Time rewinds to the very instant Beelzebub was born—beneath a certain factory in Snowfield City.
"'Let this planet scream with the wails of its own torn flesh'... Is that what Francesca told you?"
Bazdilot Cordelion narrowed his eyes as he addressed the great hero, who had lost his nobility after being forced into servitude by Command Spells.
This man was none other than Bazdilot Cordelion. As a magus, he specialized in a highly twisted branch of thaumaturgy centered on "dominion"—not dominion over others, but rather a system built on the dominion of self. Moreover, he was well-versed in the Eastern curse techniques that the Clock Tower scorned.
Once suspected of being tied to the serial murders of multiple magi, he was marked as a thorn in the side of the Administration Bureau. Later, following a certain incident, he came into conflict with the Sponheim Monastery. During this time, he fell under the protection of the Squartiorre mafia family.
It was only because the monastery had descended into chaos—its designated next head vanishing in the Far East—that he was spared. Otherwise, not even the Italian mafia could have shielded him. That missing successor was none other than Cornelius Alba, the "background extra" of Kara no Kyōkai, devoured by one of Aozaki Tōko's familiars after taunting her severed head with the words "Scar of Red."
Taken in by the mafia, Bazdilot quickly rose to the rank of executive. A few years ago, however, his boss was eliminated by American authorities, and ever since, Bazdilot's entire existence revolved around revenge. The murders tied to him numbered over 125.
By all rights, this man should have rotted away in prison for life. Yet because of a deal struck between Francesca and the U.S. government, he was released—eventually becoming a Master in the Snowfield City Holy Grail War.
"Mm."
"The spies inside the police department have been exposed. Given the chief's temperament, he's already on his way here. So then... do you still think you can win?"
"I no longer care for victory in the Holy Grail War," Alcides answered flatly. "But, Master... I'll need more mana. That won't be a problem, will it?"
"How much?"
Bazdilot's gaze slid toward the crystalline masses stacked within the chamber like mountains of gemstones.
These were the source of mana sustaining the Avenger—crystals formed from human lives sacrificed en masse.
In the United States, tens of thousands of people go missing each year. Officially, the number often exceeds several hundred thousand, though this figure is misleading. Many vanish temporarily, only to be found within days. The true number of those who remain missing for over a year—the truly "disappeared"—is closer to several tens of thousands annually.
Still, tens of thousands is not insignificant. And from the years preceding the Snowfield Grail War, this number had shown abnormal fluctuations. In other words, the slow but steady increase was no coincidence.
Most of them had been consumed as sacrifices for mana.
"Use as much as you need."
At this decisive reply, Alcides added:
"Once it's done... I'll need no further mana."
If his soul could only be reforged—made stronger—perhaps the ending would be different.
Could the Holy Grail turn a soul into solid matter?
No... not this Grail.
Snowfield's vessel lacked the essence of the "Third."
But what of the true Grail?
What of the one in Fuyuki?
Does that land still hold those scraps, that residue of corpses?
These questions lingered within the Avenger's heart.
"I see."
Faced with such words of rejection from his own Servant, Bazdilot did not rage, nor did he withhold mana. He remained utterly expressionless, his voice echoing like something dragged up from the depths of Hell.
"Before we part ways, let me tell you this—not as a noble hero, but as a man of obsession..."
"Extreme hatred is indeed a curse. One could even call it a mystery lingering in the modern era, beyond the taxonomy of magecraft. But truly, it is nothing more than a human emotion. And therefore—"
"Do not conceal your sins or your regrets. Bare your heart without shame. Pursue your goal with unrelenting greed. Even if the path ends in noble ideals, take ruthless measures without hesitation. That is the very essence of human persistence."
In the original Fate/Strange Fake, Bazdilot was recognized by Richard the Lionheart as the "Lionheart" of the present era. Lionheart: one who would destroy himself without hesitation for the sake of a singular goal. And now, Alcides too may well embody that same lionheartedness that once belonged to Heracles.
"Clothe yourself forever in the essence of humanity."
These were the words Bazdilot once spoke to the noble Heroic Spirit Heracles he had summoned as an Archer, before twisting him with three Command Spells and the "mud" bestowed by Francesca—corrupting him into a pitiful Avenger.
The man closed his eyes gently, as if to let his thoughts wander through the life that was nearing its end.
"Go on then—indulge in vengeance, you man of obsession, you who truly deserves it."
The muttering was swallowed by the crashing of shattered walls, reaching no ears.
"I'm here to settle the score for my fallen men, Bazdilot Cordelion. This time, you won't return to prison. You'll die here."
Through the broken wall strode Orlando Reeve, police chief of Snowfield City, raising his katana of the Far East as he declared his intent to the mafioso.
"Orlando, I've long since accepted death. But do you really think you and your ragtag squad of policemen can kill me? You—who aren't even a magus, but merely dabble in its surface?"
For the first time in a long while, Bazdilot's lips twisted into a mocking smile.
After all, he now possessed far more than his original magecraft. Thanks to the Avenger, his body coursed with the red-and-black mana of the "mud." Coupled with the countless lives fueling him, his power now rivaled that of a lesser Servant.
"There's no real reason to explain this... but if you insist, I suppose I do have one."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"Because I'm a cop."
"...Ha! What a fool."
"Say what you like, mafioso. I may joke about sending my men to their deaths with a smile, but I'll never laugh at a hero who fights for strangers."
From behind the police chief emerged a bald-headed playwright, arms outstretched theatrically as if performing on a grand stage.
"Why are you here? Didn't I give you my card and tell you to enjoy yourself for a few days? I already gave you leave to rest."
"Don't interrupt me, brother. Let me repeat myself—my brother is standing against death itself! That's a scene worth remembering! How could a man like you, caked in filth, who's rarely done a noble deed, possibly understand?
That's why everyone will see it instantly.
To stand by and watch someone die carrying a burden they never needed to—that would shatter hearts. But what will people call a fool like him, a man whose feet and eyes are fixed forward no matter what?
They'll call him this: an epic man, one who finds life amidst the jaws of despair—"
Before they knew it, countless sheets of paper filled the air between Orlando and Bazdilot. Quills, steel pens, and other writing tools manifested, scribbling automatically.
"If it were merely suicide, it would be so much easier. You'd simply greet Death with a polite 'take care of me'... but my brother is different. He isn't overturning his own death—he's overturning the death of strangers."
As Dumas' words fell, the pages swirled violently before affixing themselves to the katana in Orlando's grip. Then, with a faint glow, they sank into it, raising the blade's rank without the need for words.
"In the end, I'm only doing what I want to do. Brother—I'm grateful..." Dumas smirked like a mischievous actor, "grateful that you've never once bound me with Command Spells, allowing me to act freely."
"...Though next, I may very well order you to kill yourself."
"That'd be an interesting twist! But save it for later—it's not the right line for this scene." Dumas clapped Orlando on the shoulder. "Anyway, brother, your pheasant stew was the finest meal I've ever had. Now go—just as in so many stories, justice shall not yield to evil."
"Fine then. I'll cook you something even better next time."
Orlando answered with a wry smile, stepping forward.
A conspirator in the Snowfield Holy Grail War—and the city's police chief.
"What an empty performance... but tell me, since I've sacrificed so many lives as fuel, are you planning to hang me here on the spot?"
"I'll do more than that—I'll kill you, for the sake of those who died by your hand."
---
"Swallow the Grail...?"
Elsewhere, Alcides laid aside his bow, gazing at the Holy Grail wrapped in ominous red-and-black mana.
'You want revenge, don't you? Here's my advice: consume the Grail. Then both our wishes can be fulfilled, great hero. Until then, I'll stall for time. After all, revenge twisted from the truth may look like joy in others' eyes. Such curses spread. The harder the vengeance, the greater the strength it yields.'
Francesca's words resurfaced in his mind.
Normally, he would never trust another's words. But Francesca bore the form of Atē—the goddess of ruin. That alone was reason enough for the Avenger to place his faith in her.
Once, before Hera and Iris cursed Heracles, Madness herself had tried to dissuade them.
As recorded in Euripides' Heracles Furens:
Madness: You send me to that man's house, but I'd rather not harm him. I'd rather urge Hera not to err, and counsel you both—if only you'd listen—to avoid bringing disaster upon him.
Iris: Enough of your protests!
Madness: I only wish you'd choose good over evil.
Iris: Hera sent you not to restrain yourself, but to rend him. She wants his hands stained with the blood of his children. Harden your heart. Drive him mad. Spur him on until, when he slaughters his beautiful children and sends them to Charon's boat, he'll know Hera's fury—and mine as well. If no punishment is given, then what are the gods worth? Mortals will think themselves greater than heaven.
Though Madness failed, Alcides remembered—and so Francesca, embodying Atē, seemed to him someone who could be trusted.
Besides, she hated the world as he did.
And he—he was only doing what he must.
For the malice of the Olympians had stolen everything from him—his beloved wife and his children.
Even if the soul could be made material, time would never rewind. That belonged not to the Third Magic, but to a power even farther away.
And so Alcides pursued vengeance.
"Compared to the great vengeance I bear against Olympus' tyrants, this is but a trifling matter. Even if the price is my own life..."
Red-and-black mana erupted from his body as he reached for the Grail, spitting curses at the gods of Greece.
"They never even needed souls as sacrifices... Jealousy alone was enough for them to burn their own people's lives as fuel for the hearth!"
The instant his hand touched the Grail, thunderous roars unknown to this world erupted from within it, blurring the line between reality and illusion.
And then, what appeared before the Avenger seemed to drift impossibly far away, like a haze of drunkenness. A soft dizziness, a surreal strangeness, as though the world itself had grown light and distant, yet tinged with ephemeral beauty.
An illusion?
No. His reason was clear, his sense of self unshaken, his mind free of distortion. This was no illusion—merely a natural transformation.
Only the roar of phantom tides grew louder, closer, echoing in his ears.
It was a call—from the depths of his soul.
And then—
What Alcides beheld, summoned forth by Novia's call, was Mount Olympus itself.
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