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Fuyuki Academy, Banquet of Kings


Caster emerged from the school a respectful step behind his Master, the glow of his mask visible before his body was. Garbed in dark fabrics, dressed more akin to a man of science than a doctor, he stepped out into the night lights of the academy's courtyard. He did not bother to check the sky from which the rain of javelins had poured, nor did he show hesitation in approaching the marshalling group of Servants. With hands behind his, Hippocrates the Second appraised the gathered.

"If I may offer my assessment before anyone partakes of the hunting of Asiatic barbarians," Hippocrates began, his voice cutting through the air with a smooth and calm clarity. "There are greater dangers to your potential victories than one who has been directly impeded this night," he said, eventually coming to a stop not too far from the group of apparent kings. "Dare I say that it is most fortuitous to your individual conditions that you have gathered tonight, and that you are able to hear my message. Otherwise, the likelihood is that you would all be dead in less than a week, no matter your respective strengths."

Caster's voice, for whatever reason, carried a prominence that stopped interruption. He was a man that was meant to be listened to for the sake of ones health, and that was something even the most crazed of Servants could identify from his bearing alone. "Among you, the gathered kings, there is one who can best be described as suffering from a being of 'malignancy'. That is to say, one of you is rotting the Holy Grail War from the inside of the system which constitutes it. By virtue of this individual being summoned, the whole system becomes compromised. Complete failure of the system can be expected within the next few days, discounting any potential for acceleration. Until that point, our bodies will wither. You will grow weak and be brought low, from the immortal memory of a king to a leper among mortal men," the Father of Medicine illustrated.

The neon 'eye' of Caster looked over the gathered individually. Finally, it settled on the one called 'Hercules'.

Not 'Heracles', he noted among many other things.

When Caster regarded the one called Hercules, he could feel his body respond in kind. The near overwhelming desire to cure through direct ministrations manifesting as a roar in his heart, thumping against the cage his mind had constructed for such a rampant desire. The genetic memory of Asclepius within his makeup was almost akin to a living thing in its own right, always demanding immediate and thoughtless action in regards to those who needed his help. The urge, which made up part of Hippocrates' heritage. But much like any instinct, it was base.

It disgusted Hippocrates. Asclepius was but a God of Medicine, lacking in the tact required to truly nuture humanity away from the ailments of the body; Gods were ultimately flawed beings -- powerful, dreadful and beautiful, but too different. Caster's fellow Asclepiad -- his cousins and siblings by distant divinity -- were zealots, too focused on the dying Mystery of their gene-sire rather than adapting to the changes that their era presented.

Caster had adapted. By lowering himself to understanding the ways of the mundane, of explaining things within nature as just that, and appropriately conducting himself as a healer of humanity should, he was remembered by humanity. By humbling himself to the raw fact that change was inevitable, he had usurped his God.

The God was a myth, contributing nothing to mankind's wellbeing. The Physician was true, granting the men of his era and beyond the proverbial fire to continue without the myth. There was yet more work to do, Caster declared to himself in his youth, and that thought carried with him through to his pseudo-immortality.

Humanity was close. The perfection of medicine was but one factor of the future he foresaw in the glint of liquid metal, but it was his duty to see that factor perfected. In his own interest, the source of impending failure had to removed so he could continue.

The man called 'Hercules' was killing the body of the Holy Grail.

"You are the source, hero of a nation. You are the cancerous antithesis of success."

A polite way to not call the man the hero of heroes, whom even a man like Hippocrates could admire.

It was simple pattern recognition, afforded to his eyes to make such a diagnoses of the Servant's circumstances. The man was not Heracles. The son of Zeus would not carry such an obtuse burden upon his body, that which could potentially topple nations through his mere presence. Even at his most subversive, acting as an Assassin, no such ability would manifest within Heracles. It was truly a burden of being which belonged to that of the tyrants of old, specialising in the killing of civilisation rather than something born through the virtuous clash of hero and beast.

The greatest of heroes would not called himself by his Roman name at a first introduction. He may not even proudly introduce himself at all. Indeed, Caster saw before him the equivalent of a man made by Aristophanes; an act, a play -- and In practice -- a fraud. Frauds were dangerous.

Within Caster's body, magecraft was at work. The school of Mysteries formed from the acts and body of Asclepius that of body, and the protection and restoration of it. Although it eluded his children, the theoretical end point of it was true resurrection. That end point was unattainable in the world Hippocrates lived in, and the one he had manifested in. It was that fact which brought Hippocrates to consider the natural world in absence of the divine; if the acts of his gene-sire were not sufficient, then there would be other ways, as it ever was in any field of study.

That was not to say Hippocrates obsessed over learning how to resurrect another -- that was merely one part of a greater whole. He never truly pursued it as a singular act.

But he had pursued the understanding of the forces at play within the body, learning about that which the Mysteries were ignorant. Through his mind, he unified the mundane and the mystical, bringing the Asclepian Mysteries to a precise study. So precise that he scarcely needed more than his own body and a thought to enact a series of small-scale miracles which, when combined, took a greater effect.

A Doctor was always prepared. Within his body, a culture of self-adapted virological cognitive disease developed, travelling in a form of moisture and magical energy. His body felt no effect from them, free from the reason-eroding malady of the short-lived virus, but if he were to bleed, those around him would. It would manifest from him, a 'living humor' as it were.

It was not harmful in a certain sense. Confusing, breaking up ones ability to connect thoughts, disrupting actions with the idea of another action, but it was designed to last no longer than an hour even in absence of his treatment. A simple protective measure, on top of the reinforcement of that which was inside his body.

One breakthrough lead to another. The Father of Medicine was the epitome of synergy in his crafts.

"While I advise that you all turn your eyes to the greater threat, I cannot make you," he said to the gathered kings beside Hercules, revealing his hands slowly to gesture to all of them with open arms. "If you desire evidence, then it will be provided in less than twelve hours."

"And you do, after all, have the 'right' to refuse treatment."




The world passed Sunderban by. For all the oddity of their presence, none of it was felt by those around them, barely observable. It was through any effort of theirs that mankind barely noticed him -- it was their default mode of being, after their years with the Tiger Heir. Although they were no Dead Apostle, they had functionally been raised by one, trained to behave like one, and no hematophage worth their existence allowed themselves to be spotted by the mundane, and they did not make it easy for the supernatural to do so either.

There was a sort of simple contentment to be found in 'unobservation', something many of the people in that very city would never be able to experience. To be human was to be caught in a web of observation, each sense connecting to the senses of others in some form or another. Naturally there were those who could escape that web through drastic measures, but that was a course of action reserved for a unique kind of person -- the kind of person who lacked the 'rabbit' in their being; the kind of person who feels no grief in the absence of connection, or better yet celebrates it.

But that was rarer still. Of course, there were those people who liked to believe themselves 'alone', the sorts who lock themselves in their rooms for weeks on end, or indulge in the underbelly of society, but they were hypocrites. To isolate oneself in the middle of the web was impossible, even if the threads were of a different composition. The connections were still there, influencing them and their state of being.

Sunderban had the unique disposition of being able to enter and leave the web at will. For the sake of their own desires, they had allowed themselves to connect once more by entering Fuyuki City.

Central Native District
Traditional Compound


Problem: A point of operation was required within the confines of Fuyuki City.

Solution: Establish one

The process of getting from a problem to the desired solution was always the complicated part, but Sunderban was no stranger to appropriating buildings for their own use. Through creative application of their unique condition and the correct alterations to the dosage, suggestibility could be inflicted upon individuals with no real need for preparation outside of that which takes place within Sunderban's body. It was a balancing act between being able to convince an old couple to go spend time with their grandchildren in Osaka, and causing immediate hepatic failure in two already fragile bodies.

But precision was to be expected from Sunderban. Living with what could be called a body of death had honed their control of the ability to an absurd degree in order to avoid instances of complete system failure in those around them. It made for bad business when one relied on being discreet.

With a base of operations and a cover story in place -- Sunderban was to be the pleasant and well-read great-nephew of the couple from the mainland, looking after their property while they were gone -- all that was left was to implement the appropriate 'rituals' to grant them a place to rest after a day of work.

Feng shui was not an art for the haphazard. Establishing the appropriate placing of particular objects and furniture within a set area allowed for the creation of boundaries which served to benefit Sunderban. Although they were not a true student of the art, there had been some education of it built in with their alchemical studies and the martial arts. Principles carried across in such arts, Sunderban found. An eager student of the deeper secrets of Hung Ga Kuen could become a near equally successful practitioner of wu jing or feng shui should they apply themselves with the time and effort expected, but the time element was what truly stopped most from becoming absolute all-rounders. Dabbling was the name of the game, take what was needed for a particular practice rather than inundating oneself with too many options.

As such, Sunderban converted the home into a location ideal for themselves, taking the same 'principles' he applied to himself and using them on the boundary of the home. It became quiet and ignorable. It became alert and guarded. It became the den of an assassin, hidden in plain sight.

A place to store weapons and rest ones head. It was perfect for their purposes.

Sunderban sipped from their cup of tea, looking out at the garden in the moon's calming light. It could use some work, but for two seniors it was a good effort.

"Berserker. Party as you will. I will simply watch from the sidelines, if you are not offended by the notion."

A simple order, but it was such an order that she would understand best.

Summoning a Berserker was not a curse. It was not as ideal as an Assassin, but a Berserker of her kind had her uses, and she was at her most useful when she was free of complexity. In her freedom, they were similarly free to act as they saw fit. She would be loud and bombastic in her actions, while Sunderban was anything but that.

"... Or you could relax for this night. I care not what you decide to do; I am flexible," they said with a care-free shrug, taking another sip from their tea.

Sunderban could work with a Berserker and their ways, even the one he had summoned. There was more than one way to hunt a tiger, after all.






Caster was silent, even as his Master spoke to him. They had looked at several locations for their work to begin inside of, and all he had said to indicate dissatisfaction was a simple "Not this place," each time. Eventually, Hippocrates had to settle with the location of his clinic. The city was woefully under-equipped by his standards, but that was also to be expected from any hub of civilisation -- rarely were they equipped to adequately care for those within it.

One often had to make do with the tools and equipment available to them, but Hippocrates the Second was in a most fortunate position for a Doctor; he had no need to concern for such things. Within him he contained the death throes of the Gods, often called something far more dramatic than they actually were. They were machines, and like any machine they could be repurposed. For Hippocrates, they traded in raw power for the ability to manufacture that which he required for his work.

Nurse's Office
Fuyuki Academy


And so, Hippocrates went about converting the nurse's office of a school into a high-end medical suite. He had to move one of the beds to make room for his equipment, but taking into account the increased average rate of recovery which was brought on by the additional space the lack of one bed was an acceptable compromise.

"It's hardly ideal, but it will serve its function," the Doctor commented, hands behind his back. The glow of his mask was brightest among the new devices of his clinic. A minor benefit of their location was the ability to educate -- for every young person of foolish heart he attended to, he could instil the value of good health upon them through a lengthy lecture. Good diet, plenty of exercise, and balanced humours were the best way to avoid ill health, and Hippocrates knew enough about the era to be aware that diets in particular were compromised by some utter filth.

He moved to the window with perfectly paced steps, looking out over the school yard at night. Indeed, the Father of Medicine had not expected to be employed as a school nurse any time soon, but it was an important role nonetheless. The wellbeing of the youth was the wellbeing of the future. Undoubtedly his Master had some other motive, a most frugal method acquired through his life of penny pinching and tactical living, but Caster was hardly interested.

The world had come far; he was proud of the distant students who utilised his methods years after his death, and glad for the many new discoveries made along the way. Fleming's utilisation of penicillium chrysogenum in particular had caught Hippocrates' eye upon his summoning and subsequent awareness of history, although he saw flaws with it that could be improved through careful engineering -- bacteria could adapt as well as any other creature in a harsh environment -- something the careful application of the Mysteries of Asklepious would help him with greatly.

Mankind had come far, but there was much more to do. His grand work was to continue. The rumble of scientific triumph was sounding in his heart, urging him forward towards the future he saw in his minds eye -- to surpass the frail, to become more than matter and body, a process which began with the defeat of 'illness' and 'death' with the hands of man.

The shortsighted would hope to stop him for momentary glory. The battle Hippocrates fought was for glory eternal, owed to humanity as a whole.

Even still, Hippocrates the Second would Do No Harm.

"This ritual is diseased, Mr. Oscuro," Caster said. With the mandatory preparations were out of the way, he turned his attention to other matters. "It is currently undergoing a complete system failure. And we Servants, as extensions of the system, are also diseased. I suspect that the malady ravaging the Holy Grail War will cause a shutdown of all vital systems before the conflict's conclusion. This will, in turn, result in a loss of your ability to succeed. The diagnosis is..."

Hippocrates paused, turning to look at his Master. The Caster leaned forward slightly, raising a finger.

"Hubris."

He went back to standing upright, the hand returning to join the other behind his back. "I will require a team of professionals if I am to operate and remove the source of the system failure," he advised the magus, turning back to face the outdoors. "Or we could try it alone. Either way, I leave the decision to you. With that in mind, I believe there are... improvements I can make on your being, if you are consenting. It will make these next days much more tolerable for yourself."

Whatever Hippocrates saw with his eyes, the reflection was hidden by his mask. The offer was genuine, but the nature of that generosity was as veiled as the doctor's face.



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@wug

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Of course, my bad.






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