Clack—
The crisp sound of a chess piece landing echoed through the lavish study.
It was a board of seven-by-seven squares, similar to Western chess, though the exquisite pieces carried an aura of unfathomable Mystery.
Seated on one side of the board was a young man in elegant noble attire, his long ink-black hair combed with meticulous precision, radiating aristocratic splendor.
He looked to be twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. Yet there was a weight to him—a weary insight into the world, the aura of someone born to command. It was absolutely impossible for someone so young to bear such majesty naturally.
Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia. Only days ago, he'd stirred an uproar in the world of magi—openly raising the banner of rebellion against the Mage's Association's Clock Tower, even daring to challenge those noble families who had ruled the world for centuries.
Everyone thought he was being a fool, digging his own grave. But every magus of the Yggdmillennia Clan trusted him absolutely.
Because yes—he could win. Not by chance, but because he held a true miracle in his hands.
The Greater Grail, the manifestation of the Third Magic—Materialization of the Soul. That, combined with the six or seven decades of mana built up in Romania's leyline network, and the countless preparations the Yggdmillennia had made over the years...
The crossbow was already drawn. How could he possibly rest until he drove the bolt through his enemies' hearts?
Across from Darnic sat an even stranger figure—if he could be called human at all.
His garb was bizarre, his mask grotesque, his entire being wrapped in a haze of Mystery. He was no modern man, but an ancient hero.
He had come into this era under the Caster class, a Servant summoned into this war of Heroic Spirits—yet also a being that stood apart from the world itself, transcending time and space.
Avicebron—also known as Solomon ibn Gabirol. Called the "Jewish Plato," a poet who had gifted the world with a new foundation of Magecraft: Kabbalah, the very origin of Golems.
Now, he held a piece in his fingers, pondering how to best play against the clan patriarch seated before him.
"...Hah." He sighed, shaking his head. "Truly, I can't see through you—just as I can't see through that boy called Rhodes."
"Oh? You can't read Rhodes either? Then it seems your judgment is no different from mine."
Darnic chuckled lightly, though his eyes glimmered with wariness.
A magus who could clash, even briefly, with a Heroic Spirit.
A branch-family noble who had blown up the Clock Tower and still walked away.
An eighteen-year-old boy awarded the rank of "Tricolor" purely on technical merit...
When all of that converged in a single person, even Darnic, proud as he was, had to wonder what immense power lay hidden beneath Rhodes' youthful face.
But with the Holy Grail War about to begin, there was no need to confront Rhodes head-on. For now, he would have Caster investigate him.
"Yes... that boy is anything but ordinary. His skill at maneuvering people alone is far beyond what any eighteen-year-old could reach. Either he's some great figure from the past, or he holds power enough to destroy everything."
The clear clink of metal on metal rang out as Avicebron shifted his mask. His rasping voice filled the study.
"It's hard to see through him. But once he competes with Roche for the title of head of the Frain family, I will not sit idly by."
"Oh? You mean to move against Rhodes? Forgive me, but that doesn't sound like a wise idea." Darnic smiled faintly. But Avicebron shook his head.
"Of course not. I merely mean to 'remove' him from the Holy Grail War. My Master, Roche, trusts me. I cannot betray that trust."
"I see..."
Darnic's lips curled upward, his tone utterly even as he gave a low, quiet laugh.
"Then I shall await your good news, Lord Avicebron."
◇◇◇
Noon. The blazing sun beat down, blanketing the Yggdmillennia castle in sweltering heat.
But thanks to the great cooling wards woven into its structure—and the fact that some magi had installed brand-new air-conditioning units in their workshops—the castle never grew uncomfortably hot.
In Rhodes' own workshop, a flurry of graceful figures moved busily, cleaning away the mess.
Discarded magical reagents, specks of dust, even usable Mystic tools—all of it was being swept away. Twelve Automaton maids worked tirelessly, turning the entire place upside down until every last corner was spotless.
They checked the cracks between each wall brick, searching for any lingering surveillance formulas, but found nothing.
One bundle after another of "garbage" was handed off to the homunculus maids waiting at the door. Compared to the cold, expressionless homunculi, these laughing, chatting Automaton maids looked far more human.
"Not bad. Seems Roche knows how to play ball after all..."
Lounging on a hand-tanned French leather sofa, Rhodes wore a mocking smile as he admired the clear crystal sphere in his hand—and the fragment of stone sealed inside.
It was crimson as fresh blood, trembling faintly like it was alive—like a shard of a beating heart.
Yet it was without question a weapon of mass destruction. An ancient treasure. A Holy Relic.
In Japan, its name was infamous, whispered across every inch of the archipelago. Though it carried only dread, its renown was unparalleled.
The Sesshō-seki—the Killing Stone. A crucial Catalyst for summoning the golden-furred, white-faced Nine-Tailed Fox.
To get his hands on this shard, Rhodes had paid heavily, showering the newly appointed "Head of the Department of Summoning," Rocco Belfeban, with benefits, then using his own unique methods of negotiation to pry this treasure away.
If he couldn't summon the Nine-Tailed Fox with it, he might well storm the Clock Tower again—and string up "Rocco, Head of Summoning" on the second hand of the tower's great clock.
—Assuming the Clock Tower hadn't already been blown to rubble.
"It's decided, then!"
"Come forth—Tamamo, Virtuous Wife Fox!"