Chapter Thirty-Eight: Roland’s Caster

“Golden Fleece?”
Taking this unusual catalyst from the hands of the Shadow Legion, Roland gazed at its lavish, almost soul-healing beauty, and began to ponder.
The Shadow Legion, depending on its master, would project itself in vastly different ways, with performances as varied as night and day. Yet one thing was certain: these loyal servants would obey their master's heart, carrying out any deed, regardless of good or evil.
Of all the Heroic Spirits Roland knew and could reliably summon, Medea was indeed a top choice.
Her unmatched prowess as a magus of the Age of Gods, and her profound knowledge of magic, would make her an ideal teacher in the magical arts. Her personality also aligned well with Roland’s preferences.
Despite her infamous reputation, putting aside all prejudice, she was actually quite easy to control.
He had made up his mind. Roland reached out, gathering up his stray thoughts and emotions, focusing solely on the incantation before him.
Though the wisdom of the Holy Lord left him far from ignorant, in the world of Type-Moon, this step was notorious for its unpredictability, and he dared not be careless.
As expected, barely had he begun to chant the spell when Roland sensed something within him being awakened.
A peculiar sensation surged throughout his body, like an inexhaustible wellspring, or a river in endless flow. His shoulders trembled slightly, as he felt this overwhelming surge of power.
Meanwhile, Sakura Matou, standing at her designated spot, watched the activation of the summoning circle with a puzzled expression, glancing at Roland as if nothing whatsoever had changed, despite the drain of magical energy.
He had suspected it before, but to think he truly had magical energy?
Though his soul had undergone sublimation, the differences between world systems were real. In Type-Moon, an ordinary person's magical energy depended mainly on their bodily magic circuits, something bound to the flesh. To avoid mishaps, Roland had brought Sakura along.
Yet, chanting the incantation now was like awakening a slumbering body—a tangible force poured out of him, flooding the array and bathing the entire room in shimmering light.
A fierce wind rose from the summoning circle, magical energy coalescing into invisible spiritual particles, forming a miracle at the center that bridged the Throne of Heroes.
Clad in a mage's robe, half her face hidden in her hood, the witch spoke in a clear, icy voice.
“Servant, Caster. I am Medea. Are you my summoner?”
She appeared to be about one meter forty to fifty in height, holding a staff topped with a crescent moon, taller than herself.
Her figure was graceful, yet she seemed slender and delicate, all but shrouded beneath her mysterious black robe. Still, from beneath her half-lowered hood peeked strands of mischievous lavender hair and ivory skin, giving a glimpse of the witch’s beauty.
Though there were subtle differences from his expectations, nothing seemed amiss.
“Master? Are you dissatisfied with summoning me?”
Roland’s brief silence made Medea’s voice turn cold, her features unreadable beneath the hood.
“Not at all. In fact, I’m quite satisfied. For once, things seem almost normal. Let’s get along well in the coming Holy Grail War.”
Roland was in high spirits. There had been too many changes in this Holy Grail War—the dynamics between Masters, the shifting objectives—for all these reasons, two teams from the original story were already missing before the battle had even begun.
Though he was the cause of much of this upheaval, Roland did not wish to nitpick; he just wanted everything under his control.
Troublemakers and mischief-lovers did not suit him at all; someone as reliable as Medea was far preferable.
“Is that so?”
Medea paid little heed to her Master’s praise, instead turning her gaze to Sakura.
Feeling Medea’s chilling stare, the young girl scurried behind Roland, clutching his leg and peeking at the witch from behind.

Seeing this, Medea glanced again at the altered summoning array on the floor, her voice so pure and clear it was almost transparent, utterly devoid of emotion.
“This child is merely an unripe apprentice, is she not? Master, why have you brought her here?”
“To serve as a magical energy battery, of course.”
Roland answered without hesitation.
Such a frank reply made Medea pause, asking in confusion,
“Why? Even from the perspective of the Age of Gods, the true ether within you is nothing short of miraculous in both quality and quantity. In this age where the Root is fading, you are practically living mystery itself.”
Though some unease lingered in her heart, Medea could not help but marvel at her Master’s extraordinary qualities.
The essence of magical energy is life itself; magi can draw it from the world’s Root or the inner “small source.” For Medea, who lived in the Age of Gods, this change of eras was her greatest advantage over modern magi.
In her time, true ether still existed, now poison to modern magi—yet her Master’s body was filled to the brim with that very substance.
And yet, there was no sign of it having been refined from his life force, as if it sprang forth from some unobservable realm.
Such a phenomenon, even in the Age of Gods, was the mark of a hero—no, of a god.
“I see…”
Watching Roland slip into contemplation again, Medea fixed him with a piercing violet gaze.
“Purely from an efficiency standpoint, there’s no need to use a child as a battery. Even if you wish to conserve your magical energy, Master, I can create a workshop and draw more efficiently from the Root myself.”
“?”
This implicit plea left Roland momentarily stunned, his lips twitching as he realized his image in Medea’s mind might have slipped to that of an unscrupulous magus.
“As you wish, then.”
Now that he possessed magical energy, Roland had no intention of exploiting Sakura anyway, and he agreed readily. But Medea’s next words froze him.
“Is that so? Then it seems I need not terminate our contract just yet.”
Was this witch truly so candid?
“Is there no wish you want granted?”
“None,” Medea replied coldly. “This world is as dull and tasteless as before—nothing has changed. If you gave me a reason to sever our contract, Master, I would only feel relieved.”
Roland’s expression grew stiffer by the second. This was more and more out of line with his expectations. Was this truly the witch herself? She had only just been summoned and had yet to experience anything.
In an instant, Roland’s eyes sharpened, his deep gaze slowly tinged with crimson.
“Medea, show me your Noble Phantasm.”
The witch obediently produced an ornate dagger shaped like a lightning bolt. Though ranked only C among Noble Phantasms, it far surpassed many A-rank treasures in utility.
The Rule Breaker was present—so there should be no issue, right?
“Upon seeing this symbol of betrayal, how do you feel, Master?”
Medea showed no fear—instead, in a tone of resignation, she said, “No wonder you would be uneasy. In its presence, the bond and hierarchy between Master and Servant can be inverted at any moment. Carelessness could see the witch’s betrayal turn the tables. Would you like to dissolve our contract? Or use your Command Spell while you still can?”
“Don’t hesitate, Master. You are but one among countless traitors.”

“I’m not much of a talker, nor am I good at dealing with women.”
Seeing Medea’s almost broken state, Roland raised his hand.
“I might once have prided myself on honesty and keeping promises, but now even that is in doubt. So, let my actions speak.”
For Roland’s future plans, Medea was indispensable. Few Casters in the Holy Grail War system had been modified as she had.
Thus, it was essential to build a relationship of trust with her.
“By the Command Spell’s decree—Medea, should you ever feel I have betrayed you, use your Noble Phantasm to dissolve the contract between us.”
Medea, who had been slumping in resignation, seemed genuinely stunned by such a command, lapsing into a long silence.
After a while, she finally spoke in her cold, emotionless tone.
“Are you mad? I am a Caster, with no resistance to magic. Such a specific Command Spell would bind me completely—even an idle thought would force me to comply.”
“It doesn’t matter. What I seek is eternal reassurance, and that applies to those around me as well. If you remain at my side and still feel uneasy, neither of us can be happy.”
“You would hand such initiative to a Servant? I am the witch of betrayal, you know. Sometimes even I do not know what my emotions might make me do…”
Medea tried to argue further, but unlike before, their roles seemed reversed. Roland silenced her with a single phrase.
“It’s fine, Medea. I trust you.”
“…Hah.” Medea lowered her head slightly, her lips curving in an almost imperceptible smile. Was it pride in her Master’s trust, or the joy of finding someone who understood her?
She stood, a gentle sweetness in the air, and walked toward Roland.
“Well then, my inexperienced Master, until our inevitable victory arrives, let us get along, shall we?”
Roland looked at Medea in confusion, when suddenly, a delicate fragrance and a slender figure rushed straight into his embrace, a cool sensation brushing his neck.
A pair of slender arms wrapped around him.
Medea’s hands slid slowly downward, and Roland felt her deliberately brush his abdomen.
In the process, her hood naturally slipped off.
Unlike Roland’s recollection, this Medea in his arms, though stunningly beautiful, appeared far from mature. Instead, she exuded a noble and innocent aura, like a princess, yet her eyes still shimmered with a bewitching light.
How strange—purity and seduction, two contradictory qualities, found harmony in this young girl.
The Rule Breaker, legendary Noble Phantasm, was indeed present, and her bearing matched the witch of myth—so why…?
Roland instinctively supported Medea by the waist, gazing at the girl before him, unable to conceal his astonishment.
“Medea… Lily?”