People often say the world is beautiful.
But I learned early on that this world is anything but a fairy tale.
Still…
There was someone who shone brightly within it.
He was sincere.
He was proud.
And above all, he was kind.
His smile was gentle—soft like the morning sun slipping through scattered clouds.
He believed in justice, pursued what was right, and carried a heart that refused to bend.
Though he disliked conflict, the moment he raised his blade, he became stronger than anyone else.
His sword, gleaming with unwavering resolve, could cut through even the deepest darkness.
To me…
He was the closest thing this world would ever have to a prince.
But reality is cruel.
There are no real princes.
No white horses.
No perfect rescues.
The world is painted in heavy shades of black.
Adults told us fairy tales so we would cling to something warm.
But once we opened our eyes, we learned quickly—
Fairy tales do not exist.
Even so…
We still hoped.
We still wished.
That somewhere, somehow, miracles might exist.
That someone brilliant—someone like him—
Might still be out there in this same world.
And so we searched.
Through time, through distance, through the drifting shadows that separated us.
Believing that one day, we would stand side by side again.
He would tear through the darkness with his silver-blue light.
With that radiant blade that outshone everything—
He would come to me.
---
Miracles do not revive the dead.
Lost things cannot be reclaimed.
Even salvation has its limits.
Yet at the end of all things, they say a holy land will rise again—
A kingdom that accepts everything, without exception.
A place where seven crowns and ten shadows will emerge from distant waves.
O sinner,
Your heart is greed.
Your praise becomes blasphemy.
Your anger devours the earth.
In a place where miracles gather,
Love has no proof.
Only contradictions remain.
---
The Holy Grail War.
A battle steeped in blood and desire.
Seven Magi.
Seven Servants.
Each pair bound together by a wish strong enough to wager their lives.
Servants—
Heroic spirits who once fell without completing their legends.
Summoned once more into the modern era to fight at their Master's side.
The rules are simple:
Seven enter.
One survives.
And the last standing Servant earns the right to claim the Grail.
This is the year 1999—
The final year of the old millennium.
Soon, the next Holy Grail War will begin in Tokyo,
The eastern land chosen as the new battleground.
And before me stands a single Servant.
A knight with clear green eyes.
A warrior clad in silver armor.
The strongest among the seven classes—
A sword-wielding figure who answers my summons without hesitation.
He once fought beside my older sister.
Now, he stands here as my Servant,
Kneeling with unwavering loyalty.
Saber.
To the younger me, he had always been impossibly tall—so bright he felt unreachable.
Even now, eight years later, that impression has never faded.
Eight years ago…
He fought far beyond my reach.
He fought beside my sister.
Back then, I knew nothing.
Not about Saber.
Not about Father.
Not about the Grail.
Not about what my sister had done.
My sister, Manaka—
A girl who shone brighter than any princess in any storybook.
Some memories from that time have blurred.
But others… I will never forget.
Especially the memories of her.
---
Morning light seeped through the curtains, spilling softly across the quiet room.
Birdsong drifted in from outside, weaving the gentle rhythm of dawn.
Ayaka Sajyou stirred beneath her blankets, eyelids heavy.
"Uu…"
A small groan slipped from her lips as she rubbed her eyes.
(It's morning already…)
She didn't hate mornings.
But she didn't like them much either.
The hallway air was cold enough to nip at her cheeks the moment she stepped outside. Her breath turned faintly white, her small hands rubbing together for warmth. Still half-asleep, she wandered toward the bathroom by habit.
Climbing onto the little stool Papa had built for her, she splashed cold water on her face.
The shock snapped the last bits of sleep away.
She pressed a towel to her skin, then frowned at her reflection.
"I should've pinned my bangs…"
A few strands clung stubbornly to her forehead. With a sigh, she left the bathroom and stepped back into the hall.
Halfway through, she paused.
"…Huh?"
A warm aroma drifted in the air. Rich. Familiar.
It smelled like bacon… but not exactly.
Curiosity tugged at her feet.
"Is it coming from outside?"
Without thinking, she followed the scent, moving down the long corridor where soft sunlight filtered through the windows. At the far end lay the entrance to her favorite place in the entire house.
Garden.
The moment she stepped inside, her mood lifted.
Warm air. Green leaves. Quiet earth.
Everything here wrapped around her like a gentle embrace.
Though it was technically just a greenhouse, Ayaka always called it Garden, and Papa never corrected her.
Plants crowded the space, leaves shimmering under soft light. Flowers bloomed in every color. A few pigeons fluttered down to greet her, cooing softly. They always recognized her.
She smiled.
Even if Garden wasn't a real garden, it felt more alive than anything else.
"Good morning."
She greeted her usual corner—a little study nook without walls. Wooden shelves stacked with books and sealed bottles surrounded a small desk. This was where she practiced black magic every morning.
Papa should've been waiting.
But the seat was empty.
"Papa…?"
Her voice echoed faintly.
Only the pigeons answered.
She tried again, louder.
Still nothing.
"…Not you guys," she muttered to the birds.
Was this one of those rare mornings when Papa couldn't teach her?
That had never happened before.
Strict lessons, complex rituals—she didn't always enjoy them, but Papa was always present.
She pressed a finger to her chin. A memory tugged gently.
"Um… something from today onward…"
A faint echo surfaced.
"It's… beginning."
Something Papa had said.
"And because of that… we have to participate…"
The rest slipped away, too hazy to grasp.
——The Sajiou family's cherished wish.
——A necessary step toward their great ambition.
Then—
"I've told you before. Don't call out to the pigeons."
Ayaka gasped and turned.
Papa stood by the doorway, sunlight outlining his silhouette. His expression was unreadable.
"Papa…"
"Do not call out to the sacrifices," he said, voice calm. "Do not speak to them. A black mage must never sympathize with sacrifices. Sympathy breeds hesitation. Doubt. I shouldn't need to repeat this every morning."
Ayaka lowered her head.
"…Yes."
She didn't want to think of the pigeons that way.
But she knew better than to argue.
More of them gathered—seven, maybe eight—circling around her feet.
"Humans and pigeons cannot communicate," Papa went on. "Do not try to empathize. They do not return affection. Even if you sympathize, that emotion will never come back to you. This is for your sake."
"…Yes…"
"You cannot separate sacrifice from black magic. Their suffering is the foundation of our craft. Do not forget that."
The words pressed down on her chest. Slowly, she curled her fingers and steadied her voice.
"I… understand. I'll do my best."
"Good." Papa turned away. "You may go to the dining room."
"Eh…?"
She blinked.
She had never been excused before her morning lessons.
"It's breakfast," he said simply. "Keep Manaka company today."
"…Okay."
She followed him quietly, her steps small compared to his.
And though she tried to mimic his calm expression, her heart churned with the questions she didn't dare voice.