Snowfield City—location of the underground command center's headquarters.
In an inconspicuous quiet room, Faldeus stood with his hands clasped behind his back, silently watching the live surveillance screen.
In the shadows behind him, two eerie blue flas suddenly flickered like ghostly eyes rising from the abyss, quietly staring at his back.
"Assassin…? Then let confirm once more." Faldeus did not turn around, speaking in a calm, cold voice. "Which generation of Hassan-i-Sabbah are you?"
In the shadows, a sturdy figure clad in heavy black armor stood motionless.
"——rely an unnad human."
The old man spoke slowly in a low, hoarse voice unlike his usual tone. "My na sank into the underworld along with the wind and sand long ago. In this final place, it is not worth ntioning."
"They won't even reveal their real na?"
A faint smile appeared on Faldeus's lips. "Fine. Your past doesn't matter. I am the mastermind of this Holy Grail War—and your Master. What you must do is obey my principle of prioritizing efficiency above all else."
He slightly turned his head, glancing at the death-statue-like old man from the corner of his eye.
"Don't worry. I will provide Arica's most advanced intelligence network and logistical support. All you need to do is beco the sharp blade in my hand and precisely eliminate the targets on the assassination list."
The room, which had been deathly silent, remained wrapped in graveyard-like stillness.
After a while, the eerie blue flas flickered faintly, and the old man's voice—completely devoid of human emotion—resounded once more.
"The 'list' you speak of is nothing but dust to the dead. Your 'contract' is as light as a feather before fate. I am the feather that announces death, the call to the end. You… are you truly trying to hire 'Death' itself?"
This ant: "He refuses to obey orders."
Faldeus clearly understood the Assassin's true intent. A self-mocking sense of powerlessness appeared on his cold face. "It seems… I've summoned a big man who has absolutely no intention of communicating."
So...
Unconsciously, his fingertips rubbed the crimson Command Spell on the back of his hand.
Should he resort to absolute force? That would probably be a one-ti solution.
But was it really worth wasting a precious Command Spell at this stage?
Or should he execute Plan B instead?
His mind was filled with various thoughts when suddenly a chill ran down Faldeus's spine.
He instinctively turned around, but to his surprise the "Old Man of the Mountain" stood as still as a mountain.
The two pale-blue flas flickered faintly in the air. From beginning to end, the Old Man of the Mountain made no unnecessary movents.
Yet this almost static oppressive feeling gave Faldeus a strange sense of unease.
This man… was he really an Assassin? He couldn't help but wonder.
Logically speaking, Servants like Assassin should possess ultimate "Presence Concealnt" abilities.
However, the person before their eyes radiated an overwhelmingly powerful presence even while standing completely still—as if the place he occupied was the kingdom of the dead.
And...
Why had such a strong sense of crisis arisen the mont he thought of using a Command Spell?
Had he noticed sothing?
Faldeus examined the old man once more and imdiately dismissed the ridiculous thought.
No… Heroic Spirits were not gods, and they certainly shouldn't possess abilities like mind-reading.
This was probably just a physiological illusion that occurred when confronting a high-ranking spiritual source.
He took a deep breath and raised his hand again.
Just then, the encrypted communication ringtone sounded rapidly, breaking the tense atmosphere in the room.
Before answering the phone, Faldeus couldn't help but glance at the Old Man of the Mountain.
A subordinate's urgent voice ca from the receiver. "Sir Faldeus, the heroic spirit who caused a commotion at the opera house late at night has been arrested by Chief Orlando's subordinates and taken to the police station!"
"…"
Faldeus was silent for a mont, then nodded lightly. "Understood… In that case, let's go et that 'hero' who walked right into my trap."
After speaking, he looked at the Servant behind him and returned to his original calm tone. "Assassin, this is your responsibility for now. Do not act on your own."
The old man showed no reaction, like an ancient statue guarding a graveyard.
Faldeus's footsteps gradually faded, and eventually the electronic door closed, completely severing his connection with the outside world.
In the deathly silent room, two pale-blue flas flickered in the shadows, making the two gazes appear even more profound.
The Old Man of the Mountain slowly closed his eyes, as if trying to completely lt into the darkness.
However, at this mont—
Buzz!
From a direction far from the underground command center, a faint yet incredibly familiar magical aura drifted over like a candle fla swaying in the wind.
The Old Man of the Mountain suddenly stopped moving.
The old man lurking deep in the mountains slowly raised the head covered by the skull mask. The gentle dark-blue flas residing in his eye sockets suddenly blazed, as if instantly piercing through the multiple layers of magical barriers in the basent and accurately capturing the source of that aura.
After a long silence, a sigh mixed with severity and a deep, heavy whisper echoed through the empty room.
"——So that's how it is. He stole the illusion of the 19 miracles and twisted his faith into that of a mad believer. The pitiful wraith who was never granted the na of Hassan was given a false body at this false banquet."
Yes—in just a single exchange of breaths, the first Hassan, standing at the pinnacle of Assassins, had already seen through the true identity of the girl wandering beneath Snowfield City's night sky.
He was the most tragic heretic in the history of that religious order.
She possessed unparalleled talent and, with an almost pathological obsession, perfectly reproduced all the miracles achieved by the past 19 leaders.
Yet precisely because she could only imitate others and could not create her own miracle, she was ultimately rcilessly stripped of the right to inherit the na "Hassan-i-Sabbah" by the religious organization.
A girl trapped by faith, drowning in fanaticism and losing her way—the Assassin, No Na Assassin.
At that mont, the Old Man of the Mountain suddenly sensed that the girl was deeply imprisoned by filthy Dead Apostles, and her dignity as an "Assassin" was being trampled upon.
"It's fine."
With a heavy tallic scraping sound, the Old Man of the Mountain slowly gripped his wide, exaggerated beheading blade.
"If your soul is still lost, then I… shall ring the guiding bell for you."
The instant his words ended, the towering old man radiating endless deathly aura vanished silently into the darkness, cradling the ethereal blue flas in both hands.
…
anwhile, inside a luxurious penthouse apartnt in Snowfield City…
A petite silver-haired girl curled up on a leather sofa, laughing heartily without any regard for table manners.
Dozens of magical fluorescent screens floated before her eyes, displaying the "grand drama" of the entire city in real ti.
"Hahahaha… Did you see? That idiot Orlando's cop actually threw that 'hero' into prison… A heroic spirit being arrested by the police—this must be a first, right?"
Francesca let out a silvery laugh, swinging her slender legs clad in white stockings. Her eyes were filled with twisted pleasure.
She was extrely satisfied with the current progress of this "movie" she had participated in planning.
The appearance of that mysterious blue-haired woman had been sowhat unexpected… but if it made the show more interesting, it was within acceptable limits.
"Huh?"
However, as if catching sothing in the corner of her vision, Francesca's laughter suddenly caught in her throat.
She suddenly stood up, eyes wide with malice, staring intently at one of the dark surveillance windows that showed nothing.
Even through the screen, even through multiple layers of magical perception.
An indescribable, pure, completely lifeless aura still seed to drift throughout the entire information network.
It was the instinctive fear of the end that all life possessed—the fluctuation of causality, the harbinger of the annihilation of all things.
"Hey, did you see that just now?"
Francesca muttered unconsciously.
She had witnessed countless blasphemous miracles and toyed with the fates of countless heroes over the years.
But at this mont, she felt a chill she hadn't experienced in a long ti.
Standing beside her, her Servant—more precisely, Francesca's Servant version, François—was also staring at the old man standing atop Snowfield City's spire on the screen.
There was a hint of amusent in François's voice. "Ah… This is truly… How did that man Faldeus manage to stand up from that seat?"
"Such a monster has appeared…"
Francesca slowly exhaled.
Then a pathological smile mixing excitent and anxiety reappeared on her delicate, beautiful face.
"The First Hassan… that Jester guy is definitely going to have a hard ti this ti."
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