Water ran across the panels of the apartment's windows, feeding the already present bits of mold. The interior was cold, and empty, save for the hum of a computer's fans and the man overlooking the city. The brutalist blocs that made up the landscape hadn't changed much; the added colors did little to wash away the mark of l'ancien régime. Polisae will never be the same.

  Or so thought Onar, ever lost in his thoughts, a rare moment that would bless his mind between fits of excitement and nervousness before a big event. And yet, he felt, he'd still waste them on unproductive thoughts. He turned toward the monitor to confirm the time was right. Hesitantly, he checked the streets once again and then began to get equipped. He still wasn't sure how he should've balanced magical protection against physical, but his mind already knew the right, and obvious answer: Kevlar plates could be turned into charms and imbued just as well as his usual trinkets. But it was both too late for that, and, just thinking of what a fool he'd been would cause him unbearable mental strain.

  A rough looking sedan was waiting for him downstairs. Self-driving cars haven't been around for long, but cold, long nights were easy to navigate even for the most rudimental of software. Pale, orange lights showed him the way towards the front seat. Just as he thought, the street was empty save for the occasional murmur of the wind.

  He never felt alone, he just knew he was. His father had always prepared him for that, yet it didn't help. He got sloppy, he made mistakes. Became paralyzed. If not for this fixation, he might've just ended up dead.

  A car passes by, coming from the opposite direction. Under his breath, he curses the high beamer, but it didn't matter. Soon things will have to change. It wouldn't be long until he'd reach his destination. Scrolling The Board at this point wouldn't be of much use. Double checking equipment would. The holsters sat firmly on his thighs. The respirator didn't inhibit his breathing. His helmet sat firmly on his head, although he could feel some of the charms pressing sharply against his scalp. Anything less, and he'd die an easy death, he reckoned. Anything more and it would just encumber him.

  Exiting Polisae, through the Summer highway, one could find a secondary road leading to the southeast, going through a dense forest. Within it, lay a convergence of leylines, conveniently under a clearing, basking the moonlight. Poetic.

  Getting out of the vehicle, Onar takes a deep breath. He unholsters one of pistols and checks his compass. The small arrow starts glowing a faint blue pointing the way forward. Reluctantly, given his heartbeat, he starts marching forward at the fastest pace he could upkeep indefinitely.

  The forest, as expected, was empty. Not even the bugs would come out to greet him. After crushing a few twigs underneath his boots, the man taps the side of his mask and a shimmer appear at his eyelevel. Faint enough to not be easy to spot, this would give him low light vision, just as he'd experienced in countless dreams and games. Paired with the enchantment on his boots, no one should hear or see him coming. A comforting idea.

  Fifteen minutes later, there it lay, the clearing, the point of convergence. Another step and he'd be exposed, to whom, he didn't know, but he presumed to be better safe than sorry. He climbed a tree, claiming a vantage point, just close enough to have a good view of things. Looking through a telescope, the sight sent a small shiver through his body. A summoning circle had already been drawn. But it seemed inactive. Incomplete. And no sign of life in the immediate vicinity.

  Onar expected to be confused. That's why he was there, to learn. He'd hoped that his forays into the forest would shine some light on the mystery of the Grail. He wanted to observe, to find out. But this was odd.

  As he slid down his rope, he carefully approached the circle. And for the final time, his compass pulsated, once again indicating no human life in the vicinity, before running out of mana. The man gripped his pistol and began inspecting the handiwork on the ground. Must've been an experienced magus, he thought, but he didn't have many reference points beyond his father.

  "There."

  The circle interrupted itself. Positive x, y, about ten degrees of missing, fragmented magical energy. Whoever made it didn't just leave, they were unexpectedly interrupted. He then took off his mask. He was used to the smell of the forest, he could filter it out, and his nose didn't scoff at the freezing temperatures. Something smelt differently. He couldn't piece it together.

  Donning his respirator again, he quickly spent most of the reserves patching together a different function. Vapor enchantment, as opposed to filtration and directed energy dissipation. What could it be? Toxic gas, ash, smoke. No. Burnt hair, grass, meat? It wasn't that either. Chaotic rearrangement was starting to take a toll on the man, and his gear, he knew, would soon crack. Could it be related to the author? Gunpowder smoke, rot, no... blood. But where is it from? It's not blood, but dried blood. A few meters away.

  The gas mask gave in under the pressure, and a headache started to sink in. Never mind that, he was close. Combing the area, he could find the source. A body, lumped over a thick tree branch. Beyond gloves, he had nothing to help him with an investigation. The moment he pulls it down, shock immediately shows on his face, as the horrifying gaze of a dead woman stares at him, right in the eyes. And between hers, was a bullet hole, which went straight through her skull. Disgusted, he tried to learn more, as fear started gripping him.

  Young, fading blonde, dressed way too lightly for this weather. There were no signs of a struggle. A small pool of dried blood sat under the branch. Then he noticed something, clutching in her hand, fragments of amethyst.

  It's all inconclusive, he grit his teeth. And where is the assailant? What was his goal?

  Onar stood up. He was at an impasse. His information was incomplete. He didn't get himself into anything... yet. Although he was a witness to something, and who knows who could've been watching him. No, there wasn't any other way out. And no safe bet.

  After using a bird's eye view from atop a tree, he knew what to do next. It looked like a Solomonic seal. He began to fill in the gaps. The final drawing was rough, and time tired, but complete. The hour was right. This is a chance, and answer to his cries of anguish if there ever will be one.

  Concentrating on the few magic circuits he possessed, Onar raised his hand towards the center of the circle.

  "The thread that weaves the basest of our being-

  The root that is the rain, the soil, the sun-

  A manifest of conscious mystery, a key to no lock

  The unseen executor oft forgotten yet always there

  From the edge of imagination, to the depths of depravity

  Flow, out, now, let it become real, let it cross into reality

  A cry of those with no mouth, no tears, no muscle

  A call of cheap, of cheat, of neither mag nor sage

  Come forth wave borne of thy depths, thy inner

  Arise in flame, or cold or wind, but arise

  Hear as I call upon a character of sloth,

  The antithesis of the world

  Succumb to my deepest woes, my worst desires

  And show me the one who would answer it all!"

  Light briefly shines in the palm of Onar's extended arm, before then gathering into a small flake, which gently proceeds to glide in a hazy fashion towards the ground, finally hitting the middle of the circle. A moment passes, but the silence doesn't last long. The symbol on the ground begins to glow, faintly at first, then it becomes louder. A blue hue envelops the field, and then sits. Onar could feel an inexplicable force pushing him back, but he held firm. He did not understand what was happening, as finally, the blue shifted its hue, adopting a royal indigo, and then a fiery orange if for a couple of milliseconds before exploding into an overwhelming crimson, kicking the man back a few feet and onto the cold and wet ground.

  Opening his eyes, hand moving from shielding his vision, he did not see a mythical being, or manifest of deepest dreams. Instead, before him stood a Woman, un-naturally pale, as if the moon itself decided to land before him. She was draped in black from top to bottom, except for her hair, which was bleached and pallid, and the ends of her skirt, burning scarlet. Her chest was protected by a dark jet plate, and in one hand, a lance covered with an unfurled fabric by its tip, the other, a crude, sinister sword, carbon and unlike what he'd ever seen. Her face displayed a bored or patronizing look, the man could not tell clearly from his position. Onar's breathing was heavy, and he took his mask off swiftly. Fire, and ice kissed his cheeks simultaneously, and then the witch before opened her mouth to speak:

  "I ask of you, are you my Master?"

  Firent walked with heavy steps across the hall, sure of his path but uncertain of the destination. A man of similar stature followed close behind him, yet his gaze was not forward but glancing over the bodies laying across distance, the failed attempts at resistance, the torn flags laying about. Both wore simple uniforms, bearing no sigil, no mark, and carried nothing on their person. Their hands were as clean as those of a chirurgeon.

  "Do you believe we should let the war continue?" asked the one following, stopping for a second to pilfer a richly dressed body.

  Firent stopped and stared at him.

  "Let them have their fun."

  "I don't believe we got them all, indeed what if whoever remains is unreasonably vindictive" he replied as he pulled a canine tooth with his fingers. "Pearl white"

  Firent scoffed. "It doesn't matter", turning around to stare at one banner who hadn't hit the ground. "We control the grail; we can sever their connection to the reservoir". He then grabbed the fabric, ripping it in half, tearing the wreath it depicted.

  "If that's what they want."

  His partner stood up, pocketing the newly acquired treasure. A short pony tail swirled around to his front, blending with the ashen uniform.

  "With Novardo done for, I genuinely believe, no, find and downright even insist... that its high time to consider independence."

  A scowl manifested across Firent's face, wrinkles burned into his expression.

  "You may cross that line alone, Pavlo."

  Even with the history these two had, tensions were rising. Pavlo knew him well yet never bothered to accommodate to his emotions. He maintained a neutral expression, for a few seconds. He then scowled in return. Tensed his muscles. Gave off every indicator that he was ready, but Firent stood firm, unfazed, poise unchanged.

  Pavlo finally let out a burst of laughter.

  "I jest, I jest! Of course, how could I conceive such a nasty course of action, do you believe that I could? Truly?"

  "Genuinely."

  "Firent, I reckon, that is a strong word, and you know to use it well, please forsake, forgive and forget!"

  Firent relented. He resumed his steady march towards the exit. It was for no other reason than his talent, that Pavlo was in his position. They both knew that.

  The girl ran. She ran as fast as she could. Between flight or fight, fight had never been the prudent option. That's something she learned, no, she developed as she grew. As time went on she would stop taking risks. She would sit and drop rather than jump, even for small heights. She wouldn't take any dare from the other children. She would thoroughly investigate and mend anything that she felt wrong with herself. She'd given up on any and all sport. Hers had become a life guided by fear, of pain, of risk. Not that It had served her well, the benefits weren't precisely quantifiable. Still, "it could've been much worse" is a valid conclusion.

  But now her instincts were overdrive. She'd known the day would come. The loss of her brother was the final straw. His defeat was spectacular, and it came at no easy cost for their opponents, but that had happened twice before without such retribution. But this time they flew too close to the sun. The grail had almost been his. And that was the beginning of the end.

  Their house was empty, cold, looted. They didn't expect anyone to come back here so they left a while ago. Downstairs, in a dimly lit room, hang on the wall an intricate map of Europa, the Middle East and North Africa. It's quality stellar, only worn by the passage of time and excessive amounts of marks, staples and pins. A pet project of her brother's, that she took to continuing in his memory. Where others have dismissed his theory or downright rejected it out of fear of retribution, she just couldn't let go. His portrait, hanging from a wall gazed at her warmly.

  From her pocket she pulled out a rudimentary key, which she then inserted into the keyhole of a cabinet's door. But it was already open. It was to be expected, but the lock wasn't for the cabinet. Inside the drywall, beside the map lay a small safe in which they'd both use magecraft to place objects. But removing them required irreversible destruction.

  Inside lay bare a few ingots. Carefully picked and restored, one couldn't guess that these belonged in a museum, in various shapes and forms. Some were steel, some bronze, but most iron. Years of procurement work, excavation and investigation had been spent on securing these seemingly mundane objects.

  Double checking the schematics, the girl knew there was no room for error. Transmutation wasn't her forte, but she'd carefully studied and trained for this day. The quantity was just enough to produce it, a single piece of artisanship. If this were the singular moment of her life where her greatest achievement could be earned, this had to be it.

  The sword would now never leave her back. On the terrace of a fifty-odd floor office building, there she stood, proud and determined. She wasn't fearless by any means but she wouldn't be defenseless anymore.

  "Saber."

  The swordsman manifests behind her, joining her vigil, large, decorated shield in one hand, a thin headed spear in the other.

  "Yes, Master?"

  "There's no denying." She paused for a brief moment. "The eighth class has been summoned."

  "Ruler?" he asked without a hint of emotion.

  "No... Avenger."

  The night was still young.

  Chapter 1

  The man lay there on the ground staring upwards at the woman, her white hair glowing from the moonlight, akin to Saintly glow. But he was still shocked at her appearance. Yes, he did not know what he was getting himself into, but through his mere witnessing of the ritual circle, he had already painted a target on his back, or so he thought. That's why he decided to take a gamble and harness whatever power it could bring. But she was no familiar. And then the back of his hand began to glow an intense red.

  "Huh. It seems you are." The woman reacted.

  Looking at his hand, he could see and feel an intense amount of mana gather into this bizarre tattoo. Its aspect further confused him, seemingly being made out of three distinct shapes. A crown of leaves surrounded the heart, which was made up of a blade flanked by two plump wings. Above it, escaping the crown stood an angled shape, similar to the visor of a knight's helm, with an arrowhead rising in the middle of the brows. Onar shook his head and quickly got up on his feet.

  "Who are you?" he asked with a confidence borne out of acceptance of certain death.

  The Woman looked at him straight in the eyes, as if trying to get a read on him.

  "Servant. Avenger. I'm here to fulfill your deepest, darkest desires" she paused, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second, which Onar hadn't caught on "destroying those that have wronged you. Burning them who have earned your ire. Casting the world into the pit of despair. Only then shall my contract be fulfilled."

  Onar had attempted to study her face, but he couldn't completely grasp her. The only thing he had figured was that her speech had a certain poetic undertone to it, a mask of an actor perhaps. But he shook his head once again. Yeah this is reality. Looking at the ground, he spot his own mask which he quickly picked up.

  "Tell me avenger, can you feel anyone else's presence around? Are your abilities capable of sensing that?"

  She raised her eyebrow but complied. Closing her eyes, she quickly came to the conclusion that there was no human or servant presence around them.

  "I see." Onar exhaled some air out. "I don't think we should continue this conversation here, let's go back to my place." The servant nods and tucks her hands underneath her cloak, which was now covering her entire body, her lance and sword dematerializing in a fine, blue-ish glimmer.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Fiddling with his compass, Onar soon realized that it ran out of juice a long time ago. Not wanting to look like a fool, he started walking in a random direction, Avenger slowly following behind him. Inside his pocket, however, he was repeatedly pressing the car alarm button.

  "What is that noise?"

  "You can hear it?"

  "We're heading in its direction. What is it?"

  "It's my car."

  "Why's it making that sound?"

  Onar shrugged. "Someone passed by and flicked a rock off the ground."

  "Eh? And it just happened right after you realized your compass was out of juice? What sort of a second rate mage are you?"

  The question was meant to provoke. Onar had guessed that some sort of connection existed between them. She could probably tell that that his magic circuits were neither high in number, nor of particular quality. But that question didn't bother him. No, instead he succinctly replied, stern in tone.

  "I'm alive, that's what I am. And that makes me a better mage than most that have lived."

  The rest of the journey and drive home was quiet.

  A short elevator ride, and the pair was welcomed by the dry cold of Onar's empty apartment. He regretted leaving the window open, and how he would have to use the radiator.

  "There truly is no bounded field, huh?"

  Onar shrugged.

  "Security by obscurity."

  He then went into the living room, where a large weapons rack caught the servant's attention. Onar moved to place his pistols back in their spots, carelessly unloading both and throwing their mags on a couch.

  "Do you want something to eat?"

  "I don't require food."

  "Me neither, I just feel nervous when I'm not eating."

  Avenger moved closer to the window, staring at the outside, dead world. A couple of snowflakes were hopelessly attempting to cover the road and sidewalk, only to melt the moment they touched ground.

  Coming back into the bedroom, Onar had fashioned himself a toastie. It was clear as day that he wasn't patient enough to wait for the cheese to properly melt.

  "So, tell me, Avenger, what exactly are you? What is your purpose?" he asked nonchalantly, paying more attention to the food in front of him than the servant scowling at him.

  "What do you mean by that question?! Surely you must be jesting?!"

  "Not at all."

  "Why did you summon me in the first place!?"

  "It was a gambit. I found the circle interrupted, I completed it on a whim, attuned some of my emotion to a chant and there you were."

  Her expression changed. No longer was the annoyed with him, she was downright confused, mouthing the words silently. "What?"

  "Look, I exposed myself. My curiosity, my boredom got the better of me. I found this forbidden board-"

  "Like an ancient tablet?"

  "No, it's a sort of place on the internet."

  "Oh."

  "You know what the internet is?"

  "Of course – the grail provided me with rudimentary information as to avoid culture shock."

  "Wait, you have the grail?"

  More confusion was up in the air. It was clear that to move on, they both had to lay their cards on the table. After a bit of debating, Avenger agreed to explain the mechanics of the Holy Grail War to Onar, who in turn would fill any gap left by the Grail.

  "The Grail War is usually fought between seven pairs of Masters and Servants, each servant belonging to a certain class. There are Sabers, mistakenly crowned as the strongest class, as if..." she said, taking a moment to loudly exhale.

  "Archers, Lancers and Casters, self-explanatory. Assassins are weaker but they usually have tools for opportunistic strikes or master elimination. Riders are quicker and possess a mount. Then there's berserkers who trade sanity and advanced techniques for a raw boost in stats."

  "And all of those, they are heroes of legend or historical figures?"

  "Yep."

  "But you said you're an Avenger, what's that about?"

  The servant stood silent, then she broke eye contact, returning to staring outside. The temperature had begun falling, snow started to set by a few millimeters.

  "Does snow settle in high around here?"

  "Not really, a dozen of centimeters max."

  She didn't fashion a reply. She was just staring out the window. Onar, perhaps overwhelmed by the new information, proved very patient now.

  "Ruler class servants may manifest on special occasions... I don't know the details. Me being here, an Avenger, might mean the Grail has been corrupted."

  "Meaning it won't grant us wishes?"

  "It's still a massive mana reservoir one could claim. And besides, my nature and the Grail's would align in this case."

  Once again silence. They both knew what followed. It wasn't just mere coincidence that Onar summoned a spirit of vengeance, would-be avatar of destruction of mankind – he himself harbored similar intentions, but he'd never had the opportunity to let them out, for it would lead to certain death. His, a dissident's. A child throwing a tantrum.

  "Alright" he said "then you should know about my relationship with the world."

  She turned towards him, piqued interest, even if her face was neutral, if judgmental. One could say she was downright looking down upon him, a trend which wouldn't stop any time soon. She would never look him in the eyes unless she stood upright and him sat down.

  "Magi are almost extinct." He blurted out, defeated. "Magical studies, activity, etc. attracts unwanted attention. Actually, I'm quite sure they know of me, Its just that they never felt the need to take care of me."

  The conversation then took a morbid turn, as Onar lowered his gaze looking, staring at the old carpet underneath his legs.

  "It's why my dad left. He told me all about this, within safety limits. It's why information is so scarce. I took a major risk reading that board where the only relevant piece of information was that the Holy Grail is in Polisae."

  The low hum of an electric heater filled the room, a steady beat carrying the faint rasp of impending failure. Onar got accustomed to the smell of burnt metal and scorched aluminum. He stood up and walked towards her.

  "My name is Leonad Ristil, son of the smartest man to have ever lived. I am a third rate dream-weaver - and my wish right now is to exact vengeance upon the world" he swallowed saying his last words, which the servant caught on. Nevertheless, she symbolically shook his hand before returning hers under her cloak.

  "The True name of a servant is a powerful tool in the hands of an enemy. Nevertheless as my master, I guess I should tell you, even if you are third rate. I am Joan of Arc, and I wish to set fire to the world that had once left me to burn." A mere fraction of a moment, her pupils twitched. Perhaps she still wasn't sure revealing her identity was a good idea.

  Onar's eyes widened at the revelation, though. "The Western Saint?"

  "Western?"

  "Around here people are Rhomaioi-Orthodox."

  Jeanne rubbed her chin in thought. "Might be a clue to the nature of my summoning." It wasn't.

  "Master" the servant spoke, as he materialized besides the girl. "The Master of Rider has arrived. "

  "What about Assassin?"

  "He has departed. I can't gauge the threat he will pose at this distance but given the alliance with the Master of Berserker... whether it be of subservience or of common goals... the situation doesn't inspire confidence."

  "Berserker is our weakest matchup... with Assassin's support it's going to be an even more difficult fight. I hope this thing with Rider turns out productive."

  "Arrogance is a given of that class."

  "You don't think they're up for cooperation?"

  Saber just shook his head, and the girl mouthed something under her breath.

  She was tired. Ever since that day, she lived her entire life on edge. Always with an eye open. Always planning contingencies, always triple checking and never showing her face where not needed. In contrast - the Grail War had been a liberating experience for her. Although she didn't show it, and perhaps couldn't, she was greatly relieved when she summoned Saber, her brother's years of hard work had paid off. And she could finally sleep peacefully. Of course, that wasn't a reason to rest on her laurels.

  "Saber."

  The servant looked from the table he was set up on, where a soldier's meal had been carefully prepared and was ready to eat. She motioned for him not to get up.

  "I'll handle it."

  The girl stepped into a large elevator, riding it down to the reception level. Stepping out, she was greeted by the annoyed visage of a young man with short blonde hair and a stocky build, wearing some rather thin clothes and an expensive gold watch. On the back of his palm lay the command seal much like hers, but different in design. If hers was blocky and resembled a wall, his was a piercing dagger.

  "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

  "I'm sorry?!" He grunted "Is this the welcome I get?"

  "I'm afraid I hadn't much time to prepare, we, uh, had to deal with an enemy servant not too long ago."

  The man wasn't any less annoyed but seemingly accepted the excuse. He then exhaled audibly as he ran a hand through his hair. The girl lead him into a nicely decorated meeting room.

  "Would you like some tea?"

  "I doubt anything you got will satisfy my needs; but otherwise give me the strongest coffee you have."

  Lacing it with poison would probably be an easy elimination. That is, provided she doesn't get caught and he doesn't have any countermeasures. Then, why risk it?

  As she placed the plate with two cups on the small coffee table, she seated herself opposite him.

  "Alright, I'm here, let's hear your terms of surrender."

  "Erhm..." the girl stumbled over her words for a moment "I'm not sure that's what my messenger communicated..."

  "Don't be na?ve, I don't even have to know – this is the only point from which Rider is willing to negotiate – recognize his supremacy and your servant will be spared a gruesome death, and, who knows, you might get to live yet."

  Saber wasn't kidding speaking of arrogance – Like Servant like Master, the girl thought. She wasn't at a huge impasse, in fact, despite this portrayal, she figured out the Master of Rider as the calculating sort. Him not bringing his servant with him could be taken to mean many things, but for one it surely meant that negotiations wouldn't be going any better. The question was, how much of his attitude was a fa?ade.

  "Please then, allow me to act in goodwill as to prove my loyalties."

  The man raised an eyebrow whilst sipping on the black drink.

  "I've managed to locate an enemy duo, which I'll be eliminating as a show of good faith."

  "And who might those be?"

  "An odd element – an unsanctioned magus and an Avenger servant."

  "That's odd." He put down the cup. "How would someone like that manage to even summon avenger. If what you're saying is true, then this war has already deviated." His tonal shift was obvious; he stopped playing around. Either he appreciated the information so much, or he seriously miscalculated. In any case, he took it at face value, but it wasn't like the girl was lying.

  "Are you saying your servant is capable of taking on an Avenger?"

  "Not exactly – the weak element is the master, who, among others, is grossly unprepared."

  "So, what, are you going to assassinate him and wait for the Avenger to fade?"

  "Something like that."

  The man then stood up.

  "I appreciate the talk we had, but I need to take this information back. If you hold up to your end of the bargain consider us non-hostile for the moment."

  "Thank you."

  The man then took his leave, and the girl escorted him. But before stepping out into the cold, he turned his head once more.

  "Don't worry about Berserker and Assassin yet. They won't show their face around any time soon."

  Onar stepped into the living room, only to find his servant aiming a gun at him.

  "You've got no trigger discipline."

  Jeanne lowered the gun and turned it sideways. The safety was on, there was no mag, and when she pulled the charging handle no bullet jumped out.

  "So, tell me: why the hell are you going around brandishing toy guns?"

  Rather than answer, Onar lazily opened a cabinet and picked a bottle from inside, before throwing onto Jeanne's lap. It was full of small little plastic pellets.

  "I don't get it."

  "I've been charging those BBs with my mana for years now. I have a sizable stash of them. Surely you can feel it?"

  "Ok... and?"

  Onar exhaled and picked up a pistol from the rack. Jeanne was watching him curiously. He loaded a magazine, pulled the slide and then took a shot at his servant who didn't flinch, until it was too late. The small plastic pellet shattered into a many smaller bits against her plate.

  "Was that supposed to impress me?"

  Onar took a second shot, which now glanced off the same plate, bouncing harmlessly against the wall.

  "The first shot was to the magnitudes of a rodent hunting rifle. The second was a low power airsoft gun."

  He then removed the mag and placed everything back in its place.

  "As long as the BBs are charged with my mana, I can project my dreams onto them as they come out of the barrel. As long as it makes sense to me, they work. Furthest I got in performance was to-spec to whatever original the toys replicated, more or less."

  "Wow."

  "Impressed?" he asked, sarcastically.

  "No, no, that's pretty cool and all, but couldn't you know... get real guns?"

  "Those are quite illegal. Much more than these toys, never mind the cost."

  "Oh." The disappointment in her was as evident as the passage of time.

  "But these 'toys' perform the same if not better than the real-deal. Besides, I figure that as long as you're my servant you should be able to use them just as I would."

  She didn't reply but Onar could spot a faint smile forming on her face. A sinister one. Then she got up.

  "Alright Master, let's hit the road. We've got an entire city to scout." Every time she would call him that, it wouldn't be with the reverence or respect a servant would afford their superior, but the opposite – it was mocking, sarcastic and maybe an attempt at intimidation.

  "Just one thing."

  Onar stopped her.

  "Ahem."

  "What?"

  "I think you should stay behind until I get you something more in-line with the present times."

  "Huh? Oh, no worries about that" she snapped her fingers and disappeared.

  "Invisibility?"

  No, the word echoed through Onar's mind. It's called spirit form, any servant can go into it at will.

  "Well, that's convenient."

  Onar picked up a pistol for himself from the rack. One of his favorite, the real model was chambered in .45 ACP. He then tucked into his jacket's breast pocket. Most wouldn't be able to tell he was armed, but it wasn't a quick draw either.

  "Can you take one of the guns with you in this spirit form?"

  Nope. And, by the way, you can just use telepathy.

  Aha. Neat.

  The clock struck 3 A.M. Early morning, cold and frosty, and the snowfall would only intensify as the time went on. The morning dew was nowhere to be seen, instead replaced with thin ice crystals. No one in their right mind would come out at this hour, especially whatever lunatic student decided to stay over the winter vacation instead of going home.

  And where are we going exactly?

  To a 24/7 store. They have an outfit section catering towards young people, should find something for you there.

  The weather was truly weird, Onar figured. Sure, it wasn't out of the ordinary for it to start snowing so strong and for temperatures to drop this low, but it wasn't a long ago when it wasn't. In fact, when they were returning from the forest, it was quite warm outside, relatively. But he'd given up on understanding weird phenomena due to a lack of reliable information around. The problem was that he wasn't wearing winter boots, he had to be back before the snow would gather too high.

  Where rows of cars used to be parked now stood only a few old automobiles, some of them gathering dust from years of being forgotten. Trashcans were empty, and in good shape, the streets clean even beneath the snow and most of the graffiti covered up. 'Where is everyone?' is a common sentiment for those visiting or passing through the city, even when the students are around. Polisae is a link in a chain of dying cities and settlements, from where most everyone lived. It's only permanent inhabitants are the old and stubborn. Its saving grace? It happened to resist until automation caught up, and lots of services are now provided by unmanned stores and whatnots.

  How come nobody's stealing anything?

  There was no one to steal. And the society is relatively high trust. Oh, and, I guess totalitarian regimes sometimes enforce crime control well. About three years ago they implemented some effective new legislation, escalating sentences. Did the grail give you information about the law?

  Do you have comprehensive legal knowledge? Are you a criminal? Ha?

  True enough. You see, despite the regime, stealing is not something too grave, depending on the stolen object of course, but shoplifting wasn't punished too harshly. But that gave some people the wrong ideas, thus sentences were extended. First few robbers got off with a couple of years in jail or 'rehabilitating labor'. Then the time served went up, and to life. Suffice to say, It took one whole year of no stealing to de-escalate from mass graves. And only because they don't actually care. I'm sure there's still robberies here and then. And I don't trust the dissidents numbers.

  As Onar pressed down the door handle, mechanical sounds started bringing the place to life. The startup sound of the self-checkout's OS whistled on as lights sequentially flickered on. 'Welcome to Aria-Mart' played on the loudspeaker as Onar stepped in followed by Jeanne.

  "What's with all this baggy shit?"

  "Don't look at me, I'm not sure if its dictated fashion or if people have shit tastes."

  "Pff. Not like you got any style either."

  Onar just stared angrily at her. He couldn't figure if he should retort or just state that his outfit was purely utilitarian. It didn't matter anyway, as she was too busy heading to the fitting room with a bunch of hangers in tow.

  Whatever. Onar headed towards the drinks aisle, looking for some energy in a can. Picking through the vast selection of same-y soda, syrups and variants of juices, he'd often only find bitter, black tea. Low in caffeine, high in price and absolutely gut wrenching in taste for him, he cursed the day students were prohibited from coffee and energy drinks. Nevertheless, twenty cans ought to keep him going through the next few days, and the taste would at least keep his senses sharp.

  As if. That's just what he told himself, it was all placebos.

  "I'm done."

  Still reading a can and with a heavy shopping basket on his other arm, he turned his head lazily towards the girl. Grey hiking boots, laced up tightly and with heavy lug soles, black, ripped slim-fit jeans covering thermal underwear, a white hoodie featuring a generic "BLAM!" print, flanked by a red and black flannel shirt. He had then realized something: despite her unnatural looks, this woman was highly attractive.

  "Eh, get a parka and a winter cap too. And leave the hangers on that chair I'll take them to the check out when I'm done. You can wait for me outside."

  His brain defaulted to getting her out of here for the moment. She didn't say anything, instead approaching him, asking:

  "Got a light?"

  "I don't smoke?"

  'Fuckface' is what her face seemed to mouth. She stormed off outside, leaving him to do his grocery shopping in confusion.

  Out in the cold, the Avenger was hanging by a wall, under the cover of a bus stop station. She pulls out a cigarette from her pocket, something she had taken from her Master's base. She wasn't a smoker, neither now nor in a past life, but she just felt attracted to the ritual. Smoking, staring into the distance, slowly puffing out the smoke... the mental image brought warm sentiment into her ravaged heart. This curse wouldn't allow her to feel anything, but this, this banal, downright childish action, stirred something. Fiddling with the small ciggy, she wondered if this is how addicts feel. Raising it to her mouth she hesitantly snapped her fingers in front of her face, hoping for a spark to light it up. 'That's not what it was made for' she thought. These powers were made for destruction, overwhelming infernos – not precise utility. In doing this, she was somewhat spiting her own existence. And it worked... for once it would finally work. She felt calm, something she never felt truly before, her hatred, if for a moment, was tamed. The oblivion correction would soon rein her in but for now, she had this moment of peace and tranquility. Staring off into the distance, she would even wonder if her master was actually telling the truth.

  The moment wouldn't last too long. Just as the ciggy lit up, a strong presence manifested itself on her radar. Must be an enemy servant. Summoning her sword and lance, she felt incredible air pressure speeding towards her, an enemy projectile. Within a mere fraction of a second she spots the spearhead coming towards and choses to raise her armaments to defend rather than dodge, perhaps out of pride or as to not give ground.

  "What the fuck!?"

  The impact of the spear made her recoil in her step, and drop her lance, which now lay on the ground pierced by a bent vestige of the projectile, which itself was nowhere to be seen. In the distance, however, appeared a lone figure of a man, clad in layers of silvery plates, wearing a crested helmet which could only belong to some sort of officer. In one hand he carried a large painted shield and in the other he was ... preparing to throw another one of those spears.

  This time she was prepared, sliding underneath the projectile, and then hitting it with her sword to perhaps reflect it towards her assailant. But instead of that, she recoiled again, despite there being no direct hit, dropping the sword on the ground, but this time she would grab for it the next moment.

  However, that proved to be a bad decision – as the sword lay pierced by the same thing that disarmed her lance – and picking it up, it weighted infinitely more and proved highly unwieldly.

  Using this moment of confusion, the enemy charged towards her, slamming his shield's large metallic boss into her stomach, knocking her back several feet. Regaining her footing, the Avenger fell back onto summoning a massive gust of flames beneath her opponent's feet, who didn't bother jumping back.

  Coming out of the store with a full backpack, Onar was shocked at the sight

  "Didn't know why the tattoo was glowing, what's going on?!"

  "There's an enemy servant in the middle of those flames, get back and watch for its master!"

  Onar pulled his pistol out, panicking and scanning the area for any vantage points an enemy master could use. He hadn't accounted for the sky, as a man descended on him, knocking him out good.

  "Shit!" Exclaimed Jeanne, just as her blaze ended and her enemy came out unscathed.

  "Surrender." Said the man.

  "And why the fuck would I do that?"

  "You are disarmed. Your Master is captive."

  "As if I couldn't find another."

  "Right now – without your master's command seal support – you don't stand a chance."

  "Try me, fuckface."

  It was tempting to call out his bluff – but the truth was that the enemy servant was indeed strong – it wasn't clear at first, but his class must surely be saber. Disarmed as she was, and for how long, she didn't know, her magic was the most effective weapon in her repertoire. The problem was that her enemy seemingly possessed high magic resistance, which would put her at a disadvantage. The man raised his shield to face her and readied his sword. A well thrusted stab was all that it would take. Jeanne's blood was boiling, it cried out for reckless vengeance, but deep down she knew she was outmatched.

  And then the coup de grace hit her. The stream of mana that flowed through towards her weakened – such an occurrence would usually signal a master's death but no – this was artificial. Intentionally limited. Using her ultimate move – the noble phantasm – would limit her existence to mere hours at the current rate. Straightening back up, she tried to limit her erratic breathing, managing to blurt out a few words before returning to her spirit form.

  "Fine. You win."