How I Saved History (Fate/Grand Order SI)

"So, you're DM?" Roman asks.

"GM, but yes." I answer. My fairly extensive collection of sourcebooks is laid out in the crates.

"Yeah. So, basically almost identical to 3.5, right?" he asks.

"Yep. Pathfinder's a lot of fun once you get a hang of it," I inform him, looking through the Adventure Path once more.

"Who else is joining us, then?" Roman asks, already rolling up... a wizard? I guess being a non-magus surrounded by magi left him with a hankering to see what's on the other side.

"Well, I asked a few of the Servants if they'd be interested. Hundred Face declined, but asked if they could borrow the books on Thursday to run a game or two for themselves." Roman looks about as confused as I feel at that tidbit. "Yeah, I don't know what that was about either. Vlad said he's be interested, as did Georgios. Cursed Arm also wanted in. Cu declined, all three of them, but Mash actually overheard and thought it sounded interesting."

"Right." Roman sighs. "So, a lot of newbies?"

"Yep."

A knock on the door.

"That's probably them now!"

---​

"Paladin." Georgios firmly states when I ask if he's picked out a class yet.

"Are you sure? I mean, you pretty much already are one."

"I'm just starting out, so I'll stick with what I know." He grins.

"Fair enough." I turn my head to Vlad. "How about you?"

"I like the sound of this 'Inquisitor' class," he comments. He's changed out of his combat armor into a T-shirt and a pair of khakis, which is frankly giving me a headache. It's just weird to look at him and not see a crap-ton of spikes. Well, at least Mr. Spikey McSpikerton isn't impaling any of my sourcebooks. "I shall punish the unjust, wicked, and base in the purifying flames of God!"

"So, what you normally do, but with less spikes?"

"Yes."

"Neat. You're going to have to pick one of the setting's deities, they're listed in the-"

"No."

"Okay, then." That's going to be annoying, but I'm nowhere near suicidal enough to press Vlad the freaking Impaler on the Jesus issue. Georgios, for his part, is nice enough to just make himself a paladin of Iomedae, and gives me a sympathetic look.

"Alright, Mash? Hassan? What about you?"

"Oh! If's it's alright with you, I'd like to play an Investigator, Senpai." she's painfully earnest.

"Sure. No problems there." Not much of a surprise, either. Investigators are basically Sherlock Holmes: The Class.

"I will be playing a Cleric of Sarenrae," Cursed Arm offers, which very nearly makes me do a double take.

"Sure. Okay, with that squared away, let me just break out the Advanced Race Guide."

---​

Once the arduous process of choosing races is done, Georgios is playing a human paladin of Iomedae, Vlad an extraordinarily fanatical human inquisitor of God, Mash an elven investigator, and Hassan an aasimar cleric of Sarenrae. Roman, his optimized-up-the-wazoo wyrwood wizard done hours ago, just sat on the sidelines, enjoying my suffering.

"Right, so you all meet in a tavern."

Cursed arm raises his hand. "My character's faith forbids alcohol, though. Why am I at a tavern?"

"You're here for the company."

---​

"So, just to check, Vlad, your character is Lawful Good, right?"

"Of course! His soul courses with the righteous word of the Lord!"

"Just checking. Carry on."

"Ah, yes. So, as I was saying, after our initial assault is finished, and the goblins are pushed back, we stake the corpses as a warning to survivors. Then, we take their filthy spawn, smash their heads against the stones, and use their blood to write out warnings to any that might return."

"Um, Vlad?" Roman ventures, brave fool that he is. "Are you sure that all of, well, this, is in accordance with the Lord's tenets?"

"Of course, Doctor!" Vlad bellows. "These vile monsters have struck against our Holy Lord's children, whom he made in his image, and loves dearly. In the defense of righteousness, no measure is too extreme!"

"But, isn't God also a divine force of love and forgiveness?" I have to venture. Georgios nods along. "Even if somebody is working to defend and strengthen his cause, a sin is still a sin. Just look at Kings David and Solomon. They did great work in the service of God and his people, but their faults weren't excused, and were still punished."

Roman starts angrily. "Okay, David, I agree with, but Solomon wasn't all that bad!"

I raise an eyebrow. "There was the frankly ridiculous collection of concubines-"

"Probably for political reasons!" Roman interjects.

"The fact that he summoned and bound demons, and allowed his wives to bring altars to foreign gods into Israel," Georgios interjects.

"What was he supposed to do, force the women who'd been sent off as political bargaining pieces to convert? He wasn't heartless, you know!" Roman counters.

"Didn't he once threaten to chop a baby in half?" Vlad asks. He grins. "Say what you will of me, but I've never threatened to bisect an infant in order to resolve a custody battle."

Roman sags at that one. "That... probably sounded like a good idea at the time."

Mash chooses that moment to return from throwing up in the bathroom. "I'm back! Is Vlad done yet?"

---​

Finally, however, the session wraps up.

"This was fun." Roman says, picking up the snack wrappers whilst I clear the table. "Same time next week?"

"Barring a Singularity, sure."

 

It's of my own devising, I'm sad to say. And it was actually an honest mistake. The giant panda was only introduced to the West in 1869. Further, in traditional Chinese texts and symbolism, it's often associated with righteousness, and good emperors, being a creature that is both fierce as a tiger and a strict vegetarian. Zouken, in 1751, heard about pandas in fleeting accounts through some of his black-market contacts in China, and assumed that they were some sort of mystical, legendary creature related to purity of heart, similar to the Western unicorns.

Since he was the head of the Clocktower's Cryptozoology department, in charge of tracking down and aiding in the conservation of magical creatures, he started planning a beneath-the-radar expedition into China, at that time still closed off to the outside world, which actually set out in 1772. He put his department's entire budget behind it.

The expedition... went poorly. First, they were stopped at the border by the local answer to the Association (who were eventually rendered defunct after the Boxer's Day Rebellion, with all member families either forced to join the Association or killed and robbed of their Mysteries, mostly the latter) and, although they managed to fight their way through, several members of the expedition were killed. Their travels were further hindered by their limited knowledge of the local terrain, and continued attacks from the local magi, who were quite thoroughly displeased with the foreigners intruding on their sovereign territory.

Finally, after suffering fifty-percent casualties, they were able to track down and examine a panda (which ended up mauling a research assistant to death when he got a little too handsy) and determined that the creature was, in fact, a completely mundane animal.

They were then left with the uncomfortable realization that they had just fought their way through miles of enemy territory for nothing, and that, furthermore, they were going to have to go back out the way they came.

 

"Sir!" Francois, one of my advance scouts, calls to me. "We found something up ahead!"

"Is it our target?" I ask, almost dreading the answer. Please, God, I'm not ready for Galahad to see me like this. I don't think I can possibly endure my son being ashamed of me. But, all the same, I'm so glad I got the chance to see him again.

"No. It's a woman!"

A woman? Out here? Dammit, I can't afford the delay of escorting her to the refugee camp! I'll have to keep her with me and my knights. I can't just send her off into the wilderness alone. "Living or dead?"

"Alive, but she's chained to a rock!"

...This is starting to feel familiar.

"Alright, let's investigate."

---​

She's a pretty one, I'll give her that. She handles the "damsel chained to a rock" look better than most other damsels in distress I've rescued. Usually, if she's been there for any amount of time, the damsel in question tends to look emaciated, unless the sorcerer imperiling her actually bothered to prevent her from starving. Or defecating herself, I've seen a lot of damsel chained to rocks by foul magics, and it is never an attractive or dignified position. Considering that the woman in question is still fairly plump in all the right places, and doesn't smell like shit, I'd have to say she's only been here a day at most.

"Fair lady, what villain has done this to you?" I ask, sticking to the classics. Back in the day, I used that line about as often as I said 'Hello.' Got pretty embarrassing when I started using it as my standard greeting on reflex, though.

"The vile lord of Chaldea, Charles Flynn, has entrapped me here, goodly knight. He bade his foul sorcerers to curse me, that none may move me from this spot, or break these sorcerous chains, until a quest most valiant is performed, and the Blade of Unbinding, the Stone of Sealing, and the Crook of Correction are all found and brought to this place." She sighs woefully, and somewhat overdramatically. "But he has hidden them behind guardians most mighty, laying down obstacles so great that no knight could ever retrieve them, unless they were the great Sir Lancelot!"

"Then fear not, fair lady, for I am that knight!" I call, subtly flexing my shoulders to set my cape fluttering dramatically. Took me more than a decade to get that move down pat, but I have to admit, it was completely worth it. All the same, this is way too formulaic to be anything other than a transparent way to delay me, and one that is making me thoroughly worried about my son associating with the mastermind behind it. Should I really go out of my way to save her? Should I really risk failing my king, just to save one woman?

Yes. Because she's in trouble, and if I turned my back on her, I could hardly call myself Lancelot. I could hardly call myself a knight.

"My lady, have you hungered or thirsted since you've been chained to this stone?" I ask. It's an important question to ask. I'm assuming the answer is yes, since she isn't sweaty in the slightest in spite of being directly exposed to the sun, but it's always important to be careful. I still remember the first time I ran into a scenario like this, when I returned with the necessary items to unchain the damsel, only to find she'd died of thirst while I was en route.

"Oh." She seems slightly taken aback. "No, I have not."

"Very well." I press a waterskin into her hands. "Please, keep this, just in case that changes."

"Thank you," she's looking at me in surprise. I don't know why, though. It's just a basic precaution. Honestly, if she'd told me for certain that she needed food and water, I would have stationed half my men here, to ensure she remained fed and hydrated.

"May I ask if the wicked Flynn mentioned where these items were?"

"Err... yes. I made sure to memorize them, as they were my only hope of freedom." She rattles off a list of directions.

"Thank you, milady. I assure you, we'll have you free soon."

"Wait!" she calls as I turn to go. "You... obviously have some kind of mission to be out here. Why are you letting it go, just to help me?"

Well, now she's just not making sense. "Why shouldn't I? It's the right thing to do."

She doesn't have anything to say to that, so I take my leave, my men following me as I head towards the rookery of the Wicked Wyverns of Wisconsin, to retrieve the Blade of Unbinding.

---​

As I chop yet another wyvern in half, a thought occurs: I am never getting all this blood out of my cape. Three wyverns lunge at me, and I dodge the first, kick the second off course, and decapitate the third in one smooth stroke, even as I contemplate the abysmal state of my laundry, and my wardrobe in general. I've had to clean my armor by hand, with sheep's wool and olive oil (not the best stain remover, but it was all I could get my hands on) to get the crusted blood off of it.

I absent-mindedly grab a wyvern by the throat as it tries to attack me, and then hold it up as a shield against its brother's attack, before slicing through the both of them while they're entangled. Still, while I can clean my armor, my cape is another matter entirely. The whole thing a patchwork of dried bloodstains nowadays, moldy green, and grey, with the occasional splash of rust brown. It's ugly as sin, and I can't get it cleaned, mostly because we don't have anyone doing our laundry. The King said it was a frivolity and a waste, but really, why can't we have washerwomen? The Crusaders had washerwomen.​

I notice that the wyverns are all dead as a dragon, one of the dumb ones, erupts from the mound, roaring its fury to the heavens, and I decide to table my lamentations over the state of my clothing, at least for the moment. This might actually take some concentration.

Right, just like riding a horse: just follow your muscle memory. Sidestep the fire breath, dodge the claws, and then, when it tries to bite you, dodge to the right, grab it by the horns with your left hand, and then...

"ARONDIGHT OVERLOAD!" I cut its head straight off.

Alright then, time to go back a mile to where I told my men to wait for me, and then tell them to help me search for the Blade of Unbinding. I walk off, leaving the various draconic bodies behind me. Thirty-two wyverns and a dragon. Easily handled, but still, a pleasant workout.

Now then, onto the rest. And then... and then I'll have to go see my son again.

I firmly redirect my thoughts to a more optimistic bent. After all, who knows? Maybe the other monsters will take me a week to get through.

 

“Damn,” I mutter, looking out over the absolute massacre taking place, when less than a minute ago we were proceeding peacefully at marching speed. I should have expected an ambush! This is the perfect ground for it! But victory, it would seem, has bred complacency. Something I’ll have to correct once I get out of this.

If I can get out of this. I lost half my men in the Assassins’ initial strike, and I’m losing more by the minute from that infernal Archer of theirs.

We’re too densely packed in here. The road so narrow that only four of us can walk abreast, and my men are already panicking.

“Front line!” I snap out. “We’re pushing through and leaving them in the dust behind us!”

Selection Knight #375, my current human shield, intercepts another arrow, as, to the rear of our formation, Knights #542 and 543 are still berserking, and holding back the two human blenders who managed to shred my forces in their first strike. That leaves me with two more Selection Knights that haven’t engaged the enemy, since 376 was crushed along with the rest of my rear guard and our supply wagons under the waves of black-clad Assassins now agilely surging towards us. We can’t stay in this killbox any longer, or soon I’ll be completely out of men.

“Knights # 541 and 544, advance to the lead of our formation and destroy any and all obstacles that stand against us! All men, line up! Vanguard and right flank, ready your spears! Everyone else, get your shields up, and-“

Then, my plans all crumble with a cry of “GAE BOLG!” I look numbly on, as the devil in blue drives his crimson spear through Knight 543’s heart, and then gleefully leaps over the now fading knight to slaughter my troops.

I’m not making it out of this alive, am I? That’s Cu Chulainn.

I look at my men, and I see their fear. But still they hold formation. Still they look to me to save them, still they look to Agravain of Iron, indomitable and undefeated (even though that’s mostly just because I’m smart enough to run from fights I can’t win.)

Very well. If I am to die here, then I will do my king proud. I draw my blade and pull out the poison I designed while manufacturing our Berserkers.

I’m sorry, my King. I only wish I could have seen it through to the end. I remove the cork with my teeth, and then-

“Zabaniya.”

There’s a sudden, burning pain in my chest, and I can’t breathe. I feel something wet drip down my back as I fall to my knees. The vial, and even my sword both fall from my suddenly limp hands.

Turning my body over so I can see who attacked me feels like a labor worthy of Hercules, and by the time I’ve managed it, I can see that my troops have broken, scattering in a panic, every last man for himself.

Above me, I see Death, my heart’s blood dripping down his skeletal chin. His black robes fluttering in the wind, dark as a cloudy night, his bone-white face stained red with blood. My blood. He nods as he looks up at some distant crevice half a mile up the slope, paying me no mind, and I realize that this is the only chance I’ll get to take him down with me.

My hand fumbles as I reach for my fallen sword, trembling fingers wrapping around the hilt. My body is tired, so damn tired, but it still obeys my final wishes, my muscles tensing for one. Last. Push! I bring my sword up, ready to drive it in through my enemy with final lunge, and then-

A dagger pins my sword arm to the ground as Grim Death returns his hollow eyes to me. I feel tears begin to drip down my face, shame and helplessness filling my clouded mind as my body, having failed to execute my last will and testament, refuses to rise again. This can’t be how it ends! I can’t fail my king like this!

Around me, my men are slaughtered, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears, and I realize that our deaths meant nothing. No information will be allowed to escape. We cannot even help our king with our deaths, nor are we permitted to face the end with dignity.

And as I feel my flesh begin to dissolve, I realize that I have never hated any man so much as I do this inhuman thing that has killed me, and even now unsheathes its blades to finish the job.

A knife descends in a taloned hand, and I know no more.

 

I burst through the doors of my king's sacred palace, a retinue of my guards behind me.

"Gawain." My king's lip curls in disdain. "Why have you interrupted my preparations?"

"My King, the Holy City is revolting!"

"No it isn't," she says, confused, raising her Holy Lance to point at me. "I specifically designed the Holy City's sewer system and hygiene codes to avoid such an issue. And even if this was not sufficient to prevent odor build-up, such matters should be brought to Sir Agravaine, and not myself." Rhongomyniad begins to spin. "For the crime of interrupting my workings over trivial matters, I sentence you to-"

"My King, Agravaine is dead, and the Holy City has risen up in revolt!"

"What?" For the first time since my summoning, the Lion King actually looks surprised by something.

"During the day, when I was guarding the gates, a runner from the eastern fort reached us. He claims that two days ago, their prisoner, who was restrained by Agravaine's Black Chains, got free, and slaughtered them all, with him barely escaping with his life. More of the garrison from the Eastern Fort showed up after that, and they confirmed his story. None of them wished to bring word to you, however, and so they entreated me to be the one to bring you the news."

"Foolish of them," my King notes, her face still utterly dispassionate. "I would not have killed them for completing their assigned duty, but now I must have them killed for their cowardice."

"A bit late for that, my King," I say with a pained smile. "They're all most likely dead. Once the sun had set, and my duties ended, I began making my way through the city, and found that word had reached the city, and that riots had started."

"Why, though?" She looks honestly perplexed at the thought of her citizens rising up against her. "I have ruled justly, and insured that their lives have been comfortable and fulfilling. I have made my city a paradise on Earth, and allowed them to live in it. Why would they reject my benevolence?"

I look at her incredulously. "Your Grace, I believe that they are slightly upset about their friends and family being slaughtered at our gates, and unwilling to indulge in luxury while countless others starve, simply because they met your personal criteria of worthiness."

"Why would they object? To judge who is worthy and who is not is my prerogative as a god."

I wince. "They're... ah... not too happy about you declaring yourself a god, either." Hell, I'm not too happy about that part, and I'd follow her to hell and back.

"Very well." she raises her lance. "Have the soldiers dispose of them."

"The soldiers are revolting, too."

She frowns. "Then have the Selection Knights dispose of them."

"We don't have any of those, either. You sent our entire supply out with Lancelot."

"And I was not informed of this why?"

"My King, it was your order."

She frowns for the moment, and then sighs. "Very well. Stand by me. We shall go to dispose of the rioters, and perhaps remind them of what is righteous."

"As you would have it, my King," I say with a sigh.

---​

I watch in muted horror as the king I swore to serve unleashes her Sacred Lance on a crowd. The deaths of those at the epicenter of the blast are swift, but the deaths of those on the outskirts? Those are slower. Half-melted corpses outline the blast radius, and the screams of the wounded ring loudly out over the sudden deafening silence, as the rioters stare at the Lion King in terror.

"People of the Holy City." Her face doesn't change, her dispassionate, glowing eyes sweeping over the crowd. "With that blast, I have punished you for your crime of rejecting my divine judgement and violating the peace. Return to your homes, and no harm shall come to you. You are forgiven."

The fear turns to anger, and suddenly a rock hits her in the face.

The man who threw it is clearly an off-duty soldier, one of the ones left over from the Crusader armies that we forcibly recruited. "Fuck you and your forgiveness! Fuck you and all your self-righteous bullshit! You're not our God, and you're sure as hell not our King!"

I note, in that still moment, while the world seems hang stilly in the silence, that the people beside the rock-thrower are all Saracens, and they're hefting rocks of their own. Men who once would fought and died in droves against each other, now standing shoulder to shoulder and looking at us with naked hatred in their eyes.

And then, the moment breaks, as the king hefts her Holy Lance, and the crowd charges towards us with reckless abandon, no longer letting their fear keep them from doing what they believe to be right.

And my King kills them all.

I follow her, wading through the blood, and stepping over the charred corpses, as she goes hunting.

No one is spared, not a single one. No mercy and no regret taints her resolve.

My own men, my loyal men betray us after she first kills a child, charging at us with a stick in hand for killing his mother. She gores him straight through the chest without a trace of hesitation, her spinning lance shredding the corpse. That's when I feel Bartholomew, my second in command, drive his sword into my back.

I kill him. I kill so many.

At the end of it, there's almost no one left. Just a few of the guards and citizens cowed by the sheer slaughter. Less than a dozen.

She turns to me, and I look up at her, removing my gaze from the blood on my hands.

"Gawain."

"Yes, my King?"

"Return to the gate. We will have to hold the Holy Selection again, and tighten our standards." She looks about dispassionately, showing remorse as she looks over the charred and charnel-filled streets. "I am unsure of how our previous methodology managed to produce a batch this faulty, but I will have to amend that mistake." She turns to one of the few survivors, who cowers under her gaze. "You. Clean this up."

"Yes my King."

We part ways, and as I walk to the gate, I find myself staring at the dead that clog the streets, and envying their courage.

 

One melee weapon that shoots fuck-off huge lasers is perfectly acceptable. Two is just silly, and leaves you wondering just how many Noble Phantasms Arthur has. I spent half of the Camelot Singularity pondering that particular question. After a certain point I started wondering if Artoria owned anything that wasn't a Noble Phantasm.

"Oh, those slippers of yours? Harfradderafferadn, the Bunny Slippers of Promised Foot-Warming. They make sure your feet are warm on cold nights."

"Using lasers."

"Using lasers, yes."

"And my cloak?"

"Oh, that's Gadderawferaddd, the Mantle of Perfect Kingship. It ensures that none may doubt your righteous and benevolent rule."

"Using lasers."

"Well, obviously, how else do you prove that you're king?"

"BY RULING JUSTLY!"

"Pffft. No. Lasers are definitely the way to go."

"Is there anything I own THAT DOESN'T SHOOT LASERS?"

"Well, there's Prydwen."

"That's a shield that turns into a boat. It doesn't count."

"Also, your armor doesn't have a point-defense laser system yet, but I'm working on it."

The Very Next Day.

"Hey, Merlin, this is my new dog Cavall. He's perfectly normal in every way, and doesn't shoot lasers."

"Huh, I'll get right on fixing that."

"NO! FUCK YOU, MERLIN, DON'T YOU DARE RUIN THIS FOR ME!"

 

We materialize in an alleyway, the city’s racket immediately enveloping us.

I activate my communicator. “Roman? Still in contact?”

His hologram flickers into being in front of me. “Yes. You’re coming through loud and clear. Any indication of what’s causing the Singularity?”

“None so far.”

This might be the weirdest Singularity we’ve faced yet. I mean, of all the potential points to create a disruption in the Human Order, why would you pick Copenhagen in 1995? But still, a Grail’s a Grail. I turn to my team. Siegfried, Erik (because we needed someone familiar with the general region), Medea, and Cursed Arm. Since half the mana engines are down for repairs at the moment, I can only bring four Servants, and I had to make sure that they wouldn’t be total prana hogs.

‘Cursed Arm, scout ahead. Medea, start scanning the leylines, see if there’s somewhere we can set up shop. Erik, Siegfried, you’re with me.’

They all nod in agreement. With the enemy unknown, the best thing to do at the moment is lay low, keep our heads down, and try to get the shape of things.

“This is the alley, right?” a man’s voice asks, as two sets of footsteps make their way towards us.

“If I have read the runes right, yes,” a woman says.

Okay, plan A looks to be shot. Those are clearly Servants. Time for plan B.

‘Cursed Arm, get me up to the roof level right now! Medea, disguise yourself as me!’

They comply without hesitation, and soon, I watch from two stories up as the mysterious Servants come face to face with “me,” flanked by Erik and Siegfried.

I don’t recognize either of them. The man is rough, with short gray hair, and features that would make him a prettyboy heartbreaker if it wasn’t for the scars. He dresses like a biker, and keeps his posture hunched over, constantly glancing around for some sort of threat. The woman is tall, elegant and graceful, with long, silver hair that has a blue tinge to it. She’s less aggressive and wary than her companion, but she still carries herself with the quiet confidence that I’ve come to associate with Heroic Spirits.

Alright, going over various stratagems with my Servants to ensure that I don’t get instantly pulped the second Galahad isn’t there to protect me has really paid off.

“So. You the Master of Chaldea?” the unknown man asks bluntly as he looks at Medea. “Scrawnier than I expected, that’s for sure.”

“Well, that depends on who’s asking,” Medea says smoothly, and I can tell from experience that she’s casting a concealed lie-detection spell as she talks.

“I’m Sinfjotli, son of Sigmund and Signy, and grandson of the great King Volsung!” Sinfjotli announces proudly, not even hesitating to shout his True Name for all to hear. “The legendary hero of the Saga of the Volsungs, and greatest of all the Volsungs!” His female companion gives him an amused look. “Don’t you dare confuse me for my disappointment of a brother!”

I feed Medea a line and get the mental impression of a raised eyebrow in turn. She still asks, though. “Helgi or Sigurd?”

“Both!”

I try not to laugh.

“Right,” Medea says, evidently deciding to just roll with it. She turns towards the woman. “And you are?”

“I am Brynnhildr. A Valkyrie formerly in service to Odin,” she says primly, evidently not wishing to share any more.

“She’s my sister-in-law,” Sinfjotli adds. “So, now that we’ve introduced ourselves, come on! Our team is waiting back at the bar!”

“Well, are you friend or foe?” Medea asks. “I really think we should clear that up before I go anywhere with you.”

“Friend, obviously!” Sinfjotli says with a huff. “Now come on, move your ass! We’ve been waiting for you guys to show up for almost a week!”

‘Medea, are they telling the truth?’

‘Yes.’

“So, just to clarify, you mean us no harm, and wish to be our allies, yes?”

“I just said that! Yes!” Sinfjotli rolls his eyes.

‘If that’s all true, then we might as well follow them,’ I admit.

‘I don’t like this, Apprentice.’

‘Me neither. It feels too convenient. But, well, we do need information. And from what I’ve read of the Saga of the Volsungs, Sinfjotli’s volatile. Refusing would alienate him.’ I turn my focus to another Servant. ‘Cursed Arm, take me back down.’

Both Norse heroes jump as Cursed Arm and I land, but they’ve recovered their cool by the time I get out of the princess carry and turn to face them.

“Very well then, Son of Sigmund. We’ll accept your offer of hospitality. Lead the way.”

“So you were- the whole time-“ Sinfjotli looks between me, Medea, and the roof in shock. “Then…”

Brynnhildr tugs on his ear. “Brother, you’re being rude.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sighs. “This way.”

The two of them lead us through the streets, and, as we’re walking, Siegfried makes his way up towards Sinfjotli.

“So, uh, Sinfjotli.”

“Yeah?” Sinfjotli asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m Siegfried. You probably haven’t heard of me-“

“You’re my glory-hogging little brother’s German knockoff. Get to the point.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, then. I wouldn’t want to waste your time…”

“Too late.”

“Oh.” He falls silent.

Sinfjotli raises an eyebrow. “You gonna say anything else?”

“Well, I didn’t want to waste your time. If me talking is a bother, then…”

“No, it’s fine. Just cut to the point.”

“Well, I was wondering if you could tell me about your father,” Siegfried says.

“Why?”

“Well, Sigurd and I have a lot in common, and we both never got to meet our fathers. I just thought that, since we’re so much alike, our fathers might be the same. Maybe I could get to know what kind of man my father was by asking about yours.”

Sinfjotli raises an eyebrow. “Alright, then.”

“Really?”

“Sure. If your dad’s anything like mine, then he deserves a son who knows how awesome he was,” Sinfjotli says with a grin. “But I’m only telling you once, so you’d damn better listen well, alright Fake Sigurd?”

“Of course. Thank you.” Siegfried frowns. “Wait, Fake Sigurd?”

“Yeah, yeah, do something cool enough, and I’ll remember your name, all right?”

“I killed a dragon.”

“Yeah, like that means anything,” Sinfjotli snorts. “Even Sigurd killed a dragon! I’d’ve killed five dragons, if my bitch of a stepmom hadn’t poisoned me. And I would’ve done it like a real man, instead of just pussing out and stabbing it in the belly!”

“Of course,” Siegfried says neutrally, keeping his face impassive. “So, I’m sorry to interrupt, but…”

“Yeah, yeah. So, I didn’t actually know that my dad was my dad when I first met him. I just thought he was my uncle.” Sinfjotli pauses. “I mean, he actually is my uncle, and he didn’t know that he was my dad either, but…”

The story is still going when we reach the bar, where I’m the first one at the door, having been drawn to the front of the procession by my fascination with the story.

"So, Sinfjotli, Brynnhildr, the rest of your team is inside?"

My guides both nod, so I open the door to the bar.

And then immediately close it.

Nope.

"Flynn? Is that you?" Attila shouts from inside. "Come, join us!"

"Yes!" Duryodhana bellows. "We need someone to judge our arm-wrestling competition!"

Nope.

 

“Duryodhana and Attila are the other members of your faction?” I ask Brynnhildr incredulously.

“Well, yes. They’re actually why we were waiting for you,” Brynnhildr says. “They thought that you would help us when you showed up. According to Duryodhana, you owe him a favor.”

“Yeah, that’s-“ I stop and think about it. I mean, if Duryodhana hadn’t sabotaged and betrayed Edison, then I likely would’ve died. Especially since, if he hadn’t tipped off Nero, Edison’s doomsday device would’ve worked, leading to the destruction of human history. He saved the world, and my life. I sigh. “-true. All right. What’s he cashing in this favor of his for?”

“Somebody organized a Grail War,” she says. “Multiple Servants, albeit with an unequal distribution of classes, each without a Master, all summoned to fight for the Holy Grail.”

“I’m familiar with the concept.”

“We don’t know who’s behind it. But Attila and Duryodhana both figured that, in light of the larger crisis, we Servants should band together, so that we could help Chaldea secure the Grail when you arrived.”

That- Huh.

“Well, what other Servants are out there?”

“We were the only ones that they found.”

I sigh, and then turn about, open the door, and step into the bar. “All right, I’m in.”

“Splendid!” Attila cheers through gritted teeth, arm-wrestling Duryodhana with a fearful intensity. “Take a seat!”

I comply, taking a bar stool, and the Servants follow me in. Erik, Sinfjotli, and Siegfried take a booth, and Brynhilldr joins them. Hassan is presumably using Presence Concealment, because I can’t see him anywhere, and Medea takes the stool next to me.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Apprentice?’

‘They proved themselves to be quite thoroughly on our side in previous Singularities, and I presume that you’ve been running truth spells.’

‘Those can be falsified, if you know what you’re doing.’

I hear a loud crash, and the sound of splintering wood, and I turn to see Attila and Duryodhana both looking at the splinters of their table in disappointment.

“Another draw, then?” Duryodhana asks with a grin.

“Of course.” Attila turns to me. “Flynn! Come on over here, you!”

“King Attila. King Duryodhana.” I nod politely to both. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” I look around the almost-empty bar. “May I ask what happened to this place’s clientele?”

“Oh, Brynnhildr warded the place to keep unwanted visitors out,” Attila says with an airy wave. “Anyways, welcome aboard!”

I look between the two of them. “So, do you have any idea what’s going on with this specific Grail War? Because…” I’m cut off by a yawn.

“Brynnhildr didn’t really give you a clear picture of what’s going on?” Duryodhana finishes for me. “Don’t worry. We’re as confused as you are. We were just summoned in without any information on this particular Grail War’s rules.” He blinks.

“So, I guess our…” I yawn again. “…first priority is to…”

The world goes fuzzy, and then I’m slumped over.

---​

I wake up with a start. Sonnuvabitch, we got wiped! I look around desperately, trying to figure out where the hell I am right now.

“Sweet! You’re finally awake!” a weirdly familiar voice says. “Now we can finally get this party started!”

Alright, I’m tied to a chair, in a completely dark room. Things are looking somewhat bleak.

Then the lights go on, and things get weird.

The room, now revealed to me by the lights, is an abomination against interior décor. The floor tiles alternate between a deep purple and a bright orange, and the wallpaper has neon pink polka dots on green background. But perhaps the most noticeable feature of the room is who’s standing at the center of it.

“Tom Hiddleston?”

Yeah, no, if things are getting this weird to start with, then the 1959 Kennedy Assassination Attempt might lose its status as “Weirdest Singularity Ever.”

“Oh!” My captor grins. “You know my host?”

Host. That would indicate…

“You’re a Pseudo-Servant, aren’t you?”

“The one and only Loki, at your service,” the newly identified god of mischief says. “Now pipe down, the camera’s going to start rolling in a minute or two.”

“But… aren’t Pseudo-Servants formed from people involved with Grail Wars?”

He just grins and keeps looking at the camera we’re both facing.

"Hel-lo Denmark! This is your lovable host, Loki, welcoming you back to everybody’s favorite game show, Grail Wars! Now, let me introduce my co-host and hostage, Charles Flynn! Everybody give him a big round of applause!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then he taps a button or two, and canned applause plays from the room’s speakers.

“Chuck, any words for the audience?”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Sure thing, Chad m’lad! Now, then, lets meet our contestants!” With a wave of his hand, profiles of my Servants pop up.

“That’s… that might actually be worse!”

“Now, for you newcomers to the show, here’s how this is going to work: We’ll be splitting each team into two groups of four, and then pitting those groups against each other, to fight to the death until there are exactly four survivors! Those two groups of four survivors will then continue to fight, until only one remains, and they will have the chance to fight me for the Holy Grail! Any questions?”

“Several, actually!”

“Don’t care! Group A includes Brynnhildr, Attilla, Medea, and Hassan-i-Sabbah of the Cursed Arm! Get out there and kill things for our amusement!”

“So, who’s on the enemy team?” I ask, as Loki slouches down into a beanbag chair.

“You’ll find out.” Mist pours out from a soda can on the floor, creating some sort of holographic image of the four Servant he designated as Group A.

I… am so goddamn confused right now.

“Anyways, you and me? We’re the announcers and the judges.”

` “Of what? How is this a show? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!”

“Ratings.”

I stare at Loki. He just smirks back at me.

And then I scream in pure frustration while he laughs his ass off.

WHY DID I EVER TAKE THIS DAMN JOB?

 

All right, all right. Time to review the facts.

Fact #1: I’ve been kidnapped by Loki, the Norse God of Mischief and Lies, who is currently possessing Tom Hiddleston in order to function as a Pseudo-Servant.

Fact #2: Loki has the Holy Grail.

Fact #3: Loki is using the Holy Grail and my status as a hostage in order to set up some sort of… Grail War game show?

I watch the screens Loki’s set up as Cursed Arm fades away from view, leaving only Attila, Brynhilldr and Medea visible.

“So… just to be clear, the enemy team will show up soon, right?” I ask.

Loki nods. “Yep, I’m actually proud of the team composition this time. I really think I nailed it.”

“Okay, but why are you doing this?”

“Quiet. Drama is happening.” He waves a hand and suddenly, I can hear the voices of the arguing Heroic Spirits.

---​

“And I keep telling you that we need to advance on the enemy position!” Attila snaps, looming over Medea.

“Oh, the stupid barbarian wants to charge HEADFIRST into ENEMY TERRITORY!” my teacher shouts, sounding angrier than I’ve ever heard her. “Why would I expect anything else!”

“Strong forward momentum coupled with an overwhelming advantage is a valid strategy,” Attila says, struggling to regain his cool. “If we hit them early enough, before they have time to pull together defenses, or a proper strategy, we can take them off guard.”

“Or run headfirst into their defenses!” Medea replies. “Of course, I’m not surprised that you don’t know jack about defending fixed positions, seeing as, if you had any skill whatsoever in that field, you wouldn’t have gotten my apprentice kidnapped!”

“Okay, this has gone on long enough,” Brynnhildr interrupts, trying to get between the two quarrelling Heroic Spirits. “Can we please just all calm down and focus on the matter at hand?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry that I couldn’t predict that the literal God of Trickery and Deception showing up out of nowhere to pull a fast one on us!” Attila says, crossing his arms. “And I didn’t see you doing any better.”

“Not that it’s even the first time you’ve gotten my apprentice kidnapped.” Medea glares at the barbarian warlord. “I told him we shouldn’t have trusted you.”

“Are you calling me a traitor?” Attila asks, dangerously calm.

“If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and stabs you in the back like a godsbedamned traitor, then it’s probably a traitor,” Medea replies, spell arrays already springing up behind her, as Attila grips his sword.

“Mind your words, Witch of Betrayal. I’m not afraid to hit a woman.”

“Okay, ENOUGH!” Brynnhildr shouts, driving her spear into the ground between them. “WE ARE NOT EACH OTHER’S ENEMIES! LOKI IS OUR ENEMY! AND WE NEED TO FIGHT HIM, NOT EACH OTHER!”

Medea and Attila look at each other for a moment, and then reluctantly put their weapons away. And then they walk off in opposite directions, leaving Brynnhildr flabbergasted.

“W-Wait, where are you guys going?” she asks, looking between the two.

“Away from her!” Attila bellows, at the exact same time that Medea shouts, “Away from him!”

And Brynnhildr is left alone.

---​

Back in the observation room, I look at the screens in disbelief. “They just… what? I mean, WHY IN GOD’S NAME DID THEY SPLIT UP?”

“It’s simple, really,” Loki says, smiling merrily. “Heroic Spirits are volatile. A competent leader, or a pressing enough cause for cooperation, can unite them, but the more you pack in. the bigger the destructive fallout when their unifying force is gone.”

“They split the party,” I observe, staring at the screens as I come to terms with the fact that I am probably a dead man.

“Well, they still have a chance, actually,” Loki notes. “Their opposition did the exact same thing.”

“What? Why?” The tactical ineptitude on display here hurts my soul.

“They all wanted a one-on-one fight against their arch-nemeses.”

“Arch-?”

“Just sit back and watch.” Loki brings an imaginary microphone to his lips, and then starts talking in his best announcer’s voice. “And it looks like we’re going to see our first fight of the day, folks! The clash of two bitter ex-lovers, a startling showcase of how the deepest of loving bonds can go wrong, it’s JASON VERSUS MEDEA!”

---​

The screens all shift to display my teacher, already setting up her Territory.

Medea freezes mid spell, and then turns to face one of the buildings. Then she fires a full power laser at the façade, forcing Jason to come rolling out into the open, swearing up a storm.

“Did you really think that you could hide from me?” she asks, her voice smooth and menacing. “Did you really think that you could beat me with stealth?”

“Guess I’ll just have to beat you the old-fashioned way, then,” Jason says, drawing his sword. “Then, once I win the Holy Grail, I’m going to wish that I’d left your crazy ass in Colchis.”

Medea bristles, her air of menace lost.

“Oh, I’m the crazy one, am I?” she snaps, voice considerably less smooth. “I’m the crazy one. Typical. The moment I can’t give you anything that you want, well, of course I’m suddenly some crazy bitch who’s just too. Damn. Clingy! Of course I’ve got to go! Look at Medea, trusting that her husband would keep his word! THAT CRAZY BITCH HAS GOT TO GO!”

“You killed our kids and my new wife because you couldn’t handle the divorce,” Jason shoots back, gesturing with his sword. “BY DEFINITION, YOU ARE THE CRAZY ONE HERE!”

“I punished you for your faithlessness!” Medea says with a snarl. “I gave you everything! I killed My brother for you! I helped you get the Fleece! I killed your uncle Pelias for you!”

“And I never asked you to kill your brother! Or Uncle Pelias! I never wanted you to butt in! You got me banished from my hometown after I went through a quest across the entirety of the known world so that I could be King there!” Jason crosses his arms. “And I don’t seem to remember my wife or my children doing anything to merit punishment. Of course, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they were just the most faithless people ever.”

“They deserved to die for aiding in your crimes!” Medea snaps.

“Do you even remember my wife’s name?” Jason asks. “Because I don’t think you do. You don’t care about other people’s lives, Medea. You just see them as tools. The only value you place on human life is whether ending it will get you what you want! And the minute you wanted to hurt me, YOU KILLED YOUR OWN CHILDREN!”

“Oh, I’m manipulative, am I?” Medea replies. “You promised me the world, and then you tossed me out the second you couldn’t use me!”

“I NEVER WANTED TO MARRY YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE!”

---​

I turn to Loki. “Should we be listening in on this? It feels uncomfortably domestic.”

“Yeah. I really thought that this would be more… epic. But instead it’s just so damn awkward to watch.” The screens turn away from Medea and Jason’s uncomfortably public argument,

“So… You made the enemy team entirely out of my faction’s arch-enemies?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Really hoping that the matches don’t just develop into screaming at each other, though.” He perks up. “And here we have our second fight!”

I look, as the screens shift to instead display Brynnhildr and Attila. And a cheerful-looking blonde woman skipping towards them.

---​

“Look, I’m sure that I can talk her into apologizing,” Brynnhildr says. “We need to stick together, otherwise, we’ll just get picked off one by one if they form a coordinated attack party.”

“We didn’t, actually!” the blonde woman says, her voice at once both melodic and irrepressibly cheerful. Her hair is done up into two golden braids. She’s full-figured, looking like one of Wagner’s Valkyries, and wears a green dress. Her smile is… The more I look at it, the more it seems… off. “We all wanted to take you on properly, as individuals!”

Both Attila and Brynnhildr freeze at the sight of her. Brynnhildr’s hands are shaking, while Attila’s face is pale.

“Oh, is that you, Atli?” the woman asks, her smile growing. “Oh, it’s so good to see you again! I’ve really improved the recipe for those delightful little snacks I served at our last party together!” Attila’s entire body is trembling. “But I need a taste-tester, and I found myself thinking, ‘Who better than my darling husband?’”

Attila turns, and then runs away like all the hordes of Hell are chasing him.

“Aww… I really have improved my cooking since last time,” the woman says, and… oh. Oh, of course it’s her. That makes sense. “But I guess that means that we can finally catch up, Bryn! Just us girls, you know?”

“Gudrun,” Brynnhildr snarls, every inch of her body trembling with barely constrained hatred. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am, silly!” Gudrun of the Gjukungs says, her arms and armor de-astralizing. She’s still smiling. “I mean, how could I pass up the chance to kill the woman who murdered my husband?”

“SIGURD WAS MINE!” Brynhilldr roars, lunging forwards with her spear in hand, only for Gudrun to deflect it with her shield. “BEFORE YOU STOLE HIM FROM ME!”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Gudrun shouts back, as the dance of steel begins in earnest between the two loves of the Last Volsung. “My mother was the one who slipped him the forgetfulness potion! And frankly, he deserved better than you anyways!”

Brynhildr gives a wordless scream of fury, as she brings her spear down like a club, smoldering with fire runes. Gudrun dodges easily, rage clouding her opponent’s mind and dulling Brynhildr’s skill.

“YOU STOLE HIM FROM ME!”

“And you killed him!” Gudrun shouts back, her hateful tone a stark contrast to the wide, sunny smile on her face. “You killed him with trickery and lies, and you were always trying to kill him, EVEN WHEN HE WAS YOURS! Why would I let you have him? I loved him! Why would I let you keep him, knowing that you would never stop hurting him!”

“YOU MADE ME KILL HIM!”

“No, you didn’t even kill him yourself! You poisoned my brothers against him, against me! You had Guttorm kill him in the night, while he was sleeping, and then you talked them into burning my son alive with you as part of my husband’s FUNERAL PYRE! YOU TOOK HIM AWAY FROM ME, AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN LET ME GRIEVE FOR HIM!” Gudrun’s still smiling, even as she pushes Brynhildr back, but it’s shed the illusion of cheerfulness, becoming instead a mad rictus of hatred. “I WATCHED HIM DIE! I WOKE UP TO HOLD MY HUSBAND IN MY ARMS AS HE DIED, IN OUR BED, WITH MY LITTLE BROTHER’S BIFURCATED CORPSE NOT FIVE FEET AWAY, AND THEN I HAD TO SIT AND WATCH AS YOU HIJACKED MY HUSBAND’S FUNERAL TO MAKE IT ALL ABOUT YOU, AND YOUR ELABORATE MURDER-SUICIDE!”

“You…” Brynnhildr falters as she stares at Gudrun, and Gudrun doesn’t fail to capitalize on the opening.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Gudrun snarls. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill Atli. And then I’m going to kill anyone else I have to to make sure I get the Grail. And then I’m going to make it so that I died that night, instead of Sigurd.”

Brynnhildr freezes. “Why would you…”

Gudrun’s sword takes the fallen valkyrie’s head clean off in one smooth stroke.

“Because it should have been me. And because he deserves a better woman than either of us.”

---​

Loki looks at me, and I look back.

“That was… intense.” I hazard.

“You’re telling me,” the God of Mischief says with a rueful laugh. “But still, first death, and it’s a dramatic one! The ratings must be climbing!”

Right, not rising to the bait. I look back at the screens, where it shows Gudrun catching her breath and then strolling off, as Brynhildr’s headless corpse dissolves behind her.

“Oh, and Attila’s met his enemy!” Loki crows, as the screens flip over to display…

“You turned Romulus into an Alter?” I ask incredulously.

“Yeah… Attila was a hard man to find a nemesis for.”

On the screens, the two enemies face off.

---​

“My children… my people…” the Blackened Romulus moans. “Oh, my Roma has fallen.”

“Hm. You know, the version of you I met before wasn’t nearly this emo,” Attila says, dancing between his opponent’s spear-thrusts.

“I must save them!” Romulus Alter bellows. “With the Grail in hand, I will save them!”

Attila smirks. “You won’t. After all, you’re the one who doomed them.”

Romulus Alter shrieks in fury, and then raises his spear high to unleash his Noble Phantasm, only for Attila to slice open his unguarded belly.

The fight is brief, and brutal, and through it all, Attila keeps up a running commentary.

“You killed your brother, Romulus. Did you really think that wouldn’t have consequences? You laid Rome’s foundations with unclean hands, tainted them with your brother’s blood, did you really think the gods wouldn’t punish you?”

“SHUT UP!” Romulus Alter roars, trying to get clear or land a hit somehow, but Attila doesn’t let him retake the tempo. The King of the Huns fights mechanically, his every move calculated and perfected to dismantle his enemy, even as he keeps talking.

“Rome was cursed, built on a foundation of fratricide. It was only a matter of time, really, until your house came crumbling down.”

“YOU WILL-“

Romulus Alter is, unfortunately, interrupted by Attila, in three smooth strokes of his sword, cutting off both his arms, and his head.

“Now, that was just disappointing.”

---​

I give Loki a look. “He’s not wrong.”

“Look, get off my back, man! I told you, finding a nemesis for Attila was hard!”

“So, how’s Jason v. Medea going?”

He sighs, and the screens show the two, still bickering.

“So is Cursed Arm-“

Then… the unexpected happens.

---​

“I can’t believe you! You were always like this!” Jason shouts. “Always nagging, always demanding that everything fits your picture-perfect fairy tale fantasies! Well, I’m sorry, princess, but in the real world…”

He’s cut off by the Sword of Mars embedding itself in his sternum.

“Witch! I’m just assuming he was one of our enemies. I need you to point me in the direction of his compatriots, and-“

“I had him,” Medea snarls. “And I’m not going to just act as your logistical support the second you demand it, you treacherous brute! Now go and get yourself killed, and make the world a brighter…” she stares down at the sword embedded in her chest. “…place?”

“I told you not to call me that,” Attila says calmly, as he pulls back his blade and decapitates her. “And, by the way? I was being polite before, but now I’m just going to come out and say it. You and your ex-husband are both terrible people and you deserve each other, if only to keep you from making the rest of us miserable.”

---​

I stare at the screen in horror as my teacher dissolves.

And then I say the only thing that comes to mind. “ATTILA, YOU TEAMKILLING-“

 

Loki grins, as my teacher fades away. “Well, Round One is over! The four survivors of the round will be moving on to round three.”

Son of a bitch, I’m going to have to resummon her again. She’s always incredibly pissy when she dies.

“Question.”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you operating by tournament rounds?” I turn to look at him.

“Wow, not pissed about your mentor’s death?” Loki asks. “That’s cold. And I should know, I’m a frost giant!” He slaps his knee as a laugh track starts playing.

“Eh.” I shrug. “I mean, pretty much all of my Servants have been dead for centuries. After a while, you just get jaded enough that them dying isn’t a tragedy so much as a temporary inconvenience.”

Loki raises an eyebrow. “Huh. Well, to answer your question, the King of Mages offered me a Grail and a chance to screw everybody over as vengeance for my treatment at the hands of the Aesir.”

“And this is the most efficient way to go about it?” I raise an eyebrow right back at him.

“Do you really want to know?” he asks, further raising his eyebrow.

“Yes.” I raise my eyebrow even further, just for the hell of it.

Loki pouts. “My sardonic eyebrow-raise was bigger.”

“Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that.”

“Oh, you want to play it like that? Fine then, no exposition for you.”

“Oh, come on- Ugh. Fine. Your eyebrow raise was better than mine.”

Loki does a victory dance, before sitting back down. “Alright, alright. So, Solomon gave me a Grail, told me to wait here and ambush you, and in doing so, I would screw you over. But I thought to myself, ‘Hey, Loki you handsome devil. What if, instead of following our boss’s orders, we screwed him over too?’ Well I thought that was a splendid idea, so I set up this tournament, and now humanity’s getting screwed over, Chaldea’s getting screwed over, AND SOLOMON’S GETTING SCREWED OVER! EVERYBODY’S GETTING SCREWED! WHILE I WATCH!”

Right, I’m not even dignifying that with a response. “So, new round. That’d be Siegfried, Duryodhana, Erik, and Sinfjotli.”

“Indeed it would be!” Loki says.

“So, I’m guessing that the enemy team is composed of Bhima, Egil Skallagrimson, Hagen, and… hm. Perhaps the Valkyrie Gudmund? Sinfjotli didn’t have a lot of stories that focused on him as anything other than Sigmund’s sidekick.”

“Three out of four,” Loki says with a nod. “Not bad.” He then turns to his microphone. “All right, now! Round two begins! Get on out there and try not to die too anticlimactically!”

I sigh, and then focus my attention onto the screens.

---​

“Alright people,” Duryodhana says, looking between the other three members of his team. “We stick together, and use the buddy system. I’m with Sinfjotli, and Siegfried, you’re with Erik. We’ll need a signal, to tell the other team if we need help.”

“Howl three times like wolves?” Sinfjotli suggests. “My father and I used that one whenever we split up on a raid.”

“That works for me,” Siegfried says.

“Right. Howl three times like wolves if you get in over your head.” And with that pronouncement from Duryodhana, the two teams split up.

---​

“Huh.” They… didn’t immediately fracture?

“It would seem that while Attila is the better strategist, Duryodhana is the better leader,” Loki notes.

“The natural difference between one who leads by fear and one who leads through a mixture of position and persuasion, I suppose.” Duryodhana may have been a tyrant, but he inspired loyalty. Attila inspired fear. I suppose that it makes sense that the King of the Kauravas would be more well-suited to leading Heroic Spirits.

There’s a ten minute stretch of silence, as Loki and I watch the two teams make their way through the city, each looking for a fight.

Siegfried and Erik find one first.

---​

Erik rounds the corner, and there he is. Pale, almost grey skin. Dark, messy hair. Corded muscles, and a blocky, ugly face.

“EGIL,” Erik growls, his eyes flaring red with madness.

“ERIK,” the Son of Skallagrim growls right back, his axe and sword in hand.

“I… take it you know each other?” Siegfried says questioningly, as the two old enemies glare at each other, readying their weapons as they slowly advance towards each other.

“You know, I may have forgiven you when you gave me that poem,” Erik says, as the two Vikings slowly circle one another. “But I always wondered who would win in a fight between us.”

“And I haven’t forgiven you for Thorolf,” Egil says, tightening his grip on his weapons. “Not one bit.”

“I feel like I’m missing some context here,” Siegfried observes.

Then, as one, Erik and Egil roar like lions and lunge at each other, reason letting slip the reins as mad fury rose triumphant, axe and sword and axe and sword clashing again and again in a furious dance for supremacy. First Erik swings his bloodstained axe, only to blocked by sword and axe in unison, before Egil breaks the block and steps out of the blade’s arc, lunging in from the side.

“Okay, um… is this a personal thing? Because if you want, I can back you up,” Siegfried says.

The axe handle drives into Egil’s side, disrupting his strike at Erik’s flank and forcing him to take a step back, and bring his axe and sword up to block as Erik capitalizes on the opening.

“I’ll just… stand here, then.” Siegfried looks around, whistling awkwardly.

The two Vikings glare at each other over their locked weapons. And then Egil headbutts Erik, and sets him stumbling back, before lunging in and scoring a cut across Erik’s chest. Then the Bloodaxe King raises his guard once again, and looks to be on the verge of a counterstrike, so Egil skips back out of axe-range, and the two begin circling each other once again.

“First blood to me,” Egil says.

“First blood doesn’t mean shit,” Erik growls, his axe pulsing in agreement. “Only last blood matters.”

“You can do it, Erik!” Siegfried calls.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Look, there’s not much else for me to do at the moment. Excuse me for trying to be supportive.”

“Find your own opponent, then!” Erik calls, as he and Egil circle each other.

“Erik, there’s no one else in sigh-AGH!” And with that, Siegfried falls forward, a spear driven into his back.

“Sorry, Sieg. But I really do need to win,” the man I’m assuming is Hagen says, as he fades into view behind his victim.

“Hagen? Why?” Siegfried gasps out as he coughs up blood.

“When I get the Grail, I’m going to make it so that I never killed you,” Hagen says, before noticing Siegfried’s incredulous look. “Okay, poor choice of words. But once I make my wish, everything will be fine again. We’ll be at peace. Gunther won’t be in danger of looking weak if he doesn’t kill you, and you guys can be friends again. And more importantly, my sister won’t brutally murder me for killing her husband.”

He looks down, only to realize that Siegfried died while he was monologuing.

“Shit, did he catch all of that?”

He’s interrupted by Erik’s axe taking his head off.

Erik, for his part, turns back to Egil and nods appreciatively. “Thanks for agreeing to a truce while I killed the dishonorable coward.”

“No problem,” Egil says as he lunges back into battle, sword and axe lunging towards Erik’s throat. “Now DIE, Bloodaxe!”

“You first, Skallagrimson!”

---​

Loki grins. “Right, then. The other team just ran into their own opposite numbers. I’m going to switch over to them.”

“I kind of want to see how this fight ends, though.”

“I have a DVR, you can have the recording.”

“Wait, how would that even work? I mean, aren’t we watching this via magic?”

“Don’t question the Wizard DVR, Flynn.”

“I kind of am, though.”

Loki bonks me on the head, and the screens switch over to display Duryodhana and Sinfjotli.

They’re face off against a man who reminds me even more of Hercules than Duryodhana.

---​

“Bhima,” Duryodhana says as he faces off against his nemesis. “To what do I owe this distinct unpleasantness?”

“I was told that the Grail could grant any wish,” the strongest of the Pandavas says. He’s more than seven feet tall, dark-skinned, and sports a massive handlebar mustache. His chest is bare, displaying chest hair to rival Duryodhana’s. “And I would dearly like to see my sons again.”

“And I’d like to see me brothers again, and the man who was brother to you in blood, and brother to me in every other way,” Duryodhana replies. “But we both made our mistakes, and we reaped a harvest of sorrow for our follies. The war is over, and we both held responsibility for it.”

Bhima snorts. “Don’t try to blame me for your evil, cousin. You’re rotten to the core, and it’s your greed and pride that started the war.”

“I- WHAT?” Duryodhana takes a moment to calm himself, and then continues in a more level tone. “I’m pretty sure that I made a speech to the contrary. You remember, don’t you? I pointed out how you guys weren’t all that much better than me? How you’d broken your own honor code? How your elitism and high-handedness were the birth of my hatred for you? You remember that speech, don’t you? I made it while I was dying after you’d ended our duel dishonorably by hitting me in the dick? I was bleeding out from the mangled remains of my genitals? Is any of this ringing a bell?”

“Just the whining of a sore loser,” Bhima says with a confident smirk as he crosses his arms. “And the man whose war killed my boy Ghatotkacha.”

“YOU HAD JUST CRUSHED MY TESTICLES INTO A SOUP! I HAD EVERY RIGHT TO BE UPSET!”

“Please, you’ve been out to kill me and my brothers ever since we were kids. Why would I ever listen to you?”

“Oh, excuse me, but when have you ever listened to me?” Duryodhana snaps, all attempts at peaceful reconciliation quite thoroughly abandoned. “Hey, you remember when I told you to stop challenging my brothers to wrestling matches? Remember that? I had to wrestle you, in all your freakishly strong glory, on a daily basis, just so you wouldn’t snap one of my little brothers’ spines in half because you were bored and wanted to show off how strong you were.”

“Please. Just because they were afraid of an honest competition, you’re treating me challenging the cowards to a proper match like it’s a crime!”

“You broke Ravi’s arm!” Duryodhana shouts, utterly apoplectic. “HE WAS FIVE!”

“Old enough to start learning how to wrestle,” Bhima says, rolling his eyes. “And you and your entire brood of dishonorable cowards tried to cheat Yudhistira out of his birthright!”

“Oh, his ‘birthright?’” Duryodhana repeats mockingly. “Yeah, his birthright. Half the kingdom that my father ruled. And on what grounds?”

“We are part of the older branch of the family,” Bhima says. “We had every right to the throne, as your father recognized.”

“You’re not part of the family at all!” Duryodhana roars back. “Uncle Pandu was part of the family. You and your brothers were the sole result of a bunch of gods knocking up your mother and then dumping their bastards on us and telling us to treat you like the perfect, special little snowflakes that you are! YOU ARE NOT MY COUSIN! YOU’RE JUST SOME PUFFED-UP DIVINE CUCKOO BIRD THAT GETS EVERYTHING HANDED TO YOU, INCLUDING HALF OF MY KINGDOM!”

“You hold a grudge against us, and yet you didn’t mind our mother’s bastard.”

Duryodhana freezes, and then says, his voice tight with rage, “Karna was worth a hundred times you and your brothers combined. And your egoistical little jackass of a brother shot him in back.”

“He killed my son. That albino bastard got what was coming to him.”

Duryodhana’s face goes completely still. “Them’s fightin’ words.”

And then the two hulking men slam into each other, so hard and fast that the windows around them shatter, mace strikes flying between the two giants, each hit ringing out like thunder.

Suddenly, I realize something.

---​

I turn to Loki. “Where’s Sinfjotli?”

“Huh.” He looks nonplussed. “Hold on, let me rewind and look through the footage.”

Soon, we’re looking at Sinfjotli, and Loki starts to replay the footage.

---​

While Bhima and Duryodhana start to argue in the background, Sinfjotli sighs.

“Great, they're gonna be at this for a while, aren’t they?”

He receives no answer.

“Well, who knows. Maybe my opponent will show up soon.”

“Sinfjotli.”

He jumps, and then turns around to stare at the woman who spoke, looking for all the world like he just saw a ghost. “M-Mother? Is that you?”

“Well of course it is, you imbecile,” Signy Volsungsdottir says as she emerges from the alleyway. She looks like her son, with a narrow, harsh face and silver hair. She’s in her early forties, if I had to guess, and she looks it, the sharp, harsh lines on her face setting off the burning intensity of her eyes as she glares at her son. “I will be claiming the Holy Grail and using it to restore your grandfather and uncles to life. You will assist me.”

“But-“

“Sinfjotli,” her calm tone doesn’t hide the menace in her voice. “Do I need to get my sewing kit again?”

He flinches. “No, Mother. I’m sorry. I’ll be good.”

She pats him on the head, ignoring how he cringes at her touch. “Good boy. Now heel. We have some hunting to do.”

She strides off into the shadows of the alleyway, and he follows her, giving a regretful glance back towards the clash between Bhima and Duryodhana before quickening his pace to catch up.

---​

“You summoned Signy?” I ask Loki, utterly disgusted. “Low blow, man. Low blow.”

“Eh. I mean, the guy barely qualifies as a Heroic Spirit anyways, he accomplished so little with his life.” Loki shrugs. “His mother was the worst of his enemies that I could find.”

“Still. Not cool, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah. Back to Bhima v. Duryodhana, Dawn of Dick Shots?”

“Sure, whatever.”

---​

The two titans smash into each other once again, and, knocking aside his opponent’s mace, Bhima closes in, and then drives his knee into Duryodhana’s groin.

“I know your weakness and have no weaknesses!” Bhima roars, as Duryodhana staggers back. “MY VICTORY IS INEVITABLE!”

Duryodhana snorts, and then slams his mace into Bhima’s chest. “You think you can beat me with a cheap shot twice? Joke’s on you, I WORE A CUP!”

Duryodhana swings, only for Bhima to drop his mace, get around behind his opponent, and hug him from behind.

And then he piledrives the king of the Kauravas into the pavement, burying his entire torso in the ground.

“Well, then,” Bhima says, retrieving his mace as Duryodhana kicks helplessly. “Let’s see how strong that cup of yours is.”

“Bhima, wait, we can talk about this! Please! I don’t want to die like this again!”

Bhima brings down the mace, and I cross my legs in sympathy.

---​

“Right,” Loki says uncomfortably, as Bhima goes to town on his cousin’s genitals with an eighty-pound mace. “Back to Erik and Egill?”

“Yes.”

---​

The two Vikings lie across from each other in a puddle of blood. Both are covered in bloody gashes, and clearly only alive because of Battle Continuation.

Finally, Erik rises, using his axe as a crutch, before limping towards his fallen enemy.

Egill turns his head to look at him.

Erik breaks the silence. “Good fight.”

“Yeah.”

He brings down the axe.

---​

“Huh. Now I’m just disappointed that we missed that fight.”

“Yeah, me too. But, either way, ROUND TWO IS OVER!” Then the God of Mischief grins. “On to Round Three.”

 

“And here we are, folks, the final round!” Loki cries out to his imaginary audience. “Now we get to watch as Attila the Hun, Bhima of the Pandavas, Hassan-i-Sabbah of the Cursed Arm,” He takes a breath, “Richard the Lionheart, Gudrun of the Gjukungs, Signy and Sinfjotli of the Volsungs, and Erik Bloodaxe all duke it out for the Holy Grail! Only one can win!”

“Wait, Richard the Lionheart? That’s who you picked for Cursed Arm’s opponent?”

“Yeah, yeah. He was the best Crusades-themed Heroic Spirit I could find.”

“Yeah, fair enough.”

The screens fire up again, and they all display… Attila.

---​

He looks off into the distance for a moment, and then licks his finger and raises it up, as if testing the air. Then he takes off like a shot in a completely different direction.

I’m about to question what the hell he’s doing when he rounds a corner and then socks an extremely surprised Bhima in the jaw.

“Bet you can’t catch me!” the Scourge of God shouts, before running away in the opposite direction.

Bhima takes the bait, and the chase is on, Attila keeping in the lead and shouting insults at Bhima to keep his pursuer motivated.

---​

“What the Hell is he doing?” I ask, staring at the screen in blank confusion.

“Watch,” Loki says, literally on the edge of his seat. “There’s a method to his madness.”

---​

Attila rounds a corner and comes face to face with a confused blond man.

“All right, partner!” Attila shouts, loud enough for Bhima to hear. “You hold him off while I get the others!”

“I-what?” the man I’m assuming is Richard the Lionheart stammers.

“SO, YOU STAND WITH THE COWARD!” Bhima roars, smashing through the corner and almost dashing in Richard’s skull. “YOU WILL DIE ALL THE SAME, BE THERE TWO, TWENTY, OR TWO HUNDRED OF YOU!”

“Wait, no, I’m not-“

Whatever else Richard has to say is lost as Attila rounds another corner, and the duel he set off between his enemies passes out of sight.

Then, he changes direction, unerringly making his way towards some target that I can’t figure out.

Down a block, turn right, go straight, and then…

He skids to a stop in front of Sinfjotli and Signy, who’re both leveling weapons at him.

“Well, good thing that I found you guys in time!” he calls cheerfully, acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world, with no regard for the swords pointed his way. “I want to discuss a team-up!”

Signy pauses, as if considering the prospects, and then looks him in the eye. “Start talking.”

“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, Bhima of the Pandavas is here, and I don’t fancy any of us Age of Man Heroic Spirits against a legendary warrior from the strongest family of the Age of the Gods.”

Signy’s face turns icy. “We are from the Age of the Gods.”

“Well, yeah,” Attila says, effortlessly adopting the mannerisms of the reluctant bearer of bad news. “But, you know how everybody talks, and…”

“They think us weaker than the Pandavas?” Signy screeches, while Sinfjotli seems torn between outrage at his family’s honor being impugned and fear of his mother.

“Your words, not mine. Anyways, I’m banding the strongest of us normal Heroic Spirits together to take down Bhima, but I understand if you’re too scared to join. I mean, you’re a woman, and Sinfjotli is the son of King Siggeir. Running from battle would be understandable.”

Signy catches herself mid screech of fury, barely pulling herself together. “No. No. I’m not going don’t trust you, you’re obviously playing us, and…”

“You’re avoiding a fight?” Attila asks incredulously, before uttering his six-word coup de grace. “Are you sure you’re a Volsung?”

Signy and Sinfjotli freeze. There it is. The six words no man woman or child of the line of Volsung could ever resist. Signy raises her hand. “Sinfjotli.”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Don your pelt. We’re joining him.”

“As you command, Mother.” He draws forth a ring from his pocket and slips it onto his finger. “ULFSERKER: FLESH OF FENRIR!”

His skin, starting at the ring finger, peels back, and silver fur, the same color as his hair, creeps up his arms, while his bones crack and shudder, bending into new, strange shapes. And then, where once stood a man, there stands a wolf the size of a Volkswagen.

“Right, this way!” Attila calls out, and they charge back towards the fight between Richard and Bhima.

---​

To his credit, Richard the Lionheart has been holding out well against Bhima.

“EXCALIBUR!” The golden beam of power pours forth from a broken piece of rebar, and slams into Bhima.

The wrestler of the Pandavas falls to his knees, but doesn’t seem to be severely injured.

“Impressive, man of the East!” Richard calls out, picking up another sword. “But no matter your strength, or your durability, no amount of guts will let you beat me. Why haven’t you used your Noble Phantasm yet?”

Richard dances forwards, ready to finish his foeman off. But he takes just one step too close.

Bhima’s hand wraps tight around one leg, and I can hear the crunch of bone. “Because, upstart, unlike you, I need no crutches.”

Richard tries to break away, but it’s in vain. The strongest of the Pandavas has him by the leg, and he won’t let go.

And now that he’s got a proper hold on his opponent, Bhima finally starts to get some proper hits in, and unlike Richard, he can make his hits stick. He stands up to his full height, his left hand seizing Richard’s sword arm and squeezing, and I hear an unpleasant squelch from the arm as Bhima, finally having properly seized his opponent, raises him up over his knee, ready to break his back.

“Goodbye mosquito. You were an annoying opponent to face, if not a particularly memorable one.”

And that, of course, is when more than three hundred pounds of wolf slam into Bhima from behind, forcing him to drop his crippled opponent in order to deal with the Demonic Beast gnawing on the back of his head.

“Great job holding him, Rick!” Attila calls cheerfully, even as Sinfjotli and Bhima stagger every which way, locked in a life-or-death struggle between man and beast. “I honestly didn’t think you’d live that long!”

“It’s… Richard…” the Crusader King groans.

“Sure. Let me guess, you had him on the ropes with your speed before you got cocky and he turned your left kneecap into a paste?” Attila asks, while nonchalantly sticking out a leg like he’s doing a lunge.

“How did you…”

“I’m very observant.” Attila smirks as Bhima, still blinded by the wolf currently mauling him, trips over the Hun’s extended leg. “For instance, I can see that the other three of our merry band, yeah, looking at you, Cursed Arm, Gudrun, and Erik, are hiding there, there, and there.” He points, and they drop their concealment to glare at him. “Way to not help out, guys!”

“How did you know?” Cursed Arm asks conversationally.

“You guys couldn’t properly blend the ripple effect in the local background mana levels caused by your increased spiritron density.” He looks nonplussed by the blank looks he’s getting. “What? You guys can’t see those?”

As Bhima struggles against Sinfjotli, Attila, without missing a beat, drives the Sword of Mars into the wrestler’s chest. Where Richard’s false Excalibur failed, the Divine Contruct, driven home by Attila’s strength, pierces Bhima’s Spirt Core.

“Right then!” Attila smiles as he pulls his sword free. “Truce over.”

And like lightning, Attila tosses Richard into the jaws of the lunging Sinfjotli, stuffing the werewolf’s mouth shut as he leaps towards him, and then sidesteps the lunge. And as Sinfjotli chokes, Attila leaps onto his back, and rides the wolf like a bucking bronco, effortlessly dodging the attacks launched at him by every other surviving participant in this farce of a Grail War as he does so.

Finally, the wolf stills, bent to the will and Riding skill of its rider, and Attila stands tall and proud, easily deflecting another thrown dirk from Cursed Arm.

“Now then,” Attila says, smiling as he surveys his opponents. “Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Attila the Hun.”

He raises his sword to the heavens, and they come. His Hunnic hordes. No. His true Noble Phantasm. And they roar his name as one.

“And you have sinned greatly, to have earned a punishment such as me.”

He levels his sword at his enemies, and, as one, the Huns attack.

 

The battle lines are quickly drawn, every Servant united in the face of the unstoppable juggernaut that was Attila.

“Buy me time, I have something that can kill him!” Signy shouts, and then she withdraws as the horde closes in.

“Is she running?” Erik asks incredulously, readying his axe.

“No.” Gudrun unslings a spear and runs a Hun through. “She’s a Volsung. They’re always as good as their word. I should know, I married one.” She steps back. “You lot delay, I’ll set up a defensive line!”

Then she dashes back a few blocks to begin desperately carving runes.

“What is it with Volsung women and telling us to hold the line?” Erik muses, kicking in a Hun’s kneecaps and then taking off the unfortunate fellow’s head.

Cursed Arm, having disappeared while nobody was looking at him, pointedly doesn’t respond.

Erik sighs. “Well, fuck my life. Death or glory it is.” And then, as his muscles bulge, his horns grow, and his eyes glow red from the force of his fury, he utters but two words: “BLOODBATH CROOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWNN!”

He becomes a hurricane, a whirlwind of blood, death, and fear as he carves his way through the ranks of his enemies, never once stopping, never once touched by fear. They die beneath his axe, and, pushing himself to the very limits of what he’s capable of, he presses onwards, carving a bloody road five feet across through the ranks of the Huns, pointing straight towards Attila. And then, as his endurance flags, he comes before his goal, and brings down his axe with all the strength he can muster.

Attila parries it, easily deflecting the blow harmlessly to the right, and then ripostes, taking off the Bloodaxe King’s head.

“You know,” he says to Erik’s headless corpse. “I’ll never understand why you Northmen were always so enamored with battle-madness. In my experience, it just makes you an easy target. But still, A for effort.” He looks around and finds that his Hunnic horde stopped its advance. “Okay, what the Hell, guys? We have one awesome fight, and everyone stops to watch?”

“ATTILA! ATTILA!” the horde of Huns chants with almost religious fervor.

“Right. Forgot. Braindead fanboys more focused on stroking my ego than actually following orders!” Attila snaps. “Really, it’s almost like I never died.”

He leans out of the way as one of Cursed Arm’s dirks flies past his head. “Nice try. You gonna test your luck?”

Cursed Arm doesn’t take the bait, so Attila shrugs, and then points his sword in the direction of Gudrun. “ALRIGHT YOU LAZY SCOUNDRELS, YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS! WE’RE MARCHING THATTAWAY, AND WE’LL RAPE, RAVAGE, AND RUIN ALL THAT STANDS AGAINST US!”

The Huns roar, and then charge, while Attila drives Sinfjotli on at a cautious lope, staying firmly in the middle of the horde.

Then they come to the wall of fire, with a fatigued Gudrun waiting on the other side.

“Stealing other women’s tricks, now, are we?” Attila calls out from atop Sinfjotli.

“If it works, then it works,” Gudrun says with a shrug. “And if I didn’t have a habit of stealing from Brynnhildr, then you wouldn’t have caught me on the rebound.”

Their hands tighten around their weapons as they face off across the wall of flame.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to go over there and fight you myself,” Attila says. “Wouldn’t do to keep a lady waiting.”

“Really?” she tilts her head coyly, ever-present smile still in full force. “The mighty Attila, coming to see little old me? I’m flattered.”

“Oh, but what kind of husband doesn’t visit with his wife?” Attila says, sheathing the Sword of Mars and holding out his hand. “SPEAR!”

One of his Huns passes him a cavalry lance, and he urges Sinfjotli forwards. Gudrun braces herself, her smile eager.

“Before we start, though,” Attila says, twirling his lance. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” Gudrun asks, amused.

“For teaching me what it is to be human.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

“Before I married you, I felt… nothing. Or rather I felt strangely. I couldn’t quite connect with regular humans. There was just something… missing. I lacked a point of commonality, a Rosetta Stone, if you will.” Attila takes a breath, and then he smiles. “And then I met you.”

Gudrun raises an eyebrow.

“At our last feast together, when you told me that you’d killed our sons, and that they were the mystery meat in those delicious little hors d’ouevres you’d been serving me? For the first time in my life, I felt hatred! And when you barred the doors while I was too drunk to stand, and then set the whole building on fire? For the first time in my life, I felt fear!”

Gudrun’s smile quivers slightly. “I’m… not sure I understand.”

“You did what literal gods couldn’t, you made me fear for my life! And suddenly, I had a point of reference! I had my Rosetta Stone for human nature! So, even while I was busy making sure you thought I’d died, meeting up with Bleda, and then invading Rome to get away from you, I knew that you’d given me something priceless.” He pauses, and then looks her in the eye. “So, I guess that what I’m trying to say is… thank you. Thank you for teaching me hate. Thank you for teaching me fear. Thank you for teaching me humanity.”

Gudrun laughs. “H-Happy to be of service!”

And then Attila urges Sinfjotli into a charge, and then, just as he draws up to the fire’s edge, the Bastard Wolf of the Volsungs leaps. He clears the fire and bears his rider with him into Gudrun’s domain.

The first three exchanges are like lightning. Sinfjotli almost moves faster than the eye can follow, and Attila is nearly his equal in agility. But Gudrun manages to keep up, as Attila’s spear sparks off her shield.
It becomes a pattern, and I can almost see glimpses of the larger whole, from where the fight’s participants are visible, instead of mere blurs of frenzied motion. Little snapshots between the clashes. Here Sinfjotli, low to the ground, snarling in tune with his equally savage rider, skidding to a halt after his first pass and turning back around for another go. There Gudrun, her shield in her left hand, her sword in her right, bracing for another exchange. And there Attila, atop his snarling steed, spear in his right hand, braced for another charge.

Three passes in six seconds, and the daughter of Giuki stands.

And then, on the fourth, Attila charges in, and she raises her shield to deflect his strike… only for the spear now in his left hand to pierce her heart.

The battle grinds to a halt, as Gudrun falls to her knees, and Attila pulls free his spear.

“Didn’t see you… switch hands,” she chokes out.

“It’d be a poor trick if you did,” Attila says, before chopping her skull open with the Sword of Mars.

She fades, and he’s silent, staring down at the ground where she faded. And then he pulls himself together and tosses his spear back to one of his Huns.

“ALL RIGHT, BOYS, TWO MORE TO GO! LET’S FUCK ‘EM UP!”

---​

“Hot damn.”

I stare at the screen in awe, before turning to Loki. “All right, I guess that this show might be worth the price of admission.”

“Oh, trust me, it gets better,” Loki says with a smile, and I turn back to the screens.

This is gonna be good.

---​

Attila and his horde are advancing at a steady trot when it happens. The world shudders, and is replaced by a dark forest, leading up to a towering mead hall.

Attila raises an eyebrow. “Huh. Bounded Field.”

He opens the doors to the hall, and sees a great wooden table, with thirteen men seated about it. And they are Volsungs, of that there can be no doubt. Their hair is white, but more than that, they have the very same mania I saw in Signy. An unchecked vigor, a will to live wholeheartedly and without restraint, and refrain from nothing in the pursuit of their goals. A strange species of self-destructive obsession which elevated them above the petty trifles of lesser men.

And the man at the head of the table is the greatest of them all. Upon his brow rests a crown of iron, and he is old, with wrinkled skin over corded muscles, and a beard that comes down to his waist.

And Signy kneels before him.

“Father, please! They’ll be here any moment!”

“I will not join in your endeavors, Signy. This foolishness is yours, and yours alone,” King Volsung says, not even deigning to look at her.

“WHY DON’T YOU WANT THIS?” Signy screams, tears trailing down her face. “You could live! You don’t have to die to Siggeir, you can live, and we can be happy together again! As a family!”

“Happy?” Volsung repeats, looking at her directly. She shrinks beneath his gaze. “HAPPY? Foolish daughter, I AM VOLSUNG, SON OF RERIR, SON OF SIGI, SON OF ODIN, AND I AM A WARRIOR, FORGED FROM TRIUMPH AND TRAGEDY ALIKE!” He slams his fist down against the table, and it breaks beneath his blow. “Happiness is for lesser men than me.” He waves his hand in a clear gesture of dismissal. “Go. Pursue your folly elsewhere. You are no longer welcome in my halls.”

“But… I… I did everything to avenge you!” she screams. “I just wanted to go home! Why wouldn’t you let me stay with you?”

“Because I believed that you ought to outlive this old man. A decision I regret, having seen what an unsightly creature you’ve become.”

That, of course, is when Attila makes his entrance. “Hi! Attila the Hun. I’m here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Everyone stares at him in silent confusion for a few seconds. Then Volsung speaks up. “Your request is denied.”

“Shoot. And after I brought all my barbarian hordes along for the wedding party!” Attila mimes a sudden epiphany. “But waaaaaait, what if, and just hear me out here, because this is gonna sound crazy, but what if me and my army just killed you all, and I married your daughter anyways?”

Volsung draws his sword, and around him, his twelve sons do likewise. “Signy.”

“Yes, Father?”

“You are permitted to join us.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman cry more tears of joy at being invited to a hopeless last stand.

The mead hall erupts into a sea of fire and blood, with the united Volsungs killing Huns by the score. But even the Volsungs could not stand against Attila.

He faces King Volsung on foot, having been knocked from Sinfjotli’s back by the press of bodies. Twelve times his sword draws blood, and Volsung’s drinks once in return, before he is slain.

Volsung’s children, on the other hand, are barely a challenge, until, at last, he comes to the twins.

Sigmund and Signy, Volsung’s youngest, fight him side by side, one locking his blade so the other can strike, but the Huns around them flank them far faster than they could flank Attila.

Sigmund falls, and then, there is one.

A borrowed spear through Signy’s chest pins her to the ground, and the now-burning hall begins to fade.

“Well fought,” Attila says with a grunt.

“Thank you.”

“I’m… sorry?”

Signy smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out after a rainy day. “You let me die with them.”

“It was nothing.”

“Everything… to me. You’re a kinder man than you seem.”

And then she’s gone.

“Well then,” Attila turns to face his foe. “Just one Volsung left.”

Sinfjotli snarls.

 

“And so, it comes down to this,” Loki says, as on the screen, the two Servants face off. “The last two Servants of the Grail War.”

“What about Cursed Arm?” I ask.

Loki blinks. “I… don’t know, actually. He’s just played so little of a part in the Grail War that I kind of forgot about him.”

“Hm. Epic final battle is still going on, though.”

---​

“Well, now,” Attila says, as he firmly sets his feet in preparation for Sinfjotli’s charge. “This is hardly fair. I think we’ll need a handicap to even the odds a bit.”

Sinfjotli chuffs at the thought.

Then Attila tosses away his sword. “There. I think that makes us about even.”

Sinfjotli’s pure, unadulterated look of confusion isn’t particularly hard to grasp the meaning of.

“Oh?” Attila asks with a smirk. “Why so surprised? I made us even, after all. You might be a wolf, but I am Attila.”

Sinfjotli dips his head, in what I can only assume to be grudging respect, before lunging at his foe.

Attila ducks low and nails him with an uppercut to the stomach mid-lunge, and with that, the battle’s begun.

Their fight is hesitant, at first, the two combatants circling each other. Sinfjotli will lunge in, fast as lightning, and Attila counters perfectly, never letting the wolf sink his teeth in. But mere punches cannot break the hide of a Demonic Beast, and so the stalemate continues.

Five passes. And then, Attila makes his move.

On the sixth pass, Sinfjotli charges in, and Attila counters, squatting down, and then flipping Sinfjotli onto his back, wrapping his arms tightly around the wolf’s thick neck and squeezing tight, cutting off Sinfjotli’s airflow in a textbook chokehold.

Well, not exactly textbook. I don’t think they actually make textbooks for beating giant demon wolves to death with your bare hands.

Sinfjotli doesn’t go down easy, bucking like a bronco, and desperately lashing out with his paws as Attila squeezes ever tighter. But then, with a mighty snap, his body body goes slack, and begins to dissolve.

And Attila stands triumphant, arms stretching up to the heavens in the universal sign of victory.

“SO!” he roars, pacing about like a caged beast. “WHO IS NEXT? WHO WILL FACE THE SCOURGE OF GOD!”

Silence is his answer.

---​

Back in the control room, I turn to Loki. “I don’t think Cursed Arm is there.”

“His only chance of winning is by killing Attila,” Loki says. “He’ll show himself. Or you’ll pay the price.”

---​

“OH?” Attila asks, still roaring like a lion. “IS THE LITTLE ASSASSIN TO BE MY LAST ADVERSARY?”

He grabs his sword, and then turns about every which way, his voice dropping a few decibels.

“Oh come now, where are you, Assassin? We’re at the end of the game. It’s time to show your hand.”

---​

“Can’t you find Cursed Arm?” I ask.

“Not when he’s using Presence Concealment,” Loki says.

“Really?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Yes, really. Why are you surprised? He’s got A+ Presence Concealment! Even Bounded Fields can’t detect him!”

---​

“Come on out, Cursed Arm,” Attila calls as he begins to make his way through the streets. “Come on, try your luck. You knew you’d have to eventually.”

He grins and spreads his arms. “We’re at the end of things, and you’ve got your target in sight. So try your luck! Creep up on behind him, raise that demon arm of yours, and say the magic word.”

---​

“Zabaniya.”

---​

Attila grins.

---​

I stare in shock as Cursed Arm comes into view, a crushed heart in hand…

Behind Loki.

“H-How?” the God of Mischief asks, blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth.

“It’s real simple, Liesmith,” Attila says, looking straight at us through the scrying matrix. “See, the other Servants? They were playing your games. Me and Cursed Arm? We were playing you.”

“Im-Impossible, you…”

“Cursed Arm, finish the job,” I command. “And then cut me loose from this chair.”

“As you command, my Master,” Cursed Arm says, driving two throwing knives into Loki’s skull and putting him down for good. “Attila is already en route to secure the Grail.”

“Good to hear,” I say. “And well done. I legitimately didn’t see that coming.”

“That was rather the point,” Cursed Arm says, cutting the ropes.

We watch to make sure Loki’s body dissolves, and then we head off to rendezvous with Attila, with Cursed Arm helping me down the stairs.

---​

We find him at an abandoned bar, Grail in hand, staring at a bottle of 100 proof whisky contemplatively.

“Hey, Flynn,” he says with a nod. “Cursed Arm.”

“Attila,” I reply, nodding in turn.

“I’m torn. On the one hand I really do want to give this over to you, help the war effort and all that, but…”

“On the other hand?” I prompt him.

“On the other hand, I really just want to chug cheap booze out of the cup of God.”

I take the stool next to him. “May I ask why?”

“For the bragging rights, obviously!”

“And why haven’t you?”

“Because it might mess things up, and I really don’t want to accidentally sabotage you guys.”

“Huh.” I think it over. “Well, why not hold off, and use the next one as your beer mug?”

“Next one?” Attila repeats.

“Well, there’s a lot of other Grail wars out there, obviously. And the Throne of Heroes exists independently of time and space, and can even reach into other dimensions, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, of course you’re going to be summoned into another Grail War. You’re Attila the Hun. Prospective Master would have to be crazy not to try and get you as their Servant. And of course you’ll win, you’re… well, you. So really, when you think about it, you getting your hands on another Grail is inevitable.”

“I suppose so.” Attila says with a grin, handing the Grail off to Cursed Arm. “And, by any chance, would one of those Masters who’d be crazy not to try and summon me be you?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“Fair enough. Good seeing you, Flynn.”

“Same here. Take care of yourself, Attila.”

“And you don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I give him a look.

“Yes, I know how narrow a category that is. Now get going, you!”

And as the light engulfs us, I watch Rome’s Bane wave farewell.

 

I’m halfway to bed from the Singularity we just resolved (and dear God do I hate having to resolve Singularities in Feudal Japan. That is not a fun place to be a foreigner in,) when the intercom crackles to life.

“Hey, Charlie, I’m sorry to call you up like this, but-“

“Roman,” I sigh, a note of pleading entering my voice. “Please tell me this is just a routine maintenance call or something. Please.”

“I’m sorry. But we both know I’d be lying if I told you that.” He does sound legitimately remorseful, which only makes it worse.

“Roman, I just got back from the Kyoto Incident. In the past twenty-four hours alone, I was doused in pig shit, had rocks thrown at me, learned a lot of fun new archaic Japanese curse words that they apparently reserve for foreigners, got punched twice, nearly got eaten by cannibalistic demon ogres, and had to put up with Kintoki’s love affair with the word ‘Golden.’ Please, for the love of God, just… don’t. I’ve showered five times, and I still can’t get the pig shit smell off me. I need to sleep.”

He sighs. “All right. I guess it’s not that important, anyway.”

I turn to my bed, my sweet, inviting bed, calling to me with its tantalizing, soft sheets, and thick, comforting mattress as I start unbuttoning my jacket. “I’ll head out to retrieve the Grail in the morning, all right?”

“Well…” he sounds uncomfortable, and… NO! No, nononononononononoooooooooooo! Don’t do it. Don’t you fucking do it. Don’t you dare be all apologetic and likeable as you tell me something that’ll drag me away from my well-earned rest! “The Singularity will probably have drifted out of our range by then, actually. It’s some sort of overlay from a parallel dimension. But it’s not like it can affect our own time stream, so it’s actually fine if you want to take it easy. God knows I’d be a hypocrite if I chastised you over taking some time for yourself.”

My hands stop.

“Does it have a Grail we can poach?” I ask, beginning to button my jacket back up, before deciding not to wear the white jacket covered in pig shit, instead grabbing a fresh one from my dresser.

“Yes, but-“

I give my bed one last longing look as I pull on my jacket. “Where’s the Singularity at?”

“Japan.”

I freeze.

“Look, you’ve had a rough day, and not getting enough sleep is bad for your health. Just sit this one out. We’ll get more opportunities to collect Grails in the future. It’s fine to let this one pass us by.”

In my lethargy, my eyes cross the room, alighting on the picture I keep by my bedside.

I’m not important. But they are.

“I’ll be at the meeting room in ten minutes.”

I tune out Roman’s objections as I walk out the door.

---​

“So, what are we facing?” I ask as I walk into the meeting room.

“Some sort of Holy Grail War, we think,” Da Vinci answers, looking me over with concern. “Flynn, are you okay? You look even worse than usual.”

I take a sip from the thermos Medea prepared for me. “I’m fine. Teacher gave me something to take the sleep deprivation’s edge off. I’m proud to say that I’m fighting fit, and ready for active duty!”

Everybody seems to be giving me worried looks all of a sudden.

“Um, Charlie, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Roman asks.

“Eh, probably not, but I’m already riding pretty high on whatever kind of Ancient Greek Adderall she put in this thing, and she assured me that just this much will keep me functional for at least three days before I start vomiting blood and pass out. Compared to what she’s already put my liver through, this is actually pretty mild.” I take a sip from my thermos while they continue to stare at me in silent horror. “So, are we doing this thing or what?”

“No, absolutely not!” Roman shouts. “Look, we need to-“

“Roman. I am already chugging the magic Ancient Greek twenty-four hour energy juice like it’s Red Bull.” I punctuate the point with another swig. “I’d prefer that, when I inevitably puke myself unconscious in three days, it has served a higher purpose.”

He sighs, and then sits back down.

“So, where are we going?” I ask again.

“Fuyuki City, in 1994,” Roman says. “Again, it’s some sort of alternate universe, so we don’t know exactly what we’re getting into.”

“Sounds like fun!” I say cheerfully, humming to myself as my mind races. Roman’s hair is kind of weird, now that I think of it. It looks just like King David’s!

“Yes, you’ll have to gather information on the ground,” Roman says. He hesitates. “You seem kind of out of it, are you sure you’re up for this?”

“Tip top shape, Roman!” I assure him cheerfully. “Now let’s hop to it, my liver isn’t getting any less horrifically damaged!”

---​

My team stands assembled in the Rayshift Room. Fergus mac Roich, Arash, Cursed Arm, Serenity, Medea, and Atalanta. I hum tunelessly to myself as I enter the room, before coming to a stop in front of them.

“All right, folks, you know the deal,” I say, momentarily getting distracted admiring my Command Spells before snapping back to attention. “Galahad won’t be joining us, Mash needs her sleep and all, so Medea will be on bodyguard duty. Arash, you’re our sniper. Fergus and Atalanta, you’ll be our melee screen to tie up the enemy Servants, and the Hassans will assassinate the enemy Masters while their Servants are occupied. That clear?”

Nods all around.

“All right, folks, let’s get going! We have a Grail War to win.”

And so we file into our coffins, to travel to strange and exotic lands and kill new and interesting people again.

And as the lid closes over me, leaving me in the silence with only the erratic pitter-patter of my heart for company, I grin.

I can hardly wait.

 

“Wait a second,” I say, as I take in the view from where we Rayshifted in. “Is this the same place as the first Singularity?”

“It would seem so, my apprentice,” Medea says neutrally.

“Huh.” I pause, and then switch over to the mental link. ‘Arash, get up on top of one of those skyscrapers. I want those impossibly accurate eyes of yours watching for Servant activity. This seems to be a normal Grail War, but we’ll want to interrogate one of the Masters, just to be on the safe side.’

‘As you would have it, Master.’

As our new eye in the sky heads to his assigned post, I start thinking things over.

‘All right, while Arash is getting into place, we’ll split up into two teams. Medea and Atalanta, you’ll find us a secure base, and then establish it as our stronghold using Medea’s Territory Creation. The rest will stick with me. When Arash gives us the signal, we’ll move to eliminate Servants, and attempt to capture at least one Master.’

They weigh this over, and then I get a few accepting nods.

‘I’ll contact you as soon as we’ve established our territory.’ Medea promises.

“Good, and get extra ranch dressing while you’re at it,” I say aloud, to confuse any invisible observers.

The two Argonauts give me a perplexed look, and then vanish into astral form.

‘Good. Cursed Arm, Serenity, enter stealth mode and look for any hidden observers. We probably attracted a few with the light show we put on Rayshifting in.’

They nod, and then it’s just me and Fergus. We stare at each other awkwardly.

“Wanna play Go Fish?” he asks after a moment of silence.

“Sure, why not?”

---​

We have just enough time to buy a pack of cards from a corner store that was open (Fergus had to act as my translator, although considering how many times he got slapped by the clerk, he might have taken a few liberties with the translation) and figure out that neither of us really remembered how to play Go Fish, before Arash finally gives us what we were waiting for: a call to action.

‘There’s some sort of conflict going on down by the docks.’

And like a shot, we’re off, Fergus hoisting me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, while Arash provides us with the play-by-play, and, after a few minutes of running about at random, directions to the docks. The Hassans follow along, silent and invisible. At least they say they do, and thanks to the whole ‘silent and invisible’ thing, I have to take them at their word.

We get there, and I stagger a few steps after Fergus sets me down.

Once the world stops spinning, I survey the situation.

The two knight Servants whose initial duel Arash spotted are still opposite one another, but now they’ve they’re not actively fighting, having turned to regard us new arrivals with suspicion. The pale Master of the Saber is also looking at us warily.

“Sorry I’m late. I think my invitation got lost in the mail,” I say, getting to my feet. “Sir Diarmuid. Your Majesty.” I look at Saber’s master. “…You.”

‘Was that wise?’ Cursed Arm asks.

‘Probably not. But I’m still dizzy. Lay off.’

“Who are you, and why have you intruded upon our duel?” Arturia Pendragon asks.

“Well, you see, I came here to warn you about the dangers of Communism.” I say, even as I open a channel to the Hassans. ‘Serenity, fall back, and keep an eye on the sky.’ Wouldn’t do for her to get blasted by Diarmuid’s Love Spot, after all. ‘Cursed Arm, when I say, ‘unsustainably dependent upon idealism,’ Zabaniya Diarmuid.’ After all, half my team is female, and none of them have magic resistance. Best not to take any risks.

“What?” she asks, looking completely and utterly flabbergasted.

“Yeah, I know. Equal distribution of wealth, everyone regarded as equals, it seems like a good deal. I wouldn’t blame you for falling to its honey-sweet allure. Many people have. Take Thomas Edison, for example. After he was possessed by Andrew Jackson and mutated into a hyperpatriotic lion man in order to fend off the Irish, he had a hard road ahead of him. But-“

“I… don’t think that actually happened,” the Master of Saber says timidly, raising her hand. “I mean, I’m not exactly a historian, but-“

“Well, Miss, ummm….”

“Irisviel. Irisviel von Einzbern.”

“Ah. The Einzbern representative. I should have guessed.” I suddenly hit upon a new tack. ‘Alright, one and all. When Cursed Arm emerges, we pretend he’s not with us. Fergus, you’ll be going by your class name. I have a plan.’

“Enough babbling!” a snooty, aristocratic sounding voice says, from some unseen location. “Lancer, kill the interloper.”

And Lancer’s Master shows himself, after a fashion. I grin. “All right then. Saber! Respond in kind!”

Arturia looks confused, but Fergus lunges in, his mighty blade driving back the suddenly very confused Diarmuid, who doesn’t press the attack.

All right! Lights! Camera! Action! “I suppose it’s understandable that you’d quake in fear of my Servant,” I brag, doing my best impression of Lancer’s Master. “After all, he is a card-carrying member of the strongest class.”

Diarmuid looks between Fergus and Arturia, his brow furrowed. “I… thought you were the Saber Servant.”

“I am,” the Once and Future King says, looking halfway between indignant and puzzled. “Knave, whatever base deception you hold, it will-“

“Oh, step off it, Nero,” I say, to throw her off balance. “Whatever bizarre part you’re playing, it’s not fooling me. You can drop the act.”

“Wh-What?” Arturia asks. “I AM ARTHUR KING OF THE BRITONS, YOU BABBLING LUNATIC!”

“So… you’re not Nero in a corset?” I ask, making myself look as confused as possible. “Well, I was way off, then. Thanks for giving me your identity anyways, though.”

She makes a confusing, garbled noise in the back of her throat, at which point her Master steps forward. “Look, she’s my Servant, and I definitely summoned her as a Saber.”

“Well, we’re back at square one, then, because this is my Servant, and I definitely summoned him as a Saber, too! You can’t have two Sabers on one Grail War! Not unless…” I take pleasure in the pause, drawing it out, slowing moving my face in the likeness of a dawning realization, before levelling a furious glare at my new scapegoat. “What did you do?”

“I- I don’t know what you’re-“ she stumbles back, definitely not ready for my sudden change in demeanor, and her Servant steps up protectively.

“Don’t play dumb!” I snap in feigned righteous indignation. “You’re an Einzbern! Your family helped design this Grail War! Of course you tampered with the system to get the strongest possible Servant!”

She tries to reply, but I don’t let her. “Who else helped you with this? The Tohsakas?”

“No!” She interjects, looking panicked.

I press the advantage. “So it’s a solo effort to subvert the rules of the Grail War, then. I suppose that I’d expect nothing less from the von Einzbern clan.”

Lancer’s Master, bless his pointy little head, chimes in. “If one of the founding families of the Fuyuki Holy Grail War has actively subverted the Grail War for their own benefit, then it is clear that I must report their misconduct to the Clocktower.”

“No, wait! You’ve got this all wrong!” Irisviel shouts, actually crying, now.

“Spare us the crocodile tears, Einzbern, everyone knows your family can’t be trusted as far as you can throw them.” Huh. I feel like I’m missing something. Like there’s something that… Oh! Guilt! I’m not feeling guilty at all! Huh. That’s weird. But I’m not going to say no to getting a Get-Out-of-Conscience-Free card for my next few atrocities.

‘Master.’

Huh, speak of the devil. ‘Hey, Serenity. I’m going to need you to kill Saber’s Master after Cursed Arm makes his move. And remember, act like you don’t know me.’

‘No, Master, I was trying to warn you-‘

At lot of things can happen in the space of a second. A gun can fire. A Noble Phantasm can go off. Or, in this case, a chariot wreathed in lightning and pulled by oxen can land in the middle of the docks, completely pushing all my schemes out the fucking window.

The chariot’s main occupant, a huge, hairy redhead with a little black-haired boy at his side, raises his arms and announces himself. “MY FELLOW HEROIC SPIRITS! I AM ISKANDER THE GREAT! JOIN MY ARMY, AND I SHALL LEAD YOU TO GLORIOUS CONQUEST!”

Well, there’s a new priority target! Buuuut… just to confirm… “Excuse me, are you planning to use your wish to conquer the world?”

“No!” He calls out cheerfully. “I will incarnate myself! And then I will conquer that falls in my path, with my own two hands and my friends beside me!”

‘Serenity, when the fighting starts, and Cursed Arm has finished his job, kill Rider.’

Suddenly, a man clad in golden armor materializes on top of a lamppost. Oh, Joy. Another Servant. Well, at least we’ve got an opportunity to sow some more chaos. “A foolhardy endeavor. There is but one king of all the world, and it is I.”

“Let me guess!” I interject, doing my best to sound exasperated. “Servant Ruler! I mean, we already know that the Einzbern broke the Grail War, why should we assume that they’d limit their misdemeanors to only the main seven classes!”

He gives me a fierce look. “Servant Archer, mongrel. Mind your tone when addressing your betters.” Interesting. He almost sounds… amused.

“Well, that makes two Archer Servants I’ve seen today, then.” I slump back, shifting my weight onto my heels. “I guess it’s official: The Einzbern broke the Grail War.”

Irisviel tries to protest again, but Iskandar drowns her out as he drags everyone’s attention back onto him. “All the better! I am gladdened beyond all words that more Servants may share on this second lease on life with us, and in so doing, live it to the fullest.”

“Or just endlessly repeat their mistakes. Like you.” I am not going to let World War Three break out because history’s most irresponsible conquest junkie got his hands on the Holy Grail.

“Oh?” he asks, shifting his gaze onto me. “I chase an impossible dream, boy! Perhaps some might deem that folly, but I-“

“’Chasing an impossible dream’ is a funny way of saying ‘endlessly running away from responsibility,’” I reply. “And let’s be real here. If you try to pull your old tricks again, the Association will hunt you down like a dog. Or any country with an air force will gun you down. Or maybe they’ll just nuke you, leaving you and everyone that follows you a grease stain at the bottom of a smoking, irradiated crater. No matter how you cut it, your little plan to drown the world in blood just so you can bask in the praise of your adoring fanboys is set to end ignominiously. Just like your first campaign did.”

“You dare,” Alexander snarls, his hands already tightening around his reigns as he strives to control that famous temper of his.

“Let’s face it, Alexander. No matter how much you conquer, no matter how much you rape, pillage, and burn all that stands in your way, it’s never going to change the simple fact that your father never loved you.”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows.

Then the Golden Archer starts clapping. “Encore! Encore!”

Well, as good a time as any to kick off the festivities. ‘Cursed Arm. Do it.’

And then, as Alexander the Great looks like he’s about to leap out of his chariot and beat me to death with his bare hands, Diarmuid gasps in pain.

Everyone look, to see the grim, skull-faced figure behind him, his hand through the knight’s chest. Then, with a squelch, Diarmuid falls.

And I, of course, get the first word in.

“OH MY GOD! EINZBERN KILLED LANCER!”

Pure. Unchecked. Pandemonium.

 

As the clash begins in earnest, it’s every man for himself.

Alexander advances his chariot towards me at a lightning pace, while Saber and Irisviel are attempting a hasty retreat, hampered slightly by the fact that just about everyone not named Alexander is trying to kill them. The golden Archer gestures, and swords shoot out of some sort of glowing golden portals in their direction. A screeching figure in black armor charges at them with a cry of “AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHUUUUUUURRRRRRR!” Even Arash and Cursed Arm are contributing.

I’d be more happy about that if I didn’t have Alexander the Great bearing down on me with two tons of divinely empowered, highly electric beef at the head of his chariot, and a war cry on his lips.

‘Fergus!’

‘No problem, Master,’ he says with a quiet confidence, before thrusting his mighty sword deep into the comforting depths of the Earth. “CALADBOLG!”

The glowing rainbow of energy bursts free, and as it does so, I belatedly realize that firing off an Anti-Army Noble Phantasm in an inhabited city might have been a terrible mistake.

The sheer force of the Noble Phantasm’s initial release shatters the ground, destroying the docks in their entirety, and firing up beams of brilliant energy from the depths. And then, it is over, and I feel my circuits burn.

Where Fergus drove down his blade, a chasm begins, its border marked by jagged concrete. Everything beyond that boundary has fallen into a great rent in the Earth, filled with rubble, and the incoming sea.

‘Arash, did… did that get them?’ I ask hesitantly.

‘No. Rider survived, as did that Black Knight. Saber and her master managed to escape by walking on the water. I know nothing of Lancer’s Master. And Archer is behind you.’

I jump, and then slowly, fearfully, turn to look.

The Golden Archer stands behind us, with ten glowing golden portals pointed my way.

“Your Majesty,” I say, nodding politely.

“An excellent performance, Jester. I had feared before that this farce would lack proper entertainment,” her turns, and the portals close. “But you have remedied that, I think. Ensure that that remains the case.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I say, and then he’s finally out of sight, and I collapse bonelessly to my knees.

Then I hear the wheels of a chariot, and the harsh hooves of oxen, and I turn to Fergus. ‘Time for a tactical retreat, I think. They’ll all be after us after that little performance.’

‘Bah! Let them come!’ he says, even as he hoists me over one shoulder. ‘I’ll take them all on, and win!’

“IONIOI HETAIROI!”

And suddenly, we’re no longer on the shattered remains of the docks. We stand in the middle of a vast desert, beneath a harsh and pounding sun. Only the two of us.

Face to face with Alexander the Great and his army of thousands.

‘I blame you for this.’

‘Yeah, I might have baited the luck-gods a little there.’

‘You got another Caladbolg blast in you?’

‘Not so soon after my first one. I need some time to recharge my batteries. Maybe ten minutes.’

All right. Switching to general channels. ‘Anybody else in here with us?’

It’s a long shot, but, well, it was worth checki-

‘I am, Master,’ Serenity sends via the mental link. ‘I am ready to perform the assassination of Rider on your mark.’

I could kiss her right now if it wouldn’t immediately kill me.

‘Hold off. I’ll set the stage, and sow dissent in the ranks.’

And with that, I return my attention to Alexander, who’s been monologuing about how his Noble Phantasm is fueled by the power of friendship, and how that somehow makes all the war crimes and genocide okay, because they were all in it together, or something. I honestly wasn’t paying attention.

Right then. Time to put those lessons in Greek from Medea to use.

“Mighty Alexander!” I bellow in semi-fluent Attic Greek. Miraculously, everyone in his army seems to hear it, in spite of the considerable distance between us. I suppose it makes sense that the ham’s Reality Marble would magically bolster the acoustics of sufficiently dramatic speeches. “I wish to make a deal!”

“And what bargain would you offer me?” Alexander asks, looking peeved at being interrupted mid-friendship speech.

“While your numbers may be overwhelming, as you can see, my man Saber here has a Noble Phantasm that can even the odds. His mighty sword will split your armies asunder, should things come to blows,” I say, lying shamelessly. “But, even with the odds so firmly in my favor, I find myself intrigued by your claims! Could the army that abandoned your dreams of conquest to march on home truly be so loyal? Even after you left nothing on your deathbed, save ‘To the strongest?’”

“Get to point, before I cut out your tongue,” Alexander snaps.

Ah, absolute monarchs. So easily provoked, so incapable of handling criticism. They make things far too easy for me.

“I propose that this battle be decided not by Saber’s Noble Phantasm, but instead by strength of bonds,” I announce. “If your… ‘friends’ are truly so loyal as you claim, and you such a persuasive conqueror that you can win over all your enemies, than nothing I say will be able to shake their faith in you, and you should be able to easily win over Saber.”

“Very well, then!” Alexander bellows. “It shall be done! I shall go first!”

As he launches into a friendship speech, Fergus raises an eyebrow. ‘I dunno, Master. I am kind of tempted. He definitely seems like a fun guy to stick around with.’

I shoot him a look. ‘Fergus, if you kill me, you die. And beyond that, if you stick with me on this, then I’ll pay for your drinks and serve as your wingman on your next bar crawl.’

‘I’m pretty sure he’d do the same thing for free,’ Fergus notes.

‘But if he did, you’d be left competing with him for attention. Do you really fancy your odds against that much charisma?” I nod at Alexander, who’s in the middle of a fiery speech about a trip to the beach or something, I don’t really care what he’s saying, only that he’s utterly impossible to ignore. ‘I, on the other hand, am both eloquent enough to talk you up, and pathetic enough that I won’t draw attention away from you.’

‘Fair enough,’ Fergus acknowledges. ‘I guess I’m sticking with you, then.’

“So, noble Saber! What say you? Will you join me, and seek out new glory? Or will you follow the cowardly cur whose sharpest blade is his tongue, and die in ignominy?”

Fergus shrugs. “Yeah, I’m still with him.”

And while Alexander is still trying to process that, for once, turning up the charisma didn’t get him what he wanted, I step up to the plate.

“HELLENES!” I bellow, and every eye lands on me. “Macedonians! Athenians! SPARTANS!” That gets a cheer. “And all you myriad sons of the city-states that dot your sea-swept land of TEN THOUSAND SHIPS! WHY DO YOU FOLLOW THIS MAN?”

Dead silence. Alright, it’s a tough crowd, but that was just my opening pitch.

“You followed Alexander!” I proclaim, pointing at the man himself. “He promised you riches and glory beyond your wildest imaginings! And you won them!” That gets a cheer. “All the world knows that! You won them in Persia, and in Egypt, and in India!” A louder cheer. “And while each and every one of you brave soldiers was out fighting for Alexander, half a world away, ANOTHER MAN WAS FUCKING YOUR WIFE!”

Dead. Silence. The whiplash has them, now. They’re off balance, disoriented. I press the advantage.

“And you were not there to catch them!” I crow, as I continue to press upon that misogynistic paranoia festering away in the backs of their minds. “You were not there to end that philandering coward’s life, as the justice of men and gods demanded! YOU WERE NOT THERE!”

I begin to pace, gesturing wildly with my hands. “YOU WERE NOT THERE! You were not there while thieves plundered your property! You were not there while your slave and your neighbors ripped your sons limb from little limb! YOU WERE NOT THERE! AND WHYYYYYYYYYY WOULD THAT BE, YOU ASK?”

I round on Alexander and point accusingly at him. “Because of HIM! Because he lured you away, on a war of conquest that would never end! And you knew it! You knew you would never see your homes again when he forced you to marry Persians and set your good Greek wives aside! You knew it when he killed Cleitus!”

Alexander winces at that. “And when you finally stood up to him, WHAT DID HE DO?”

The once uniform ranks are now far more divided, angry mutterings now audible, as ephemeral loyalties and dreams are pitted against half-formed fears and old grievances, and found wanting.

“HE LED YOU HOME THROUGH A DESERT, LIKE A CHILD THROWING A TANTRUM!” I shout, looking about wildly at the ranks. “HE TRIED TO KILL EVERY! SINGLE! ONE! OF! YOU! And THEN, HE HAD THE GALL TO DIE ON YOU! YOUR DEEDS HAD ACCOMPLISHED NOTHING! HE ACHIEVED NOTHING! HE STRANDED YOU HALF A WORLD AWAY FROM HOME, JUST SO THE HISTORY BOOKS WOULD REMEMBER HIM!”

Alexander looks like he’s about five more words away from making an appeal to force, so I decide to wrap things up. “HELLENES! WHY DO YOU FOLLOW THIS MAN?” ‘Serenity, now!’

He charges, while his army dissolves into a riot behind him, discipline forgotten as each man made his choice between loyalty and hate. And then…

“Zabaniya.”

Four slender fingers drift across his bicep, and a delicate mouth smiles beneath a skull-shaped mask. And then, she is gone, leaping from the chariot and vanishing into the dust cloud behind it. It matters not where she goes. She has sealed his fate.

His master yelps at the unexpected passenger, but Rider charges onwards. Straight towards me, while his army falls apart behind him.

“Saber, by the power of my Command Spell, STOP THAT CHARIOT!”

“AS YOU COMMAND!” Fergus roars, and then, he does something unexpected. He jumps.

In all honesty, I thought he would just use his Noble Phantasm, but that works too.

The son of Roich hits the chariot head on, his mighty blade smashing through the oxen’s’ yokes and splintering the front of the driver’s platform and sending both of the chariot’s occupants tumbling forwards.

Rider rises. His master doesn’t.

He looks me in the eye. “You cowardly Sophist! YOU HAVE ROUSED MY WRATH! YOU WILL DIE KNOWING THE RAGE OF ISKANDAR! TO ME! TO ME, MY ARMIES! TO ME, MY COMRADES!”

There is no answer. The venom of my tongue has turned them against one another, and deafened them to their commander’s call, even as Serenity’s touch slowly kills him.

Still, he lunges, roaring, ever louder, “TO ME! TO ME!”

Fergus meets him as he charges, and the dust flies beneath their feet, as their blades flash in the harsh sunlight, and the world breaks apart into blue flame about them.

Until at last, Alexander falls, sweat pouring from his skin, and blood leaking from his eyes and his ears.

“So. I am forsaken.” And so saying, he perishes.

I look at Fergus. Fergus looks at me. I hear a groan from Rider’s Master.

“Bar crawl?” he asks hopefully.

“Sure. Grab the kid, we can use him for a sympathy ploy.”