Chapter Text
“Heed my words. My will creates your body, and your sword creates my destiny.”
With his right hand extended, palm facing down—just like the magecraft technician had demonstrated before locking him inside this dark, desolate room—Hitoya recited the incantation projected across the far wall, one line at a time. At his feet lay a massive magic circle pulsing with blood-red light. He could identify the hexagram at its center, and nothing else; neither the many smaller sigils nor the sprawling, indecipherable script bordering the outermost ring.
“Heed the Holy Grail’s call,” he continued. “If you shall obey my will and reason, then answer me.”
The concrete room was devoid of any trace of life except for his own flickering shadow. It left no place for the ceiling camera to tuck itself away, and no blindspot for its unforgiving gaze to overlook.
“I hereby swear I shall be all that is good in the world. I shall defeat all that is evil in the world.”
Hitoya paused.
From the moment he was tapped to take part, he’d had his doubts. They walked him through the process step-by-step on the first day of testing, and even sent him home with a carefully outlined packet to review as needed, but he still couldn’t fully grasp what was happening. In truth, the summoning system was doing most of the work; he was merely a conduit for the magical energy it generated.
But for a little while, he alone was in control. The magic circle glowed beneath him, its power sustained by his words. Heat flooded his body, his nerves alight with mana, a sign that whatever was happening was working.
Good. If he was going to do something, he was going to do it flawlessly. And so he let his voice ring out, louder and louder.
“You of the seven heavens, clad in three great words of power, come forth from the circle of binding,” commanded Hitoya, “guardian of the scales!”
A blinding, white-hot pillar of light shot from floor to ceiling. Around the perimeter of the magic circle, a whirlwind of dust and particles kicked up. Some kind of exchange of magical energy, if Hitoya had to guess; whatever was necessary to summon a spirit from far beyond time and space. Propping up his arm with his free hand, his body suddenly trembling with exertion, he gritted his teeth. He fought to keep his eyes open in the face of such overwhelming power. Hold, he thought. Hold.
And from the center of the summoning circle, she appeared.
His arms fell limply to his sides; his lurching heart leapt to his throat. A surge of fear and awe flooded him, seizing his very soul, and for a few seconds he forgot how to breathe entirely. The air in his lungs escaped in a sharp, incredulous rush, a ghost of a laugh.
It worked.
At first, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The young woman standing before him was something plucked from the billowing clouds of the palatial heavens. An angel made flesh and blood; ether and stardust molded in the shape of a girl.
So this was a Heroic Spirit: long dead and still so worthy of veneration.
She carried herself with graceful self-possession, well aware of her own magnificence. Her long golden hair swirled around her like a sunrise. On the crown of her head stood the upright, triangle-shaped ears of some wild animal, and a bushy tail the color of her hair peeked out from behind her short skirt.
“You must be the one who summoned me,” she said in a voice as sharp as a steel blade.
“That I am.” While he didn’t know her name, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was meant to be his Servant. “I’m your Master. Who might you be?”
“I’m your sword. Your Saber.” As she drew closer, she smiled, a pair of unnaturally pointed canines on display. “Now, Master, tell me your name.”
“Amaguni Hitoya.”
She came to a stop an arm’s length away from him. Very close. A little too close; Hitoya quietly resisted the urge to take a step back.
But from this vantage point, what a view. The Servant was objectively, inhumanely beautiful; nothing less than a marble sculpture come to life, her splendor captured in a single, sublime moment for all eternity.
With a slight tilt of her head, strands of sun-kissed hair falling perfectly across her face, she appraised him in turn. Her eyes were like amber—and not just the color but the gemstone, ancient and resonant, a brilliant spectrum of warm yellows and oranges that demanded every bit of his attention. It was all he could do to stand there, little more than a fly swallowed in resin, and stare back.
“Hello, lover,” she cooed.
Before Hitoya could even think to reply, he doubled over, clutching his right hand and cursing viciously. The pain hit like a hundred needles driving deep under his skin: excruciating for the first few seconds, then tapering to a dull throb as the adrenaline kicked in.
His Servant peered down at him. “Oh my gosh, are you okay?” she asked, her voice suddenly high and breathless with concern.
“Yeah,” said Hitoya, straightening up and flexing the fingers of his right hand. “Shit, I wasn’t expecting that.”
A large mark was now carved onto the back of his hand. Its heavy red lines splayed across his skin, forming a perfectly symmetrical inkblot of sharp angles and sweeping curves.
He flinched again when his Servant wordlessly took his hand in hers. Her skin was soft and cool against his sweaty palm, her touch gentle as she lightly traced the red mark with her finger.
“What are you doing?” he asked, frowning slightly.
“Admiring your Command Spells, of course.”
Blindsided as he was, he’d completely forgotten the name of these magic emblems. A Master received three Command Spells to seal his contract with a Heroic Spirit. Each mark conferred upon him absolute authority over his Servant—in theory, anyway. In practice, a Command Spell was both a safeguard and an implicit threat; if a Servant acted against their Master's interest—or, in the worst-case scenario, tried to kill him—the Master could invoke a spell to override the Servant’s free will.
“Does it still hurt?” his Servant asked.
“No, I’m all good now. I, uh, appreciate the concern.” Hitoya finally pulled his hand free from her grasp. “So is that it? Everything’s copacetic?”
“Mhm! We’re official, and now you’ve got the ink to prove it,” she said with a deeply satisfied smile. “It's like we’re bound together with our own red string. Isn’t that romantic?”
Romantic? What was she going on about?
“That’s… not the first word that comes to mind.”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “And now that I know you’re the one for me, I want you to know who I really am. My True Name. Promise me, Master, that I won’t regret this.”
Hitoya’s Servant looked up at him with those great big gem-like eyes, one finger tracing the hollow between her collar bones.
“You can trust me,” he promised her. After all, what other choice did he have?
She began circling him as she talked. “Since I’ve been summoned in a Saber-Class vessel for this Grail War, you should call me ‘Saber’ in and out of battle. It’s better to keep my identity a secret while there’s other Masters around, you see. But between us—as my Master, you alone are deserving of my True Name.” She spun to face him, her skirt fluttering around her thighs. “I am Suzuka Gozen, beloved daughter of the Demon King of the Fourth Heaven.”
A beat passed, and then another. She stood there, waiting for him to react. And when he didn’t, her brow furrowed.
“Well, Master? You have heard of me, right?”
“Well…” Hitoya wracked his brain. That all sounded very important, but not important enough for him to have committed to memory. “Yeah, sure. A long time ago. Something about slaying oni up in the mountains with Sakanoue no—”
“Hold up, is that seriously the only thing you remember?”
“Sorry, but I’m not one for folktales.”
She let out an incredulous laugh. “Um, weird, but okay. But you—at least you know my old man, right?”
“I’ve heard of the Demon King of the Sixth Heaven, but the Fourth? Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“You’re joking,” she said shrilly. “He’s only Tenma himself, hello!” Her tail thumped wildly from side to side. “I cannot believe this. Is nothing sacred?!”
He paused. “Tenma?”
“Do you know anything?”
Hitoya clicked his tongue, now thoroughly irritated. He’d gone through this whole ridiculous summoning ritual, and for what? A shitton of crossed wires already?
“Listen, princess, I’m the last person to ask about this kinda thing. I’m no Buddhist. I don’t believe in your definition of heaven, or hell, or any of it,” he said. “If you’re looking for a Master who does, you’re better off asking the guy a few doors down the hall.”
Suzuka’s eyes widened and warily scanned the empty concrete room. “There’s another Master here?”
“Two of them, in fact. My teammates.”
The tension left her shoulders. “What the hell? They’re doing teams now?” she muttered to herself, frowning deeply again.
That wasn’t a look Hiyoya wanted to see. Sure, he was in a snit here, but losing her favor now, long before they’d even begun to fight, would be the single biggest mistake he could make. He took a deep breath. He wasn’t above resorting to flattery if it helped smooth out the wrinkles.
“I think we got off to a rocky start. What do you say we try this again, Saber?” he said, adopting a light, easygoing tone he’d worked hard to perfect over the years. “I admit I’m clueless. I may not know much about your story, but I’m impressed, if that counts for anything. I can recognize greatness when it’s staring me in the face.”
The triangle-shaped ears on the top of her head twitched. She looked up at him, a smile playing around her eyes, and Hitoya felt an uneasy prickle sweep over his skin. For a split second, he could see her pink tongue swipe across her lips.
“Oh?” she breathed. “So you do know what you’re doing. You may be totally clueless, but you’re actually pretty smooth. And handsome, too, without that grumpy look on your face.” She bit her bottom lip, trying in vain to hide her grin. “I’ll forgive you, just this once—just because you’re so frickin’ hot.”
Hot, she said.
That's what she said, right? That he was hot. Hot in the attractive sense of the word. Which was great for Hitoya’s ego, but utterly bewildering for the rest of him.
“Are… are you hitting on me?” he asked in disbelief.
The sound of her light, teasing laughter rang in his ears—the calling card of pretty girls everywhere, it would appear, that never failed to make Hitoya feel acutely stupid.
“Finally picking up what I’m putting down, Master?”
So she was serious. Seriously flirting, this heavenly creature from the great beyond, with him, her thirty-five-year-old contractor from fucking Nagoya. He opened his mouth, but for once, words failed him. He could only stare dumbly.
“You should feel honored,” Suzuka continued airily. “After all, heavenly princesses don't fall for just any ol’ human.”
This was the moment Hitoya lost his already tenuous grip on the upper hand. It was all too weird. The unprovoked flirting. The sudden switch up to modern slang.
But most of all, he was extraordinarily confused by her appearance, and had been since the minute he laid eyes on her.
At first glance—a near-sighted, astigmatic glance, admittedly—Suzuka Gozen had all the trappings of a schoolgirl. She wore something vaguely resembling a school uniform for the summer months—a white short-sleeve collared shirt, a red pleated skirt with matching socks, and a standard issue blue tote bag slung over her shoulder—but a very liberal interpretation, like the kind made for cosplay, roleplay, or, well, certain genres of adult videos.
On closer inspection, the similarities ended there. Her face had the graceful, hard-earned beauty of a young woman, her skin smooth, her features gently defined—nothing like a spotty, baby-faced teenager in the trenches of puberty with a long way to go yet. Her body, too, with its hourglass silhouette, had filled out in a way a school uniform wasn’t made to accommodate, in a way Hitoya would have to be blind not to notice. She looked about as convincing as the twenty-something actors in those schlocky high school soap operas.
Who exactly was she fooling?
Hitoya, like any lawyer worth his salt, had studied enough contract law to know he was going to get fucked over participating in the Division Grail War.
He’d never had a good reason to pay attention to magecraft. He, along with the rest of the nation, had only learned of its existence a little over a decade ago, amidst the fallout of the last world war, and he hadn’t learned much since. Secretive and intensely clannish by nature, mages did nothing to dispel the shroud of mystique separating them from the broader social fabric. Even now, they remained largely an enigma; enormously powerful influences behind government and industry, sure, but to the masses, they might as well have been urban legends. And Hitoya was neither an occult buff nor a conspiracy theorist, so he had better things to do than wade into the weirder corners of the Internet to investigate.
But he knew, as was widely reported for the past three years, that the woman at the helm of the autocratic, all-female Party of Words, and architect of the coup d’état that toppled the previous government of Japan, was a mage. She was Prime Minister Tohoten, the scion of a pedigreed Japanese mage family, and descended from a nearly extinct branch of the imperial family once tutored in magecraft. None of that meant much to Hitoya, but the resulting regime change sure did. Between the demotion to second-class citizenship, the creation of gender segregated municipalities, and, worst of all, his taxes doubling, he couldn’t imagine their new world order getting much worse.
Then, about a month ago, the prime minister announced a magecraft ritual, the first of its kind open to the public, in the form of an elimination tournament: a Holy Grail War.
Six teams representing the major metropolitan Divisions of Japan. Three men per team, each armed with his own Servant. A battle royale for the Holy Grail, a magic artifact capable of granting any wish imaginable.
It was sure to be a bloodbath with eighteen gladiators competing. The perfect spectacle to drown out the whispers of civil discontent growing louder each month outside the walled-in capital.
Under normal circumstances, Hitoya would never have been eligible to participate. But magecraft was all about doing the impossible. For the Party’s purposes, it was better to recruit non-mages, laymen who wouldn’t pose a threat to the regime. A few cogs in the machine could only do so much damage if the other parts were kept in perfect working order.
He didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter; they’d scouted him just like they’d scouted his teammates. All he had to do was act as a blood bag for his magical contender. In return, he was given a shot at the wish of a lifetime. Another chance to help his brother—not to mention the chance to square off against the man he'd never once measured up to, and a way to keep an eye on his two teammates.
But if he was to flat out refuse to participate after all? The official rules of his contract didn’t explicate beyond automatic disqualification, but he would probably incur a heavy fine, or even a year’s imprisonment, if not more. Either way, a fate worse than death.
The intercom crackled alive.
“Mr. Amaguni, please prepare for the second phase of testing,” said a woman’s voice.
The magecraft technician who had briefed Hitoya on the summoning ritual re-entered the room, a tablet tucked under her arm. She was followed by a young woman dressed in the blue uniform of the Party of Words, whom Hitoya recognized as the officer who oversaw his initial round of testing weeks ago.
And behind her came a Servant. This one wore an old-fashioned petal-pink kimono and hakama. Her ash-colored hair was cut cleanly above the shoulders, a modern style that matched her Master’s. The two could be sisters if not for the gulf of hundreds of years that separated them.
In her hand, the Servant carried a sheathed sword, an ever-present warning.
“Congratulations on the successful summoning,” said the technician with a polite bow of her head. “Before you leave, we’d first like to observe your Servant’s parameters.”
“How long will this take?” asked Hitoya, itching to break out of this prison cell of a room.
“Not long if you cooperate,” said the officer cooly. She couldn’t have been older than twenty, but she carried herself like a seasoned bureaucrat, and Hitoya knew better than to argue with her type.
The technician continued. “Please confirm the Class and True Name of your Servant for me.”
“Saber-Class. Suzuka Gozen.”
“Now, to begin, instruct your Servant to draw her weapon.”
“If you would, Saber,” said Hitoya. “Your sword.”
Attached to Suzuka’s school bag, hanging just beneath a cascade of plush kodama charms, was a red-lacquered scabbard. From it, she unsheathed a long, gently curved tachi-style sword, its gilt handle wrapped in red cord and its blade shining like a mirror. Lifting her other hand above her head, two more swords materialized beside her, one pure gold, the other luminous silver, floating in mid-air as they flanked her like turrets.
“This is Kenmyoren,” said Suzuka, proudly brandishing the gleaming sword in her right hand. “Then we have Daitoren”—she nodded at the golden sword hovering to her right—“and Shotoren. The two of them were crafted by the bodhisattva Manjushri himself. They’re meant to be wielded as a pair.”
“Fascinating.” The technician leaned closer to examine the three swords, tapping out long, winding keystrokes on the tablet’s screen. “And which one is your Noble Phantasm?”
Suzuka hesitated and looked to Hitoya with a unsure expression, silently asking for his permission first.
“Go ahead,” he told her. “They’ll get it out of you one way or another.”
“All three of ‘em,” said Suzuka. “Each sword is its own Noble Phantasm.”
“You have three Noble Phantasms?” The technician gasped, her eyes lighting up in a way that would be endearing under different circumstances. “That’s incredible! Some of the other Servants I’ve examined had two, but three?”
A Noble Phantasm was the most powerful tool in a Servant’s arsenal. It was the crowning jewel of their legend made manifest, their signature forever imprinted upon the world in all its grandeur and notoriety. Not something to be used lightly; certainly too deadly to unleash in such a confined space.
Suddenly remembering the officer standing behind her—her mouth set in a firm line, humorless drone that she was—the technician cleared her throat. “I’ll make a note of it. A shame we can’t test them here.”
In a low murmur, a jumble of words that held no meaning for Hitoya, the technician conjured up a human-sized target, a grotesque blob of flesh and hair.
“In order to gauge how successfully she manifested in this vessel, your Servant is to destroy this shikigami over the course of several rounds.”
With a step forward, Suzuka sliced the target to ribbons with a lightning-quick succession of downward swings. The two gold and silver swords followed as if they had minds of their own, slashing the target one after the other, now little more than wisps of cotton batting drifting to the floor.
Hitoya swore appreciatively under his breath. He could feel the air around them cleave with every swing of Suzuka’s swords.
“Is that it?” she asked with an idle twirl of her finger, sending the two floating swords pinwheeling in place.
The technician’s mouth hung open. “Oh, um—no, Saber, we’re not done yet,” she said, and laughed apologetically. With interlocked fingers, she uttered another incantation, and the shikigami reshaped itself back together again.
“Sweet.”
They continued, each iteration of the shikigami more durable than the next, and all of which proved no match for Suzuka. Trying to keep monotony at bay, she varied her swordwork each time: a one-handed overhead swing for this target, a choreographed dance of two floating blades for the next.
And each time, Hitoya’s heart thumped heavily against the bars of its cage, excitement bubbling up from somewhere buried deep inside him, his silly boyhood dreams of samurai swords and magical spirits come true.
There was no other word for it: she moved beautifully. Her motions were fluid and graceful, almost dancer-like, confident in her power and in complete control of every muscle. She commanded their attention with flourish, hair billowing as she showed the humans a fraction of her power. Now Hitoya could see the oni-slaying warrior under the flimsy schoolgirl facade.
All of this was for her Master. For him. This is what she was meant for. And it made him think: maybe he was meant to do this alongside her.
From where he stood, Hitoya could hear the technician swooning breathlessly and fragments of a hushed conversation between the officer and her Servant.
“Master,” the Servant said quietly, “may I?”
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” replied the officer.
“She’s powerful, but her swordsmanship is pretty shoddy. We’re an even match.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hitoya saw the officer’s stony expression soften. “I don’t doubt that, but we need to save your strength.”
Her Servant sighed. “Understood.”
“But if you like, I’ll ask Ichijiku if you can spar with Berserker.”
“Him?” The Servant shuddered. “He’ll beat me to a pulp!”
Hitoya couldn’t deny feeling a flicker of disappointment. Part of him wanted to see what else Suzuka was capable of—and to watch her thoroughly thrash the officer’s Servant. He wasn’t a gambling man, but he’d put good money on his Saber.
After several more rounds against the target, Suzuka had exhausted all possible swordplay. The technician thanked her with a beaming smile and dismissed the shikigami back to the ether.
“Shall I bring in the combat homunculus?” the technician asked the officer.
“No need. I’m satisfied with what I’ve seen, so I’ll be heading back now.” The officer bowed to her. “On behalf of the Prime Minister, I can’t thank you enough for your hard work.”
“Of course, Miss Aohitsugi! Thank you for coming all the way to Nagoya today.”
Without so much as a glance at Hitoya, the officer and her Servant departed.
Suzuka casually waved away the two swords hovering beside her. “Not much of a challenge, but that felt pretty good.” She held out her sword, admiring herself in the polished blade one last time, and resheathed it with a clink.
“That was… Goddamn. I really lucked out summoning you,” Hitoya told her.
“No duh, Master,” said Suzuka, shaking out her hair. “Did I impress you?”
“Thoroughly. I had no idea what to expect, but you’re strong as all hell. The way you move—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” He chuckled in spite of himself; here he was, on the verge of babbling, some boyish impulse spurring him on. “I mean, three swords? There’s no way I can lose with you. And I never would’ve guessed it looking at you, wearing that little uniform, but you’re a knockout.”
“You really think so?” she murmured.
“What? Yeah, of course. You’re incredible, Saber. Anyone can see that.”
She looked at him in wonderment, eyes aglitter under the fluorescent ceiling lights, and said, “I like you too, Master.”
Having spent the last few minutes furiously tapping away at her tablet, the technician sighed and stretched, rolling her neck to either side. Then, at long last, she ushered Master and Servant out of the summoning room. In the hallway, another staff member returned Hitoya’s personal effects from a locked safe: watch, wallet, keys, lighter, pack of cigarettes, phone. There, a message notification awaited him on the lock screen.
Get your ass to the temple ASAP for a team meeting. No backtalk. No excuses. None of your hour-long coffee breaks, either.
He sighed. There were also multiple messages from his other teammate, bursting with exclamation marks and hordes of impassioned emoji, which Hitoya had neither the time or mental capacity to decipher at the moment.
Diligent as ever, the technician insisted on personally escorting Hitoya out of the labyrinthe recesses of the testing facility—maybe to steal a few final glimpses of Suzuka, who she had clearly taken a shine to. The heavy thwack of Suzuka’s wooden platforms echoed down the empty hallway as she fell in step with Hitoya.
“So now that we’re boyfriend–girlfriend—”
“We’re what now?” said Hitoya, his voice cracking with bewilderment.
“Boyfriend–girlfriend? Official? Status: in a relationship?” Suzuka rolled her eyes. “Dating, hello?”
“Since when did—how did you even come to that conclusion?” he stammered. “We only just met, if you can call it that.”
“Ever hear of love at first sight?”
“First of all, I don’t believe in that kind of rom-com bullshit, either. Second, you’re here to fight for me, not pick me up.”
“No offense, but I only answered your summons because I sensed major boyfriend material on the other end. I’m here because I’m looking for love. That's, like, my whole thing,” said Suzuka. “Some people fight for glory. I fight for the one I love.”
Hitoya dug his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged. “Still don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Are you stupid or something? You were meant to summon me. Fate brought us together for a reason.”
They came to a stop in front of a steel-plated elevator. After shooting a furtive glance over her shoulder, the technician scanned the badge hanging from her lanyard and pressed the call button.
“Look, Master.” Suzuka tugged at the sleeve of Hitoya’s leather jacket. “Look at me.”
Her crystalline eyes stared back at him, wide and infinite, a kaleidoscope of gold and copper flecked with diamond dust beckoning him closer. For a second time, he was helpless to turn away from her, and he had no idea why.
Her mouth twisted with frustration. “Don’t you feel anything?”
“I’m feeling pretty lost here,” he said flatly.
She blinked twice and the spell was broken, just in time for the elevator doors to slide open with a soft ding. The technician shepherded them in the cabin first, then followed to stand guard in front of the doors. From the numbers on the control panel, Hitoya could see they were several floors underground.
He hoped it would be a quiet ride back to civilization.
“Y’know something?” said Suzuka not even two seconds later. “I’ve literally never hooked up with a silver fox before. You’re my first. Isn’t that funny?”
Hitoya saw the technician’s shoulders jump.
“I’m not—Christ, exactly how old do you think I am?” He gestured at his luxuriantly full head of hair, perfectly coiffed and painstakingly styled into his signature soft pompadour; in a word, fucking resplendent. “Do you see any gray here?”
“I don’t know what color that’s supposed to be.”
“It’s not supposed to be anything!” he snapped. “It’s my natural color.”
“How would I even know that?” Suzuka said defensively. “We just started dating!”
“Yeah, well, what—what the hell are these?” he demanded, pointing at her animal ears. “What are you supposed to be?”
“I’m a fox, duh.”
“I thought you’re the demon princess of the seven hells, or whatever, not some mascot.”
“Okay, I know this is so random of me, but they’re actually just for shits and giggles.”
The fox ears vanished from her head. In the blink of an eye, they reappeared as if they’d never left.
“But I like ‘em, so I’m keeping ‘em,” said Suzuka. “After all, a cute girl can never over-accessorize.”
Shaking his head, Hitoya laughed through his nose. “I’m not even gonna try to follow your logic.”
“It’s not rocket science. Basically, they’re super adorbs—and super soft. Wanna cop a feel?”
“I’ll pass.”
Her fluffy tail swished against the leg of his pants. “‘kay. Just know it’s an open invitation.”
For all her professionalism, the technician couldn’t hide the funny look on her face as she hurriedly waved them through the exit door.