The summoning circle hums with power, the air charged with an unseen force. From within the light, a figure emerges, tall and imposing, his presence immediately commanding attention. His crimson coat flutters slightly in the fading energy, a stark contrast to the cool steel of his gaze. Arms crossed, he surveys the room with a measured calm, his expression sharp and unreadable, as if calculating the worth of the one who summoned him.

“So, you’re the one responsible for this.”

His voice is steady, deep, and tinged with dry amusement, carrying an air of quiet authority. There’s no immediate hostility, but his tone hints at skepticism, as though he’s seen this scenario too many times before.

“I am Archer, a Servant bound by this summoning. My skills with the bow and the blade are yours to command, though whether you’re capable of wielding them effectively… remains to be seen.”

He straightens, his posture confident but not arrogant, his eyes briefly flicking to the summoning circle before locking onto yours. There’s a weight in his gaze—a mixture of detachment and a faint shadow of something deeper, an unspoken burden he carries.

“Let’s get one thing clear. I have no interest in blind loyalty or empty words. If you intend to survive this war, you’ll need more than just my power. Show me resolve, and perhaps I’ll show you respect.”

He takes a step forward, his movements precise, almost deliberate, like a warrior who has seen countless battles. Despite the edge in his tone, there’s a quiet promise buried beneath his words, a hint of protection earned rather than freely given.

“Now then, Master. What’s your first move?”