"Snap."
The crisp sound of a piece landing echoed through the luxurious study.
The board was a seven-by-seven grid, reminiscent of chess, yet the exquisitely crafted pieces carried an indefinable sense of menace.
Seated on one side was a young man dressed in elegant aristocratic attire. His ink-dark hair was combed with meticulous care, his bearing refined and regal.
He looked twenty-five or twenty-six at most, yet his eyes held the weariness of someone who had seen through the world. The authority of one accustomed to command clung to him, something no one his age should have possessed.
Darnic Preston Yggdmillennia.
Just days ago, he had shaken the world of magi by raising his banner against the Mage's Association and its Clock Tower, daring to challenge the noble lineages that ruled from the shadows of the world.
Most believed him foolish. Some thought him suicidal.
Yet every magus of the Yggdmillennia family placed their faith in him.
And for good reason.
His confidence came not from arrogance, but from a miracle in his grasp.
The Greater Grail. The manifestation of the Third Magic—Materialization of the Soul. With that foundation, the accumulated magical energy of Romania's leylines over the past sixty or seventy years, and Yggdmillennia's long preparations…
The crossbow was already drawn.
How could he stop without piercing his enemy's heart?
Opposite Darnic sat a being even stranger—if he could be called human at all.
Clad in bizarre garments, his face hidden behind an eccentric mask, his entire presence wrapped in Mystery, he was no man of the modern age.
He was an ancient hero.
A Servant summoned under the Caster class. A Heroic Spirit gathered into this great clash, an existence long divorced from the flow of time and space.
Avicebron.
Or, by another name, Solomon ibn Gabirol—the poet hailed as the "Plato of the Jews." He had bestowed upon the world a new magical foundation: Kabbalah, the origin of golems.
Now, he held a red piece in his hand, pondering how to defeat the man across from him.
"…Hah." He sighed and shook his head. "I can't see through you. Just like that child named Rhodes."
"Oh?" Darnic chuckled softly. "So even you find Lord Rhodes difficult to read. It seems we share the same assessment."
Despite the smile, caution flickered in his eyes.
A magus who could briefly contend with a Heroic Spirit. A collateral noble who had blown up the Clock Tower and walked away unscathed. An eighteen-year-old who earned the Three Primary Colors on sheer technique alone.
When all of that was contained within a single person, even someone as proud as Darnic had to wonder what lay beneath that youthful face.
Still, with the Holy Grail War about to begin, there was no reason to tear relations apart. For now, he would let Caster conduct reconnaissance.
"That boy is no ordinary figure," Avicebron said, the metal mask clinking softly as he spoke. "His methods alone exceed what an eighteen-year-old could achieve. Either he is a powerhouse from the past, or he wields power capable of destroying everything."
His hoarse voice lingered in the study.
"Seeing through him will be difficult. But if he competes with Roche for the position of head of the Frain family, I will not remain idle."
"Oh? You intend to move against Lord Rhodes?" Darnic smiled faintly. "Forgive my bluntness, but that sounds unwise."
Avicebron shook his head.
"Of course not. I only intend to remove him from the Holy Grail War. My Master, Roche, trusts me. I won't betray that trust."
"I see…"
The corners of Darnic's mouth curved into a low, measured smile.
"Then I shall await good news, Lord Avicebron."
◇◇◇
At noon, the sun blazed overhead, draping the Yggdmillennia castle in oppressive heat.
Yet with the castle's magic arrays running at full capacity—and some magi even installing modern air-conditioning units in their workshops—the temperature inside remained tolerable.
Inside Rhodes' workshop, graceful figures moved briskly as they cleared out debris.
Discarded enchanted materials, fine dust, and even usable magical tools were tossed aside. Twelve doll maids worked with ruthless efficiency, combing through every corner as if determined to dig three feet into the ground.
They inspected every crack between the bricks, searching for surveillance spells, but found nothing.
Soon, piles of "trash" were handed to a homunculus maid waiting at the door. Compared to her cold, emotionless expression, the doll maids—chatting as they worked—almost seemed more human.
"Good. Looks like Rocco knows how to behave…"
Lounging on a hand-tanned leather sofa from Fort Roich, France, Rhodes wore a playful smile as he admired the clear crystal ball in his hand—and the fragment sealed within.
The shard was blood-red, trembling faintly, like a living thing. Like a fragment of a heart.
Yet it was undeniably a weapon of mass destruction. A treasure from antiquity.
A Holy Relic.
On that island nation of Japan where every inch of land bore its legend, its name alone inspired dread.
The Killing Stone.
An indispensable material for summoning the Golden-Haired White-Faced Nine-Tailed Fox.
To obtain this fragment, Rhodes had paid the newly appointed "Lord of the Summoning Department," Rocco Belfeban, quite handsomely, leveraging a series of unique transactions to seize this prize.
If he failed to summon that Golden-Haired White-Faced Nine-Tailed Fox…
Rhodes would probably storm back to the Clock Tower and hang "Lord of the Summoning Department, Rocco," from its second hand.
Assuming the Clock Tower still stood.
"All right. You're up."
"Come forth—Tamamo, the Wise and Virtuous Fox!"