The killings began quietly.
A JSDF patrol found drained bodies in the harbor district—no wounds, no signs of struggle. A Magus Association enforcer vanished near the leyline junction in Miyama. A civilian morgue technician collapsed mid-shift, his blood crystallized in his veins.
None of them were Masters. None of them were Servants.
But all of them were watching for magic.
Medea stood over the latest corpse, her violet eyes narrowed. The man's skin was pale, his throat marked by twin punctures. No mana flare. No magical residue. Just a whisper of something ancient.
"This isn't a Servant following orders," she said.
Shirou knelt beside her, scanning the scene. "It's Assassin."
"Not the one we expected," Medea replied. "This is something older. Something that doesn't care about the War."
She didn't say the name. She didn't have to.
Shirou exhaled. "We need to talk to the others."
—
The summit was Medea's idea.
A neutral ground. One hour. No combat. No Servant duels. Just information.
She wove the truce spell herself, anchoring it to the leyline beneath the old bell tower near the river. It would hold—barely. Enough to discourage betrayal. Not enough to prevent it.
Shirou didn't argue. He trusted her judgment more than his own.
Saber would stand guard. He would stay quiet.
Medea would speak.
—
Rin arrived first, flanked by Archer. Her coat was buttoned tight, her eyes sharp. She didn't look at Shirou—just nodded to Medea.
Kotomine came next, Lancer trailing behind like a bored predator. The priest's smile was thin, his hands folded in mock reverence.
Illyasviel did not come. Nor did Assassin's Master.
The Magus Association Master arrived, silent and watchful. Rider stood behind her Master, poised and unreadable.
Inside the bell tower, the air was cold and still. Medea, Rin, and Kotomine stood at the center. The others arrayed around them. Shirou kept to the edge, Saber at his side.
Archer joined her moments later, his gaze flicking to Shirou with quiet disdain.
"You've all seen the reports," Medea began. "The killings. The disappearances. This isn't a Servant following orders. This is a predator."
Kotomine's smile didn't waver. "And you believe it's Assassin?"
"I believe it's something wearing that class," she said. "And I believe his Master is no longer in control."
Rin nodded. "We've tracked the mana signatures. They're wrong. Twisted. Like something feeding off the leylines directly."
One of the Association Masters spoke. "We've lost contact with two enforcer teams. No flare. No resistance."
Kotomine's eyes gleamed. "So we're all targets."
"Unless we act," Medea said. "Together."
Rin crossed her arms. "You want a truce."
"A hunt," Medea corrected. "Three nights. We share sightings. We isolate Assassin. We end this."
Kotomine chuckled. "And then we resume the War?"
"Of course," Medea said. "This isn't peace. It's survival."
Rin glanced at Shirou. "You're quiet."
He stepped forward. "Because I'm not the one they'll listen to."
Archer scoffed. "You mean because you're the one they've seen on the news."
Shirou didn't flinch. "I did what I had to."
"And you think that makes you a hero?" Archer's voice was low, sharp. "You turned a district into a crater. You made yourself a myth. And now you want diplomacy?"
"I want to stop a killer," Shirou said. "And I'll work with anyone who wants the same."
Archer's eyes narrowed. "Just remember—some of us know what you'll become."
Saber stepped between them, her presence quiet but firm. "Enough."
Archer looked at her, and something flickered in his gaze—recognition, regret, longing. He didn't speak again.
—
Outside the tower, Saber stood watch. Archer joined her after a time, silent.
"You still guard him," Archer said.
"I serve him," she replied.
"He's not who you think."
She looked at him. "Neither are you."
They didn't speak again. But the silence between them was heavy with memory.
—
Inside, the pact was sealed.
Three nights. No combat between factions. Shared intel. Coordinated patrols.
Medea, Rin, and Kotomine signed the truce with mana seals. The others followed.
As they left the tower, Shirou caught Rin's eye.
"Thank you," he said.
She didn't smile. "Don't make me regret it."
—
Far across the city, in a forgotten crypt beneath the old cemetery, Assassin stood over his latest victim. His cloak billowed like smoke, his eyes gleaming red.
The corpse twitched once, then stilled.
His thrall knelt beside him, silent.
Dracula smiled.
"They gather," he murmured. "Let them."
The hunt had begun.
The bell tower emptied slowly.
No one lingered. Not in a place where trust had been borrowed, not earned.
Rin walked ahead of Archer, her boots crunching against the frost-laced stone. She didn't speak, but her mind was racing. The truce was necessary—she knew that. But it felt like swallowing poison. Sharing intel with Kotomine, with Shirou, with the Association's dogs? It was like inviting wolves into her home.
She glanced back once, catching Shirou's silhouette in the moonlight. Two Servants. A cratered city. And now diplomacy?
He was dangerous. Not just because of what he could do—but because of what he made her feel. That old ache. That old doubt.
Archer walked beside her, silent. But his thoughts were louder than gunfire.
He'd seen the footage. The missile strike. The armor. The eyes. The Steel-Eyed Raven wasn't just a myth—he was a warning. A version of himself that had embraced the blade without the burden. And now he stood beside Saber, trying to earn her trust.
It was infuriating.
And familiar.
—
Kotomine returned to the church with Lancer trailing behind, his spear tapping against the stone floor.
"A productive evening," the priest murmured.
Lancer snorted. "You call that productive?"
Kotomine smiled. "I call it revealing."
He didn't trust Medea. He didn't trust Rin. He certainly didn't trust Shirou. But he trusted the storm. And storms always revealed the cracks.
He would wait. He would watch. And when the rogue Servant was cornered, he would strike—not at the monster, but at the ones who thought they were safe.
—
The Magus Association Master returned to their safehouse in silence.
Rider watched her Master with quiet calculation. He was calm, methodical, but she could feel the tension in his circuits. The truce was a delay, not a solution. Assassin was a threat—but so was Shirou. So was Kotomine. So was Gilgamesh.
They would need to move soon. And when they did, they would move to kill.
—
Gilgamesh stood atop a high-rise, the wind tugging at his coat. He hadn't attended the summit. He hadn't needed to.
He'd watched.
The mongrels gathered, trembling in the face of a shadow. How quaint.
He knew who Assassin was. He'd felt the mana signature. Ancient. Hungry. Regal.
Dracula.
A king, yes—but a lesser one. A parasite. A relic.
Gilgamesh would let him feed. Let him grow. Let him terrify the city.
And then, when the mongrels were exhausted, he would descend. Not to save them.
To remind them what a true king looked like.
—
The city was panicking.
The killings had escalated. Soldiers drained in their barracks. Civilians found pale and empty in alleyways. The media couldn't explain it. The JSDF couldn't contain it. And the Magus Association couldn't risk exposure.
So they blamed the Steel-Eyed Raven.
The footage resurfaced. The crater. The armor. The eyes.
Posters went up again. WANTED. EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
Shirou saw them on his way back to the temple. He didn't stop. Didn't flinch.
But inside, something twisted.
He hadn't killed those people. He hadn't fed on them. But he'd made himself a myth. And myths were easy scapegoats.
He returned to the temple in silence.
Inside, Shirou and Medea sat at the low table, scrolls and maps spread between them. The killings formed a pattern—circles around leyline junctions, feeding points. Assassin was building something. A network. A nest.
Medea traced the lines with her finger, her touch light.
"We'll find him," she said.
Shirou nodded. "Before the others do."
She looked at him then, her gaze softer than usual. "You're tired."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
He smiled. "You're getting good at reading me."
"I've had practice."
Two months of quiet mornings. Of shared tea. Of sparring and strategy. Of silence that didn't need filling.
She reached for a scroll, and her hand brushed his.
Neither moved.
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside, something shifted.
—
Later, as they walked the temple grounds, searching for signs of magical interference, Shirou glanced at her.
"You think the others will hold the truce?"
"No," she said. "But they'll pretend to. Until it's convenient not to."
He nodded. "And us?"
She stopped. Turned to him.
"I'll stay," she said. "Until the end."
He didn't ask what she meant.
He didn't need to.
—
The moon hung low over Fuyuki, casting silver light across rooftops and ruins.
The truce had begun.
But the war was far from over.
And beneath the surface, the real battle was already underway.
Not for the Grail.
For the soul of the city.
And for the man who had dared to become a myth.