"Alright, Mr. Captain~ Now I'm going to cast the spell that makes your omurice extra delicious! Ready? Love~! Love~! Peace~!"
"Love~! Love~! Peace~!"
The maid — a professional named Airiri, who had clearly been doing this for years and had the thousand-yard smile to prove it — traced a little heart in ketchup on the Captain's omurice with the practiced grace of someone performing surgery.
The Captain repeated her incantation with zero irony and maximum enthusiasm, his grin stretching so wide it threatened to split his face in half. His eyes were locked on Airiri with the intensity of a man who had found religion, and his hand was very slowly creeping across the table toward her waist.
Airiri dodged it without breaking eye contact or dropping her smile. A veteran. She'd seen worse. She gave a little wink, blew a kiss, and glided away to the next table.
The Captain watched her go with an expression of pure, lovesick reverence.
The three people sitting across from him turned away simultaneously.
Crystal pressed her hands over her eyes. "Can't see it. Can't see it. Can't see it."
Lancer stared at the ceiling with the focused intensity of a man counting tiles. "I am grateful, once again, that my Master was blessed with a Servant of acceptable appearance."
Archer — Napoleon, fully materialized, looking extremely out of place in a maid café in a way that somehow made him look more imperial — rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Do you think I could get that girl Amber to wear a maid outfit?"
"Focus," Lancer said flatly.
The Maid Love-Love Café.
Second floor. Private booth. Two PM — a full hour before the scheduled meeting time, because Lancer was smart enough to arrive early and Crystal was paranoid enough to agree.
They'd secured the booth the moment the café opened, ordered food, swept the area for traps, and settled in to wait. When the others arrived, they'd have home-field advantage — or at least the comfort of knowing nobody had poisoned the menu.
The "others" in question were a pirate, an emperor, and the worst lunch bill Crystal had ever seen in her life.
Because here was the thing about alliances in the Holy Grail War: they required trust, compromise, and — apparently — someone to pick up the check. And that someone was Crystal.
Not by choice.
The billing arrangement had shaken out as follows: Crystal and Lancer were paying for their own meals (fair). Archer and the Captain had arrived, sat down, and immediately begun ordering the most expensive items on the menu without any visible intention of paying (not fair). The Captain, in particular — wearing a garish graphic t-shirt and cargo shorts, looking like a tourist who'd gotten lost on the way to a comic convention — had ordered the premium omurice set.
Three thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars.
That's almost all the money I have left, Crystal thought, watching the Captain shovel enchanted omurice into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't eaten in centuries. Which, to be fair, he probably hadn't.
Her gaze could have curdled milk.
The Captain noticed. Paused mid-bite. Looked up.
"What? You want some?" He pulled the plate closer to his chest protectively. "This is the omurice that Airiri cast her love spell on specifically for me. Get your own."
"I don't want your stupid omurice! I'm here for the alliance! For information! If you're not going to start talking, I'm leaving!"
"Pretty face, ugly temper." The Captain shook his head sadly. "I was just thinking how nice it'd be if my Master were a beautiful girl, but with a personality like yours? Hard pass. Airiri is the undisputed number one."
"You son of a—"
"Easy, Master. Easy." Lancer's hand caught Crystal's shoulder before she could lunge across the table. His grip was gentle but immovable. "We can't start a fight here."
Crystal's face was a masterwork of restrained fury. Teeth clenched. Nostrils flared. The vein in her temple pulsing with a rhythm that suggested imminent violence.
But Lancer was right. The café was full of civilians — ordinary people eating lunch, completely unaware that three Heroic Spirits and two Holy Grail War Masters were having a business meeting in the booth by the window. Starting a brawl here was out of the question.
Lancer was, at his core, a being of honor. Causing harm to innocents went against everything he stood for. Even if the Captain really deserved to have a spear shoved somewhere uncomfortable.
So instead of escalating, Lancer pulled Crystal back into her seat with a murmured "not here, not now" and hoped the moment would pass.
It almost didn't.
But Archer — who had spent his entire career reading rooms full of hostile personalities and defusing them before they exploded — stepped in with the smooth precision of a born diplomat.
"Speaking of the alliance," he said, cutting across the tension like a knife through butter, "where's your Master, Rider? If we're cooperating, showing some good faith would be appreciated."
The Captain leaned back, omurice forgotten. His expression shifted — not dramatically, but enough. The lecherous grin dimmed into something more businesslike.
"I wanted to bring him. Honestly, I did. But that attack last night scared the life out of him. He won't leave the safe house. Won't go outside. Won't even look out the window." A shrug. "Can't really blame the guy. Getting your ship blown up from under you tends to rattle the nerves."
He gestured at Archer with his fork.
"But your Master's not here either, big guy. So we're even."
"Different circumstances," Archer replied. "I hid mine to protect her safety. Not because she's afraid — because she's a target." He paused, and his tone shifted. More serious. The playfulness dropping away like a mask being set aside. "Which brings me to something I've been wanting to discuss."
He looked around the table. Lancer. The Captain. Crystal.
"The Observer."
Lancer's eyebrow rose. Crystal blinked. The Captain chewed.
"Since we entered this city," Archer continued, "I've felt it. A presence. Faint — incredibly faint. Watching us. Tracking our movements. It's been constant since the first day."
"Observer?" Crystal frowned. "Like... a spy?"
"Exactly like a spy. Something — or someone — has been monitoring the players. All of us, potentially." He turned to Lancer. "Have you noticed anything?"
Lancer was quiet for a moment. His expression was thoughtful — the careful, measured look of a warrior weighing his own instincts.
"I haven't detected direct surveillance," he said slowly. "But my combat intuition has been... restless. Something feels wrong. Off. Like there's a presence in the city that I can't quite identify."
"And you, Rider?"
The Captain spread his hands in an expansive shrug. "Me? Sorry to disappoint, but I'm a pirate. I've got admirers, enemies, and jealous rivals watching me at all times. Can't tell the difference between surveillance and my natural magnetism." He grinned, then sobered slightly. "But if you're saying there's an Observer, and Assassin's already dead, then the only candidate left is Caster's familiars."
"Mm." Archer nodded, but his expression said he wasn't entirely convinced. "I hope so."
The table fell quiet for a beat. The ambient noise of the café filled the gap — the chatter of customers, the clink of silverware, Airiri's cheerful voice casting love spells on someone else's lunch.
Archer caught the Captain's eye and gave a subtle nod. Enough preamble. Talk business.
The Captain set down his fork.
"Alright." His voice changed. The buffoonery dropped. Not entirely — this was still Blackbeard, after all — but enough to reveal the mind underneath. The mind of a man who'd commanded fleets, terrorized coastlines, and survived in a profession where the average life expectancy was measured in months.
"Everyone at this table wants the Holy Grail. I'm not going to pretend otherwise, and I'm not going to lecture you about the power of friendship. We're allies of convenience, and the moment this is over, we'll probably try to kill each other. That's fine. That's the game."
He leaned forward.
"But right now, we have a problem. And the problem's name is Berserker."
The table listened.
"Based on last night's encounter — and believe me, I got a very close look — Berserker's base stats are all A-rank or above."
The words landed like a bomb.
Lancer's eyes narrowed. "All stats at A-rank? You're certain?"
"I watched him break my ship in half with a jump. I shot him in the face at point-blank range and it didn't leave a mark. And when he pulled my mast out of the deck and swung it like a club, the displacement wave nearly capsized what was left of the wreckage." The Captain's jaw tightened. "So yes. I'm certain."
Silence.
A-rank was the peak of conventional Servant stats. The ceiling. The point where raw physical ability transcended human limits and entered the realm of legend. A Servant with a single A-rank stat was dangerous. A Servant with all stats at A-rank or above was a walking natural disaster.
Lancer's expression had gone from serious to grim. "That is... exceptionally difficult to handle."
"Which is why we're here." The Captain leaned back, crossing his arms. "None of us can take him alone. Maybe none of us can take him together. But together is better than separately, and right now, Berserker is the biggest threat on the board."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"Here's my proposal. Simple. Clean. Three roles."
He pointed at Lancer. "You take the front. Out of the three of us, you're the only one who can trade blows with a Berserker-class in close combat. Your speed and spearwork can keep him occupied — not beat him, but contain him."
He pointed at Archer. "You handle long-range support. Sniping. Bombardment. Keep the pressure on from a distance while Lancer pins him down."
"And what about you?" Crystal cut in, her tone sharp.
The Captain smiled. Not his lecherous grin. Not his buffoon's smirk. A pirate's smile — the kind that preceded bad deals and worse outcomes.
"I provide additional fire support where I can. My ship's gone, so my arsenal's limited — pistols, explosives, nothing that'll do serious damage to a monster like that. But my real job..." He tapped the side of his nose. "...is finding Berserker's Master."
He let that sink in.
"Taking down a Berserker head-on is a nightmare. Their stats are boosted, their pain tolerance is inhuman, and half of them have Noble Phantasms that activate on death. But every Berserker has a Master. A regular, squishy, human Master who's feeding them mana and giving them orders. Cut the supply line, and the Berserker collapses."
"So while we're fighting the monster," Lancer said slowly, "you'll be hunting the handler."
"Exactly."
"That's convenient," Crystal muttered. "You get the safe job while everyone else takes the hits."
"I prefer to think of it as efficient allocation of resources," the Captain said pleasantly. "If this operation goes well, we can target Caster next. Two birds. Two stones. Everyone wins."
The calculation was transparent. The Captain had arranged the plan so that all the genuine risk fell on Lancer and Archer, while he operated from the shadows with minimal exposure. To put it charitably, it was "adapting to the situation." To put it honestly, it was freeloading with extra steps.
And yet — nobody could find a flaw in the logic. Lancer was the best close-combat fighter at the table. Archer was the best long-range attacker. And the Captain's crew — whatever remained of them — were the best suited for reconnaissance and tracking.
The roles made sense. Even if the distribution of danger didn't.
Lancer glanced at Crystal. Crystal gave a tiny, reluctant nod. Archer shrugged — the shrug of a man who'd commanded armies and knew that sometimes the best plan was the one where everyone did what they were good at, even if it meant carrying dead weight.
"Fine," Archer said. "We'll—"
He stopped.
Every Servant at the table went rigid at the same instant. Three pairs of supernatural eyes widened. Three bodies tensed with the hair-trigger readiness of warriors who had sensed something that human senses couldn't detect.
Killing intent.
Massive. Overwhelming. Radiating from directly behind them like heat from an opened furnace.
And then — a voice. Young. Arrogant. Dripping with the casual cruelty of someone who'd been watching the entire conversation and found it amusing.
"Well said. But you won't have the chance."
Crystal's blood turned to ice.
"Berserker — take them out."
Show Some By Powerstones
Next BONUS CHAPTER at 200 powerstones