Chapter Seventeen: The Incident at the Clock Tower

“Ah, Zoken Matou certainly works fast.” During his lunch break, Roland received a message from Zoken Matou via the store’s fax machine.

“So the matter of the mana channel will take a few more days, but it’ll be ready soon? And as for the holy relic, he’ll do his best to provide one based on the class I choose?” Zoken Matou might have been sickening when he was an enemy, but when it came to offering help, he was quite reliable.

Still, Roland cared more about the intelligence he was poring over. Given that his familiar had almost certainly caused a considerable deviation, it was crucial to confirm how much of his knowledge of the plot still gave him an advantage.

“So, there’s not much change among the Three Founding Families? But it’s still a real headache not being able to find out what the holy relics are...” The variance brought to the battle by the Servants—their personalities and abilities—had been demonstrated clearly across the many works in the Nasuverse; it needed no further explanation.

At least some familiar names brought a measure of reassurance. These teams were all led by Masters who actually controlled their Servants. Knowing their plans and styles would be a great help in the upcoming war.

“These two are the troublesome ones, huh?” Roland’s finger lightly tapped the haughty face of Kenneth on the intelligence sheet, and he sighed.

“Director Ken, oh Director Ken, you turn away from the road to heaven and insist on walking into hell.”

Those who didn’t know the full picture might be quite wary of Kenneth, given his formidable resources and abilities on paper. But Roland, who had witnessed the Holy Grail War play out many times, knew that a Master’s own power hardly mattered. They were, after all, just mana batteries for their Servants. Unless a particularly rebellious Servant came along, the real key to victory lay in the Master’s qualities.

Tolerance for the Servant, adaptability in a crisis, and tenacity in the face of adversity—these were the true criteria for surviving intact. Zoken Matou, having experienced three wars, understood this well, which was why he invested in Roland without a second thought.

Kenneth, on the other hand, for all his resolve, suffered from the arrogance cultivated in him since childhood at the Clock Tower. Without a Servant willing to pull him up, Roland had the least faith in him.

Conversely, Danic excelled in this respect. Even as a first-time participant, Roland doubted he’d be eliminated so easily.

“But who will be their Servants?” In the original, Danic chose Vlad III, capitalizing on home turf to maximize the noble’s Noble Phantasm and advantage in a siege—a solid pick. But without leyline support, Vlad III was nothing more than a second-rate Servant. Roland didn’t believe someone with a Holy Grail War under his belt would be fooled by that.

From this perspective, perhaps Finn, whom Danic had previously summoned in the last war, would be a better choice—but nothing was certain. According to the intelligence, Danic had become increasingly reclusive in recent years, only reemerging for the Fourth War. It was highly likely his actions had already been influenced by the familiar. Letting the original plot dictate his expectations would only lead to disaster.

“Kenneth, on the other hand, is easier to guess—provided his holy relic hasn’t been stolen,” Roland mused, lifting his head and covering his face with the documents, a playful smirk forming on his lips. “Come to think of it, with Danic and Kenneth already at each other’s throats, would Waver still have the nerve to steal the holy relic on a whim?”

———

“Damn it, no one understands my talent!” Waver Velvet was striding briskly down the street, face full of resentment.

Only moments ago, his thesis—a labor of three years—had been publicly eviscerated by Kenneth, his instructor, in front of the whole class. Waver had stormed out of that stifling classroom before the lesson was even over.

It wasn’t even the end of class yet, but by tomorrow, Waver Velvet’s name would be the latest joke making the rounds at the Clock Tower.

For Waver, this was the greatest humiliation of his nineteen years. His self-esteem had been shattered to pieces. Most of his abilities were self-taught; he was a third-generation magus of undistinguished blood. Passing the entrance exam and being accepted to the illustrious Clock Tower in London had filled him with pride in his own abilities.

Compared to his peers—most of whom were fifth or sixth-generation magi—his early achievements were indeed impressive. But that was the limit. In the Clock Tower, the best magi from around the world gathered, and mere academic excellence meant nothing. Everyone chased after more profound mysteries, after more powerful magi.

It was all about lineage—those from noble houses, heirs to generations of carefully preserved bloodlines and powerful, complete crests. Everyone sought to curry favor with these people.

To Waver, it was absurd. To him, sycophants standing on the shoulders of their ancestors and parroting others’ wisdom deserved no attention. He, with his shallow pedigree, was invisible.

So, Waver had spent three years planning and one year writing a thesis ruthlessly criticizing the rotten system of the Mage’s Association. But before it could be made public, Kenneth had suppressed it.

‘A person with such delusions is unfit for the study of magecraft.’

Just the memory of those condescending words set Waver’s blood boiling.

“What, he must be afraid of me! Afraid of my terrifying talent!” Waver grumbled, unwilling to accept it. Then, turning a corner, he stumbled upon a stroke of luck.

After bumping into a deliveryman from the finance department, he ended up with a parcel addressed to Kenneth.

“Well then, I’ll leave it to you.” “Alright.” Watching the deliveryman leave, Waver gazed curiously at the small box in his hands.

“A package from Macedonia? Come to think of it, that lemon-head really did seem to get into a dispute with the head of the Yggdmillennia and is now off to the Far East to compete in a magecraft tournament.”

—The Holy Grail War.

Unlike his more apathetic classmates, Waver, ever the diligent student, had looked up the details as soon as he heard the news. He knew the format of the competition.

He was quite fond of the idea of a contest that didn’t care about pedigree, but was held back by such trivialities as uncertain studies, insufficient funds, and the lack of a holy relic.

“So, this must be Kenneth’s holy relic?” Staring at the little box, a bold idea suddenly took root in Waver’s mind. The consequences would surely be dire, but it would definitely teach that lemon-head a lesson he’d never forget.

Just then, a cold voice interrupted his thoughts.

“That’s a package for Kenneth, isn’t it?”

A man with flowing blue hair in an ornate suit—looking more like a noble than a magus, young and handsome—stood at the end of the street, though Waver hadn’t noticed him arrive.

“Danic...” Waver stood frozen, teeth chattering out the name. As one of the central figures in the Clock Tower’s latest scandal, this man’s background was even easier to look up than Kenneth’s.

Then, to Waver’s surprise, Danic slowly approached, fixing him with a deep, brooding gaze, eyes locked on the box in Waver’s hands, and extended his own hand.

“Would you mind letting me take a look at that, classmate?”