Chapter Text
London was breathing Christmas. Not the sickly-sweet, picture-perfect Christmas you see in advertisements, but the real one, steeped in the scent of pine, mulled wine, and… anxiety. Anxiety hung in the air like smog, mingling with the smell of roasted chestnuts and smoke from chimneys. People hurried, bustling about, dragging Christmas trees and bags full of gifts, but in their eyes, there was less anticipation of the holiday and more fatigue and a kind of dull unease. It was as if they felt that beneath the thin veneer of Christmas tinsel lurked something… else. Something that boded no good.
In this bubbling cauldron of pre-holiday hustle, two figures moved against the current, like two predatory fish pushing through a swarm of minnows. Jeanne d'Arc Alter, tall with a mane of silvery hair tied back in a careless ponytail, and Mordred, stocky and solidly built, with a boyish haircut and a defiant gaze. They weren’t buying presents or dragging trees. They didn’t fit into this scene at all. There was something… alien about them. Dangerous.
Just a couple of days ago, they would have lunged at each other’s throats at the first encounter. Jeanne, the Dragon Witch, a spawn of dark flames and thirst for vengeance, and Mordred, the Traitor Knight, a child of madness and rebellion. But that song… That damn Blind Guardian song about Mordred, which they had accidentally heard on a Muggle radio, seemed to have breached the wall of enmity between them. Something intangible had changed.
“You know,” Mordred nudged Jeanne with her shoulder, nearly knocking her off balance, “you’re not as much of a bore as you seem. In that song… about me… There was something… right. About rebellion, about freedom… About going your own way, even if the whole world is against you.”
Jeanne snorted, but was that… interest? Approval? Or just the reflection of a streetlamp?
“Nonsense. Muggle fairy tales. They understand nothing about you or me.”
“Or maybe they understand more than you think?” Mordred smirked, revealing a row of small, sharp teeth. “Maybe they see what you don’t want to see? That we… are alike?”
Jeanne stopped abruptly, turning sharply toward Mordred. A flame flickered in her eyes—not the kind that scorches, but the kind that illuminates.
“Alike? You—a traitor who killed your own father. I—”
“—the one who burned a bunch of people,” Mordred finished for her, unfazed. “And don’t give me that crap about Orléans. I know all your little stories. Saint, yeah, sure.”
They turned into a narrow alley, leaving the festive bustle behind. Here, in the shadow of tall, grimy buildings, the air smelled different—dampness, mold, cats, and something else, subtly ominous. Jeanne shivered, but not from the cold. She felt… a presence. Invisible yet palpable, like cobwebs brushing her face.
“There’s… something here,” she muttered, unsure why she was saying it aloud.
Mordred snorted, glancing around.
“What, more of your witchy tricks? Feeling ghosts? Or demons?”
“Not ghosts,” Jeanne frowned. “Something else… More… real.”
They passed by a boarded-up window, from which it seemed someone was watching them. Past a crooked door marked with a strange chalk symbol—either a rune or a hieroglyph. Past a pile of trash where a scrawny, mangy cat with glowing green eyes was rummaging.
“Oh, come on,” Mordred waved dismissively. “Just another typical London landscape. Rats, hobos, lunatics…”
But Jeanne wasn’t listening. She had stopped, listening intently. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the walls of buildings, came a strange sound—not quite a growl, not quite a howl. And in that sound, there was something… primal. Wild.
“Do you hear it?” she asked without turning to Mordred.
“What?” Mordred stopped, straining to listen. “I don’t hear anything. Just your whining.”
“There…,” Jeanne pointed in the direction the sound was coming from. “Something… big. And evil.”
Mordred rolled her eyes.
“Of course. Big and evil. How predictable. Probably another one of your old acquaintances.”
But her voice lacked its usual confidence. She, too, was… feeling it.
“Magic…” Jeanne spoke the word with a bitter smile, as if it burned her tongue. “A curse and a gift. A weapon and… a toy.”
They continued walking, now slower, as if listening to every rustle. Mordred was silent, but Jeanne could feel that she was tense, like a coiled spring.
“You also… want something,” Jeanne said, not looking at Mordred. “The Grail… It grants wishes. What would you wish for?”
Mordred snorted.
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m just… curious. We’re… fighting for the same thing. Or… against the same thing.”
“I’d wish…” Mordred hesitated, searching for words. “I’d wish for… for everyone to recognize that I… have worth. To stop seeing me only as my father’s shadow.”
“And I…” Jeanne stopped, staring blankly into space. “I wouldn’t wish for anything. I’d… destroy it. That damned Grail.”
“Destroy it?” Mordred looked at her in surprise. “But… why? It gives power.”
“Power is a curse,” Jeanne shook her head. “It corrupts. It… kills.”
“You talk as if… you’ve been through it yourself,” Mordred narrowed her eyes.
“I’ve… seen it,” Jeanne averted her gaze. “I’ve seen what power does to people. And to… non-people.”
They fell silent again. Only the sound of their footsteps on the wet cobblestones broke the silence. And somewhere in the distance, beyond the walls of buildings, that strange, unsettling howl still echoed.
They emerged onto a small, deserted square. In the middle of the square stood a rusty, leaning lamppost, pitifully illuminating the cobblestones.
“So, where’s this ‘Leaky Cauldron’ of yours?” Mordred asked, looking around. “I don’t see anything…”
At that moment, the ground beneath their feet trembled.
Jeanne and Mordred froze simultaneously, as if an invisible string had tightened between them and the unseen danger.
A dull thud, as if something very heavy had fallen, reverberated in the silence. Then another. And another. Each impact resonated in their chests, making their hearts beat faster.
Cracks, like ugly scars, spread across the cobblestones, disrupting the perfect geometry of the square.
“What… is this?” flashed through Jeanne’s mind, but the question caught in her throat, finding no answer.
“Damn it…” Mordred mentally cursed, gripping the hilt of Clarent. A foreboding of disaster squeezed her chest like a vice.
And then, from around the corner of the nearest building, it spilled out…
Not walked, not ran, but literally spilled out—huge, clumsy, resembling a mountain of muscles wrapped in ragged, filthy clothing. Like a living nightmare, a spawn of the dark depths of the subconscious.
It was Heracles. The London Yeti. The Berserker. The mad hero turned monster.
He stood swaying, like a drunkard, emitting a low, guttural growl that froze the blood in their veins and made the hair on the back of their necks stand on end. In his hand, he clutched… something. A massive, sharply honed chunk of rock, more like an instrument of torture than a weapon. A tool designed to kill.
Somewhere in the distance, beyond the walls of buildings, music still played, fragments of laughter drifted by—echoes of normal life, which now seemed so distant and… unreal. Someone still hadn’t noticed that something very strange was happening. Something that shouldn’t be happening.
Jeanne and Mordred stood like two small, fragile figures against the colossal Heracles, like David before Goliath. But there was no fear in their eyes.
“Well… shit…” Mordred whispered, and her voice carried not panic, but… bitter irony. As if she knew this was how it was supposed to end.
Jeanne didn’t respond. She stared at Heracles, and in her usually cold, detached eyes, a fire ignited. A fire of rage, determination, the fire… of the Dragon Witch.
Heracles roared—and charged at them like an enraged bull, like death itself given flesh and blood.
Jeanne reacted first. She didn’t just jump—she glided to the side like a shadow, elusive and swift. Her sword, La Pucelle, leapt from its sheath on its own, and black flames instantly enveloped the blade, bathing the square in an ominous, infernal light.
Mordred, recovering from a momentary hesitation, also jumped back, but not to the side—backward, tracing a semicircle like a predator preparing to pounce. Her two-handed sword, Clarent, gleamed in the dim lamplight, reflecting the crimson glow of Jeanne’s flames.
“Well, Dragon Witch,” Mordred growled, baring her teeth in anticipation of battle. “Shall we dance? Or will you start burning everything right away?”
Jeanne didn’t answer. She watched Heracles, who, having missed, was turning like a cornered beast. His roar shook the air, vibrating through every cell, every nerve, every… soul.
“He is… the embodiment of rage,” flashed through Jeanne’s mind, but this wasn’t just a statement of fact—it was… a challenge. Pure, primal rage. Rage that knows no mercy, no fear, no… reason.
And this rage demanded a response.
Heracles attacked—fiercely, chaotically, but with such monstrous strength that each blow seemed capable of splitting reality itself. Jeanne and Mordred dodged, parried, retreated, like two dancers in a deadly ballet, but they felt that this was only the beginning.
Mordred, seizing the moment when Heracles paused to catch his breath, darted to his side and struck with Clarent, aiming for his leg—not the tendon, but the thigh, the massive pillar of muscle supporting the giant’s weight.
But the blade, as if hitting an invisible barrier, merely skidded along his skin, leaving a shallow scratch. It was as though Heracles were carved from stone, not flesh and blood.
“What the hell…!” Mordred cursed, jumping back to avoid a retaliatory strike. She knew what Clarent was capable of. It should have sliced through Heracles’ leg to the bone, but…
Heracles roared, turned, and punched her—didn’t just hit her, but smashed her into the wall of the nearest building. The wall cracked, plaster crumbled, bricks fell. Mordred, like a ragdoll, disappeared in a cloud of dust and debris.
Jeanne, left alone, realized she couldn’t withstand a direct confrontation. But there was nowhere to retreat. And retreating wasn’t in her nature.
Jeanne rushed forward, meeting the roaring Heracles head-on, drawing his rage toward herself. She knew she couldn’t defeat him with brute force. But she had other weapons—cunning, agility, and… flames.
La Pucelle came alive in her hand, transforming into a vortex of black fire. This wasn’t just ordinary flame—it was Jeanne’s essence, her anger, her pain, her defiance. She wasn’t just swinging the sword—she wove patterns of fire, creating illusions of multiple attacks, confusing Heracles.
But he was a Berserker. He wasn’t so easily deceived. He sensed her, saw through the flames, anticipated her movements. He was a killing machine, created to destroy.
He swung his chunk of rock, and each blow seemed capable of splitting reality itself. Jeanne dodged, slid, spun, dancing on the edge of a razor, but she felt her strength waning.
I need… to think of something… flashed through her mind, but it was immediately drowned out by Heracles’ roar.
She tried to strike his eye with her sword, but Heracles, sensing the danger (a Berserker’s survival instinct was no less developed than any other Servant’s), jerked his head, and the blade only grazed his cheek, leaving a thin, smoking line.
And then she felt something… click inside her. Like a tight knot holding back her rage had suddenly snapped.
She let the flames in. Not the ones dancing on La Pucelle, but the ones that always smoldered within her—the flames of anger, pain, denial. She let them surge through her veins, sear every cell, penetrate the very core of her being.
It was painful. Unbearably painful. Like she was being burned alive, torn apart, turned to ash. But in that pain, there was also… intoxication. Liberation.
La Pucelle responded instantly. The black flames flared with renewed intensity, becoming darker, denser, more… lethal.
“Heracles!” she shouted, and her voice changed. It grew deeper, harsher, with echoes of a dragon’s roar. “You shall know… the wrath of the Dragon Witch!”
And she charged, carrying before her not just a banner, but a vortex of black flames, ready to incinerate everything in its path, to burn the very soul of this mad hero.
At that moment, from somewhere above, from the roof of a ruined building, a voice with a strong accent called out:
“Hey, you down there! Stop this circus! Or I’ll call the police!”
Heracles, as if hearing him, paused for a moment, raised his head, and… roared in response. The roar was so powerful that the glass in the remaining intact windows of nearby buildings shattered, and the unfortunate lover of order likely went deaf for the rest of his life. Or, at the very least, deeply regretted his actions.
Jean's black flames blazed with new, almost inhuman strength. But this was no longer the noble fire that obeyed her will. No. This was a wild, untamed whirlwind, like a frenzied beast breaking free from its cage, eager to devour everything around it—including her enemies and herself. The flames hungrily licked the air, consuming oxygen as if trying to suffocate her while she still stood on her feet. It drained her strength, scorched her lungs until she gasped, clouding her mind and turning her thoughts into a crimson haze.
La Pucelle, the ancient sword, seemed to have gone mad as well. It vibrated in her hand like a living creature, demanding more—more power, more fury, more blood. Its blade glowed with a crimson light, reflecting the madness of its wielder. And Jeanne, already losing control over herself, gave it what it wanted. She poured all her pain, all her hatred, all her… essence into the strike. This was not just a blow. It was an act of desperation, the last gasp of a dying being, ready to destroy everything just to drag her enemy down with her.
The blade pierced Heracles’ groin, targeting the very vulnerable spot that Mordred had already wounded. The strike was precise, merciless, like the thrust of a spear piercing the flesh of a sinner. Heracles howled—and in that howl was not just pain, but disbelief. His enormous body collapsed like a felled tree, and from the wound gushed blood—dark, thick, almost black, as if oil rather than blood flowed inside him.
But he did not fall. He held his ground. And in that moment…
Mordred burst forth from under the rubble, like a vengeful ghost of war. Her armor was mangled, like old tin cans, her face streaked with blood that flowed down her cheeks in crimson rivulets, and her eyes burned with a mad fire that could illuminate an entire city. She moved quickly, too quickly for someone in such a state. It seemed her body no longer belonged to her—it was a killing machine operating at full capacity.
She leaped at Heracles like a shadow materializing from nowhere and swung Clarent. The sword plunged into his back between his shoulder blades, but… not deeply. It was as if it had hit an invisible wall. Heracles roared like a wounded lion, turned, and grabbed Mordred by her armor as if she were a ragdoll. He hurled her aside with such force that she flew several meters and crashed into a wall, smashing through it. The wall collapsed, burying Mordred under a heap of debris.
Immediately after, Heracles received another blow—this time from Jeanne. Gathering the last remnants of her strength, she slashed La Pucelle across his neck, aiming for the carotid artery. The blade tore through his flesh, but… didn’t reach its target. Heracles growled, grabbed Jeanne by the throat, and squeezed his fingers like a vice. His grip was ironclad, merciless. Jeanne choked, trying to break free, but her movements grew weaker. She felt darkness closing in on her vision, life slipping away, and the world around her turning into a gray void.
And in that moment, red flashes ignited in her pupils—not flames, but something more ancient, darker. Reflections of heresy, despair, and madness. She grinned a bloody, insane grin and spat in Heracles’ face. This gesture was her final challenge, her last act of defiance in the face of death.
And in that moment… it all ended.
Heracles threw Jeanne to the ground like a broken toy. She hit her back on the cobblestones, and the world faded. Heracles staggered, took a step… and collapsed to the ground like a fallen mountain that had finally grown tired of standing. Mordred lay motionless under the pile of rubble, her body hidden beneath stones and dust.
Silence. Only the crackling of burning buildings disturbed it. This silence was eerie, surreal, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next. The air was saturated with the smell of blood, dust, and scorched metal. Every sound seemed deafening, every movement—treacherous.
And then they appeared. Random witnesses. Those who had hidden in basements, holding their breath; those who had watched the battle from upper-floor windows, hiding behind curtains; those who simply hadn’t managed to escape. They emerged from their hiding places slowly, cautiously, as if afraid to disturb this ominous silence. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide open, like people who had just survived the end of the world.
They stared at the ruined square, at the motionless bodies lying on the ground, at the wreckage of buildings. And they couldn’t believe their eyes.
“Is… this it?” someone whispered, as if afraid that their voice might awaken the dead.
“Are they… dead?” another asked, his voice trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind.
“Could it really… be over?”
And then…
A crunch.
A quiet, grating sound, like someone breaking bones. A sound that made everyone freeze, as if time itself had stopped.
It was Mordred. From under the pile of rubble, like an ancient worm emerging from a disturbed grave, her battered shadow stirred. Fingers encased in mangled gloves, resembling the clawed paws of some mechanical predator, desperately clung to the sharp edges of stones, leaving bloody trails on them. Every movement looked as if she were trying to crawl out of her own coffin.
And then she rose—jerkily, unnaturally fast, as if the laws of physics were mere suggestions to her, not immutable rules of reality. Her armor resembled the pitiful remains of a once-majestic shell: cracks snaked across the metal like spider webs, and beneath them oozed blood, dripping down her sides and falling to the ground in crimson beads. But she was alive. Alive despite everything. And, even scarier, she was grinning. Her bloodied lips stretched into a mad smile that more closely resembled the snarl of a wounded beast, ready for a new fight.
Thud.
A dull, heavy sound, like someone pounding their fist against the ground. It was Heracles. His mutilated body convulsed, as if every cell in his being protested against returning to life. Wounds healed slowly, unevenly, as if his immortality were an old mechanism starting to malfunction. It was as if he was being dragged back from death against his will, ripping himself from its embrace with pain and fury.
He propped himself up on trembling arms, growling like a wounded beast whose body could no longer move, but whose spirit was still full of strength. His eyes were bloodshot, devoid of reason or pain—only primal rage remained, turning him into a machine for killing. He was no longer human. He had become something greater. Or lesser. Depending on how you looked at it.
Laughter.
Quiet, intermittent, terrifying laughter, as if someone was choking it back, trying to suppress it but failing. It was Jeanne. She rose slowly, unsteadily, as if her body no longer belonged to her but was merely a marionette she was struggling to control. Her armor was cracked like old pottery, her face smeared with blood and dirt, as if she had just crawled out of some hellish abyss. But she was alive. Alive despite everything.
She lifted her head and looked at the witnesses. And laughed. This laughter was worse than any scream. It was quiet, intermittent, but carried such certainty that it froze the blood in their veins. It was the laughter of someone who knew they would win, even if it meant dying again and again.
Three figures—wounded, bloodied, risen from the dead—rose almost simultaneously. Like three zombies from a horror movie, like three ghosts returned from the other side to finish what they had started. And at that moment, screams erupted. Piercing, hysterical screams of terror that tore through the silence like a knife slicing through paper.
“They… they’re alive!” someone shrieked, their voice breaking, as if each word was tearing a piece of their soul from their throat.
“They… they’re corpses!” another echoed, stammering in fear, as if their tongue refused to form the words.
“Zombies! Run! Save yourselves!”
And the people ran. They ran without looking back, not believing their eyes, not understanding what was happening. They fled, leaving behind the ruined square, the motionless bodies… and the three figures who, slowly, uncertainly, but inexorably, rose to their feet.
And Heracles… growled. Not from rage—but from satisfaction. As if he reveled in their fear, as if he fed on it, like a vampire draining life from its victims. His growl was deep, low, almost musical, as if the very space around him vibrated with the sound.
Mordred… smiled. A wide, bloody, insane smile that spoke of her readiness for another round. Her eyes gleamed like two shards of ice, reflecting the cold light of the moon. There was no trace of fear or doubt in them—only a thirst for battle that made her resemble a predator on the hunt.
Jeanne… laughed. Quiet, eerie, intermittent laughter that was scarier than any scream. This laughter was like the echo of death itself, the death rattle of a world on the verge of collapse. A laughter that said she would not give up until she destroyed her enemy—or died herself.
“Well,” Jeanne said, addressing Mordred, her voice devoid of weakness or pain, only cold fury that turned her words into icy blades. “Shall we let you try this time? Or do I have to do everything myself again?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” Mordred replied, gripping Clarent, her voice devoid of fear or doubt, only a thirst for battle that made her resemble a demon unleashed from the underworld. “But allow me to remind you, Dragon Witch, that the final word always belongs to me.”
And they charged into battle again, rushing toward pain, blood, and… death. Death, which for them was only a temporary obstacle. Death, which would not stop them until they achieved their goal.
Jeanne and Mordred didn’t wait for Heracles to recover from his fall. They attacked simultaneously, like two predatory birds tightening the circle around their prey. Their movements were so synchronized that it seemed there was some ancient bond between them—something greater than mere tactical understanding.
Jeanne moved like a shadow, her speed seemingly inhuman. Every strike of La Pucelle was precise, calculated, aimed at Heracles’ open wounds—the very spots where his flesh hadn’t fully healed yet. The sword cut through the air with a hum, like thunder, leaving behind black trails as if reality itself was cracking under its blade.
Mordred, on the other hand, acted with the fury of a hurricane. Her Clarent gleamed in the dim light, reflecting the crimson glow of Jeanne’s flames. She hacked at his legs, trying to trip him, to rob him of balance, to turn his mighty figure into a helpless giant. Each of her strikes teetered on the edge of madness, but within that mad fury lay cold calculation.
Heracles roared, parried, tried to counterattack, but something had changed. His movements became slower, heavier. The wounds he had sustained hadn’t fully healed. His body, usually tireless, now seemed exhausted, as if even his immortality was beginning to crack. He retreated step by step, stumbling over his own feet, losing balance, like a colossal pendulum swinging between life and death.
He tried to grab Jeanne, to crush Mordred, but they slipped past him like ghosts, too fast, too agile, too… merciless. They pressed him, cornered him, robbed him of space to maneuver. In their eyes was unwavering confidence: just a little more, one more strike—and he would break.
But Heracles… was Heracles.
His roar rolled across the square like thunder during a storm. It wasn’t just a cry of pain or fear—it was a primal scream of rage, the rage of a berserker pushed to his limit. In that sound was a power capable of splitting mountains, erasing cities from the face of the earth.
He slammed his fist into the ground—and the world around them trembled.
A shockwave rippled through the ground, like an explosion. The cobblestones buckled, shattered, turning into a chaotic pile of stones. The buildings surrounding the square quaked, covered in cracks, like old trees under the blows of an axe. One of them collapsed, dumping tons of bricks and dust onto the ground. This wasn’t just a punch—it was an act of destruction, a release of energy that could shake the planet itself.
Jeanne and Mordred were thrown aside like splinters in a raging ocean. They tumbled across the ground, but within moments they were already trying to rise, though every movement was a struggle.
Heracles rose to his feet, straightening to his full towering height. His body had regenerated, wounds closed, muscles bulged like cables. He was ready for the final battle. His eyes burned with insane fury, filled with a bloodlust that could only be quenched by total victory.
Jeanne and Mordred slowly rose to their feet, swaying but not surrendering. Their armor was dented, their faces smeared with blood and dirt, but there was no fear in their eyes. Only determination. Determination to finish what they had started.
“Well,” Jeanne said, addressing Mordred, her voice as cold as a winter wind, “shall we end this?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” Mordred replied, gripping Clarent. Her voice rang like steel, ready for the final blow.
And they charged into battle again. But this was no longer just a fight. This was a massacre. Every strike, every thrust was so ferocious that it seemed as if time itself slowed down to capture every detail of this nightmare.
And in this slaughter, no one could truly win. Their immortality made them stronger, but it also condemned them to an eternal war. They were Servants, beings existing for war, for destruction, for an endless battle. Their fate was predetermined: either they would fight forever, or they would fall here and now, only to be reborn again.
No one knew how this battle would end. No one could predict what would happen next. Because this was the War of the Holy Grail—a war in which there are no winners, only victims.
Each of them was part of something greater than themselves. Their fates intertwined like threads in a web woven by an invisible weaver. And this web was soaked in blood, pain, and despair.