"So, even you dregs—those human scum who joined hands with the Holy Church and the Mage's Association to slaughter your own leader—have taken an interest in the Holy Grail War now?"
At the deepest part of the demon's den, in a chamber built of black stone, colorless magical light radiated from the Holy Grail, illuminating the surroundings.
The vampire in black robes and pale skin—Wolfgang Faust—mocked the blond man before him. His posture exuded an aristocratic pride, gazing down from on high at the crawling wretches of the world. This was the very image of someone who believed himself born superior.
Vampires, or Dead Apostles, are undead born as aberrations of standard life forms—beings outside the natural laws. They breathe in magical energy, sustain their bodies with silent, unmoving hearts, and live by draining the life force of others with their fangs—a fantasy of vampiric existence.
Moreover, Wolfgang was a vampire born in Arcadia, the region of the Greek mythological huntress Atalanta, and had survived since ancient times. His pride stemmed entirely from this Arcadian origin.
"I suppose I do have... a little interest."
The one who spoke, wreathed in curses born of furious wrath, was none other than the blond man—one of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors, the White Knight, Fena Brad Sfield, ranked Eighth.
"And do beings like you—those who have abandoned all dignity—even have the right to participate?"
Wolfgang nodded with elegant restraint. Colder than ice, emotionless, utterly unmoved—as if he were a grim reaper awaiting the flicker of life to extinguish from some helpless creature. Then, with a twirl of his finger, twenty glowing orbs appeared—above his head, over his right and left shoulders.
"Oh? That power…"
"I've already held seventeen Subspecies Holy Grail Wars here, White Knight."
As he declared this, the glowing orbs—hyperdense masses of mana known as Servant Cores—began to flicker.
To Wolfgang, these mana cores formed by the collapse of heroic spirits were the ideal alchemical materials. These were the spiritual residues left behind after the Servants, summoned by the Sub-Holy Grail and bearing unfulfilled wishes, fell within the "Labyrinth," their temporary ether-based bodies destroyed, their cores stolen.
In other words, the Seventh Labyrinth of Alcatraz had long since become a colossal digestive organ—a stomach—for vampires to feast on Servants.
"Judging from that… it's clear I'm no match for you now. Perhaps only the me from before the year 300 AD might have stood a chance," Brad said without fear. "But I bear no hostility. I came only to witness the moment of your triumph, Wolfgang Faust."
"Hmph, at least you know your place."
Seeing the White Knight's sincerity, Wolfgang dismissed the idea of fighting him. After all, he needed only one more Servant Core to ascend—to evolve his kind, to become a being akin to a spirit of nature, an embodied manifestation of the planet's consciousness—a Sense of the Planet.
"If Crimson Moon were still around, perhaps your kind wouldn't have fallen this far. Oh, but at best you'd have gone from drinking pig's blood to chicken's blood. Human blood? Dream on. Hahahahahaha!"
Though he no longer intended to fight, Wolfgang couldn't resist hurling one final insult.
Crimson Moon, the Lunar King who responded to the Earth's call, was the origin of both True Ancestors and Dead Apostles—the very first, and the strongest, of the ultimate vampires.
However, in 300 AD, Crimson Moon was slain in the Millennium Castle by Zelretch the Wizard Marshall, after being targeted by other True Ancestors in collusion with the Holy Church, the Mage's Association, and countless rogue magi.
Despite Crimson Moon being their leader, the True Ancestors were creatures born of Gaia's will using his template. As beings who embodied the planet's will, it was only natural that they obeyed its order to "annihilate Crimson Moon."
But before that, the Dead Apostles—their entire species—had nearly been wiped from existence. The Holy Church and the Roman Empire had aimed for total genocide, crushing skulls, exterminating bloodlines, razing territories to ashes in a campaign of absolute annihilation.
Following that, for reasons unknown, the Wizard Marshall went into seclusion. With their strongest protector now absent, the Mage's Association and the Holy Church, both on the brink of collapse, struck a disgraceful truce. Thanks to resources provided by the Church, they barely managed to survive in London, Britain.
The True Ancestors were less fortunate. The Holy Church never saw them as allies to begin with. Their anti-True Ancestor campaigns left them devastated after Crimson Moon's fall. Even beings like Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg were mercilessly hunted for their ties to the Dead Apostles.
"I've heard a rumor," Wolfgang mused on his throne, everything around him dyed red—from the carpet to the tapestries. "That Kischur became a Dead Apostle only after defeating Crimson Moon, ambushed by the other Ancestors in betrayal. As someone who witnessed it, you should know the truth."
"That's not quite it. But yes, the Wizard Marshall was indeed injured."
"Injured... by Crimson Moon?"
Wolfgang asked with interest. Though ancient, he had remained hidden for most of history and lacked firsthand knowledge.
"Some Dead Apostles now claim Crimson Moon lost due to unfamiliarity with magecraft," Brad replied with a smile. "But the truth is, Crimson Moon was no match for the Wizard Marshall, a user of True Magic. To put it in modern terms, not even Crimson Moon's maximum output could threaten him."
"Oh? Then how did he get injured? If Crimson Moon wasn't the cause, and he was that powerful, why did the Holy Church act so aggressively back then?"
"The answer's simple," Brad sighed. "Because the Holy Church wielded a force even more terrifying than magecraft. A force that ultimately left the Wizard Marshall gravely wounded."
"What force?"
"Faith. That uniquely human, man-made force. A brutal, overwhelming violence born of belief."
Magecraft is the study of history, of karmic sins and virtues, of stellar cycles—all things bound to fate. But magic, True Magic, is determined by external, divine law—outside the realm of humanity and the planet. It is, by definition, the enemy of both man and Gaia.
Yet those who wield True Magic can erase any gap in knowledge or skill through its absolute power—capable of rewriting reality itself.
"To think… it was that powerful..."
Brad's words left Wolfgang genuinely shaken—but the feeling didn't last long. It was quickly overtaken by elation.
Because he could sense it.
The dragon that guarded the third level—created using twelve Servant Cores—had been slain.
Which meant—
"They're finally here! The final sacrifice I need for my ascension! Hahahahahaha! My lord Lycaon, bless this child of Arcadia!"