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Chapter Text

The Fourth Holy Grail War was meant to be a battle between seven Masters and seven Servants. A sacred ritual. A contest of legend. A clash of heroes.

But this time… something’s off.

The ritual has been tampered with—the Grail is summoning multiple Servants per Master, pairing them without logic or precedent. The choosen Masters have two. Some Servants don’t even have Masters. And others—pretenders, echoes, and things that should not exist—slip through the cracks entirely.

Someone, other than the usual suspects, has altered the summoning system. The Fuyuki Grail is bloated, unstable, but still grants a wish. It craves conclusion.

The only rule that still holds?

Only one Master—and their two chosen Servants—can claim the Grail.

All others must fall.

All alliances are temporary.

And when the final command spell burns away, only one bond may remain standing.

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The air was still.

The basement reeked of iron and rot. Its concrete walls bled long, jagged shadows beneath the twitching glow of a dying bulb, suspended like a withered vein from the ceiling. The summoning circle—an ugly imitation of ancient ritual—sat at the heart of it all. Etched with kitchen knives, smeared with thickened blood, its crooked geometry lay inert beneath the carnage.

Around it, the dead were silent. Their fear had burned bright—and fast.

Uryuu Ryunosuke crouched nearby, twirling a rusted scalpel like a conductor’s baton. He wasn’t a magus. He wasn’t anything, really—except curious. Curious about pain. About death. About art made in blood.

The book had helped. Found in a pawn shop he’d set on fire afterward. Old, cracked leather. Strange symbols. A language he couldn’t read—but enjoyed looking at.

He had followed its instructions with surprising care. Blood in certain places. The chanting, such as he could replicate it. Death in ritualistic volume.

But...

Nothing.

He squinted at the circle, unimpressed.

“Huh,” he muttered. “Kinda lame.”

With a shrug, he rose, letting the scalpel fall with a dull clink.

“Guess that was a bust.”

He stepped over a teacher’s corpse—still clutching her ruined phone—and wandered toward the stairs, shoes peeling up with wet sounds from the floor. He paused, glanced back—not at the summoning circle, but at the tapestry of death he’d woven.

“Still pretty, though,” he grinned, and vanished through the open door without closing it.

Above, the flickering light gave one last, tired blink—then surrendered to the dark.

And in that darkness...

The circle ignited.

No sound. No flare. No power to speak of.

Just a pulse. Cold. Measured. The lines of blood shimmered faintly, whispering of motion rather than magic. Shadows bent inward—not recoiling, but drawn, as if tugged by some unseen tide.
Then—something moved.

It did not appear. It assembled.

Piece by piece, from angles that shouldn’t meet and joints that locked with impossible precision. Each part folded into place with chilling intent. No spiritual pressure. No breath. No life.
Only presence.

A figure now stood where there had been only ritual.

It was still. Painfully so. Like a photograph stretched into reality.

Then, it moved.

One step. Two.

Slow. Even. Mechanical. Every motion is exact—deliberate. No drag, no stumble, no waste. Its joints ticked faintly with each step, a rhythm like bone on glass: quiet, but insistent.

It ascended the stairs Ryunosuke had taken, never deviating, never hesitating. It crossed the threshold into Fuyuki’s night air—humid, cloud-covered, and unaware.

Ahead, Ryunosuke meandered under the amber glow of distant streetlights, whistling tunelessly, arms swinging as though he'd just left a gallery opening.

He didn’t look back.

The Servant followed.

Not with urgency. Not with hunger. Simply with purpose.

Its steps never quickened. Its shape never shifted. Its silence remained whole.

And though Ryunosuke had forgotten the ritual already—dismissed it as nonsense, a nice evening’s entertainment—something had answered.

Something that didn’t speak.

Something that didn’t breathe.

Something that didn’t need to be understood—because it understood him.

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The underground chamber beneath the Tohsaka estate was cold, quiet, and deliberate in design. Lines of silver circuitry pulsed faintly beneath the stone, threads of magical current woven through ancient foundations.

Tokiomi Tohsaka stood at the center of it all, a crimson figure of nobility and control, sharply dressed and sharper still in mind. His fingers traced over the parchment fresh from his jewel-etched scribing device—a work of meticulous craftsmanship that filtered magical telemetry from Fuyuki and beyond into structured analysis.

The war was underway.

But this war—this war—had already gone off script.

Behind him, measured footsteps echoed.

"I still find that machine imprecise," came the voice of Kirei Kotomine, Executor of the Church and his protégé in this war of gods.

Tokiomi did not turn. "It draws directly from bounded field fluctuations. No electronic interference. No need for power. In a world where even bounded fields collapse, it endures. That makes it superior."

Kirei approached, his robes shifting faintly. “Then it should have recorded what happened last night.”

Tokiomi raised an eyebrow, still focused on the parchment. “Elaborate.”

“Lord El-Melloi has summoned. That makes five. Two seats remain.”

“They always do,” Tokiomi said dismissively. “The stragglers. The outliers. The mistakes.”

“But one such mistake,” Kirei continued slowly, “may have already occurred.”

Tokiomi turned now.

Kirei extended both hands—palms up.

Upon one, the familiar sigil: bold lines, elegant, controlled. His original Command Seals.

Upon the other, a second set, new and alien. A spiral divided into three sharp segments, curling into itself like a maddening fingerprint.

Tokiomi stared.

“You summoned two Servants,” he said quietly.

“I did,” Kirei confirmed. “Not intentionally. I followed the ritual exactly.”

“Mana output?”

“Stable.”

Tokiomi narrowed his eyes. A second contract should have bled his circuits dry. Yet Kirei stood before him, composed and cold.

He was about to speak further when—

Soft, uneven footsteps echoed from the outer hall.

Playful. Carefree.

Something in their rhythm was wrong. The clicks of her heels didn't echo—they looped, like a bad track stuck repeating the same half-second of sound. Tokiomi felt it before he saw it: the sensation of a performance beginning.

Then she entered.

She didn't so much walk in as arrive—as though this were her stage, and they'd merely been waiting for her cue.

She was young—barely a woman—dressed in a disheveled school uniform with designer frills and deliberate chaos. Her long blond hair was tied into looping pigtails, each decorated with a different bear-shaped hairclip: one white and smiling, the other black with a cruel grin.

Her light blue eyes sparkled, but not with innocence. It was a dangerous light—one that knew far more than it should.

"Yoo-hoo~!" she sang, twirling once, arms out like a ballerina. “Oh wow. Concrete walls, blood seals, emotionally repressed men in suits? How classically tragic! I love it.”

Tokiomi didn't react.

He had fought madness before. He would not be drawn in.

“Kirei,” he said evenly. “Who is this?”

Kirei gave the faintest breath. “The second Servant.”

Tokiomi invoked Clairvoyance.

Instantly, data flooded his vision. But it twisted as it appeared. Attributes blinked in and out. Stats warped between contradictory values. Class: Caster... and something else. Undefined.

Her magical aura looped, feeding back into itself.

Anomalous. Unstable. Chaotic.

She tilted her head. “Peeking already? So rude. At least take me to dinner first.”

Tokiomi narrowed his eyes. “Name.”

She giggled, slipping onto the edge of the ritual table like it was a throne. Her legs kicked back and forth like a child. “Oh, I go by many names~ But let’s keep it simple. Call me... Caster B.”

He looked again to Kirei. “And she obeys?”

Kirei nodded. “Completely.”

Tokiomi examined him. His posture was unchanged. No tremble. No strain in his circuits.

“…The Grail is broken,” Tokiomi muttered.

Kirei didn’t deny it.

Caster B grinned. “Broken? I prefer ‘liberated.’ I mean, what’s the point of a Holy Grail War if it plays by the rules?”

“You’re dangerous,” Tokiomi said flatly.

“Oh, honey~ You don’t know half of it.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “But I am useful. You want chaos contained. I am chaos made aesthetic.”

He paused. Then nodded.

“In that case… serve your role. You are a weapon now, Caster.”

She clapped, delighted. “Yes, sir~! I do love taking direction.”

Tokiomi turned away. She was a threat. But a tool as well.

And the best magi didn’t fear fire.

They wielded it.

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In London, beneath the spiraling towers of the Clock Tower, Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald burned with refined resentment. His original catalyst had been stolen—stolen—a disgrace no Archibald could forgive. His fiancée, Sola-Ui Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri, had offered little comfort, her icy jabs as sharp as her magecraft.

But Kayneth still had his pride. Still had his brilliance. Still had the second relic: a spear wrapped in faded cloth and divine echoes. Lancer-class.

This war would not be taken from him.

“Even if I must fight through rabble,” he muttered, adjusting the cuffs of his coat as he examined the ritual circle etched into the floor of the El-Melloi family’s personal summoning chamber. “This Grail will respond to pedigree.”

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Back in Fuyuki, in a dim attic that smelled of ink, dust, and displaced dreams, Waver Velvet wiped his palms on his sleeves. The Command Seals on his right hand glowed with faint promise. Beneath him, the elderly couple he had charmed into hosting him slept soundly, thanks to a sleep suggestion spell barely above textbook-level.

“They’ll be fine,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

He clutched a box—wooden, old, cracked at the corners. Inside was a stained cloth, supposedly touched by one of Alexander the Great's generals.

"Let’s see if this war has room for a commoner."
His fingers trembled as he began to draw the circle.

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In Miyama Town, beneath the corrupted walls of the Matou estate, Kariya Matou collapsed against the cold stone wall of the worm pit, breath heaving, skin slick with sweat.

The Crest Worms were gnawing through his flesh like fire and ice at once, but he held firm. Because Sakura was still in that house. Because Aoi still lived a life stolen by Tokiomi’s arrogance.

“I’ll win this war. I’ll save you. I’ll save all of you.”

Blood soaked his feet as he dragged himself toward the circle he’d prepared. The twisted creature that was once his father watched silently from the shadows, saying nothing.

There would be no catalyst. Just rage.

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Far north, in Germany, snow flurried in silence around the timeless halls of the Einzbern castle.

Inside, Kiritsugu Emiya walked beside Irisviel von Einzbern down the path to the summoning chapel, her hand warm in his.

She held Avalon in her arms—the golden-blue scabbard of legends, pristine even after a millennium. It shone faintly, like something that refused to age. Kiritsugu's heart clenched every time he looked at it.

Not from admiration. From contempt.

That sword and its ideals had killed more than it saved.

He cast those thoughts aside as they entered the chapel—white marble, stained glass, cold steel.

“Are you ready?” Iri asked gently.

“I’ve been ready for years,” he said.

They stepped to the circle, mercury gleaming under soft lamplight.

“The Grail simplifies the ritual,” he told her. “No need for blood. Just intent.”

And so he focused.

His hand hovered over the relic. The scabbard began to hum.

Kiritsugu closed his eyes and whispered the incantation. He didn't hear the soft creak of the door behind them.

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A splash of blood hit one spot again. Waver tossed the gutted rooster toward two more lying behind him. Disgusting work, but a magus had to get their hands dirty sometimes. The Magic Circle was painted out exactly as the book had described, on bare ground free of grass; the red cloth to be used as catalyst rested on a stone before him. The young boy stood on the opposite side, steeling himself.

“Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill,” he chanted the special words. “Repeat five times, but destroy it once each is filled.” The moon shone through the clouds, casting its pale light upon him.

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“For the elements silver and iron,” Tokiomi chanted with eyes closed in his mansion’s chamber, with Kotomine father and son silently watching behind him. “The foundation of stone and the archduke of pacts, and for my great master Schweinorg.”

Caster B watched the spectacle with an unnerving eagerness. The strange circumstances of this War still confused the Tohsaka head, and something about that Servant sent a chill down his spine—but he suppressed it in favor of excitement. The fossilized snakeskin he had spent time and resources tracking lay on the pedestal ahead, all but guaranteeing the oldest and greatest of all Heroes would appear. With the current system, he was confident his magical prowess would reward him with an additional valuable asset.

“Raise a wall against the wind and close the gate of four directions. Come forth from the crown and follow the forked road leading to the kingdom.” His Magic Circuits crackled, power building inside him.

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“Heed my words. My will creates thine body, and thine sword creates my destiny.” Kayneth proclaimed with pride, thrusting his right hand bearing the Command Seals forward inside the luxury suite he shared with Sola-Ui, daughter of the Sophia-Ri family and soon-to-be key to his magnificent legacy. The Magic Circle glowed, mana saturating the air around them. No one else in the hotel would notice—the first-class Bounded Field took care of that.

His blue eyes gleamed as he held the preserved rose from Ireland. “If ye heed the Grail’s call, and accede to my will and reason, then answer my summoning!”

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“I hereby swear that I shall be all the good in the world.” Inside the Einzbern chamber, Kiritsugu clenched his outstretched wrist to steady it, continuing despite the accelerating winds whipping around the Circle. “And I shall be all that defeats evil in the world!” At least, that much was sincere, from the depths of his heart.

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“But let thine eyes be clouded by turmoil and chaos.” In a filthy basement, Zouken Matou smiled coldly, reciting the additional words he had taught Kariya—words that would grant Mad Enhancement to the summoned Servant, making them Berserker. The catalyst, an ordinary-looking wooden shard, remained on the ground despite the rising power of the winds.

“Thou, trapped in a cage of madness.” Tears welled in Kariya’s left eye, blind for a year now, while Crest Worms writhed beneath the skin of his face. Blood dripped from his right eye, but he pressed on. For Sakura, he reminded himself.
“And I the summoner, holding thine chains!”

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In her room, Sakura Matou waited, unaware of a sakura petal-shaped mark forming on her hand.

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“Seventh Heaven clad in the great words of power.” Tokiomi steadied his hands as the Command Seals glowed brightly, the surge of mana peaking.

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And almost simultaneously, five Masters spoke the final words of the incantation in unison:

“Come forth from the circle of binding, Guardian of the Heavenly Scales!”

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In five different locations, blinding light exploded from the Magic Circles, obscuring the vision of all present. The Servants had answered the sacred call.

And at four of the five sites, when the light dimmed, the humans (and one homunculus) were left utterly baffled by what appeared before them.

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Once they could see properly again, Irisviel gasped at who stood inside the Circle. And Kiritsugu couldn't help but share her bewilderment. The newcomer was clad in clothes of gold, white, and blue of a royal shade. Strapped over these garments was silver armor befitting that of the knights extolled in tales of chivalry and heroism. Blonde hair adorned the head, one single strand sticking out at the front. Both hands rested on a European sword neither could even see; a localized windstorm seemed to cover every single detail. All of which should have been signs that he had indeed summoned Arthur Pendragon, the King of Knights.

And yet. "What is this…?"

As they looked down at the alleged Saber(?), neither could help but notice how the bottom clothing and armor formed into a dress, or the concealed signs of a bosom beneath the breastplate, or the softening of the cheekbones, or the blonde hair tied up in a white bun at the back of a head.

"I ask you…" And that voice, young but proper, dignified, yet pitched higher than what a grown man could utter, was the final proof that Kiritsugu had summoned a girl, "are you my Master?" Her eyes opened to reveal a startling green, alight with the determination of a noble lioness.

For nearly a minute, Kiritsugu could only stare in shock, nearly horror.

"Umm…"

Only then did the three realize that a fourth was present in the room.

Saber(?) spun instantly, the sword her hands had rested on now wreathed in winds and slicing in a practiced motion, every one of her movements evidence of martial prowess.

With a grin, the figure twisted his body and effortlessly flipped backward on his hoverboard, the blade missing him by inches. “Whoa! Easy there! I’m not here to fight you,” he said, eyes wide but calm.

The figure was a ten-year-old boy with a lean, athletic build and an expressive, mischievous face. He has messy brown hair that slightly spikes forward, and large, bright green eyes. He wore a white short-sleeved T-shirt with a black stripe running vertically down the center, paired with green cargo pants and black and white sneakers. On his left wrist, he sported a bulky, high-tech watch-like device with a glowing green hourglass symbol.

Saber brought her sword up defensively, her green eyes sharp. “Identify yourself, child. You are no ordinary human.”

The boy laughed softly. “Yeah, I’m kind of special—I’m a Servant too! Rider class, to be exact. Though, I’m still figuring out why there’s two of us in this War.”

Kiritsugu kept his handgun trained on the boy, but didn’t shoot. The kid’s confidence and casual tone were disarming.

“I’m called Rider B,” the boy continued, “Weren't you attempting to summon me?”

Saber’s expression hardened, but before she could answer, the air shimmered as the Holy Grail sent a pulse of information to all present.

Saber’s eyes widened as knowledge flowed into her mind. “The Grail... reveals that each Servant class has two participants this time.”

Rider B’s face showed a mix of surprise and curiosity. “One from your world’s legends, and the other from somewhere else. That’s gotta be why I’m here.”

Irisviel looked at Kiritsugu’s hands, noticing a new Command Seal glowing on his left palm—a crimson hourglass inside a circle.

Kiritsugu’s voice was low. “This changes everything.”

Rider B grinned again, bouncing lightly on his hoverboard. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other, partner. Let’s figure this out without crashing the place, okay?”

Saber lowered her sword just a bit but kept her stance ready. “Agreed. But be warned—this War will test us all.”

The four stood tense but watchful, caught in the new and strange rules of the Holy Grail War.

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None of the four inside the chamber noticed the quiet figure watching them from a narrow gap in the doorway. Small fingers clutched the edge of the frame, unmoving, eyes wide as they took in every detail of the strange scene beyond the threshold. But it was not there anymore as it already went away when a faint, rose-shaped mark began to form on the back of her hand.

Chapter Text

Waver’s eyes were locked onto Iskandar, the King of Conquerors, as he carefully handed the pile of books to him. The massive Servant’s laughter filled the library, his wide grin beaming like a man who had just won an impossible battle. He had been busy “claiming” the library—taking books from every shelf with the kind of energy one would expect from a king seizing a kingdom.

“Here, pipsqueak,” Rider said with a broad grin, his voice as booming as ever. He shoved the stack of books into Waver’s arms like a child handing over a treasure.

Waver nearly stumbled from the weight of the books, but managed to catch himself. It’s fine, just get these back to the workshop without breaking anything, he reminded himself. The real problem, though, was the chaos surrounding him.

“Great. Just what I needed,” Waver muttered under his breath, starting to walk toward the exit, books in tow.

Behind him, Rider continued to go on about his triumphs, occasionally picking up more books as if they were trophies in his personal collection. Waver sighed in frustration, but what really made him uneasy wasn’t his Servant’s antics. No. It was the silent figure who had been trailing just behind him the entire time.

Berserker B—the other Servant bound to him—had been unnervingly calm. Unlike her violent, unpredictable nature in battle, here, she had been silently observing. She had barely reacted when Rider tore through the building, even when he took half the library for himself. There was an air of unnerving control about her, but it didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.

Waver stole a glance over his shoulder as he walked.

Berserker B stood a few paces behind them, her pink eyes glinting with something both distant and unsettling. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who belonged in the Berserker class at all. Tall, slender, and oddly graceful in her movements, she had the air of someone who could easily blend into a crowd rather than cause one. Her long pink hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the rough, frantic nature of her class.

Her outfit—if one could even call it that—was a combination of a white dress and a purple skirt, both of which hung loosely from her lithe frame. A crimson ribbon adorned her neck, tied neatly in a bow. She looked like a girl out of a storybook, her soft features framed by a mask of calm. Her face held an expression of indifference, yet there was something lurking in her gaze that sent a cold shiver down Waver’s spine.

She doesn’t look like a Berserker, Waver thought, his eyes darting nervously. Not with that smile. She looks more like... well, a girl next door. But... there’s something off about her. Something that doesn’t quite match.

Despite her unsettling calmness, there was something unnerving about her. She was unsettling not because of her appearance, but because of the way her eyes lingered on him. The faint glint behind her innocent expression could cut through him like a knife, if he weren’t careful.

But why does she look at me like that? he thought, unease creeping into his chest. She doesn't seem to want anything... she's just... watching.

Waver felt a flare of irritation, his fingers twitching as if he could grasp a Command Seal to force a response from her—just to see her react. Rider was, in his mind, far too reckless to keep in check. The man was a force of nature, beyond control. But her? She watched.

Should I use a Command Seal? The thought flashed through his mind as he turned his gaze back to Berserker B. The calmness in her presence, the eerie way she looked at him—it was unnerving. He’d seen how intense her battles could be. How far she could go once she snapped. Her class should be pure violence, chaos, but here she was, simply standing at his side, her fingers delicately brushing her ribbon, as though she were the picture of serenity.

But still... the unease lingered.

Waver glanced at her again, his lips curling in an almost imperceptible frown. She didn’t seem like a Berserker in the least. Her movements were controlled, measured. There was no madness in her eyes right now, no wildness. It was the kind of quiet restraint that Waver had come to recognize all too well in her presence. She was a woman who could strike at the heart of a person’s very soul with just a glance, and she had proven time and time again that she would protect him with a zeal that bordered on obsession.

But to him, that didn’t seem like Berserker behavior.

And that was what made it so unsettling.

A light breeze swirled through the library’s broken windows, ruffling her hair ever so slightly. Her gaze never left Waver as she tilted her head in a gesture of quiet curiosity.

“You're angry,” she said, her voice barely more than a soft murmur. Her words cut through his thoughts as though she had been listening to his every word.

“I’m not angry!” Waver snapped, still walking with a purposeful stride, the books in his arms weighing heavily on his thoughts. He could feel his face flush with frustration. “I just... you know, I thought I might be able to get through one day without everything going wrong.”

She didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes—those unnervingly pink eyes—lingered on him a moment longer before she spoke again.

"You are not angry," she said softly. "You're just frustrated. And you’re not used to having everything you want... yet."

Waver’s breath hitched at her words. The clarity with which she spoke, the way she knew exactly what to say, was enough to make him pause. She was always one step ahead, even when she said nothing.

It was like a quiet, insidious weight pressing on his chest.

But then, a flicker of something passed in her eyes—something darker, and it faded as quickly as it had come.

Waver let out a deep breath.

Just keep walking, he told himself. Don’t think about it.

He knew better than to let his emotions run wild. But the nagging suspicion that something was off, that something more was lurking just beneath the surface of his Servant's calm, remained.

The thought of using a Command Seal to enforce obedience on Berserker B flickered in his mind once more, but he quickly banished it. No. She wasn’t like Rider. She didn’t need to be commanded. The real threat was how easily she could deceive him with her quiet, almost innocent exterior.

Her true power wasn’t in her brute force—it was in the way she could make a person feel like they needed her. And that, Waver realized, was far more dangerous than any berserker rage.

"Come on, then," he muttered under his breath, focusing on the task at hand. "Let's just get these books back to the workshop."

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The snowflakes fell gently around the small clearing, creating a quiet backdrop for the impromptu lesson taking place. Illya, bundled up in a thick coat, was watching with wide eyes as Ben Tennyson—also known as Rider B—shifted his form once again.

He had just finished demonstrating his most recent transformation, that of Upchuck, the green, round creature with an enormous mouth that could swallow nearly anything. Illya was giggling uncontrollably, her hand covering her mouth as Ben tried to act as nonchalant as possible, despite the occasional slurping sound coming from his mouth.

"Upchuck's not my favorite form," Ben muttered, wiping his mouth. "But hey, it's got its uses, especially in a pinch."

Illya, too caught up in the fun, let slip a few more details about some of Ben’s other transformations. "Wildvine's awesome! He's really good at trapping things! And Wildmutt, he’s so fast, and super strong—like a... a dog!" she said, before clapping her hands to her mouth, realizing her mistake a moment too late.

Ben’s face dropped for a second, though he quickly recovered, giving a small smile. "You really need to learn to keep secrets better, Illya," he said, trying to play it off, but there was a faint nervousness in his voice.

Before either of them could say anything further, the sound of approaching footsteps cut through the air, the crunch of boots in the snow growing closer. Illya’s head whipped around in panic, and Ben immediately shifted his stance, still trying to look casual despite the fact that his previous transformations had clearly drawn attention.

Kiritsugu Emiya, the master of Rider B, approached with Saber and Irisviel by his side. His gaze flickered between Ben and Illya before narrowing.

"You..." Kiritsugu began, his eyes still locked on Ben. "Rider B. You’ve been... showing Illya your transformations?" His tone was flat, but the underlying tension was clear.

Ben scratched the back of his head, his green wristwatch-like Omnitrix glinting in the cold sunlight. "Uh, yeah. I mean, it's pretty cool, right? She was just curious about my forms. We’re just having some fun." He gave a sheepish smile, but his attempt to defuse the situation didn't seem to work on the hardened veteran before him.

Kiritsugu studied him for a long moment, his sharp, calculating eyes never leaving Ben’s face. "How do you expect us to fight if you waste time like this?"

Ben tilted his head to the side, not quite understanding the gravity of the question. "We fight with what we’ve got, right? The Omnitrix can get me into any form I need for the job. I’m adaptable. I don’t waste time—I’m just making sure I’m prepared."

Saber, standing silently beside Kiritsugu, stepped forward with her usual composure. "You’re a Servant," she said, her voice thoughtful, "yet your power doesn’t seem to match that of a traditional Heroic Spirit. This device of yours, this Omnitrix—it is unlike anything I have seen before."

Ben, clearly more comfortable around Saber’s directness, chuckled lightly. "Yeah, it’s not exactly a traditional Noble Phantasm. It’s... alien tech, I guess. You can think of it like a really powerful artifact, but instead of magical spells, it lets me transform into a bunch of different alien creatures. Each one has its own strengths—like Heatblast for fire powers, or Four Arms for pure strength." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "You know, standard superhero stuff."

Irisviel, standing slightly behind Kiritsugu, looked between the group, her expression tinged with concern. "But how do you control all of this? Your transformations... do they have limits?"

Ben's eyes sparkled a little, his confidence returning as he leaned forward. "That’s the best part! The Omnitrix picks the best form for the situation. It analyzes the enemy and the environment, and bam, I get the most suited alien to take them on. The problem is... there are cooldowns between transformations, so I can't just keep switching back and forth. Some forms... take a little longer to recharge. And there’s also the risk of a... mishap." He hesitated for a moment. "Sometimes the Omnitrix malfunctions and doesn’t exactly give me what I expect."

Kiritsugu’s eyes flicked to the Omnitrix again, clearly intrigued, but still skeptical. “And if this device is broken or fails... how would you fight then?”

Ben grinned confidently, his cocky attitude coming to the forefront. "I always find a way, don’t worry. I’ve fought bigger things than anything I’ll face here. Trust me, I’m prepared for anything.”

At that, Kiritsugu crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at Ben once more. “You speak of confidence... But the war is never certain. Adaptability is important—but how much do you really understand the gravity of this battle?"

Ben shifted in his seat, suddenly a little more serious. "I get it. This is the Holy Grail War. But I didn’t just get here by luck. I’ve fought aliens, supervillains, and otherworldly threats before. And if there's one thing I’ve learned—it's that no matter how tough things get, protecting people is always worth it. I’ll do whatever it takes to win... for my team."

Kiritsugu’s gaze softened imperceptibly. “Then it seems I will have to place my trust in you, for now.”

The conversation shifted then, from Ben's transformations to deeper discussions about the war, tactics, and the ways they could all contribute to their strategy. But in the back of his mind, Kiritsugu still wondered how exactly a boy so young—an alien hero with an unpredictable, seemingly infinite array of powers—would fare against the other Servants.

Illya had remained quiet, sitting between Kiritsugu and Irisviel, her small hands folded in her lap as she listened intently. She couldn’t help but think about how odd this whole war was becoming. A child Servant, who fought with alien creatures? It was hard to even imagine.

Saber, though, seemed to be quietly reflecting on something, her green eyes steady as she watched Ben with an unreadable expression.

Then, after a moment of silence, Ben leaned back, stretching his arms. "But hey, at least we’ve got a good team, right? I’ve got my back-up transformations, you’ve got your knights and mages, and I’m sure we’ll all do just fine together.”

Kiritsugu nodded slowly, but his sharp instincts told him that Ben’s true potential, along with his unpredictable nature, might be both a boon and a curse.

The group fell silent once more, the weight of the Holy Grail War now resting more heavily on their shoulders as they discussed plans and strategies.

-----------------------------------

Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald sat at the polished desk in his apartment, the faint hum of the city outside doing little to ease the tension in his mind. His fingers drummed against the wood, eyes flicking over the papers scattered before him, each one detailing his strategies for the Holy Grail War.

But his mind wasn’t entirely focused on the war.

No. His thoughts, as always, drifted to the situation he found himself tangled in—a complex web of alliances, politics, and dangerous emotions.

He could feel the weight of his thoughts pressing against him, a pressure in his chest as he considered the delicate balance he had to maintain between his fiancée, Sola-Ui, and his Servant, Lancer.

Lancer—the famed Diarmuid Ua Duibhne—had only just been summoned into the war, but Kayneth already recognized the dangerous potential of his presence. Diarmuid’s natural charisma and beauty had already caught the eye of many, and there was no denying the way Sola-Ui had looked at him. The soft, longing glances she had stolen in moments when Kayneth wasn't paying attention... He could feel the growing rift between them, the cracks in the foundation of their relationship. Lancer’s heroic charm, his raw strength, were all too much for a woman who was still struggling to understand the weight of this war.

It was infuriating.

How could she not see it? He was the one who had been chosen as the Master of Lancer, the one who had painstakingly set himself up as the apex of intellect and strategy. He was the one who belonged at the center of this war, not Diarmuid, not any other Servant.

Kayneth’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden noise from the next room.

He stiffened, instinctively reaching for his cane, his other hand clenching into a fist. But it wasn’t a threat, nor an assassin lurking in the shadows. No, it was her—the insufferable, irritating presence that had been plaguing his life ever since the start of this absurd war.

There, sprawled across his sofa, was the so-called "goddess" of the war. Her celeste-colored hair spilled messily around her face, her body slumped ungracefully against the cushions. Her pale face was flushed from the alcohol she had clearly consumed—too much of it. Her clothing, a blue-like garment, was disheveled, as though she had given up any pretense of dignity hours ago. She snored lightly, her face contorted in an expression that could only be described as childishly content despite the complete chaos she had caused in his apartment.

Kayneth’s fingers twitched in frustration as he gazed at the sight. How typical.

So this is what an "immortal goddess" does in her free time? He thought bitterly. Getting drunk, lying around, being utterly useless. He narrowed his eyes, watching her chest rise and fall with each deep breath. Is this how all the gods behave? It’s no wonder humans are so hopeless if this is the kind of divine being they revere.

He’d hoped that bringing her along—somehow—would have been beneficial. After all, it wasn’t often one could summon a “deity” to aid them. But now, he couldn’t help but feel as if she were nothing more than a constant, cumbersome weight. A spoiled brat who could barely manage to lift herself up from the couch.

He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He had more important things to think about, and yet...

The sight of her disgraceful form made it difficult to focus.

Suddenly, the voice of Assassin B—that infernal, irritating servant of his—broke into his thoughts, his presence quietly manifesting next to Kayneth.

“Yeah, I warned you about her, didn’t I?” came the lazy drawl, the sarcasm dripping from the words.

Kayneth’s eyes flicked toward him, his expression unchanged but his anger simmering just beneath the surface. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.

“I told you not to give her any alcohol,” Assassin B continued, casually folding his arms. “But you didn't listen, did you? Now look where we are—she's passed out cold and you're stuck with her.”

Kayneth grit his teeth. Why do I even tolerate this… this fool of a servant?

But before he could reply, Assassin B spoke again, the amusement in his voice growing. “You know, you could always carry her back to the throne if you're that desperate. Might be good for your image.”

Kayneth’s gaze returned to the figure on the couch, the ridiculousness of the idea making his skin crawl. “I’m not her caretaker,” he muttered.

Assassin B shrugged, clearly unfazed by Kayneth’s discomfort. “Whatever you say. But she’s going to be a problem if you keep her around like this.”

Kayneth straightened in his chair, the irritation building once again. “I don’t need your advice,” he snapped, his sharp tone betraying his frustration. “I have far more pressing matters to deal with than babysitting a drunken deity.”

With that, he turned back to his desk, trying to focus on the war. He had his plan. He had his strategy. And if he could just push through the distractions, if he could just ignore the obstacles... he was confident he could bring this war to a conclusion on his own terms.

Even if it meant dealing with this useless goddess and his incessantly annoying servant.

-----------------------------------

Risei Kotomine strode through the cold halls of the Church, the flickering lights casting long shadows against the stone walls. He had just returned from his meeting with Tokiomi, his covert alliance with his son—an alliance forged in secrecy and ambition. There was no going back now. He had a pivotal role to play in the coming war, one that would decide the fate of the Holy Grail.

But, as always, there was something else lurking in the back of his mind—an uncomfortable sensation of uncertainty. The war was already spiraling beyond anyone’s control, and the presence of certain Servants had made things... complicated.

As he entered his study, the scent of tea—something not unfamiliar to him—wafted through the air. His eyes narrowed as his gaze fell upon the figure seated on a wooden bench in the corner of the room. There, as if utterly unfazed by the chaos of the war, sat a woman with an air of unshakable calm. She appeared almost out of place, as if she were simply waiting for something.

The most unsettling part wasn’t just her presence, but the fact that she was drinking tea as though there was nothing extraordinary about her situation. Her posture was relaxed, her movements fluid. The woman wore a serene expression, as though the weight of the war, the weight of this entire conflict, meant nothing to her.

Risei’s eyes shifted, narrowing even further. A Servant, certainly.

His senses tingled as his instincts screamed at him: enemy. His hand instinctively moved toward his collar, preparing for any potential confrontation.

She must have noticed his arrival, because slowly, she placed her cup of tea down on the bench, her eyes lifting to meet his.

Risei froze.

She wasn’t just any Servant. The aura around her was different. It wasn’t the typical bloodlust, nor the chaotic energy of Berserkers. There was a strange, almost unnatural control in the air—too calm, too poised. Who is she?

“Are you lost, Father?” The woman’s voice broke the silence, cool and detached, like the calm before a storm. Her words weren't spoken with hostility, but there was something unsettling about her tone. It felt like an assessment, a judgment already underway.

Risei said nothing for a moment, his eyes carefully studying her. She didn’t appear aggressive or overly threatening, but her presence alone was... imposing in a way that made the air feel colder. The tea she’d been drinking was a simple black tea, its steam still rising lazily in the air, but her gaze was sharper than any blade. There was something about her that felt like a constant, ever-present scrutiny.

He stepped further into the room, cautiously, as his mind raced through possibilities.

Could she be a Servant summoned by one of his enemies? Someone who was trying to disrupt the balance of this war? He couldn’t sense any specific Noble Phantasms, which meant she wasn’t in the traditional sense of a combat-class Servant. She must have come from somewhere else... an ally, perhaps, or— no.

“Who are you?” His voice was stern, but with a hint of restrained curiosity. “Are you a Servant of one of my enemies? Why have you come here?”

The woman’s lips curved into a slight, almost imperceptible smile, though it lacked warmth. She didn’t rise from her seat, nor did she make any aggressive movements. Instead, she stared at him for a long while, as if considering his words, assessing the man in front of her.

“I am not your enemy, Father,” she said, her words calm but almost teasing, as if she were amused by the misconception. She didn’t stand, still leaning back against the bench with a kind of passive grace that was unsettling. “You should know better than to judge someone’s allegiance based solely on their presence.”

Risei furrowed his brow. She knows who I am...

His hand dropped from his collar. No threat, for now.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve met,” Risei said coolly, though the warning in his tone was still present. He would be foolish to let his guard down around someone like this. “I don’t appreciate being watched without explanation.”

The woman looked at him with an unreadable expression, her unnatural black eyes glinting sharply in the low light, evidencing the X shaped red pupil. Her gaze felt like it could slice through his defenses, through his every thought. A strange, unsettling sensation prickled at the back of his neck.

She finally spoke again, her words floating into the air like cold, deliberate promises.

“I am Ruler B,” she said, her voice not at all humble but laden with undeniable authority. “My purpose here is not to oppose you, but to act as the Grail’s judge. I am here to ensure that this war remains—controlled.”

Risei’s eyes narrowed further. He had heard of Ruler-Class Servants, of course, but never one with this level of cold, unwavering command. He had expected someone to show up, eventually, but he hadn’t anticipated it would be someone with such an unnerving, silent strength.

He tilted his head slightly, now understanding why this Servant felt so out of place—she wasn’t here as an adversary in the traditional sense. She was something... else. She was an enforcer of some kind, but not aligned with any of the participants in the war. She had her own agenda. A terrifying one.

“A judge, then?” Risei muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing even further. "Is that the role you've been assigned? A Servant to ensure that everyone plays by the rules?"

The woman didn’t answer immediately. She simply regarded him with those sharp, calculating eyes. And then, in a tone that chilled him to his core, she spoke again, slowly.

“I am the arbiter of this war. I decide what is right and wrong—who falls, and who stands.” She paused, letting her words settle. “I will cleanse this world of the unworthy, Father. Your place will be decided soon enough.”
The coldness in her tone made him shiver involuntarily, though he masked it well.

This complicates everything.

Risei straightened his back, trying to regain control. He knew now that the war was not simply a game of power, strategy, and manipulation. No, this Servant—Ruler B—had the power to reset everything. She wasn’t just a participant in the war; she was its inevitable force of justice, and he couldn’t afford to let her passively judge his every move.

His thoughts raced as he considered how best to proceed. He would need to be careful. The rules of the game were already changing, and he wasn’t entirely sure where he stood anymore.
But one thing was certain.

The stakes had just become much higher.

-----------------------------------

I based this profile, and modified it a little, on this one: https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/summon-a-servant-mark-vi-the-dark-six-fate-fiction-servants-read-the-threadmarks-please.370875/page-703#post-98635018

This version of him died against Evil Way Big during the events of Destroy All Aliens.

Rider B

Class: Rider

Master: Kiritsugu Emiya

True Name: Benjamin Kirby Tennyson (Age 10)

Titles: The Alien Hero, Champion of Earth, The Omnitrix Bearer

Gender: Male

Source: Ben 10

Region: United States / Bellwood

Alignment: Lawful Good

Parameters:

Strength: D

Endurance: C+

Agility: C

Mana: C

Luck: A

NP: A

Class Skills –

Riding: B-
Though not a trained horseman or vehicle pilot, Ben’s instinctive adaptability, honed through alien experience, lets him proficiently operate high-speed hoverboards, alien mounts, and other vehicles. In aerial or mobile combat, he performs impressively well, especially when aided by alien forms.

Magic Resistance: D
Ben lacks innate magical resistance, but alien physiology from the Omnitrix occasionally grants temporary immunities or resistances depending on the transformation. Against raw magic, however, he fares worse than most Servants.

Personal Skills –

Adaptive Tactics: EX
A hallmark of Ben’s combat style. The Omnitrix gives him access to forms that replicate different class types (e.g., Four Arms as a Berserker, Grey Matter for Caster-like analysis). Ben can improvise responses to virtually any threat, quickly analyzing enemy strategies and selecting the optimal alien counter. This pseudo-Class Mimicry grants unparalleled battlefield flexibility.

Guardian Knight: A
When others are in danger, Ben’s willpower surges. This skill increases Strength, Agility, and Endurance temporarily when defending civilians, allies, or innocents. This power of protection echoes his core identity: a hero, not a soldier.

Bravery: B
Ben resists fear effects, psychological interference, and despair-inducing skills. Whether against eldritch monstrosities or towering galactic threats, his courage holds firm. This also prevents hesitation when activating risky transformations or sacrificing his safety for others.

Noble Phantasms –

Omnitrix – “The Alien Transformation Device”
“It’s hero time!”
Rank: A (Anti-Unit (Self))
A high-tech Noble Phantasm containing the DNA of countless alien species. Grants Ben the ability to temporarily transform into powerful extraterrestrial beings like XLR8, Four Arms, Heatblast, and more—each with unique advantages.
The Omnitrix auto-selects the best form after scanning threats but allows manual selection with some delay. Transformation errors, cooldowns, and data instability may interfere—especially against magical distortion fields. Still, its adaptability bridges the gap between science and magecraft.

Tetrax’s Hoverboard – “Gift of the Last Petrosapien”
Rank: C+ (Support / Mobility)
A hyper-responsive hoverboard gifted by the alien Tetrax. Provides Ben with high-speed flight, sharp maneuverability, and limited shielding via kinetic dampeners. In Rider-class contexts, this serves as his primary "mount."

???
Rank: A+ (Anti-World / Power-Up)
-------

Chapter Text

A jagged streak of blood curled across the warped floorboards, like a dying serpent dragging itself toward some unknowable center.

"Fill, fill, fill ‘em up, fill…" Ryuunosuke Uryuu sang quietly, humming the words like a playground rhyme as he smeared the last part of the summoning circle. The ritual design was nearly done now — just a few more symbols.

He paused, eyeing the blood-streaked lines critically.

“…Looks better than the last one,” he muttered.

His eyes flicked toward the blackened patch of scorched wood in the far corner of the room. That had been Attempt Number Three — the one that set the floor on fire for twenty seconds and summoned absolutely nothing, except maybe some angry cockroaches.

The second attempt? That one had attracted every stray dog in the neighborhood, all of them howling like banshees for two hours. He hadn’t even drawn the circle right that time — he’d spilled half the blood before noticing he’d flipped the page upside down.

And the fourth time... well, the less said about the fourth time, the better. His left foot still hadn’t stopped twitching.

"Fifth time’s the charm," he said to himself with a grin, adjusting the old, moth-eaten book in his bloodied hands. “Right? That’s what they say.”

The TV behind him mumbled on:

“…no leads in the series of ritual killings. Forensics confirm all circles match—” click

Uryuu switched it off. Too distracting.

He turned back to the tied-up boy in the corner — still sobbing softly, mouth gagged, wrists raw from struggling.

"Yo, kid," he called, almost cheerfully, "ever wonder if demons are real?"

The boy didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He only trembled.

“I mean, people keep calling me a demon,” Uryuu mused, stretching his arms, “but I feel like the real ones would be way more stylish about it. Classy. You know, dramatic entrances, capes, horns, fire…”

He crouched beside the boy, smiling bright and childlike. “I hope this one brings fire.”

He stood up and returned to the circle, blood now drying in long, cracked streaks. “Almost done.”

And then — pain.

A searing, electric jolt surged through both of his hands, making him drop the book with a clatter. His fingers burned as though red-hot wire had been dragged across his skin from the inside out. He screamed, recoiling, and stared in horror and awe at the glowing shapes now carved into his flesh.

His right hand pulsed with a swirling, spiraling red rune.

But on his left — a different sigil entirely.

Not the same as before.

This one… looked like a crown, divided neatly into three broken pieces. Each shard glowed red, flickering softly as if lit from within.

"What the hell…?" he whispered, heart pounding.

And then the air changed.

Pressure, thick and suffocating, pressed down on the house like a stormcloud crashing inward. The circle lit up with emerald fire, lines of blood sizzling with unnatural heat. Smoke erupted from its center, coiling like breath from a dying god.
Uryuu stumbled back as a figure emerged.

Tall. Hunched. Dressed in flowing robes of crimson and violet, skin pale and smooth like wax. His fingers trembled at his sides, eyes wide, unblinking, disturbingly large.

“I ask thee,” the figure declared, voice thin and theatrical, “ye who calls me forth, under heaven and earth, through rite and blood… I come as Caster. Who are you?”

Ryuunosuke’s grin stretched wide. “Name’s Uryuu Ryunnosuke. I freelance. Hobbies include murder.”

Caster stared at him for a long second… then smiled slowly, delighted. “Ah… how splendid.”

But before either could speak again, the light surged again.

Emerald turned to silver. The air pulsed with a different sort of pressure — less oppressive, but somehow stranger. Softer. Brighter. Like something had shifted the frequency of the entire world by a fraction of a note.

Caster turned, surprised.

And Uryuu saw it too.

A second figure now stood in the summoning circle — quiet, still.

It was a banana.

Tall. Anthropomorphic. Perfectly yellow. Smooth-skinned. No weapons. No gear. No clothing of any kind. His big brown cartoonish eyes blinked once, then slowly scanned the room.

He raised a hand in a gentle wave.

Uryuu blinked in disbelief. “The hell…?”

The banana said nothing.

He just smiled.

Mr. Fisheye had also recovered from… whatever the hell had just surged through the room. Still trembling with excitement, he raised one hand toward the silent new figure.

"You… are the additional Servant of the..." He looked at the banana from top to bottom "...Archer class?"

The yellow figure didn't respond with words. Instead, he raised a hand — a short, enthusiastic wave — then pointed to himself with both thumbs and gave a confident thumbs-up.

“…Charming,” Caster muttered, sounding unsure whether to be amused or alarmed.

Ryuunosuke tilted his head, staring at the tall banana with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. “You’re seriously a Servant? What’s next, a demon made outta spaghetti?”

Archer B turned to him and raised both arms like a victorious boxer, then mimed shooting something with exaggerated finger-guns. One eye squinted into a wink.

That’s when Ryuunosuke felt it.

A weird shift in the air — no sound, no light, just the distinct feeling that something fundamental had clicked into place.

He blinked.

And then, floating just at the upper left of his vision, something appeared.

“…Huh?”

There, clear as day but somehow translucent, hovered a strange interface — like something from a video game. Four rectangular health bars, each with a little profile picture and name beside them:

[Ryuunosuke Uryuu] – a grinning face, orange hair wild as ever.

[Caster] – that pale freak with the fish eyes and dramatic flair.

[Archer B] – the banana. Somehow, the portrait matched his dumb, cheerful stare perfectly.

[???] – a fourth face, much younger… the red-haired kid.

Ryuunosuke stared at it, slack-jawed. “What the hell is this? Am I losing it?” He rubbed his eyes — nothing changed. The HUD remained, persistent and faintly glowing, like it was part of his vision now.

"Oi, Caster, d’you see that?"

Fisheye glanced at him, puzzled. “See what?”

"Top left, like... health bars or somethin’? Faces and—forget it."

Archer B was already on the move again, approaching the red-haired boy, who still lay in the corner — half-unconscious, barely registering the change in energy around him. The banana crouched down, tilting his head at the child with an almost parental curiosity.

The boy flinched.

But Archer B held up both hands in a clear, gentle motion — not a threat.

He mimed untying, slowly, exaggeratedly.

Then mimed “running” with two fingers dashing across his palm.

The boy’s eyes were wide with confusion. But something in the banana’s body language — relaxed shoulders, soft movements, the subtle nod — felt... safe.

Archer B began to actually untie the ropes, careful not to startle him.

“What… are you doing?” Ryuunosuke asked, his tone sharpening. “That kid’s the whole damn point of this setup. You’re letting him go?”

Archer B looked up, blinked, and then mimed:

– Pointed to the kid.

– Then held a hand above his head to measure height.

– Then waved both hands like "no good."

– Then pointed to Ryuunosuke and gave a big exaggerated thumbs-up.

“…I don’t follow,” Ryuunosuke muttered.

Archer B repeated the pantomime, then added a spinning motion with his hand, as if indicating a "re-roll" or "restart."

Caster watched the exchange with growing fascination. “He appears to be saying that… the boy is not a worthy sacrifice. Not… fun enough?” He tilted his head. “Or perhaps he just does not wish to kill.”

Ryuunosuke scowled. “Great. I summon a clown.”

Archer B finished untying the last knot and helped the kid up. The child staggered slightly, weak from shock and fear, but he stood. The banana gave him a small encouraging nod and pointed silently toward the front door.

The boy looked between the banana and Ryuunosuke, eyes still swollen, unsure what to believe.

Archer B turned his back to the child — a simple act of trust. Then raised one hand in a "go ahead" motion.

And waited.

A single tear went down his cheek, but it was one of hope. He was safe.

Just as the boy was about to leave, a dark blue tentacle suddenly slipped inside his field of vision, then another, and another. His eyes widened in horror as they circled around him. A glance behind him revealed that the opposite end of the hallway was gone, only a black mass. And something… evil inside the darkness. But there was nowhere left for him to run. They were on him now.

The twisted figure lunged forward and slammed the boy against the wall with a heavy thud.

The boy lay unconscious, slumped against the cold wall and strangely unharmed except for the blood that was dripping out of his head.

Caster’s eyes narrowed in confusion, muttering, “Why isn’t it… finished?” The creature loomed over the child, but the boy remained alive, barely.

Archer B’s expression darkened—clearly displeased. Without a word, the banana-shaped Servant materialized a pump-action shotgun from thin air, raised it steadily, and fired a precise blast. The creature collapsed immediately, lifeless.

Without hesitation, Archer B summoned a chainsaw launcher, its sharp blade gleaming ominously as it materialized in his hands. His gaze locked onto Ryuunosuke, who felt a sudden chill run down his spine, causing him to tremble slightly.

"H-hey, Mr. Ban-Banana, I was just t-trying to do you a favor," Uryuu tried to stress out from the pressure bearing down on him. He instinctively reached for Archer B with his left hand. "Dial this cool trick of yours do-"

The Banana fired.

A second later, Ryuunosuke stared down at the diagonal stump where his left forearm used to be as it squirted blood like crazy. Wow, it's like some kind of big fountain. And that's… that's my blood, huh? Cooool… Woah. Thoughts're kinda… ffffuuzy…

Fisheyes was shaking like crazy now, then he opened his mouth. "Hey dare you! How dare you harm our Master that gave us our chance to lay claim to the blessed Grail, who offered us an innocent child, the opportunity to watch fresh hope become swallowed up by despair, how dare you how DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU!"

From the shadows, grotesque creatures emerged, swarming toward Archer B with snarls and snapping jaws.

Without missing a beat, Archer B pulled out a heavy tactical shotgun, its barrel booming with precise, brutal blasts that tore through the monstrous horde. One by one, the creatures fell apart under his relentless fire.

Then, with a swift motion, Archer B produced a rocket launcher, the sleek weapon gleaming in the dim light. He took aim and fired a blazing rocket toward Caster’s position.

Caster reacted just in time, summoning a familiar that enveloped himself and Ryuunosuke. The explosion rocked the room, shaking dust and debris, but neither of them was harmed.

Seizing the moment, Caster grabbed Ryuunosuke. “We must retreat—now!”

With a swirl of dark magic, they vanished into the shadows, leaving Archer B standing alone, eyes narrowed as he watched them disappear.

Archer B turned back toward Ryuunosuke’s severed hand and picked it up. His eyes locked onto the still-unconscious red-haired boy, lying motionless where he’d fallen.

Without hesitation, Archer B lifted the boy carefully and carried him over to a worn couch nearby. He laid him down softly, then produced a small spray device from seemingly nowhere — a medi-mist, glowing faintly.

Archer B spritzed the mist over the boy’s wounds. Almost immediately, the faint wound began to fade, the boy’s chest rising and falling more steadily as color returned to his cheeks.

Standing silently for a moment, Archer B glanced between Ryuunosuke’s hand and the boy, before nodding once — an unspoken promise of protection.

-----------------------------

Sakura sat motionless on the edge of her bed, her small hands resting in her lap, thumbs slowly tracing one another. The faint scent of old wood and dried herbs lingered in the air, ever-present in the Matou house. Her uncle Kariya had just left, the echo of his footsteps still fading down the hall. She didn’t watch him go—she never did—but her heart always took longer to let him leave.

She thought of one of the Servants he had summoned: Lancer B, the one who called himself a monster.

A part of her—quiet and buried—wanted to laugh at that. A monster? That gentle figure with the deep voice and warm eyes? Even when he stood tall and imposing, his presence never made her flinch. His words had been slow, deliberate, and kind. His movements careful, like someone used to being feared, trying desperately not to frighten. And his fur—she remembered it clearly—was soft. Like a blanket. Like safety.

It made no sense. Monsters didn’t feel like that. Monsters weren’t kind.

A soft creak from the far corner of the room snapped her attention away.

There, seated on the floor as if she’d always been there, was the girl.

She sat with legs crossed, fingers playing with the ends of her own dress, rocking slightly from side to side. Her eyes were too wide. Too still. Her presence didn’t match the way she smiled.

“Hey, Sakura,” she said, voice bright as porcelain, “do you want to play with me?”

Sakura blinked. Her expression didn’t change. Her voice was flat. “Why?”

The girl tilted her head. “Because it’s fun.” A small giggle. “Don’t you like fun?”

Sakura stared at her, silent.

“Because games are safe,” the girl added, more softly now. “They’re better than waiting for bad things to happen.”

Sakura’s fingers tightened slightly. “I don’t know if I should. Not right now.”

The girl’s smile froze, just for a second. The room seemed to grow colder, as if something unseen had pulled away the warmth. Her tone turned quieter, but heavier.

“…You’d rather be alone?” she asked, as if hurt.

Sakura shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then play,” the girl said again, her voice now less a request, more a suggestion. Almost a command. “Just one game. It won’t hurt.”

The tension in the air grew sharper. A doll on the shelf trembled, then lifted slightly into the air. The edge of the bedsheet fluttered upward without wind. Sakura’s breath caught in her throat.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you trying to scare me?”

The girl didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly rose to her feet, tilting her head the other way. “Would you tell him?” she asked, her tone still sweet but her eyes now gleaming with something darker. “Your grandfather?”

Sakura hesitated.

“Would you tell that horrible old man what I did?”

Sakura’s throat was dry. She hadn’t meant to think it so clearly, but the thought escaped her lips in a soft murmur, barely audible.

“…Maybe I should…”

The words hung in the air like a knife suspended by a thread.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the room changed.

The shadows stretched. A row of toy blocks clattered across the floor as if flung. One of Sakura’s old storybooks flipped open by itself, pages riffling violently in a breeze that didn’t exist. A small mirror cracked, just slightly—like a hairline fracture in reality.

“Do you really want to take me to him?” the girl asked, but now the question was low, cold, and brimming with quiet menace. “To that thing that pretends to be your family?”

Sakura’s legs stiffened. Her voice faltered, but her instincts—carefully honed by fear, pain, and survival—took over. Her eyes lowered. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Then… what game do you want to play?”

As quickly as it came, the pressure vanished. The mirror fell still. The book closed itself gently.

The girl clapped her hands, beaming with sudden, impossible joy. “Yay! You’re the best!” she giggled, twirling once on her heels. “We could play with dolls—” she pointed to the levitating toys, now gently floating downward like feathers, “—or dress up! We could wear ribbons! I bet you'd look so cute in blue!”

Sakura didn't respond. She only watched. Watched the way the girl’s dress fluttered slightly despite the stillness of the air. Watched the way her eyes sparkled too brightly. Watched the movements that mimicked a child’s joy too perfectly, too precisely, like a performance rehearsed a thousand times.

She suppressed the urge to tremble.

A child should not carry such a presence.

A child should not wear that smile.

And yet, here she was. Small. Lonely. Smiling.

Her Servant.

Avenger B.

-----------------------------

The hallways of the Einzbern castle had grown cold again. The echoes of laughter, of family warmth and fleeting farewells, faded into the high ceilings like smoke. Illyasviel von Einzbern stood in the stillness, the weight of it pressing on her small shoulders.

She had waved goodbye—first to her mother, then to Saber, and then to that gentle and funny boy… Rider B, or Ben. She liked him and his transformations were cool.

And now they were gone.

Illya hugged her arms tightly to herself.

“They’re all fighting… even Mama. I’m supposed to wait. Be protected. Stay behind.”

The thought dug at her pride.

But Illya was not just a child. She was Einzbern. Her tiny hand curled slightly, the red Command Seals on the back glowing faintly like a rose blooming in her skin. They pulsed with something more than magic—resolve.

She knew the rules. But she also remembered the ritual.

The door to the summoning chamber creaked open slowly. The cold of the stone floor seeped up through her slippers as she stepped inside. Dust still lingered from the previous summoning—her father's summoning. She had watched it all from the edge of the door, memorizing every word, every movement.

“Let silver and steel be the essence…”

Her voice wavered slightly, but she continued. The air thickened around her, and motes of residual prana stirred like windless ash. The circle on the ground, once faded, reignited with lines of crimson and gold as her voice reached the final line.

“From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power, come forth from the circle of binding—Guardian of the Scales!”

Light burst outward in a brilliant halo. The air compressed, then released in a gentle ripple like a heartbeat.

From within the summoning circle, a figure emerged.

At first, Illya shielded her eyes from the glow. But as it dimmed, she peeked up—then blinked in surprise.

A girl stood in the center. About a bit taller than Illya’s height. She wore what looked like a school uniform—navy and white with bright red accents, clean and crisp despite the magic surrounding her. Her black hair was styled simply, falling neatly around her face with a little flip at the ends. Her expression was calm, even curious, and her posture relaxed… almost like she’d just stepped out of a classroom, not a summoning ritual.

Illya stared.

The girl smiled.

“Nice to meet you! I’m your Servant—Shielder B, at your servi–…ffk.”

Illya tilted her head slightly.

There was a faint stutter at the end. Not a stumble, exactly. More like—

“…Did you bite your tongue?”

The girl froze.

Then her eyes went wide with quiet horror.

Her posture stiffened, and her gaze dropped instantly to the floor. Her hands fidgeted slightly at her sides. If her school uniform had come with a hood, she probably would’ve pulled it over her face right there.

“…N-no…” she mumbled unconvincingly.

Illya blinked. Then blinked again.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Illya, almost against her will, gave a tiny giggle.

“You’re really… different from Saber.”

That made the girl glance up slightly, her expression sheepish. Her cheeks had gone a soft pink, barely noticeable under the chamber’s pale light.

“I’m Illyasviel. Or… Illya.” She took a small step forward, smiling. “I guess I’m your Master now.”

The girl seemed to perk up slightly at that, her shoulders relaxing. “I’ll protect you!” she said, a bit more confidently. “That’s what I’m best at.”

Illya could feel it, even without magecraft. This wasn’t a warrior like Saber, or a chaotic force like Rider B. This was a fortress with a kind heart. Someone meant to stand in front of others.

Meant to guard.

“…Good,” Illya whispered, almost to herself. “Then I won’t be left behind again.”

She reached out a hand.

Shielder B looked at it for just a second—then took it in hers. Her grip was warm and solid. A silent oath passed between them, one without the need for command spells.

And somewhere deep inside, the rose-shaped crest on Illya’s hand pulsed again—calm and steady.

Outside, war brewed.

But in this small corner of the castle…

A little girl had found her shield.

-----------------------------

The world was breaking.

Streets stretched too far, bending into loops that returned to places they shouldn’t. Light flickered from above—dim, directionless, as if the sky couldn’t decide whether to dawn or decay. What few buildings still stood were rotting, draped in veils of fog and vine, as if swallowed by time and then spit back out.

Something thick hung in the air. Not smoke. Not mist. Something heavier. Something wrong.

The child wandered alone.

She wore slippers, one footstep at a time echoing unnaturally on stone that pulsed like flesh. Her arms were crossed over her chest, shivering despite no wind. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was waiting.

Then came the laughter.

It began like wind under a door. Barely audible. A titter at first, then a ripple, then a screech—building in rhythmless waves like a chorus of mirrors cracking. It wrapped around her from nowhere.

She turned—and saw it.

A shadow.

Not cast, not shaped—just… present. A stain of smoke standing in the middle of the open street.

Its body had no details. But it had eyes.

Two spirals. Wide, bright, ever-turning. One clockwise, the other against. They bore into her, deep and deep and deeper, until—

She blinked.

There was a man now, running. Familiar. Too familiar.

His coat fluttered behind him, his hair damp with sweat, and he looked over his shoulder, eyes wide with desperation. He cradled something close—something wrapped in cloth, something he would never let go.

She reached out. Tried to call his name.

Nothing came.

Behind him, a tall figure stepped from the fog. Robed in black. Hands still. Eyes shadowed.

No face.

Only the motion—swift and final—as a long blade pierced the man’s back.

Her father gasped but didn’t fall right away. He looked forward again.

Right at her.

And smiled.

Not with joy. Not with fear. But… with apology.

Then he crumpled. The thing he held rolled from his arms and disappeared beneath the broken street. The spiral-eyed shadow tilted its head—and the laughing started again.

The little girl screamed.

-----------------------------

Rin awoke with a gasp, clutching her blanket to her chest.

The room was cold. Silent.

Moonlight painted her furniture silver. Her stuffed animals stared from their shelf, innocent and still. The window was slightly open, the curtain dancing just a little in the breeze.

She blinked and wiped at her face, realizing her cheeks were wet. Her chest felt tight, her throat dry. Her heart beat like a drum far too close to her ears.

A dream. Just a dream. That’s what she would tell herself.

But her fingers were curled into a fist against her chest.

And though she didn’t notice, faint red lines shimmered for a moment across the back of her small hand—three curling symbols, soft and warm like breath before vanishing.

Rin didn’t see it. She lay back down, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

She didn’t see what watched her, either.

No figure stood in her room. No shadow passed her window.

But something was observing.

A presence. Distant, but near. Impossible to see, yet impossible not to feel—if only faintly, like the pressure of a thought too large to understand.

It didn’t speak.

It didn’t move.

It simply watched.

-----------------------------

The soft clink of porcelain against wood echoed quietly in the dim room as Ruler B gently set down her teacup. Wisps of steam curled upward, slowly vanishing into the muted shadows, leaving only the faint scent of chamomile and spices lingering in the air. She sat motionless for a long moment, fingers lightly resting on the table, savoring the fragile calm before the impending storm.

Her figure was slender and poised, clad in an outfit both elegant and intimidating. The "X"-shaped overcoat, a pale white-grey with long tails lined in deep red, framed her slender frame with a sharp contrast. Beneath it, a fitted grey shirt with asymmetric front tails gave her a sleek silhouette, complemented by a short white tie that bore the striking red and black symbol of the Fatui. Her sleeves ended in delicate red-edged black ruffles that fluttered softly as she moved, paired with black fitted pants that flared just above the ankles, hinting at both refinement and readiness. On her feet were stiletto heels in muted gray tones, accented with subtle reddish details, completing an ensemble that balanced grace and menace.

Her hands and forearms were marked by the blackened curse that stained her skin like ink, a stark contrast to the pale elegance of her clothing. Long, sharp fingernails painted a vivid red caught the light with every subtle gesture, adorned with several ornate rings. White "+"-shaped earrings dangled from her ears, catching the dim light with a soft gleam. At the nape of her neck, attached to the back of her overcoat, glowed her Pyro Vision—a small but vivid ember of power.

Her layered hair, black and white, was pulled back into a long ponytail, with asymmetrical bangs framing her sharp features. Her eyes, black with red “X”-shaped pupils, glowed faintly in the dimness—an unsettling but captivating gaze that held cold calculation and ruthless intent.

Her piercing eyes glimmered with cold calculation, scanning unseen threats and possibilities, reflecting a mind honed by ruthlessness and precision. With a deliberate breath, she finally broke the silence.

“The Fourth Holy Grail war has officially begun.”

Her voice was calm but carried an undeniable weight, a proclamation that shifted the atmosphere in the room. To her, this competition was no chaotic brawl but a calculated crucible—one that would weed out weakness and deceit, leaving only the strongest to claim victory.

Yet, beneath her steely exterior, a faint trace of concern flickered. Years spent among the young had sharpened a sensitivity toward the innocent. Somehow, she felt certain that children would be swept into this brutal conflict, their fates tangled unwillingly in the cruel game. It unsettled her, though she carefully buried the thought beneath layers of discipline and duty.

Still, her resolve crystallized into unwavering steel. She would carry out her role without bias or mercy, an unflinching arbiter of justice and order.

With a subtle nod, she declared, “I will uphold my duty as Ruler B, watching over this war with impartial fairness. My name is… Arlecchino.”

The name hung in the air, a final statement revealing the enigmatic figure behind the cold, graceful mask—an echo of elegance entwined with ruthless authority.

-----------------------------

Ruler B

Class: Ruler

Master: None (acts upon mandate)

True Name: Peruere Snezhevna (“Arlecchino”)

Titles: The Knave, The Fourth Fatui Harbinger, Father of the House of the Hearth, Dire Balemoon Shade

Gender: Female (often styled as “Father” by wards)

Origin: Genshin Impact

Region: Fontaine / Snezhnaya

Alignment: Lawful Neutral (by her own code of twisted protection)

Parameters:

Strength: B

Endurance: B+

Agility: A

Mana: B

Luck: C

NP: EX

Class Skills:

Magic Resistance: B – As a Ruler, Arlecchino enjoys partial immunity to spells and magical coercion, reflecting her diplomatic resilience and mental fortitude.

Divine Negotiator: A – She embodies the authority of neutral arbitration. Whether among Fatui, nations, or forces of chaos, her pronouncements and edicts carry weight. She can impose limited divine-level deterrents to force fragile truces or bind conflicting parties temporarily.

Personal Skills:

Cold Calculus: A+ – Arlecchino’s ruthless intelligence and upbringing in the House of the Hearth forged a mindset that calculates value in human lives coldly. She strategically recognizes potential threats and resources before they act.

Masked Authority: A – Long trained to present as “Father,” she blended male patronage with maternal protection. This ambiguous authority unsettles and commands loyalty across gender and political lines, granting her subtle psychological control over wards and adversaries alike.

Dire Ember Curse: A – Inherited from the Crimson Moon bloodline and magnified by her Pyro Vision, this skill grants her innate immunity to cold effects (Teyvat ice/cryogenic magic) and allows her pyrokinesis to pierce spell defenses when activated.

Noble Phantasms:

???

Rank: EX (Anti-Fortress / Binding)

------

???

Rank: A (Anti-Army / Pyro)

------

Chapter Text

Moonlight poured over Fuyuki’s cityscape, casting long, whispering shadows over the rooftops. The Grand Lake shimmered with ghostly brilliance, while the distant roads and towers flickered with artificial light—beacons of civilization oblivious to the war that stirred beneath.

On a high ledge overlooking Miyama Town, Kirei Kotomine stood still, his arms folded behind his back. Beside him, swathed in ink-black cloaks, were Assassin and Caster B. The former was unmoving, a being of silence and observation. The latter? She was far from quiet. Her presence radiated a bizarre, whimsical malice—as if the world was a game she was already cheating at.

"The Church has confirmed our suspicions," Kirei murmured, his voice lost to the breeze. "The thirteenth and fourteenth Servants—Caster and Archer B—arrived last night."

Assassin said nothing. Caster B tilted her head dramatically, producing from her sleeve a peculiar black-and-white bear plush. Its eyes gleamed crimson, and its grin was permanently twisted into something between joy and murder.

“Keep this close,” she said, handing it to Assassin. “He’s your support.” Her voice was light and sweet, but beneath it was steel, mockery, and something… unnatural.

Kirei didn’t flinch. “They’ve already engaged,” he said, eyes scanning the night horizon. “That pulse of mana we felt was too strong to be coincidence.”

“My dear support,” Caster B added with a giggle, “watch your back.”

Assassin’s grip around the plush tightened. The bear’s glassy eyes pulsed faintly, like a ticking bomb.

“All Servants are now present,” Assassin finally said, quietly.

“Then our hour has come,” Kirei intoned.

But Assassin did not immediately vanish. He turned slightly. “And you’re sure about this? I was under the impression that Tokiomi Tohsaka was our ally.”

Kirei’s voice turned colder. “In war, there are no allies. Only opportunities.”

"Even if I confront Archer or Saber B, you believe I should proceed without hesitation?" Assassin asked, the confusion in his voice giving way to mistrust.

Caster B’s cheerful voice rang out like a bell. “I’ll be watching~ Through Monokuma, of course.” She gave a little wave to the plush in Assassin’s hand.

Assassin exhaled slowly, the last remnants of doubt leaving his body as he stepped to the cliff's edge. The wind tousled his cowl.

He moved.

Through the trees, he raced with blinding speed and impossible agility. His feet kissed the ground only in whispers. As he neared the edge of the forest, his hand swept up a collection of pebbles. Then, with a leap that bent gravity itself, he soared above the Tohsaka compound.

His thumb flicked five stones—each struck a red gemstone on a pedestal nestled in flowerbeds. With crackling bursts of mana, the gems shattered, releasing a short-range alarm and temporarily disabling the outer perimeter.

Landing in a bush, petals danced around him as he slipped from cover. He approached a second pedestal within the compound. A pebble flung from his hand struck it—and stopped, crackling against a shimmering red field.

Amused, Assassin stepped forward.

He moved like wind among the invisible magical glyphs, sensing their intervals and shapes by the tremors in the air. His body bent, dipped, twisted through narrow gaps as if performing a deadly ballet. More stones left his hand mid-movement, disrupting the structure.

And then—a surge of mana, so immense it bruised the world around it.

Assassin flinched, springing backward just as the field collapsed in on itself.

"You intrude on private grounds."

The voice was commanding, female, and cold as a winter battlefield.

Standing in the open was a woman.

She was tall, ethereal and dreadful all at once. Ornate crimson and gold armor enveloped her body—its design asymmetrical, baroque, and brutal. One arm and both legs were replaced with elegant prosthetics crafted from golden alloys, functioning as both art and weapon. A tattered crimson cape flared behind her like wings.

Her helm concealed her eyes, an ornate winged design casting her face in shadow, while long strands of reddish-blonde hair flowed like a banner down her back. The golden blade in her mechanical hand shimmered with ominous intent.

Assassin froze, recognizing instantly: this was Saber B.

He backed away, eyes darting to the plush in his hand. Caster B’s “support.” He grasped it reflexively—

—only for Saber B’s prosthetic blade to slice through it in a blur.

The bear exploded in a shockwave of fire and malevolent laughter. Monokuma’s voice echoed, gleeful and final.

Assassin staggered back, a scream barely held down his throat. That was no support. That was sabotage. Betrayal. His mind raced.

Saber B advanced with no words. Her blade flashed again—Assassin barely ducked, a strand of hair severed.

Her style was fluid and ferocious, blending relentless offense with uncanny precision. Assassin tried to counter with a dagger—but she was faster, stronger, and utterly merciless. Each blow was a killing stroke. She meant to end him.

And then…

…a golden blade fell from the heavens, piercing his shoulder and nailing him to the ground.

"Do not waste time with this worm, Saber B," a regal voice echoed from above. "This bout bores me."

Assassin’s head lolled up just enough to glimpse the speaker.

A man in golden armor stood atop the mansion roof—blonde hair slicked back, crimson eyes glowing like twin suns. Behind him: a sea of golden portals, each one hiding a weapon, each one ready to kill.

“I thought… I was already… fighting… Saber B…” Assassin managed to croak.

“He came alone,” Saber B said with a calm stillness, stepping over him. “I wished to see if his partner would come.”

Assassin opened his mouth to scream—but a golden spear sliced across his throat, silencing him.

Archer watched dispassionately as more weapons rained from his portals. Spear after dagger after halberd ripped through flesh and shattered ground alike. The world screamed around Assassin. Shockwaves from the impact sent gravel and stone flying.

There was no escape. Not from her. Not from him. Not from them.

And as he lay dying—his body skewered by artifacts of kings and gods alike—Assassin’s mind, in its final clarity, realized the truth: he was never meant to survive.

He was bait.

On the roof, Gilgamesh sneered. "Who gave you permission to gaze upon me?"

And somewhere, in the silent spaces between planes, an unseen watcher marked the death.

The war had truly begun.

------------------------------------

The bells of the Fuyuki Church swayed faintly in the night wind, but they did not ring.

Inside, the air was still and heavy. Risei Kotomine sat alone in the side chamber, fingers steepled beneath his chin, thinking.

The plan was delicate before… now the field is chaos. Too many unknown Servants, too many Masters with divided loyalties. Kirei’s role must be adjusted…

A sharp, deliberate knock broke the silence.

Three slow raps.

He frowned.

At this hour?

The sensation reached him before his feet did — a ripple in the air, unmistakable. Servant-class mana.

That would be Kirei, he assumed, rising and straightening his robes. Perhaps he’s brought word from Tokiomi—

The hinges groaned as he opened the heavy door.

And froze.

Standing on the threshold was no black-robed priest’s apprentice. Instead, a tall, naked figure—smooth and perfectly yellow like a ripened fruit—stood in the doorway. He had no hair, no clothing, no weapon, yet carried himself with the calm poise of a warrior. Two oversized brown eyes blinked slowly in the dim light, and his wide, unbroken smile was strangely at odds with the severed human arm hanging from his left hand.

The arm was pale, lifeless, and marked with three faintly strange glowing Command Seals in the shape of a broken crown. In his right arm, the Servant cradled a small, unconscious boy—red-haired, wearing an oversized, tattered shirty, thin legs dangling limply.

Before Risei could demand an explanation, a sharper presence entered from the hallway behind him.

Boots clicked on stone.

Ruler B emerged into view—tall, poised, her pale grey overcoat lined with crimson catching the lanternlight. Black and white hair tied into a long ponytail swayed lightly as she walked, her red “X”-shaped pupils catching both the boy and the crown-shaped seals in a single, deliberate glance. The faint ember of her Pyro Vision glowed at her back.

Her voice cut the silence.

“Archer B. Real name, Peely. Explain yourself.”

Peely immediately began a pantomime. Arms sweeping in broad arcs, miming an explosion. Then, clawing at the air. Pointing to the severed hand. Tapping the crown-shaped marks. Mimicking a terrified face. Then drawing a shape in the air — a circle — and pressing his hands together as if in prayer.

Risei’s brow furrowed deeper with each movement. “I… have no idea what you’re attempting to—”

“I understand perfectly,” Ruler B said, cutting in.

Risei turned his head sharply. “You can’t be serious.”

Her eyes didn’t leave Peely as she spoke:

“He was summoned alongside another Servant by a man — this man was not a magus of discipline, but a simple man who liked to murder innocent people. The other Servant turned against him. Peely rescued the boy and ended the conflict, but not before severing the Master’s hand to keep the Command Seals from falling into enemy control. The boy was unconscious during the escape. They came directly here.”

Risei stared at her as if she’d claimed to read the future. “…From that… pantomime?”

“Yes.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Risei felt the blood leave his face. The sight of the crown-shaped seals on the hand made the world tilt a fraction. A Master’s Command Seals… taken off a living human. Blasphemous. Dangerous. But also understable. He glanced at the child now opening his eyes—faint, indecipherable pain and a deeper fog of confusion in them. The boy’s lashes fluttered; he looked up and blinked as one who wakes from a long, wrong dream.

The boy stirred, his eyes fluttering open. Confusion flooded his face. “…Where… am I? I don’t remember anything…”

“You are safe, for now,” Ruler B replied, her tone softening. “But you’ve been brought into a conflict—the Holy Grail War.”

His eyes widened. “Holy… Grail War?”

Peely—Archer B—rose and, with slow, deliberate motions, made a shielding gesture across his own chest then pointed at the child and fanned his hands outward as if to say “stay.” He then tapped his own chest in a clear sign of “I will.” He nodded once, small and grave.

Risei’s confusion flared anew. “He says—?”

Ruler B cut him off with a single, narrowing glance. She stepped closer to the child, studying the face like a judge reading a petition. “You are not a participant in the Holy Grail War by right,” she said to the boy, voice steady and clear. “You were swept into its edges. This is not a place for a child to be entangled. The Grail War is a contest of magi: a ritual that summons heroic spirits to fight until only one Master remains to claim the Grail’s wish.It is bloody, absolute, and rationalities you know from stories do not hold. Servants kill. Masters die. The city will become a battlefield.”

The boy’s lips trembled. He looked smaller than he had a moment before, a thin, frightened thing with a smudge of soot on his cheek and hair that had the faint red of rust at the tips. He swallowed. “I—” His voice came out tiny. “I feel… lost. I don’t remember anything. I don’t—what am I for?”

Ruler B’s gaze did not soften, but it did sharpen. “If you remain here under my protection,” she said plainly, “you are out of the contest. Neutrality requires me to act as an arbiter; I may shelter those who are not participants. But if you choose to enter the War, to make yourself a Master who seeks the Grail—then by that choice you forfeit my protection. We enact neutrality; we cannot harbor those who become combatants in the name of impartiality.”

The child’s eyes widened at those words. The idea of choosing to step into that contest—of trading safety for answers—made his hands curl into fists of indecision. He looked to the yellow Servant, who crouched, palms out toward him: a clear, silent plea—“I will protect you. I will be yours.”

Peely then mimed placing an invisible object upon his own chest and setting his shoulders—an unmistakable sign of commitment. He stood, squared his absurd yellow chest, and made a cutting motion across his own throat to suggest the lengths he would go. His posture was terrible for a cartoon and perfect for a vow.

Ruler B observed everything, then exhaled once. She turned to Risei, her voice taking on the clarity of protocol. “He offers himself as guardian. He is not a conventional Servant of legend—he is from an external origin. If the child claims him and elects to enter the War as a Master, their bond will be recognized. If not, we may keep the child safe within these walls. That is the choice.”

The boy stared at Peely, at the crown-sealed hand, and at the woman who spoke like a law. Something like resolve—timid, tremulous—rose in his eyes. He drew a breath that shook.

“My name is—” he said, and the word arrived like a small anchor. “—Shirou.”

Shirou’s eyes searched the pale face of Ruler B, a fragile hope trembling within them.

“Is it… true? The Grail can restore what I’ve lost? My family… my memories?”

Ruler B’s gaze softened just enough to reveal a hint of compassion beneath her usual sternness.

“The Holy Grail’s wish is said to be limitless. It can grant nearly any desire—no matter how impossible it seems. But know this: the path to the Grail is paved with blood, sacrifice, and unyielding resolve. There are no guarantees, only chances.”

Shirou’s breath hitched, but he drew it back steady, his voice clear and resolute.

“I don’t care about the risks. I want to reclaim what’s been taken from me. I will enter the War. I will become a Master.”

Ruler B’s crimson pupils narrowed, the faint ember of her Pyro Vision glowing softly behind her. She turned slowly toward Risei Kotomine.

“Risei. Transfer the Command Seals to him. Bind the contract. The Holy Grail War has already begun for him.”

Risei bowed his head slightly, his face a mask of professionalism that barely concealed a flicker of anticipation.

“As you command.”

He moved toward Shirou with practiced, deliberate steps, preparing the sacred ritual to bind Master and Servant. The weight of destiny pressed heavy in the chamber as the Command Seals—emblems of power and fate—glowed faintly in his palm, ready to mark the boy’s future.

Outside, the bells of the church remained silent, but within, the gears of war had begun to turn.

------------------------------------------------

The execution of Assassin had been witnessed by one more pair of eyes: those belonging to the master of the Tohsaka residence itself.

"Excellent," Tokiomi murmured, his gaze drifting toward the scarred garden outside where the aftermath of battle lay like a battlefield frozen in time. He swirled the wine in his glass with deliberate calm, though beneath that composed exterior, his mind raced. The Holy Grail War was already far more complex than he had anticipated.

Behind him, two figures materialized within the office—his summoned Servants.

To his right, the golden-armored Archer stood with the unmistakable arrogance of one who claimed kingship over all heroes. His crimson eyes glittered with a mix of disdain and amusement.

To his left, the figure who commanded his attention most was a woman whose presence was a blend of grace and lethality. She carried herself with a calm but unyielding authority, every movement imbued with the weight of a legacy that transcended mere mortal boundaries.

Her aura is different. Not just a warrior—something divine. She is no ordinary Saber, Tokiomi thought, studying the subtle play of light on her crimson armor and the faint scent of withering petals that seemed to cling to her presence. A goddess, or something close to it. Her burden is as heavy as her power.

"Forgive the interruption, King of Heroes," Tokiomi said with a respectful bow, though his eyes flickered to the woman. "And you, Saber B."

The Archer’s gaze swept over the woman with thinly veiled contempt. “If I must be bothered with these trivialities, do not expect me to be entertained by the lesser."

Saber B, unshaken, responded in measured tones, “I have already handled what was necessary. There is no need for unnecessary interference.”

Tokiomi noted how the tension between the two was palpable — an undercurrent of mutual respect mingled with challenge. The King of Heroes, proud and all-encompassing, and the divine warrior who carried a curse woven with flowers and death.

Their rivalry is almost inevitable. Yet both serve my cause, at least for now.

Gilgamesh’s crimson eyes flicked toward her with a rare curiosity. “You claim divinity, yet you walk as a mortal. Why summon such a contradiction?”

She met his gaze without hesitation. “Power is not defined by status alone, but by the will to bear its consequences. I am both burden and blade. In your eyes, I may be a goddess or a curse, but neither will break me.”

Tokiomi watched the exchange, fascinated by the subtle dance of pride and disdain. The presence of such powerful, yet conflicting spirits was a double-edged sword, but one he intended to wield carefully.

“Your independence is a risk,” he said. “His power is vast and uncontrollable at times. But you… you are the shield against such recklessness.”

The woman inclined her head slightly, a flicker of somber pride in her eyes. “I am bound by more than mere contracts. I carry a burden that transcends this war. I will not falter.”

Tokiomi’s mind weighed the implications of that burden. She is not merely a pawn; she is a force unto herself. If she falters, it could mean ruin — not just for me, but for the entire war.

Gilgamesh, with his usual haughty tone, declared, “I am the king of all that is valuable. Should this world offer treasures worthy of my collection, they shall be mine. Otherwise, summoning me will be a grave mistake.”

Tokiomi raised his glass in response, steadying his nerves. “The Holy Grail will meet your expectations, King of Heroes.”

Gilgamesh turned to leave, but not before issuing a final command. “If you encounter that loud fool, remind her to hold her tongue in my presence.”

Tokiomi’s lips twitched in a faint smile despite the tension. Managing Gilgamesh would be a challenge, but he was confident in his own abilities and those of his Servants.

As the golden light faded, Tokiomi allowed himself a moment to breathe. With these powerful allies my plans will unfold as intended. Yet the war is still young. There are many variables I cannot yet foresee.

He cast one last glance toward the battered garden outside, knowing full well that peace was a fragile illusion.

----------------------------------------------

Another Master watched the events unfold with a pleased smile.

“Assassin’s down already?!” Waver Velvet’s eyes lit up as he listened to his mouse familiar’s report. Safe inside the Mackenzie house, he turned eagerly to his Servant. “Hey, Rider! That’s great news,” he said, excitement creeping into his voice. “One enemy’s out before we even get started.”

Rider barely glanced up from his snacks, sprawling casually in just his undergarments and chest armor. “Assassin was never a threat,” he muttered, crunching a rice cracker. Around him, books on military tactics and a small TV showing war footage created a cozy, almost lazy atmosphere.

Waver sighed. “You really don’t care about the war, do you?”

Rider grinned. “Why bother? Let them fight each other. I’m here to enjoy the show—and my crackers.”

Suddenly, the air shifted. Berserker B entered without ceremony, her presence chilling despite her calm demeanor. She scanned the room briefly, her eyes locking on Waver with an unexpected softness.

“You worry too much, Master,” she said quietly, stepping closer. “You’re my reason to keep going. Don’t think I’m letting anything happen to you.”

Waver blinked, cheeks heating up. “I—I’m fine! Really. No need to fuss.”

From the doorway, a booming voice cut in. “Hah! Already growing close, aren’t we? Starting by winning over the girl, Master!” Iskandar chuckled heartily, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Berserker B glanced at Iskandar, then smiled, almost childlike. “She’s not just a girl,” she murmured, voice low but intense. “She’s the reason this war is meaningless. Thanks to my Noble Phantasm, I saw through the illusions—the battles, the lies. It’s all a game with empty stakes.”

She held up her phone, scrolling through messages with quick, precise fingers. “I’ve seen the threads of causality twist and snap. The moment Saber B intervened… everything changed. The war lost its purpose.”

Waver shifted nervously. “You really think the whole thing’s a sham?”

Berserker B nodded slowly. “I do. But it doesn’t mean we stop fighting. Not yet. Not until I know you’re safe.”

Rider raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone’s got a death wish.”

Berserker B’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I have no fear of death. Only of losing what I care about.”

Iskandar laughed again, slapping Waver on the back. “See? That’s the spirit. Just don’t let her scare you too much, boy.”

Waver gave a half-hearted smile, still embarrassed but strangely comforted. “I’ll try.”

Berserker B leaned closer to Waver, voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ll see, Waver. When the time comes, I’ll protect you with everything I have.”

--------------------------

Under the cloak of fading dusk, one of Assassin’s bodies moved with calculated silence through the labyrinthine alleys of the city. His steps were measured, each footfall a careful negotiation with the uneven cobblestones beneath him. The air was thick and damp, a chill clinging to his skin as the last rays of sunlight surrendered to gathering shadows. Flickering street lamps cast trembling pools of light, but the deeper alleys were swallowed by creeping darkness. Here, the city’s heartbeat slowed; life’s distant murmur faded to a faint whisper, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Assassin’s sharp eyes flickered through the gloom, searching every corner with relentless vigilance. His senses, honed by countless missions, picked up the faintest anomalies—the subtle shift of energy in the air, the irregular pulse of a heartbeat, the whispered hum of mana. Then, something caught him: a man, seemingly ordinary and yet undeniably off. The figure walked with a casual gait, but Assassin’s gaze locked onto a faint shimmer—a thin, almost imperceptible veil of magical energy surrounding the man like a whisper of smoke.

Curiosity sharpened Assassin’s focus as his gaze settled on the man’s hand. There, sprawling in jagged, uneven patterns, were red marks—rough, hastily drawn, but unmistakably reminiscent of command seals. Assassin’s mind raced. Could these crude markings really be genuine command seals? It was unusual, almost reckless, for a Master to brand themselves in such a disorderly fashion—but desperation and madness could drive strange acts. If these were real, the man might be more dangerous than he appeared, or perhaps a desperate pawn in some shadowed game. Assassin’s instincts told him to be cautious but intrigued.

Silently, he fell into step behind the man, maintaining a discreet distance. The man veered off the bustling main street into a narrow, grim alley. The walls, stained with peeling paint and layers of graffiti, seemed to close in. The ground was littered with broken glass, scraps of paper, and the stale scent of rot and neglect hung heavily in the air. The alley was a forgotten vein of the city, where light and hope both seemed to wither.

Assassin’s breath became visible in the cold air as he advanced, senses sharpened to detect any sign of threat. But the man showed no awareness of being followed; he moved with eerie calm, as if resigned to some unseen fate. Then, the man collapsed, limbs splaying unnaturally on the cracked pavement.

Kneeling beside him, Assassin’s sharp gaze scanned for signs of life. The man’s skin was pallid, drained of color, his chest utterly still. Assassin’s mind reached for explanations—poison, magic, a curse—but the deeper truth hit harder than any blade: the man did not breathe. He was an empty husk. The red marks, so like command seals at first glance, were nothing but crude drawings—ink smeared in childish strokes, meaningless and ineffective. A pang of disbelief washed over Assassin. To have been deceived so thoroughly unsettled him; perhaps this was some trap, or worse, a message.

Suddenly, a cold, metallic clatter shattered the silence behind him. Reflexes honed over countless battles kicked in, but the attack was swift and merciless. A skeletal arm, gleaming with harsh, cold light, lunged from the shadows with terrifying speed. Its razor-sharp claws pierced Assassin’s back before he could react, a precise strike tearing through muscle and bone. Time seemed to distort—seconds stretched into agonizing eternity as the cold metal gripped his chest, seizing his heart. The brutal motion was seamless, cruelly efficient, wrenching his core free with unyielding force.

Pain blossomed, fierce and consuming, but confusion burned brighter. Who—or what—was this mechanical predator? What dark purpose animated it? As the world faded, Assassin’s mind spiraled through thoughts: Was this his end? Another vessel lost in an endless war of shadows and deception? The irony stung bitterly; he had been so cautious, yet caught off guard by something so alien.

But death did not claim him that night.

With deliberate grace, the mechanical Servant reconfigured its body, smoothing sharp edges, elongating limbs, and finally condensing itself into a form capable of infiltration. Then, like a dark shadow claiming a prize, it slid seamlessly into Assassin’s dying body. The fusion was both grotesque and mesmerizing, the cold mechanical essence merging with flesh and spirit.

The creature now wore Assassin’s form as a new vessel, his spiraled yellow eyes gleaming with malevolent satisfaction through the skull mask. The city remained oblivious to the silent transformation that had just taken place in its underbelly.

In that moment, Assassin lost another one of his bodies...

...and Pretender B gained a new costume.

-------------------------------------------------------

I saw in the comments that i really surprised you with this choice and i'm proud of it, honestly the choice was either him or Cuphead, but i realized that i wanted to do the unthinkable, so i choose him, and i gave him to shirou of all the people. Surely nothing wrong will happen if the masters of the fifth war participated in the fourth...right?
Thank you for reading.

Archer B –
Class: Archer
Master: Uryuu Ryuunosuke (former), Shirou (current)
True Name: Peely
Titles: The Banana Who Holds Reality Together
Gender: Male
Origin: Fortnite
Region: The Loop
Alignment: Chaotic Good

Parameters:

Strength: C

Endurance: B

Agility: A

Mana: C

Luck: A

NP: A

Class Skills:

Independent Action: A
Peely is a veteran of solo queues and chaotic team fights, often forced to operate on his own. He can continue battling and using Noble Phantasms even with little to no mana supply from his Master.

Riding: A
"I've driven tanks. I've flown Battle Buses. I’ve been a missile."
During the war against the Imagined Order, Peely stepped beyond slapstick survival and into the role of a real battlefield combatant. After receiving driving lessons (with questionable results), he displayed surprising proficiency in piloting all manner of vehicles—ranging from armored tanks and hovercrafts to alien transports and modified Battle Buses.

Personal Skills:

Quick Builder: A
The signature of a true Loop warrior. Peely can instantly construct wooden, brick, or metal structures for cover, elevation, or redirection.
These barriers block projectiles, limit movement, or offer high ground.
Especially useful for rapid response or evasion during NP activation.

Sharpshooter Instinct: B+
Peely’s experience across thousands of firefights grants him intuitive precision with all firearms and projectile weapons.
Improves critical strike chance and target tracking.
Especially effective during aerial or mid-movement combat.

Loot Radar: B
An almost mystical sense honed from surviving The Loop. Peely can instinctively locate high-value resources, healing supplies, or lost Noble Phantasm fragments in chaotic environments.
Passive buffs to adaptability and supply recovery.
If near defeat, this may trigger a hidden “comeback” potential through equipment discovery.

Banana Reflexes: A
As silly as it sounds, Peely’s danger response is near superhuman.
When HP drops below 30%, Peely gains an Agility boost, evasion buff, and bullet-time-like reflexes for a brief window.
Stackable with Quick Builder for desperate survival maneuvers.

Noble Phantasms:

Armory Arsenal – “Loadout Unleashed!”
“Purple Scar? Check. Rocket Launcher? Check. Meme potential? Absolutely.”
Rank: E–A (Anti-Unit / Anti-Army)
Peely taps into the arsenal of The Loop, rapidly summoning an ever-changing loadout: Assault Rifles, SMGs, grenade launchers, bows, alien tech, and meme-tier weapons (like Boogie Bombs).
Randomized loadout mechanic selects the most “advantageous” set against current threats.
Finishes with a cinematic headshot or explosive critical.
Firepower scales with tension, style, and absurdity—true to Fortnite logic.

Consumable Cache – “Pop the Cap, Patch the Wound!”
“Slurp up, squad!”
Rank: E–B+ (Support)
Peely summons iconic healing and support items:
Shield Potions: Buffs defense and mental resistance
Medkits: Restore HP over time
Slurp Juice / Chug Jug: Hybrid regen items with instant effects
Buff Fish / Exotic Consumables: Temporary boosts to Speed, Agility, or Mana regeneration.
Cooldowns limit how often this NP can be used per engagement, but it can clutch-save battles.

Squad Synergy – “Don’t You Die on Me!”
“REVIVING...”
Rank: A (Support / Party Survival)
Peely invokes the Fortnite revive mechanic, treating death as a knockdown rather than annihilation:
If Peely, his Master, or up to two allies would be fatally wounded, they instead enter “downed state” for 2 minutes.
During that time, if any ally provides assistance (magic, healing, even presence), the downed unit revives with partial HP.
Only revives a unit at once.
Does not protect from conceptual erasure or multi-target NPs like Enuma Elish—but can negate a single-target fatal blow.

Chapter Text

The wet cobblestones whispered beneath their boots as Kirei Kotomine and Caster B walked toward the church. Night pressed close, thick and damp, the town folded into pools of sodium light, and her footsteps rang like a metronome against the hush. She moved with careless brightness, sashaying beside him as if they were strolling a promenade instead of approaching a sanctuary that had just become a pocket of fragile neutrality.

“You should smile more, Kirei,” she sang, twirling a fingertip through the air and scattering a faint, childish punctuation to the darkness. “It makes you look… less like a coffin and more like an enthusiastic funeral.”
Kirei, obedient and composed as ever, kept his face the flat, unreadable mask he wore for the world. The priest’s training made him less susceptible to obvious provocations; what unnerved him was how easily she leaned into them. “Keep your voice low,” he told her, mildness folded into every syllable like a blade in silk. “We are not in private.”

“Oh, hush.” She pouted playfully, then tilted her head, eyes bright. “You should be grateful. You brought me a real stage, stone, candles, a priest with an evenly paced panic schedule. How poetic.”
Kirei’s jaw tightened. He had learned, in this war, that not every smile concealed innocence. He had also learned that some smiles hid teeth. He fell silent.

Caster B kept singing under her breath. She tugged at the collar of a deliberately disheveled school uniform: frills restitched into jagged loops, a skirt with asymmetrical rips, tiny bear-shaped clips pinned to the hair like punctuation marks. The outfit read like a mockery of youth fashioned into armor: familiar but wrong in all the right ways.

They reached the church steps and Kirei lifted his eyes to the heavy door. It opened before them; someone had heard them come.
Risei Kotomine stood on the threshold, hands folded at his chest. The elder priest’s expression was an unreadable blank that began, in seconds, to sand into something like refusal. Behind Risei the lanterns threw a vigilant amber, and the church itself smelled faintly of soot and stored prayer.

“Kirei,” Risei said, voice even, “you are… late.”
Kirei gave him a curt incline. “Father Risei. We arrived as you were expected to—”

“And we are not to be provided with sanctuary,” Risei interjected. He did not look at Caster B; his eyes stayed on Kirei like a gauge. “I will not house you or continue the plan as previously arranged.”

The words landed like a strike. Kirei’s composure flicked; a shadow passed over his features. “You refuse without explanation.” He took a step forward. “You cannot—”

Risei’s reply was small and certain. “I will not elaborate. She has already spoken. I obey only to what is permissible under her directive.” The old man’s hands tightened, and for the first time since the first knock, Kirei thought he saw fear lace his restraint.

Caster B’s giggle found the gap. It was high, too musical for the place, and it carried the same brittle edge she’d worn since she had arrived in Fuyuki. “Oh? Somebody’s keeping secrets. How scandalous. Daddy’s being mysterious—what a date.” She spun once for the lanternlight, the bear-shaped clips at her temples catching the glow.

Kirei’s eyes flicked to her, then back to his father. “Father—”

“Leave it,” Risei cut him off, voice breaking on the single syllable as if it were a shard. He turned his head only briefly, toward Caster B, and the doorframe seemed to compress around her like a proscenium. “She will explain in time.” He said the word as though its weight might steady the air. “Not now. Not to you. Not here.”

Kirei looked puzzled—something colder than confusion threaded his features—but the priest’s refusal had a firmness that looked, painfully, immovable. “She?” Kirei asked. “Who—?”

Risei’s eyes did not name the woman. He only said, once more, “You will understand in the future.”

Caster B clapped once, delighted. “Oh! How deliciously dramatic. A puppet show where the puppeteer is silenced. And the silent puppet—” She bobbed her head toward Risei with exaggerated concern that was only surface deep, “—oh, do be careful, old
man. You look excellent when you wobble.”

Risei did not reply outwardly, but internally he felt the thin, cold barbs of the woman’s presence. The effect was odd: a taste like metal, the hairs on his forearm crawling in twin ridges. He had not the language to call it fear; it was a minor nausea, an awareness like the shadow of winter under skin. He forced himself to breath even, to set the impression aside as protocol demanded.

It didn’t help that he recognized that cut of fabric, that thread pattern, a small ghost of memory that slid through him and refused to settle. It reminded him, stubbornly, of an encounter long ago; a fleeting image of someone earnest and surprisingly grateful, of an armor repurposed into plain cloth. He forced the thought back under his training, aware of the heat at his neck, the way his palms itched. He did not speak the recognition. He would not give Caster a gift of that knowledge.

Kirei’s eyes flicked to Caster B with a measured chill. “Remain discreet,” he said again, quieter this time. “If the other Masters suspect treachery, you will become a target.”

Caster B tilted her head, the expression a careful, theatrical hurt. “Treachery? How tiresome.” She drew herself up and wiggled her fingers like a conductor. “If people suspect, I simply become more interesting.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, cooing like a sweet poison. “Besides, do you truly think they will see me as a threat? They remember the man with the dagger—and men forget what scares them.”

Risei’s jaw worked. He wanted to ask more, to press why Ruler B’s presence had cowed him so thoroughly; to demand who had said what. But Ruler B’s authority, implicit, absolute, had already rearranged the playing field. He swallowed the question and instead said what would not start a new war in the room: “She will explain in time,” he repeated. “For now, continue what you can.”

Kirei’s confusion did not melt; it tightened into something investigative. He watched his father, watched the way Risei’s hand brushed his chest as if to steady a tremor. He watched Caster B’s smile, which never quite reached those eyes. “Very well,” he said. “I will continue.”

Caster B clapped again, delighted in a way that set the air a degree colder. No one noticed how her fingers flexed—an almost animal movement—how her eyes glazed for a breath with a tiny, hungry light. Beneath the chirp of her speech and the childlike cadence, there was a current of something else: plans folded inward, a precise, quiet machinery of intent. She loved the theatre too much to stand at the wings; she preferred to be where the scene could burn.

“And risei,” she tossed a bright little mockery over her shoulder, “you look positively adorable when you take orders.”

Risei did not laugh. He watched them go—Kirei moving with ecclesiastical grace, Caster B skipping at his side like a marionette pulling its own strings, and felt the heaviness of having been made complicit in silence. He stood in the doorway a moment longer, fists clenched at his sides, then turned and closed the wood slowly, as if his hand might still be pinned on the latch by some unspoken demand of the evening.

When the door closed, Junko Enoshima's voice floated faintly back through the window and thread of stone, bright as a bell and wet with amusement. “See you at the next act!”

Only when the footsteps had dwindled did Risei let himself touch the small nausea at his throat and the half-memory he had scrubbed from yesterday. He did not speak it aloud. He would not draw attention to it. The Church’s quiet held its breath.

---------------------------------------------

The dockyards were quiet at night, but the silence was not empty. It pressed, heavy and damp, like the fog clinging to the crates and rusted cranes.

Ruler B, Arlecchino, moved carefully across the slick ground. She had come because of a vision. A fragment. A warning.

It had burned itself into her mind without her consent:
A girl with pink hair, screaming, her knife flashing. A boy in shabby clothes raising his hands uselessly in defense. Blood spraying—not his, but from a woman with silver-white hair who crumpled to the ground. And after that, fire. The city engulfed in a distorted blaze, streets melting into ash and red skies.

She clenched her gloved hand at the memory.

Who were they? Why here? And why her?
…Where did that vision come from? The thought tightened her chest, but before she could let the doubt expand, her ears caught something else.

Steps. Voices. Lighthearted, too loud for those who wanted to live through this War.
She slid into the shadow of a shipping container, breath thin, listening.

“Ughhh, Kazuma, Kazuma!”

“Yes, I’m Kazuma,” the boy answered immediately, deadpan, as if rehearsed. “What now?”

Aqua puffed her cheeks. “Why are we out here sneaking around the docks when we could be back in the hotel? They have wine, Kazuma. Wine! And warm baths!”

“Because, you useless goddess, unlike you, I don’t want to get obliterated on the first day,” Satou Kazuma, called Assassin B in this war, muttered while hammering a crude tripwire into place between two crates. “We’re setting traps. Basic strategy. Ever heard of it?”

“But why traps? Kayneth didn’t order this! We could be relaxing—”

Assassin B stopped, turned, jabbed a finger at her forehead. “Do you want me to die again, Aqua? No? Then shut up and cast your spells.”

Aqua pouted and flicked her wrist, sprinkling glowing charms along the dock. “Fine, but mine are way better than yours. Holy wards! Exorcisms! The undead will never touch this place!”

“…We’re not fighting zombies.”

“They’re still important!”
Thunk.
Aqua yelped, clutching her head where Assassin B had smacked her. “Oww! Kazumaaa!”

“You’re supposed to be a goddess, but all you ever do is cry and drink. Useless. Completely useless.”

“Rude! I’m the Axis cult’s beloved goddess! People pray to me every day!”

“Yeah, because you brainwashed them.”

“Shut up!”

Their bickering echoed across the warehouse walls like a cheap play.

Arlecchino remained silent in her corner, lips pressed thin. But her thoughts stirred.

Tomorrow. They said it themselves—the fight is tomorrow. The scene from her vision aligned with their words, the fire, the blood, the clash.

She leaned, just slightly, to catch a glimpse of the girl. Aqua’s bright hair shimmered in the moonlight, her staff swaying carelessly.

So… this is one of their gods?

She waited. Watched. And what she saw made her still inside.

This goddess whined, tripped over her own feet, drank too much, and cried at every reprimand. There was no dignity, no divine weight, no iron law in her. Just a loud, fragile presence with too much light spilling from careless fingers.

A pause stretched in Arlecchino’s chest like a breaking string.
All the hopeful whispers she had heard, all the admiration people in other worlds carried for their deities, crushed in a single glance.

-----------------------------------------

I watched her go.

Not with eyes, my body has no eyes in the human sense, but with the long, slow sense of a thing threaded through places: the iron seams beneath the dockyard, the rusted rivets of cranes, the damp breath of the river. She moved like a note plucked from a score I had given her; the image I had pressed into her mind still hung there like a dropped bead of mercury, and she followed its pull without knowing who had spilled it.

The vision had been precise in its cruelty and vague in its faces: a girl with hair like summer-sweet petals, moving too fast and too fierce; a boy clattering with luck and mischief; a woman who collapsed and did not rise. Fire smeared the edges of the world afterward, an aftertaste of ash. She had stood in the place the image showed and when she did, I felt the echo of it settle into the soil like rain.

I had fed that fragment to her. Not to frighten, never that, but to test which thread would pull taut first, to see whether a small tug here might unravel a larger knot elsewhere. It is a crude kind of kindness. I do not pretend it is anything else.

My presence is everywhere and nowhere. My spine coils through city alleys and cathedral vaults; it passes through alleys where no footsteps echo and over beds where no heartbeat stirs. I know the blueprint of a street before the mortar cools. Still, I cannot see everything. Space folds away from me like thin paper, and threads snap where I cannot reach them. There are edges to my perception; there are blind corners where fate gorges itself in private.

I thought of the child, small, pale, a name like a dropped stone. She is not mine to guard, and yet pity gathers like lint behind my ribs. She is a shard from a different telling, a girl cast into a contest that grinds adults into names they cannot take back. She laughs sometimes in sleep; she wakes to the sound of closing doors. I watched her because I could not do otherwise. My attention is a kind of mercy.

The future that kept crowding into my senses was thin and terrible. I folded it over and over and found the same crease: a city hollowed by flame, voices that could not be put back together, promises burned to tinder. The small, bright things, families, markets, a child's smooth, absurd toy, are easiest to lose. They fall first, before strategies and ranks, because grief knows how to pry open the places people think are locked.

I do not have a mouth in the way the living do. Still, the old habit of exhalation clings to me, an echoed motion that is nothing and everything. I let that non- breath go now. It is a sigh that carries no steam, a ripple across a surface where no wind had been. I hope. That is the most human word I possess. I hope that what I can do—these small, furtive nudges, the half-truths, the visions, will be enough to keep the world from tipping into the shape I glimpsed.

There is a cruelty in being everywhere yet not being able to intervene directly. I can thread images through minds; I can point a finger or tug a memory. I cannot, without a certain authority, take a hand and stop a blade. There is a rule, older than the magics most of them call upon: I may be manifested to this plane, I may show myself, but only under the mark that binds Masters, only when a Command Seal is pressed into the air as a key will my outline hold and a human gaze truly find me.

Sometimes I envy that key. Sometimes I envy the small, foolish power of a thing that can reach out and grasp. But envy is a soft animal; it does not last long in me. There is work, cold and patient, to do.
So I will keep watching. I will place the image where it will walk; I will let it touch those who must see it. For every scene I do not wish to play out, I will seed a counter-movement, and for as long as I can whisper into the bones of the city, I will try to turn that future.

My body is in the gutters and the rafters, in the empty aisles of shops shuttered by fear. I am the thing that waits at the edge of calamity and, with what little means I possess, I press my face to the glass and mutter warnings no one can hear.

If anyone asks what I am—what urges, what instrument slides under the skin of things to leave such impressions, I would answer plainly, at last, and without conceit: I am Watcher B.

---------------------------------------

Dawn in the hotel suite was a thin, cold thing. the city still half-asleep under a low, iron sky. Kiritsugu moved with the economy of habit: a pistol cleaned, the edge of a broken bayonet examined, a maintenance rack of spare parts laid out with the kind of obsession that steadied the mind. Tools made thinking practical; there was no poetry in them, only purpose.

Maiya Hisau sat opposite him, hands folded, watching the motions as if she read the future in the way he reassembled a firing pin. He spoke without looking up.

“Saber will be with us this afternoon,” he said. “And Rider B. We’ll have the three of us in place before evening.”

Maiya inclined her head. “Good. You should rest a little—” she started, then stopped, the expression on her face sharpening. “Kiritsugu, there’s something you need to know. Assassin is dead.”

The wrench in his chest was almost physical. “Dead.”

“Found at the Tohsaka house. Killed. The body—” she hesitated, “—by an Archer and another Saber-class Servant. They tore him apart.”

Kiritsugu set down the small file he’d been cleaning. It slid across the table with a sound like a soft metal sigh. “Who—?”

“A loud golden Archer and a saber the witnesses described as… strange. They said she moved like carved armor. There was another detail.” Maiya’s voice went flat. “Kirei was seen in the company of a second Servant. The Church did not host them. It looks—” She swallowed. “It looks like a set-up.”

The word landed like an iced drop. Kiritsugu let it cool and then burned it. He had known the Holy Grail War would be unruly; he had not imagined ritual turned into theater.

“How sure are you?” he asked.

“Familiars put them at the scene. The timing is perfect for a staged fall. Also” Maiya gave him a glance “Kirei was refused shelter earlier. Risei turned him away.” She let the implication hang: someone had forced decisions by presence. “If Kirei is with that second Servant publicly, then either he’s reckless, or coerced.”

Kiritsugu considered the details, the way patterns folded into one another. Kirei’s involvement. A second Servant visible where she should have been hidden. A Church elder refusing hospitality. The move read like pressure from a larger hand.

“Then it was meant to be seen,” he said finally. “Bait, misdirection. To draw attention and split judgement.”

Before he could speak again, a soft knock at the door. Not the knock of staff, or of an assassin. Too measured.

Maiya’s gun was already raised when Kiritsugu opened it a crack.

A pale figure stood in the hall—female in appearance, though her expression was as blank as the walls. White hair framed a face without warmth, without doubt. An Einzbern homunculus.
She spoke without bowing, voice low and even.

“Magus. An intruder has entered the castle. A Servant of unknown class. They have taken the child: Illyasviel von Einzbern.”

The words pierced the room like gunfire.

Kiritsugu froze, every thought stalling. “…Taken?”

“Yes.” Her tone did not waver. “We believe the Servant appeared uninvited. The child left the castle alongside them. There has been no further contact.”

Kiritsugu rose sharply to his feet, the rifle clattering back onto the bed. “What—when?”

“Yesterday’s night.”

Maiya’s eyes narrowed. “Do we know the class?”

The homunculus blinked slowly, expression unchanged. “No. Nothing is known. They were not among those previously identified.”

Kiritsugu’s fists clenched at his sides, the veneer of calm cracking. “Illya…”

He pressed a hand to his temple, forcing himself to breathe, to think. It could not be coincidence. A Servant that appeared at the Einzbern stronghold itself. An unknown. And Illya, his daughter, taken away by them.

His mind wanted to spin into every possibility, but the fact was cruel: he could do nothing. Not yet.

Maiya, ever the anchor, spoke levelly. “Saber and Rider B return with Irisviel later today. Until then, we cannot act.”

Kiritsugu’s jaw worked, his shoulders stiff. The words tasted bitter, but she was right. Charging blind would solve nothing. And yet the thought of Illya in another Servant’s hands clawed at him, breaking through the walls he had built around himself.

“…If they harm her…” His voice was low, strangled, but it carried a steel that even Maiya rarely heard.

The homunculus did not react, did not move. She had delivered the message. That was her duty.

Kiritsugu turned away, staring at the gleaming rifle on the bed, his reflection warped in the metal. For the first time in a long while, his mission and his role as father collided. And no amount of planning, no bullet, no contract could bridge the distance between them, not yet.

The hotel room fell silent again, but this silence was heavier than before. It carried the weight of a father powerless to save his daughter, and the certainty that by nightfall, the war would claim another piece of him.

------------------------------------------

The little skiff drifted lazily on a rolling sheet of steel-grey water. Waves lapped without urgency at its hull, and the faint smell of salt and fish clung to everything, the nets piled in the corner, the tar-stained wood, even the men themselves. One fisherman sat at the bow, line dangling, eyes half-closed against the glare of the pale morning sun. His companion was below deck, clattering faintly as he rummaged among crates. Nothing unusual, just another long day of waiting for the ocean to show mercy.

The stillness was broken not by a tug on the line, but by a sound. At first, so faint it could have been the creak of the mast. Then clearer, sharper, almost playful:

“Wwwhhheeee—”

The man at the bow straightened, blinking into the horizon. That wasn’t a gull. It wasn’t a wave or a groan of timber. It was a cry, high-pitched and gleeful, carried by the wind as though someone — or something — were laughing overhead.

And then he saw it.

Something green, a blur of motion, hurtled across the sky above the boat. It wasn’t a bird, though for an instant his mind begged him to believe it was. It was far too large, far too solid, the shape of it strange, wrong, impossible. His breath caught as the shadow passed directly over the skiff, blotting the sun for a blink. A gust of air followed, rattling the nets and sending the tarpaulin flapping as though a storm had struck in miniature.

There was more, a flicker of light, like a spark or a flare, darting from its mouth. For an instant, it seared across his vision like lightning pressed into the shape of a ray.

The thing was gone just as quickly as it came, vanishing into the horizon with that same strange, cheerful trill. Spray still clung to the fisherman’s face as he sat, stunned, eyes wide and mouth open, line forgotten in the water.

The hatch scraped open behind him, and his companion emerged, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What the hell are you staring at? What happened? You look like you saw a ghost.”

The first man swallowed, pointing weakly after the vanished streak. His hand shook. “Not a ghost,” he muttered. “Worse. Or better. I don’t know.”

The other frowned. “Spit it out already.”

“I… I think I just saw a giant turtle. Flying.” His voice cracked, and he rubbed his temple as if the words hurt to say. “Flying, and it—hell, you’ll think I’ve lost it—it shot some kind of ray out of its mouth.”

There was silence. Then the second fisherman barked out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “A flying turtle with a laser mouth? Gods, you’ve finally gone mad. Sunstroke. That’s all it is.”

But the first man didn’t laugh. He kept staring at the empty sky where the green blur had disappeared, his face pale. “It was real,” he said hoarsely. “Too close not to be. I heard it. I felt the air shake. I’ll see it when I close my eyes tonight.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The sea groaned around them, waves heavy with indifference. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying as though nothing had happened. The world tried to go on, pretending the impossible had not just cut across its canvas.

Finally, the second man shook his head, half amused, half uneasy. “Well. Either we go home and tell everyone in port, make ourselves sound like legends… or we keep our mouths shut and trade the story for beer money.”

The first fisherman exhaled slowly, dragging a calloused hand across his weather-beaten face. He still looked shaken. “Beer money,” he muttered at last. “Beer money sounds about right.”

And with that, the sea returned to its endless rhythm, though one man on the skiff knew the horizon was not as empty as it seemed.

------------------------------------

Sorry for the short chapter, but i don't have anything more to add.

Good news for kiritsugu: illya is not in danger (at least, not by that servant).
Bad news for kiritsugu (and good for us): illya is coming.

And the last servant summoned (for now) is introduced: Watcher B is Rin's servant, if you know him then it's obious who is, if you don't, well...you will know when he'll show himself.
Junko and Kazuma+Aqua are confirmed, but i think that they were the most recognizable ones.

Someone tried to guess what other classes were summoned when i didn't show them yet: apparently alter egos, savers and foreigners are quite popular (i didn't know) but i can confirm that he got one right (but honestly, there weren't many other options).

After checking my notes i found out that i buffed the weaker Servants and de-buffed the strongest (sorry)

I hope that this story was of you liking, thanks for commenting and supporting me, see you next time!

I took inspiration (sorry if it's almost the same) from this profile: https://fatecrossover.fandom.com/wiki/Caster_(Fate/Crossover_-_Junko_Enoshima)

Caster B –

Class: Caster
Master: Kirei Kotomine
True Name: Junko Enoshima
Titles: The Ultimate Despair, Mistress of Tragedy
Gender: Female
Origin: Danganronpa
Region: Japan
Alignment: Chaotic Evil

Parameters:

Strength: D
Endurance: B-
Agility: E
Mana: C+
Luck: B
NP: A

Class Skills:

Item Construction: C
Junko can craft specialized magical constructs—namely Monokuma units: explosive, semi-autonomous stuffed bears with rudimentary combat capabilities. While ineffective alone, in large numbers or via strategy, they become dangerous distractions, traps, or bombs. Monokumas can be rigged for self-destruction or surveillance.

Territory Creation: C
Allows her to reshape existing structures into oppressive, despair-laden zones. Her modified "labyrinth" environments grant her limited omniscience, complete with audiovisual monitoring, hidden weaponry, and psychological manipulation traps for demoralizing intruders.

Personal Skills:

Espionage: A+
A master of double lives and false personas, Junko emits no detectable hostility unless actively attacking. Even among enemies, she can pose as a non-threat. Only her own followers ever truly recognized her as the source of the world’s ruin, until she chose to reveal herself. Effect is broken the moment she takes offensive action.

Ultimate Analyst: A
Gifted with abnormal analytical prowess. After observing an ability or Skill, Junko can replicate it at one rank lower. With enough exposure, she may even develop precognitive insight into her opponents' behavior, allowing her to "script" battles like tragic theater.

Ultimate Despair: EX
A skill born of ideology and madness. Junko has transcended mortality to become the conceptual embodiment of despair itself. This acts as a hybrid of Mental Pollution, Torture Technique, and Charisma (Twisted). It grants her resistance to sanity-based interference and allows her to spread mental decay, nihilism, and fanaticism among others.
All who follow her eventually lose their will, identity, or sanity, consumed by her vision of despair as beauty and purpose.

Noble Phantasms:

???
Rank: A (Anti-World / Anti-Mind)

Chapter Text

Kuzureochisou na mirai / Aitai shita kako no kizu no sei

• A sunrise over Fuyuki, red clouds cut by telephone wires.
  Rider B sitting on a high rooftop, flipping the Omnitrix’s dial and smiling as the aliens’ silhouettes flicker. The light glows green across his determined eyes.
  
  

Mukuwarenai no nara / Ato sukoshi mo taerarezu

• Caster B walks beside Kirei through a dim alley; she tilts her head and whispers something teasing, her grin sharp and playful. Kirei exhales tiredly, eyes narrowed.
  The streetlight flickers red as her shadow splits into two forms for a frame.
  
  

Raise your head to the wall

• Extreme close-up of Caster B’s spiral-patterned eye.
  The reflection inside her iris shows collapsing buildings and flames.
  
  

Kudaranai mousou ni madowasare tomatta

• Lancer B kneels in a field of golden flowers. His head is bowed, expression somber, petals blowing past like souls.
  
  

Toki wo ugokasu nara ima shikanai to

• Archer B crouches in the shadows, reassembling his weapons. He slaps a new magazine in place, then looks up toward a half-lit cross on the horizon.
  
  

Konnan sura yuukou datte

• Assassin B and Aqua trudge through muddy terrain.
  Aqua whines dramatically, trips, and faceplants into the dirt.
  Assassin B sighs, facepalming.
  
  

Kachi wo miidaseru nara

• Saber B stands atop the Tohsaka mansion roof, wind whipping her crimson hair and golden armor. Her blade reflects the city like a mirror.
  
  

Donna kakoku na genjitsu mo

• Berserker B clutches her cracked pink phone, the shattered screen glowing faintly with static faces, perhaps Waver’s reflection for a second.
  
  

Ukeire takai no michisuji wo miidase

• Ruler B sits calmly in a dim study, sipping tea.
  She sets the cup down slowly, red “X”-shaped pupils glimmering as the reflection of the city burns across the table surface.
  
  

Arayuru mono wo sutesatte / Kuruutta you ni taguriyoseta

• Visual montage begins:
  
  
• Artoria and Saber B clash, golden and scarlet sparks bursting in slow motion.
  
  
• Diarmuid crosses his spears with Lancer B’s trident, petals scattering into embers.
  
  
• Gilgamesh fires his Gate of Babylon; Archer B counters with improvised projectiles, explosions reflecting like gold raindrops.
  
  
• Rider B swoops through the sky on his hoverboard, narrowly evading Iskandar’s chariot as lightning flashes.

Sobietatsu ganpeki no saki / Itadaki wo nozomu no nara

• Continue visual montage:
  
  
• Assassin B dodges a storm of daggers from countless Hassans, shouting something smug before leaping aside.
  
  
• Caster B sends waves of exploding Monokuma dolls at Gilles’ monstrous tentacles; black smoke forms a skull behind her.
  
  
• Lancelot and Berserker B lock arms in a brutal grapple, the street fracturing beneath their feet.
  
  
• The crack from their impact races along the asphalt and stops right in front of Ruler B.
  
  

Inryoku ni sasowareru you

• Avenger B walks slowly, bare feet echoing on wet tiles, dragging Sakura by one hand. In her other, she clutches a worn teddy bear stained at its seams.
  
  

Unmei wo azuketa

• Close sleep shot of Rin in her bed, face pale, lips parted; her hand twitches. Her Command Seal flares faintly on her hand. At the same instant a pale, spectral vertebral line coils through a cracked window and the silhouette of an endless neck unfurls for a heartbeat beyond the glass.
  
  

Manshin soui no kono mi wo

• Illya laughs joyfully, arms open wide as Shielder B holds her gently from behind, steady atop a massive green shell soaring across clouds.
  
  

Sasageyou

• Inside a red-lit basement, Pretender B stands still amid piles of corpses. All of them are perfectly posed, expressionless, like mannequins in a gallery.
  A low hum starts as its spiraling yellow eyes flicker on.
  
  

Take one step and you gotta move on

• Quick flashes of Irisviel and Maiya, loading weapons inside a dim hotel room; smoke curls across the frame.
  Irisviel’s reflection trembles in a window.
• Shirou stands alone under flickering light, expression blank, his small hands still faintly glowing with Command Seals.
  
  

Don't retreat never looking back on

• Visual montage of Masters:
  
  
• Kiritsugu, eyes like steel, checking his revolver.
  
  
• Kayneth, adjusting his cufflinks, pride gleaming.
  
  
• Tokiomi, watching distant fire through a glass of wine.
  
  
• Waver, clutching a notebook, trying to steady his breath.
  
  
• Kariya, half-hidden in the dark, veins glowing faintly purple.
  
  
• Kirei, blankly staring at his own reflection in a church window. 
• Ryuunosuke, painting the wall in blood with manic delight.
  
  

Take one step and you gotta move on

• Flash to a younger Risei talking with an unidentified boy at a wooden table. The boy’s expression is earnest.
• Fuyuki burning, a black circular rent hangs in the sky; thick corrupted mud gushes and curls into the streets. People are tiny silhouettes against the molten flow.

Don't retreat never looking back on

• [SpoileSpoilerSpoilerSpoilerSpoilerSpoilerSpoilerSpoiler]
• The collapsing Holy Grail, which begins to fracture, veins of gold and crimson spiderwebbing across its surface.

Also i wanted to adjust a little Ben's parameters, here are the new ones:

• Strength: E+
  
  
• Endurance: D-
  
  
• Agility: E
  
  
• Mana: C
  
  
• Luck: C
  
  
• NP: A

I got an idea for a new story that i can actually start now so you'll have to wait a little more (i'm so slow), but don't worry, i will continue this. See you next time.