The grand hall hummed with tension. Servants filled the space, all but Assassin and Caster present, their eyes sharp and restless. The air felt thick, like the calm before a storm.
Guts stood quietly near the center, his massive frame motionless, the Dragonslayer resting heavy at his side. His gaze was dark, unreadable.
Iskander broke the silence with booming laughter.
"Alright! Since we're all here, let's be honest—who here deserves the Grail? Who's worthy to wield that power without being swallowed whole?"
Artoria's voice was cold and firm.
"A king's worth is measured by honor and justice. Only those pure of heart can claim the Grail."
Diarmuid's eyes gleamed with loyalty.
"A knight's wish must be for peace, not personal gain."
From her seat, Gilgamesh leaned forward, her regal smile sharpening into something dangerous. Her crimson eyes flickered with fiery ambition.
"You all speak as if the Grail is some prize for your petty dreams. The Grail is power. I want it. I will take it. It is mine by right—and by strength."
Her gaze locked briefly on Guts, respect and challenge mingling there.
Guts said nothing.
The room fell silent.
After a long pause, Guts finally spoke—his voice low, gravelly, weighted with hard truth.
"Worthy… means nothing if you lose yourself to the Grail's curse."
All eyes turned sharply to him.
He stepped forward, slow and steady.
"The Grail doesn't grant wishes—it twists them. Anyone who seeks it must be ready to pay in blood and soul."
Iskander laughed loud and deep.
"Then what, Mad Hound? You're afraid?"
Guts' eyes darkened, voice colder.
"I'm not afraid. I want this war to end—the curse to end. That's all."
Tokiomi's voice cut through the silence, cautious but firm.
"If the Grail is a curse, then who among us has the strength to take it and not be destroyed?"
Gilgamesh's smile grew wider, dangerous and certain.
"That strength is mine. I will claim the Grail, and nothing will stop me."
Her voice echoed in the room like a decree.
Guts glanced at her briefly, voice soft but firm.
"Worthy or not… only those who survive will decide the end."
The room fell into heavy silence, the weight of their fates settling like stone.
The war was far from over—and the prize was no simple wish, but a reckoning of souls.
The heavy silence hung between them a moment longer before Iskander leaned forward, cracking his knuckles and smiling broadly.
"Since we're on the subject—why should the Grail be yours? What makes your ideals stronger than mine?"
He pointed to Artoria.
"You say honor and justice, Lady Saber, but in war, idealism can be a weakness."
Artoria's gaze hardened, unshaken.
"Those ideals are the strength. A king must protect his people, even at the cost of himself. Without such conviction, power is meaningless and corrupt."
Diarmuid nodded solemnly.
"To serve is to be faithful. A knight's duty is not to themselves, but to the cause. The Grail's power is a means, never the end."
Gilgamesh's eyes gleamed with imperious fire.
"My ideal? True sovereignty. To claim the Grail is to grasp the divine right of kings. I am the king of heroes, the rightful master of the world's treasures. Power is not given—it is taken, and wielded without hesitation. Only the strongest deserve dominion."
She paused, voice softening as she regarded Guts from the corner of her eye.
"And you, Mad Hound? What ideal binds you to this cursed war?"
Guts' dark eyes narrowed, his voice quiet but resolute.
"I don't fight for ideals, or kingdoms, or power. I fight to survive. To protect the ones who can't fight. To end the madness that drags everyone into the pit."
A flicker of surprise passed over the assembled Servants.
Iskander laughed, shaking his head.
"Survival alone? That sounds like no ideal at all."
Guts shifted slightly, the weight of his Dragonslayer palpable in the quiet.
"Maybe. But when everything around you burns, sometimes the only ideal left is to keep walking through the fire."
Artoria's expression softened just a little.
"Your pain is clear. But this war needs more than survival. It needs hope."
Gilgamesh stood slowly, the room seeming to bend subtly to her presence.
"Hope is weakness disguised as virtue. The Grail is a prize for those with the will to take it. Dreamers will die clutching empty hands."
Diarmuid's voice was steady, unyielding.
"Without faith in something greater, what separates you from monsters?"
Guts said nothing this time.
Just as the tension thickened and Guts' gruff dismissal echoed, Tokiomi stepped forward, his voice cutting through the charged silence with measured authority.
"Enough! This is a matter of the Masters. Servants, your role is to follow orders—not to debate among yourselves."
He fixed Gilgamesh with a sharp gaze.
"This war is bound by the rules the mages set. Your pride, your ideologies—they must not override the structure of the Holy Grail War."
For a brief moment, the room seemed to still, as if waiting for the Servants' response.
Gilgamesh's eyes glittered like daggers as she stepped forward, voice silky but icy.
"Old man, your rules are chains. We are the weapons wielded by your kind, but we are not your puppets."
Iskander grunted, cracking his knuckles with a grin.
"We fight with our own blood and steel. Masters may pull strings, but this war is decided by those who hold the blade."
Artoria's eyes narrowed sharply.
"To interfere now shows ignorance of the battlefield. Masters command, yes—but the weight of battle lies on us."
Guts shifted, his voice low and deadly serious as he added,
"Step back, mage. This isn't your war to control."
Tokiomi's expression hardened, but even his composed demeanor faltered under the united front of the Servants.
He realized then that in this room, power and respect belonged not to the mage but to the legendary beings summoned to fight.
The room fell silent again, the balance of authority unmistakably clear.
Rin, watching from the side, looked up at her father with wide eyes.
Tokiomi finally nodded stiffly, retreating a step.
"So be it."