Night fell upon a remote park somewhere in England.
A girl, appearing to be around fourteen or fifteen years old, sat on a bench, clad in a black evening gown.
Her long, black hair seemed to radiate a faint, dark luminescence even in the dim twilight. One could only imagine the silky smoothness of those locks, deeper and more profound than the night itself.
A delicate wrist, adorned with slender fingers, emerged from the gown's cuff, tapping lightly against the wooden seat. Beneath the dress, a pair of long, elegant legs swayed playfully, their dazzling complexion undiminished by the darkness.
Her jade-like feet were bare, ten small toes curling gently. Paired with her exquisite face, she seemed like a creature that should only exist in dreams.
Her demonic charm was potent enough to make any man willing to lay down his life for her.
However, the lady known as Altrouge Brunestud, a Dead Apostle, already had two knights and one subordinate who was nominally loyal to her. For the time being, she was not in desperate need of new servants.
She was here now, waiting for that subordinate.
Or rather, she was waiting for him to bring her intelligence, which would then determine how she would acquire the blood she needed to replenish her strength.
Altrouge Brunestud, the King of the Dead Apostles, was gravely injured.
Centuries ago, Altrouge had battled Arcueid. At that time, Arcueid was merely an executioner for the True Ancestors. While Altrouge's own guards were held back by the other True Ancestors, she and Arcueid had engaged in a fair duel.
But as a being of mixed blood, she had not inherited the infinite stamina of the Crimson Moon from which the True Ancestors hailed. Though she managed to seize Arcueid's beautiful golden hair during the fight, she was ultimately outmatched by a narrow margin and defeated.
Later, while grievously wounded, she was ambushed by Roa, Arcueid's number one sycophant, which only compounded her injuries.
If her guards had not risked their lives to rescue her, she would have been sealed away to endure an eternity of darkness, if not killed outright.
In the years that followed, she even made a pact with the Night of Wallachia, trading power for a vast supply of blood in order to recover.
However, it was clear that no one on the Moon wished to see the Black Princess return to her peak.
Aside from the Holy Church's constant crusades against the Dead Apostles, the White Wing Lord, one of the Twenty-seven Ancestors, styled himself as the King of the Dead Apostles. He held the most sway among their kind, but his title was merely nominal.
The true King of the Dead Apostles was the elder sister of the True Ancestors: Altrouge.
To solidify his claim to the title, the White Wing Lord, now her bitter enemy, hunted her relentlessly.
Over these centuries of slaughter, Altrouge's wounds had never fully healed.
In fact, several large-scale assaults had worsened her condition. If not for the massive amounts of blood supplied by Wallachia, this black princess would have likely become so weak as to be utterly defenseless.
She needed blood.
A colossal amount of it, enough to allow her to return to her former glory.
But committing a large-scale massacre would undoubtedly attract the attention of the Holy Church and the White Wing Lord, leading to another relentless pursuit.
"If only I had taken a bite back then, my body would be in much better shape now."
The princess muttered to herself, reminiscing about a time when she had hoped to replenish her power by feeding on Phantasmal Species.
Unlike humans, the blood of Phantasmal Species contained far greater power. It could be said that the blood of a single Phantasmal Species was worth more than the total blood of a thousand humans.
And the Spirit Tomb Albion, deep beneath the Clock Tower, was one of the few places left in the world that still housed a large number of Phantasmal Species, and even Divine Beasts.
If she could just enter that place and feast, she could quickly return to her peak.
But upon considering this solution, Altrouge hesitated.
Albion was located directly beneath the Clock Tower.
Although the Clock Tower was often called the shame of the three great magus organizations—especially in the FGO worldline where it was repeatedly annihilated, practically writing "disgrace" on its own plaque—it would be a fatal mistake to treat it as a mere gathering of incompetents.
The Clock Tower's technology was officially recognized as the best among the three major magical organizations.
The reason the Clock Tower seemed so pathetic compared to the other two was due to its organizational structure.
The Wandering Sea and the Atlas Institute were organizations where members strove towards a common goal with immense cohesiveness. Their members would conscientiously follow orders from their superiors to execute a plan.
The members of the Clock Tower, however, generally adopted an "if it doesn't concern me, I won't get involved" attitude. They were a scattered mess, and there was no one who could truly unite them.
Simply put, they were a collection of individuals who could only fight alone.
But that did not mean they could not be organized.
The Spirit Tomb Albion was the common property of all mages of the Clock Tower. Making a move on it was tantamount to raiding the homes of every single one of them—a de facto declaration of war against each and every mage in the Clock Tower.
Just imagine the Clock Tower, officially designated as having the "highest level of technology among the three great magical organizations," truly mobilized.
That was an entirely different concept from simply "declaring war on the Clock Tower."
The technicians themselves might not have much combat prowess, but what about the weapons they could create?
No one wanted to provoke a group of mad scientists.
Unless one could slaughter the entire Clock Tower in a single stroke, trying to take their food would lead to endless trouble.
Such a situation would be a headache even for Altrouge at her peak, let alone in her current, nearly crippled state.
Therefore, to obtain the blood of Phantasmal Species, she had to play by their rules.
For example, by making someone who already possessed the ability to freely enter and exit the Spirit Tomb work for her.
As the face of a certain man surfaced in her memory, the Black Princess's exquisite little face grew dark and cold.
First, that man had showered her with flowery words, spouting nonsense like, "To be able to serve a woman as beautiful as you is my greatest honor. If you would grant me the qualification of a suitor, I would gladly serve you until the end of my life."
The Black Princess had been genuinely taken aback by his speech.
But a deal was a deal, and such flattery was obviously not to be taken seriously.
In the end, the agreement she reached with one of the few people who could freely access the Spirit Tomb was this:
She would lend him her blood, which contained a vast amount of magical energy, and provide assistance when necessary. In exchange, he was to hunt mages and Phantasmal Species in the Spirit Tomb for her...
Out of consideration for that man's teacher, the Black Princess couldn't turn him into a directly controlled fledgling who would obey her unconditionally, so she had agreed.
And then—
And then, after commissioning the Black Knight Sturlut to eliminate a monk named Souren Araya and the Ryougi clan, that bastard found a Phantasmal Species bordering on a Divine Beast and used it to tear up their contract!
At this thought, a layer of frost seemed to condense on the Black Princess's face.
Freeloading off the power of the Dead Apostle King. What a clever move.
Moreover, it seemed that fellow later used other means to claim the vacant Twelfth Seat of the Twenty-seven Dead Apostle Ancestors.
Excellent. Truly excellent.
A slight smile touched the lips of the girl who was the King of the Dead Apostles herself.
Due to her diminished strength and the enemies hunting her, she had been powerless to pursue the traitor, nor could she dispatch her knights to kill him.
But, in this world, her power was destined to be restored, wasn't it?
A smile blossomed on the Black Princess's face.
It was both cruel and radiant.