Clang. The clash of weapons sparked. The crimson spear opposed the massive halberd. The purple giant knew no mercy. The ancient hero knew no fear. It was unknown how long the battle between one of the third legion's oldest legionaries and the legend of Irish lands had raged. Setanta's spirit rejoiced, for it had found a truly equal worthy opponent. He was clad in armor heavy in appearance and fact. But it didn't hinder his movement at speed unattainable for a mere mortal, as if it didn't bind him. The power weapon's blade shone in the darkness, turning every strike into a true light show. And every swing brought death, so instincts akin to a beast's proclaimed.
Vergil saw that his opponent enjoyed their battle, deriving pleasure from it. And this enraged him. Some pathetic barbarian dares laugh when blows rained from a man created to instill fear in mankind's enemies. The Phoenix's son wouldn't let this insolent one live another day, as with all who dared assail his primarch's honor. With a furious roar duplicated by vox-systems, the Astartes made the masters standing at a short distance flinch. Now, precise and calculated fighting style no longer suited the wrath-engulfed superhuman. The ceramite colossus charged at Lancer, who marveled at the speed this behemoth could reach. It was as if a raging bull barreled toward him.
A wide arc, its radius proportional to the guardsman's body size, forced the blue spearman to retreat. He leaped to the wall of one of the houses among which the battle raged, but it didn't end there. Plasma, now hateful, was already flying at him. Though Anusoran's plasma pistol yielded in power to his primarch's weapon, it didn't diminish the threat. Ionized gas blobs had to be evaded like some dancer, lest horrific burns be endured. The opponent's hesitation couldn't go unused, as Vergil did. With a low start, his figure rushed at Cú Chulainn again. The thudding steps echoed around, creating the impression of a massive stamping press working somewhere.
Firing several times en route, the Space Marine rammed the stone base of a residential building, shaking the entire structure. Setanta managed to slip away at the last moment and was now on the roof of the neighboring building.
"We're having quite the fun, eh… Uh, what's your name?" The Space Marine sharply turned to the hated enemy, shaking off dust and fragments. His whole body emanated desire to rend and crush Lancer, turn him to dust. "Fine, I see you're not as chatty as Fulgrim… your warlord, right?"
"You're not worthy even to utter his name, spawn!" The pristine cloak billowed like a banner as Vergil made a powerful leap toward the opponent.
"You know, it's not much fun when the opponent doesn't share the joy of battle." Cú Chulainn said somewhat offendedly. It upset him that he still hadn't met one who loved a good brawl as much as the son of Lugh. "Though you're definitely one of my most unusual opponents, size-wise for sure." He spoke while airborne, for getting under that behemoth's halberd attack held no appeal. When Lancer landed afar, Vergil growled again. The slippery bastard couldn't be touched. But the Space Marine's angry sounds were drowned by the autocannon's roar. Tacitus had found a good position on another roof and fired at the foe from it.
"Nope, that won't get me." Cú Chulainn said as all shells were deflected somehow magically. Truly magically, for it was divine protection from ranged attacks. "You can try all night if you… Whoa!"
The Techmarine quickly realized nothing would come of this and changed tactics. From the shoulder launcher poured a hail of explosive missiles that detonated upon nearing the target. As clear from past clashes, the Servant's newfound trait didn't extend to physical phenomena like plasma or explosions. The singed Lancer emerged from the black smoke cloud and glared discontentedly at the Terminator and his primarch standing nearby. The latter's responding gaze was mocking.
"You learn nothing, Cú Chulainn."
"Is that so? Then let me show you how much I love this." The bloodthirsty grin made clear the spear knight feared not the fourfold numerical superiority one bit.
"And you think you can handle it?"
"Oh, for me it's already a matter of honor, seriously. But I warn you, fair and square I won't bu…" Setanta suddenly fell silent. His face lost its excitement, replaced by pale boredom and something akin to weariness. "This isn't funny anymore." The quiet whisper was more resigned than indignant.
"I agree, so I'll help you escape future suffering. You won't leave here, Lancer." The primarch's slightly glowing eyes no longer held mockery, now filled with deadly seriousness.
"I'll leave… though I'm not sure it's worth rejoicing over." The blue-haired one said the last part quieter, more to himself than to those around.
And they were already preparing. Vergil tensed his body, thrusting the halberd forward. That's what he planned to impale the enemy with. Tacitus locked onto the target on his helmet display and pushed the targeting systems to maximum performance. Artoria, for whom a battle had finally presented itself, gripped the hilt of her invisible sword tighter. All together against one wasn't very knightly, but this was war now, not a tournament or duel like before. And Fulgrim himself watched Setanta with a sharp gaze. The four spirits, summoned by the Grail one way or another, fixed their eyes on the lone spearman's silhouette. And Vergil was the first to act.
With a barely perceptible movement, he leaped to the neighboring roof, startling the residents. The lightning-fast swing was parried, and then Anusoran dodged the thrust. Cú Chulainn, though ordered to flee, had no intention of leaving so easily—he needed to break through the enemy's formation to retreat. A short exchange of blows yielded nothing but sparks struck by the weapons. The final wide sweep of the halberd forced the opponent to jump down to the road between the houses. And a moment later, the primarch joined the pair. Forgebreaker, revealing itself once more, loomed over the spearman's head like a nemesis. The subsequent strike caused a roar like a mountain collapsing. Cú Chulainn barely escaped in time, only to not quite avoid the new attack. Artoria's blade rushed toward the man's chest like an invisible wave, leaving a shallow cut. The brief pause allowed the allies to regroup and attack from three sides. Setanta was cornered.
Twisting like an eel on a hot stone, he clearly couldn't hold out long—it was obvious. His speed and agility kept him from dying under such pressure, but it was only a matter of time. Kinetic waves from the hammer, lines of light from the power halberd, and barely noticeable attacks with the invisible blade. All together, they left numerous wounds on Cú Chulainn's body. The Servant's sturdy body wasn't easy to destroy, but the enemies made it clear they could succeed, especially Fulgrim. One direct hit would mean instant death. Lancer and his Master understood this, so they used a Command Seal. It took only a moment for Kulan's Hound to turn into a burst of sparks and vanish from the battlefield.
Seeing this, the trio and the observers halted. The spear Servant's latest escape caused irritation, especially for Vergil. He hated the thought of failing to punish this creature, especially in front of the primarch. That the latter hadn't managed to reach the foe himself didn't even cross the Astartes' mind. The allies lowered their weapons and looked at each other. The Guardsman was about to drop to his knees and repent his incompetence, but Fulgrim's raised hand stopped him—the primarch clearly saw his son's intentions.
"No need, Vergil. You fought well, and you have nothing to apologize for."
"My lord…" Anusoran bowed his head anyway, honored to receive praise from the Phoenician.
And yet, in the old days, the primarch of the Emperor's Children wouldn't tolerate flaws, regardless of reasons. For instance, during the siege of Laeran's largest atoll, the Terminator company captain was two minutes late, slightly disrupting the precise plan. Even though numerous enemies blocked his path, breaking through in that time was a feat, Fulgrim deemed it… an error. And perfection doesn't tolerate errors. Recalling those events, Vergil admitted his primarch had changed. And seemingly for the bett… No, his lord was perfect; he couldn't be better than before, as that would mean he was worse then. Impossible by definition. He had simply adjusted priorities in response to external circumstances.
"You fought well, but you know, I don't particularly like hypnotizing crowds of people. This is a residential area—maybe we should've at least tried to move farther away?" Rin spoke, returning from a short run through the houses affected in the battle. She'd used the simple spell to muddle memories and weaken critical thinking for a time more than in her entire life. The Guardsman was about to rein in the cheeky girl when he was interrupted.
"Rin, Lancer isn't a weak opponent. That Vergil didn't harm a single person is already worthy of respect." Artoria's calm voice made the girl cross her arms over her chest and grumble quietly, like an old man who knows the "youth" is right but won't admit it and now sulks in elderly fashion.
The one they'd defended looked at the queen strangely. Unexpectedly, he admitted.
"Come on, Tohsaka. It all ended well, let's just go home—you must be tired?" Young Emiya spoke up, trying to calm the girl. Though the way Rin pouted seemed… cute to him.
"Fine, fine, I get it." She waved her hands dramatically. "This night really should end." And for emphasis, she proudly turned her face from the others.
Everyone agreed, but an unexpected circumstance arose. At a short distance, a new guest materialized. The feminine figure was lit by a streetlamp, making her violet hair seem even brighter than it should. Everyone present tensed and turned their gaze to the new face on tonight's stage.
"I didn't come for battle." Gorgon's nearly emotionless voice carried through the night quiet. "My Master wishes to speak."
And as her words reached the group of Servants and Masters, a girl stepped out from behind the corner of one of the houses behind Medusa. With unhurried steps, she approached her Servant. Not a single movement betrayed aggression or fear. She was calm. Standing beside Rider, she met Fulgrim's gaze, and he looked back. Her purple eyes stared intently into his onyx ones, tinged with faint blue.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hinako Tsurukawa; I am Rider's Master." A small traditional bow accompanied the greeting. "I'd like to talk a bit, if it wouldn't trouble you." A light smile appeared on her neat lips.
"You realize you won't escape if we're not in the mood for talk." The primarch didn't ask but stated. "So what justifies such a risk?"
"That the essence of this ritual has been corrupted and will no longer bring the desired result to its participants." Hinako replied, still showing no signs of worry.
The son of mankind's master didn't change expression, but the noble purple of his eyes seemed to flare, turning to sparks in the night darkness.
"Tell me."
Sasaki Kojirō felt he could no longer remain in this world. The energy sustaining him among the living was no longer flowing, and the world was pushing him out of reality like a foreign element. Until now, the temple erected by his cruel mistress had shielded him from the planet's attention, but now nothing would let the pseudo-Servant escape oblivion again. Though this caused no regret—rather satisfaction. From freedom, however fleeting, the samurai closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the night coolness.
This wasn't hindered even by Caster's Master kneeling not far from him. Though the Colchian princess's body had dissolved into particles of light, leaving only emptiness, he hadn't risen. Nor had he uttered a word, his face bearing its natural expression. Sasaki wasn't worried about it, though how Caster lived her final moments involuntarily shifted his opinion of her slightly. Cruelty wasn't the sole inhabitant of her heart, but it didn't add sympathy.
"…Finally…"
The barely audible otherworldly whisper reached the swordsman, who immediately turned to its source. On the surviving temple roof loomed a figure clad in dark robes. They fluttered in the faint wind, and even the moon emerging from the clouds couldn't dispel the darkness enveloping the strange creature's body. Its only distinguishing feature was a white bone mask.
"Are my eyes deceiving me?" Kojirō whispered without a hint of alarm. "Assassin?"
"…In the flesh…" The voice came again, this time from behind. And the next thing the samurai felt was his flesh tearing. A short dagger plunged under his ribs at just the right angle to pierce the heart—the surest way to end a sentient's life with a backstab. "Freedom intoxicates… doesn't it?" He twisted the blade, making blood flow twice as freely.
"Yes, truly so." The great master's heavy eyelids began to veil his gaze from the world of the living where he'd been lucky enough to return, but… "It's just a pity… it's so fleeting…" With a soft thud, the body collapsed to the ground, and the last thing Sasaki saw was the killer heading toward the former Master of the Medeya of Colchis. "And that's… what makes it beautiful." He spoke these words on his final breath, before darkness of oblivion finally clouded his vision.
Kuzuki Sōichirō noticed what happened behind him, but he didn't care. He knew he couldn't handle the Servant whose steps heralded his doom. Better spend his final moments honoring the memory of the one who… The thought didn't finish before ending with the teacher's heartbeat—and former hired killer's. He fell to one like himself, whose fate was bound to decay and blood.
The figure in the dark cowl stood over the slain body. It was impossible to know what it thought, but that wasn't needed. A new player appeared on the scene, one who'd lurked in the shadows all this time. From a swarm of horrific, loathsome winged insects formed an old man's figure. His dull eyes, harboring nothing but depraved desires in their depths, gazed at the last Servant of this war, who had finally entered it. The creaking laughter could induce nausea and chills in anyone who heard it—so vile it was.
"Seems you could use a Master. How about me, Assassin?"
Zoken Matou was glad—if his warped soul could feel such. His original plan had gone to ruin due to his grandson's incompetence, quite predictably. Some unknown magus had stolen his Command Seals without spending any, unlike them. And now, a new ally had come to the old magus's hands—one of his favorites. Zoken greatly admired the assassin class's methods. The dark voids of the mask fixed on the old man. The answer was predetermined, for Hassan of the Cursed Arm had a mission from his true master. The one who'd summoned him to this era. Thus, using the overreaching worm was the optimal choice. That's how an Assassin should act: use any means to eliminate the target.
Silence permeated the house of God. As always, even with the sun risen, there were no parishioners, let alone under the moon. Kirei Kotomine stood before the crucifix depicting the son of the lord, who sacrificed himself for human sins. How ironic this aspiration was, in the false priest's opinion. To save his flock's souls, he endured torments inflicted by people themselves. How… pointless. The thought was interrupted by his Servant's voice, propping up the wall impassively.
"Aren't you tired of keeping me from fighting? I didn't answer the call to constantly run from battles." Cú Chulainn's gaze swept over him from half-closed eyes, then returned to the faith's symbol. "How long must I wait and be humiliated before enemies?"
"Exactly as long as needed, Lancer. As we agreed, you'll get what you desire—isn't that why the Chalice of Christ exists?" Kirei spoke with a thin smile. "Besides… Servants must obey their Masters' orders, so spare me the complaints. Better spend the time on Regrowth; your body took a beating."
Kulan's Hound, chained by the hated master, shook his head irritably. Luck—that was his main weakness. Of all people, he'd fallen into this rotten man's clutches. With such thoughts, Setanta dissolved into the air to avoid enduring this… simply this one's cloying presence.
"Your mongrel's starting to bare its teeth. Aren't you afraid he'll spit on your control?" A loud, commanding voice matching its owner boomed from the back pews. "Don't count on my help, Kirei." The crimson eyes never turned to the priest's back.
"He won't be a problem, unlike…"
"Some Fulgrim." The golden-haired one swirled a crystal goblet of rich red liquid. "Even I don't know who he is, though that doesn't stop me from seeing his essence."
"Is that so? Then care to share?" The man finally turned to face the temple's other occupant. A young man whose perfect face bore supremacy over all existence.
"Only because I'm in a benevolent mood lately. Don't think I'll tell you everything you ask." Pausing briefly to savor the exquisite drink, the ancient continued. "He's broken. Crushed by regrets. I glimpsed him from afar and saw only a shadow of his former power. However…" Now the pause was longer, as if the young man couldn't find the right word.
"However?" The king deigned not to notice the rude interruption in his thoughts, for they were more interesting than the living empty vessel.
"Somewhere deep down… there's still power. What he lost hasn't fully gone. It'll be intriguing if he restores it."
"Quite rare for you to speak so highly of someone."
"Don't sass me, peasant." The crimson pupils, in the dim moonlight, took on a blood-like hue. "He's as worthless as the rest. Just a bug under my foot, like you—so don't overstep. The difference is… the one dubbed Phoenician is a puzzle to me. Unacceptable, for all beneath this sky belongs to me and must be clear and obvious. Such an annoyance must be rectified."
Born to rule the earthly firmament, the ancient king tolerated no such flagrant disrespect to his authority. The current Archer was strange and incomprehensible. Incomprehensible to the Hero King. His senses told him immense, unknown power hid within. As if some light futilely struggled to escape a prison of fears erected by this cur. And its echoes, invisible to any but the king, carried a familiar sensation. Divine, yet different. Human. Power that could only arise from the will of higher beings had no analogs in this world. Even Gilgamesh himself was born as the gods' voice in the human realm. And now some upstart appeared who seemed unwilling to acknowledge the dominion fate itself dictated over him.
That's how Fulgrim felt. But this fool apparently didn't understand what hid within him. Had he manifested that power, it would have announced itself, shaking the world. Gaia and Alaya might react however, even sending their beasts to eliminate the threat. Nothing else would they deem it—arguably an awakened primarch. Though the king was certain it wouldn't hinder him. If it interfered, it would be crushed like a beetle.
"He's worthy of your attention? Better prepare an umbrella; it'll surely rain tomorrow." A serrated blade whistled past the priest's temple from a golden portal's maw. A crack spread from the impact, tracing along the son of God's body. Seeing it, Kirei noted with a corner of his mind that poor Jesus wouldn't be left in peace.
"One more word, and you'll lose your life, insect." The words held no threat, more a statement of fact. Gilgamesh didn't bother with the pawn's sarcasm. This pawn was useful for now. But cross the line, and he'd sweep it from the board. Kirei understood, so he fell silent. The fleeting brush with death stirred no fear, only mild amusement. Irritating people—especially the Hero King—was quite fun.
As the man retreated into the church depths, smile masking mockery still on his face, Uruk's ruler resumed his musings. His plans neared climax, and the strange Archer—and any other daring to interfere—couldn't stop it. The decision was made and not open to debate, as befits a world ruler by right of birth. A right granted by gods, then earned alone. Neither humans nor long-dead gods could prevent the inevitable. Fate itself bowed to the first hero. Self-evident.
For all existence belongs to Gilgamesh.
***
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