Chapter Forty-Seven: Conditions and Probing

“The seventh Master, you were never originally involved in this Holy Grail War. Did someone offer you terms to draw you into this conflict?”

Though his workshop had been breached, Darnic showed no sign of irritation. Instead, he immediately sought a solution in accordance with the situation at hand.

“If someone has hired you to fight me, no matter what he promised you, I am prepared to offer you more.”

“Oh? And how can you be so sure I’m not here to kill you for the Grail’s sake? After all, you are the remnant from the last war.” Roland asked with a hint of amusement.

“I dare say I have kept a low profile. Even if the magi who came to fight bear me ill will, as long as neither my Servant nor my location is revealed, they would hesitate to act rashly, lest they drive a potential ally into the arms of the enemy.”

Darnic replied with a respectful air, “Such a clearly premeditated assault can only mean that I was your target from the outset.”

To respond with such humility to one’s foe—Roland, noting Darnic’s ability to bend without breaking, couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Here was a magus who had touched the threshold of Grand rank and held a place in the Clock Tower, yet could yield so artfully.

“To take such measures against me when I’m accompanied only by my Caster… Darnic, what is it you truly seek in this Holy Grail War?”

“I wished only to offer you my respect,” Darnic continued, not answering directly. “For someone who possesses the miracle of a Reality Marble, what am I, truly?”

Indeed, this was Darnic’s conclusion: ordinary familiars could never breach his workshop, but if it were the product of a Reality Marble, that was an entirely different matter.

Such a dangerous being was not one Darnic wished to make an enemy of, if he could help it. Thus his manner was exceedingly humble, though not so much as to provoke greed.

“Lancer.”

He called softly, “If you will not hear my terms, then we have no choice but to do battle here. This is no idle boast—my Lancer is formidable.”

Most Servants are proud, with distinct personalities, and their relationship with their Masters is often more partnership than servitude. Darnic’s apparent timidity before battle would be an affront to any proud Servant. But Lancer remained silent, stepping forward to reveal himself only when called, as if he were but a tool without will.

As Lancer’s true form was revealed, even the ever-silent Medea could not help but speak.

“Such a clear and flawless creation… almost like a faerie.”

High praise from one born of the Age of Gods. Lancer deserved it, for his beauty was transcendent.

Unlike a beauty marked by unique features, Lancer’s face bore proportions so perfect it seemed an embodiment of humanity’s ideal—a concept rather than a mere visage, a living incarnation of Venus herself, beyond description.

On him, the distinctions of gender and race—man or woman, human or nature—were rendered meaningless.

Lancer was wrapped in a loose white robe, his chest and waist well concealed, his hands and feet seeming almost delicate. Long, pale green hair, carrying the scent of the forest, cascaded down his back.

His skin was lustrous, his features soft and gentle. Judging by his face, one might take him for a woman, but the artless innocence of his expression would prompt a second thought—he could be either, or neither.

If there was anything discordant, it was only that his flawless form gave off an uncanny sense, as if he were a homunculus crafted by a magus. Even his voice was gentle as a breeze.

“Thank you, Caster. Your beauty matches your discerning eye.”

Even when confronted with Medea’s observation that he was not truly human, Lancer showed not a hint of resistance.

Roland watched Lancer in silence for a moment before speaking again.

“You’ve certainly drawn a good hand.”

Enkidu—the true cheat of the game. Strictly speaking, the Master was merely an accessory to this being. As a weapon fashioned by the gods, so long as he touched the earth, he could draw upon near-infinite magical energy.

“So, may I present my terms now?” Darnic asked, bowing slightly, without a trace of arrogance.

“Go ahead.” Roland clapped his hands. “The other side offered me a ticket into the Holy Grail War and further support. I’m curious to see what you can offer in exchange.”

“The Grail,” Darnic said, raising his head to meet Roland’s gaze. “I can relinquish all claim to the Grail, if only you’ll ally with me until its appearance.”

He drew a sheet of parchment from his robes and let it float before Roland.

Medea waved her wand, unfurling the parchment before her. She studied the script and arrangement, then nodded to Roland.

A self-imposed geas, the same kind Kiritsugu Emiya once used to win the trust of Lord Kayneth of the Clock Tower, proof enough of its power. It was a curse etched into the soul via a magical crest, impossible to dispel by any means.

Roland glanced over the parchment, confirming that Darnic’s condition was withdrawal from the war, then looked to see what was required of himself.

—To form an alliance with Darnic until at least four other pairs of Masters had been eliminated.

It was an alliance with utterly unequal terms. Roland didn’t believe in windfalls, but Darnic’s move proved at least one thing.

He had little interest in the Holy Grail itself. Rather, he had some other reason—something he must obtain from the other Masters or Servants during this war.

Despite having once been possessed by the Holy One, this man was nothing like the Einzberns.

Roland chuckled softly. “In principle, I can agree to your terms—as long as you don’t regret making a contract with me.”

Suddenly, he changed tack.

“But how can I be sure you’re not just someone who depends entirely on your Servant’s strength? If we ally, and your Servant survives but you’re taken out by another Master, that would be laughable.”

“You needn’t worry on that score.” Relief washed over Darnic. He had no intention of being eliminated before achieving his aim. Only magi of true caliber understood the terror of a Reality Marble; should he be unlucky, even his Servant might fall within it.

He had utmost confidence in Enkidu, but knew the enemy could certainly stall a Servant for some time. Against another Caster, however, he felt less secure.

Regarding the Grail, he had not lied—he joined this war because only here could he accomplish his aim.

Thus, he was sincere in making the contract. Even knowing that Roland’s easy acceptance might be a ruse, Darnic was unafraid.

The power of a self-imposed geas was absolute—even a lord could not break it. Moreover, an alliance was more than a mere contract; it was the beginning of cooperation.

As long as both parties were willing to negotiate, matters could proceed smoothly.

Whatever the other side wanted, Darnic would provide it! Be it wealth or priceless secrets, so long as he could sustain this temporary alliance until his terms were fulfilled.

As for proving his own strength, that was even simpler. Unlike Kayneth, Darnic had clawed his way up from the bottom and excelled in both research and combat.

“No ordinary Master could harm me. If you doubt it, please, test it for yourself.”

He gestured for Lancer to step aside and make space for himself and Roland.

The two Servants, seeing this, also retreated to the back, leaving the Masters to face each other.

Taking up his cane, Darnic narrowed his eyes and surveyed the surrounding shadows.

What method would Roland use to test him? Would it be a direct magical assault? A special curse? Or the summoning of ninja-like familiars from the shadows?

Whatever it might be, Darnic was confident in his ability to cope. He quietly activated his mystic code, flooding his body with magical energy, ensuring his defenses were perfect before speaking with confidence.

“You may begin.”

“Very well,” Roland replied with a cheerful smile. “Just don’t die from this, all right?”

Then, to Darnic’s shock, Roland drew a walnut-wood firearm from behind his back, aimed it at him, and pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation.