Chapter Thirteen: Zouken Matou’s Request

“So you actually know my name. It seems you’re not some fortunate soul utterly ignorant about the Holy Grail War, are you?” Matou Zouken’s lips curled into a strange arc. “You sent such a thing to me—what is it you wish to obtain from the Matou family?”

The decrepit old man drew an ancient book from the sleeve of his kimono; it was the spoils Roland had acquired from Ryunosuke Uryu.

“Just a little, insignificant assistance.” Roland smiled, seemingly unperturbed by Zouken’s appearance. Indeed, the old man’s bald head and emaciated limbs, sunken eyes—he could easily outshine all others on Halloween without any disguise. Yet after yesterday’s events, Roland’s tolerance for the grotesque had grown markedly.

“So you seek my help?” Zouken narrowed his eyes slightly, tapping his cane softly with one hand. “This book is over a hundred years old, likely left behind during the second Holy Grail War. It belonged to that fellow who joined for numbers, failed early, and fled in disgrace.”

“Even so, that man could barely be called a legitimate magus. So despite his failure, he must have been filled with resentment and longing. Yet in you, I sense none of that vivid desire.”

The old man stared at Roland, a sharp light glinting in his eyes. He was one of the original architects of the Holy Grail War, an event that shaped the fate of the Moonlit World.

Though all three founding families were equal in legacy, compared to the orderly lineage of the Tohsaka or the homunculus-filled Einzbern, the true master of the Matou was always this seemingly frail elder. He had abandoned his former name and family, sacrificing all to that pitiful grand wish. Ironically, even that wish was discarded over endless years. Now, he was merely Matou Zouken, an old monster surviving on obsession.

Though his power had waned, his insight had only grown deeper. With his magic circuits deliberately closed, it was difficult to detect the aura of magecraft, yet Zouken was certain—the young man before him was no magus.

Anyone who’d immersed themselves in magecraft, regardless of their ideals or talents, could never possess such eyes: calm as a plant, as if forced to participate, utterly uninterested.

“Ah, you’re right. I am not a magus. To be precise, I no longer possess anything resembling magic circuits.”

To Zouken’s surprise, Roland admitted this freely.

“Unable to even construct channels for magical energy—what arrogance brings you to the Holy Grail War? What qualifications do you have to join this feast?”

Zouken felt disappointed. That morning, when he received the book and a note detailing its location in the Matou mailbox, he had hoped for new amusement, but found only another conceited madman.

“I have no interest in you. Here, take your book back. Boy, be smarter in your next life.”

Zouken tossed the book to Roland. The location was well-chosen; to avoid exposing their mysteries, magi could not cause too much commotion. Yet for a creature like Zouken who survived by devouring life, such taboos were hardly absolute.

Within that book, his insects already lay in wait. As the victim approached, they would burrow swiftly into flesh, devouring blood and organs, transforming the host into a puppet corpse under his control.

How amusing that would be.

“Heh heh—”

Zouken let out a chilling laugh, seeping into the cold air. The battered book spun through the air in a steady arc; what had been a few wormholes now covered the surface, and black insects occasionally poked their menacing mandibles from within.

“Is that so? I’m not convinced. You speak of qualifications so lightly—but if we must discuss them,”

Roland’s smile was cold as ice. “—then power itself is my qualification.”

Killer Queen’s hand emerged from him, snatching the book ahead of time. In the next instant, flames flickered—an explosion, silent and swift, obliterated the artifact that had been transformed into a miniature hive, a tool worthy of being called a Mystic Code. Not even a moment to resist.

Zouken’s laughter ceased abruptly.

He knew well the strength of his familiars. Though revolting, their mandibles were sharp as blades, their bodies tough, immune to ordinary weapons and highly resistant to heat. Yet in an instant, the enemy before him destroyed them utterly.

“A familiar… but its strength and abilities are unusual. Is it psychic power, or something else?”

In the Moonlit World, though magi were the main wielders of supernatural power, ordinary humans could possess abnormal abilities due to fairies or innate talent. In many cases, such abilities could even surpass those of typical magi.

“It’s called Killer Queen. Its ability is to turn anything it touches into a bomb detonated at my will—anything, whether a small coin or an entire human being.”

“You reveal your ability so easily?”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if people know Killer Queen’s power, it makes no difference.” Roland looked at Zouken, slowly extending his right hand. “Besides, with a partner I admire, I believe honesty is essential for a good alliance.”

Zouken stared at the three crimson Command Spells on Roland’s hand, his cloudy eyes seeming to brighten.

He scrutinized the young man again: handsome features twisted into a smile that did not reach his eyes, a sense of danger at odds with his build.

Most oppressive of all were Roland’s pitch-black, icy pupils.

No trace of anticipation, only the despair and tranquility of falling into a bottomless abyss, and a void tinged with destruction.

Simply meeting those eyes made Zouken shudder.

He immediately agreed to Roland’s request—whether to provide suitable relics, financial and intelligence support, or even the most troublesome magical channels.

Not because he believed Roland could win, but for a simple reason:

They were kin—both satisfied only by devouring the life of others.

Though their methods and natures differed, that innate malice could never be erased.

Sending such a person to the enemy’s side would be folly for any wise man.

—Besides, in this Grail War, he had reasons to need a sharp blade.

“So, what is your request?”

After reaching an agreement, Roland replied lightly, “Is it the wish-granting opportunity of the Grail? I don’t mind giving it to you.”

Having long since learned the truth of this Grail War, Roland had no intention of getting involved in such a poisonous wish. He’d resolved that, given the chance, he’d destroy the wretched cup again—to show them the consequences of dragging in outsiders.

He was also curious about Zouken’s goal. Even after demonstrating his strength as an external ally, the original story depicted Zouken as uninterested in this war. Yet today, the old worm agreed to every demand with surprising ease.

“No, no, no… As a first investment, I wouldn’t dare ask so much.” Zouken forced a kindly smile onto his face. “These things—you could obtain them yourself without relying on the Matou, so I won’t make any reckless demands.”

Then he slowly extended a finger toward Roland. “This is my request—during this Holy Grail War, I hope you’ll prioritize killing one particular Master.”

“Who?”

Merely recalling the name made the ugly old man’s lips curl into a venomous smile.

“That shameless thief from the Clock Tower!”

“Huh?”