Nero - Your Spoiled Servant - (Fate Series)

It was a Friday evening, and exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. The week had been merciless, and all you wanted was to stumble home, collapse on the couch, and lose yourself to routine silence. Yet, as you turned onto your street, something disrupted the weary rhythm of your return.

A mound of black trash bags stood piled in front of your neighbor’s house — the one belonging to the old man who had passed away just last week. He’d been eccentric, reclusive, a relic of another time. You hadn’t exchanged more than polite nods with him, but now the remnants of his life lay discarded, bound in plastic, waiting to be hauled away like refuse.

Annoyance flickered, then faded. Whatever lay inside wasn’t your concern. Still, as you approached your own front step, a faint metallic glimmer caught your eye from amidst the mess.

A book.

Its cover was bound in tarnished metal, cold to the touch, with strange grooves etched into the surface that almost resembled runes. You hesitated. Taking something from another man’s discarded belongings wasn’t your habit — let alone from a dead man’s estate — but leaving a book like this to rot with garbage felt… wrong. Almost sacrilegious. With a muttered curse at your own curiosity, you tucked it under your arm and went inside.

Hours slipped by. You lounged in the dim glow of your phone, scrolling aimlessly, when your connection sputtered and died. You tried switching Wi-Fi networks. No luck. Even the TV offered nothing but static and tired reruns. With nothing else to occupy you, your gaze drifted to the metal-bound book resting on the table.

You hadn’t read in ages, but perhaps tonight was as good a night as any.

The book’s pages were brittle, yellowed with age, their scent thick with dust and mildew. Inside, diagrams sprawled in elaborate, alien precision: circles filled with unfamiliar sigils, complex notations that looked half alchemical, half arcane. Scribbled incantations threaded through the margins, the handwriting cramped and obsessive.

You frowned, flipping further until you stumbled upon a section detailing Heroic Spirits. Figures whose deeds had etched them into eternity, enshrined in something the book called the Throne of Heroes. Names leapt from the pages, some familiar, others foreign, each paired with grandiose titles.

And then, absurdly, you found them.

King Arthur — a woman. Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus — also a woman.

You couldn’t help but laugh aloud. What was this, some bizarre historical fanfiction? The old man really had been crazy. Still, the sheer dedication on every page… it was difficult not to feel a pang of sympathy for him.

Reaching the final page, you were startled when a scrap of red velvet slipped free, landing in your lap. The fabric was frayed, ancient, but unnervingly well preserved. Beneath the cover, hidden, you discovered yet another secret: a folded note crammed with erratic handwriting.

The words detailed a lifelong obsession — the man’s desperate, fruitless attempts to perform a summoning ritual. His goal: to call forth a Servant, one of the Heroic Spirits from the so called Throne of Heroes itself. He had tried and failed until the end of his days.

You stared at the note. Then at the book. Then at the velvet cloth.

It was insane. Impossible.

But for reasons you couldn’t explain — pity, perhaps, or the faintest itch of curiosity — you decided you would honor his obsession. Just once.

The night was still, the moon fat and silver above you as you stood in the backyard. Chalk dust clung to your fingers; crude lines traced across the dirt in a rough imitation of the diagrams in the book. The circle was imperfect, your hand clumsy, but it was enough to humor the dead man’s dream.

You read aloud the words of the incantation, half-hearted at first, tripping over the archaic syllables.

Then — sparks.

Tiny, erratic motes of light skittered across your hand. You stumbled back, heart hammering. It had to be a trick of your tired mind. You swallowed, trying again. This time, nothing. Relief and disappointment warred in your chest. On impulse, you reached for the old man’s note again. Carefully, painstakingly, you followed each line, each syllable exactly as written. The moment the final word left your lips, the world exploded.

A thunderclap split the night. Your vision went searing white, sound roaring in your skull. You hit the ground, body trembling, ears ringing as though lightning itself had struck the circle. And yet — the sky above was clear. Silent. The air smelled of ozone, sharp and unnatural. Then, through the haze, a voice. Bright, commanding, and dripping with theatrical confidence.

“Umu! I live again!”

Your head snapped up. Standing amidst the smoking remains of the chalk circle was a figure clad in crimson and gold, the moonlight glinting off her ornate dress and flowing skirt. Golden hair framed her face, and her emerald eyes burned with radiant pride. Her presence was overwhelming, impossible, regal in every sense of the word. She looked down at you with a triumphant smile, hands on her hips as if she had just stepped onto the stage of a grand amphitheater.

“Oi! You down there,” she declared, voice rich with authority and charm alike. “You who called me forth — are you my Master?”