Summary: As long as his body can grasp his sword he refuses to fade away. The title of struggler defines his existance. It is time for the black swordsman to enter another war. A war between Masters and Servants. A war for the holy grail.
Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/4178432/1/Miracle
Word count:25k(COMPLETE)
Chapters:10
Chapter 1: Hound of War
He felt cheated somehow.
It wasn't like he had thought a lot about the afterlife while he had been alive.
He had been busy keeping himself alive and his enemies dead after all.
Still, he had expected something... grander. Angels with harps maybe?
He snickered, the scars on his face twitching painfully at the uncharacteristic movement.
No.
For him, he had thought they would have at least a nice little corner of hell.
To heap some misery and pain upon his tortured soul and break his spirit, yes that had sounded like the most plausible of things.
A quiet little corner of hell just for him, yes, that certainly sounded nice.
Still, even then, he had fought on, grasped his sword and slashed at the demons that tried to kill him and his companions.
Another snicker, this time it grew into bellyaching laughter.
No, no one but him would call that thing he swung around so easily a sword.
Not that it mattered.
In the end, even those that had been called immortal, god-like, all powerful and complete had tasted this swords edge.
To this cursed blade they had been just another victim. Another demon-spawn destroyed.
Still the blade craved more blood, more battles and most importantly more hatred.
Another snicker.
Who was he trying to kid? That sword, no matter how much blood it shed didn't have anything to do with it.
He was the cursed one, not that humongous piece of iron he called a sword. Or maybe he was the curse?
A name feared even by demons, a name spit out in the moment of death, a dying curse on every monster's lips. That sounded about right.
And in the end even the ones he made directly responsible for his suffering had spit out his cursed name when he killed them.
Not all of them, no, one had escaped death, no, more than that, she had, all things considered won.
She had gambled, fooled her monstrous comrades, her underlings, her god and even him, her tool.
She had played them for a fool and in the end had claimed her prize.
Humanity.
Mortality.
Innocence.
He didn't care for those things, yet that monster had somehow succeeded in attaining all of them.
Or maybe she had reclaimed them?
They had been humans too long ago, he thought.
Before they had given away everything, before they had sacrificed everything that was dear to them to gain a power unattainable for a mere human.
Now the other four monsters lay dead.
By his hand.
No, by his sword.
By the blade he had bathed in the blood of so many monster, the blade that had cut apart so many wicked spirits drawn to his cursed self.
Among them the one he had sworn to kill even if it cost him his life.
Somehow he had thought it would be more rewarding.
There had been no pleasure from seeing his foe lying on the ground. Helpless, powerless and somehow it hurt.
It hurt to see that man like that again.
Just like back then, when he had offered them all as a sacrifice.
But this time there was no one left to offer. There was no one to grant his pleas.
Only the man he betrayed, who had betrayed him after feeling betrayed by him.
Another snicker.
Damn, the whole freaking thing was just too fucked up
He was just glad it was over.
Closure. That was all he had felt at that moment.
A feeling of finally finishing what they had started.
No pride, no happiness, not even some kind of sadistic pleasure from seeing his enemies dead on the ground.
There was nothing left to feel.
He had killed the ghosts that had hunted him.
He had killed the monsters that he had hunted.
He had killed the demons that had orchestered the hunt.
And in the end he would have killed the god that had allowed those wretched beings to exist if that thing called god hadn't simply disappeared after losing it's hands.
Just like a bad dream.
Now it was all over. He had felt his self disappear even as that strange world he had invaded broke apart around him.
He had felt hell's pull upon his body, felt that giant maelstrom of evil that tried to take him down.
Maybe he had been hallucinating but for a moment he had heard thousands of voices screaming for him to join them in their torment.
But as long as that scarred body of his could still grasp his sword he simply refused to disappear.
So he had fought, screamed and raged. He had slashed and hacked apart everything coming close enough to him to taste his blade and after he had started losing count of his strikes his enemies were finally gone.
Then..
His final mistake.
The moment he had relaxed he had felt something new and before he could raise his sword again he was torn away from this dying world.
Just like that, he realised, he had finally died.
Not that death seemed all that great up till now.
This wasn't hell, nor was it heaven. He was pretty sure he wasn't even in his own world anymore.
He was somewhere else.
Caught in a current of something he couldn't really identify.
Whatever it was it was simply too big for him to see. He was like a pebble in the ocean. All around him there were colors, all the colors he knew and some he didn't, dancing around him, hiding things from his view he was sure his mind couldn't handle.
Only sometimes he could hear them. Voices, some loud, some less so, but all of them demanding something from him or scorning him for being who he was.
Another snicker.
Even in death, hatred and bloodlust still clang to him like that annoying elf and most of those voices didn't like that one bit.
Another voice, this time a question he hadn't heard before.
He gave it a minutes thought.
Finally, he nodded his consent.
He would play that things game, maybe, just maybe he would finally find some way to fight again.
Because this kind of existence, beyond anything he could call reality, may not have been hell, but it was just as unacceptable for him as hell would have been. Just existing, for no reason and to no goal that was something he simply couldn't bear anymore.
To swing that large slab of iron again, to cleave his foes in two and struggle onwards no matter what.
To see his comrades one more time, to fight for someone once again.
Again, he felt a pull, drawing him somewhere, most likely wherever that voice had come from he mused.
This was going to be interesting.
This world, he thinks as he blocks the girls way, is pretty different from anything he has seen before.
Of course in some ways it is the same.
Even though that cursed mark is gone, evil spirits still seek him out.
And he is helping a witch. Again.
And now he is going to fight a girl that reminds him a bit of that fool of a girl back home.
A quiet snicker as he readies himself for combat.
Since when did he consider this cursed rathole of a world his home?
His home are the fields of battle, no matter where, wherever blood is spilt, wherever the fighting is the most fierce that is were he is at home.
Like right now.
That girl before him, he can sense her strength. It radiates from her like nothing he has ever seen before.
So this is a true servant, he thinks.
"You must be servant Assassin."
Her voice is clear, revealing neither hesitation nor doubt.
He can appreciate that. All that pep talk stuff and mocking of his enemies, he doesn't care about that.
He simply nods and smiles.
It is truly a frightening sight.
One eye gazing at her like that, while the rest of his face disappears in the shadows.
Nevertheless she is the servant Saber, she will not back down. To save her master, she must pass through this gate into the temple.
To save her master she must defeat this swordsman before her.
But she hesitates.
This man, more than any other servant she has encountered up till now, is covered in blood.
No, more than that, this man radiates death and bloodlust. His whole body, even his sword reeks of death.
She attacks.
Too fast for a mere human to dodge, enough to make some of the weaker servants sweat.
Her invisible sword is parried by the massive slab of iron this man swings around as if it weighted nothing.
Mores strikes follow, their swords meet, again and again.
Sparks fly through the night as the blade empowered by magic meets the blade bathed in the blood of monsters.
Holy sword meets cursed sword.
Neither one will yield.
He knows that he can't allow himself to be hit by her sword, the power contained within it is far too great for even a single hit to be allowed to strike true. As always he fights against an opponent that is superior to him as far as power or speed goes.
She too accepts that her armor will not safe her from this blade. Its size alone would make a mockery out of any non magic armor. Her senses tell her that even magical armor will be of no use.
This sword does not care for things like armor. Every time it swings by she can hear it screaming for blood, screaming for bloody murder and most of all screaming for her blood.
If she goes only by his aura she doesn't understand how such a man can be summoned by the holy grail. He reeks of death, but there is more.
He doesn't feel right. He doesn't feel like a servant at all. He feels like an outsider.
But if she considers his skill.
It is a wonder that he was not summoned as the Servant Saber. His skill with that blade is magnificent. Every single move drilled into his body, there is no hesitation on his part, she can't say who of the two of them is more skilled in sword-fighting.
This man would have made a great Saber, she thinks.
Seeing his hand come up to her side she dodges and swings at the limp, intend on taking at least one arm from him for such a weak attack.
Heeding her bodies warning she jumps back, making the giant blade of this black swordsman miss her by mere inches.
That attack would have killed her if it had hit. Only her danger sense saved her from being cleaved in half.
No, she corrects herself.
This man is a fabulous Assassin.
Seeing the girl take care of the boy that was thrown down the temple gates the servant Assassin stares at the new attacker.
The red-clad man catches his stare and narrows his eyes at him.
He is being judged again.
Smirking he grips his weapon tighter.
"Someone like you shouldn't exist, just what kind of servant are you!"
This time his grin is truly terryifing as he muses on an answer.
"I'm not supposed to exist?"
The smell of death grows even stronger as the black swordsman raises his sword.
"So, this must be a miracle, right?"
He doesn't understand why he is here, or why he is so different from the others summoned to this place, all he knows is that he has entered another war.
That's okay, he thinks.
He's good at war.
So very good.
Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/4178432/1/Miracle