed. His comrades' hands, once those of brothers, now raised against him. The years of exile, fighting as an outcast, cursed to be remembered not as a knight but as a thief of loyalty.

"I swore fealty once before, and it led to betrayal, sorrow, and ruin. My loyalty made me a traitor in the eyes of my king. And now… am I to repeat that tragedy here, shackled to another man who cannot see beyond his pride?"

His grip tightened on the hilt of his spear until the leather creaked. He lowered his gaze, determination flickering behind his eyes.

"No. Not again. I will not let history bind me as tightly as a geas. If my Master will not see reason… then I must find another way to uphold my vows. One that keeps both loyalty and honor intact."

For now, he turned away, the words unspoken, the resolve buried deep. But the knight's heart remained restless, the ghost of past betrayals whispering with every step he took.

The safehouse was quiet, its silence broken only by the creak of leather straps and the metallic clink of gear being readied. Victor checked his whip, running the cord through his fingers before setting it beside a heavier chain-linked variant. Next came the familiar weight of the cross boomerang, folded neatly into his kit. Each weapon was laid out with the same reverence as prayer, his hands moving with steady ritual.

Across the room, Joan fastened her armor with slower, distracted motions. Her expression was clouded, eyes downcast as though fixed on something miles away.

Victor noticed, pausing mid-motion. "You've been staring at the floor for ten minutes, Joan. Something on your mind?"

She flinched slightly, then tried to wave it off with a faint smile. "It's nothing."

"Uh-huh." He arched a brow. "You're a terrible liar."

Her hands stilled on her gauntlet. "…It's what you said, about the Church. About their glares, their treatment of your family." Her voice softened, heavy with empathy. "It lingers with me still. It… it hurt me to hear it."

Victor straightened, caught off guard. "Joan, it's not something you need to worry about. I've lived with it my whole life. Comes with the name Belmont. Doesn't mean I'm losing sleep over it."

She shook her head firmly. "No. You say it so lightly, but I can feel the weight you bear. I know what it is to be used and discarded by them. To bleed for the Church and be repaid only with fire."

Victor's expression darkened, his voice gentling. "…Because of what they did to you."

Joan drew in a breath as her shoulders quivered. Her eyes grew distant, haunted. "They sang my praises in the streets, hailed me as the Maid of Orléans, chosen by God. I led them into victory after victory. Yet when politics shifted, when powerful men needed a scapegoat, I was abandoned."

Her voice cracked, anger and grief sharpened every word. "They called me witch. Heretic. Devil's whore. The very voices that once cheered my name screamed for my death."

Her gauntlets creaked under her tightening grip. "I still hear them sometimes: The jeers of the crowd, chains biting into my wrists, flames swallowing me whole as priests prayed to a God I never abandoned. And through it all, I begged them to see me not as a saint, not as a monster, but simply as a servant of my Lord. They never listened."

She bowed her head, words dwindled to a whisper. "So when I hear your pain, Victor — the scorn your family endured despite their sacrifices, I feel it as though my own wounds are torn open again. I cannot ignore it."

Victor watched her in silence, his hand frozen halfway to buckling his belt. Slowly, he crossed the room, the chain whip clinking faintly at his side. He rested a hand lightly on her forearm: steady, grounding.

Joan's eyes widened slightly at the unexpected touch. For a moment, she was startled by the gentleness, by the quiet solidarity in his touch. But then her shoulders eased, and a small warmth flickered across her face. He wasn't just listening; he was standing with her.

"Guess that makes us a pair, huh?" Victor said softly, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "A saint and a Belmont, both chewed up and spat out by the same Church."

Joan met his gaze, her eyes glimmering with quiet resolve. "Perhaps that is why we were brought together, to remind each other we do not carry that pain alone. And… to make sure neither of us is forgotten."

Victor's hand lingered just a second longer before he stepped back, fastening the last strap on his belt. "And maybe to remind you that you're not just ashes in their fire anymore. You're here, Joan. Still fighting. And you've got someone to glare back at the Church with now."

For a long moment, her lips trembled. Then, with a faint, grateful smile, she whispered, "Then let us glare together."

Victor chuckled, slinging his coat over his shoulder, the chain whip and cross boomerang secured at his side. "Deal. Now let's hit the streets. Quiet never lasts long."

The door creaked shut as Victor and Joan stepped out into the cool night air, their boots echoing softly against the cobblestones. The hunter adjusted his coat, the low rattle of chains betraying the weight of the weapons hidden beneath. Joan walked beside him in silence, her earlier heaviness tempered now by quiet resolve. Together, they melted into the darkened streets, shadows moving with purpose.

Unseen, a pair of eyes followed them from a rooftop across the street. Marceline leaned against the tiles with a lazy grace, the moonlight catching dimly on her pale features. Her lips curled in a sly smile as she followed their movements.

"They're moving just as planned," she murmured, her voice a velvet whisper to the night. "Let them hunt. It only brings them closer to us."

With a ripple of her cloak, she vanished into the darkness, leaving the street empty once more.

Chapter Text

The night pressed down like a weight, thick with the stench of damp stone and gutter smoke. Rats scurried ahead of them in nervous bursts, vanishing into drains before Victor's boots crunched past. His whip hung loose at his side, the chain at his belt giving the occasional muted rattle.

"Too quiet," he muttered, eyes sweeping the rooftops. "And that ex-follower of yours hasn't moved in days. So he's either lying low or planning something worse."

Joan walked beside him, her hands resting lightly on her sword's hilt. Her expression was distant, haunted. "And in that silence… something else festers. These vampires. It's like they multiply like a plague, as if emboldened by his absence."

Victor gave a short, humorless laugh. "Vampires don't play nice with the food chain. If they're turning more, it's for a reason. And Caster….well, I just hope the two never mixed."

For a moment, their steps fell into rhythm, the city strangely calm around them. Lanterns guttered in the windows above, merchants had long since packed their stalls, and the streets should have been safe. Yet Joan's shoulders remained tense.

"This calm feels unnatural," she murmured. "Evil rarely sleeps so peacefully."

Victor smirked sideways at her. "Quiet never lasts. When it does, it just means something ugly's waiting to happen."

Joan's eyes lingered on him, searching. "Victor, do you ever feel fear in times like this? Walking into the dark, never knowing what waits?"

Victor's expression flickered, caught between wryness and something heavier. "Can't afford to be scared. Not in this line of work. Doesn't matter what I go up against — vampire, demon, servant. Fear slows your hand, dulls your edge."

He looked ahead, eyes hardening. "People I cared about… they died because of hesitation. Because of fear. Swore I'd never let that happen again. Not to me. Not if I can help it."

Joan slowed for half a step, watching him with quiet sympathy. She didn't speak, but her eyes softened — a look that said she understood, and carried the weight with him, if only silently.

As if summoned by his words, a sound drifted from the alley ahead — wet, dragging, like flesh scraping stone. Joan froze, her grip tightening on her hilt. Victor crouched low, brushing the cobblestones with his gloved fingers.

A smear of blood, still wet, streaked toward the shadows.

He rose, whip in hand. "And looks like we've got a trail."

They rounded the corner, and the calm shattered. A man lay slumped against the wall, his shirt torn open, chest heaving in ragged, shallow gasps. Above him crouched a figure, its mouth glistening with blood, hunched like an animal over its prey.

Victor exhaled through his teeth. "Told you so."

The newborn's head turned toward them at the faint sound of Victor's words, blood glistening down its chin. Then, with a guttural hiss, it seized the half-dead man by the collar and began dragging him deeper into the alley.

Victor's arm shot out to stop Joan from rushing in. He leaned close, voice barely above a breath. "Wait. Watch."

They slipped into the shadows, moving silently along the wall as the newborn staggered forward, its movements jerky and unsteady, like a drunk forcing his body through unfamiliar steps.

Joan tilted her head, whispering, "Why does it move so strangely? It seems… clumsy."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "Newborn."

She glanced at him, waiting.

He whispered, "Freshly turned. Transition's too recent — body hasn't caught up with the hunger yet. See how it drags the poor bastard instead of carrying him? No control. No awareness. Just instinct."

The vampire's victim let out a pitiful moan as it was hauled deeper into the shadows, feet scraping stone.

Joan's grip tightened on her sword hilt. "Then how does one become such a creature? What's the turning?"

Victor's jaw clenched, but he kept his voice low. "A human turns when they're bled to the brink of death, then fed a vampire's blood. That's the moment the change takes root. First few days, they're mindless. Can't resist the hunger, can't plan, can barely think."

He scanned the rooftops, expression grim. "And if there's a newborn here, it means there's a stronger one nearby. Somebody had to feed them."

Joan's gaze darkened. "…A sire."

Victor nodded. "Exactly. Whoever made this one won't be far. Which means we don't let it drag us in blind."

The newborn hissed again, jerking its victim further along, leaving a streak of blood behind.

Victor raised his whip slightly, voice a whisper of steel. "Stay sharp. This could be bait."

The newborn dragged its victim through winding alleys until the smell of rot thickened the air. Ahead loomed the sagging frame of an abandoned house, its windows shattered, its door hanging crooked on rusted hinges.

Victor and Joan halted at a safe distance, cloaked in shadow. Victor scanned the perimeter with a hunter's practiced eye, noting the faint movements inside. "That must be their den," he murmured. "Problem is, if we walk in, we could be stepping straight into their jaws."

Joan nodded, her hand tightening on her sword. "Then we choose carefully when to strike."

Inside, the newborn lurched across the threshold, hauling the bleeding man into the ruined parlor. Several pale figures shifted in the dark, eyes glinting with hunger. A voice, smooth and commanding, cut through the stillness.

"Enough. Put him with the others."

The newborn obeyed, dragging the man toward a corner where more victims lay in gasping heaps, pale and half-drained, teetering on the edge of death.

From the shadows of the parlor, Marceline leaned against a crumbling wall, her lips curling into a smile as her eyes caught the faint silhouette of Victor through the broken window.

"Well, well… the little hunter again. I should have known you'd crawl back eventually." Her voice dripped with amusement. "Though I suppose you were lucky last time. If not for that other magus standing in the way, you'd have been mine already."

She tilted her head, gaze sliding toward Joan's distant figure beside him. A faint frown crossed her face. "But this one… she's new. Doesn't carry herself like the others. Curious."

Lucatiel stepped forward, her tone crisp, cold. "Curious or not, it changes nothing. The newborns will hold them long enough."

Marceline arched a brow, mocking. "Hold them? Against a Belmont and his strange companion? You're giving fodder too much credit."

Lucatiel's smile was thin as a blade. "You misunderstand. They are bait. Their role is not to win, but to keep the pair occupied — until we divide them. The Belmont without his servant. The girl without her master. Alone, they'll fall like anyone else."

From the far end of the ruined house, Agramain's heavy voice rumbled, final and grim. "So let the game begin. Tonight, the enemy become prey." His crimson eyes burned as he turned toward the others. "And for this to work, two of us will take the Belmont. The remaining one will occupy his servant."

Lucatiel's lips curved in a thin smile. She glanced at Marceline, her tone sharp with command. "You will fight the servant."

Marceline stiffened, her amusement vanishing. "What? No. The Belmont is mine!"

"You had your chance," Lucatiel cut her off coolly. "And you failed. Not only did you let him walk away, you invited Orlok's wrath upon us all."

Marceline's jaw clenched, her nails biting into her palms. "That was circumstance, nothing more—"

"Excuses!" Lucatiel retorted. "You've proven reckless. Consider this your penance. Fight the servant, and keep her occupied. Leave the Belmont to us."

Agramain's heavy laughter rolled out, cruel and mocking. "Careful, girl. Don't lose an arm this time." His grin widened, showing teeth. "Though I admit, I almost hope you do. The old blood would find it amusing."

Marceline hissed under her breath, but Lucatiel ignored her, turning her gaze back to Agramain.

"You wanted to test yourself against him? Then take your fill. But remember—" her voice hardened, "—we must separate them. Divide the hunter from his saint, and their deaths are assured."

Agramain's smile grew sharp, hunger sparking in his eyes. "A Belmont at last… it's been too long since I've tasted their blood. Let him come. I'll enjoy tearing him apart."

The abandoned house loomed ahead, its shattered windows glowing faintly with candlelight. The muffled sounds of movement and ragged breathing seeped through the cracks, a chorus of hunger and suffering.

Victor crouched low behind a splintered fence post, his whip coiled at his side. His eyes stayed locked on the doorway, scanning for the slightest flicker of movement. "When we go in, keep sharp. They'll be watching for even the smallest opening. Doesn't matter if it's a newborn or a veteran — they'll go straight for the kill."

Joan nodded, her face solemn in the gloom.

He glanced sideways at her. "And don't underestimate the newborns. Weak as they are, they're still fast, still hungry. One mistake is all it takes. Worse yet, if a stronger one's nearby…" His voice trailed off, heavy with meaning.

She gripped her sword tighter, but after a pause, her voice softened, almost hopeful. "Victor… do they have to be killed? Could a newborn be… turned back? Redeemed somehow?"

For the first time, his expression faltered. His gaze dropped briefly to the dirt, his jaw tightening as a shadow crossed his face. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost raw. "If there was a way…" He paused, and for just a flicker, sorrow touched his eyes. "…someone would have said it a long time ago."

Joan watched him, her own chest tightening at the grief that lingered beneath his words. She said nothing, but the compassion in her gaze spoke volumes.

Victor inhaled sharply, pulling his focus back to the house. He adjusted his grip on the whip, his voice returning to steel. "Come on. Time to end this."

The door creaked as the young man eased it open, the hinges groaning against years of neglect. He stepped in first, dagger drawn, Joan following close behind with her sword at the ready.

The air inside was heavy, thick with the copper tang of blood and the damp stench of rot. Dust motes hung in the stagnant air, catching faint threads of candlelight from a toppled holder on the floor. Every board creaked under their weight, every sound too loud in the suffocating quiet.

Joan's stomach tightened as the smell invaded her senses. "Blood. Always blood. Why must this war reek of it? These vampires… they are no different than Caster, reveling in suffering, preying upon the helpless."

Victor moved methodically, eyes scanning corners, whip ready. A broken chair lay splintered near the wall, dark stains splashed across its legs. He crouched beside it, brushing the floorboards with gloved fingers. "Dragged. More than one. Some still alive when they were brought in."

Joan's jaw set. Her eyes darted to the fireplace where a set of rosary beads lay abandoned, broken in two. She knelt briefly, picking them up. "They prayed here. And still… they were devoured." She slipped the beads gently onto the mantle, a silent gesture of respect, before rising.

They pressed deeper into the ruined parlor. Shadows clung to the corners, and every overturned table and discarded scrap of cloth seemed to whisper of sudden violence. A smear of crimson handprints led across the wall, fingers clawing down as though the victim had been dragged away screaming.

Victor's eyes followed the trail. He jerked his chin toward a half-hidden door behind collapsed furniture. "There."

He moved closer, the faint marks on the floorboards clear now — streaks of blood leading straight to the threshold. A cold draft wafted from the crack at the bottom, carrying the unmistakable scent of death.

"Basement," he muttered, voice low and grim. He coiled his whip with a slow, deliberate pull. "Figures."

The silence pressed heavier, almost deliberate, as though the whole house were holding its breath, waiting for them to make the next move.

The basement door groaned as Victor shoved the broken furniture aside. A sour draft of blood and damp stone wafted up, heavy enough to sting their noses. He went down first, his hand slipping a silvered knife from the sheath at his belt instead of uncoiling his whip.

Joan followed close behind with her sword drawn.

The descent ended in a low-ceilinged cellar, its corners shrouded in shadow. The air was thick with the sound of ragged, wheezing breaths.

Joan froze. Against the far wall lay a cluster of bodies — men and women, pale and trembling, their eyes dull and unfocused. Blood crusted their necks and wrists, their chests rising and falling in shallow, desperate gasps. They weren't corpses. They were clinging to life.

Joan rushed forward, kneeling beside the closest one. "They're alive," she whispered, relief breaking through the horror in her voice. "Victor, we can still—"

Victor crouched beside another, checking the man's pulse with a grim look. "Barely. They're hanging by threads." His eyes darkened. "But this isn't mercy. It's farming."

One of the victims stirred at Joan's touch. His cracked lips trembled as though trying to form words. Joan leaned closer, gently cradling his shoulder. "It's all right. You're safe now. We'll—"

His breath hitched. Then his body convulsed violently, limbs jerking as though seized by fever. His veins darkened, bulging under the skin, and his eyes snapped open — burning red. With an inhuman snarl, he lunged straight for her throat.

Joan gasped, caught off-guard, her blade only halfway raised—

THUNK.

A silvered knife buried itself in the newborn's skull, dropping him instantly.

Victor's hand was still extended from the throw, his expression grim. "Stay back."

Joan staggered, horror flooding her features. "He… he was alive. He looked human. And then—" Her voice faltered as her eyes darted to the others.

Every body in the corner began to spasm, their breaths twisting into guttural hisses. Veins crawled dark beneath their pale skin, their mouths opening wide as fangs broke through bloody gums. One by one, the dying victims shed their humanity, rising with shrieks that reverberated through the cellar.

Victor's jaw tightened as he drew another knife into his hand. "They kept them at the edge just for this. To turn them right in front of us."

Joan's chest heaved, eyes wide with grief and revulsion. "Monsters… They made them into monsters."

The newborns' growls filled the cellar as they began to close in.

Victor's jaw tightened as he drew another knife into his hand. The newborns began to spread, surrounding them in a tightening circle of claws.

He flicked a glance at Joan, voice clipped but firm. "I know it's cruel. But don't let it shake you. We need to cut them down, or we're done."

Grief was still burning in her eyes, but his steadiness anchored her. She swallowed hard, forcing her stance to settle, sword rising once more.

The newborns screamed and lunged.

Victor moved first — a flick of his wrist sent a silvered knife flashing through the dark, burying itself in the skull of the nearest vampire before it could pounce. He slid back into stance, his free hand crackling with frost as he swept it across the ground. Ice rippled outward in jagged veins, freezing two newborns mid-step.

Joan struck in the opening, her blade a silver arc in the gloom. One head fell, then another — but before she could steady her stance, another newborn slammed into her side, its claws raking sparks off her breastplate. She staggered but managed to raise her sword to slay it with a second swipe.

Victor even flings another knife past her shoulder, striking another creature in the eye, but she was already grappling with a second attacker.

The basement erupted in chaos. The newborns did not fight with skill or pattern — they lunged wildly, shrieking, their claws thrashing against stone and steel alike. One crashed into the wall, twisting its own shoulder out of place before whirling toward Joan again, heedless of the injury.

She cut it down, but another seized her cloak, dragging her backward. Her blade clattered against the floor as she twisted, driving her gauntleted fist into its mouth. Teeth shattered, but the creature barely flinched, but allowed her to break free from the newborn's grasp. She swung her sword upward, severing its arm, leaving it helplessly clawing at her legs with animal ferocity.

Victor swept his hand outward, ice exploding across the wall and pinning two newborns in brittle shards of frost. After killing them, another came barreling at him fangs bared. He met it head-on, shoving the hilt of a knife into its throat before kicking it back. His breath came hard, every move deliberate, but even he was straining under the cramped quarters.

The cellar rang with snarls, the scrape of claws, the crash of bodies slamming against stone. The newborns swarmed chaotically, heedless of their own injuries, every movement unpredictable.

Joan managed to push back to Victor's side, panting, her sword dripping black blood. "There's too many—"

"They're driving us into a corner," Victor growled, frost crackling along his arm as he prepared another spell. "We can't hold this position for long."

The newborns shrieked in unison, eyes glowing in the dark as they closed in again.

Joan carved through one, but the other latched onto her arm, dragging her back against the cellar steps. She ripped free, gasping, sweat and blood mingling on her brow.

"They're funneling us!" Victor warned, frost exploding from his palm to freeze a cluster of newborns long enough for him to shove Joan toward the stairs. "Move!"

Together they fought their way up the steps, blades flashing in the half-dark, their boots slipping on blood-slick wood. At last they burst into the parlor above, chests heaving, newborns shrieking below.

Victor barely had a chance to draw breath. The front wall shattered inward with a thunderous crack. A massive shape surged through the dust, its clawed hand seizing Victor and hurling him across the room. He crashed through what remained of the doorway, rolling out into the night.

The towering figure followed, eyes glowing like coals. Victor steadied himself, knife in one hand, frost still hissing off the other.

Inside the house, Joan spun, reaching for Victor — only to be cut off by a blur of pale silk and glinting fangs. Marceline dropped from the rafters, her lips curling into a vicious smile.

"You should have stayed hidden behind your hunter, little saint," she sneered, striking with inhuman speed. Joan barely caught the blow with her sword, the impact rattling her arms to the bone.

The vampire's smile widened, fangs flashing. "Marceline. Remember it. I'll carve it into you before the night is done."

Joan's grip tightened on her blade, her eyes burning with defiance. "If you want me, then come and take me."

From the shadows, Lucatiel stepped into the parlor's gloom, her gaze cool and cutting as she observed. With a wave of her hand, she commanded sharply: "Half of you, with me. The rest, keep the girl busy. If she falters, drag her down."

The newborns bellowed and obeyed, splitting into two packs. One group swarmed toward Marceline and Joan, the other trailing after Lucatiel as she moved to reinforce Agramain outside.

The trap had closed. The master and servant were divided.

Victor wiped the blood from his knife on his pants leg, steadying his breath as the massive vampire advanced. The elder's footsteps cracked the cobblestones beneath him, his smile cruel and assured.

"You must be the Belmont," the vampire said, savoring the name. "At last. Your family's shadow stretches long - centuries long… so many of you have scarred us. But you?" He bared his fangs, eyes burning. "I will savor ending you here."

Victor raised a brow, knife glinting in his grip. "Big words. And who exactly am I supposed to be ending tonight?"

The vampire spread his arms, mock-formal. "Agramain. Remember it as the last you'll hear."

Victor tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp. "And what's the game here, Agramain? Why the newborns? Why turn half-dead men and women just to throw them at us? You stockpiling fodder for something bigger?"

Agramain chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent a shiver through the night air. "Curious little hunter. Always digging, always prying. Do you think we would hand you the truth so freely?"

Victor's jaw tightened, but his smirk didn't fade. "Worth a shot."

From the ruined doorway, Lucatiel stepped into the moonlight, her expression as sharp as the blade she carried. Her voice was cold and cutting. "Hunters ask questions. Prey gets no answers."

Victor turned his gaze on her, grip tightening around his knife. "And you are?"

Lucatiel's lips curved faintly, not a smile but the shadow of one. "The one who will see you buried. That is all you need to know."

Agramain's laugh rolled again, low and eager, as he flexed his claws. "Enough talk. Your bloodline ends tonight."

Victor exhaled, centering himself. His smirk returned, thinner this time, tempered by steel. "Funny. Every one of your kind seems to think that — right before I prove them wrong."

With a roar, Agramain lunged, the clash of monster and hunter finally erupting under the pale moon.

Agramain lunged, swinging a massive sledgehammer wrenched from the rubble of the house. The weapon whistled through the air, smashing stone where Victor had stood a heartbeat earlier. Shards sprayed across the ground as Victor rolled aside, already drawing another knife.

The blade flew true, but Agramain batted it away with the haft of his hammer, grinning wide. "Knives? You insult me, hunter."

Victor answered with a flick of his wrist. A second knife whistled through the dark, this one sinking into Agramain's shoulder. The vampire hissed but didn't slow, yanking it free as his massive hammer came crashing down again. The cobblestones erupted in a spray of stone dust.

Victor slipped past the swing, his free hand igniting in a streak of fire. The flame burst across Agramain's chest, forcing him back half a step, his coat smoldering. But the vampire only laughed, slapping the embers away as though they were nothing.

"Try harder, Belmont."

Victor's jaw tightened. He pivoted, hurling another knife low toward Agramain's legs. This time the vampire twisted to avoid it, but the motion slowed him just enough. Victor's hand jerked again, frost spilling across the street in jagged veins. Agramain's foot crashed down into the ice, the surface cracking under his weight, but for a heartbeat his movement faltered.

Victor seized it, sprinting in close, two knives flashing in quick arcs. The first scored across Agramain's arm, the second dug deep into his side. Black blood hissed against the cobblestones as the vampire roared and swung the hammer in a wide, brutal arc.

Victor barely leapt clear, the hammer smashing into the ground with a shockwave that rattled his bones. He landed hard, breath sharp, frost already gathering in his palm for another strike.

Agramain ripped the second knife free, licking the black blood from his hand with a predator's grin. "Not bad for a mortal. But you won't bleed me twice."

He charged, hammer raised high. Victor hurled a lance of ice, the jagged spear punching into Agramain's chest and staggering him for a moment. Victor followed it with a burst of flame, the heat cracking against the ice and exploding in a burst of steam. The vampire shrieked, blinded for half a second—

Victor closed the gap, sliding low and driving a knife for his thigh. But Agramain dropped the hammer with terrifying speed, forcing Victor to roll away as the weapon smashed down inches from his skull.

The elder's grin returned, sharp and eager. "Faster than most. But not fast enough."

Victor rose back into stance, chest heaving, knives in both hands. "Strong. Durable. But predictable. Big swings, easy to bait. If I keep him off balance—"

A flicker of movement cut across his vision — silent, razor-precise. Instinct screamed.

He twisted just as a blade hissed through the air where his ribs had been a breath before.

Lucatiel stepped into the moonlight, expression cold as steel, her weapon still humming from the near-strike. "Enough toying with him, Agramain. End this."

The hunter landed hard on the cobblestones, eyes darting between them. Then Agramain's grin stretched wider, cruel and eager.

Victor's lips pressed into a hard line as the night filled with new sounds, the rasping of newborns beginning to circle him. "Of course they wouldn't fight fair."

He stood surrounded by the circling newborns, the woman's cold gaze fixed on him, and the barbaric vampire's sledgehammer already dripping with his bloodied grip.

With a sharp exhale, Victor slid his knives back into their sheaths. His hand dipped to his belt, drawing out first the leather-wrapped whip, then the heavier chain whip he'd packed for this hunt. The steel links clinked as they uncoiled, glinting under the moonlight.

"Finally," Agramain rumbled, his grin stretching wide. "A real fight."

Lucatiel's eyes narrowed. "Careful. He's more dangerous now."

The newborns shrieked in chorus, emboldened by their masters' presence.

Victor rolled his shoulders, whips dangling at his sides, every muscle coiled and ready. "Good," he muttered, voice low but steady. "Because so am I."

Agramain lunged first, the ground shaking under his charge. Lucatiel followed like a shadow, blade flashing in a silver arc. The newborns poured in after, a tide of red eyes and claws.

Victor's whips cracked through the air, his boots pounding forward as he advanced to meet them head-on.

The house rattled after Victor was hurled outside. Joan barely turned before Marceline was on her, pale silk swirling, claws flashing like steel. Her blade met her claws with a crack that rattled Joan's bones, sparks flashing in the dark parlor.

Marceline's smile widened, fangs glinting. "You know, trapping you two was painfully easy. All it took was dangling a few newborns, and you and your master walked right into our jaws."

Joan shoved back, her sword ringing as she parried another strike. The weight behind it forced her a step into the corner, newborns hissing as they circled in tighter. One lunged low — Joan pivoted, her sword slicing its arm clean, then kicked the writhing creature into the wall.

"Better," Marceline mused, her eyes glinting. "But still foolish. I heard you whispering to him before entering inside… that hope in your voice, wondering if they could be saved." She bared her fangs in a grin. "Pathetic. Once they drink, they're ours. You should've learned that tonight."

Joan's chest tightened, but she forced her arms steady, her blade rising again. "Then I'll free them by cutting them down."

Marceline's laugh rang like glass breaking. "How noble. And how utterly wasted."

She blurred forward, too fast for human eyes. Joan caught the strike barely in time with her sword, faces inches apart. Marceline's breath brushed her cheek, cold and mocking.

"I'll enjoy revenge for last time. But better yet—" her smile turned sharp, venomous, "Maybe I'll take your master alive. Break him. Play with him. Make him my eternal pet. Imagine that: a Belmont on his knees, chained, obedient, and I could use him however I want~."

Joan's blood surged hot with fury. "You'll never touch him!"

She broke the lock, her sword flashing in a fierce riposte that slashed Marceline's cheek. Black blood welled, sizzling as it struck the floor.

Marceline's smirk faltered, only for a heartbeat. Her eyes narrowed, her stance shifting just slightly lower, more guarded. She licked the blood from her lips, her smile returning — sharper, hungrier. "Better. Much better. Perhaps you're not the naïve saint I thought."

The newborns shrieked as if spurred by her words, rushing Joan in a snarling pack. This time Joan met them with firmer footing — her sword rose and fell in precise, brutal arcs, cutting down two, wounding another, her breath steady despite the chaos.

Marceline circled, watching with predatory amusement, even as she prepared her next strike. "She's stronger than I expected," she admitted inwardly. "But I have to keep her here. After my fight with the lancer, I can't let anymore prey slip away."

Steel rang as Joan's sword carved through another newborn, the creature collapsing in a heap. Her breathing was steady now, her footing surer, as she turned to meet her opponent again.

The vampire circled her with predatory grace, claws gleaming like knives in the dim light. Her eyes narrowed, studying the tilt of Joan's armor, the cadence of her words, the proud line of her stance. A slow, delighted grin spread across her pale face.

"Ohhh… I see it now. That armor. That tongue. That fire in your eyes." She tilted her head mockingly, fangs flashing. "French… no, more than that. You're her."

Joan's stance stiffened, though her sword didn't waver.

Marceline's laugh rang out, shrill and cruel. "The sainted maiden herself, clawed out of the grave! Jeanne d'Arc — the girl who led armies to war, only to be betrayed, condemned, and burned alive like common kindling. A martyr. A symbol. A puppet of a Church that spat you out when you'd served your purpose."

She blurred forward, claws slashing in a flurry, each word punctuated by the scrape of steel against iron. Joan caught the blows on her sword, sparks bursting as she pushed back.

"Tell me," Marceline hissed, her smile razor-wide, "when you sleep, do you still hear the crackle of flames? Did your God turn His face away while you screamed?"

Joan's eyes blazed, but her voice stayed calm, even cutting. "Your cruelty proves nothing. You posture like it gives you strength, but all I see is a childish monster."

Marceline froze for a heartbeat, her grin faltering, eyes narrowing with sudden fury.

Joan pressed her advantage, her words steady, blade firm. "Childish enough to send your own underlings to die for amusement. Childish enough to sneer at suffering as though it proves you're strong."

The memory of her slaughtered squad flickered unbidden through Marceline's mind. Rage twisted her smirk into a snarl, claws flexing.

"Child?" she spat, voice cracking like a whip. "You dare—"

She lunged, claws slashing in a furious storm, her speed doubled by rage. Joan braced, her sword flashing to parry strike after strike, her calm defiance standing against Marceline's feral fury.

"You're strong, saint," Marceline sneered between blows, "but how pathetic that you wear the title of Ruler. What is it worth, really? Babysitting magi and their squabbles? Standing over a pack of fools tearing each other apart over a cup." She slashed again, sparks flying as Joan's blade barely caught the blow. "A lousy cup!"

Joan gritted her teeth, forcing the vampire back with a riposte that clipped her shoulder. "She knows of the Grail War…" Joan's mind raced, steady even in the chaos. "So the vampires have ties to this conflict. They understand the system. Which means—"

Her eyes narrowed. "If you scorn the Grail so much, then why attack us? What do your kind gain from this?"

Marceline's smile widened, but it was sharp and cruel, not mocking now. She swiped low, forcing Joan to leap back as claws tore through the floorboards. "Me? I couldn't care less. Let your magi and their pets fight their little war." Her voice dropped, gleeful. "But he cares."

Joan's breath hitched, her grip tightening on her sword. "He…?"

Marceline's grin turned feral. "You'll know him soon enough. He wants your heads as trophies." She lunged again, each blow heavier, faster, fueled by bloodlust. "You, your little master, your precious chivalry — I'll paint these walls with it."

Joan's breath came steady despite the strain, her focus honed to a single thought: "These creatures seem to understand the Grail War. She scorns it yet still fight within it, then perhaps…they seek it for themselves."

Marceline laughed, sharp and gleeful, claws tearing gouges into the walls as Joan gave ground. "Slowing already, saint? You're no general now. No banners, no soldiers. Just you, alone, bleeding in the dark."

Joan's eyes flashed. She planted her feet, channeled her strength, and raised her blade in both hands. The next swipe of Marceline's claws she caught full-force, locking the vampire in place for a heartbeat.

With a cry, Joan twisted her entire body into the riposte. Holy energy surged along her sword as she drove the vampire back, the strike smashing through wood and stone alike.

Marceline hissed, stumbling as the blow hurled her through the parlor's broken wall and into the night beyond.

Joan steadied her stance, chest heaving, sword still glowing faintly with the power of her strike. "Victor. I must reach him before they overwhelm him."

The courtyard outside was already a battlefield. Victor's whips snapped through the air, sparks and frost scattering as they tore into screaming newborns. Agramain's sledgehammer swinging and each blow shaking the ground, while Lucatiel's blade darted like a serpent, her precision forcing Victor onto the defensive.

A dozen newborn corpses already littered the stones, their bodies steaming and broken.

Victor lashed the chain whip around a vampire's neck, yanking it forward into a burst of fire that reduced it to ash. His normal whip lashed across another, its energy burning its flesh. But Agramain surged forward through the smoke, hammer raised high.

Suddenly, there was a burst from the wreckage of the house, the Ruler-class Servant stepped out sword blazing with holy light as she cut down the newborns barring her path.

Joan sprinted toward her master, parrying another newborn that lunged for her throat. Her blade split it down the middle, the body dissolving into ash before it hit the ground.

"Victor!"

He risked a glance her way, relief flickering in his eyes even through the strain of battle. "Well, look what the cat dragged back in."

But his attention snapped immediately to the figure stalking out from the ruined house, fangs bared and fury twisting her face. Recognition slammed into him — the black hair, the pail skin, the claw-like nails.

"You…" Victor's jaw tightened. The chain whip coiled at his side, links clinking with restrained violence. "You're the one from that night. The night you tried to gut me and Lancer's master."

Marceline hissed, but before she could retort, Lucatiel's voice cut sharp across the chaos.

"Idiot! You were supposed to keep his servant occupied."

Agramain snarled, hammer smashing aside one of Victor's ice spikes. "You fail again, girl. You should have been stripped bare for your incompetence."

Marceline's lips peeled back in a hiss, but her eyes flickered with anger and shame.

Victor smirked faintly, despite the blood on his cheek. "What's wrong? Not used to getting scolded in front of company?"

Her hiss turned into a full scream, claws flexing as she surged forward.

The air in the courtyard grew thick, heavy with killing intent. The elites spread into formation, newborns circling in ragged packs, while Joan moved to Victor's side, her sword steady and glowing faintly with holy radiance.

The three predators and their thralls poised to strike. The hunter and the saint braced together, weapons gleaming in the moonlight, starting the third act.

The courtyard had become a slaughterhouse of stone and ash. Victor and Joan stood back to back in the center, surrounded by the vampires, all closing in like wolves.

"They'll keep pressing until we're drained dry," Victor said between sharp breaths, the chain whip rattling at his side. "We have to break them now."

Joan parried a newborn's lunge, her blade severing its arm in a streak of holy fire. "Then we hold nothing back."

The elites surged as one.

Agramain's hammer came first, descending with ruinous force. Victor rolled aside, moving the leather whip outward. With a crack, the weapon coiled around the handle, dragging it off-course with sheer precision. Joan didn't miss the opening—her sword slashed in a radiant arc across the vampire's chest, its energy searing through flesh and bone. Agramain bellowed, staggering, but still he pressed on.

Lucatiel darted in next, her blade a silver flash aimed at Joan's ribs. Victor flicked his chain whip, which now blazed with icy magic, frost running its length until every link gleamed pale blue. It struck her blade with a sharp clang, coating the steel in frost and wrenching her weapon offline. Lucatiel slid back, frost cracking along her sword, her expression a mask of irritation.

"Sloppy," she hissed, reforming her stance.

Before Victor could quip back, Marceline blurred from above, claws glinting. Victor twisted, and with his free hand conjured fire that wrapped his leather whip in burning coils. He lashed upward in a fiery snap, catching her mid-leap. The flames scorched her arm and sent her crashing back, but she rolled to her feet with glaring eyes that burned with humiliation.

Still, the newborns came. Snarling, clawing, their movements feral and erratic. They clambered over broken stone and the bodies of their own, pressing closer with every heartbeat.

Victor grit his teeth. "They'll bury us at this rate."

Joan slashed down another newborn, her sword blazing brighter. "Then we burn them first."

Their eyes met. No more words were needed.

Victor cracked both whips outward, one blazing with fire, the other sheathed in ice. With a flourish, he swept them in wide arcs, carving glowing lines across the courtyard. The newborns were driven together, corralled into a trembling mass as sparks and shards of frost crackled around them.

"Do it!" Joan shouted, already channeling power into her blade.

She raised her sword high, divine light flooding along the steel until it gleamed like a piece of the sun. With a cry, she brought it down just as Victor slammed both whips into the ground, ice and fire exploding in unison.

The courtyard erupted in a blinding wave.

Ice spires shot upward, freezing newborns in jagged prisons. Flames roared across the frost, turning the cages into shattering bombs of steam and light. Joan's sword strike cut through it all, the holy power detonating in a sweeping blast that shook the earth beneath their feet.

The newborns shrieked as they disintegrated, bodies torn apart by the fire and shards of ice. The entire horde was wiped out in a single stroke.

Agramain was caught mid-charge, the explosion encasing him in frost before fire seared into his flesh. He roared, immobilized, his massive frame locked in a lattice of glowing ice and flame. His hammer fell from his grip, clattering uselessly on the stones.

Marceline and Lucatiel had thrown themselves aside at the last instant, avoiding the brunt of the strike — but not unscathed. Lucatiel's left arm bled where shards of ice had torn through her guard, frost biting into the wound. Marceline staggered to her feet, her pale skin blisters with burns, her fury trembling through every hiss.

The courtyard fell silent, broken only by the crackle of cooling fire and Agramain's muffled groans inside his frozen prison. Ash swirled in the air, glowing faintly under the moonlight.

Victor's chest rose and fell as he pulled his whips taut again, one still faintly steaming with frost, the other flickering with embers. "That's their fodder gone."

Joan steadied herself at his side, her sword still glowing faintly, her gaze leveled at the two staggering elites. "Then all that remains… is them."

Lucatiel wiped blood from her mouth with a sneer. Marceline's claws curled, her face twisted in hatred.

Then out of nowhere, a thunderous crack shattered the air.

Agramain roared, his muscles bulging grotesquely as he wrenched against the frost. The prison groaned, then split. In a single heave, he broke free, shards of ice exploding outward. Steam and fire hissed across his skin, but he pressed through with maddened fury.

"DOWN!" Victor barked, dragging Joan aside as the vampire swung his hammer in a wide arc. The weapon smashed through stone, the shockwave hurling debris across the courtyard. The ground itself buckled beneath the blow.

Victor's teeth clenched. "That hit would've leveled me. He's definitely stronger than the others — faster too."

Agramain lunged again, his hammer sweeping low. Victor caught by creating a small shield of ice, but the sheer force sent him skidding across the stones, his arms burning from the impact and his whips lost from his grip. Joan rushed in, blade flashing with holy magic, but Agramain swung backhanded with his free arm. The strike clipped her shield, sending her stumbling to her knees.

The elites pressed at once — Marceline darting in with claws, Lucatiel's blade slicing toward Victor's flank. The duo was cornered, straining to hold ground as the three hemmed them in.

And then the air shook.

Thunder split the night, and from the smoke of shattered stone, a warhorse charged.

Bucephalus crashed into the courtyard, lightning sparking from his hooves as he bowled aside newborn corpses and sent Lucatiel staggering back with sheer shockwave force. Atop him sat Rider, scarlet cloak streaming, his voice booming like rolling thunder.

"Now this is a battlefield worth riding into!" His laughter roared above the chaos, his presence filling the courtyard with raw, unshakable power. He swung his blade, intercepting Agramain's hammer head-on. Sparks erupted as steel met iron — and Agramain, immobilized only moments ago, was driven back, his arms shuddering under Rider's strength.

Victor's eyes widened. "He stopped that…?"

Joan's gaze lifted, steady even as awe touched her voice. "Yes. This is no ordinary Servant."

Waver stumbled in from the shadows, clutching his satchel of notes, his eyes darting between the elites. "Ruler was right all along," he breathed, half to himself. "It isn't just Caster. These aren't strays, they're commanders. A whole organized group. And if they're—"

A hiss split the air.

From the rubble behind, a newborn launched itself, eyes red with hunger, fangs bared straight for Waver's throat.

"Waver, down!"

The young magus barely ducked before a silver streak cut across the night. The cross boomerang whirred through the air, glowing faintly with divine energy and with a single strike, it sliced clean through the vampire's neck. Its head hit the stones a heartbeat before the body turned to ash.

Victor caught the returning weapon in his hand, the metal still warm from divine charge. His expression was grim, but his voice steady. "Eyes open, kid. They always leave one behind."

Waver swallowed hard, nodding quickly.

The elites regrouped at the far end of the courtyard. Agramain's chest heaved as he steadied his hammer, Lucatiel wiped frost-bitten blood from her mouth, and Marceline's claws flexed as her hatred burned hotter than ever.

But now, with Rider towering over them and Victor's cross gleaming in his hand, the momentum had shifted.

For the first time, the elites looked uncertain. The courtyard was littered with ash and corpses — their newborn fodder reduced to dust. The oldest elite's massive frame trembled, one arm hanging limp where Victor's strike had broken bone. Even Marceline's fury couldn't hide the exhaustion creeping into her movements.

Lucatiel's eyes flicked over the battlefield with sharp calculation. She saw it instantly: their numbers were gone, their advantage lost, and a fully charged Servant now stood in their path.

"We stay, we die," she hissed under her breath.

Marceline grunted defiantly, but Lucatiel's tone cut through her rage. "Fall back. We regroup and strike on our terms."

Reluctantly, Marceline stepped back. Agramain hefted his hammer with a growl that promised vengeance, not surrender.

"Another time," Lucatiel said coldly, gaze shifting between Victor, Joan, and Rider. "Consider yourselves fortunate we're not without options."

Their bodies shimmered, twisting into black silhouettes before dissolving into a storm of bats. Wings beat furiously as they scattered into the night sky, retreating toward the city's darker reaches — not defeated, but biding their time.

Rider exhaled through a laugh, resting his hands on his hips. "A shame. I was hoping to test myself against them more. Still—" He glanced at the courtyard littered with ash and steaming fragments of ice, the remnants of the newborns. His grin widened. "By the looks of it, I missed quite the grand battle. Care to tell me how you two managed all this?"

Victor gave a small shrug, coiling his whips with practiced ease. "Trade secret. But they'll be back, with a new plan."

Waver hurried up, still pale but holding his ground. "You… saved me." His voice cracked, equal parts relief and guilt. He glanced at the ashes where the newborn had nearly ended him. "I'm sorry. If not for you, that thing—"

Victor shrugged, slipping the cross boomerang back into his belt. "Don't mention it. You're alive, that's what matters."

"But they got away because of me." Waver's jaw tightened. "I should've been more prepared—"

Joan stepped in gently, her voice calm but firm. "No. We live to fight another night. That is victory enough."

Waver looked down, but her words steadied him.

Victor gave a small, almost wry smirk. "Still, your timing wasn't bad. You two showing up kept us from being flattened. So… thanks."

Joan glanced at Victor with a small smile at how civil his tone had been, then goes to touch Waver's shoulder lightly, her voice warm. "He's right. We live to fight another night, and your arrival helped make that possible." She turned to both of them, offering a grateful nod. "Thank you. Truly, for coming to our aid."

Rider's booming laugh carried across the quiet courtyard. "A Belmont and a Ruler giving thanks? Now I've seen everything!"

Joan sheathed her blade, her eyes still wary as she scanned the darkness. "We should return to the safe house. There is much to discuss — and the night has revealed more than we can ignore."

Victor nodded, silent agreement in his tired eyes. Together, the unlikely foursome turned from the ruined courtyard.

The battle was done, but the war was only deepening.

The sewer tunnels groaned with dripping water, the stench of rot thick in the air. Ryuunosuke sloshed through the ankle-deep muck, his grin wide as a child sneaking into a carnival.

"Man, can you feel it? The air down here's different. Heavier. Like a stage before the curtains rise." His eyes gleamed, almost feverish. "A real nest, hidden right under the city! And we're the first audience."

Caster's lantern flickered with a witchlight glow as he studied the sigils etched lightly into the stone. His smile was almost reverent. "Yes… yes, this is it. A sanctuary of shadows. The very heart of their kind. Imagine what we might find within: centuries of evolution, secrets of anatomy and blood, and perhaps even the lord who commands them all."

Ryuunosuke spun, arms flung wide as he laughed. "And to think — all because we followed one filthy rat. Who knew that'd be such a great idea?"

Caster chuckled darkly, pride swelling in his voice. "Even vermin can lead the way to truth, if you know how to listen."

Ryuunosuke laughed, spinning in a circle with arms wide. "I can't believe it — real movie monsters, hiding like rats! We'll get to see everything: their faces, their screams, their masterpieces. Oh, this is gonna be beautiful!"

Neither noticed the silence that had fallen around them.

Neither heard the echo of footsteps behind.

From the deeper dark, a shape emerged — tall, gaunt, its movements slow but deliberate. Long fingers curled like talons, a pale face stretching into an expression that was not quite a smile.

His shadow stretched across the stone, crawling up the tunnel walls as he advanced. His presence swallowed the air, oppressive and suffocating.

Caster's lantern sputtered once, the light struggling against the deeper darkness now filling the passage.

Ryuunosuke kept laughing, oblivious.

And Orlok stepped closer.