A young man dressed in a stylish jacket, clearly a foreigner, hummed a tune to himself through the fabric of his bright red scarf as he perused the streets of Fuyuki. By the way he dressed, the way he walked and the way he talked, it was easy to discern that the boy wasn't exactly a frequent visitor to these lands. Everything he saw seemed to astonish or amuse him to no end, in that "What will those crazy asian people think of next" kind of way.

"Whoaoh, I'm an alien," he sang in accented English. "I'm a legal alien. I'm a Frankish man in Japaaaaan~"

He laughed softly to himself. "Well, technically it's Franco-Italian."

He looked up at the light snow falling from the ember-orange night sky. Checking his wristwatch, the boy kept an eye out for any cabs that might've been stopping nearby before sitting down and pulling out his map, still confused after all these hours of walking as to where he was going.

"It says ze Hyatt is close by," he said, poring over the mess of intersecting lines and highways displayed on the map. "So if I take a left 'ere..."

He sighed, the map clearly not helping. "Merde. Why is it so excruciatingly difficult to get around in zis country? It seems like everywhere you go it's just one giant traffic jam..."

A crass meowing caught his ear, the caterwauling of a stray cat that was brazenly exiting the alleys in front of all onlookers to join the foot traffic, looking for all the world like a proper citizen of Japan rather than the vagrant furball it was. Albert watched the raggedy tomcat with a slight curve of a smile as it meowed and purred its way through a series of cafes and street vendors, plying its trade as alleycats do. More than once it actually rubbed up against someone's leg, prompting a hasty "shoo! shoo!" from the offended party. It appeared as though it was a regular in these parts.

Albert found himself growing more fond of the cat the longer he looked at it. Something about its confidence was delightfully audacious and out there, even for a cat. This was a feline who knew its place in life, and wasn't ashamed to call itself a stray and even take pride in that fact. He sympathized.

Reaching into his travel bag, Albert pulled out the half-eaten bag of beef jerky he'd purchased at the airport. The cat's ears perked up, even halfway down the street. Good, it looked like he had its attention. Carefully, cautiously, the cat tiptoed over to him. He wasn't a regular here like this cat was. He didn't know him. So instead, Albert held out a piece of the jerky in offering.

" 'Ere," he said, shaking the stick of beef. "It's on me."

Cocking its head from side to side, the cat regarded him suspiciously before nibbling on the jerky and cuddling up against his leg. He smiled. The cat, now that he'd gotten a better look at it, was a Scottish Fold, or at least had been related to one. It was hard to tell if it was a mixed breed or not, but it had magnificent fur for an alley cat. Patiently, Albert slowly stretched out his hand to pet it. The cat flinched away at first before going back to eating, but it eventually it relented, and deigned to let him pet it.

"Zere's a good boy," he said as the cat finished the snack, pawing at its face. It looked up at him expectantly, meowing for more food. "Oh, you want more, do you? Zat is what you want, no? 'Ere, let's just pick you up and..."

Gently, he lifted the stray into his backpack with the open bag of beef jerky. The cat attacked it immediately, either not noticing or not caring when Albert shouldered the pack and started walking, evidently content to go along for the ride.

" 'Ow's zat?" he asked. "It's you and me now..."

He paused. What to name this cat? Oh what to name him, what to name him.

"... David. It's just you and me now, David. Now, you wouldn't happen to know where to find the Hyatt Hotel, no?"

Deep in the heart of the Fuyuki Hyatt Hotel, a loud yowling cut through the air like the sound of nails on a chalkboard before it was swiftly silenced, the wet crunching of the cat's neck between powerful canine jaws putting an end to its protests. The hound dropped the corpse faithfully at its master's feet like the morning paper.

"Zank you, Baskerville," he said, picking up the cat. Holding aloft an Azoth Sword, the fearsome black dog's master proceeded to cut upon the cat and let its blood spill into a complex mechanism of tubes, vials and phylacteries.

"Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Repeat five times, and when each is filled, destroy it."

Albert Prelati carefully drained the last bit of the cat's blood into the mold he'd placed over the carpet. He sighed, his heart heavy as he gazed upon what he had done. Not the cat of course. That one had been a stray, and it wasn't the first cat he'd killed in his life. As a summoner and as a magus in general, the blood of animals on his hands was something he'd learned to live with, neither here nor there. Something he got no enjoyment from but had long since stopped troubling him with guilt the way it would most teenagers. No, he simply felt bad for whoever was going to have to shampoo the carpet when he was done.

He wiped some sweat off his brow with his sleeve to keep it from dripping onto his circle. Besides, it's not like he intended to just get rid of the cat. He'd give it a new lease on life as one of his familiars, once he was done with the ritual and could spend time preparing the corpse for its transfiguration. He liked cats after all, and he could always use a new familiar. A good magus wastes nothing, after all, and he suspected he'd be running low on bees in a few days. He was going to need a new streetwise spy.

Albert stood up and looked at his handiwork. An enormous waxy honeycomb in the shape of a magic circle had been spread out on the floor and then filled with blood, like a series of veins and arteries forming the disembodied cardiovascular system of some incredibly alien entity. He liked to use the bees to prepare molds like this for whenever he needed to perform complex spellwork. It was his belief that the precise geometric patterns demanded by most formalcraft rituals should never be disturbed by his shaky human hands. He was no painter, certainly not a sculptor, and even the slightest margin for error when he was performing his art was unacceptable. Besides, simply leaving the busywork of that whole process in the hands of his industrious little bees made things so much easier for him half the time.

"And last but not least, ze catalyst..." he said, more for the benefit of the familiars which had gathered to watch. They all stood stock-still, watching him carefully. All except the bees, which bobbed up and down in a distinct brown cloud. It was almost disturbing how little they all cared for his slaughter of the cat.

His hounds eyed the bloody corpse meaningfully, tongues hanging out. Albert sighed. He should not blame them. For all their magic, they still retained some of their animalistic instincts. For them, what he had done to the cat was probably nothing out of the ordinary. The only part that was disturbing to them was probably that he wasn't eating it.

"We're not getting rid of it," he explained to them. "I'm going to make 'im like you, so you cannot eat ze cat, alright?"

He fished around inside his luggage, retrieving an ornate rosewood box lined with crushed red velvet. Inside the rich, meaty cushioning of the box lay a single glass vial. It was nothing special compared to other catalysts. Hardly as visually striking as a scabbard, a cloth, or some ancient fossilized snakeskin. But it was of a much higher grade than any of those things. What he had was the actual weapon held by a Heroic Spirit.

Albert smiled, rolling the vial between his fingers gently. He had wanted there to be no mistake or misinterpretation on the part of the Grail as to who he was summoning, so he had put in painstaking effort into acquiring this one singular catalyst to show the Grail he meant business. It had taken a few leaps of faith, of course, and more than a few false starts. He had thought that for all the difficulty there had been in removing the fragment embedded in the cliff wall in Rocamadour that it should at least have been genuine. But no, that sword had simply been a fake. Worth less than the plane ticket that had taken him there. Either someone had made him and everyone else in the village the victims of a very elaborate practical joke, or the great hero had apparently been willing to go to equally great lengths to make sure no one would ever find the damn thing after he was dead. While the legends surrounding his death didn't quite support that last hypothesis, Roland's Breach had certainly been compelling evidence in Albert's mind.

It was really something that had to be seen in person to get an adequate sense of scale. Forty meters across and a hundred meters tall on both sides, the Breach was Roland's true lasting memorial. In accordance with his wishes, his sword had never been found, but there was no covering up what had happened when he'd tried to destroy the Ultimate Unbroken Hallow on the border between France and Spain. It had left a scar even in Gaia herself, the sharpest sword to ever exist. How ironic then that it was his very attempts to destroy the damned thing that had led Albert right to it.

Not in one piece of course. The sword was indestructible, even to Roland. But just because it hadn't been destroyed didn't mean it hadn't taken damage. The sword was sharp, and stronger than any other forged by human hands. He'd give it that. But ultimately it was the miracles within the sword that gave it its power, not the steel from which it had been smelted. That meant that very steel was its biggest weak point. It had been nothing more than idle speculation at first, but as he climbed the side of the mountain to reach the Breach, he'd become more and more certain. It was here. Whatever was left of the holy sword. You just couldn't see it.

It had been Albert's theory that perhaps the sword, while nominally indestructible, was merely just so durable that any damage a human could inflict on it would appear superficial, if it appeared at all. Perhaps, microscopic fragments of Durandal had been chipped off the sword when Roland had attempted and failed to break it. If that was true, they might still be there, imbedded in the walls of the Breach. And he'd been right.

It had taken many days and nights of searching even using his familiars and every other tool at his disposable, and it had definitely put his knowledge of alchemy to the test in ways he wouldn't have anticipated. But eventually, he managed to isolate fragments of Durandal from the bedrock. They were so tiny they weren't even microscopic, measuring only a few hundred nanometers in length. When pieced back together, the flake of the great holy sword he'd produced was only just barely visible to the human eye. Roland had certainly done more damage to the blade than any other human being to ever live, but it had still amounted to barely anything at all. Given the size of the Breach, he supposed that was more a testament to Durandal's endurance than it was an insult to Roland's strength.

Albert squinted, eyeing the almost translucent flake, no bigger than a fleck of dust or a grain of sand. It was perfect. With this, there could be no chance of failure. He would summon Roland, and prove to the world that the Prelati family were truly the greatest summoners to ever live. He would command his Servant with grace and finesse, and...

Suddenly Albert didn't feel so good. He put the vial back in the box, tucking it away in the velvety folds. His familiars all stared at him, cocking their heads to the side in that way animals do. All of a sudden, he felt like he needed a breath of fresh air.

A few minutes later he was on the roof of the hotel, looking through the eyes of his owl as he scanned pointlessly for enemy Masters hours before any of them would even think about taking action. Though he supposed that meant they weren't enemies yet.

He sighed. Was he really about to do this? Summon a Servant? Throw his life away in the Holy Grail War? They had warned him that this could be more than he had bargained for. It was only right for them to do so. He was the shining light of the Prelatis, the greatest talent the family had produced since... that man. But ultimately, it was because he was their shining light that no one could refuse him when he'd set his mind on going. But now, he thought, perhaps they were right? What good would he do the family by dying in a place like this?

Albert shook his head, slapping his cheeks. No. He wouldn't die. He couldn't. He was too well-prepared, his Servant too strong, his own skills too sharp to simply be cut down by any of these second-rate magi. He was a Prelati, dammit! Show some backbone! Besides, he thought as he examined his hands. The Command Seals had already manifested. At this point, the Grail wouldn't let him go, not unless he was willing to forfeit an arm.

Satisfied that he had in fact made the right choice, he returned to his circle, ready to begin the incantation. He uncorked the vial, carefully tipping the flake into the center of the array. Finally, in a last minute addition meant to give the ritual a bit of a personal touch, one which he hoped would somehow make his Servant feel more well-disposed towards him, he had the idea to add a drop of his own blood to the flake. With little hesitation, he pulled out a pocket knife and pricked his fingertip with it, just enough to draw blood. It oozed stubbornly, necessitating some squeezing. Three drops should do.

The blood plip-plopped like a teardrop out from the hole in his finger, three drops covering the flake like a jelly or a protective layer. He pulled back his hand, sucking on the finger.

"For ze element, silver and iron, ze foundation stone and ze archduke of pacts. And for my great master, Schweinorg. Raise a wall against ze winds and close ze gates of four directions. Come forth from ze crown and follow ze forked road leading to ze kingdom."

He held out his hands, right hand splayed with his palm facing the circle while his left hand held it steady. The command seal throbbed as the circle showed signs of activity.

" 'Eed my words. My will creates your body, and your sword creates my destiny. If you 'eed the Grail's call, and obey my will and reason, zen answer my summoning. I 'ereby swear zat I will be all ze good in ze world..."

Albert paused, one last kernel of hesitation taking root in his heart. Well, what he'd said... that wasn't quite true...

He took a deep breath, trying to swallow those words and make them feel less like a lie.

You aren't him, he reminded himself. A mage's hands are never clean, but you will never be like him. That is what you came here to prove. Now do it.

He resumed. "... and zat I shall defeat all ze evil in ze world. And let zine eyes be clouded in ze fog of turmoil and chaos. Zou, who art trapped in a cage of madness, and I, ze summoner who holds zy chains. Seventh 'eaven clad in ze great words of power. Come forth from ze circle of binding, O' guardian of scales!"

Electricity crackled around the circle as the lights flickered back into being, their diligent watch momentarily broken as if distracted by the magnificent figure they all now beheld. Albert's hair stood on end. The hounds growled for but a moment, silenced by a harsh mental reprimand from their master. A black knight stepped forth.

His immediate instinct upon beholding his Servant was to consult his Master's intuition, a special type of clairvoyance granted by the Grail to read the stats of Servants. Though he'd never used it before (obviously), the information was delivered to him as soon as he thought to look for it, as if discerning the abilities of Servants by sight was as natural as being able to tell if someone's eyes were blue. This was one of many gifts granted to Masters.

The honeycomb mold crunched beneath the black knight's steel boot as they left the circle, offering their allegiance to him. He was pleased. A surface examination of his Servant's stats revealed they possessed A ranks in most of the important combat parameters when boosted by the Berserker class' signature ability. Truly, they possessed abilities worthy of a Knight class, had he chosen instead to manifest them that way. There was, however, one minor detail that was bothering him.

Damn zose are some nice legs...

He stared at his Servant, who towered over him like an iron giant, evidently distracted by her physical appearance. Her. As in feminine. He'd summoned a woman, not a man. This was immediately troubling.

He scratched his head, regarding his Servant with equal parts awe, confusion, and agitated, rising dread.

"Yes..." he said hesitantly, not quite sure how to answer her question. "But zat depends. Are you... Roland? Roland of Brittany, ze most famous of Charlemagne's paladins? You are, aren't you?"

He tried to hold back his shock and disappointment. Not in her, necessarily, but in himself. Everything had been perfect. The heir of Prelati was to summon Roland, and no one else. If it had turned out he'd summoned the wrong Servant, that he'd failed, after all his idle boasting and the effort he'd put into obtaining his catalyst...

He shook his head, trying to avail himself of the doubts that now plagued him. No, that was impossible. The abilities of the Prelatis as summoners were beyond reproach. His catalyst had been the very fragments of Durandal, scraped from the walls of the Breach that bore Roland's name. There was no possible way for him to have summoned anyone else. If he had, it might have been an even bigger achievement than summoning Roland in the first place, because failing a summoning with such an obvious catalyst would have clearly meant he'd somehow broken the Grail.

No wait, he thought. Maybe zere's anozer explanation.

He had heard of this before, believe it or not. Some anecdotal evidence from past Grail Wars had suggested that certain Heroic Spirits who were remembered by history as men may have either disguised themselves at certain points like Hua Mulan or had their legends altered posthumously by future historians and the passage of time. It wasn't unheard of, is what he was saying. Or at least, that's what he was trying to convince himself of. He certainly hoped it was the case.

"I'm sorry if I sound surprised," he added, not wanting to appear impolite. "It's just zat if you are Roland, I was not quite expecting you to be a woman. It seems 'istory 'as chosen to remember you differently zan you were in life."

Albert smiled, partly in relief and partly in amused exasperation for his Servant's enthusiasm.

"Ze 'ouse of God is quite a ways away. Fourteen kilometers by my reckoning. Zat's about zirty-zousand six-'undred cubits, but I'm sure ze Grail told you zat. 'Owever, I don't actually zink it's a good idea to go zere right now, ma chère. May I call you 'ma chère'?" he asked more out of formality than for her permission. "I'd be 'appy to take you zere later if you wish to speak to ze priest and commune with God, but zere's a bit of a situation zere right now. Ze ozer Masters and Servants have gazered zere for a meeting, and I zink it would be best if we observed from a distance."

That was certainly the bold-faced truth. Much as his peerless crusader might like to proclaim her faith in front of the holiest of holies, it would give them an invaluable tactical advantage to spy on the meeting rather than attend it. Whatever information the priest was handing out, his familiars could easily pick up with the kind of hearing only animals possessed.

JK, his owl, was particularly gifted in this respect, which was why he'd picked her to listen in on the conversation. If a dog could hear their owners' arrival before they even got to the door, then an owl like JK could hear them before they even pulled into the street, chewing gum and singing along with the car radio. When you figured in that kind of hearing, actually attending the meeting in person became a chump's game. He was content to simply listen to whatever valuable information the priest had to offer from afar, after which he'd have a good first look at the identities of all the Masters in attendance without actually having to expose himself or Roland.

Albert stopped to think about that for a second. Roland. Rooooolaaaaaand. It seemed ill-fitting a name for a woman, and was kind of awkward to say now that he knew the truth. Was there a more feminine form of that name? Rolande perhaps? Roly? Roel?

He shook his head. A matter for another time. Right now, "Berserker" or "ma chère" would do.

"Besides ma chère, we 'ave yet to introduce ourselves formally," he said, his smile taking on the slight contours of a smirk. "I'm sure zat after we get to know eachozer better, we'll 'ave a more... mutual appreciation for eachozer's skills. For starters, I can tell you where your legend may 'ave diverged a bit from ze truth. If you'd indulge me, zat is."