“Since Your Majesty has already met with him,” Hamit Chandler said, frowning as he stood atop the rooftop, dark clouds blotting out the sky, “we should head back.”
“A mere storm frightens you?” Archer waved a hand dismissively, his expression scornful.
Whether he was afraid was one thing—whether it was wise to stay was another. Hamit had been a professional bounty hunter for twenty years. He had seen too much; the mysterious no longer held mystery. He’d even been struck by lightning once.
Now, with arcs of electricity flickering through the clouds, he had no intention of lingering.
“I fear for Your Majesty’s well-being. The rain may dampen Your body,” he said carefully. “It would be unbecoming to appear disheveled before your peers.”
The clouds boiled black overhead, thunder rumbling in the distance. Archer turned to him with a smirk.
“Are you trying to advise me, like some loyal vassal?” Gilgamesh chuckled. “The real performance has only just begun. You think mere rain can sully this king’s flawless form? Absurd.”
“You’re certain it’s safe here?” Hamit asked quietly. He had no defense against lightning strikes.
“Of course.” As if on cue, the rain fell—only to scatter against an invisible dome, repelled as if it had struck glass. Archer gazed upward with interest. “Night is when the stage begins. Leave now, and you’ll miss the mongrels’ little show. Clowns they may be—but if they can entertain me, then their lives weren’t entirely wasted.”
“…Are you saying you’re interested in the Dead Apostles too?” Hamit asked, frowning.
He had entered the war as a representative hired by the Clock Tower. His true target was the renegade magus, Marco. Clear and focused, he hadn’t bothered with the Dead Apostles—not yet.
Dead Apostles were, after all, most active at night. Perhaps that was why Archer had no intention of leaving. But Hamit specialized in fighting magi. He’d never even seen a Dead Apostle, only heard whispered rumors.
“Interested?” Gilgamesh laughed loud and long. “You think I would be interested in such filth?” His laughter ceased. He spoke coldly: “What interests me… is humanity. The ones who dare to sing of valor!”
He swept his eyes over Hamit with contempt. “Hmph. A mongrel like you could never understand the heart of a king.”
With regal poise, Archer stepped down from his golden ark, descending as if from a throne. He moved slowly, deliberately. Gilgamesh—the King of Heroes—looked upon the world as something beneath him, a ruler gazing down from on high.
As Archer approached, lightning illuminated his face. Hamit caught a glimpse of those glowing red eyes—inhuman and bewitching.
Never let your guard down around an Archer. Swallowing his irritation, Hamit spoke evenly. “Since we’ve already encountered a Servant like Lancer—someone outside the standard system—it’s not impossible we’ll run into others of equal power.”
“Oh?” Gilgamesh raised an eyebrow. “Aside from my one true friend, you think there are others equal to me?” He gave a low laugh. “Very well. I’ll judge this for myself. Is this Grail War one of heroes—or mongrels?”
With that, he leapt from the rooftop.
Golden sparks scattered in his wake, mingling with the falling rain.
Plap.
Gilgamesh landed effortlessly in the hotel’s parking lot below. Hamit followed without hesitation. A fall from the eighteenth floor would’ve turned an ordinary person into paste—but neither a Servant nor someone like Hamit was bound by such limitations.
Violet mist flared around him—pure magical energy. Wisps of wind coiled around his form, elemental power guiding him gently to the ground. His black shoes touched the puddles below without so much as a splash.
Not out of elegance, but from long-honed instinct—Hamit always moved quietly.
His dark purple hair was already soaked, his once-tidy black suit now clinging to him in damp disarray.
“You might consider your appearance,” Archer said with disdain. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“My apologies. Ensuring a safe landing was enough of a challenge,” Hamit replied, honestly. He had some talent, but unlike Gilgamesh, he couldn’t deflect every drop of rain with sheer presence.
“Useless. Tch. I suppose I should’ve expected as much.” Archer threw open the car door. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Drive.”
Suppressing a twitch in his cheek, Hamit climbed into the driver’s seat, rain and wind swirling around them.
“Southern Nant District,” Archer said, lounging in the backseat. He opened a golden portal beside him—as casually as one might open a drawer—and retrieved a goblet of wine.
If Hamit remembered correctly, that same golden portal had yesterday unleashed a barrage of Noble Phantasms, enough to make any magus tremble. Every mage watching had been filled with awe and dread.
“Why take a car?” Hamit couldn’t help but ask. “You don’t have to.”
“It’s more comfortable,” Archer said simply.
Hamit had assumed Archer was trying to avoid exposing the supernatural by not using his radiant golden ark. But apparently… he just preferred the plush seats.
The Southern Nant District was some distance away, but Archer didn’t seem in any rush. Hamit, a bounty hunter for over two decades, remembered a time when he didn’t even know what a steering wheel was. Now, he was a seasoned driver who could navigate mountain roads at full speed.
Even so, he didn’t drive fast tonight. The rain came down hard, urgent and heavy. He had no intention of ruining Archer’s mood by crashing the car. Smooth driving was a must.
Rain drummed against the vehicle in relentless rhythm. Water clung to the windows in foggy sheets. Hamit turned the wipers to their highest setting.
“We’re nearly there,” Archer murmured, swirling his wine. “But I can already smell the stench of vermin. How distasteful.”
“Your Majesty…” Hamit ventured, “what are Dead Apostles, exactly?”
He had a vague idea where they were headed, but now that the moment approached, his calm façade wavered. Magi he could handle. But Apostles—he’d never encountered one in person.
“Filthy vermin. Born mongrels,” Gilgamesh spat. “They’re trash. Mongrels who dare mock humanity.”
“You mean… to you?” Hamit had assumed he was speaking from a Servant’s perspective.
“Death is the kindest mercy they deserve,” Archer said lightly.
“And what about us?” Hamit pressed. “Mortals.”
Even magi, to Servants, were little more than mortals. If Dead Apostles were weak to heroic spirits, how strong were they against humans?
“They’re irredeemable. Pathetic. Not fit to live.” Archer’s words dripped disdain.
As if on cue, an explosion tore through the storefront on the corner. A man with a twisted face burst through the shattered glass and stumbled into the street.
That’s a Dead Apostle?! Hamit instinctively slammed on the brakes.
The rain-drenched street was unusually quiet. Only a few scattered pedestrians wandered past with umbrellas.
But that man—he wasn’t a Dead Apostle.
No, he was one of the Dead—a corpse infected by an Apostle’s bite.
Shk—! Three glinting blades pierced the corpse’s chest. The attacker’s figure was hidden in shadow, but Hamit realized after a moment—it was an executer.
Precise. Efficient. Merciless. But more shocking was that Hamit couldn’t sense any magical energy from the man. He wasn’t casting spells. He was fighting with raw physical strength.
And in close quarters, even Apostles and the Dead seemed… fragile.
As the corpse fell, Hamit realized—the real Apostle had been lurking behind it. Despite its terrifying nature, it had been chased down an entire street… by a single executer.
Klang!
Their movements were too fast to track. Hamit only caught the flash as the executer and the Apostle passed each other. Sparks burst where their bodies clashed, even visible through the pouring rain.
Boom. The impact sent a shockwave through the air, loud enough to make Hamit think two Servants were dueling.
Water splashed against the windshield as Hamit rolled it down. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the fight—though as a bystander, he couldn’t intervene…
Wait. Bystander?
Hamit’s heart skipped. He turned—only to find the back seat empty. Gilgamesh was gone. The Heroic King had vanished without a sound.
Hamit reached for his Holy Mark, the sigil granted by the Grail, hoping to contact Archer. But before he could, the battle below reached its climax.
The enraged Apostle bared his fangs, crimson pupils flaring. He lunged for the executer—only for the Black Key to jam between his jaws.
They grappled. The ground cracked beneath them. Spiderweb fractures spread through the cement, rainwater seeping into the breaks until it pooled beneath their feet.
The stalemate didn’t last long. The executer gained the upper hand. With brute force, he hurled the Apostle into a streetlamp, bending the steel like a twig.
Whsh!
In a blink, the executer’s blade impaled the Apostle—chest to spine. But even then, the vampire didn’t fall. He slammed his head into the executer’s skull, forcing space between them—and fled.
“Rraaaagh!” the wounded Apostle howled, blood staining his short black hair. His crimson eyes blazed with pain and fury. He looked like a starving ghoul from the pits of hell.
The executer’s prowess stunned even Hamit, who had seen a great many warriors.
Clap, clap, clap…
“Well done. In these pitiful times, to see a mortal still worthy of song—this king is pleased.”
Gilgamesh now stood atop a nearby streetlamp, applauding. He looked down like a man watching gladiators in an arena.
At least, that’s what Hamit thought. He assumed Archer had a cruel nature, always chasing pleasure.
But what happened next proved him terribly wrong.
The fleeing Apostle stumbled toward a woman on the sidewalk.
“Blood—give me your blood!” the Apostle hissed, eyes burning red as he lunged.
Before his teeth could pierce her throat, a golden sword struck like lightning, impaling him through the heart and slamming him into the pavement.
“A filthy relic of a bygone age dares prey upon mankind? Who gave you the courage to defy your betters—those high and mighty gods?” Archer’s crimson eyes burned with fury. “Vermin belong in the dirt. They should die wailing.”
The Apostle flailed in panic, limbs thrashing in terror. A barrage of sixteen golden weapons skewered him one after another.
Without Archer’s intervention, the Apostle might not have beaten the executer—but he certainly could have escaped.
“Mongrels should grovel in the mud, stare at filth—and vanish from this world.”
Archer stood tall, scarlet eyes blazing like fire.
“Hmph. Mongrels have no right to live.”
—
T/N: im wet and its not because of the rain
This is a fan translation of 这是我的圣杯之战 by 向希望祈祷. All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!
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