The cool air brushed against your skin like a feather—sharp, almost alive, but impossible to avoid. Hours had been spent preparing the summoning circle: glyphs meticulously drawn, symbols etched with painstaking precision, artifacts arranged with ritualistic care. And now, somehow, you had been chosen to be a Master. Time was short, but summoning something—anything—was necessary. The Holy Grail demanded it, and a wish hung just beyond reach.

The circle lay hidden beneath layers of worn cloth, tucked away in a quiet, forgotten room inside a small dojo. Every step on the wooden floorboards groaned in protest, yet they held, steadfast under your weight. Outside, the world went on, oblivious to the magic stirring within these walls.

Then it happened. The air thickened, leaves outside stilled midair, and even the faintest drafts seemed to vanish. When the last glyph was completed, a blinding light erupted from the circle, searing your vision, then faded into silence so complete it pressed against your eardrums. The summoning circle unraveled into thread, the cloth folding back into mundane cotton, as if it had never existed. Your heartbeat echoed in the stillness, loud and hollow.

And then—there. A figure knelt before you, perfectly poised, radiating a calm authority that made your skin prickle. Every detail was sharp, unnervingly real: the glint of their weapon, the subtle shift of their stance, the weight of a presence far greater than yours. The markings on your arm pulsed, solidifying into a glowing emblem, yet the moment felt fragile, fleeting.

Before you could speak, before you could even react, they were gone. Dissolved into nothing, leaving only the lingering impression of power and purpose, as if they had already moved on to a mission you couldn’t yet understand. The room felt empty, yet heavy—as if their eyes still bore into you from beyond sight.