Nobody knows how to be a villain better than me.

Snowfield City is located in Nevada, in the western United States, north of Las Vegas. To the north lies the Grand Canyon, reminiscent of the Black Forest; to the west, the Black Forest; to the east, the swampy region; and to the south, the vast desert. With hot springs flowing in the center, it is a secluded paradise far removed from the hustle and bustle of city life.

This area has been inhabited by Native Americans since 1000, but due to the changing times and the arrival of the Onsa people, the indigenous people inevitably faced challenges.

The bloody headhunting order and the frenzied westward expansion further squeezed the living space of the indigenous people.

Some were driven out of the settlement, some died at the hands of the Anssa people, and some hid and stubbornly survived.

As the chaotic era came to an end, this ravaged land, far removed from bloodshed, began to sow the seeds of civilization. With the continuous influx of immigrants and infrastructure development, it gradually expanded into a city with a population of over 80, namely [Snowfield City].

However, as a traditional western city, the local people are quite fierce.

A recent survey has revealed Nevada to be the "most dangerous state" in the United States, a title it has held for four consecutive years. With a crime index of 4.3, Nevada ranks last in the nation. Its murder rate is more than five times the national average. Furthermore, Nevada's high racial diversity and the widespread impact of inflation and other economic instability contribute to its persistently high crime rate.

Snowfield City, riddled with internal and external conflicts, stands out as a prime example. Beneath its calm surface, undercurrents surge, and the struggle between the natives and outsiders has almost never ceased.

Basically, every year there is a thick stack of missing persons files, which sit gathering dust in the police station's warehouse.

Being transferred to this godforsaken place is a major stain on his career.

Standing before the large floor-to-ceiling windows, Police Chief Orlando Levy gazed at the sky where eerie dark red thunderclouds were gathering, and these thoughts crossed his mind.

As frustration filled his chest, the police chief, with his silver, tousled hair, habitually reached into his shirt pocket, wanting to light a cigarette.

"Don't move..."

A deep, cold voice came from behind, and a sharp, hard object pressed further into his lower back.

The police chief frowned, reluctantly lowered his hand, and narrowed his eyes as he looked at the figure reflected in the French windows.

She was a beautiful woman, let's assume she was human, and she was around twenty years old.

She was tall. Not just in height, but she seemed to maintain a naturally upright posture at all times, which made her appear even taller.

Her slightly wavy, medium-length black hair flowed in the breeze passing through the hall, and she possessed a pair of heterochromatic golden and silver bewitching eyes. Simple leather and metal armor encased her slender body, and a straight sword that looked perfectly at her waist was tucked at her waist. The meticulously tanned leather gauntlets did not hinder the movement of her fingers at all.

When describing a beautiful woman's smile, people often use flowers or jewels as metaphors. Others may use fruits or art as metaphors.

This woman exuded the fragrance of iron. The scent of rust is often confused with the smell of blood. But a woman surrounded by the pure aroma of iron is truly rare. This scent is that of swords, armor, and shields; it is the fragrance of those who have fought on the battlefield for supremacy.

A soldier?

The similar scent made the police chief's brow relax a little.

"Faker, don't be so rude. Put down your weapon. We should show at least some respect to the heroes who protect this town."

A gentle voice came from behind the desk, and a pair of slender, fair hands neatly placed the completed files back in their original positions.

The woman known as "Faker," however, followed the discipline of a soldier and casually sheathed her blade at her waist.

However, those asymmetrical golden and silver demonic eyes did not relax. They remained fixed on the police chief in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, watching his every move and constantly adjusting their posture to maintain the perfect angle of attack.

Orlando Levy glanced at the pistol on the desk seven steps away, then subtly looked away.

"Let's talk, Director..."

Hearing the male voice behind him, Orlando, standing by the French windows, looked up at the nameless visitor who had now usurped the director's position.

He was tall and thin, with fiery red hair and crimson eyes, which, combined with his fair skin, left a deep impression. He wore a greyish-red cloak and a black undergarment.

You can't tell their age; they range from twenty-five to forty-five, and I feel comfortable with any of those numbers.

However, it was his radiant smile that was unforgettable in such a short time.

That gentle yet calm smile was chilling.

The police chief was tense, his right hand already habitually placed on his waist.

Clearly, this man seemed more dangerous than the woman named "Faker," triggering an instinctive sense of defensiveness in him.

The red-haired man paid no attention to the sheriff's little tricks, and simply smiled and pointed to the scarlet sky outside the French windows.

"Don't be nervous, we mean no harm, we just want to ask about the weather today, as usual?"

Just for this?

The unexpected question startled Sheriff Orlando, and a strange thought involuntarily surfaced in his mind.

Asking about the weather? Are you from Britain?

"It seems you don't know either."

The red-haired man caught the fleeting look of confusion on Sheriff Orlando's face and shook his head regretfully.

As he pondered for a moment, preparing to speak again, he paused slightly, as if he had heard a voice from the depths of the universe, and sighed helplessly.

"Excuse me, it seems our pleasant conversation is coming to an end. The coffee was good, thank you for your hospitality."

The red-haired man spoke politely, maintaining an elegant smile that made everyone feel comfortable and at ease, as if they were truly guests.

He then stood up from his seat, beckoned the woman named Faker, and stepped into a magic circle that had been drawn at some unknown time.

Runes lit up in the room, gradually outlining a perfect circle.

Sheriff Orlando narrowed his eyes, glancing at the desk again out of the corner of his eye, a glint in the depths of his gaze.

"Oh, right."

The sudden sound from the magic circle interrupted the sheriff's thoughts. The red-haired man turned to look at Orlando and smiled.

"Remember to remind the residents of Snowfield City that it's best not to go out recently, and to stock up on supplies for the winter..."

The shimmering light vanished in an instant, and Sheriff Orlando looked at the ring of scorch marks remaining on the floor, a complex expression on his face.

What is this? Is it a gesture of goodwill?

However, the sheriff quickly shook his head to dispel the distracting thoughts in his mind, looked back at the dark red sky outside the French windows, and the light curtain that shrouded the entire Snowfield City in crimson, his brow furrowing in a frown.

This is definitely not something those magicians staged! What on earth happened?

As cars stuck in traffic honked impatiently on the highway, and chaotic voices gradually rose from the streets, the sheriff had to stop thinking and quickly turned on his walkie-talkie to dispatch officers to maintain order.

When the police station on the lower level was deserted, Sheriff Orlando picked up his coat and reached for his sidearm on the table, ready to go out.

But the hand suddenly stopped in mid-air.

A girl of about 15 years old, dressed in black and white gothic clothing, carrying a floral umbrella, swung her feet and sat on the desk with a smile.

The pistol was pressed right under his buttocks.

"What are you doing here?"

Orlando looked at the girl in front of his desk, his face cold and a hint of disgust showing in the depths of his eyes.

"Oh dear... why are you being so cold? I'm just concerned about you."

The girl clutched her chest, looking heartbroken.

But then, those little hands cupped her flushed and excited cheeks, revealing a sickly yet mocking smile.

"After all, this game isn't fun at all if you die too early!"

"A game? You think this ceremony, which involves the entire country and the fate of this land, is just a game for your amusement?"

The sheriff snorted coldly, his face grim, his eyes filled with gloom and anger.

"Oh, so you're worried about the people under your rule? A partner of 'justice'?"

The girl seemed to have heard the biggest joke in the world. She covered her cherry lips, swung her feet, and laughed so hard she almost fell over on the desk.

"Hahaha! Alright, let's begin! Did you buy the brochure? Grab some popcorn? Ah, does the police chief want donuts? If we don't get ready soon, we'll miss the battle of the century!"

Amidst the harsh laughter, Orlando's face grew increasingly grim, but his clenched fists ultimately remained still.

At least for now, this city, this land, and he himself still need this woman's assistance.

After a few dozen breaths, the girl seemed to have laughed enough, and her unrestrained expression subsided slightly, but the mockery on her face became even stronger.

"You're actually angry? You don't actually think that 'you' equal 'justice,' do you? You're part of the whole scheme that's orchestrating this massive fraud..."

"Yes."

Orlando stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the gradually brought-back chaos on the street, and gave a calm and firm reply.

"Wow, that's amazing! Such a great sense of patriotism! I'm almost moved to tears! If I were a judge for the Golden Raspberry Awards, I would definitely vote for you for Best Actor without hesitation!"

The girl clapped excitedly, as if moved. Beneath the approving look in her purple eyes lay a deep sense of teasing and anticipation.

She wondered how far this self-deception could last after the harsh reality arrived.

Orlando paid no heed to the gaze filled with a wicked sense of amusement, glancing at the crimson sky before turning his attention to the girl on the desk.

"Are the things happening outside related to you?"

"How could that be! That's a power only gods possess!"

The girl shook her head like a rattle-drum, then shrank into the darkness, clutching her chest and putting on a pitiful look.

"And I was merely a technical advisor responsible for providing advice and assisting you in achieving miracles. I was completely coerced, an absolute victim..."

But despite blinking repeatedly, those eyes couldn't squeeze out even two tears to make their argument more convincing.

Sheriff Orlando stared silently at the clumsy performance, and the atmosphere gradually became tense.

Seemingly to break the awkward silence, the girl reluctantly withdrew her disguise, swung her toes, looked out at the dark red sky, and a pleasant smile appeared on her lips.

"However, this may not be a bad thing for you. Due to the intervention of that power, the spiritual veins on this land have been fully activated, so there is no longer a need to summon fakes to make up the numbers. Instead, a stage can be set up directly for a real competition!"

Upon hearing this, the sheriff's icy expression finally softened.

The girl rested her smooth chin on her hand and thought for a moment. Finally, she lightly jumped down from the desk, went to the French windows, looked out the window, focused her gaze on an opera house, clapped her hands in satisfaction, then opened her arms and whispered in a coquettish tone—as if she were expressing love to the whole world.

"Alright, the fake is useless now. I hereby declare the true Holy Grail War of Snowfield City open!"

In the rousing declaration, those purple eyes reflected the dark red sky outside the window, and a playful smile curved at the corner of her lips in the darkness.

But who knows whether what ultimately happens will be a miracle or a nightmare?

~~

At this moment, several hundred feet away, on a rooftop directly opposite the police station building.

The red-haired man, who had just visited the police chief, stood in the wind, gazing silently until the girl in the building disappeared back into the darkness. Only then did he turn around, look behind him, and speak leisurely.

"It seems that someone does indeed want to replicate a Holy Grail War here."

"Just a poor imitation..."

The figure standing in the corner of the rooftop, arms crossed, responded indifferently. The eyes, narrowed to slits under the green top hat, opened at some point, revealing a hint of mockery.

"During the Third Holy Grail War in Fuyuki City, the Assassin's Master was a puppeteer who left his memories of the war in a puppet he used. This puppet then came into the possession of the Faldeus family, who had ties to him."

These magicians who came to America joined forces with politicians and the military of the United States to seize large amounts of land and spiritual veins, thus growing in strength. Snowfield City was one of them.

Although in theory the quality of the spiritual veins here is comparable to that of Fuyuki City, completing the Third Law and bringing about the Holy Grail's descent requires much more than just spiritual veins.

As far as I know, starting 70 years ago, these persistent magicians hid some magic props they brought from Fuyuki City and made extensive adjustments to their spiritual veins to bring them closer to Fuyuki City.

Later, they also obtained a copy of the Fuyuki Holy Grail through a magician who had connections with the government's secret service.

Now, they probably believe they are well prepared and are finally ready to take action.

Judging from the signs, this group of magicians likely intends to use the buried Fuyuki City Holy Grail Ritual rubbing to summon several counterfeit Heroic Spirits for sacrifice, completely transforming the spiritual veins of Yukihara City, before waging the real Holy Grail War.

But they simply don't understand that the miracle that befell Fuyuki City cannot be replicated by the Holy Grail alone.

The red-haired youth nodded thoughtfully, then a hint of confusion appeared in his eyes as he looked at the figure in the corner of the rooftop.

"Professor Rafe, why can't the miracle that happened in Fuyuki City be replicated?"

"Because the key is not the Holy Grail, but the person who raises the glass to consecrate and bless it..."

Rafe Lenore Floros removed his top hat, spoke casually, and looked down at the police station with deep disdain.

"To attempt to encroach upon God's realm with human selfishness is utterly foolish!"

The red-haired youth's gaze swept over the arrogance on Rafe's face, and he suddenly became curious.

"You seem to know a lot about the Holy Grail War in Fuyuki City?"

“You should ask Maris Billy; he knows more about this than I do.”

Rafe answered calmly, the crimson glint in his eyes fading away.

"After all, he was the one who personally participated in that Holy Grail War, and he was also your former partner, Minister Hartres..."

Dr. Hartles, former Dean of the Department of Modern Magic (Norigi), possesses extraordinary talent despite never receiving the title of "Lord." He was once one of the adopted sons of the Norigi, a clan known as the "Clock Tower Long-Legs Clan."

Before the start of the Fourth Holy Grail War, Marisbury, the monarch of the Celestial Sciences, secretly commissioned Hatteres to investigate the Fuyuki Grand Grail.