The warehouse district of Fuyuki sat in near-absolute silence.
The cold, biting sea breezes blew in from the Mion river, sweeping over the dark, churning water and brushing past the towering, unmanned derrick cranes.
Rows upon rows of identical, corrugated metal storehouses stood like silent monoliths in the dark, casting long, eerie shadows across the asphalt.
In the middle of the wide, four-lane road dividing the district, a lone figure stood waiting.
Lancer rested the shaft of his long, amulet-wrapped spear casually against his right shoulder. His left hand hung relaxed by his side, the fingers loosely gripping a shorter, similarly wrapped spear. He wasn't hiding in the shadows. He wasn't setting up ambush points, nor was he weaving defensive bounded fields. He was simply standing under the glow of a flickering streetlamp, letting his immense mana bleed freely into the night air.
It was an open, undeniable invitation, a flare shot into the darkness, calling out to any Heroic Spirit brave enough to face him in a fair, frontal duel.
Deep down, the knight hoped that a straightforward warrior class, perhaps a Saber, would show up to answer his challenge. Of course, that was merely a personal wish. He didn't truly expect a Saber to be the first to arrive, and ultimately, he didn't care who it was. This invitation was open to any and all Servants. What he desired was an honorable clash of steel, a duel to carve into his memory.
But what he got instead was completely outside of his expectations.
There was no approaching energy signature for him to track. There was no sudden, violent surge of mana. There wasn't even the familiar, ethereal glowing mist of a Servant materializing from their astral form into a physical body. It wasn't like anything he could call a 'spirit form' at all.
One second, the area, the wide road and the space stretching out before him, was completely empty.
The very next instant, a man was standing there.
Lancer's eyes narrowed instantly, his combat instincts flaring as his grip tightened imperceptibly on the shafts of his spears.
The newcomer was tall. He wasn't dressed in the grand mage attire, or battle armor, nor the mystical robes of a magus. He wore modern attire, a simple, dark, high-collared casual outfit. Both of his hands were nonchalantly shoved deep into his pockets.
But the most bizarre aspect of his appearance was his face. His entire upper face was completely bound by a thick, pitch-dark blindfold, leaving only a mop of snow-white hair that spiked up wildly, fluttering in the cold sea breeze.
"Yooo," the man said.
He pulled one hand out of his pocket, raising it to offer a lazy, incredibly casual half-wave.
"You're the one sending out the invitations, right?" the white-haired man asked, his tone impossibly light for a battlefield. "I gotta say, standing out in the open like this... you've got guts and courage. And… I like it. Or maybe you're just really bored, like me. ...Wait, actually, I'm not really bored right now."
Lancer didn't move from his spot, but his posture shifted. It was a fractional adjustment, dropping his center of gravity into a highly cautious, guarded stance. He analyzed the man carefully.
No armor. No shield. And, most importantly, no visible weapon.
Yet, the way this man stood, completely relaxed, shoulders slouched, with absolutely zero tension in his muscles, was baffling. It was a stance so entirely full of fatal openings that any novice could strike him down. But at the exact same time… it didn't feel like he had any openings at all. The sheer wrongness of it made Lancer's skin prickle. It felt like a trap. But he didn't care.
"I sent out an invitation to all the Servants roaming this city..." Lancer said, a polite but sharp smile touching his lips. "And yet, only you answered. I must admit, I am at a loss. You stand before me with not an ounce of battle awareness or readiness, your hands in your pockets, and no visible weapons in sight."
Lancer studied the blindfolded Servant, his golden eyes searching for a trick. He continued, "Though it is just a fast observation... if you do not need a weapon, are you perhaps a Caster-class Servant? Or do you simply hide your weapon out of caution, preparing for a sneak attack like a coward?"
The white-haired man tilted his head back a little and let out a light, airy chuckle. It wasn't a mocking laugh. It sounded far more theatrical, like a villain eagerly preparing to unfold his grand, evil master plan.
"Hahahahahah.... Hide my weapons? Nah."
The man took a slow step forward. His dress shoes tapped lightly against the rough asphalt.
"I don't need a weapon," he continued, his voice dropping into a dramatic, dangerous register. "Because I am the weapon."
Lancer frowned. Such grand arrogance was common among Heroic Spirits, but it usually came paired with a massive display of might, a crushing aura of mana release, or the summoning of a divine blade. This man just felt unreadable. Empty.
Lancer braced himself, his eyes locked on the stranger. "Is that so?"
The white-haired man dropped his dramatic posture instantly. "No."
Lancer froze. "....?!"
"Nah, I just really wanted to say that," the man said brightly, waving a hand dismissively. "I saw it in an action movie once and thought it was super cool. So I just wanted to try saying it out loud in real life. Haha, wasn't it cool?!"
Lancer didn't say anything. He just stared.
"…."
"Huh?!" the man complained, pouting slightly. "Say something, spearman! You're just making it awkward for me now."
Lancer let out a long, heavy, utterly exhausted sigh. "...Dropping those things aside..."
"Damn you, now it is awkward," the man muttered, crossing his arms.
"Are you perhaps an airhead or something?" Lancer asked, his chivalric patience being severely tested. "Though it would not really change the outcome of your defeat. As a knight, I would very much like to know who I am crossing my spears with. Though, considering our situation, neither of us can share our names under these circumstances. As it is a pleasure that is not obligatory…"
"Yeah, about that..." the white-haired man interrupted him mid-sentence, waving his hand as if swatting away a fly. "I don't really care about those rules or things."
Lancer blinked, his stoic, warrior's composure breaking for a fraction of a second. "...Excuse me?"
"The whole 'hide your true name' thing," the man clarified casually. "It sounds super boring and exhausting hiding this and that until the last moment. Honestly, I see the point in it and it is very big, sure... but oh well! Since you asked so nicely, I'll just tell you now."
The man pulled his blindfold down just enough to expose one piercing, crystalline blue eye.
"I'm Gojo Satoru. A Jujutsu Sorcerer."
He stated his voice clear, loud, and confident, the syllables echoing across the quiet, empty docks, carrying over the wind for anyone hiding in the shadows to hear.
Gojo shoved his hands back into his pockets, grinning broadly. "And since I use Jujutsu... yeah, I guess you technically could say 'Caster' fits me somewhat perfectly."
Lancer stood perfectly still. His eyes widened in genuine shock. He just stared at the Servant who called himself... Gojo Satoru.
In the Holy Grail War, True Names were the ultimate, most heavily guarded secret.
A name revealed a Heroic Spirit's entire legend. It revealed their specific strengths, their most fatal weaknesses, their history, and the exact nature of their Noble Phantasm.
To reveal it so casually to an enemy Servant right before a fight... and in an open place like the docks, where there could easily be other Masters' familiars spectating or servants directly.
…
A/N: Three More Coming…