C17, 18: Bakersfield (3), Magnus Crest (1)

A/N: Since a reader has said the pace is sluggish, I've edited and mashed up two chapters into one. I'll see if the same can be done to future chapters to hurry us past the Tutorial period.

— — — — —

Bakersfield's skull collides with a hard surface, concrete perhaps, snapping him out of the darkness.

His immediate reaction is to thrash his limbs, a desperate attempt to fend off whoever is pulling him by the legs.

But as the disorientation wears off, he finally becomes acutely aware of the predicament he has landed himself in. His once-whole limbs have been contorted and left to mend on their own, the resulting misshapen healing now causing him immense pain with every twitch, his jagged, poorly set bones stabbing at him from the inside.

'How did I—?' The Lord of Bakersfield wonders, his thoughts barely making sense due to the panic attack he's in. "Hey, you! You are finally awake! I don't know why he insisted on this greeting, and frankly? I don't care." The unfamiliar voice, once cheerful abruptly turns to menacing as the stranger gives the Magus a harsh slap. "But here's mine: The things I'm going to do to you... You will wish you never came to my city."

A hand seizes Bakersfield's, pressing down on his ankle, causing him to wince in agony. "Ugh—ARGH! What do you want, you damn barbarians?" The moment the words leave his mouth, something collides with his face—he can't see it, but the Magus is certain it was somebody's knee. "The only barbarian here is you, you monster..."

The stranger snarls. "How many, huh? How many have you killed just to satisfy that pitiful ego of yours? Ten? Twenty?!"

The stranger sounds less and less stable by the nanosecond, and it instantly dawns on Bakersfield. His captor is just a downgrade of his kind—a normal human in a world of Magi; extraterrestrial Gods and horrors the human mind, even his, can scarcely comprehend. If he plays his cards well, he may be able to escape the situation unharmed—

* BANG!

A sudden gunshot jolts Bakersfield back to the present.

Discreetly, he attempts to link to the Bounded Field and remotely release his test subjects. He's deprived them of sustenance for some time now, their fangs must undoubtedly yearn to sink into fresh, succulent flesh. But, to his surprise, evem with their shackles gone, the mutant-hybrids show no reaction. Usually there should be snarls and howls of joy released by the test subjects, yet they appear oddly quiet today.

"Sorry for your subjects." The stranger begins. "That was the last of time."

Takes moments for the words to sink in and his brain to absorb their meaning; even longer for the fury to settle in the pit of his stomach.

Bakersfield erupts, straining against the handcuffs binding him. "You utter- Do you have any idea how much I have invested in them?! Fifteen generations of your pathetic lineage won't even begin to compensate the cost! I'll kill you, I swear I'll flay your flesh and—!"

A foot comes crashing on his knee, rendering Bakersfield's rant incoherent mumbles in his… It was one thing to lose his composure before a fellow Magus; it's another for an insect who ordinarily wouldn't even register on his radar to witness such unsightliness.

"The only reason your brain isn't splattered across the floor is because my partner's at the clinic."

The stranger hisses next to Bakersfield's ears, his voice thick with emotion.

"Now, the kid can be a bit of a handful, he may overuse threats until they lose all their effect, but he's just a damn kid."

He pauses to take a steadying breath.

"So you are going to hand over the antidote, or I swear to God the things I'll do to you will be unspeakable…!"

Despite the raging urge to skin the impudent human alive, the barrel of the gun pressed against his forehead—still warm from the last shot—convinces him otherwise.

A wise man knows when to back down, and though some back at the Tower may disagree, Bakersfield knows he's anything but unwise. "L- Look, we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, but I have money—the kind you cannot even begin to fathom. If you let me go, I can send you, say, 5Mil—"

The eruption of scorching air deafens one of his ears, causing Bakersfield's brain to rattle inside his skull as a bullet just barely misses its mark.

"Fu- Fuck! 10Mil, that's more than enough to get you set for lif—!"

Another shot rings out, this one tearing a sizable chunk from the Magus' face. For the first time since devising it a decade ago, Bakersfield feels genuine resentment towards his [Regeneration]. It has its limits, of course—everything it regenerates is taken directly from his lifespan in cell replication, damaging a portion of his DNA which really adds up over time.

It's why he looks like a wrinkled husk in his early forties.

To make matters worse, it is a passive Spell that constantly consumes Mana to repair his body.

The more severe the injuries, the more Mana is required, and he can't even turn the thing off.

He had units to spare after fighting that religious fanatic, all of which the voracious 'black hole' of a Spell had consumed to fix his body, incorrectly, he might add!

Unleashing a loud screech, his survivor's instinct kicks in, right along with the political experience he has managed to build during the years he did participate. 'Time to break it out…'

Negotiation—a tool he had never thought he'd have to use on the lesser; a weapon he will admit he has left to rust and gather dust these last few years.

'The human seems idealistic. I can work with that angle… A sympathetic villain, perhaps?' Face contorting in horror as he loosens his grip over his features, Bakersfield interweaves anguished screams with sobs, stuttering like a frightened child. "W-What do you know? My experiment is meant to serve Humanity—to save it!"

"Save Humanity?" Forcefully, the stranger lands a blow that snaps Bakersfield's head backwards, his neck throbbing and protesting against the abrupt impact. "YOU CALL THIS 'SAVING'?! 73 people you murdered! 73 you turned into abominations!"

The stranger crowds into Bakersfield's personal space, the faint scent of whiskey from the man's nasty breath wafting near his face. "That's 73 people whose bodies can't even be given back to their mourning families because of what you did? Now, where the Hell is that antidote?! I won't ask again!"

"Don't- Don't you understand?!"

Bakersfield draws into himself, feigning fear. "What's coming, there's no saving Humanity! My way is the only chance remnants of us will survive the cataclysm."

Fortunately, his magical reserves have replenished somewhat, granting him just enough to employ [Hypnotization].

With the resources available to him, the usual array of subliminal messages has been significantly reduced.

As a result, Bakersfield can only subtly implant a little over a dozen thoughts, and hope they'll make a difference.

Sure enough, shortly after, the Magus senses a shift in the stranger's demeanor.

Even blindfolded in an attempt to limit his [Hypnotization], the Magus can hear the stranger's weight shifting from one foot to another anxiously. 'Got him... Now I just have to—'

A loud slap echoes in the room all of a sudden, but the expected pain doesn't follow.

"Did you just—?"

Bakersfield begins, before being cut off by the mumbling stranger. "He told me you might attempt that... Hypnosis, huh? Handy trick you got there."

Another slap lands, this one on the Magus,

"WHERE!"

And another,

"IS!"

And another,

"THE ANTIDOTE?!"

The stranger delivers blow after blow to Bakersfield, each strike more forceful than the last, causing his lips to split, his skin to bruise, and his consciousness to falter.

"Go fuck yourself!"

The Magus murmurs, a twisted chuckle escaping his lips. With negotiations out the window, he decides to goad his assailant instead, having finally accepted his fate.

In spite of his desire to cling to life in pursuit of his dreams, Bakersfield is a realist, which is arguably necessary for survival in the cutthroat and hyper-competitive environment of the Association.

Realism bordering pessimism is the way of life many Magi abide, yet none embodies it as wholly as his House.

He won't live pass today, Thomas—the man, not the Magus—abruptly realizes, and rather than die cowering, he wants to go out with style and defiance.

His sole regret is the inability to contribute to his Family Crest, to impart his hard-earned knowledge to the next generation. 'No… The Crest, I must—'

The stranger pounces, gripping a fistful of Thomas' collar before unleashing a relentless barrage of blows. Coughing as blood fills his nostrils and throat, obstructing his airway, the Magus bares his teeth, stained scarlet with his own blood, and chuckles mirthlessly.

"You're fucking lying!"

But perhaps all is not lost. "I- I can tell you where I've hidden it, but you—Urk—You've got to do me one favor."

Though his words suggest there is no remedy, a Magus such as himself would never be so careless as to create something without a contingency plan, for that is truly the gravest error a Magus can make, for enemies can just as swiftly become allies. "You think you are in any position to negotiate?"

"Y- Yes… You need the- the cure!"

Bakersfield's words stay the man's fists.

"A- And because you're going to en- enjoy this favor."

"Why's that?"

Bakersfield wheezes, lightly lifting his bent limp inches off the grounds, before what little stamina he has vanishes. "Get to chop my arm off. What d- do you say, interested?"

"That can't be all of it."

The stranger mutters in confusion.

"And why the fuck would I want to do that? I'm not a psycho like you."

"You'll take my arm to that religious little freak, i- if he's still alive. He- He'll know what to do with it."

Such occurrences may be rare now, just as murder has transitioned from commonplace to exceptional in the contemporary era.

Yet, the practice of trading the Crests of deceased Magi for monetary compensation, status, favors, and even knowledge is still around. Thomas hopes the crazy, religious little freak will trade his portion of the Crest, back to the Bakersfield in exchange for something of lesser value to them, and more to him.

As for revenge…

Their lineage has endured for centuries, which means Thomas has more cousins and siblings who will happily take up the mantle than most. "Where is it?"

"In- In my office."

After a brief stroll and witnessing the stranger's warning firsthand—or rather, hearing it—Thomas breathes a sigh of relief. At least he won't be killed by a fool… Nothing could be worse than that. Absolutely nothing. "The black vial is the one you need." Thomas instructs.

"If you're lying—" The stranger begins, a hint of doubt in their voice.

Thomas interjects. "My legacy is far more important than vengeance."

Still hesitant, but with no other choice, the stranger gathers several vials and turns to address the Magus, who is drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Do what you must." Thomas says, coiled muscles finally relaxing as he accepts his fate. "Never a religious man, but I hope God has prepared a special place for you in Hell."

"God…" The Magus cackles maniacally. "The tyrants are dead, we are what remains."

Thomas isn't sure whether the deafening sound of the shot or the blackness that blots his vision comes first, but he knows a piece of his brain, the space between the left and right hemispheres, is now missing.

He can feel it trickling out of his skull.

'They better not waste my knowledge…'

— [ToI] —

The last threat neutralized, Oswald retrieves his phone and dials the number Leonis had given him. "Leo, I've got the antidote. How's the situation on your end?"

Moments later, a voice responds, sounding both drowsy and… Elevated—high, for those who have not caught on. "—Everything's just peachy… But I'm 90% sure Jesus is hanging out in the other corner of the room."

Hearing the news, the detective hurries back to the shady clinic he's witnessed criminals seeking refuge in before—mostly petty thieves, armed robbers, and the occasional grand theft auto. But, recalling the deal he made with the now-deceased mad scientist, he sighs. "Hey, the killer wants me to, uhm, bring his severed arm to you. Should I?"

"—Probably? Feels important... I think it's the morphine they gave me..."

"How much did they give you?" The detective inquires, massaging his eyelids. There's a brief silence, then some mumbled responses before the superhuman replies.

"10 grams? A little over that. The drug wouldn't take earlier."

"What the fuck?" Oswald blurts. "The lethal dosage is in the milligrams, you stupid fucking kid! Hang in there, on my way!"

Cursing up a storm, the detective hastily ends the call.

He whirls around, searching for a tool, until his eyes settle on the scalpel left to rust on the table.

Grimacing slightly, Oswald turns to the corpse and sighs, rubbing his forehead to alleviate the stress. "God, what am I turning into?"

Unfortunately, no divine response greets his prayer today.

"Maybe I can cut the flesh and snap the bone later..."

He muses to him, before getting to work as the glinting blade enters the corpse's shoulder.

"Oh, fuck you, you little piece of shit for making me do this!"

— [ToI] —

Munching on a stale piece of bread, I hum a tune as blood is siphoned from my body and replaced with someone else's.

The pain has diminished significantly, and the angry black veins on my arm have faded, though it could just be my imagination.

"Rest now, my child. You are in good hands." Across from me, Caucasian 'Jesus' makes the sign of the cross, pulling out a bag of chunks and waving it at me.

"I have got some mushrooms, in case the morphine isn't working."

"Nah, man. Been clean for a year. Don't want to risk a relapse."

I slur. I've never touched morphine before—never touched any of the harder stuff, not even medically, but damn is it fucking nauseating. "Aight... If you need some, you know who to ask."

'Jesus' shrugs, then adds as an afterthought. "Free of charge. That looks like some nasty snake bites, my son... Whatever you did to get them, you've earned my respect."

"We still continuing with the 'Jesus' bit?"

"It's funny, so why not?" He smiles. "Leslie Paulson, residential druggie and slinger, at your services."

"Jasper Hangman, the not-so-residential kid with a complicated family life. Pleased to meet you." Even drug-addled, I know to lie. My budding career as a celebrity will get snuffed out like a candle if it's discovered I was here, and I aim to turn my popularity into a globally-recognized brand, like Kanye West and his Yeezy, or Shaq's franchising company.

I want the ability to buy vast lands in Australia and declare it a new Kingdom, while the other countries can only watch helplessly lest I tank the economy, and when I die—if I die—I want to be enshrined as the God of Wealth...

In-game, of course.

"Jasper Hangman?"

'Jesus' snaps me out of my delusions, snorting. "That's the dumbest fake name I've heard in a while."

"Well, it's the only one you're gonna get." I answer, fixing my posture to get myself comfortable. Our conversation should have ended right there, but I do have things to sell. "You know anyone in the black market?"

"Black market?"

'Jesus' straightens up instantly.

Funny how money can make even a druggie high on 'rooms and whatever else up his act so quickly. "Why? You got anything to sell."

He prods, as if I'd be stupid enough to reveal that. I might have earlier, when the morphine was kicking-in in full force, but now that my brain's half-functioning again, I'm self-aware enough to know the danger of giving away valuable information in an underground clinic. "Some."

"Damn… They start out young these days. Broke into someone's crib?"

"Something of the sort."

I admit as the door bursts open, and in comes Oswald—disheveled and wheezing.

"No parking spot… I- I gotta—"

"It's alright, my son. Take your time."

The detective swerves around to see the bearded man in the corner, on his bed-rest as well. Then, he turns towards me, confused, backtracking as he remembers where he is. "Oh, yeah, you-urgh-you doing alright?"

"I'm fine. I even made a friend." Humming, I gesture at the druggie. "Meet Leslie."

The man waves, clearly doped out of his mind. "Leslie, but my friends call me 'Jesus'."

"Cool nickname, druggie."

"Ouch, hurtful much?"

"You lot are pathetic." Oswald glares, his gaze locked with Leslie's.

"Right, ease off. I'm trying to do business with him." Playing the Devil's advocate, I try to smooth things out between them, but I need not to.

Leslie is as chill as his nickname suggests. "You look like you need to be on 'shrooms… Want a piece?"

"Fuck off."

Glancing between the two, I run my hand down my face and chuckle. "What a nice way to end the day."

For the entire week after, Oswald and I work to find our second serial killer, because a promise is a promise.

The evening Bakersfield died, a fresh body was discovered buried in a park, dug up by some poor lass' dog, an old man in his 80's this time, which all but confirms the existence of a second killer.

The choice of victim baffles Oswald, but we've already compiled notes about their previous victims, and am thus able to connect the dots a bit quicker.

It's overall contributions the second killer's targeting...

All of their victims thus far have been the more vulnerable demography of society.

Those who will not be remembered;

Those easy to vanish without anyone caring, who're weak and feeble, all of them dealing with health problems like depression, obesity, terminal illnesses,…etc.

The door we eventually knock onto belongs to Marie Parker, a 50 years old caretaker to the elderly and the crippled who lives alone in her tiny apartment. No close family, friend and the nearest relative she has is her aunt who lives on the other side of the city.

When we get to see her at last, her face is as calm as a lake. "Ms. Parker?"

"So, you guys have come. I was wondering when."

She sits us down, provides us with teas and refreshments that contains no poison—I checked. Oswald understandably refuses to, but I have little issue knocking down the beverage. "Ms. Parker, I don't understand… Reading these files, the woman I'm meeting should be an angel… Why did you do it?"

"Why?" She snorts. "You try wiping shit, changing diapers, cleaning up people's mess for 30 years straight, and maybe you'll know. What good are they? They're burdens to their families; they're burdens to society; they are burdens to themselves… I'm doing us all a favor relieving them of their misery."

Unconvined by her reasoning, Oswald continues to bicker back and forth, while I remain on the sideline.

I know a lost-cause when I see one, being one myself.

In fact, I'd argue everyone's a lost-cause for something, for everybody has vices…

Mine's avarice—an insatiable beast that greeds for valuables like the dragons of old;

Hers is pride—self-righteousness and overinflated sense of importance rivaling the Devil himself.

In her room, we discover dozens of diaries which belonged to the people she used to take care of, each one more depressing than the last, detailing the lives of quite a few of her victims. There are even pictures with words badly scrawled on them—words of reget never to be spoken.

It is as they say, 'You stare into the abyss, and it will stare back.'

Ms. Parker didn't come out sane, unfortunately.

Oswald believes we will have to force her to follow to the police station, but to our surprise, the woman goes with very little fanfare. She cooperates like an ordinary citizen ought to do, and before long, Oswald's face quickly gets on the newspaper as the 'brilliant detective' who solves two serial killer cases at one.

With my job finished, I depart from Canada much richer than I previously was, and with a whole new container of Mystic Codes to play around with and a library of knowledge. One of the perks of being friend with Rin Tohsaka is the Tohsaka outer library's open to me partly.

Unfortunately, it is incomplete.

There are holes in several theories, torn pages…etc.

Hopefully, Bakersfield's library will fill in the gaps and provide me with more knowledge to work on my own Specialization.

Funnily enough, picking my Magecraft has hands-down been the most difficult dilemma for me yet, mainly because there is none which peaks my interest.

Some ideas are far too complicated for a newbie, most are dead-ends with very little room for future development.

I need a 'career', not a 'minimum wage job'.

Something that will give me a decent head-start when I finally decide to step on stage.

"Decision, decision..." I mumble, pushing the door to the Church open to find the place completely transformed—renovated with gold candle holders placed in every corner.

"Your Highness, you're back."

"Wha- What happened here?"

I stutter, bewildered; bambozzled and caught off-guard all at once. "You didn't use Rin's money, did you?"

"Your Highness, donations have significantly increased in the past month. The Church has caught wind of your philanthropic acts and is using it for publicity."

I grumble under my breath, my lips twitching in frustration, "Ah, shoot…"

Maybe I should have chosen the religious route instead… Nah, A career in religion could be quite lucrative with the shifting political climate in the upcoming decades.

'Maybe I can still try it?' I ponder.

Pretending I had a little convo with Christ in a fever dream and suddenly become a devoted, born-again believer is doable, especially due to my physical age, but, 'Do I want to?'

Not because I have anything against the religion in general. To me, most things that benefit my gains are good, but taking donated money for personal use?

That won't solve anything.

It's not a reliable stream of income to begin with, and the risks if corruption's uncovered are simply too high.

"I know that look." Kirei hisses. "If you wish to confess, I'm all ears."

"Nah." I shake, dragging my luggage to my room. "I'm good. Was just thinking how nice the place is now."

"Thanks to your effort." Kirei nods, trailing behind me.

"Since when did you become such a flatterer?"

"Since I started living with you two, her Majesty specifically."

Taking a deep breath to register the extravagances, I smile.

Even if the 'Evil' continues to linger, this is a massive step-up.

"It's good to be home."

C18: Magnus Crest (1)

"Kirei, you ever given any thought to BDSM?"

I suddenly ask the priest, whose face contorts in visible confusion as he tilts his head. "You know, chains; leather; leash—that kind of stuff?"

I clarify, somehow able to maintain a straight face while the ring I retrieved from the late Lord Bakersfield's severed arm thrums with Mana.

The Mystic Code serves as both a GPS tracker plus a communication device.

Conveniently, the first lesson Kirei ever learned tutoring under the late Tokiomi happened to be a mini Bounded Field designed to scramble its signals.

Often prizing themselves as the rational and civilized, the theft of another's Crest is often frowned upon in the Tower. Very rarely will one spot a Magus using the Craft of another House without being publicly bashed—it's supposedly that horrible of a dishonor, hence there's very little need to develop such a Spell or Bounded Field.

I knew the Tohsaka and Edefelt had a major beef, 'Maybe there's some truth to the rumor, after all.'

"What exactly is this 'BDSM' thing you're mentioning?"

"You've never heard of it?" Although my interests may align with this particular lifestyle, I've never dared to broach the topic with past partners, fearing they might find me… Strange. But to not know about it altogether? Kirei taps his fingers impatiently on the wooden table he's cleaning, his brows furrowed. "Would I ask if I had?"

"Eager, are we?"

I smile, my eyes half-lidded as I finally gather the courage to inject mana into the Mystic Code. "It's essentially finding a sexual partner, or a spouse, who's… Kinky in the bedroom. You'd have to work out the specifics with them, but bondage is a whole category for a reason. It might just provide the 'fix' you're looking for."

Kirei's gaze turns towards me, silent and harshly judgmental, before shifting to acceptance. "And where might I find a woman like that?"

I shrug as the ring pulses with a blue light amd suggest.

"I don't know. Try the red-light district?"

Although I do love the feeling of accomplishment, I'm not crazy enough to create my own problems or leave an existing one to fester.

If I could guide Kirei towards a more functional state, it'd drastically reduce the number of potential enemies on my list. "Ask around, find a girl who's interested, and if her reaction to the experience is positive…"

My instructions trail off as someone finally picks up the line. "—What are your demands?"

"That was… Abrupt." I mumble under my breath. "Don't you have questions about your Lord—"

"—No." The woman behind the ring answers robotically, about as emotional a normal person will feel watching the news of the latest war. "No point wasting each other's time. Thomas Bakersfield's death saddens us, but the world waits for no one. His portion of the Crest is far more important—it is our priority."

"Is he not your Lord?"

I begin to argue, but am left utterly speechless by her nonchalant reaction.

"—I see you are new to this… What pathetic idiot, to lose to a greenhorn of all people."

She muses disdainfully, as if the mere idea disgusts her. "—The elders have chosen a replacement, and should he perish, another will take his place, and so on, so forth. Now, if you are quite done with this childish display, please state your demands."

Tussling my hair, I groan.

And there I was, thinking I was off my rocker… 'I've got nuthin' on these guys.'

After much contemplation, I've decided on my Specialization.

I will still utilize the Emiya Crest when I obtain it—standing on the shoulders of giants can be quite enjoyable, after all.

However, I need something to call my own, the Path that is uniquely mine.

"Do you have any information on [Kinetic Manipulation]?"

"—We have some, excavated and translated from ancient manuscripts in Ireland. When and where shall the exchange happen?"

"Not so fast."

I interject, halting her in her tracks.

"I'm gonna need additional compensation."

"—Don't push your luck." She warns.

"Oh, but I am." I insist.

Magic Crests are composed of the Magic Circuits belonging to their owner. For instance, the Tohsaka Crest contains around 60 Magic Circuits, combined with Rin's 40, that gives her a total of 100 Magic Circuits at her disposal. The Bakersfield Crest houses four sets of 20 Magic Circuits each.

While the associated Spells may be inaccessible to me, the number of Circuits alone would boost its value far beyond that of merely rudimentary knowledge.

"I reckon your Lord carried roughly 50% of the Bakersfield Crest with him… Do you really want to lose that much?"

"—Circuits can be replaced, Spells rewritten. You do not have the highground here."

Pursing my lips, I steal a sidelong glance at Kirei, catching his intense gaze fixed squarely on the back of my head. 'Creepy…'

"I suppose I'll have to learn your Family Craft, then. The concepts of evolution and cross-breeding do sound rather intriguing." I muse, passing the ring from one finger to the next.

"—Have you no honor?" She retorts, a hint of panic creeping into her voice. "All you will do is weaken the very foundation of our Craft. It achieves nothing."

"That's the point." I answer, a smile playing on my lips as my heart lightens at the distress in her tone. "I'll require a chest full of gold as well, or deal's off."

Silence greets me, followed by her weary voice.

"—How much do you want?"

The question is an interviewer's probe, 'How much do you expect to be paid?' A wise man would refuse to answer, lest he risk settling for far less than his due.

"I'm not sure, how much are you willing to offer?"

"—Not too much." She replies cagily.

And so we engage in a terse negotiation like a pair of Asian or Indian moms haggling over prices, until one I deem satisfactory is reached. "—Our agents will be in touch shortly. I'll see you in Shanghai, Mr. Hangman." Perhaps an overly cautious move on my part, but I have no desire to give away my actual location, even with Kiritsugu's assurances that Magi, while psychotic by modern standards, tend to keep their word.

A remnant of bygone eras when honor still had a semblance of meaning. Turning to Kirei as I end the call, I can't help but put on a smug smile. "So, how did I do? Pretty good, right?"

His response, however, quickly deflates my self-satisfaction.

"You got ripped off. A Crest with 60 Circuits or more should have fetched at least half a ton of gold. Magi only sell at that low a price if they're in desperate need to liquidate their assets."

"Eh?" I blink at him, my eyes wide as saucers. Did I just get out-capitalized? 'Impossible!'

"They purposefully set the tone of the negotiations, lowering the price first to lull you in. You played right into their hands, your 'Highness'…" The priest explains mockingly. "You got fucked and thanked them for it."

"No…"

Chest burning with the realization, I am reduced to my knees as I let loose a harrowing, ear-piercing screech even a pig on its way to the slaughterhouse could not compare: "No. No. NOOOOOO—!!!"

And thanks to my enhanced lung capacity, it sure was one Hell of a scream, one which manages to set off an entire bird flock in the forest surrounding the Fuyuki Church.

"You could always contact them and demand a higher price." Kirei suggests, but I quickly dismiss the idea.

It's a matter of prestige. We are conducting business, not playing make-believe, and yes, I am painfully aware of how ironic that sounds given my current appearance.

With another week to prepare for my flight, I go to sleep with a heavy frown that night.

The next morning, someone comes to our door, knocking frantically.

It is not Shiro, Taiga or Rin, contrary to my expectations, but my manager—Miyamoto Eri.

Compared to the others I have encountered, she's perhaps the most plain, with the typical black hair and eyes common to the Japanese, but what she does not have, she makes up for with a menacing frigidity like an yuki-onna.

Heck, knowing Nasu, maybe she is. "I've finally gotten a hold of you. Where were you?!"

"England, my hometown."

The lies are getting smoother and smoother.

"Apparently I still have some living relatives there." I explain.

"Is it more important than—"

"Yes!"

I cut her off with a stern glare. "If anything, you should have informed me before accepting those jobs. I can't simply come running at your beck and call, Miyamoto-san… I have many other aspects of my life that I cannot neglect—responsibilities that I must attend to."

"What responsibility can be more important than your career?" She counters.

After a bit of back-and-forth, we eventually agree that she will let me know immediately whenever she catches wind of a new role or opportunity for me to be involved.

From there, everything proceeds smoothly, almost suspiciously so that I cannot help but wonder when the other shoe will drop.

'Tis only a matter of time…

Or so I had believed, but the months continue to slip away at an ever-increasing pace, until at last the third week of January rolls around.

The countdown has begun—just 3 weeks and 4 days left until I receive my AP.

I ought to be elated, but instead I find myself constantly on edge, scanning every corner in anticipation of the proverbial shoe.

I've taken it to such an extreme that everyone in my vicinity is aware something's wrong, be them member of the Emiya family or someone as carefree as the Golden Queen herself.

"Your body may be present, but your spirit is clearly elsewhere—what troubles you?" Gil muses, her words as cryptic and enigmatic as ever. Despite her well-intentions, I feel a burst of annoyance taking shape.

Even so, I maintain my silence, aware of how unreasonable and irrationally emotional I am being.

"The world is not conspiring against you, Leo." The Golden Queen murmurs, seeming to have read my thoughts as she comes up behind me, gently running her fingers through my hair. Her touch causes the tension to immediately bleed out of me, somehow. "I don't know… I just feel like something's gonna go terribly wrong. It is gonna happen any day now, I can fucking feel it in my bones."

"Why?"

Gilgamesh inquires, her hands giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze that's surprisingly comforting for one as boisterous and untamed as the Golden Queen.

"Everything has been progressing so seamlessly... Too seamlessly. That's not how it's supposed to be. Life's more like a winding mountain road, not a smooth, paved highway. Not like this."

I let out a weary sigh and drop my head onto her folded knees, my gaze locked with her crimson eyes, yet seeing something beyond them. It's as if every past failure I've faced is haunting me, playing on a constant loop in my mind.

"Mentality is half the battle, Leonis. If you expect to fail, your chances of succeeding plummet. The opposite's true."

I'm about to respond when the Queen continues.

"Consider the possibility of failure, but don't fight with it in mind. Fear shall sap away at your strength until you're but dust and bones... That will be too disappointing an ending for you."

I chuckle, mind taken off the feeling of impending doom at last. "What kind of end should mine be?"

Gilgamesh's lips arch upwards in amusement as her fingers caress the outline of my face. "Poisoned by a trusted retainer, perhaps?"

Chuckles turning to manic chuckles, I wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes.

"Sorry for that, haven't had a good laugh in a while."

Reaching up, I poke at her cheek—so soft and tender I can just bite it off.

"This better not be a prophecy, by the way. I fucking hate Divination... Never turns out the way people expect it." I joke, but the emotions behind it are about as real as can be.

"Whether it's a prophecy or not, is up to you to decide."

Breathing in the scent of expensive wine and roses, I sigh contentedly, feeling the tense hamstrings in my brain loosening a bit as sleep creeps near, but the Golden Queen suddenly pushes me off, rising to her full height. "Don't get too comfortable. You're still my debtee."

Stretching like an oversized cat, her modesty covered by naught but a thin piece of cloth as strikingly crimson as her piercing gaze, the Golden Queen stumbles her way out of my Workshop, clearly tipsy from the five bottles she had popped open while watching me work on my first Spell.

"And I thought we were having a moment..."

"We were." Gil replies. "And now I'm leaving."

Like a gust of wind, she comes and goes, leaving 'turmoil' wherever she pleases.

That's why I admire Gilgamesh…

It is her confidence.

It is how absolutely unfettered she always seems, with the added swagger whenever she does decide to walk.

Although, she is acting more and more like a NEET recently…

'Maybe I shouldn't have introduced her to videogames.' I muse, returning to my board, where a complex formulae sits unsolved.

If learning Magecraft is challenging, creating new Spells is on a whole 'nother level.

It's not as clear-cut as most novels would have you believe, where one can just make hand signs, mumble a few lines, feel and direct their Mana blindly and out come shinies.

Initially, my plan was to create [Shield]—Spell with two functions: A sensor that would passively consume a small amount of my Mana to detect incoming projectiles, and a hard-light hexagonal construction that would drain the kinetic energy from those projectiles, stopping them completely and minimizing any injuries I might sustain.

Unfortunately, I encountered several issues in the process.

First: Mana consumption.

For the idea to even work, I'd have to fork up about 20% of my total Mana just to activate the sensor, then around 75% of my regeneration to maintain it.

By the time it's set up, I won't have enough Mana left to actually activate the main function: The shield.

The problem with my low-quality Circuits will soon be solved, but that doesn't change the fact that the Spell is inefficient.

Another issue is the sensor keeps going haywire every time I approach an object, since it can't differentiate between people, objects and Spells.

Helpless, I turn to the second function, but the shield is even more of a pain.

I have no idea how magical shields are supposed to work… I've tried to integrate Projection into it, but my abyssmal talent with the Spell also means the shields I make are about as effective as glass.

Even asked Rin, but her approach doesn't suit my needs… Why?

She has to break precious gems to do it… Expensive gems that can bankrupt the more prestigious Houses.

Enough said.

What I need is a self-functioning Spell that requires no input from me, similar to Cu Chulainn's [Protection from Arrows].

After experiencing these setback, I have recalibrated my goals to something more manageable and am now focusing on a Spell that should come effortlessly: [Kinetic Blast]. It is as simple as advertised—it converts Mana to amplify the potential energy of an object.

The formulae is easier to calculate than [Kinetic Shield] with far simpler components: Energy Conversion and Transference.

The biggest challenge is Transference, for which the tsundere has graciously gifted me with a notebook outlining the basics—what an useful friendship we have… I paid her back with gems and the few Mystic Codes I looted, of course.

A deal's a deal, regardless of friendship.

When it comes to the rudiments, this information is typically a common commodity since the different Crafts are all interlinked at some point or another.

That is how most Magi get their Lord and Ladyship, by surrending the fundementals of their lifelong works so others may review and try to apply it to their own research, for a price, obviously.

Being Rin's sort of acquaintance, sort of friend, I managed to procure the notebook at a discounted price, although it still put a dent in my finances: Three bars of Bakersfield's gold and a handful of gems, to be exact. "Well, at least it's functioning now…"

Senza Esitazione conjured, I deftly twirl the spear in my grasp before half-heartedly hurling it towards the opposite wall.

Before the weapon depart from my grasp, I infuse it with an extra surge of kinetic energy, significantly boosting the force propelling it forward.

The spear pitches downward, embedding itself into the floor seven feet away. "What?"

Eyes narrowing in confusion, I summon the Mystic Code back into my hands. "Faulty first trial."

The second attempt is even more catastrophic, as instead of down, it tilts up, creating a sizable hole in the floor above.

After some commotion, the spear tumbles back down, landing next to me while I grimace at the gaping hole I have made.

Up above, Gil peers down at me. "You know, if you wanted attention, you could've just asked."

"Fuck…"

After a failed try to patch up the hole before Kirei returned from his stalking, or whatever it is he's doing these days, and a few more tests, I finally realize the issue.

"It's uneven."

The unequal distribution of force on the spear causes its trajectory to veer.

In close combat, it could make my attacks less predictable, but when applied to a projectile, not only is [Kinetic Blast] ineffective, it's even counter-productive.

Thankfully, there is a simple solution for my problem: Coat the spear in Od and applying force evenly.

It achieves more precision, but does come at an increased cost.

My lips curve as I get accustomed to the Spell, my mind running at a million mile per hour with all the possible applications.

'Bugs can be features.'

With all the details of [Kinetic Blast] hammered down, I ready myself to implant the Split in my body and form my own Crest.

It was a gift from Kiritsugu, made after the third mission I undertook—a Crest Split.

Apparently, there was a thriving industry around the manufacturing of Cores for new Magi centuries ago.

It was thriving, until the decay of Magecraft accelerated.

Nowadays the industry's quite stale according to the Magus Killer.

And there's the Grimoire…

But honestly, who'd want to lug around those musty, outdated, cumbersome and conspicuous books now that we have a compact Mystic Code we can just implant 'willy-nilly'? I suppose passing on the Crest is a tad riskier now, but Magi's reasoning probably goes along the line of: 'If they fail to inherit their birthright, they're unfit to be my descendants anyways.'

Magecraft does become diluted if too many are practicing the same Specialization, so it's a win-win for the Lords and Ladies—they get to sift out the weak and pathetic, while the spare descendants get to walk their own path, though I get the feeling most would rather inherit the Crest instead.

This is partly why the practice of returning Crests is still prevalent.

Why risk antagonizing another House for something you can barely use?

If one's a miner in possession of a surgical knife, why not trade it in for a pickaxe and a hefty paycheck instead?

Pressing the hexagonal sphere against my forehead, I wait impatiently, shifting on my feet as the Split sinks into my skin.

It's the most protected body part I can think of.

If my head were gone, I imagine I'd no longer need the Crest in any case.

Fortunately, all goes smoothly, and I'm finally able to let out the breath I was holding.

The way Crest works, they start out as Core or Crest Split, which upon entering the body of a Magus will adapt to the conditions inside and become its own organ in which Circuits can be stored and added to.

The Circuits after this process, being spiritual nerves, will coalesce to form a web akin to the human brain.

This 'second brain' is a blank slate, onto which Magi can imprint specific information and even experiences in the form of images, feelings, and sensations.

This is how Magi can forgo recalling the entire Spell-casting process—it is this 'brain' that carries out the procedure for them subconsciously like the normal one would for acts like breathing; grabbing;…etc.

Of course, relying on secondhand knowledge means the process won't be as natural, hence the need for specific catchphrases in the form of Arias.

It is not merely to speak the words into reality, but to make the Crest recall and go through the information. That's why Arias can be shortened to just the name alone—why sometimes Artoria had to use some lengthy Arias, and sometimes she could get away with, 'EXCALIBAAAA—!'

"A single Circuit should suffice…"

Magi generally allocate 3 to 5 Circuits to the Crest over the course of their lifetime, regardless of how many Circuits they possess. Primarily, this allows them to bequeath the Crest to their chosen Heir whenever they perceive a threat, while still retaining a means to defend themselves.

They may not appear as such, but the spiritual nerves are remarkably adept at storing information. A single Circuit could contain the entire breadth of scientific research across multiple disciplines and hundreds of unique Spells, so three Circuits should be more than enough for the moment.

I could begin the operation now… Although working with Circuits is no simple task, the removal process is relatively straightforward.

Just as I'm about to consider adding a nerve to start, my phone suddenly rings.

Seizing the device, I press it to my ear. "Hello?"

"—It's me."

"Kiritsugu…" I murmur. "Another job?"

"—No." He responds. "Come to my house, I have something I need to discuss with you."

"Why do you sound so serious? Your wife's family is coming to get you?" I jest, but Kiritsugu doesn't sound too pleased with the joke. "—My house, as soon as possible, Leo."

With that, the Magus Killer abruptly ends the call, leaving me completely bewildered. "That… Doesn't bode well." I can't recall the last time I heard him sound so grave.

Glancing at the work I've left strewn across the table, I let out a sigh.

"Oh well, I could use a break anyway…"

Let's hope whatever it is, it's not too big of a problem.

Omake 1: A Priest's Pastimes.

Silently, he wanders the streets of Fuyuki, his gaze shifting from person to person. He's shed his priestly attire, altered his appearance with a new style, groomed his hair, and even donned a pair of glasses for disguise, yet the priest still sticks out like a sore thumb.

"Hey, handsome! You looking for a good time?"

"Why don't you come with us?"

"Strapping young man like you, how about you take all of us?"

The priest's eyes sweep across the group of women crowding him—prostitutes. None holds a candle to his wife, the woman he married in a futile attempt to redeem his Soul, believing love would temper his wicked nature.

"Is any of you willing to show me what BDSM is?" The prostitutes' faces instantly drain of color, and they promptly back away from him. "Sorry, we only like gentle lovemaking, hun, but I'm sure some of the girls 'round here will be willing to accommodate you."

Half an hour of aimless wandering later, just as Kirei's about to give up, a woman approaches him.

"Heard you're into the more hard core stuff?"

Kirei's head tilts in a silent nod.

"You're quite handsome…" Her fingers clamp around his chin, a seudctive smile on her lips. "Come with me."

Pacing down several streets; made to take a couple of turns, Kirei's brought to a gigantic mansion. "Interesting hobbies."

Kirei mutters as the interior hits him—place's full of people in leather and chains.

Maybe there is merit to listening to that brat's inane suggestions, after all.

"Welcome to the 'Underbelly.'"