@breo


How the church was changed. Being made into a facsimile of a workshop,the heretical turned to hide within the holy. Yet he supposed its current inhabitants were as secular as could get, so it was hardly heretical if they were divorced from the belief completely in the first place. Pews were removed or moved, equipment and tools were moved in, along with more basic and mundane supplies. The homunculus was doing as much work as him in a way. Most importantly was the clean up of anything that was unfortunate enough to be caught in his Glocke. The second most unpleasant task for sure, paling only to his responsibility and his burden of accountability.

A report was like a poem. The composition of, and the meaning behind the content were very much important, but just as important was the recitation. He was essentially telling a story, the story of their campaign in Fuyuki. The lack of any good news, the overeagerness to prove one’s success. Both were things he believed best avoided. Their presence needed to be sold as an investment, something with promise, but something that needed more support, an extra nudge to get to where it could.

In short giving his report he was like a businessman trying to get extra budget allocated to his project. Truth be told, there was little to say. The enemy knew of their transgression and there was a delay in their establishment of their territory. But there was no reveal of their capabilities or any true contact. If the enemy had been observing them then it would have still been little a loss. He believed them to be ignorant of the Vimana as well, the most important thing they had outside of their servants.

Still, they were rather behind schedule. A point that he was reminded of each time he saw the proud figure of the Edelfelt lurking around. Brauer did not hide his annoyance at all, eyes narrowing on sight with a clear dourness directed towards her.

“How praytell goes the preparation of your servant? I hope that the next time you’re charging forth valiantly you’ll be better equipped for it.” There was hardly a need to press her upon the obvious. If anything referring to the other part of it, that she left her position while not completely prepared for a fight he felt would grate at her more.

He established the bounded field that brought them the control of the church. It was a task he pushed to have. He didn’t speak things as unbecoming as insulting the competence of an ally at a simple task. Instead Brauer explained that with it being likely that he’d stay at the Church the most of all of the masters, and his own work benefiting from the leyline greatly it was normal for him to want to have the bounded field made by him.

He was glad for the presence of an ally, but there was something that was most awkward being with Janika. Despite her arrival that felt rather uncharacteristic of his first impression of her, her air as a noblelady did not fade away. Sure, his view of her wavered for a bit in the face of the rush of travel and his own admonishments in the heat of the battle, but he could not deny that she carried herself as a fine lady.

Why then was he annoyed by her? Ah, there was something very annoying, something that simply itched at him.

“We should speak of the future, Fräulein Janicka.”

There was no beauty in her beautiful demeanor or stride. There was nothing that enflamed his heart like the simple plead for victory and success from the German folk. There was no hunger behind that nobility. There were those who called such a thing a savagery but to him it felt a spice that gave it meaning. Simple purity was not as beautiful as a slightly imperfect work that grasps at the idea of greatness. People were imperfect beings, and their blood, their genetics have become impure. He had no intention of simply striving for a result of purity. Even if one’s ideals or dreams were beautiful they were meaningless if they were impossible and could not be made into reality.but simply making children that were pure for them because they were not pure was an inclination he could not agree with. They themselves would become pure, they would be refined and become the ones who could attain 「」.The story of something dirty being shined and becoming beautiful was something that interested him more. To make something impure and imperfect to something pure and perfect while keeping it as its original self.

He paused his trailing thoughts for a moment to gesture the Finnish girl to come along with him in a casual invitation. “My work has finished, and it is time for a small break. Do you enjoy film, Fräulein? A church can make quite a theater, or so I believe.”

He began to walk off, his previous introspection coming to its close as his eyes lingered upon Janicka for a last moment.

There was nothing silly or strange about the idea in his eyes, simply a beautiful goal that he’d actualize for sure. People, materia, they could all be refined, all be changed. May this world we live in give birth to a magnum opus, let us become as gods.

Now then. Which theatrical masterpiece would be good for this time of the day?

As the Sun began to dip below the horizon, dying the city crimson, a man walked the streets of Fuyuki.

"Damn it, she knows I'm trash with directions."

To say that the man stood out amidst the backdrop would be an understatement. His European ancestry was in stark contrast to the general populace, gray hair and lines along his face enough to cast him as one in his mid or late fifties.

Most striking, though, was an instrument case he had gripped in his right hand as he rolled it along the streets with some difficulty, one that seemed to be for a double bass, albeit a fair bit larger than one would expect even then. In his left hand was a map of Fuyuki, turned at an odd angle as he attempted to make sense of it.

"English? Anyone here speak English?" He called out in the language in question, sighing at the lack of response the passerby gave him. "...Italian? French? German? Anything civilized?" He let out an exasperated groan at his utter failure to get the attention of even a single civilian, at least in a positive way. "You'd think I'd have learned not to trust ■■■■■ about languages after last time, but apparently not."

Rolling his eyes to himself, the man continued his aimless trek for his destination, or at least someone who knew a real language.

---

---

Single-mindedness was beautiful. To entirely focus one's abilities, intent, and every thought upon a task would yield a wondrous result regardless of who committed to it. Be they prodigy or fool, sincere hard work and dedication were virtues of highest regard.

Unfortunately, this was not one of those cases, because Youzai and Caster were still bickering like drunken frats in their heads.

Fortunately, the results were still exceptional due to mutual talent. With this workshop-forge approaching completion, all was going well. Youzai made note of the arrival at the gate, but continued to maintain his distance for the time being. He'd be engaging in communication soon enough, once he could focus on it.

Caster was currently making it an unwise idea to let the others know what was being spoken between them, and Youzai regarded the sheer vulgarity as something he wished to keep private. Not out of shame, but professionalism. To dirty Uva's purity with such language would be an insult to the Einzbern, and their link to their de facto sponsor was likewise someone they were better off not giving the wrong impression to.

Caster would only hold his tongue, likewise, around Assassin. Once Youzai noticed the arrival of her Master, he interrupted Caster to inform him.

-up your worm-infested asshole and make you into a living chandelier for-
They're here.
That such is readily apparent, Contractor. Humans are the concern primarily assigned to your attention, negatory thisself.

Youzai fleetingly wondered if Caster was doing that on purpose, but quickly chose to divorce himself from further thought on the subject, slamming the mental door on their connection. Instead, he reached out to his other familiars, which only got under his skin literally, to contact the other Masters.

First, the tree near Uva and Saizou. The branches rustled, carrying Youzai's voice to them.

"Excuse me for interrupting. Welcome, Officer. Miss Uva, Caster's workshop is nearly complete, and the spear will be the first priority. I will be contacting Syone regarding materials, but if you could provide the catalyst you used, Caster suggested that for improved compatibility."

Even as the tree conveyed his message, the mountain's flow of prana was shifting and swirling.

---

At the peak, under the temple itself, Caster hollowed out the core of his workshop. The peak's stone was the oldest, thrust upwards from the subduction of the oceanic plate, rather than volcanic accretion. It also had the merit of lesser density, being sedimentary. The blows of his hammer, rather than breaking off the stone, bent and compressed it. Much of the mountain's lower strata, pushed upwards from below sea level, was metamorphic already, and Caster apologized softly to the stone for briefly disturbing its sleep. He would also not pierce too deeply, as Youzai had warned. But a subterranean workshop was best, to be physically within the leyline's flow, at the summit node.

His own catalyst, an anvil he had briefly used, was installed in the cave's center, on top of a raised dais. That dais also formed the perimeter of a smaller Bounded Field, capturing and trapping heat that Caster could precisely direct and disperse. Air particles above an arbitrary thermodynamic threshold were admitted, those that fell below were rejected. The polished stone across the mountain could capture sunlight and pipe the thermal energy into this temperature-regulation system. In a pinch, prana could supply a steady heat regardless. It was time.

Caster stood above the anvil, and drove the final lynchpin into his Noble Phantasm, to complete his forge.

D1-P3

---

”Ah that item? Very well.”

Reacting to Youzai’s voice, she dug out a stone from her outfit, what looked like it should have been used in some sort of construction actually. As if she had actually gone and stolen a stone from a well or building. Which wasn’t entirely inaccurate. The stone in question was the catalyst she used to summon her servant, so it very likely came from somewhere to relate to them, and due to the status most heroic spirits had it was safe to say it was from somewhere famous, as she would want a truly strong hero.

Looking at the tree, she seemed to be taking a moment to think as she moved to get under the temple, taking a bit of a walk around wouldn’t be able to be avoided.

“Lancer. I am delivering this to our allies. Alert me immediately if anything happens. I may take longer to return, I am interested in seeing this process... Sir Saizou, my apologies for running off while you are making food. I shall take a share when I return if you shall allow me.”

Walking away, she made her way to where she could get under the temple, and she assumed into Casters workshop to deliver the Catalyst she summoned with to him. Calling out as she walked, she rose her voice as to be sure she would be heard.

“Excuse me! I am here now, with the Catalyst! If you would not mind me watching after you take this that is! If so I shall retreat and return to the surface with the others!”

The only reason she spoke loudly was because she wasn’t sure of the exact distance she would need to go inside, and because she wasn’t sure how well Youzai could hear. She figured Caster’s hearing was fine though. And under her breathe she was muttering about how she didn’t quite get how much help a Well Stone would be.

---

@Berserk Gene

@Breo

---

To say that Emmerich eagerly anticipated this moment was an understatement. The officer had an itch since they set foot in the Orient to get closer to his opponents for purposes of observation. As the Sun set and the seaside city quietened down, the perfect tactical opportunity finally rose for reconnaissance. Hawkish blue eyes spied on the familiar manor through a binocular, fixated on windows and doors as they looked for a sign of life indoors. He took his sweet time with the approach, spending the better half of the evening with lurking closer and closer to his query whilst he expertly hid his presence - That is to say he spent the last hour sitting in a convenient shrubbery across the street.

The lanky officer dressed for the occasion - Only the usual constants of his garb remained the same, the black jackboots and the field grey pantaloons. A majority of his figure was obscured by a smock of odd green patterns, making it almost impossible to spot him in the cover of nature. The iconic helmet atop his head bore a helmet cover of similar design whilst his face was completely obscured by a black mask pulled up to the bridge of his nose. Only striking blue eyes were discernible from Emmerich's visage. What he wore beneath the smock remained a mystery, but bottle-green collars bearing blank black tabs peeked out from the garment's confines.

However, the man was no longer unburdened like earlier. Clad in a plethora of black straps and buckles, the standard issue german webbing attached a plethora of tools and provisions to his tall figure: Shovel, bayonet, pistol holster, munitions pouches, grenades and a bread bag - All fixed around the belt above his waist that sported the same buckle he'd be seen wearing before. His binoculars hung from his neck with a stripe of leather. The only rucksack on his body was the plain brown one hanging on his right side and strapped onto his thigh. The officer did not seem to mind the extra weight of his kit at all, or at least one could not notice his discomfort if he had any.

While one bare left hand clutched the binocular against his eyes, another held a weapon that hung from his shoulder via its leather strap. Made of fine metal and bakelite, the grey submachine gun was meticulously built. The milled body and the compact design may be immediately recognized as what the outside world would call a "Schmeisser". Disregard the fact that Hugo Schmeisser had little to do with its development, but Emmerich was not concerned with that now. As he let the binocular hang, both his hands reached for his gun. The squatting officer was wound up and ready to move on the Manor with the support of his most-definitely orderly and very sober Servant Rider, whom he hoped was loitering around the immediate vicinity. For a moment, as the crickets began their orchestra and the warmth of Autumn faded from the rise of the Moon, the lanky man thought of his amusing lunch with Rider and their appreciation of fine brews afterwards. Truly he was fortunate to have such a man as his ally in this conflict! A shake of his head quickly dismissed the fond memories as he prepared to move.

Unfortunately, a wrench flew into the battleplans. The officer already had half a leg on the outside of his shrubbery by the time his blue eyes snapped wide with realization. "... Donnerwetter." He was not alone. Not only a tumbling tourist wandered its way right into the middle of his operations but apparently this person was also a man of the Moonlit World. Almost tripping in the branches that he spent the past few hours entangled in, with a rustle he quickly withdrew. The arcane presence in the misplaced man was clear, but something else quickly became apparent - The burn of his command seals. Whatever was going on, he was in the right place but at the wrong time. The officer's heart beat rapidly as no doubt combat was about to erupt and there had to be a civilian that strolled right into the middle of it. A second's hesitation had to be made - Make collateral damage of the poor sod or risk his entry but ward the wandering person away to safety? Eyes flickered rapidly left and right, scanning the manor and the streets before suddenly he burst forth from the foliage. "... Gottverdammte scheiße, halt! HALT!"

Shrill orders split the silence of the streets as Emmerich came to stand before the tourist, holding an open palm towards him to gesture a stop before immediately harking again - Right hand still on the grip of his gun. "DU! SOFORT HIER RÜBER! Dies ist eine gefährlich stellung, du pimmelbirne!", he harked the demand and the warning before strolling quickly closer to the man. His posture did not suffer under his battledress, fortunately. However, as soon as he got close to the lost man he extended a hand instinctively. "Ihre Papiere, Bitte!", came the order. Emmerich himself was surprised that he'd do such a thing out of reflex, but it was already said and it'd be awkward as all hell to correct himself now. Not that the entire situation wasn't terribly dangerous and awkward already - Only now did he realize that the man was a fellow European. As he cleared his throat, he calmly repeated the order to the Mysterious Uncle.

Put simply, the newest addition to the town was rather lost.

No, that was an understatement. He was insurmountably lost, to the point where he had no idea where he was or how to find his destination. He supposed this was the trouble of not knowing the native language, given that it made him completely unable to use his map to gauge where he was.

Frankly, he was near the breaking point of just walking in a straight line until he exited the city, and using that as a metric.

He was roused from these thoughts, though, as perhaps the only one in the city who stood out more than himself showed his face. The man quirked an eyebrow up in confusion, looking at Emmerich with a combination of gratification and annoyance. Looking over the officer for a few seconds, he gave his reply in German as well.

"Ah, one of those German shits, huh? Eh, never cared much about politics, so do as you will. You know you don't have the authority to act like this is your place though, yeah? Pretty sure your domain doesn't stretch this far." He remarked with a coy grin, the hand holding his map of Fuyuki dipping down slightly, since he was no longer looking at it.

Looking at the man, Emmerich could surely feel it. While it was faint, likely the faintest he'd ever seen, the man had the presence of a magus, that slight waft of prana around him that indicated him as such. However, it was minute, pathetic even. What sort of half-rate among half-rates did one have to be to give off that presence?

"Good to see someone else who knows a language I can understand, though." He chuckled, seeming utterly unperturbed by Emmerich's earlier demand. "You wouldn't believe how hard navigating this place is when you don't speak a word of Japanese. Anthony Giacosa, by the way, just call me Tony. I'm not gonna bother asking what you're up to over here, but you seem like you're in a rush and this doesn't seem like the place I'm looking for anyway, so I'll get out of your hair. Gotta ask, though, do you know how to get to the-"

Something changed. Without warning, the man who had called himself Anthony Giacosa cut himself off. His head snapped around to the titan standing beside Emmerich, looking at him, through him. "...you...?" He murmured out, as if testing how the word felt in his mouth.

That presence Anthony had began to change. No, physically he remained the same, and magically too, but in a sense beyond either the physical or magical, in nothing other than that ephemeral concept of "presence", something changed. His eyes hardened, that prior joking nature lost in a mad undercurrent as a primal glint formed in them. The hand that held the instrument case in his right hand tightened its grip. His posture straightened up ever so slightly, but that simple gesture caused him to appear a new man. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed at all in any relevant way beside's the man's demeanor, so why, why did he seem so different than he had been seconds earlier?

When he spoke, his tone was darker, excitement lacing it as he felt the traces of a grin play at the edge of his lips. He had forgotten Emmerich, his eyes solely focused on Sigurd as he spoke, steel now lacing his voice.

"You smell like a demon, you know."

Certainly, the evening was shaping up to be fun. Taking advantage of the reduced amount of potential witnesses, Sigurd had elected to phase into physical form as soon as they were near their objective—which was certainly risky, but nonetheless, feeling the fresh breeze instead of the stale air of the hotel room was certainly a welcome change of pace. His footsteps were heavy, certainly, but not nearly as much as one would suspect a man of such size that carried his weapon guilty of, and he cradled in his hand one of the various bottles his Master had brought along for the trip. Already down to half—though that meant there was still a good half a liter within—the Servant took another swing, savoring it.

At the very least, it was not some terrible brew like what the man had told him was created in this country in an attempt similar to someone trying to weave a horror story. Chuckling lightly at the memory, he filed it away for later—now it was time for a different kind of amusement.

And what fun he would have, indeed, with whatever it was that lied within the Manor. His lips upturned into a grin that showed far too many teeth, and red his eyes seemingly sparked on their own, like flickering flames, as he could not help but notice the sword at his back was getting heavier and heavier at just that single thought. It was harder and harder to contain that joy—who knew, perhaps a fight with whatever it was the Master had summoned would prove itself to be what he needed to shake off that annoying feeling that had been plaguing him through this second chance so far, preferably for good.

However, it seemed that he was going to take longer than he should have, courtesy of a third guest planting himself in the middle of the little gathering beyond his Master and he. Taking in the looks of the man—certainly old, although it felt hypocritical of him to say that—he certainly did not much look the part of threatening, but appearances could deceive. He wondered how to approach this, but his Master was so kind as to blatantly walk up to him and start demanding papers for some reason or another.

Certainly, by the looks of things—two Europeans meeting in a Japanese town, one of them looking like he was ready for war and yelling at the other in German—it was already shaping up to seem like a comedy skit, and it wasn’t like he had to kill ‘Tony’, as he had introduced himself—since his Master so brazenly revealed himself, he guessed that he was not some civilian the soldier could shoo away with just one spell or other.

Walking up to the pair of them, bottle in hand, he stood beside his Master, ready for whatever it was the other man would say in response to seeing his appearance as of now. For whatever reason, however, he had not been expecting him to suddenly focus so keenly that Sigurd felt, for a single instant, like his soul was being stared at, so penetrating was that glare. Shrugging the feeling off but determining this was certainly no simple man, he matched the stare with his own.

“Demon, you say?” His voice came out light and jovial, much like always, almost as if offending him was an impossibility, and he brought a hand up to his face to sniff—as though taking the words with humor. The change in the old man’s demeanor was certainly something else, but the fact of the matter was that it’d take yet more than that to make a fool like this one drop the amicable façade, but he nonetheless stepped a touch closer to his Master just in case their new acquaintance tried something. “Well, I’ve been called one, but never really got told I smelled like one. . .and I’m not really sure whether the definitions we’re using are the same, either.” He certainly seemed carefree enough still, however, to jest at a time like this, but his head soon turned towards the Manor, his eyes narrowed a touch and the smile on his face diminished somewhat.

Turning his head back to meet the man’s gaze again, his next words sounded regretful. “Not to offend or anything, though, but we kind of have a prior engagement, and it might take a bit to sort it out,” He said, chancing a look at the bottle in his hand and then holding it out for the other man to take. “If you choose to stay, though, I’m pretty sure we can give you directions afterwards.”

Well, at least he would try. He had little clue what his Master would do with the man if he caught him again after they were done with. . .what was it he had heard the term was. . .house-warming party? Sounded pretty good, so it was probably that. Speaking of. . .

“Hey, Master, are we going to get on with it? If we’re going to do it, might as well hurry it up, unless you want to deal with possible friends they’ve called up or losing whoever is in there for now.”

The only situation where he’d find that last one acceptable was the scenario in which whoever greeted them was of the ‘stick-in-the-mud’ type. He certainly had had enough of dealing with those for a lifetime, and he did not wish for that to extend into the second, however short-lived it might be.

@Over Illusion @Angry Hungarian

The mysterious uncle standing before the Master and Servant didn't seem to even hear the latter's words, the grin carved into his face stretching out with each passing second. "Oh, this is perfect. Haven't even been here for an hour, and I don't just find a German, but I find a part-demon too? You must be one of those Servants, right? Perfect, perfect. I'm not even upset Crown lied to me about the language thing, this is just too good."

The mania in his eyes would be one not unknown to Sigurd nor his Master. A lust for battle, that singleminded desire to wage an individual war. Whatever this was had been hiding beneath the surface, but something about Sigurd's nature had dredged it forwards.

"Let's see, you're definitely no full demon, but you've got the reek of one. You don't seem like a natural half-breed like what those oni did to survive, either. Did you contract with one, acquire its blood or its factor? The flow seems...mm, not one of those curses, not oni, not rakshasa, not- oh, wait. Right, it's been over a decade since I fought something with that kind of factor, but I remember now. Dragon, right?"

His presence was nearly palpable by this point, a sort of radiance emanating from him in a sense beyond sight as he made that absurd declaration. Just as a Servant had that "shine" of heroism bathing their form, this man, this "Anthony Giacosa" gave off the same light. There can be no mistake, that man's body was mere flesh and blood, was merely the body of a human. It is unthinkable that there could be a human who could equal a Servant as a "hero", but then, how-

"Prior engagement? No, no, afraid you'll have to cancel. I've gotten to drink plenty, but I'm not turning down the chance for a fight. You're not leaving right when I've got a golden opportunity standing in front of me for the first time in a damn month." He remarked, his tone going icy for a moment as he ignored the offered bottle, shrugging exasperatedly and letting out a mock sigh. "Well, you'll run off if I take any longer, and it won't be satisfying for either me or Radah if we kill you from behind, so let me introduce myself more properly. I'm just a simple old man here to get some exercise, after being stuck in the office for a month in boredom."

The map of Fuyuki was stuffed into a pocket, no doubt crumpling up in the process. A sharp laugh left the man, eyeing Sigurd like a predator standing before his prey.

"...Anthony Giacosa. Codename: Gavel."

The instrument case gripped in his right hand began to distort, its form writhing as if it were clay being shaped by invisible hands, until its form had changed from a benign oversized instrument case to an equally oversized hammer. A weapon that belonged in the realm of fantasy appeared, the man gripping it in his hands as a thrum ran through it. However, that was not what was most terrifying.

That status was reserved for the emanations of prana that the item began to give off, a power on par with a Servant's Noble Phantasm.

"But your contractor there would probably know me better as the #4 of the Burial Agency."

Ah, well, it seemed that communications had certainly taken a turn for the worst, broken down so thoroughly that one could not help but marvel at it. And marvel he did, staring at the man for an instant that stretched into eternity.

The moment his offer for a drink was denied, however, he chose to shrug minutely and brought the bottle up to his own lips, drinking the remaining content with a seemingly unflappable expression. When there was simply no more, he lowered it, and a wolfish smile had set itself upon his features. He stepped in front of his contractor, body providing a shield, and his hand sneaked towards the handle that poked from out of his back.

“Hey, Master,” He called out, the trepidation in his voice easy to hear and recognize as he matched glares with Gavel, his crimson eyes no longer sparking—they definitely burned, like raging fires, a symbol of his state at the moment. He started to crouch into a stance, grin stretching and stretching and showing many more teeth besides. “I’d recommend stepping out of the line of fire for now. . .can’t reason with this one, and I don’t think any normal Magus would have fun against him, you know?

. . .Well, perhaps I also say this because I want to fight him myself, but this works pretty well overall. Yeah, I’m feeling it, I'm feeling it alright. I guess this is my lucky star shining through.” He laughed, though his words hardly invalidated his earlier point—fighting against this man was likely to be suicide for any magus in their faction to begin with. He, however, was cut from a far different cloth.

He’d have to reevaluate his strategy—he could not rely on his invincible skin as much as usual due to the cost it would mean for his Master, so that meant he would have to make efforts to dodge instead of blindly charging away and letting things sort themselves out—perhaps that was a boon, considering how boring it made fights at times.

And that made things all the more exhilarating, didn’t it? His heart beat with elation and he retrieved his chosen tool of murder, the gargantuan blade catching the gleams of the setting sun. The same putrid air gathered throughout it, runes ignited a cruel crimson that almost matched the shade of his eyes, and Sigurd brought the mind-boggling weapon to match against the hammer. The simple feeling one could get from just a look—it was sickening, now that he had let loose what laid within. It was terrifying, now that the grudges started to gather along the edge, and even if he had not called out its True Name, there could be no doubts about its own standing.

Noble Phantasms could also be ranked in a hierarchy, and what Sigurd held in his hand certainly was not some two-bit, trifling weapon like the sword that had been carried by a certain warrior-queen. No, this was certainly among the finest blades of the mythical era, a weapon crafted and remade for the sole purpose of standing at the top, as a pinnacle. If that legendary King of Knights could boast of carrying ‘the Strongest Holy Sword’ then Sigurd could certainly boast of being the wielder of ‘the Strongest Demonic Sword’.

Matching the other man’s stare with his own, he spoke—perhaps a tad too casually, considering the situation. “Honestly, refusing the drink was a bit rude, you know? There’s a time for everything, and drinking with someone and killing them are not mutually exclusive, you just do them in a certain order. . .don’t you think you move a little too fast?” He chuckled, but the humor did not reach that bloodthirsty gaze. So what if he was hypocritical? He had been longing for this for a while now, after all!

Ah, he could make as many excuses as he wanted, he could converse and pretend that he was not such a single-minded individual as much as he wanted, but if there was anything that he could not avoid, it was showing that ‘side’ when his battle lust was roused. “I’ve been restless for a while now, too, so if you don’t mind, I’m also going to take this opportunity to have some fun.”

Had his desire not been to cross blades with the heroes that would be called forth to this war for the Holy Grail? The man before him was no Servant, but his posture was unmistakable, and the air about him impossible to miss. Whether spirit or flesh, it mattered little—all he could care about now was to finally enjoy himself. His low chuckles reverberated around them and he threw the bottle away. His eyes seemed to flash for the briefest instant, the color of molten gold replacing the crimson before vanishing—perhaps a trick of the light, or something else?

“Let’s have a good fight, Mister Gavel. If you need to address me as something, I guess Rider will do. . .well, my mount is not around to prove it, so you’ll have to take my word for it. I’d rather not bring it out so early in the dance, you see.”

And, just like that, he charged. Pavement broke underneath his footfalls, and the mere swing of a blade unleashed a raging gale. To fight as a Servant meant to defy common sense, and even if he had been diminished, even if he was now just one step slower, he was confident to say that his strength was still as it should.

And Sigurd certainly possessed much strength to bring about.

The strategy would then be to first test how Gavel’s specs compared to his own. While he certainly possessed the aura, there were differences between each Servant, and so, the best way to assess the man was to strike hard, fast and see how he answered. His hammer could prove to be the most troublesome thing, but perhaps that could be mitigated if he got close enough to deny him effective use. . .but then again, considering the prana that emanated from it, the way it had been wrought—as well as the fact that, if this man was truly past that threshold, he would certainly be able to subvert the ‘rules’—Sigurd had to be ready for anything to happen.

He could not wait to see what fate had in store, really. This was just the sort of man he was.

Ah, surely, this was no less than excellent fortune.

@Over Illusion @Angry Hungarian

@Breo@Over Illusion@Yukitamas

---

Although his demand for identification papers was due to the restlessness of the moment, Emmerich did not regret that his mind defaulted to that instead of something more embarrassing. The sole consolation for this awkwardness was that his conversational partner didn't seem the least amount refined at all. The officer could not bear responding to someone so blatant and shoddy in their speech - The only reaction that the lost tourist got from him was a nigh audible cringe. "Mein Gott... So unvölkisch...", he uttered as if this was the greatest sin he could imagine. Emmerich's repulsion did not last long, the officer regained his soldierly posture right after the introduction. "Guten Abend, Herr Anton. I apologize for my brashness, we've unfortunately met at a bad time. We're about to dispose of spirits nearb- ...?"

The politeness quickly sunk away as Antony revealed his true, murderous self. Brows furrowed underneath the helmet - Soon the officer found himself entangled between a zealot and a pagan. As Tony's presence oppressed his own and Rider kept on butting horns with the murderous uncle, Emmerich sunk in thought as to what he could make out of this situation. The hailstorm of boasts and taunts and groans sent the officer spiraling down a momentary madness as waves crashed above his head. It did not take long for him to finally snap after constantly taking mental notes about their enemy's identity. "Nnngh..."



The scream of annoyance shot through the street with such force that it pierced both the Agent's murderous presence and his Servant's aura of might. Exhaling through his nose like an enraged bull, the facemask hid a grimace of displeasure. "As a faithful Catholic, it pains me to cross swords with a brother. However, your mind is as blank of rationale right now as a barrel after being scraped of scum, that much is apparent - Your bloodlust is unfashionable, Herr Anton. I have no ill will towards you and ... I take responsibility for the happenings at the church on the hill. I have explicitly told my subordinate to cooperate with the Overseer, not to evict the nun. Unfortunately, his zealotry has led him to do as he did.", he explained in a collected manner. As his submachine gun lowered, one hand reached over for the trio of grenades that clung from his webbing. "You will find that I am also not suicidal. I commend your powers, but I have no intention to throw myself onto a drawn sword." The officer's weapon hung from his shoulder, allowing him to prime the potato masher that he held so frivolously. "If a divine fight against evil is your wish, I suggest you turn your attention towards the occupants of yonder manor, Herr Anton."

With that, the grenade swiftly hissed alive but refused to explode. Instead, thick white smoke rushed from its orifices rapidly as the officer held the device. "If you wish to still fight us then so be it - Rider, you may entertain him." Impenetrable smoke of concealment soon flooded the street as Emmerich made his departure, although for the inhumane creatures this may be nothing more than a setting of mood for the battle that is coming. "You are under strict orders to stay alive. You have no permission to die.", came the rigid order from the smoke.



A short rush and furious tinkering later, at a street a couple corners away, Emmerich was already on his knees by the trunk of his vehicle. With his helmet hooked onto the side of the car, the officer clutched the headset against his ear as he coolly recited the very recent events. Although the signs of stress remained quiet noticeable in his demeanor, the veteran magus contained his anger that was readily welling up inside his lanky body. To run away from a battle so shamefully - Yet with no alternative option, he had to. This was the only thing the officer found some soothing solace in, as his uneasiness already took hold of him. Emmerich longed to fight beside his legendary ally, not to cover in a hole out of fear for his life.



However, this anger would not be contained any longer. As soon as his contact to the flotilla was severed, annoyed groans and furious grunts escaped him. The angry engineer quickly tuned the field radio to the frequency of the one device stationed at Bauer Herstelle's new workshop. The moment his connection to the Church was established, flames lashed for from the officer's mouth.

That crushing blade broke apart the air as it came down on its target.

There was no applause.

After all, in this world, there is an ironclad rule: a human cannot fight a Servant. Against these heroes of ages past, enshrined and made gods by the will of mankind, against godslayers and children of gods, against those who killed demons and those who became demons, all that man can do is roll over and die.

A human who dares to challenge a Servant will die. They will be utterly destroyed. They will be returned unto the dust from whence they came.

Yes, indeed, a human cannot defeat a Servant.

-But, isn't that horribly backwards?

A Servant is something made by human imagination. Human stories, human feats, human legends, human consciousness. Why, then, is it that these humans who created Servants are unable to challenge their own creations?

The answer is obvious: while mankind is collectively almighty, individually they are weak. An individual human cannot hope to match something bolstered by mankind's collective.

A hero is someone who can save those fated to die. A hero is something that transcends those meager individual humans who dare to stand against a Servant. A hero is something that has surpassed those human limits that shackle us, and the age of heroes has come to an end.

...ridiculous.

The end of that age is meaningless. The names we assign them are meaningless. Heroes shaped their legends with human will. Just because the era is different, just because you can no longer be "the one and only", that isn't a reason to give up and die.

Because if this damned hero from a forgotten time managed to break through their limits, there is no reason you can't---!

"May the Lord guide my hand as I strike down heresy."

With speed that easily entered the realm of a Servant, Anthony Giacosa, the #4 of the Burial Agency, burst forwards. The strongest demonic sword slicing towards him, he felt a manic grin split his face as his hands tightened around the handle of his partner, swinging forwards to meet Sigurd's blow.

Space bent. It was a cataclysm that lasted an eternity from the inside and an instant from the outside.

Coming up to meet the blow of a Servant was the blow of a human. And yet, the madman who dared to strike back against a Servant showed no fear. Sword met hammer. That strike of Sigurd's, which had entered the A rank, was enough to fell an average Servant should it strike head-on. Against it, a human should have no hope.

And yet, the human was not knocked back even slightly against the strike. It was a display that defied logic. Yes, because both Sigurd and that human can tell, not only had the blow of a Servant been reacted to in time, but the strength of this human was not one whit inferior to Sigurd's own.

...that was only a prelude, though, for what happened next.

Gram screamed.

Like the wails of the damned, a harsh keening noise flowed out from the sword, a pained cry as that pinnacle among blades met the Fourth Holy Scripture. Mere contact with that hammer was like a poison to the demonic blade, that clash of forces having embedded the concept of Radah into Gram's steel.

And whatever that was, Gram did not take it well.

Sigurd would surely be able to feel it. The demonic taint that empowered Gram was restrained, shackled by something that stemmed from the hammer gripped in his enemy's hands. If one were to try and codify what had happened, it could be said that whatever aspect of Radah had attacked Gram's grudges, and brought it down to the same level as that derivative of itself, Balmung. This weakening seemed temporary; as his own Noble Phantasm, Sigurd could tell that much, but another clash with that hammer would likely yield the same result, if not worse.

One had to wonder, if that hammer had managed to bring the strongest demonic sword low, if the effect would be permanent were it against something with lesser mystery.

Sigurd, however, would not be granted the reprieve to think of such matters, for regardless of his shock, Gavel was every bit as surprised as well.

"...hurt Radah? That damned sword of yours didn't just not break, it hurt Radah?"

It did not take long, though, for that surprise to give way to something else.

"...stop crying, it's fine. I'll shatter that sword of his into pieces as payment, and we'll buff off the scratches with his blood."

And no sooner than had that first clash of weapons completed, the two now in direct range of one another, than did Gavel shift, leveraging the strength behind his first swing to rotate into a second one, one meant to drive its way into the Rider's left side.

Birds. Daylight. Wind which caresses leaves and branches, and yet what she hears louder than anything, standing here impassively, is the deafening quiet of the temple. She's been idle long enough that it's gradually become clearer and clearer to her. Even as the Masters and their Servants known to her make their way into this place and find their spots to take up residence, it's here, in this gateway, that she has become all the more aware of how important it was to seize this area. These leylines, this mystic quality to the air... Lancer drops her arms to her side after having remained as still as a statue leaned against the gate's interior for hours, then raises them and folds them over her chest again. Opposite of before, this time.

Boring.

That shouldn't be the sort of feeling rising to the surface for one as versed in meditation as her, but it is. Because like every other quality, it's for refining, preparing or reflecting. The embroidered lance impaled into the dirt beside her, the position they've taken here and their strange alliance; they're all supposedly a means to an end. A falling-in-line so as to produce some orderliness for an orderless war. The competition for the Holy Grail and for her Master's desire is a trial by combat. Yet, there isn't any combat.

There has been news of the German's brash actions and of the odd, overall picture of the situation that's developed. But, that's all.

There has been no one to defend the temple from despite this much time passing.

No aggressor. No challenger. No contest. There are no apparent ploys.

Lancer, with all things considered, is unquestionably disappointed in spite of her quiet, calm demeanor. At her heart and core, she is a warrior who spent so much of her life fighting. In service and solely for her Sultan, yes, but nonetheless she fought. Conquered. Emerged victorious, over and over and over, and in doing so she paved a way into a place in which a shining standard could be set for all that would follow her. Yet in this war, her and her allies have been given this important place for lack of contest or response.

To her, as a once-Admiral, she sees a supposed battle that is being won before it even begins.

And it disappoints her.

After a while, she cants her head to the side to crack her neck and stands up straight, taking her left hand away from her chest to swipe at the shaft of her makeshift lance and wrench it from the temple's dirt. She walks forward a few strides with it until she's taken a single step down the Ryuudou Temple's impressively long ascent, then sits down on the edge of the highest step and drapes her arms over her legs.

"Don't worry, Uva. It's fine."

The force as they clashed was so thoroughly unexpected that it boggled his mind for the briefest of instants, feeling his arm clash against an unsurpassable wall—the man’s hammer. For a human to approach a Servant in Strength was baffling, for a human to match him—it flew in the face of any and all possibility to begin with. Not only that, but could he see the man—perhaps not necessarily overwhelmingly so but. . .was he just a touch faster?

Yet, at the same time, that accursed smile would not leave his face. Yes, that was it, of course. He had wished for exactly this, hadn’t he? Whether or not the enemy was a proper Servant did not matter, whether or not what was happening before his eyes was an impossibility did not matter, all that mattered was the glorious ringing of clashing steel. The hunger in his eyes became more intense, the inferno of his soul blazed with renewed strength. Surely. . .this was indeed a proof of his good fortune. His wolfish grin was firmly kept in place, and he opened his mouth to speak—

And so it happened, that Gram writhed in his grip, its curses contained, its grudge brought low, its evil repelled. The sword in his hand, which should have had all of one equal, was brought down to a level that, while still greatly superior to other blades, was nonetheless unbecoming of its status.

They were still there, whispering at the edges of his mind, but they had been subdued, as though there was a wall that separated them now, and for a single heartbeat, Sigurd’s incredulous gaze moved from his enemy’s hammer to his sword and back again.

Scratch matching him, what sort of tool did this one carry to diminish the work of the dwarf, to chain the grudge of [that thing] in such a manner? If anything, this impossibility surpassed—nay, dwarfed—the fact that the man’s strength equaled his own. And so, as a shockwave of air was released by the mere clash alone, Sigurd could not help but gape in disbelief.

And that disbelief, for an instant, gave way to a mix of respect and annoyance.

“. . .That’s my line you’re stealing, old man. This sword can be a handful, but it’s been with me through thick and thin, and you’re pulling this?” His brow furrowed, even if the smile did not vanish, as though confused about what to feel—whether anger over the state of his weapon or awe at the deed. “Tch, guess it can’t be helped. . .it really, really wants to kill you now, you know? Just a bit more than it wants to kill everything, I mean.”

The words were spoken casually—or as casually as one could under these circumstances. His crimson eyes analyzed the possible venues of action he had for the moment, and he realized that, bluntly put, it was not a time to carelessly risk either his body or his sword with a clash. Too little information to act upon, a whole lot of guesses that could be right or wrong and the chips he was betting were his life, carelessly tossed upon the table even though a single misstep would mean further peril to his weapon or worse. At the very least, he supposed he should be thankful to both Weyland and Regin—he did not want to know what would have happened if Gram’s quality was even a touch less outstanding.

Well, at least whatever had happened during the clash had apparently. . .hurt. . .the hammer, so he would count that as a minute win. Now, where was he? Oh, right, getting out of this mess alive and whole.

. . .Tricky, really. Both in range of each other, he could discern the man using the leftover momentum to prepare to strike once again. Thus, there were two venues—try to get even closer, try get out and attempt something else. Now, how should he go about this. . .

There were no words exchanged—just as the old man prepared his own attack, so too did he move again. However, this time, he had no intention of using his sword.

Perhaps that would be a strange statement to be spoken aloud, seeing as the blade had traveled to his right following the initial clash, as though he was about to make a follow up swing himself, but what happened was different.

Rather than a swing, he twirled the handle in his hand—as though the instrument was as light as a feather to him—and, at the same time, stabbed down towards the ground, burying part of Gram’s blade within. His objective was simple—once that was done, he needed only to use it as leverage and make the best out of the remaining momentum, allowing him a jump that should place him far enough away to reconsider how to engage. Fast as the enemy was, if he managed to pull himself up enough, he could perhaps use the enemy’s momentum against him—it should be difficult enough to stop or correct a strike from such a weapon once one has committed to it, and while it is certainly true that any Servant worth their salt should be able to subvert the normal rules, perhaps the suddenness would catch the man off-guard.

True, the chance of getting caught by the hammer was still there, but since they moved in the same direction and at that speed, perhaps that would soften the blow—though, considering how the man had recognized his nature and the way he had spoken about it moments earlier had most likely incentivized his decision to not trust absolutely in his ability. He could not be sure what would the weapon do against him if he was struck instead of Gram, but the thought that he would manage to avoid taking a single scratch throughout the entire fight was foolishness at best, and so, he would just need to do his best and deal with whatever came his way.

However, that did not mean he could let challenges go unanswered and be the only one losing something in the exchange—so if it just so happened that he chose to launch a kick towards the enemy’s face mid-jump, all the better. Whoever said he just had to use his sword, anyway?

@Over Illusion

---

The evening glow framed a halo around her white hair, blue eyes reflecting the sky and dress fluttering gently in the breeze making her look the picture of an ideal lady.

Which is why the scowl on her face was all the more outstandingly, absurdly jarring, why the coldness in her eyes had made people get out of her way ever since she had left the church and that utterly damnable man and made her way here.

Just thinking about it made her crease her brow further. The ruffian’s nerve had been beyond question—not a single word of thanks, no appreciation, even if she had come specifically to help him, hurried by the urgency in her call and the simple desire to act like her station demanded. The fact that his critique was not without basis only annoyed her further, and so, she had spent the majority of her day looking like she was on a warpath.

Pausing to shoot a glance at the river, she tried to get her emotions under control—no, she most definitely could not go to the church right now and suplex the man. It would just not do. Count to ten, breathe in, count to ten again, let go. Attempting to use the image of the river—itself dyed by the gentle setting sun, reflecting its rays—to further calm herself, she found her attempts somewhat successful, though the sourness of her mouth did not just disappear. At least she doubted the day could get any worse.

As it turns out, when she answered the desperate calling of Emmerich, she had to wonder in the back of her mind if the world just had it out for them today. At first, her face showed absolutely no reaction—a finely crafted mask of marble and steel, but her eyes told a different story, as did her body. Dilated pupils, irregular breathing—almost as though she was on the verge of hyperventilating. Leaning against the wall around a nearby house’s garden, she felt her step lose its characteristic sureness and her mouth dry.

“Saber. Go,” They were the first words that left her mouth, and the sense of urgency could not be faked—not to this level. What had been said shook her to the core, and this would perhaps be the first time the terror she felt was so apparent. “Move now. Don’t worry about me, don’t think about it, just hurry it up to where those two are without a second’s delay. I should be fine, considering your ability, and I will go to rendezvous with my sister post-haste just in case, but if what Emmerich said is true, then they are probably in need of more help than Brauer ever was. Rider seemed exactly the sort of idiot to try and meet the problem head on alone, but this is way too risky. Run, fly, do whatever you want but get there as soon as you are able.”

The Burial Agency. Just thinking about it made her heartbeat quicken, and she gulped. Why here and now, of all possible times? Certainly, challenging the Church’s authority so early on must have been jarring, but why would they send someone like that even in these circumstances, why would they care about this backwater in the middle of nowhere enough to send someone like that so soon?

It made no sense, but perhaps, it just did not have to. Did the why really matter when one of those monsters got involved, in the end? No, no. At this point, searching for the root of the problem was far less important than just dealing with it.

“. . .One more thing. Do not die.”

@Yukitamas

Sigurd's reaction had been commendable, but merely that. In the end, the two combatants were both certainly in the upper echelon among what it meant to be "at the level of a Servant", the power of their bodies could easily be called first rate. In that regard, then, the battle would be determined by their respective skill, by chance, and by their other abilities and equipments.

What had happened here was one such example. For after all, Gavel's strike was one made towards the left from his perspective. Sigurd using Gram as a hold in order to pull himself to the right, leaving the range of Gavel's swing, was a commendable thought. However, it had a core tactical misstep.

While Sigurd was out of Gavel's arms' reach, he was still in the direction of the swing.

Gavel knew little to nothing about the nature of Heroic Spirits or the Holy Grail System. Command Seals, Noble Phantasms, such terminology was meaningless to him. As such, perhaps even he underestimated just how unthinkable his next action was to a Heroic Spirit. When he saw Sigurd begin to vault himself over to avoid the strike, the Rider kicking out as he did so, the Burial Agent did not attempt to shift his movements in an attempt to strike out at Sigurd's legs.

No, in the first place, something like that was likely impossible. While a Servant could do seemingly impossible things, changing the angle of their body after they had launched, for instance, that was only from the perspective of mere men. In a battle between Servants, fought in short distances that these monsters could cross in fractions of fractions of seconds, that sort of change in momentum could simply not occur. Rather, he merely ducked his head in to minimize whatever glancing blow a kick from someone moving in the opposite direction could give, readied himself...

-And released.

The Fourth Holy Scripture left his hands near the end point of its swing. While Sigurd's kick did hit its mark, the fact that he had done so in the beginning was his undoing. The strike met Gavel's head, but given that Sigurd was pulling himself in the opposite direction as the kick, the damage it dealt was a far cry to what it could have been were it an all-out strike. Nonetheless, he landed his blow.

As mentioned, in such short distances as this, in a battle between Servants, the ability to do the impossible is cancelled out. Just as Anthony who had committed himself to a swing could not react in time to entirely avoid Sigurd's blow, even with his slightly superior speed to the Servant, nor could the Servant who had committed himself to his movement cancel it so quickly, let alone dig his blade out of the ground and use it to shift his momentum before the hammer moving faster than sound would travel a mere few inches to hit its mark.

His enemy had at least been slightly damaged, but nonetheless, Radah found its mark, the hammer striking against Sigurd as its user shifted back, admittedly a touch dazed from the blow to his head. Sigurd, by contrast, should have been better for wear coming out of the exchange. While blocking the force of an "A rank" blow with his Prana Defense had been costly, the blow had not caused damage, and what was more, he still had his grip on his weapon, unlike the enemy.

However, what should happen is not always what does happen.

At the moment of contact with Radah, Sigurd felt it. Like an oppressive weight bearing down on him, despite the damage of the hammer being blocked through Sigurd's magical energy, that did nothing for its concept. Just as a Magus Killer's bullet applies its effect whether it strikes one's magecraft or oneself, the effect of Radah found itself exhibited even through that defense. If the shield had been something other than Sigurd's own magical energy then perhaps there would have been a chance, but such conjecture was for naught.

Weakness. An overbearing weakness weighed down upon Sigurd from the moment that hammer of the Lord struck him. He was still a being of a Servant's level, there was at least that solace, but that impossible weighed seemed to push down on him from all sides, bringing down his capabilities immensely. His strength, his speed, the very amount of magical energy he could store, all of these plummeted down into the bare minimum of what a Servant could possess.

Was this the nature of Radah? No, something like that was hardly surprising; the mystery and power of Gram was well above that of Sigurd's own Saint Graph, so a result like that after seeing what had happened to his weapon was only natural, but still...

"Feel that, Rider? That's the gap between you and God."

His opponent stood opposite him, some distance now between the two, his hammer clattering onto the ground and his head reeling slightly from the previous impact, but even then, he could hardly be called the loser of this exchange.

Archer is sat at the entrance of the church, on the floor with his back against the statue he has been throwing his apple up into the air and catching it for a short while now, deep in thought about what to do. It took a few repetitions of the apple being released and retrieved before he finally bit into the fruit. As a heroic spirit he did not have to eat, but he needed something to pass the time and did not want to try some of the local food. He did not trust the Japanese food. Archer had been keeping watch while his master and his masters friends went to work setting up a boundary field among other things. This left Archer feeling rather bored, he is not one to jump quickly into action but right now he would like something to work towards. Patience is one thing but inaction is another, he could be of great help to his master. With a final catch Edward quickly devoured the apple before slowly pulling himself up to his feet and dusting himself off. Although he was not actually dirty, it appeared to just be a natural action for him. Archer proceeded to preform a few stretches before strolling around the statue and entered the church.

Edward carefully approached his master and with a hand over his heart he asked Master... Do you have any orders for me?

@Yukitamas

@Art of Fun @Over Illusion @Yukitamas

---

The light that enveloped the town of Fuyuki had gotten dimmer with each passing hour, most of which were spent at the Temple in a rather mundane fashion. It had only been an approximate of 15 minutes since the Goddess had embarked on her new objective of scouting the east part of the city; The populated Shinto district. Buzzing with the sound of those simply seeking the pleasure which came on the weekend, it would have been more difficult to not stay attentive.

They had let Archer escape previously. It was difficult to say whether it had been a failure of theirs or not, but Stheno was not a Servant fit for battle. While chances are that she would be able to pursue an individual unnoticed regardless of precautions, it would also risk entering the gathering of the opposing Servants. The chance of her discovery may be slim, but her inability to fight back to any viable degree was simply a factor not worth entering into so early in this conflict. Instead, she was simply to find out the identity of the Servants. Though, calling it 'simple' would be downplaying the task somewhat. However, with none of the other Servants being all too tailored for gathering intel, the job fell to her.

She couldn't help but sigh as she stood atop one of the buildings, her form still yet unseen. Being summoned as a Servant had greatly increased her capability in battle, but even now she would be considered unfit for it. Even if in life, she had lacked any desire to participate in such things herself, now that her abilities were more tailored for it, she couldn't help the urge building up inside. Still, she had accepted the job without argument. The reason for which being very simple. Archer. She knew very well that she could have approached Archer safely without any worry. Finding out his or her identity would likely not be a simple matter, but at least Stheno herself would remain safe throughout the endeavor. That is, if nothing was to go wrong. That of course was even less unlikely, as Stheno was not one to commit failures. A perfect being such as herself was incapable of that. Those words exactly passed through her mind, drawing a smile across her lips before it left her mind. There truly was no limit to the arrogance of the 'Gods'.

As she took yet another leap through the fading background, her 'senses' were triggered. 'Kufufu~.' Already she had found a target appropriate for her objective. The 'hope' that she had been supressing due to its unrealistic nature was finally starting to be set afloat in this brief moment of joy. 'Perhaps there is a chance for me to find Myself today after all.' She was quick to recompose herself afterwards, realizing the link between Master and Servant had likely been established from it. 'Ah, excuse me for having gotten excited Partner. It seems there is a Servant nearby. An attempt to locate the opposition will be made.' Always remain formal in speech. That was her nature, but the playful attitude of a young mischevious woman was the true foundation of her attitude. All that was needed for her was an outlet, and having been depraved of it earlier by Archer, she could only hope this would serve as a proper replacement. Or, if she was lucky, another attempt at it.

The small thrum of rolling film sweetly filled the church with a whisper. The no longer secular, and perhaps even heretical church filling up with the many telltale signs of Brauer Herstelle. Supplies, tools and other such things were placed to make it the combination of a military base, a magus workshop and a home. Brauer was at work, creating the formation of the Black Sun within the church’s basement while the Homunculus toiled in back, the scent of food that spread through the building from her cooking.

Humming to himself, Brauer leisurely walked back up, the culmination of his current work with the Thule Society laid down. The Black Sun was left in the darkness, waiting for its moment to shine. Ah, but what to get for it… Well, there was that method of acquiring supplies and reagents… He’d have to call Emmerich and ask him to place an order.

Hidden away from the moon, basked in the simple lights of the church. Despite the fact that they were here for a conflict, a ritual, a war, Brauer admitted that he felt rather comfortable for a time. Perhaps it was the fact that they managed to attain the church without a battle in the end and the lack of an enemy presence?

With a light touch a phonograph he brought with him whirs to life.
The sound of a ragtime band began to fliter through a player, almost like a yawn as it eased into the halls of the church. Another whimsical indulgence, or perhaps not. Film and music, the visual and audio. Together they were what formed a movie. So he considered it one little hobby, which was most definitely more acceptable than two little hobbies that had nothing to do with his work.

When he noted Archer’s presence he raised one of his gloved hands to him. Ah, the familiar that wandered as he pleased. Still, there was no harm as long as he did his task as he was meant to.

“Edward carefully approached his master and with a hand over his heart he asked Master... Do you have any orders for me?”

“Hm… no, not really.” he decided upon after thinking. An idle tool was not good to have, but to make use of something simply to give it work was also foolish.

“I think it is best for us to simply rest, Archer. Tomorrow we will go on a search for information on the grai-”

Oh.

Oh no.

Nevermind the report he would have to make of this. For a magus something such as a heretic hunter was a great danger and fear. Yet what now roamed the city was something that monsters and fantasies that should have been completely beyond the reach of mankind feared.
“Archer. What do you know of the activities of the Church, their eighth sacrament and their greatest force?”

The film and music that was playing was hardly a comfort and the news that were screamed into his ear left him with sweaty palms and a painfully loud throbb in his head. His heart was beating, pounding, crying out in fear with each moment. He was afraid, he was afraid and he was afraid the moment he’d stop being afraid is when he was dead.

He let out a gasp of breath as though he were a strange fish forced onto land. “Ah... “ he called out. “Tonight I think a drink is in order with dinner.”

@Breo@Over Illusion

---

A radio-call later, Emmreich sat on the pavement - One leg extended while the other was pulled in, his back resting against the black vehicle. With submachine gun in lap, the german officer boiled in a resolute rage. Despite his earlier outburst on the radio, he was no longer frothing with anger. One could say he managed to put the lid back on it. Not a single grunt escaped Emmerich, but few things hurt the man as much as being hapless in a fight. Absolutely useless, the german gazed up at the darkening sky in a bid to avoid wallowing in his wounded honour. "So... Unvölkisch.", he mumbled the humourless curse. It seemed that this really was the greatest offence for the officer: To go against the greatest, truest national socialist ideal. No longer he could keep the fire burning nor fight for the glory of his ancestors. He was utterly helpless. Even as news came of their rescue by the hand of Saber, he could not garner joy from the knowledge that they might not die tonight. The noise of battle was the only thing that rang in his ears as memories of the Eastern Front slowly crept back into his mind. In a blunt, cold tone he notified his fighting Servant.



His own bones felt every hit Sigurd had taken for the Reich, breath fastened as combat intensified - And so, in the throes of despair and pain of dishonour, Emmerich sought for a sign. A miracle. Anything that could help them. The burn of his command seals grew to insufferable levels, if not only because of his shame. It was then when he finally twitched in pain. As Sigurd came in contact with that wretched hammer, Emmerich's heart skipped a beat. Like white hot iron being driven into his chest, the officer squirmed in pain. Yet in that pain he found absolution, for struggle is manhood. A hand snapped to beneath the left of his chest, where the command seal burned. Springing to his step, with his left grasping the submachine gun by the body, he broke into a reinvigorated rush towards the fight. No matter if death is his reward, victory is his banner. With teeth gritting and blue eyes flaming, the officer roared the order as he rushed.

"RIDER - KILL HIM! SKEWER HIM! ERASE HIM! MAKE HIM DIE! FOR THE GLORY OF THE FATHERLAND AND OUR GERMANIC RACE!"

Emmerich said the words and the command seal activated as if it was triggered not by the order but the officer's refined resolve. God damn it, he's going to die fighting or win, no matter the tenacity of this foe. Together with a legendary hero, side by side, he is going to prove just how true german superiority is. Panting like a hound on the chase, adrenalin flooded his system to remove the pain for the time being. With order given and the officer closing in on the fight to support his servant, Emmerich longed for an unlikely glory to be made his in the light of his command skill being blown on the first fight.

@Ijoyen

---

The workshop was quite easy to find once the peak of the mountain was reached. After all, simply following the still-expanding conduits of magical energy to where it was being directed would lead Uva straight there. Secrecy had not been a priority in this establishment, due to how well-defended the location was. Who needed a secret lair when they had a fortress?

That said, there was an otherworldly sensation tingling the air once the threshold into the staircase downwards into the mountain was crossed. Fuyuki's greatest leyline was swirling about this nexus, and especially because it was underground, the area was saturated quite intensely with energy.

Twin grooves were carved into the sides of the descent, as it was quite steep. All across the stone surface of the tunnel downward, and indeed the entire workshop, tiny, intricate letters no human script included followed geometric patterns, a veritable labyrinth of circuitry. The interior glowed with a soft twilight, as a side effect of the collection of sunshine being used for controlled heating. The redder, lower-frequency light was after all being expulsed actively by the furnace-field, which was in the very center like a tiny sun. At the very bottom of the steps, however, a silvery pool spanned the workshop's floor. Youzai had also descended down here shortly before Uva arrived, it seemed, equally curious.

The floor of the workshop was entirely, evenly covered in a veneer of mercury, though no amount of heat or disturbance would yield vapor. It did feel slightly odd to walk through, though it did not adhere to anything except itself. The liquid metal reflected the three of them and the ambient glow. Bizarrely, the ceiling seemed to stretch into infinity, as if it were a chute straight up through the mountain to the sky at night, though this was purely optical. Up was dark as the moonless sky, yet down was gently glowing like a soft dawn or dusk.

That being said, what was "up" and what was "down" was entirely a matter of perception. This space, this Noble Phantasm that was just as much part of the servant as their body, was not something of human origin. Even though Weyland's Elemental nature was sealed, this space was a reflection of that fey splendor. One's kinesthetic senses parsed the body's motion as they always would expect.

The air carried a hot, metallic sweetness, with a faintly lingering pungency like that of watered-down wine. Every breath was warm and rich, but every exhalation felt desiccated and cold. Even Youzai, who was used to all manner of disturbing things even other magi were nauseated by, was visibly anxious here.

It didn't smell like anything. No, rather, it smelled like nothingness, even in spite of the taste in the air. Not sterile, not empty, not even the unconsciously-familiar scents of one's own body could be smelled here.

The forge had currents through it, flowing like rivers, branching like deltas, and standing inside it led to the occasional sensation of pressure from one direction or another, sometimes more than one. Some of these currents occasionally were reflected in the mercurial floor, despite being unseen otherwise, and other seemed to dilate or shrink rather than move on any of the three axes of standard motion.

The workshop was a cube in overall shape, even if the top seemed to stretch infinitely, at least visibly. Somewhat nauseatingly, slight variances of viewing angle moved the not-sky panorama drastically, with no correlation to the established relationship between perspective and distance.

What was actually along the floor of the workshop that they stepped on was being hidden from them by the mercury. No amount of agitation could part it enough to reveal the surface below.

There was no doorway that had been stepped through. Youzai looked closer, however, and the wall behind him had a glassy refraction, which he could still pass his hand through. So the entry and exit remained as they were, even if they were concealed. The other eighteen walls of the square room shifted and moved, folding and spiraling. Occasionally, droplets of the mercury floor dripped upwards, starting to glow like fireflies while drifting around, before suddenly hurtling off into what seemed like miles-away distance.

Youzai was impressed, but not amused. "Caster, this is...excessive, isn't it?" The conflicting sensory information was vertigo-inducing.

Caster stepped out from the center of his forge, that which looked like a red dwarf star. He was muscular even by knight-class standards, it looked odd for a Caster. Hundreds of golden rings looped and coiled around his torso like chains, looped and grasping several simple tools the smith had already made from mundane materials. A smaller hammer, an awl, some sort of corkscrew-shaped tongs, a rounded hammer, a snowflake-like ring of chisels of varying width and size, a small cone... The ring-chains held them with visibly-evident grip and readiness. Caster's broad shoulders, hulking like a bear, were decorated with four large jewels that stared at Youzai and Uva. The Servant's own eyes were closed, by contrast. His face...it was shaped like a face, but looking at it did not register to the unconscious as "a face". It had all the components of a face, and if you put all those components together you'd have a face, but that face was not "a face" to human instinct. To a homunculus, however, who lacked "human instinct" per se, it was simply a "face-like thing" that lacked some difficult to quantify aspect that crucially identified it as a face.

Instead, that indistinct "face" quality was staring at them from the corners and seams of the workshop. Wherever surface met surface, as if gaps between a veil's threads, the "face" was watching from behind it.

"This gaudy decor upon my name is not of my volition, Contractor. I did not make us, the Grail did."

That not-face turned to Uva. "Good. A physical link to the recipient." Several of the chains retracted and shortened, providing their rings to a new length that reached out like a three-fingered hand to receive Uva's catalyst-stone. Though now that they were face to face, all four of the jewels on Caster's shoulders stared at Uva. "Your construction is perfectly flawless, absolutely pure. You are an unexpected feat for this age."

Youzai frowned, mentally advising Caster not to antagonize one of their allies. Caster replied that he had chosen his words exactingly, to convey what would be interpreted as praise. Caster did indeed recognize Uva as far beyond the norm of coining homunculi, after all, but omitted his opinion of that accomplishment. And his maggot-ridden turd of a Contractor could fuck off with that nannying.

"We will begin now. The Contractor will alert you when it is completed."

His body felt so crushingly weak.

For a man that had been born an oddity even for his time—someone for whom might was as second nature as breathing—the experience was no less than absolutely alien, and the pained widening of his eyes upon assessing his own status made such a fact as obvious as it could be. However, even though his movements were so dreadfully sluggish now, he came to his feet upon trembling legs, perhaps thankful that his kick had managed to stun his opponent for the necessary instants required to stand his ground.

Even if his current state still lied beyond the realm of ordinary humans, comparing him to what he had been before would be like comparing a house cat to a grown lion—nay, the difference could simply not be illustrated in such a metaphor. He was a shade, a phantom of what he had once been, and if one were to judge this state he found himself in—there was simply no two ways around it, he was indeed ‘the weakest’.

But nonetheless, Sigurd was Sigurd. Broken, shattered beyond recognition and torn down into the dirt, but his will was still that of the dragon-slayer that had carved his way into song and legend with his own two hands. And so, even if the act was futile, even if it was worthless, he was the sort to die standing and swinging away. That was his truth, simple as it could be. He reached down to grasp the handle of his sword—gods, had Gram always been this ridiculously heavy?—and proceeded to pull it up towards himself, leaning on it like a makeshift cane.

“. . .I don’t think I’ll be able to give you a good fight in this state,” He confessed without preamble or hesitation. The man had matched him moments prior, so the thought of engaging against him here and now and hope for victory was fantasy at best. “That hammer of yours really does a number on things, I see.”

Even if Saber was on the way, he doubted he would be able to hold out long enough for it to matter—at least now. So what else could he do but make small chat before he once again charged to his death? Perhaps it was a boon in its own way—at least, even if he should die like this, he would do so in battle rather than betrayed and ambushed in his own room. But even if he had made peace with the idea of dying, that did not mean he wished to, nor did it mean that a hunger for victory did not lurk into his heart still.

And then, he heard it.

Erase him.

Magical energy suffused him, a veritable torrent reaching through the link into his self, to be used as one should wish. While a Command Seal would normally be used to order a Servant and part of the energy turned into a compulsion for them to follow the order, the fact that Sigurd was in agreement meant he had all that power at his own disposal.

But what of it?

A cup does not grow in size when filled with water, a battery’s maximum does not change even if it remains plugged in. If it had happened earlier—before the hammer had done its mark on him—he would have been able to express his full power, since the problem had been that his Master simply did not possess enough to fill that cup, but now? Now it was just going to waste, for his current state was his apex, and all the magical energy in the world would not change that. Perhaps it would have been a waste of such a thing. . .were it not for Sigurd possessing the perfect outlet.

Yes, such a command should have been worthless, but it just so happened to also be exactly what he needed.

“You showed me yours,” The smile on his face was decidedly worrying, crimson eyes sharp. “Guess turnabout is fair play.”

Gram was a simple thing.

It was not a sword that boasted of curses to challenge karma, it was not a physical embodiment of any of Sigurd’s deeds, it did not have any sort of conceptual ability to bring his opponents low as the enemy’s hammer did. It was simply a weapon that carried the attribute of ‘amplification’. Magical energy could be forced into it and Gram would convert and amplify it in order to unleash an ‘Anti-Army’-class attack. Yet, simplicity did not mean that it lacked effectiveness.

While attempting to use it before he had been brought low would have consumed a high amount of his own prana and attempting to wield it after the fact was suicidal, however, this changed things. The ‘perfect outlet’ he had said—and he meant it. The magical energy of the Command was funneled into it without a second thought, and the vile crimson runes lit up, prana running throughout them with such force that one would think it impossible. More, more and more, he fed the greedy sword for this last dance. He might not have been able to do much by himself, he might have been the weakest.

But he was still a Servant with a Noble Phantasm.

And at this distance, with this timing. . .

“I said earlier that it really wanted to kill you now. Well, survive it if you can, I suppose,” The nonchalance of his speech stood fully at odds with the situation. “You said that hammer showed ‘the difference between myself and God’ when it did this, right? Alright then, Mister Gavel,” His smile stretched into a lupine grin. “Let me show you how much I care about your god.”

His arm tensed, rearing back.



And with that declaration, he swung, releasing the True Name and letting the sword's fury loose upon the world, the crackling runes reaching their apex and power being unleashed.

It was not an elegant slash of gold. It was not searing twilight condensed in a proper shape, or even savage power turned into a swing.

Merely a torrent of crimson spawned from Gram, relentless, merciless and deadly. Light that promised no less than absolute destruction, powered by a grudge to swallow the world whole. Simple, raw energy with only the purpose of complete, utter annihilation of those in its path. It was fortunate, then, that there were so few people around here and that the place was relatively isolated—one shuddered to think what would have happened if he ever unleashed this in the center of Miyama or Shinto, or if he was just a touch less careful with aiming.

Let him witness then, if this man of God had any other miracle up his sleeve. Let him bear witness to how he dealt with this, diminished as it was, for he still faced the full wrath of the strongest demonic sword.

Let him witness, and if he possessed nothing, let him die.