A burning city.

That was all that remained of the Fuyuki in the aftermath of a great war.

The once tall and proud skyscrapers, testaments to man's ever-forward march, had been reduced to nothing but smouldering ruins on the verge of collapsing. Some had begun doing so already, with chunks of burning cement that had once been beautifully decorated offices, or even penthouses, plunging to the ground, kicking up dust and smoke as they crushed all underneath them.

The well-kept roads of the Shinto district lay tattered and cracked, a plethora of abandoned vehicles burning above them, their hoods crushed and their bodies entirely deformed by the rubble from scorched constructs.

Miyama Town too burned. It's culturally rich mansions barely remained standing, and those too were the fortunate ones left behind where others had been razed and made into Earth.

From the western-inspired, multiple-story mansions, the suburban lodgings made with a preset, to the openly built compounds of the more traditional mansions, none had been spared. None retained even an inkling of the wealth that went into their construction.

Fuyuki bridge, a massive piece of the city's infrastructure, had been wholly demolished. Once held up by thick metal beams, it had now been forcibly ripped to shreds, a feat many would claim impossible.

The once serene park underneath it, that had once been used by many as place to simply relax, was completely removed from the face of the Earth, replaced instead, by a massive crater that crept up to the residential district near it.

Thick black smoke billowed out of burning houses and commercial centers alike, forming a dense, dark canopy over what remained of a once, massive and admirable city.

Fuyuki burned that night.

Corpses were strewn across the city like puppets with their strings cut, some were missing limbs, others were devoured or destroyed outright.

Yet, it could not be denied that the city was still not dead.

A cacophony of clashing steel and thunderous booms echoed throughout the desolate city, falling on deaf ears. It was accompanied by a harrowing, defiant laughter and discourteous disregard that could be mistaken for silent acceptance. 

That was the sight reflected in Marisbury Animusphere's dull pale golden eyes.

The head of the Animusphere family, aligned with the Aristocratic Faction within the Mage's Association that governed the supernatural world hidden in the shadows' ruling body, the Clock Tower and Lord of the Department of Astromancy, one of it's 12 Departments, observed with expertly concealed intrigue.

He had one hand in the pocket of his white, knee-length coat, and the other on his small chin, "Not quite... as expected." Marisbury wore an ivory vest underneath the coat, with a pastel blue dress shirt under the vest.

His pale hair mixed with the colour of skin and was plaited to the side, a few bangs cast a small shadow over his thin brows and the thin gentle smile spoke volumes about his patience.

Fuyuki City had become the site of a Holy Grail War, the first of it's kind in their world, that promised a wish to it's victor.

Marisbury had joined it with the intent to win, for his own purposes and had battled it out with seven other practitioners of magecraft like himself, each with a hero of legend under their command to do their bidding.

Conniving and heartless as all magus were, they had made their plots, engaged each other in battle, forged alliances only to turn around and stab one another in the back right the next moment. Though, the war had not been quite as drawn out and tame as the Holy Church overseeing it would have liked.

It produced the despairing scene before him instead.

For all their schemes and plots, their logic and genius, they must surely have forgotten what sheer raw power could mean. He had shown them that, or maybe they'd missed it while being torn to shreds by his servant's spells.

Marisbury Animusphere had summoned the forefather of magecraft used today, the Monarch of ancient Israel and the King of Magecraft, King Solomon himself and for the most part, it had gone as expected.

His was a victory by a landslide, any other summoned servants should never have been able to resist his servant's nigh omnipotent power.

Yet there in came the problem, a servant was doing just that right before his very eyes.

He stood near the destroyed bridge, on one of the still standing cement pathways and watched silently.

"Arrogant fool! Your arrogance in the face of one such as myself is upsetting, mongrel!"

The thick black smoke hurried aside, golden air rippled and a volley of ornate swords tore through the dark sky. They were interrupted by fluxional beams of varying colours that bent and diverged to meet them, setting off massive explosions in the air that made the Earth underneath them tremble in silent rage.

To combat the King of Magecraft, his opponent, a magus formidable in his own right, had summoned the King of Heroes.

Born of the union between the ancient mesopotamian king Lugalbanda and the goddess Rimat-Ninsun, Gilgamesh stood proud atop a crumbling skyscraper. Scarlet eyes that carried cruelty and ridicule looked down on Solomon. He had golden hair that stood up like a blazing flame and wore golden armour with massive pauldrons and black streaks across it's surface. A red waist cape completed his armour.

Yet, to any witnesses, the sight may as well have been blasphemy.

The King in Gold was injured, bits of his armour had been scraped away revealing deep gashes in his fair flesh. Even then however, his face carried the same arrogant smile it had throughout the Holy Grail War.

In contrast, King Solomon didn't look nearly as harmed.

His long colourless hair fell down to the ground he stood on barefoot, contrasting sharply with his dark skin, and his white, golden, predominantly black robes looked uncreased and unperturbed. He wore ten rings, one for each finger and had black nails.

As was par for a magus, his robes had little to no resemblance to armour other than his long metal pauldrons. At his waist was a thick black buckle-like piece of clothing, with upturned thin wing-like designs hanging from it. It had a thick red braided cloth, held together at certain points by golden rings, over it.

"Raum." Solomon uttered calmly.

One of the 72 Demon Gods under King Solomon, who stole treasures from kings and carried them to wherever he desired.

This drew a displeased click of the tongue from Gilgamesh. He unfolded his arms and pointed a hand at Solomon, "Pay for your impudence with your life, husk."

Ripples of gold covered the sky around them.

Another volley of swords, this time accompanied by spears and axes, left the king's treasury, aimed directly at Solomon.

An explosion of proportions far more epic than any before throughout the war shook the city whole and for a moment, blotted out the skies.

"Tch..."

Marisbury was forced to hold up his hand and cover his closed eyes lest they be impeded by flying dust and specks of debris that flew about subsequently.

When he opened his eyes next, a scene greater than he could have expected awaited him.

A vast array of explosions, one after the other, covered the skies, blowing away the smoke that billowed up to them. Spells and treasures collided, producing a sight he could never think possible.

His pale golden pupils shifted from one angle to another, taking in cascading weapons and spells that rose up to meet them at one moment, and earth shattering catastrophe the next before finally settling on the man standing a few paces apart from him, observing the battle with a face devoid of much emotion aside from a small, cheeky grin. The strain of having to provide for the King of Heroes was beginning to show in the form of sweat and ragged breathing.

He had unkempt dark ear-length hair with streaks of grey reflecting age or stress within them, high cheekbones and a clean shaven face. His maroon, near red, eyes were hidden under aqua sunglasses. He wore black suit pants, and a similarly coloured vest with a charcoal dress shirt underneath it though the golden patterns across it drowned out the dark colour.

He was taller than Marisbury, in his early twenties and had a lean frame built for speed and decisive strikes.

Alaric von Dietrich.

An ironic bastard child (One among hundreds) of the Holy Church's aged but voracious Cardinal Laurentis who trained among it's Executors after his magical prowess and talent was recognised, though there was some doubt regarding the legitimacy of that, with some claiming his father had made it so.

He had apprenticed under the psychotic Sancraid Phahn for some years into his teenhood before being excommunicated after Alaric brutally murdered his teacher and disappeared. He'd later joined the Mage's Association and, under disdain from his fellow students and several teachers for his origins, studied General Fundamentals, Gemcraft and Curses under the Lords Trambelio, Edelfelt and Jigmarie respectively, into his adulthood.

He'd left the institution not long ago, to pursue his own agendas before returning as one of the Masters for the Holy Grail War.

Marisbury narrowed his eyes, appalled by the possibilities presented by a monstrous genius training as a combat oriented magus, something many lords had considered but ultimately disregarded for they ultimately pursued knowledge, not personal power, "Alaric, isn't it about time to stop? Exhaustion can be dangerous."

"It almost feels like I wasn't under assault by golems for the past few minutes." Alaric replied curtly, his hands behind his back, "... The concern is appreciated though."

Marisbury shrugged. There was one thing he didn't understand here or, he didn't wish to understand for the sheer horror it meant for many of the nobility. Solomon had been summoned using his FATE system, designed to allow servants to carry vast amounts of magical energy. There was simply no possibility of sustaining such a highly powered and demanding servant by one's self.

The young man standing near him had no way of accessing such a system but was sustaining a servant that was matching his own.

A bead of cold sweat ran down Marisbury's forehead, surrounded by burning civilization and no method of sure escape. Sustaining him for moments would have made sense but he hadn't burnt down Fuyuki by himself.

... The implications momentarily drowned out the battle ensuing above his head.

His only solace was that signs of massive strain had begun to manifest themselves. Alaric was supporting himself with the railings now, a step away from falling into a river that resembled a dark abyss a little too much.

Then it happened.

Something Marisbury had expected, but was surprised with all the same.

The magical energy of Archer began to diminish rapidly. Explosions shook the city again but within moments, a chilling silence replaced them. Marisbury hoped he hadn't caught a silent curse from all those that had unjustly lost their lives to the wanton nature of warring magi.

"Impudence begets harsh retaliation. You seem to think you could set this King upon your foes like a hound... But, it has been entertaining. You could have been a jester, mongrel."

Through sheer will, the King of Heroes launched a noble phantasm at Alaric, proving the power and mind he possessed in attacking someone he couldn't even see. Though, much to Marisbury's surprise, Alaric didn't make any attempt to avoid the incoming fatal attack.

The sword stopped inches from Alaric's forehead, frozen midair and a laughter rang out around them, "So you choose to continue your struggle for these insolent knaves?! Very well! I shall permit your use of that useless key you possess! Do entertain me further, mongrel!"

Alaric raised a hand to fix his sunglasses, "You win, Lord Marisbury."

Anyone could see that the face of the lowborn magus wasn't of one who had lost, no, he looked ecstatic.

"How did you summon the King of Heroes? Pure luck?" Marisbury asked curiously. He had attained complete victory but he was a man of little prejudice and felt that removing Alaric would be a waste of talent.

"A key, I pried it off the cold corpses of a magus family in the United States..." A faint trace of ridicule laced his words, "It was annoying, finding them I mean but er... worth it thanks to you."

"And wh-... Oh..." 

Marisbury pursed his lips, coming face to face with a singular golden ripple, the sort the King of Heroes had been using earlier. The key, he realised, to a treasury that held all of man's treasures.

"I don't think that's going to be enough..." He glanced over Alaric's shoulders, noticing the King of Magecraft standing a few steps behind him, regarding the man curiously.

"Is it your choice to continue struggling against an unbeatable foe that made him allow such a thing? It was a whim? Such freedom..."

Solomon's hushed words fell on deaf ears, "I thought about getting rid of you but I realise that would just delay the inevitable. That isn't what I seek." Alaric interrupted, hands again behind his back, "I will take my leave."

"Wait."

"Would you like to work with me? To ensure that we survive?" Marisbury knew he was possibly taking a shot in the dark but he hoped their goals aligned. To have such a monstrously talented magus whose cold pragmatism mirrored his own would be a great boon, "My aspirations are not so dull as to be held back by blood and influence."

To power the Holy Grail for a wish, only the deaths of the servants were necessary. Marisbury and his prospective assistant had ignored that part entirely.

"A good option..." 

"...Regardless, make your wish first. Then we'll talk." Alaric thoughtfully gazed into the dark river beside them, arms behind his back.

But then again, they'd also ignored that battles were to be kept controlled and property damage was to be avoided.

x

That's it for chapter one.

Don't take it as my personal opinion with Gil losing, it's just that even Alaric doesn't have enough magical energy to sustain him at max unlike the FATE system which CAN do that.