Chapter Twelve: I Have Come to Negotiate Terms

In the pitch-black alleyway, an indignant voice echoed.

“This isn’t right—isn’t this the world of the Type-Moon? Why is there an organizer with admin privileges, forcing people into the game? If you tried this in the Little Garden, you’d be hunted down as a Demon Lord!”

Roland rubbed his own hand in frustration. The Command Seals seemed to have fused with his skin, and no amount of scrubbing could erase them. Although the nightlife in Fuyuki City was anything but vibrant, the streets now shrouded in darkness, Roland acted with utmost caution. He took off his jacket and draped it over the hand marked by the Command Seals, hiding the telltale signs.

Even after returning home, his mind remained tangled in the web of his future. The die was cast—the Command Seals were now branded on his flesh. No matter how he tried to explain, there was no way out. Was it still possible to flee Fuyuki while there was time?

The answer was obvious. The Holy Grail War was a ritual jointly overseen by the Holy Church and the Mage’s Association. If you wanted to withdraw without fighting, you could go to the church and have the Command Seals removed, but that meant exposing yourself completely.

If you tried to escape in secret—though such a case was unheard of—Roland, despite his limited knowledge of magecraft, could guess there would be punishment, possibly even a hunt for his life.

The spiritual contract that was about to be digested would also be interrupted. Roland was anything but willing to flee like a beaten dog. He was an honest, trustworthy young man, who worked diligently for his living and even spent his spare time helping society rid itself of dangerous elements. Why should he have to run away in disgrace because of a pack of inhuman terrorists?

Besides, the Grail wouldn’t let him go. From the way the Command Seals had been forced on him, Roland could tell—the shining, illustrious Greater Grail was filled with black mud, the embodiment of seething malice.

To hope for the Grail’s goodwill would be folly; a swift end by his own hand would be preferable.

Would he truly be safe if he obediently went to the Holy Church and withdrew? Roland pondered this, then decisively shook his head.

This war’s Overseer, Risei Kotomine, was, by all accounts, a just man. But even in this very war, he and Tokiomi Tohsaka were colluding in secret. There was no guarantee they wouldn’t coerce him, offering magical energy in exchange for a Servant as their pawn.

“Very well, I’ll take part in the Holy Grail War.”

Roland spoke softly, his expression settling into an unexpected calm. It wasn’t the resignation of a man who had given up, but the resolve that comes after profound reflection—a final ultimatum.

Whether it was the power of suggestion from his own words, or simply that his parched soul yearned for this release, Roland felt adrenaline surging through him. A fire, hot and exhilarating, was kindling in the heart that had always been so placid.

Against the likes of Servants—beings beyond mortal measure—there was little point in comparison. But as a Master, with enough preparation, Roland didn’t see himself losing to anyone.

The books left by Ryunosuke Uryu had filled in the gaps in his knowledge about the basics of the Holy Grail War. However, to truly compete, the matter of magical energy supply could not be ignored.

If a Master couldn’t provide magical energy, the Servant would be forced to hunt for it just to survive, never mind fighting. In battle, the consumption would multiply. No matter which way he looked at it, Roland needed to secure a steady source of magical energy.

Given his circumstances, Roland identified two possible approaches.

The first was fairly straightforward: eliminate a magus with strong obsessions, and see if the Key of All Spirits could transform him into a contracted spirit.

But the creation of such a spirit didn’t depend on one’s power. Killing the strong didn’t guarantee a contract; only those with specific obsessions and wishes could be made into such a spirit in the thin space between life and death.

Even if successful, the spirit's abilities would be shaped by their former lives, not necessarily aligning with Roland’s needs.

After the death of Ryunosuke Uryu, Roland confirmed through the Key of All Spirits that Uryu lacked the qualifications to become a contracted spirit. Perhaps he hadn’t yet met his true love or experienced the artistic growth he craved.

Given his personality and background, it was questionable whether the man even knew he possessed a magic circuit. Even if he became a spirit, his abilities would likely amount to little more than the skills of a serial killer, possibly affecting one’s sense of aesthetics in disturbing ways.

Hunting other magi was even less feasible. With the Tohsaka and Matou families entrenched in Fuyuki, there were no spare spiritual lands left—let alone the presence of the Holy Church. Few outsiders lingered here at all.

“So, I’m left with only one option: find an ally?”

Roland sighed. Unlike the carefree Masters of the Fifth War, balancing school and Grail battles and even visiting each other's workshops with their Servants, the Masters of the Fourth War were far more earnest and deadly serious about the conflict.

Tokiomi Tohsaka had to seek allies in secret, and the rest—each with their own means and ambitions—were no less guarded. Even the weakest among them, Waver Velvet, was blessed with extraordinary luck, drawing a fated Servant.

Roland, despite whatever luck he may have, wasn’t about to rely on such fortune.

Given his situation, the ideal ally would be ambitious, far-sighted, able to distinguish gains and losses, and willing to invest in the Holy Grail War—not only providing magical energy, but also obtaining relics, and accepting that the Command Seals would not be their own.

Summing up his requirements, Roland couldn’t help but feel a wave of disappointment.

“Who in their right mind would agree to such a deal? Does such a person even exist?”

He stroked his chin, then his eyes lit up.

“Wait a minute… there actually is someone like that…”

The next morning, in Fuyuki’s central park, an elderly man in a kimono sat quietly on a bench at the edge of the lawn. The chill of the morning dew had already dampened his sleeves; in this weather, even the healthiest of adults would instinctively pull their clothes tighter.

But the old man seemed oblivious to it all. His back was ramrod straight, and the staff in his hands might just as well have been a sharpened blade. It formed a stark contrast with his decayed, mummy-like visage.

He surveyed his surroundings with a cold, unblinking gaze. In the hollows of his eyes, a chilling sharpness gleamed. From his thin, shriveled body, a faint sound of insects could be heard.

Suddenly, the old man looked up, staring down the path. On such a damp and gloomy morning, the only other soul likely to be here—besides himself—would be the mysterious individual he had an appointment with.

“Oh, you actually came…” Roland said, gazing at the decrepit old man before him, not a hint of awe in his bearing. Instead, a cheeky grin spread across his face.

“Zouken Matou, I’ve come to discuss terms.”