Slowly, I draw a single sword from the golden ripple.
For some reason, an enormous amount of information about that knight king—let's call her Saber—has been recorded in this vessel.
As I read and absorb those old records and knowledge, the feelings this vessel holds toward that Servant gradually become clear.
Saber possesses a dragon's heart. By necessity, that means she is weak to weapons that kill dragons.
Relying on that insight, I draw the sword that serves as the original dragon-slayer—the one this body apparently used long ago when crossing blades with a different Saber in another world.
If it has a proven record, I'll gladly use it. If I know a weakness, I will exploit it thoroughly. As a nameless soul, I cannot afford excess confidence or mercy.
—It is also recorded that Saber's sword, without releasing its true name, cannot break this armor.
—I should not rely on that too much. From what I can see, every strike and every movement pours out immense magical power. Assuming safety would be foolish.
This body does not possess the reckless confidence to boast that full armor can ignore something like a rocket impact.
—An Excalibur without its scabbard is insignificant, it says.
The scabbard…? Excalibur's scabbard?
Confusion rises. Can a scabbard really be stronger than the blade? Does it have a purpose beyond holding the sword?
I try to learn more, but the details are stubbornly absent from this vessel's records. Why?
I look again at the black knight king before me. There is no sign of a scabbard anywhere. It seems the situation this king feared will not occur. I let out a quiet breath of relief.
—
Some things are beautiful precisely because they cannot be obtained.
—
…What?
Is there truly something the King of Heroes—who gathered all treasures of heaven and earth—could not obtain?
Is that the source of this discomfort? This irritation?
Could it be… that the King of Heroes once—
I immediately dismiss the thought.
Digging up past sentiments is vulgar. Combat knowledge is one thing, but prying into old feelings is nothing but disrespect.
I repeat this to myself. I do not wish to dominate or toy with this vessel.
Whatever the outcome, this body holds real experiences, true grandeur, and unshakable pride.
Out of respect for Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes—and for the generosity that still allows my soul to remain—I must never forget my gratitude.
I will not disgrace myself by parading another man's glory.
—
"You're thinking quite hard. Have you finally grown bored of that childish fighting style?"
A cold voice pierces me. Its pressure alone could drive a weaker soul mad.
"It's nothing," I reply, masking my tension with a sneer. "I was merely considering how best to adorn you with blood. Your pale skin—like that of a corpse or wax—will look splendid stained red."
Calm, fearless words. That unwavering arrogance is impressive—but it never invites victory.
Rather—
"…Such a cheap provocation. Very well, I'll accept it. Know this, golden one—you cannot swallow words once spoken!"
As expected, the one who hears this explodes with rage. Respect and exasperation rise together at her kingly way of life.
A mass of magical power comes flying like a jet fighter. An ordinary hero wouldn't even perceive it before being cut down and killed.
Do not underestimate me, black one.
"Hmph!"
Before thought can catch up, experience moves my arm. I barely manage to block the devastating strike.
The shock transmitted through the sword feels like a bomb detonating at point-blank range—but it is not enough to end my life.
In sheer absurdity, in overwhelming existence,
I know of no being who surpasses this king.
"Oh? With those frail arms, you dare block my strike?"
"A fly has landed. Such barbaric swordplay, driven only by brute force, is an eyesore, Saber!"
It's true—if I had failed to react, it would have been fatal. But the vessel's words harden my resolve.
"…Heh. This will be entertaining."
With a roar like an engine igniting—
"I look forward to the moment that bluster peels away and your usual rage is laid bare!"
With explosive acceleration, a ferocious barrage of holy sword strikes crashes down upon Gilgamesh.
"Guh—oooooo!!"
Countless blades clash, sparks flying. One exchange, two, three—within a blink, innumerable lethal strikes are traded.
In this deadly vortex where a single mistake blooms into a flower of blood, gold and black collide.
The violence becomes a storm, sweeping the surroundings, cracking the earth and shaking the heavens with thunderous force.
"Amazing… they're evenly matched! What an incredibly skilled king! See? If you don't get arrogant, you really can do it!"
Roman lets out a voice of pure amazement. For some reason, he never drops his unusually casual way of speaking when it comes to the King of Heroes.
"That's incredible, Senpai! Even though he's an Archer, the Hero King is trading blows with King Arthur, a Saber!" Mash gasps.
"Yeah…! He can really do anything… Gil!" Rikka cheers, unable to hide her excitement.
"Please… win…!" Olga Marie whispers, watching with bated breath.
While Olga Marie watches with bated breath, there is one warrior who observes the fight calmly.
"—Get ready, kid."
"Huh?"
Rikka replies blankly to Cú Chulainn, who suddenly spoke.
"W-What do you mean, get ready…?"
"Isn't it obvious? For the next fight." The Caster points his staff at the duel. "—That golden guy is going to lose."
"…What?"