[20:30]
Winter sunsets were nature's way of saying "screw you" to anyone caught outside without a plan.
The park had been swallowed whole — darkness rolling in fast, frost nipping at every exposed surface like it had a personal vendetta. The kind of cold that made your bones ache and your brain short-circuit.
And standing right in the center of it all, wearing flip-flops, basketball shorts, and a t-shirt like some kind of deranged frat boy at a summer barbecue, was Maverick.
He'd already been standing there long enough for the cold to turn his fingers an angry shade of red, and his teeth hadn't stopped chattering for the last ten minutes.
"Son of a—" He blew into his cupped hands, bouncing on the balls of his feet in a futile attempt to generate warmth. "If you're gonna kidnap a guy, at least leave a welcome package. A jacket. A granola bar. Something. What kind of system doesn't even give you a starter pack?"
His voice echoed through the empty park, answered by nothing but the whistle of frozen wind.
Right. Nobody was coming to help.
Now, if we're going to understand exactly how screwed Maverick was, we need to rewind a bit.
See, Maverick hadn't done anything particularly noteworthy with his twenty-three years on Earth. No groundbreaking achievements. No secret talents. No noble acts of selfless heroism. If he absolutely had to point to something on his résumé, it would be getting scratched twice while trying to feed a stray cat behind his apartment building.
That was it. That was the highlight reel.
But even someone as aggressively average as Maverick could stumble into extraordinary circumstances. Because one day — through a series of events he still couldn't fully explain — he'd caught the attention of something. A system. An entity. A cosmic glitch with a sick sense of humor, maybe.
Whatever it was, it had yanked him out of his world and dropped him, body and all, into a parallel version of Earth. Same planet, different rules. Subtle differences that you wouldn't notice unless you were paying attention — which Maverick definitely wasn't, at first, because he was too busy freaking out.
Physical transmigration. No digital upload. No starting a new life in someone else's body. Just him, in the flesh, dumped into a world where he didn't exist. No identity. No records. No social security number. An illegal immigrant from a dimension that didn't have a name.
It was, to put it mildly, a nightmare.
Fortunately, he'd met a kind older woman who'd taken pity on the confused kid wandering around downtown looking like he'd just escaped a psych ward. She'd helped him get settled — fake ID, a place to crash, the basics. Enough to survive.
And Maverick, being Maverick, had immediately started scheming. He knew things about this world that nobody else could. Differences between here and home. Opportunities. He was going to use that knowledge to claw his way to the top. Build something. Get rich. Live the dream.
He'd had a whole plan.
Then his vision blurred, reality folded in on itself, and he was somewhere else entirely.
Again.
Except this time, whatever cosmic entity was responsible had apparently decided that clothing was optional for interdimensional travel. They'd stripped him clean. Not a single thread.
Standing in a dark, frozen park.
In December.
In flip-flops — because the only thing separating him from full nudity was the outfit he'd managed to borrow from a very confused, very drunk man stumbling out of a bar near the park entrance. The guy had been generous enough to part with his shorts, shirt, and sandals in exchange for the most bizarre conversation of his life.
God bless drunk people.
Maverick exhaled a cloud of white steam and raised his right hand, turning it over to stare at the crimson marks etched into his skin. Three interconnected symbols, glowing faintly against the back of his hand like a brand.
Command Spells.
He knew what they were. He knew what they meant.
And as if on cue, the notification had hit.
〔 Thank you to all players for voluntarily participating in the first Holy Grail War organized by the Myriad Worlds Holy Grail War System. 〕
〔 This system is dedicated to promoting the Holy Grail War across worlds that have never experienced one. 〕
〔 Allowing those who have never known a Holy Grail War to discover the joy of battle. 〕
〔 Therefore, the system will now briefly announce the rules. All players, please listen carefully. 〕
Rule ①: This Holy Grail War has a total of 7 participants and operates on a no-rules Battle Royale format. There are two paths to victory:
1. Obtain the Holy Grail.
2. Kill three or more participants.
This Holy Grail War will last for one week. When the timer expires, any player who has not met the above requirements will be forcibly erased.
Rule ②: Since all participants are ordinary people, the system has modified your bodies upon entry — implanting a single mage circuit and partially digitizing you. As such, participants may open their own status panels to view their stats. This status panel is universal across both worlds. Furthermore, players can earn Reinforcement Points through kills in each Holy Grail War to strengthen themselves or make purchases in the System Shop.
Rule ③: During the Holy Grail War, time in the real world is frozen. After the Holy Grail War ends, surviving players will be returned to the real world. (All information regarding the Holy Grail War is public — please do not be stingy with sharing.)
Rule ④: Each player may summon one Servant to assist them in battle. Each Servant has their own distinct class, characteristics, and power level. Each player will have 3 Command Spells on the back of their hand. Command Spells are a non-renewable resource, but can be used to forcibly order Servants, enabling them to achieve feats they otherwise could not.
Rule ⑤: The Holy Grail will manifest when only two to three players remain. A player in possession of the Holy Grail may choose to take one item obtained in this world with them when they leave. (Players cannot use the Holy Grail itself.)
〔 The above are all the rules of the game. 〕
〔 Well then — we wish all players a pleasant game! 〕
[6:23:57:00]
The countdown burned in his vision like a neon sign at a funeral.
Six days. Twenty-three hours. Fifty-seven minutes.
That was how long Maverick had left to live.
He stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight, breath misting in the frozen air. A thousand complaints crawled up his throat — about the cold, about the rules, about the absolute audacity of some interdimensional system kidnapping people and throwing them into a death game like it was some kind of cosmic entertainment.
But in the end, every single one of those complaints died before they reached his lips.
Because complaining wouldn't change anything.
The situation was crystal clear. Seven unlucky bastards — himself included — had been dropped into this city to fight a brutal, seven-into-two Battle Royale. Winners get to keep breathing. Losers get erased. Not killed. Not sent home. Erased. Like they never existed.
So. First things first.
Summoning.
The Servant summon was everything. A good draw could carry him to victory while he sat back and directed traffic. A bad draw meant he'd have to claw for every inch.
And compared to the other six participants — whoever they were — Maverick had one genuine advantage.
He knew this stuff.
Holy Grail Wars. Servants. Noble Phantasms. Command Spells. He'd consumed enough Fate content back home to write a dissertation on the subject. While the other players were probably standing in their own frozen parks trying to figure out what a "mage circuit" was, Maverick already had a working understanding of the system.
That was his edge.
But it was also the only edge he had. No relic for a targeted summon. No catalyst. No way to tilt the odds toward a specific Heroic Spirit. He was rolling blind, and in a game where the difference between an S-tier and a C-tier Servant could mean life or death—
Luck mattered.
Maverick smiled bitterly. Since when had luck ever been on his side?
Still. No point delaying.
He pulled the summoning circle sticker from... somewhere (the system had at least given him that), and slapped it down on the frozen ground. The moment it made contact, deep blue light erupted outward, arcane symbols spiraling into existence, the magic circle expanding with a hum that vibrated in his chest.
The incantation came to him like it had been branded into his soul. Words he'd never learned but somehow knew by heart, rising from somewhere deeper than memory.
His voice rang out across the empty park.
"Declare!"
"Thy body shall be under my command, and my fate shall be with thy sword!"
"In accordance with the call of the Holy Grail — if thou wilt submit to this will and this reason, then answer me!"
"I am he who shall achieve all virtues in the world. I am he who shall personify all evils in the world!"
"Seven days clad in the three great words of power!"
"Come forth from the Ring of Deterrence!"
"Guardian of the Scales!"
He declared it with everything he had.
The magic circle blazed. Wind erupted from its surface, slamming into him with enough force to make him stagger. White mist billowed upward from the circle's center, swirling and condensing, a figure taking shape within the fog.
Maverick's heart hammered against his ribs.
Please be someone good. Please be someone good. Please be—
The mist parted.
A woman stood before him. Lean, athletic, wrapped in a form-fitting tactical suit that looked designed for speed over protection. Her face was hidden behind a white skull mask — smooth, expressionless, ancient in design.
"Servant Assassin. Old Man of the Mountain — Hundred Faces. Answering the summons."
Her voice was quiet. Controlled. Like a blade being drawn from its sheath without a sound.
"I shall present the Holy Grail to my Lord. To my Master."
Maverick's heart sank like a stone.
Hassan of the Hundred Faces.
Of all the Servants in the entire Throne of Heroes — every legendary king, every mythical warrior, every divine spirit — the system had handed him Hundred Faces.
He didn't want to be ungrateful. He really didn't. The Hassans weren't useless. In the right circumstances, with the right Master, an Assassin-class Servant could be devastating. The entire Hassan lineage had a proud history of punching above their weight in Holy Grail Wars.
But "the right circumstances" usually meant having a plan. Resources. Intel. A Master with actual combat ability or magical talent.
Maverick had flip-flops and a hangover-scented shirt.
In a Holy Grail War where monsters like Saber, Lancer, and Berserker-class Servants would be swinging Noble Phantasms capable of leveling city blocks, Hundred Faces was... well.
Let's just say the difficulty had just been cranked to Hell mode.
But it wasn't impossible.
There are no useless Servants, Maverick reminded himself, forcing the disappointment down. Only useless Masters.
He took a deep breath. Then another. Let the cold air burn through his lungs and sharpen his focus.
Then he smiled.
Not a fake smile. Not bravado. Something quieter than that — the kind of calm that settles over you when you've accepted that the road ahead is going to suck, and you've decided to walk it anyway.
"Well then." He extended his hand toward her. "Let's shake on it. As long as we can shake hands, we're comrades. And comrades look out for each other, right? Let's win this thing together."
Hundred Faces stared at his outstretched hand.
Behind the skull mask, he couldn't read her expression. But he could sense the hesitation — the wariness of a Servant sizing up a Master who, by all measurable standards, looked like he'd been dragged out of a dumpster.
Fair enough.
After a moment, she reached out. Her hand was cool — calloused, strong, the hand of someone who'd spent a lifetime holding blades.
Her fingers closed around his palm.
"...Yes," she said softly.
That was enough.
Maverick's eyes hardened. The game had started, and he was already behind. Time to think.
Wearing a suit that still faintly smelled of whiskey — courtesy of his generous drunk benefactor — and clutching the phone the system had apparently provided, Maverick walked through the park with Hundred Faces in spirit form beside him.
Time to brainstorm.
First priority: the goal.
A goal mattered. Without one, every plan was just abstract noise, and abstract noise got you killed. For someone like Maverick — who wasn't crazy, wasn't suicidal, and had a healthy attachment to the concept of being alive — survival was the obvious first priority.
Which meant choosing between the two win conditions.
Option A: Grab the Holy Grail.
Option B: Kill three players.
On paper, Option A sounded simpler. One objective. Wait for the endgame. Take the Grail. But "taking the Holy Grail" meant surviving to the final two or three, and then competing for it against the last remaining Masters and their Servants. The kind of Servants that survived to the final circle would be the strongest ones. The Sabers. The Lancers. The Berserkers. The monsters.
Going head-to-head against that with an Assassin?
Suicide.
Option B, though — killing three players out of seven — that was a different game entirely. It was aggressive. Risky. But it played to his Servant's strengths.
Because no matter how weak Hundred Faces might be compared to a Saber in a straight fight, she was still a Servant. A superhuman entity from the Throne of Heroes. No ordinary human — no player — could stand against her in direct combat. As long as they caught a Master alone, separated from their Servant, Hundred Faces could take their head before anyone knew what happened.
That was the Assassin's game. Not strength. Not glory. Just a knife in the dark and a body on the ground.
The real question wasn't could they do it. It was how.
How do you isolate a Master from their Servant? How do you find them in the first place? How do you avoid getting caught yourself?
That was what Maverick — as the Master — needed to figure out.
His eyes scanned the dark streets as he pulled up the map on his phone, studying the city layout.
The gears were already turning.
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