Police Department, Chief's Office.
"Chief, may I ask you to tell me more about Francesca and Fadius?"
Charlemagne, who had reached a cooperative agreement with Dumas, turned his gaze toward the Police Chief of Snowfield City—Orlando Rive, one of the masterminds behind this Holy Grail War.
"My apologies. Although I previously discussed this Grail War with them, I only know that Francesca is a magus who has lived for a very long time, while Fadius is backed by the government. Beyond that, I don't know much."
Although the three belonged to the same faction behind the Grail War, there was no trust between them. For the Chief, it was enough simply to protect the residents of Snowfield City during this war.
In other words, if Francesca, Fadius, or anyone else were to seize the Grail with the intent of destroying the city—or even the entire nation—Orlando would never retreat. Even if it cost him his life, he would resist such destruction.
"I see… Then what about the one who brainwashed your subordinate and turned him into a spy—Bazdilot Cordelion? What do you think of him?"
"Bazdilot Cordelion. An Italian mafioso loyal to his gang. Ever since the former boss was eliminated by the government, he's been bent on overthrowing the entire nation—even at the cost of his life. In short, he's a brute."
"Oh? I see. Just hearing you describe him, I can feel his conviction—the resolve to destroy himself if need be. Hah. If little Richard were here, he'd probably laugh at the irony of a lion choosing a path so utterly opposed to his own. Or should I call it a lionheart?"
Charlemagne muttered this to himself, then rested his chin on his hand and continued,
"Chief, there's more you want to say, isn't there? Out with it."
"...I'm not someone who can't accept the death of my men."
Orlando's eyes burned with a quiet fury. But that fury was not directed outward—it was directed at Bazdilot, the man who twisted his subordinate, the Master who turned Heracles into an Avenger.
As their leader, Orlando felt ashamed to have dragged his men into the affairs of magecraft and mystery. And more importantly, he regretted that he had failed to notice the signs, when it was his duty to protect them better than anyone else.
Both Orlando and Dumas recalled the words and expression of Charlemagne when he had been brought to the station after appearing on television:
"Kneel, and shed tears of joy—for I am salvation, I am the end, and I am the very will of the world made manifest."
Then Charlemagne turned toward the twenty-eight police officers created through Dumas's Noble Phantasm. Raising his hand, a radiant blue brilliance filled the entire station.
"Behold. This azure light, the universal radiance, the light of the Holy Spirit. It spreads love to every corner of the world. It is the ideal the Roman Empire failed to embody, the truth that should have ensured mankind's eternal prosperity. You must not betray it."
Before that overwhelming majesty, the officer who had been twisted into a spy crumbled instantly.
Seeing this, Orlando had Dumas dispel the heroic blessing he had granted the officers, choosing instead to speak directly with this Father of Western Europe. In the end, he reached a peaceful agreement with Charlemagne.
"Well, thanks to you, Charlemagne. I might filter dust, but I didn't catch that one at the time." Dumas shrugged, fell silent for a moment, then scowled. "Damn it, brother. When I boosted everyone with my Noble Phantasm, I should've noticed."
"No, this isn't your fault," Orlando replied. "If it were only Bazdilot's corruption, it might have been manageable… But most likely, that old hound cloaked him with illusions—twisting the flow of magical control so his presence would be mistaken for mine."
"Old hound?"
Charlemagne tilted his head in curiosity.
"My brother means Francesca," Dumas explained. "Her thoughts are probably something like: 'Oh, this looks fun, so I'll lend a hand.' Fadius may have known, too—that's probably why Bazdilot Cordelion was in contact with him."
"By the way," Orlando added thoughtfully, "just earlier I was contacted by a mercenary who called himself Sigma. He said he intends to take care of Fadius." Then, nodding firmly, he declared: "And afterward, I will personally avenge my men. I will put an end to Bazdilot Cordelion, the Italian mafioso, with my own hands."
"Hahaha, my brother is a true hero! Though I'll probably be laughing as I watch him walk to his death."
With theatrical exaggeration, Dumas spread his arms wide, his voice rising as though he stood upon a stage. Then, straightening his posture, he offered Charlemagne a noble bow, his tone elegant and refined.
"But for now, our main concern is Novia. As for the Grail, I hold no expectation. For a playwright, simply witnessing a splendid story is more than enough. What about you, Charlemagne?"
"...Let me think about it."
Charlemagne answered with a wry smile.
Unlike Dumas, he originally did want the Holy Grail, and he believed his chances of success to be high… at least, until Novia appeared.
"If I said it was to bring my sister back… would my brother-in-law give me the Grail?"
He muttered to himself, rubbing his chin, his tone uncertain. At the same time, he caught sight of his reflection in the office mirror and sighed again.
"...Haah. What a mess."
After all, he should have appeared not as the youthful Charlemagne, but as the elderly Emperor Charlemagne—the ruler who had once dominated all of Europe.
Charlemagne and Emperor Charles were not the same. They were, in essence, two distinct aspects of a Servant: the youthful dreamer and the aged sovereign.
For Emperor Charles, the Twelve Paladins were his elite; no magical beasts or witches stained his reign. His Europe was reality itself, built through wisdom, iron, and ceaseless effort.
In contrast, Charlemagne lived within a "daydream" where fantasy and reality blurred.
In the history of mankind, Charles's overwhelming "reality" had crushed the fragile "daydream" of Charlemagne. That was why, in a normal Grail War, Charlemagne should never have been summoned.
And yet, here he stood—appearing as the youthful Charlemagne. Even he himself could not have imagined such a miracle.
At first, he only sensed a power so dreadful that even Lord El-Melloi had feared it. And since his brother-in-law had once been an El-Melloi monarch, he descended quickly before Richard the Lionheart could claim the stage—thinking of it as merely a favor.
But it turned out, it wasn't one of El-Melloi's own. It was the embodiment of El-Melloi's magic furnace.
"No matter how I think about it, I can't win!"
Charlemagne threw up his hands before Dumas and Orlando, his youthful face twisted in exasperation.
Perhaps because he had manifested in a youthful form, his mindset, too, had reverted to that brightness of youth—so different from the unshakable steel heart of Emperor Charles. Maybe that was why he introduced himself as "Charlemagne" and not "Emperor Charles."
For youth must carry its own vigor.
"Even the Alien Key doesn't respond… How am I supposed to fight like this? No, it's impossible!"
But deep down, beyond his wish to save humanity, Emperor Charles harbored another desire. His true reason for wanting the Holy Grail was simple: he wanted his sister and brother-in-law to be reunited.
In the distant past, while journeying across the freezing Himalayas with his knight Astolfo, Charlemagne had stumbled upon the ruins of a giant. When he touched a slab of stone, he saw her: a lonely brown-skinned girl, trembling in solitude—Attila.
She waited endlessly for someone.
Through the Alien Key, words once carved there by Avia entered Charlemagne's mind—words of a silver-haired man who wished that Attila would no longer be alone.
Time may turn oceans into fields. Countless deeds of heroes may vanish beneath the dust. Entire civilizations, once blooming like fields of flowers, may disappear without a trace.
But so long as the Alien Key remained, that man's faith and hope would endure beneath the Alps, quietly waiting for Charlemagne's arrival—
"You will succeed. I have no doubt of it. Not because of some so-called destiny, but because you worked tirelessly for peace—because of you, and your friends. Yes, I too think that those who strive earnestly are always admirable."
At that time, Charlemagne had already killed men on the battlefield, inheriting the duties of his father. Knights, in truth, had no "chivalry" there—only killing, burning, looting.
But deep down, he did not want it. He wished to fight openly, to show mercy to surrendered foes, to battle only in defense of peace. He wanted to share drinks with anyone regardless of birth or creed, to befriend those of other faiths.
That was the man he wanted to be.
Perhaps this was the true divide between Charlemagne and Emperor Charles. The boy dreamed of that world, while the emperor abandoned it in pursuit of power—yet both held the same wish:
To reunite Avia and Attila.
To let them live happily together.
Both believed so with all their hearts.
"...If worst comes to worst, I'll just let my brother-in-law make the wish. Whatever it is, I'll support it."
So concluded Charlemagne, unable to think of a better plan.
---
At the same time, beneath Snowfield City—
When Sigma arrived, there were no signs of people.
Yet even in the emptiness, the space brimmed with resentment so thick it suffocated.
"Stay sharp, lad. The mana here is twisted. Even the eyes of an Observer can't be trusted."
At the old captain's warning, Sigma caught his breath, staring at "it."
It resembled black-red magma clinging to the hollow walls, circling the steel scaffolding that supported the colossal structure of the Greater Grail.
This vast cavern had existed long before Snowfield's streets were built.
To the clan of Tinny Chelc, Master of the King of Heroes, it was a forbidden sanctuary. A place where the great leyline flowed strongest. A land prepared for the descent of the Greater Grail.
Earlier, Sigma had decided that before killing Francesca, he had to first take care of Fadius, who was closely tied to her. But when he reached the control room of Fadius's private prison, all he found were corpses—including Fadius himself, apparently slain by a Servant.
So Sigma came here, to the place Francesca had once mentioned, hoping to encounter and kill her.
But—
"...Can that thing really be called a Grail?"
Gazing at the swirling red-black mud, Sigma swallowed hard. The malice seeping from it was terrifying.
Rather than a vessel, it was like a hellmouth that devoured all.
"It doesn't look like it could function as any kind of proper wish-granting device."
With disdain in his eyes, one of Sigma's Observers—taking the form of a boy with a cane—narrowed his eyes in sorrow.
"This mud… It's the same as that which polluted Alcides. Don't tell me… Francesca intends to pull something like that?"
"What do you mean?"
"To deceive the Grail."
"That's impossible. Even with her illusions, she couldn't make something this foul just vanish. And only a few Servants have died so far. That's nowhere near enough mana."
"The mana has long since been enough. From the moment Novia appeared." The cane-bearing boy lifted his gaze. "I… I already sense the moment when I, my comrades aboard the ship, and even that one above the heavens will soon arrive."
"In any case, I need to destroy this Greater Grail. But if I do it wrong… this mud could spill to the surface, couldn't it?"
"If it were only a Lesser Grail, that'd be uncertain. But at this stage, it's no problem."
"Good. Then I—"
But just as Sigma reached out to touch the Grail swathed in red-black mud, he realized there was nothing there. The Grail was nothing but an illusion woven by Francesca.
Seeing this, the cane-bearing shadow boy murmured expressionlessly:
"This truly is… an unparalleled, terrifying illusion. Atti's human form… just what do you intend to make Alcides swallow?"
This was no ordinary shadow—his true name was Asclepius, the famed Greek god of medicine, and one of the Argonauts.
At his mutter, above Snowfield City's skies appeared a colossal circle—perfect as if drawn by a compass, cutting the heavens. Within its center was a sphere of a different hue.
A massive sphere, kilometers across, floated just 150 meters above the ground. Slowly rotating, yet never shifting position—like a miniature moon, fixed in orbit.
At first glance, it looked artificial: its dried brick-colored base patterned with interwoven blue and gold, like enamel or stained glass.
It looked like an enormous egg from which gods or demons might hatch.
Or perhaps an unknown celestial body, suddenly manifest.
And stripped of its ornate beauty… it looked like nothing more than the egg of a fly, awaiting its hatching.