The outskirts of Fuyuki were quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against Souta's eardrums like a physical weight. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving only the pale glow of the moon to guide him through the overgrown path leading away from the city. His search for a place rich in Od had led him here—to a forgotten stretch of land where the earth itself seemed to hum with latent energy.
And then he saw it.
Half-buried in the side of a hill, nearly swallowed by ivy and time, was a bunker. The entrance was a heavy metal door, rusted but still intact, its surface etched with faint traces of old wards. Souta ran his fingers along the grooves, feeling the remnants of magecraft long since faded.
*Someone used this place before.*
The realization sent a thrill through him. The Third Holy Grail War had taken place decades ago in this very city. Some magus, perhaps unprepared or desperate, might have fortified this bunker as a temporary workshop. And if that were true...
This place might still hold traces of their work.
The door groaned in protest as Souta forced it open, the sound echoing in the darkness beyond. A wave of stale air rushed out, thick with the scent of dust and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the lingering tang of spent magic.
He stepped inside, his footsteps unnaturally loud in the silence. The bunker was small but meticulously constructed. The walls were reinforced with layers of brick and metal, the floor marked with the faint outlines of old magic circles. Shelves lined one side, empty save for a few shattered vials and yellowed scraps of parchment.
But what caught his attention was the center of the room.
A summoning circle.
Not just any circle—this one was *refined*, its lines precise, its symbols carefully inscribed. The magus who had worked here had known what they were doing.
Souta exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air.
This is perfect.
The next few hours passed in a blur of motion. Souta cleaned the old circle, scrubbing away years of grime until the symbols gleamed faintly under the light of his lantern. He reinforced the bunker's walls with the most basic bounded field he could manage—a crude but functional barrier meant to dampen the magical signature of his summoning. It wouldn't hold against a determined attack, but it would keep prying eyes away long enough for him to complete the ritual.
He laid out his catalysts—the few items he had managed to gather that might influence the summoning. A scrap of parchment with an old Norse rune, a rusted dagger of unknown origin, a fragment of a philosopher's stone replica he had purchased from a shady dealer in the city. None were perfect, but together, they might nudge the Grail toward granting him a Caster-class Servant.
*Please. Let it be someone dependable.*
He couldn't afford a madman like Gilles. Not now. Not after what he had done.
Souta stood at the edge of the circle, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure it could be heard outside the bunker. The air was thick with tension, the scent of chalk and incense sharp in his nose.
He closed his eyes and began the incantation, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands:
*"Let silver and steel be the essence."*
The first line ignited the outermost ring of the circle, blue flames licking at the air without heat.
*"Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation."*
The second ring flared to life as a gust of wind tore through the bunker, scattering dust and loose papers.
*"Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall."*
Pressure built in the room, the very air growing heavy with gathering mana. Souta's magic circuits burned as they struggled to channel the tremendous energy now flowing through him.
*"Let the four cardinal gates close."*
The four points of the circle blazed with light, forming a perfect cross within the bounded field.
*"Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate."*
His vision whited out momentarily as the circle's energy reached its peak. The scars on his neck burned like brands, a constant reminder of his past failures.
Now came the critical lines—the ones that would determine everything.
*"Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill."*
Each repetition sent a jolt through his body, his Od being forcibly drawn into the circle.
*"Repeat five times."*
The circle's light became blinding, the symbols floating free of the floor as the ritual reached its crescendo.
*"But destroy each when filled."*
A shockwave pulsed outward, rattling the bunker's walls. Souta's voice rose to a shout as he completed the final verse:
*"――――I announce."*
*"Thy body shall serve under me."*
*"My fate shall be with thy sword."*
*"Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail."*
*"If thou wouldst obey this mind and this reason, then answer my call!"*
The world *shifted*.
It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, the ground falling away beneath him. The bunker, the circle, even his own body—all of it faded into insignificance as something vast and ancient turned its attention toward him.
The Grail.
He could *feel* it, a presence beyond comprehension, its gaze weighing his soul. The chant became a lifeline, the only thing tethering him to reality as the power built to a crescendo.
His voice cracked under the strain, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
*"I hereby swear!"*
*"That I shall be all the good in the world!"*
*"That I shall defeat all evil in the world!"*
The circle's light became blinding. The air itself vibrated with energy, the pressure so intense it felt like his bones might shatter.
*"――――Seventh Heaven clad in the great words of power!"*
*"Come forth from the circle of binding!"*
*"Guardian of the Heavenly Scales!"*
And then—
A presence.
Something—*someone*—answered his call.
Image of MC.