The meat processing plant. Basement.
“I would ask that you answer my question, O mage.”
A “great hero.” Or else something that left even such words in its wake.
“Is it you who is to become my Master, and assign me trials?”
23
Prologue VIII
There was no other way to describe the being that had manifested in the basement of the
meat processing plant, surrounded by a multi-layered barrier.
“You’re the one to decide that, not me,” the man who had summoned him, Bazdilot Corde-
lion, replied coolly.
The suit-clad mages who served him, meanwhile, were making their Magic Circuits tremble
as they broke out in cold sweats. One look was all it had taken to make them understand that the
entity that had just manifested belonged on a different plane from themselves.
First, its stature exceeded human bounds. It looked like a statue carved by a god. More than
two and a half meters in height, the tips of its hair brushed the ceiling. It was a great, muscular
man, but every fiber of his muscles, and every drop of blood in his veins, was overflowing with
Od so pure it could be called divine. The mages got the impression that his body alone would be
sufficient to easily dispel even large-scale magecraft that required a group to cast, not to mention
their mediocre spells.
The mere atmosphere he exuded was enough to dominate the room. A mere few seconds of
his conduct was enough to make those who saw him feel that he was practically divine. If this
Heroic Spirit were to go out of control, there would be nothing they could do, and whatever this
Heroic Spirit did, they would have to accept that it was the right thing. Such fantasies began to
seize Bazdilot’s men in the presence of the perfect figure.
The Heroic Spirit was, in fact, capable of slaughtering every human in the room bare-han-
ded. In contrast to the pressure exerted by his body and his magical energy, however, he stood in
the center of the workshop with the calm bearing of a gentleman.
That, however, only made the Heroic Spirit’s exceptional nature more obvious, and all the
mages there, except for Bazdilot, had their brain’s continually rocked by the urge to flee. This
was no place for worthless mages like themselves. They were looking on a being it was not right
for them to look on.
And yet, not one of them moved. Their fear was being kept in check by a greater fear. They
could not run away while Bazdilot was still there. That was the only reason.
“______________________.”
“______________________.”
Bazdilot was discussing something with the Heroic Spirit, but the men did not hear it. It was
a conversation between a being that was far more than human, and their own ruler. By the time
they did manage to make out the words, the Heroic Spirit’s expression had clouded over. Faced
with a Heroic Spirit in an obvious ill humor, their superior, Bazdilot, remained expressionless.
“Well? Answer the question.”
“...”
24
Fate/Strange Fake 3
“I asked you if, in order to achieve victory in battle, you could kill a small child with your
own hands.”
“I could not. If any person would order such a thing, that person is my enemy.”
A solemn voice flowed from the lips of the expressionless hero.
“Are you... testing me?”
An invisible pressure caused a wind to gust through the workshop as he spoke. It was pure
might; not magical energy. A presence so weighty that an ordinary human could hardly help
losing their life from suffering it head-on robbed the mage’s of their freedom of movement.
“If you speak thus, knowing my origins... I judge that you have taken your life in your hands.”
From the perspective of the extraneous mages, those words, delivered with such force, soun-
ded like nothing less than a sentence of death. They prepared themselves to become collateral
damage. And yet, they felt no hatred for their superior; only fear mixed with resignation.
That superior — unfazed in the face of the pressure that threatened to crush him, room and
all — returned the hero’s glare with that inhuman gleam in his eyes, and gave his answer.
“Naturally. I threw my life away a long time ago.”
Then he held his right hand aloft, making the design on its back shine.
“By my Command Seal, I order you:”
“...Foolish.”
The Heroic Spirit shook his head, judging that the man intended to impose his dominance
by means of a Command Seal.
Restraints effected by means of a Command Seal were merely momentary. He knew that he
could easily shake them off with his own magical energy. Even if he was ordered to kill himself
with all three Command Seals, he judged that three suicides more or less would not pose a pro-
blem. He decided, however, that if the attempt would teach the mage the futility of binding him
with Command Seals, and help him to understand his place, he would not prevent the mage
from wasting one Seal.
The Heroic Spirit was too noble. Had he been the type to stick at nothing in the face of dan-
ger, he would have smashed in the mage’s head or sent it flying before he could finish activating
his Command Seals. In fact, if he had been summoned as Rider or Assassin, he would probably
have done just that. When summoned as one of the three knights, as he was now, however, his
aspect as a “faultless hero,” handed down in epics, came strongly to the fore. Accordingly, he had
taken on a dignity that resembled a form of chivalry.
That created a fatal chink in the armor of that great hero beyond human understanding. For
25
Prologue VIII
the order barked at him by means of a Command Seal was no demand for an oath of loyalty.
“Do not makes excuses.”
The hero let out a startled cry as one of Bazdilot’s Command Seals shone... and its potent
magical energy began to eat its way into his brain.
Impossible.
Even including past Grail Wars, the hero’s magical energy was top class. The witches of the
age of the gods would be one thing, but no modern mage should be capable of interfering with
his mind. But, although it was through a Command Seal, “something” in the mage before his
eyes had begun to jolt his brains. The hero recalled that he had experienced a similar gnawing
sensation once before. Something of the same kind was being loosed into him by the man before
his eyes.
“What... have you...”
“There is no need to hide your crimes, or your regrets. Lay bare your depths. I will see it all.”
Bazdilot, still expressionless, tempted the hero in a voice that seemed to sound from the
depths of hell.
“I do not need your power as a hero. I need the avarice that will drive you to stick at no-
thing for the sake of your goal. I need the deluded conviction that will drive a man to choose
any vicious means without hesitation, even in pursuit of noble ends,” he murmured to the now
motionless Heroic Spirit, and raised his left hand a second time.
“By my Command Seal, I order you once more: remember the humans you have seen.”
There must have been some special meaning in those words. Otherwise, they must have been
charged with some malefic intent.
The Command Seal, become a mass of magical energy, took the order that shook the hero’s
ears and caused it to seep deep into his brain.
His vision flickered. In the intervals, the faces of all the human beings the hero had encoun-
tered in life floated. There were distant descendents of gods among them, but before him they
had all been no more than “mere humans.”
A tyrant, a picture of cowardice, wailed, too frightened to stand:
“I understand! I’ll praise you! On my honor as king, I’ll praise you!
26
Fate/Strange Fake 3
“S-so don’t come any closer, monster!”
A blond man, remarkable for his haughty bearing, said:
“Incredible! I’m jealous! The rumors were true: you are a monster! Have no fear. I will treat
you well, and put you to good use. So long as you are with me, you are a monster no more.
“You are a great hero, the guardian of a future king.”
Just before she had chosen her own death, the woman he had loved said:
“You’ve done nothing wrong.
“So please, don’t curse the world. Don’t hate your own blood.
“You’re strong, so I’m sure you can do it.
“I couldn’t.”
Just before he stove his head in and flung him into the flames, what should have been an
enemy soldier had said:
“Fath—”
Human figures piled up, many, many layers deep, without regard for the order he had met
them, and vanished. As if they were calling to each other, an unnatural volume of magical energy
came pouring into him through the Command Seal.
Impossible. No human of this time possesses this much magical energy! It’s like... a witch of
my own era...
The matchless hero fell silently to his knees on the spot.
Confronted with that unbelievable scene, Bazdilot’s men were baffled. A being of a clearly
higher order was suffering before a mage, their own superior.
A Master-Servant relationship.
Everyone who beheld that scene understood that it could not be explained away so simply.
They did, however, realize that a definite toll had been exacted.
In the Holy Grail War, the Command Seals that each Master possessed amounted to lifeli-
nes. They were trump cards capable of enforcing an order or prohibition on a Servant, and even
feats, such a instantaneous transportation and emergency escape, that approached Magic. And
Bazdilot had spent two of his three. When they considered that the last remaining Command
27
Prologue VIII
Seal had to held in reserve in case the Servant rebelled, Bazdilot effectively had no more usable
Command Seals for the duration of the Grail War.
The mages felt worried that he had taken on a definite handicap, but a species of trust, which
accompanied their fear, put their minds at ease that Bazdilot would manage somehow. That
ease, however, collapsed just a few seconds later.
“By my Command Seal, I order you once more:”
The words froze the mages in the underground workshop. Bazdilot was going to expend all
three of his Command Seals in his summoning. Faced with their superior committing an action
so foolish that even a child, if they were familiar with the Grail War, would not do it, the mages
prepared to die this time for certain.
The Heroic Spirit, meanwhile, also resolved himself as he held back the magical energy wor-
ming its way into him.
This mage is dangerous.
He did not see Bazdilot expending his final Command Seal as folly. He had realized that,
although it did not show in his expression, the mage was taking his life in his hands. He was
gambling his whole existence in order to transmute the Heroic Spirit into something else.
Whatever order he gives with his final Command Seal, I must at least eliminate this man.
Even the Heroic Spirit was not able to grasp the nature of the power eating into him. If he
was not careful, however, this corrosion could spread to the other Heroic Spirits who had been
summoned for the Holy Grail War. Even as he desperately suppressed the curse from his own
lifetime welling up inside him, the great hero remained noble.
I must stop him. I must stop the wicked tyrant who would dominate this era.
Even as the mental pollution passed a point that would likely drive most Servants mad, this
great hero still reached out his hand, not to defend himself, but for the sake of the other Heroic
Spirits and the inhabitants of this era, who he had not yet even met. He did not care if he was
called unprincipled. He did not care if he was called a mad spirit that turned his hands against
his own Master. The man famed as a hero among heroes was determined to throw even his own
honor to the winds, and slay the mage in front of him for the sake of someone he had not yet see.
Then, just as he had shaken off the mental pollution and his hand was about to reach the
mage’s neck... Bazdilot spent his last Command Seal, as if to sneer at the hero’s nobility.
“Accept human nature — the robe of earth.”
28
Fate/Strange Fake 3
Everyone in the workshop, except for Bazdilot himself, saw “it.” The moment that Bazdi-
lot had expended all his Command Seals, another, reddish-brown tattoo peeked out of his left
cuff... and began to squirm like some ghastly creature.
× ×
In the gloom.
“Well then, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got to start preparations for my summoning.”
“Sure, I don’t mind. I want to take my time watching Artie get summoned on my own, an-
yway,” Francesca said, flapping her legs. She had shifted herself from the sofa to the bed.
Observing that, Faldeus issued one last warning.
“Ms. Francesca, I am well aware of the carnage you’ve been through. An amateur mage such
as myself, however, cannot help being concerned.”
At that point, Faldeus narrowed his eyes, and made no attempt to conceal his hostility
toward the man called Bazdilot as he continued.
“Was it really alright to give that man ‘it’?”
“Does it bother you that much? But not even I could contrive enough magical energy to run
the Heroic Spirit you can summon with that catalyst at full spec, you know? It really does take
the combo of Baz and the Scradios for that.”
“I’m not talking about the catalyst. I’m talking about the ‘byproduct’ you brought back from
Fuyuki.”
“Oh,” Francesca nodded, and flashed a malicious grin. “That couldn’t be helped. I mean, me
and Baz are about the only ones who can handle ‘it,’ much less grow it, with our egos intact...
“And I don’t want to always be touching that repulsive ‘mud’! Ahaha!”
× ×
The meat processing plant.
It was a bizarre scene.
The reddish-brown something that had flowed into the Heroic Spirit’s body along with the
power of the Command Seals were eating away at it. The Heroic Spirit released magical energy
of his own to oppose it, blowing away more than half the barriers around the workshop. Several
29
Prologue VIII
of the mages, bombarded by more magical energy than they could handle, collapsed twitching.
Even as he was exposed to the torrent of magical energy, however, Bazdilot kept his piercing
glare locked on the Heroic Spirit.
“Celebrate, affirm, and love that which they rejected. Do not hold back.”
He launched not only the power of the Command Seals, but also his own accumulated
magical energy through his outflung left hand. He continued to force the reddish-brown some-
thing that stretched from his hand into Heroic Spirit, making use of even the oriental folk magic
that the Clock Tower spurned as heresy.
He was cutting through the wall of magic resistance with his primitive sorcery, clearing the
way for the shadowy, writhing, reddish-brown thing to worm its way in directly. The cost was
now greater than it seemed conceivable Bazdilot’s cumulative magical energy could cover. The
Heroic Spirit suspected some kind of trick, but he could not afford the effort to expose it.
Clutched his own body, clawing at every inch of it, the Heroic Spirit remembered the pain
of the poison that had brought about his death. The suffering he felt ought to be of another
kind, but his instincts dragged the torment of the poison out of his memories. His instincts were
screaming that the power flowing into him now was just as dangerous.
Even as he bore the almost indescribable pain, the Heroic Spirit struggled desperately to
repress the “urges” that prodded him from within and without. The next instant, however, the
“mud” Bazdilot had sent into him had intertwined with the “curse” he had harbored within him
as karma, and the kneeling hero let out a bellow that shook space itself.
“________________________
__________________
________________________!”
As if in sympathy with that roar, a dramatic change took place in his body.
Just as it seemed that the Heroic Spirits whole body had enveloped in reddish-brown mud,
the muscles dropped from his thick, burly limbs. His height shrunk almost 50 centimeters, as if
his very skeleton had contracted. The mud-like something that coated his body became a dye,
and stained the hero’s skin reddish-brown. Then the other type of power that had intertwined
with the “mud” formed a white pigment, and marked his chest with a radial design, like a scar
from having his heart gouged out. As it did, the hero’s scream suddenly stopped, and he rose
silently to his feet as though nothing had happened.
“How does it feel to have rid yourself of excess?” Bazdilot asked coolly, his left hand still
raised. “From now on, that mud should give you power to make up for it.”
30
Fate/Strange Fake 3
The Heroic Spirit stared wordlessly back at him.
“The pass is already connected, but... I’ll ask first.”
Bazdilot stared at the Heroic Spirit who, although shrunken, was still a head taller than
himself. His tone was indifferent.
“I ask you: are you my Servant?”
After a brief lapse of silence, the Heroic Spirit answered.
“...Why not?”
He spread the cloth that he had been wearing on his shoulders, and draped it over his head
so that it concealed his face.
“In order to achieve my revenge... I will use you. When you lose your value... I will twist your
head off with my own hands.”
Having donned this bizarre outfit, the Heroic Spirit delivered a disturbing pronouncement
in a voice so intelligent that it was difficult to believe he had been on the verge of madness.
“Why do you hide your face?” Bazdilot asked. Naturally, he still wore no expression.
“...A precaution. So that the works of man never again enter my sight.”
“...Oh, I see. So that cloth is ‘its’ skin. If you can move freely like that, it’s no problem.”
“That is the way of it... Either way, I have no intention of exposing my face to the world. Not
until I use the Holy Grail to purge my true name.”
The Heroic Spirit claimed that he would use the Holy Grail to erase a “name.”
31
Prologue VIII
32
Fate/Strange Fake 3
When Bazdilot heard that strange declaration, he grunted, then brought a hand to his chin
and mused aloud:
“In that case, what should I call you? Your original nature has altered so much... Alternative...
Why don’t I call you ‘Alter’?”
In response, the Heroic Spirit gave a little shake of his head, and uttered his name. He had
changed completely since he had been summoned, and yet the name he spoke was his origin.
“My name is...”