A fracture.
That was the only word fitting enough to describe the city rising out of the darkness like a jagged wound—Snowfield.
It wasn't a barrier that split light and darkness, nor a divide that separated the mundane from the arcane. No… Snowfield was something subtler, stranger. A harmonious cleft—an indistinct boundary drawn between things that should have been the same, yet somehow weren't. Like dawn blurring into dusk, or the vague border between dreams and sleep.
Snowfield was a nexus—black, dense, and painted in countless blended colors.
It was the boundary between two towns.
Between nature and civilization.
Between a mere human settlement… and a sprawling, unnatural megalopolis.
North of it stretched a ravine reminiscent of the Grand Canyon.
West: a forest far too lush for such a dry land.
East: lakes and marshes.
South: a desert vast enough to swallow the horizon.
Farmland surrounded it on all sides, yet Snowfield itself had none. A single anomaly, boldly planting itself where it should not exist.
To outsiders, Snowfield was a booming miracle—an urban jewel that balanced technology and nature. But beneath its gleaming veneer lay arrogance… and secrets.
Its origin was a lie, yet a lie so natural it seemed destined.
Records said that at the start of the 20th century, the land was home only to scattered indigenous tribes. Then, seventy years ago, development exploded—so quickly it defied common sense. Now, over 800,000 people lived where emptiness once reigned.
That unnatural growth was why an old mage in blue-black robes now stood west of the city, binoculars in hand, gloom etched on his face.
"Hmph… these modern binoculars really are convenient. One button, and they focus themselves. Less trouble than sending a familiar."
He scoffed. "A wretched age."
Behind him, his apprentice Faldeus watched quietly.
"Master… do we truly need to worry about it? That so-called Holy Grail War?"
The old man lowered his binoculars and stared sharply at him.
"…Faldeus. Is this supposed to be a joke?"
"N-no, I only meant—"
"You've read the reports. Even rumors, even children's tales—if there is the slightest chance that something resembling a Holy Grail will appear, it must be investigated. For the Grail is the desire of all magi… and only a tool toward the final end."
---
Once, in a certain Far Eastern country, a war was waged.
A war hidden from ordinary people.
A war drenched in secrets and miracles.
A war for the Holy Grail.
The Grail—
Eternal miracle.
Legend.
Relic of the divine.
Hope… and therefore, despair.
But the "Grail" of that war was no sacred chalice. Instead, it manifested as an omnipotent wish-granting device. Yet even that device did not exist at the beginning.
First, seven Heroic Spirits were summoned—Servants drawn from every history, myth, and fiction.
In return, seven magi—Masters—fought each other to the death, their Servants slaughtering one another so that the Grail might eventually manifest.
This was the system of the Holy Grail War.
Five times, that war was waged in the Far East.
Now, ominous signs of the same ritual had appeared in an ordinary American town.
Snowfield.
The Mage's Association sent investigators in secret—and so the old mage and Faldeus had come.
---
"Your knowledge is sufficient," the old mage muttered. "But your attitude disappoints me. This could involve the entire Association. The Church will not remain idle."
"But… is this really the place?" Faldeus asked. "The system was created by the Einzberns and the Makiri. Could someone really have recreated it here… seventy years ago?"
"In the worst case, this entire city was shaped for a Grail War."
"That's impossible!"
"Only a possibility."
He sighed. "But the founding families have done far stranger things for the Grail."
The old mage cast a spell onto his binoculars to read the flow of ley lines. Snowfield glowed like a beast breathing beneath its skin of city lights.
"Master," Faldeus asked quietly, "if a true Grail War begins… shouldn't both the Association and the Church intervene?"
"Of course. But so far, only omens exist. Lord El-Melloi detected distortions in the ley lines—but that was only a hypothesis. Hence… we are here."
The old man chuckled bitterly.
"No Heroic Spirit can appear without the Grail already prepared. If one manifests, our doubts will be confirmed. But… I would rather it didn't."
"That's surprising, coming from you."
"I have no desire to see the Root reached by some child in a land with barely any history."
He scoffed. "How disgraceful."
He lowered the binoculars. "And besides… what Servants might appear here? One wonders."
Faldeus tilted his head. "Leaving Assassin aside, the other five classes depend entirely on the summoner—"
"Six classes, you dolt! I said seven Servants! Are you mocking me?"
But Faldeus did not flinch.
Instead, he murmured softly:
"No. There are six classes, Mister Rohngall."
The old mage froze.
This was the first time Faldeus had ever spoken his name aloud.
"And in this city," Faldeus continued, his expression emotionless, "the Saber class does not exist. This is a false Grail War."
Rohngall's spine went cold.
His Magic Circuits screamed warning.
Faldeus stepped closer.
"The system the three founding families created was extraordinary. Naturally… we couldn't replicate it perfectly. We based ours on the Third War. A complete disaster, really."
His tone was casual—too casual.
As if reminiscing about something from long before he was even born.
"You called my nation "young." But that is precisely why you should remember, elder—"
His smile twisted unnaturally.
"—you should never make light of a young nation."
Crunch. Crack. Creaaak.
Rohngall's body tensed, instincts screaming.
"You… who are you?"
"I'm Faldeus, of course. At least… that's the name you know."
Faldeus shrugged. "Thanks for all the information over the years."
Rohngall understood—his apprentice was gone.
What stood before him was an enemy.
"You're a plant… from another organization. Sent to infiltrate the Association."
Faldeus chuckled. "Well… something like that. The Association thinks some rogue magi created this Grail War. Honestly? As if they could."
He stepped forward again—unthreatening, yet undeniably lethal.
Rohngall lowered his center of gravity. "Do not underestimate me, child."
But he had already lost.
Faldeus had never intended to fight as a mage.
"I'll hit you with everything I've got."
He flicked open a lighter, a cigar appearing in his other hand as if out of nowhere.
Not magic—just a trick.
"We're not an organization of magi," Faldeus said, lighting the cigar. "We simply answer to the United States of America. Some of us just happen to use magecraft."
Rohngall narrowed his eyes. "And the cigar… what does that have to do with "everything you've got"?"
He was buying time.
He never got it.
A wet explosion burst through the side of his head.
The bullet ricocheted inside his skull, shredding mind and flesh alike.
Before he even hit the ground, dozens more bullets tore through him from all directions.
Not one shooter—many.
All hidden.
All waiting.
Overkill.
Inevitable.
His corpse crumpled like a puppet whose strings were cut.
Faldeus applauded lightly.
"Thanks for the show. You look thirty years younger now, Mister Rohngall."