That day, Fiore Forvedge Yggdmillennia was more tense than usual.
Even the hands that guided the wheelchair that served in place of the legs she had never been born with carried more strength than they usually did.
And it was only natural.
For what she was about to undertake now was the decisive battle that would determine her own—and her clan's—future: the Great Holy Grail War.
The original Holy Grail War held in Fuyuki sixty years ago had been a battle in which seven Servants and their Masters fought to the death until only one remained standing.
However, this Great Holy Grail War, due in part to interference from the Mage's Association, had undergone a number of changes to its format.
Gathered here were twice the number of the original: fourteen Servants.
Yggdmillennia and the Mage's Association—each would command seven Servants, and each side would strive to annihilate the opposing seven.
Heroes of unmatched renown from across history and legend would gather in one place, clashing in a conflict on a scale never before seen.
That was the Great Holy Grail War.
The Yggdmillennia clan, to which Fiore belonged, had entrusted its entire future to this one war.
If they lost, they would be destroyed.
There was no turning back.
Since Yggdmillennia had defected from the Association, their only means of survival was triumph in this war.
Fiore stared intently at the Command Spells branded upon her hand.
The pulsating mana shaped itself into three marks.
To an outsider they might resemble tattoos—but to Fiore, they were her trump card, her lifeline, and her passport to war.
A Master's Command Spells were three uses of absolute authority.
Though she was a magus, Fiore was still only human; this was her only means to control a Servant—an Heroic Spirit.
The fact that she possessed them meant that she was unquestionably one of the Masters chosen by the Holy Grail.
Naturally, she was the second-highest in the Yggdmillennia hierarchy, the next head of the clan—and…
…one of the few first-rate magi among the numerous members of the family.
It was only logical she had been selected; ever since the head of the family, Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia, had told her of their participation, her own involvement had been all but guaranteed.
Thus, Fiore had prepared painstakingly to welcome the finest possible Heroic Spirit—both for the sake of survival, and to shoulder the fate of her clan.
In the bundle resting on her lap lay the catalyst for summoning the greatest Archer in the world.
An ancient arrowhead, stained with the dark blue-black blood of the Age of Gods.
Only two Heroic Spirits could be summoned through this catalyst:
One was the very man who fired this arrow—Heracles, the greatest of all Greek heroes.
The other was the great sage Chiron, who had been struck by the arrow.
Both were elite archers whose names echoed through myth.
Whichever appeared, it would certainly be the Archer class—and they would be among the greatest Archers imaginable.
To call down beings who dwelled far beyond human reach—to draw them into the mortal world and command them—Fiore could not deny a certain fear.
The first to complete summoning had been her clan head Darnic, who had called forth a Lancer.
And the youngest of the Black faction, the prodigy golem-maker Roche Frain Yggdmillennia, had summoned a Caster—an existence whose very appearance was a miracle.
Caster's fame among the general public might be limited, but to Fiore as a magus, they were not someone whose significance could be ignored.
And as for Lancer, he was Vlad III, the great national hero of Romania—his fame worldwide, and in this country, his fame ranked at its highest possible value.
Lancer's stats were nearly maxed out—he stood at the pinnacle of Servants.
Fiore would never forget the shock of seeing him.
The overwhelming aura—a pressure she had never before experienced.
It was truly the dignity of a king, the immovable ego permitted only to those who transcended humanity.
A being who could make others kneel with will alone.
This was the one whom their clan head revered as king—the standard-bearer of the Black faction.
The ritual chamber was already inscribed with an intricate magic circle, drawn in a mixture of molten gold and silver.
There were four summoners here, including Fiore.
The Black faction had five summoning slots left—and on this day, they intended to fill four of them with a simultaneous ritual.
One Master, whose summoning would take place in a far-eastern island nation, was not present here.
Until that Servant arrived, they would remain at a numerical disadvantage.
Thus, they had to complete their summonings before the Association finished assembling its forces.
In sheer ability, the enemy held the advantage—they could not afford any oversight in their preparations.
Fiore, too, would summon her Servant now.
Her aim was the Archer class, and only that.
The murmuring faded as if on cue, and the head of the clan rose.
Upon a throne above, Lancer overlooked the ritual from on high.
"Place the catalysts you have gathered upon the altar," Darnic commanded.
The Masters nodded in unison.
One by one, they placed their catalysts upon the altar.
Tension swelled, and Fiore felt her heart pounding violently.
She maneuvered her catalyst with practiced precision, placing it on the altar before returning to her designated spot.
Her chest felt as though it might burst.
Mana circulated through her body, tormenting the magical circuits embedded in her legs.
"I declare…"
At that moment, all four summoners forget even the oppressive presence of Lancer.
They felt only the awe of touching upon the greatest mystery.
□
Fiore succeeded in drawing an Archer—exactly as intended.
By the time she realized this, a considerable portion of her mana had already been drained, and she could clearly perceive—by the eyes of one who had once belonged to the Department of Spiritual Evocation—that the being before her was not of this world.
She felt relief. Summoning had succeeded.
But her sense of elation ended there.
For when Rider, Astolfo, approached the newly summoned Servants and asked each for their True Name, Fiore's Servant spoke in a heavy, weary voice—yet without hesitation:
"I am sorry, but I cannot tell you my name.
For some reason, my memories are in disarray.
To be frank, I cannot recall who I am."
Fiore now sat in her own room, glaring at her Servant with open displeasure.
The reason was obvious: he was not the Servant she had wished to summon.
He was neither Heracles nor Chiron.
Something had gone wrong—she had called forth an entirely different Heroic Spirit.
On top of that, he claimed not to remember his own name.
His parameters were plain—despite being one of the three knight classes regarded as superior among the seven.
A Servant's stats depended on the Master's ability as a magus and the Heroic Spirit's fame.
Even with memory loss, a famous hero summoned by a first-rate Master should maintain high specs.
In other words, despite being summoned by Fiore, this Archer's low stats suggested that—as a Heroic Spirit—he ranked quite low.
"I will ask again, Archer. What you said earlier—was that the truth?"
Her quiet voice carried a clear refusal to tolerate lies.
The man simply replied, without change in expression, "Ah."
"Haa… truly, how did things turn out like this…"
Fiore slumped forward with a sigh.
This was a battle they had to win.
She had done everything to ensure victory.
Yet the summoning had failed.
Only she had failed to obtain the Servant she aimed for.
Even her less talented younger brother had succeeded.
And the Servant she did call was an amnesiac of unknown identity.
Disappointment, despair, anxiety, humiliation—these tangled into a complex irritation boiling within Fiore.
As the next head of Yggdmillennia, she had been expected to achieve a fitting result—and yet this was her failure.
Even the gaze Gored had given her, having summoned Saber, was so irritating that not even the normally gentle Fiore could hide her displeasure.
She examined her Servant again—he was tall, white-haired, strongly built yet lean, his physique without waste.
The Clock Tower was full of scholar-types, but he was of a completely different breed.
His sharp eyes were like those of a hawk—fitting for an Archer.
His red mantle and body armor didn't quite resemble a knight, but Fiore could sense that the mantle itself was a conceptual weapon of significant power.
In any case, what was done was done.
Even a low-spec Servant could prevail through tactics and the Master's skill.
This war was a team battle.
Archer would not be fighting alone.
She tried to convince herself of this, wrestling to rebuild her confidence—when Archer addressed her:
"You seem… displeased with my summoning."
A late, but accurate, observation.
Fiore resisted the urge to answer "Of course," out of raw emotion.
"Indeed, you are not the Servant I intended to call."
She admitted it plainly.
There was no use clinging to what was already lost.
No matter how much she complained, he was her Servant now.
To understand the situation correctly and plan accordingly was her duty.
Still, Fiore's voice carried an edge as she continued:
"Your stats are lower than I anticipated.
And furthermore, your inability—or unwillingness—to speak of your origins is… unsatisfactory."
She realized only after speaking that she had let far too much of her heart spill into her words.
She had directly pointed out his inferiority in numbers—essentially declaring him a disappointment to his face.
This would only damage their rapport.
A Servant was a familiar, yes, but one with a will of their own.
If she antagonized him now, the situation could deteriorate before the fighting even began.
Fiore tried to read his reaction—
"Fufu."
Archer's lips curled faintly into a smile.
It was as if he were amused by her immaturity, which irritated her further.
"What is so funny?"
"No, forgive me. I simply did not expect you to speak so honestly.
Magus seldom reveal their true feelings."
"—!"
He had struck precisely the part Fiore regretted—her own mistake.
Her inner anxiety was evidently transparent to him.
She felt decidedly underestimated—treated as if she were a child.
In life experience he far surpassed her, yes—but that didn't make the sensation pleasant.
Yet he continued:
"Still, a magus who speaks their mind as frankly as you do is quite interesting.
In that sense, I find your nature… favorable."
A completely unexpected compliment left Fiore flustered.
It could have been taken as teasing, but hearing it directly, she could not deny that she was pleased.
She hid it behind a composed smile:
"I shall accept that as praise—for now."
A hint of irony to her tone.
Then—
"However…"
She drew a breath and met Archer's eyes head-on.
"This is the Great Holy Grail War.
As I said, your stats are low overall.
Fortunately, unlike standard Grail Wars, we are not alone.
My uncle's Servants are strong.
But—"
She squeezed her hands atop her lap.
"I have a duty—as the one who will succeed the Yggdmillennia name.
I will not sit idly by and merely observe this war."
Her voice was steady, earnest, filled with conviction.
Even Archer—who had worn a sardonic smile until then—straightened his expression and received her words seriously.
After a brief silence, he spoke:
"In short, you wish to know whether I am capable of fighting—correct?"
"Yes, that is correct."
Fiore's only information about Archer was his numerical stats and that he was an archer.
Normally one could rely on legends to infer abilities, but with no identity, all those references were lost.
Everything depended on whether he could surpass his stats in actuality.
Archer leaned back against the wall again, arms folded—an insolent posture in her own room.
Then he sighed, half exasperated:
"In that case, there is no problem."
"…What?"
"I said, there is no problem."
He stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing across the room.
"This body is a Servant.
Fighting is what I was summoned for.
That is all."
"That is… true, but…"
"As you said, my stats may not stand out.
But that is merely numbers.
Combat is shaped by tactics, not brute force.
Raw strength alone does not decide our battles."
Fiore could not disagree—she had thought the same.
And indeed, for an Archer, lower physical stats were not crippling the way they would be for Saber or Lancer.
He fought from range; strategy would decide everything.
"Then… you can win, yes?
Even against other Servants?"
She pressed him once more.
Archer replied without hesitation:
"Of course."
Her doubtful gaze only made him smile wryly as he approached her.
Fiore, small and seated in her wheelchair, naturally looked up at him.
"Do you think the Servant you summoned could be anything less than the strongest?"
Such arrogance—such absurd confidence.
Yet Fiore did not find herself doubting him.
Despite having seen Lancer and Saber with her own eyes—he declared himself strongest nonetheless.
And somehow, it didn't feel laughable.
She felt as though she had glimpsed a strength beyond numbers.
Her own instinct urged her to believe him—and she found that strangely amusing.
Fiore finally broke into a smile.
"I shall hope that is not mere empty boasting, Archer."
It was the first smile she had ever given him.