Hmm. The shelling had finally ended.

Finally. It was a horrible nuisance. Perhaps now she could relax a bit.

Well, at least her time hadn’t been wasted. In front of her stood her familiars, no longer simply wraiths or spirits, now with grotesque exaggerations of features. Teeth that ended in fangs, ribs that showed through, skin of varied colors that stood out, and a wooden cudgel in hand.

“Go, and search.”

The beings obeyed.



@Reflection@Scallop

In the line of work as a thief, you left behind victims of all sorts by your actions. That was entirely understandable, and a part of the life you signed up for the moment you stole your first piece of coin. Everything one would “steal” has an “owner”, else it is no longer a theft but rather a “taking”. Thieves, the true thieves that Jack calls himself one of and acknowledges, do not take things that cannot be returned.

Lives are not the target of a thief. A hypocritical statement from a man who killed two others the day before, but not one he bothered himself over. They had broken the cardinal rule first, and a knight does not let that go.

So, in not taking lives, in leaving behind those with grudges, it is perhaps inevitable in the line of thievery that one will ultimately “meet a former mark”. Whether that be by design or happenstance, it is something that must be prepared for by all thieves.

Thus the appearance of Roland, and the lady atop the Elephant from that day when the flames rose, was a bygone conclusion in the eyes of Jack.

Thud Thud Thud.

Roland moved to speak.

Perhaps, there might have been a time in which discourse might have been possible. Perhaps, diplomacy might have been the way in which the sword was returned, without bloodshed, without fear, without a mess.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Just as infinite a word as “if”.

Jack knew better. The woman- no, the she-devil. He knew her kind. Bloodthirsty, determined, and willing to step the extra foot past the line. Their appearance upon the elephant won them no points. The paladin’s actions in the flames, consigning civilians to their death, lost them sympathy. Finally, the nature of “those who pursued thieves”, in order to regain their items, had long been burned into Jack. The Giant, bearing down upon him, the earth shaking with their steps, as they growled, roared, and made the world spin as they screamed in indignance and hatred of the thief.

There was only one answer.

Jack the Thief, ran.

His feet flew, in the middle of Roland’s second line, the blade springing to his hand. He ran, ran faster than any in the war might have ever seen him run before, cloak flapping in the wind as he brought up the sword.

”Durandal: Ultimate Unbroken Hallow”, the sword glowed to a blinding degree.

”Escape to Safety.”

@Reflection @ReallyDumb @Scallop @Argonaut





A gasp for breath, a slight pause as he took a sip of rice wine. A small luxury to ease his aches. His heart itself burned and he felt his gut twist, as though voicing the complaints of his body now when it could be heard during this small break. He had been sitting in an alleyway, taking refuge himself from the violence of the crowds. The rivers of blood spilled on the streets grew a contribution spilled from him, and spilled by him at this point, his hand forced further as it became even more violent and he more tired and worn down from fight after fight.

He was reminded of a man he encountered one, a sage that he once crossed fists with. One of the few to defeat him in his short life. Yes indeed. His life was short. To a normal person one may say that the age of 35 was more than ripe, that in a sense it was a full life combined with the many sights he had seen and the experiences he had come to partake in, culminating with this war of wonders and horrors.

But in comparison to that man it was nothing.

A man who lived beyond normal men, who was an existence that even he could feel was different.

A completed man, a driven man. A man who was beyond his abilities. The weight that he carried with his age, and with the experiences of his age were far too much for his years that were measured in the span of mere decades.

Bu to simply live long was not enough.

That man was unbelievably sad. Was he a monk because of that sorrow, or did he become a monk as a result of that sorrow?

He was a man he did not tell his apprentice about. It was not because of the fact that he did not wish to share his defeats with his pupil. No, that was not it at all. It was a tale that he did not think was good for the youth who was growing into his responsibilities, not at the time.

That man must have seen many things like this horror of Fuyuki. Again, and again and again. What meaning did it have? What could be said about those that could not be saved? That it just couldn’t be done? That they died for no reason, that they died because no hero was able to help them?

Compared to that man who saw such suffering he was nothing grand. He was in a sense cruel. He felt a sorrow, he would grieve over this conflict. Yet he would not say to them that their lives and deaths held no meaning.

To say that they were slaughtered for a purpose, or rather that there was meaning in their deaths. It was unbelievably cruel. It was tantamount to saying that it was okay that they died. It was like the excuse of a powerless bystander, a word to assuage one’s guilt that more people were unable to be saved.

Yet he shamelessly held onto that thought and declaration.

Tragedy after tragedy that this was simply a small shade of. All of those had some meaning, forming kindling and nourishment for the future. To accept that which came from those slaughters was to validate them.

But it was ok. He got back up onto his feet.

He was a man of the selfish present who would accept the fruits that grew now as a result of the blood of yesterday. But today was an age that did not need the nourishment of such slaughter anymore. They could grow, they could progress without such cruelty.

Humanity was growing into its adolescence, and so it could surely mature into a new path.

He believed in such, but also simply it was a somewhat crooked justification. He simply could not bare to see the people of such a wonderful western and golden age suffer so when they could live a life of peace. He could not stand the butchering of those who were before him.

Like a girl who embodied consumption and the future he would, if given the choice, throw away the past for the now and future.

But there was no need for that.

After all even now the past was claiming its own new future, right?

“Roland!-” he cried out as he charged into his own fray.

Their relation could not be called that of a master and servant anymore. Nor of magus and familiar.

Even as he ripped through group after group, forcing himself into the thickest of the frays to quell the worst of it, to save those who were the most troubled he kept an eye on the activities of his friend.

The thief was found.

There was only one thing he had to say to Roland now.

He felt a thrown brick strike his back. He staggered slightly, leading him into a volley of fists and pipes. Even then his fists and palms redirected, punished and parried. A fist met a fist, his greater power and robust nature ending with a clash that left a shattered hand pushed away from him.

Yet it was too much in that position. They fell upon him, and he felt a strike upon his shoulder.

Ah, something broke. The pain was blinding, a sensation so real and raw compared to the dull aches and the void of sensation that his body felt with its fatigue induced numbness. Yet even as his body stumbled, unable to keep up with his mind and even dragging his thoughts down with it he continued his words.

Jack began to run. So he made himself into the one to give the answer to the legendary hero-thief’s flight.

The mark upon his right hand flared with its obscene magical energy. A shapeless curse that took on the form of a command, a wish.

"-Show me your journey to the west!” His command seal surged.

It was a command filled by a sentence that was nonsensical to anyone listening. Yet the curse that was the command seal was one governed by a number of factors. How simple and clear a command was. How long-term its command was. A command like fly, or put all your power into your next blow would hold much greater power than a command to “Win this battle”, “Fight with all your might” or “Obey my orders.” Of course it held greater power when master and servant agreed upon the command.

Yet there was a important factor that matched all of those factors that came into play with the words spoken to Roland.

Intent.

The meaning of that phrase was an encapsulation of the guiding principles of the man who paradoxically left the west to explore it. Who arrived in the east to go west.

A servant was a fixed existence, the culmination and representation of a finished story. But to Tlilpojuan, Roland was no such thing. He ate, he drank, he fought, he survived dire straits and rose from despair. He reached for peace and love, and he sought to grow beyond what he was. A hero of the west was not a hero who came from the old world, or the new world. But a hero who encapsulated the reaching towards the beauties of the world, the hero whose world expanded.

To reclaim his blade was not a matter of regaining a noble phantasm for the war for either of them. To reclaim his honor, to be a reforged blade himself.

His first command seal had been used to save Roland from his second death-

He swung his head like a mace, a move that was unrefined compared to his strange elegance that filled his own personal martial arts style. Battering down a man to the streets, he then kicked him up into his fellows to topple them before diving after them as they scattered like bowling pins across the ground.

-But to simply keep someone alive was not enough. It was what he strived for with the people caught in the riot. It was only natural then that his second command seal would go towards Roland’s dignity and his life as a hero.

It was only the fourth day since they met, but freely Tlilpojuan offered the heart of his thirty-five years to Roland in this phrase. The power of that intent was then the core that shaped an absolute command.

No catalyst was used to bring the two together. The Horse of Fuyuki himself was the connection that brought forth the bravest of Paladins. Similar souls who could reach an understanding. To grasp the full meaning of the command was something that was only possible to Roland.

An absolute command, and a vessel that was the perfect shape.

In truth it was simply the master giving his blessing and hopes. Because if Roland could manage to complete this journey-

He blacked out for a moment, only to find himself staring up into the sky, surrounded by men who could no longer walk. Still save for shallow pained breaths. Didn’t he just take a break a few moments ago?... He really was starting to slack off. What would Hideyoshi say to him if he saw this?

Well, it would be okay if he used his magecraft for himself this one time, right? Groaning as he pushed himself to a sitting position he began the work to mend his wounds.

-If even a timeless story could write a new chapter for itself. Then there was indeed nothing to stop a normal man from walking the paths that allowed them to witness all that was new and good. Most of all he wished to see his friend succeed in overcoming himself and attain his new glory, his new happiness.

There was nothing more to say.

So he returned to his work. Rejuvenated, and driven beyond his own limits by the new story that was now unfolding and closing.

Having dismissed her earlier assembly (having also heard and seen some of the after-effects of the earlier detonation, and planning a plan of action regarding a probable investigation in future), on her way to her quarters at the aft end of the ship, Strategist was stopped in her tracks near the armoured citadel by an unusual sight: her Master talking to a penguin.

Wait - how on God's earth did a penguin get aboard her ship? In the middle of the southern Sea of Japan?!

Curious, the Servant folded up her procured map folder and approached the pair quizzically. She cleared her throat, asking Carly-Beth, "It seems we have another visitor, ma'am. Another minion of the Piper's, or is this courier from someone else?"

With no immediate answer, she shrugged, folded her arms and tapped a boot against the deck.

Right... Should have expected this to happen. In fact, Roland had not only expected it to happen, it was the very reason he had chosen to sit on the head of the mighty Elephant instead of standing elsewhere or sitting alongside Trieu. Sitting next to Trieu would have made it difficult to suddenly leap to action, but from where Roland was, sitting right on the head, with his feet resting just on the front of the face.

Roland was in fact, 100% ready for Jack to run. In the very moment Jack's feet were reached out, in the very moment Jack was kicking off the ground, Roland was doing the exact same thing. He leaned foward, and with a force like a monster, he kicked off, like a missile. Where was Jack would have to gain his speed, Roland's action of kicking off as he did was comparison to that of a rocket going off. No. Rockets are too slow. Roland, empowered by his own song, and the strength of the odds against him, was greater than any bullet leaving the barrel of a weapon.

His hand already on one of the two blades on his hip, and as Roland was flying through the air, the blade was slicing in an arc. Going from Jack's hip, to Jack's shoulder. A fatal blow, and crippling to a runner even if the blade didn't make the full path. In the less than half second since Jack had started running, Roland was upon him, and by the time Jack's mouth was opening to speak the invocation, the blade of Roland was passing through his stomach. By the time Roland foot touched the ground to make chase with Jack, the boy's upper half would be spinning away from his lower half, and his grip on Durandal no doubt having been lost when his arms where sliced through.

Despite Jack's ability to disengage, both parties had started from the same starting line, without a huge gap between them that Jack could have relied on for extra protection. This had in short granted Roland the very lack of distance he had required to make this chase short.

There exists a family who relentlessly pursue the most beautiful woman as their path to the root. It is believed that to gaze upon something beautiful will make the viewer more beautiful in return.

While Hamel had not had the privilege of being invited to the regular unveiling of the Princesses of Gold and Silver, when he had gone out to witness the phenomenon that had subsumed his bounded field and stumbled across something that could only be described as otherworldly.

Further observation had made him giddy in excitement, speechless in awe he could only dumbly fall to his knees, not even registering his servants ominous words.

It was unbelievable, the sight of this world tree, the aura it had exuded, the nature of the land in its current state.

Pieces suddenly clicked together for him.

And just as it had come together, so too had the pinpricks of light that were building up.

Two streaking comets met each other briefly.

One escaped the grasp of the other and impacted the tree.

And in the snap of a finger that tree, that beautiful representative of a time long lost. A chance of a lifetime destroyed.

All his previous joy disappeared into the aether, replaced with disbelief and despondency. Even as his servant left him to assist somewhere else, Hamel did not respond.

Slowly, he picked himself up, mind running through a myriad of thoughts and feelings before settling into a course of action.

First he had to find whoever had created that tree. Then he had a few messages he had to send.



The word monster conjures up many images in the human consciousness, a lumbering giant perhaps, or a voracious dragon. There were many things that crawled on the surface of this planet one may classify as a monster, but the one thing they all had in common was the terror such creatures may invoke.

Monsters killed humans. That was the natural order. Such frightening existences stood beyond that of humanity. Yet, there exists those shining paragons of humanity, who conquered those terrifying creature. Such was the 'duty' of a hero.

Obviously, heroes were existences beyond that of normal people. They were stars perched atop the pillar of humanity.

So what did that entail for the magus known as Hamel Della Astrologia? Who after a sleepless nights worth of preparation for this moment dared to challenge a star?

It would be suicide to do such a thing on his lonesome.

Yet, while a single man could not snuff out a star, a group could knock them off the top of their pedestal.

Because while heroes killed monsters, people killed heroes.

@Sageage @Vocab @BlueHelix @UndyingRegret @addamas @Art of Fun

@Breo



Loser king.

Defeated king.

A rain of arrows that could not harm him splintered before they could even reach him in the wake of his speed. A dozen soldiers were scattered like toys in his wake, not even having the chance to disperse into magical energy as Achilles passed through them.

The sound of bugs and the forest disappeared as the army of Persia swarmed.

Strange weapons were brought upon achilles. A storm of lightning raining down upon him as various skeletons fired guns that shot echoes of the Archer of Lightning’s own shots. Spraying across the ground, only part of them actually were aimed for the heel. The distinction was clear. The truth of his heel was known, yet in madness it was not an overwhelming truth that the heel must be struck no matter what. It was a piece that shifted the flow of a river, but it could not dictate the entire flow.

There was no hero of the bow who were behind these volleys. Yet it was as much of a danger of not more. Even to Achilles the blows that rained down upon him had a small risk out of sheer volume. The emperor held the yolk of madness, and yet his army still wove together as a singular unit worthy of the title of the legendary immortals.

A blast of lightning struck his thigh uselessly, a blow that he did not need to parry or block.

Yet every once in a while even that great hero would have his hand forced to block, to dodge, to acknowledge the blows of the anathanoi.

No matter how mad he was not the berserk hero who charged in with only himself. Darius ran, as he often did in the face of overwhelming odds. Yet it was not a matter of simply running away. Using his disengage skill he retreated, all the while more and more soldiers emerged between Achilles and Darius.

Balls and wheels of skeletons rolled out, faster than any car of the modern day, with weight and power to strike fear in any army of chariots. Of course he outsped them, but he was one comet surrounded by an army. Crowding him, surrounding him. They both struck at him and funneled him, both directing his attention towards Darius and slowing him down so that he could not simply reach the king. Egging him on, distracting him. It was inviting the recklessness of Achilles, a costly attempt to invoke in him the small errors that could be capitalized upon made by him in such a state.

A trio of worm-like monstrosities rose from the ground, hundreds clinging together, magical energy and arms both overflowing from them as they crashed into Achilles to bear the strength to attempt and force past the protection of the armor, not satisfied with just stopping his charge.
Even as Darius retreated more of his army gathered up, preparing for clash after clash with Achilles.

If there was one thing that Darius could pride himself upon without any hesitation, then it was his ability to survive and return. His battle was not that of a single climatic clash.

No.

To face him would be an entire campaign, even for the fastfooted.

Looking out at his golems drawing magical circles, numbering about thirty or so, Christopher took a break from his bloody work with the animal sacrifices. While he had not sent them all out in force out of lack of true need to unleash one of his trump cards, it was gratifying to see some of his last eleven days of work and preparation being in use. Though he did note that there were some improvements to be made to his general baseline. While some of his… more “elite” golems were remarkably capable of follow extremely complex orders and were approaching the dream of “intelligence,” his base quality golems could only follow simple orders. He had to rely on his allies to inscribe the more complex formulae and circles.

It was a bit of a trade off, all things considered. The more complex they were, the more of a karmic burden they incurred upon him, and the lesser and more... "drone-like" they were, the more he could sustain.

Speaking of his allies… they were an odd bunch. He almost did not accept the invitation, as he was a fair bit warier of revealing some of his hand to those he had not met before.

But, an opportunity was an opportunity, and defeating a stronghold such as Troy was well worth the cost of revealing a few tricks. A magus who had sufficient time to prepare his ground and workshop within the Walls would become nearly unassailable to even the most powerful, and that would not even be considering he nightmare scenarios of say, a Caster, or heaven forbid, Hektor.. Without a doubt, the fortress of Troy, something that took the greatest heroes of the Achaean League ten years to crack, would be a nightmare to siege alone.

He would have preferred to go after whoever had attacked half of Fuyuki with half a damned world, but this was more than acceptable target as well. Fortune favored the bold, and all that rot. And to be completely honest, considering his intentions for coming to this war…

His collaboration with Hamel Della Astrologia made it completely worth the effort, all things considered. He had not quite figured out what to do with the sample of the cursed fire he had obtained yet, but seeing the work of the Magpie of the Irish Sea gave him some ideas.

At the very least, Dido seemed to be excited as well, as soon as she heard the words of “destroying Troy.”

@Sageage @Vocab @UndyingRegret @addamas @Art of Fun @DostHou

Native District

It was a massacre. It was absolute insanity. It was a riot, the language of the oppressed and the downtrodden when words were simply not enough. But this riot was different, these men were not merely breaking property and shouting their defiance into the sky. No these men were killing each other, brother slaying brother, father slaying son, every single rioter in the streets was absolutely blinded with rage as they attempted to strike out at the world for its treatment of them, for destroying their homes in these seemingly impossible events one after the other. These were broken men who could only speak in violence, for the world had taken everything from them. All they knew how to do was to take back.

Those few priests who survived the destruction of the Foreign District shouted from the rooftops, proclaiming how the Kami themselves wished for the cleansing of the land, city government figures ordered rioters to burn buildings so they may start anew. But it was clear who the leaders of this madness were, it was the people who citizens would look up to most, the people who held authority. But in unison, they all stopped their speeches. Their lips ceased movement, as they stared into space, as if they were all thinking the same thoughts. Then their lips began moving once more, all calling out the same message.



The rioters did not hear their words, so focused were they in their rage, the only thing they could hear was the splatter of blood on the ground and the beat of their own hearts.

Until the gunfire began.

Two yakuza members began firing into the crowd, shouting obscenities at those figures as they tried to quell the riot with deadly force. They were quickly torn apart, hacked into pieces by screaming civilians as they turned on those two foolish men.



A thunderous roar emanated from the crowd, mob mentality taking over as they began to move towards a common destination. Inconsistencies in the argument were disregarded, the figures who led the mob led them with charisma, not solid logic and arguments. Yakuza in their path were slaughtered, weapons were taken as they went for the yakuza safehouse that the criminals fled to when faced with the law. But this law was powerful, more powerful than any they had faced. For this was the law of the lawless, any who had slighted them must perish.



The mafia were ignored entirely, helped even as they were led by the rioters to the first of the four mafia safehouses in the Native District. A safehouse where the innocent had come to take refuge.

Those people that the Horse of Fuyuki had worked so hard to save, those innocents who merely wished to be safe from the chaos that lurked outside those doors. They were to be torn apart, for they had sided with the criminals who destroyed the land. The doors shook, the collective crowd ramming against it with all their might. Indeed, every single rioter in the Native District was now entirely focused on this building, it was unnatural for so many to gather so quickly.

The doors held for a minute, but no level of enchantment by Magus could possibly hold back the wrath of thousands at once. Violent men poured in from every opening to slaughter every single person in the building. Men, women, children, but the yakuza most of all. They were shot down by others wielding their rifles, more picked up the fallen's weapons. Civilians fell to the gunfire of the cornered yakuza, but for every man who fell three men of the yakuza were slaughtered and there simply weren't that many yakuza. The civilians were next, their cries for mercy unheard. They were allies of the devil, they consorted with demons in human flesh, there was no mercy for them. It was an absolute massacre, it was the worst of humanity condensed into the span of a singular moment. And after every soul in that building was extinguished, it was looted of all weapons and burnt to the ground.

The process would repeat for the next safehouse. The yakuza would fall today, they would die for their sins. And in unison, a small smirk emerged on the face of every leader of the riot. Delightful.

A scared girl was running, she was running from something, from someone. the moon illuminated the night in a bright shade of red as this girl trembled and fell to the ground, a face full of terror looking behind her to face this man. He wielded a spear, and was faster than the fastest vehicle on earth. and the spear he held was aimed for her heart.

With a single strike it pierced the soft and frail body of the girl, who screamed out in agony, yet nobody could hear her cries for help, or rather, they chose to look away; as they should, for this girl was not murdered, she was executed.

Sofia shot up from her slumber, gasping for air while grabbing her chest as if it was no longer there. a nightmare…

Slowly and carefully, she removed the blanket from her legs, placed her feet on the ground, and looked at the letter on a shelf next to her. It seemed like she was asked to help fight a servant, but that would have to wait...something was wrong. As Sofia looked at the washed out magic circle in the middle of the room, she noticed that...her servant wasn’t here.

with a sudden rush of adrenaline, she rushed out of bed and into the hallway; why was her servant gone? did the summoning go wrong? the karmic link! it was still there, and as Sofia focused, she saw.

Raikou was in town, strolling the streets with no care in the world...in the middle of the riot zone!

Owh no, this was bad, there was no way Sofia could enter that zone on her own, it was too dangerous, but her servant wasn’t responding to her at all. she needed to find Benita and Achilles, ask them to go with her, so she can find Raikou.

Sprinting through the halls, she searched and searched for any sign of Benita, until she entered the entrance to the hot spring and found her target, only to immediately jump back around the corner. There were two other people with Benita. one was obviously a servant, and the master was most likely the man in front of the servant.

But wait, this master, was he the servant? checking him out with her pure eyes, Sofia was startled by what she saw; it looked like two servants stood in front of her, but one had to be the master, though looking at their appearance, the glasses wearing man was most likely the master, this was no ordinary master though, and she would be smart to be careful around him.

So slowly but surely, Sofia walked towards the group, a cautious look on her face as she got closer and closer.

“H-hello sir, do you mind if I borrow miss Benita for a second?” Sofia asked of Gin, giving a smile towards him and the boy behind them.

“I know i’ve said it before but, I want you to know that I am really really really sorry, for everything that happened yesterday.” She softly spoke. “All i wanted to do was help my sister...but it backfired so bad, I just, it was a disaster.” She looked at the ground as she said it, but immediately after, she looked Benita in the eyes and folded her hands in a pleading motion.

“A-anyway, I wanted to ask...are we still allies? because I’d like us to be.” And with that, she backed off, finally having the tension and stress released, Sofia felt miles better than the day before, and her trademark innocent smile soon returned to her as she walked over to the other two in the room.

“Sorry for that sir, I am Sofia Whitehall.” She said as she introduced herself and extended her hand, expecting the master to return the favor so that she could possibly get him to assist in finding Raikou as well.

@Cu Chulainn @Phonic @SSW

This thief. This uncouth and dreadful man, a dastardly blot on what the honour of all warriors. Trieu found herself letting her grudges flow through her body again. Her blade drawn and her influence spreading, reaching to both men, Roland received something of a boost, her spirit of rebellion and retaking what was rightfully hers. Roland was, in her opinion, a warrior worthy of her support. yes like many other times back in her wars, she may have misplaced her trust. But for this briefest of times, she will trust another servant and allow him a fighting chance. Without his sword, he was crippled. Not fully, but without full power. Well, what point was there to live if you had lost a battle?

As Roland burst forth, mimicing the speed of the thief, Nanyue felt a burst of energy, lunging forward and following in his stead. Yes the beast was much slower than the two men but using her spirit of defiance, she rose her sword above her head, filling Jack with dread and Roland was courage and strength.

As Nanyue rode towards the two, she grinned wide. Finally a battle.





This was bad.

Ludwig had locked himself in his section of the church, one of his concoctions complete and a selection of bottles filled with it sat next to him. It had been a successful day many would say from seeing his bountiful selection. But no it had not. Even though he knew of Archer's fighting and slight success, the dread hung over him.

This was the end. Hurriedly he took out his quill and began scrawling a message on a piece of parchment. He let it dry and sighed, he had to take this to the one place where he knew he could secure what he needed. He took a large flask of an elixir and made his way to the entrance of the church. When he saw it. A...penguin?

The message was to him, a saving grace. However, he couldn't just trust all of this. Something was definitely up. His ships, back and forth with his supplies. There was no trust there either. He was done for. He was in the fire, he was within the stove. All theses magus, Xerxes, Suzaku, all of them. They were targets. Sweat dripped from the German alchemist as he got his one and only familliar, a german weasel he had safely transported and attached the parchment to it.

It took off out of the bounded field and he walked back into the church. "It appears that we have a saving grace from being trapped inside this church. Shall we prepare to head out for sundown?" He smiled sincerely and began to put back on his rubber gloves.



A weasel arrived, loud and screeching at the boundaries of the academy.

@Argonaut @Seirei No Hai

Saber had almost instantaneously appeared in front of Rider before he could complete his attack, much to his surprise. While he was already aware of the pressure being placed on him from Saber's command, he was still used to moving at speeds faster than his opponent. The only man he wasn't confident in beating at such speeds was his established rival, and even then, he was still able to move fast enough to defend against his blows. When up against Saber, however, it felt as if his energy had been sapped away from him. Rider realized he was truly facing a man worthy of the influence he had in life.

As soon as their swords were about to clash, Rider had indeed saw it. The opening afforded to him. To his steed, Falke, who was nevertheless too slow to reach that window, still made its way to join the battle, regardless, as if following its prince's intuition to the letter. To Rider, though, he knew that as soon as he would turn this fight into that of close quarters, his opponent would easily turn this to his advantage. Indeed, Rider had expected that a man as worldly as Lucius Tiberius would be skilled in the martial arts of countless lands under the control of his empire. Rider knew that fighting a master of just one was already a mistake, so closing in for the legs was a mistake. As a matter of fact, anything that his instincts would sense that wasn't an assured kill was something Rider would choose to ignore.

Instead, Rider started to move back, intercepting the attacks from Saber with his blade and evading his opponent's blows whenever he can. As soon as their blades clashed, Rider was in awe of Saber's sheer power, something that no mere human could ever achieve. It was in Rider's best intent to find a way to stop this battle as soon as possible, but he knew he couldn't just out-strength his opponent. While Rider continued to make a fighting retreat in order to try and retake the range that he had, he-

... Wait, no. That strength, that speed... That isn't how to go about it at all.

This man... Lucius Tiberius... he was no man. He was a beast.



The man know as Lucius Tiberius was, indeed, an ordinary man in life, who was still extraordinary in strength. Indeed, to best Arturus, a king with a similar draconic nature to Rider, in feats of strength and arms was nothing to scoff at. As a Servant, however, his Saint Graph is forcibly altered to match in physical capabilities, exceeding that which a normal human can accomplish. In other words, Saber's existence could be considered as beyond human, entering the realm of a beast. And to Rider, who has fought and killed much stronger beasts to the point of genocide, this strength was something he was too used to.

In fact, it only hardened his resolve. And his anger.



Rider had begun to focus on avoiding his blows, using a mix of skill and his own inhuman speed. This didn't stop his opponent from being faster than him, but Rider's very body was ingrained with fighting against such speeds. Rider also felt that these countless blows were made not with any skill in mind, but as a showcase of power. It made complete sense to Rider, knowing of this man's arrogance, and who would blame Saber for showing off, anyway? With the strength of a giant, one could have anything they so wished, and could just strike down those who say otherwise.

As Rider would know best out of anyone, however, attacking with such strength had its own caveats; ones that he could take advantage of. As soon as his instincts, honed to monstrous men such as Saber, had sensed the specific opening he was looking for, Rider made his attack. Rider jumped back and, with a burst of magical energy, swung Mimung with as much strength as he could muster against Florent with the intent of breaking the blade. What should be notable about this blow, however, was that Rider swung with the direction Florent was swinging at, rather than against it, as a means of throwing Saber off through the momentum of his own swing. It was an attack meant to fight off against opponents with the strength of giants, using the weight of their own heavy blows against them.

"Behold, giant... the ground!"

Not even a second Rider had completed his attack, Falke had finally made its charge from behind Saber, fired up with the same monster-slaying instincts that shared with its own rider. Launching itself forward, Falke threw a kick at Saber's back with the same kick it had used to kill one who could be considered a Hero among Giants. Of course, to Saber, who had sported similar instincts to his opponent, he could easily turn around and deal with Falke easily, assuming he could afford opening himself to Rider.

Either way, Rider lunged Mimung forward while Falke ducked its head, aiming right for the Sword Emperor's heart.

In response to her Servant's concern, the homunculus shrugged lazily in reply. "Not from P.P., nah. Looks like we're getting invited to a big meeting. I'll send Mary. They'll all love her. Can't wait for them to throw a party in our honor for getting rid of that tree and stopping it from fucking up everything." She hummed out.

Kneeling down a bit towards the penguin, she offered a warm smile. "Hey, little guy, how'd you like to put on a mas-"

"Don't touch me, motherfucker. Get out."

"..."

...well then.

It seemed that the penguin wasn't very friendly.

Well, regardless, with Strategist's preparations done and her own auxiliaries finished, it was time to turn her attention to something infinitely more pressing.

"Elena, keep building the simulation. Anna, Harvey, Shaytanea, and Phil, come with me. Joseph, start work on what we discussed."

Yes, after all, Carly-Beth was not here to fight for the Holy Grail, to defeat the other Servants, or anything so ridiculous as that. No...

-She just wanted to make cool masks.

And make cool masks she would.

---

...it was only reasonable.

Even if they fought differently, even if they were different existences, they were the same sort of being.

A swordsman with the nature of a dragon, a human king who cut down such dragons, a peerless warrior blessed with instinct that entered the realm of precognition.

Was his sight of the man before him overlapping with the vision of that fight? Surely not, but there was something there.

Ah, the mount was getting closer. Not here yet, but closer.

And so, as Dietrich struggled to weather those blows, something was being pulled into Lucius’s form.

Yes, his opponent had assumed that his strikes were random, bestial, tactless. This could not be further from the truth. While the strikes were a flurry of blows that rained down on Dietrich, they were not random. He could not afford to toy with an enemy such as this.

This is a digression, but for one such as Dietrich, whose instincts were equivalent to precognition, defeating him in combat was nearly impossible. One would need to significantly outclass him to do so, a notion that was not a simple one given his abilities.

...however, even instincts could be fooled.

Yes, with eyes that could understand one's abilities and mesh them into a cohesive flow with others, with combat skill that was suited for overwhelming such absurd figures as the one before him, it was already decided.

When Dietrich leapt backwards to slash out, the Sword Emperor only felt dismay. But this was not dismay at the risk of being defeated.

"...not enough."

-Because, after all, Lucius's combat style possessed two tools that were of particular use against an enemy such as Dietrich, who relied on his instincts in order to cope with a stronger enemy.

First, instincts that were not one whit inferior to Dietrich's own.

Check failure: met.

And second...

Against an enemy of superior speed, whose instincts equaled Dietrich's own, had he truly thought he would be able to put distance between them? Surely not, and yet his instincts had told him that this was what he ought to do to take advantage of an opening. This was the natural result, given that bestial nature of his attacks, which Dietrich had no doubt taken into account.

This was the second component. A battle methodology that grasped the flow of battle and induced a check failure for the opponent, carefully calculated to form a momentary chance of victory. Something further augmented by Saber's own instincts and observational talent.

And it was thus that, at the same moment that Dietrich leapt back-

Lucius’s will reached inwards, and imposed on himself.

“Burst.”

There was no time to react. As if propelled by a Command Seal, the Saber shot forwards with a speed that far and away eclipsed even his initial charge. If it was not for his dominion over the land’s spiritual pulse, something like that would have likely killed his Vassal on the spot from exertion.

Even his baseline ability was enough to overwhelm Dietrich in a matter of speed, but this was something else entirely. A calculated opening done by understanding Dietrich’s abilities, slotting them into the ‘whole’ of the battle, using his instinct against him, exploiting the instincts Lucius himself had, and accomplishing a feat that only he had the aptitude for.

Even then, even though Dietrich was occupied with already moving and lacked the capacity to stop this blow, Lucius did not let his guard down for even a moment. He would never assume such things against an Arturus. Perhaps that horse would suddenly become capable of spatial transference. Perhaps Dietrich was hiding his own true speed. Perhaps there was an undetectable Servant with a knife at his throat.

...Nonetheless, that excess caution wouldn’t matter, in the end.

Before Falke had even reached the battlefield, the Rider’s heart would be cut open by Florent.

@Paradox Witch @Cu Chulainn @Crusader Lord

---

"By the power of my command seal, my servant Rider, i command you to become overwhelmingly faster than your current opponent in this battle this very instant without fail!"

A voice, trembling with trepidation and fear. A human voice, a genuine though the body was not so human. But the voice, the will, all of it seeped with one intent-



-that being to surpass his foe with raw speed, speed that when giving the command she picture in her mind and intent as overwhelming even that Achaean hero Achilles. Speed she imagined and determined to be faster than anything, even another command seal. To end that enemy as swiftly as possible. The speed different was immense, she knew this, and though an attack might be able to do something it was all in vain if her servant could not keep up.

It was command spoken by a master, a mistress fearing for her servant's life in this situation. This man, this monster of a man was something that had surpassed the most legendary knights of myth. Who had defeated many a foe of great status. She could sense the power, that abomination of a skill that could seize all she had in a moment's notice. Master's Clairvoyance was terrifying in this sense, to see that much power in that sort of a vessel. Had this.....thing been summoned on staging grounds she felt they would have already been dead. But if her servant died, the Grail was lost.....to her and her new husband. And maybe their lives next. Maybe the Grail.

She.....she didn't want to die! She wanted to live! LIVE!!!

The previous day had been incredible, after that contract had been signed by the man who was now her husband. Ah. For the first time in a long time it had been....comforting to be in another's arm in bed. To feel that warmth, the pleasure having been more than worth the wait for her to boot. Thoughts had drifted into her mind, some new and some that hadn't been in the forefront before. A family, and no longer being "just a doll". Children, new life. The pleasures of life that would await in the years to come. She....she didn't want to lose this, to lose the ideas coming into her head, to feel that warm embrace each night from now on.....to eat, to drink, to feel the pleasures of the world and flesh. She wanted to breathe the fresh air, to walk on solid ground, to live to the best extent possible and find a way to live beyond those pre-programmed lifespan years!

Already a maid was by her side trying to console her in its usual pre-programmed manner, others flitting about preparing defenses and securing the place overall, some ready to evacuate equipment or supplies as needed. It was simple for the maids, but notable sweat ran across Sophia's brow as she sat in her chair as the situation hit her very hard. Too hard.

The only thing clothing her person was a nightgown, something like a bathrobe or such really that hung short to about halfway down her thighs at most. Her hair had barely been brushed by now before she had sat down to await her husband in the main room. The battle had at first distracted her, drawn her attention, then sent the fear of god into her veins. Death. Death was here and her servant was fighting to stave it off. He had to stave it off. He HAD to WIN THIS. Not unless her husband's servant was near enough to keep this place safe, but at the moment she had no idea. Her mind was a flurry of thoughts and strong emotions.

She had sent out her command via command seal as early as she could, as quick as she could respond in this situation. By Justeaze, by the Tohsaka name she had taken on, by all she held dear she hoped she was not too late as well in doing this.

@Cu Chulainn@Kyoka

---

---

"....Because i am one whom is become a hero, and your husband," Sigurd said in response to Gudrun's question, before flashing her a brief smile and looking back up at the sky once more.

A hero. One who saves, one who preserves, one whom people idolize and look up to and strive towards, one who seeks to bring salvation regardless of the odds....regardless of the fate he is told of by the gods. He would save them whether they wanted it or not, whether the others like it or not. Such was his nature, the man who had married Brynhildr and given her joy despite the cruel fate pronounced upon them. The man who had sought to be the best husband for his wife in life even though she never asked him too. The man who had slain the great dragon to protect the world, who had slain his foster-father to prevent his own death, and had moved forward without any hesitation. Without a smile....save to those few closest to him, and the one he had fallen in love with.

For their sake he bore their burdens, he healed them, he fought them, he slew them, he did anything he could to make things better. Were this city to be wiped off the map, were all of this to fail and the Grail still not be won, he would have failed as a hero. His pride would have been thrown upon the rocks on the cliff-side sea shore and bashed to pieces of his own volition. So it was natural, utterly so, that this man, Sigurd, would stick to what he was currently doing.

@Phonic

A Thief's pride

Being an infamous thief of the underworld, you gotta be aware with your surroundings, Even in the sight of sheer chaos and confusion, you mustn't let the hysteria of your surroundings dictate your judgment, but on the contrary use it to your advantage to create an opportunity. You have to find an opening to devise an escape route in that short period of time given to you. Not only that, you must a keen eye and a gut instinct to distinguish if the heist has gone sour.

In this case, Tili's and Riyu's short relieve bonding together and their servants fighting. The short experience that the horseman and the pink haired girl thief shared together punching other people in imaginative ways possible with their fist in this riot was a surprisingly pleasant one. Finding allies in the midst of this battlefield.

But this was indeed a bitter farewell for the two.

She fled.

To Riyu, being a master in this grail war comes first before founding a new sparring buddy with Tili or perhaps becoming his new pupil if fate dictates.

She sighed and compose herself, mustering up the courage to make a risky decision. As a master, she has to aid her criminal servant to against the two heroic spirits. consuming a command seal to even the odds of these two so-called heroes.





For a mere second, before the relentless attack took place, Riyu activated her command seal to aid her servant to defy the odds stacked against him. A reminder that this is the life they chose, the life of a wanted man who is always on the run, with no regrets whatsoever.

This was their intent.

With that, the one of her markings vanished.

"Nothing personal, but my duty as a thief and a master comes first" Riyu sheepishly said to herself while imagining the image of Tili as she's escaping, showing what she really is, an infamous thief and one of the accomplices of his Servant's misfortune. She fled from the chaotic scene. Without a trace, the thief girl vanishes in the godforsaken native district. She swiftly ran, nimbly avoiding any hostile person that comes her way. Where Riyu went is anyone's guess.

@Sageage@Scallop@ReallyDumb@Reflection

The replacement was swung. Another skeleton fell.

He was a comet, quick and raging and perhaps beautiful in a sense. All who approached were struck down, all who tried to retreat were cut down.

But there was no excitement to be found here. For one, his enemies were not the sort he could have fun with regardless, and the situation was not a fun one either. Anger had given place to grief, rage had given place to mourning.

The spear was a part of it, but at the same time, he mourned for much more. For the memories it held, for what it symbolized, for the incalculable value it possessed, for the friend he had lost, for the friend he had not even been able to speak to, for the irony that the fastest hero was once again too slow.

Always too slow, always a step short, always, at the most critical time. . .

The enemies were different, but this was all too similar, wasn’t it? A slain comrade without him being able to do anything, a lost treasure that only served to remind him of his failure. The faces were not the same, the names were not the same, but even so. . .

Pathetic

—Heroes, it seemed, were destined to repeat their tales no matter what. To Achilles, who hated the idea of fate, the knowledge that came crashing down on him, the fact that his actions — his rage and grief — mirrored those of days long gone. . .

Pathetic.

Was this all there was to it? Doomed to lose, doomed to fail those he cared about, doomed to always have precious things slip through his fingers when he could have stopped it?

Indeed, what a pathetic fate to be bound to. Was there meaning in that struggle, then?

Such were Achilles’ thoughts, though that did not stop his carnage — it had not stopped him in life to begin with. If his tale was to be repeated, at least the perpetrators would die by his hand once again, and then. . .

. . .And then, he would run forward. Even if his regrets caught up to him, even if his grief was the one thing he could not outrun, the hero Achilles would continue to run forward.

”You’re being really pathetic right now, boss.”

A voice whispering at the edge of his consciousness like a half-remembered dream, almost drowned out by the grief that had at last come to swallow him.

”Is this really all the hero Achilles is worth?”

His enemy was running. His spear had broken. But that did not matter.

The obstacles he had placed between them did not matter.

Without delay, he analyzed the sea of bodies between himself and Darius. Without delay, he devised a plan.

To begin with, if it was just a matter of running, no hero could oust him, no matter the skills at their disposal — after all, he was the swiftest.

To begin with, obstacles had been nothing to him in the first place.

To begin with, turning your back on him and trusting an army to stop him was a mistake—!

He jumped, and landed on a skeleton’s head, eyes transfixed not on Darius, but on a point beyond the hulking Berserker, extending his arm outward.

That is right. No hero could beat him in a proper race, and regardless of obstacles, he could close the distance with the same quickness. The army of Darius was not terrifying due to its soldiers alone, but due to their nature as beings who would always get back up, as well as the ways their leader could control it. Individually, a single one would not match a Servant, even like this.

They could not keep up with Achilles if he ran properly, if he found the single instant of an opening between barrages, if he found the moment to strike.

With his arm outstretched, he ran forward, with the speed that might as well have been called teleportation. And with that same speed, avoiding the obstacles in his path he —

Hooked the enemy with that arm in a lariat, and took him on a trip far away from the army.

@Yukitamas

@Breo



The comet descended upon Persia. It was an inevitability, and so even in his madness he prepared himself for that inevitability.

Even in his madness the truth of what Achilles was something apparent to him. It was a tale branded in the acknowledgement of even those who drifted from common sense or sanity. There was no human that could not understand what that comet meant. To defeat Achilles was to overcome the fastest. In terms of trickery the king was nothing like the clever Archer at the church, nor did he have the gift of the gods, or even the ability of a great hero. What he held were the stations and gifts of the empire.

In the face of that strength why then did he run instead of marshaling his entire army? Why did he run when it was impossible for a mere king to escape that comet? Surely even he knew that the man’s ire was roused. That Achilles would stop at nothing and descend upon him with no mercy. Or was he so blinded by his battle against “Iskander” that he could not see the truth of his foe? It was true, an army could not simply stop Achilles.

No, that was not the case. The flight of Darius was not an attempt to escape. Rather it was part of the battle. It was inevitable that the great noble phantasm of Achilles would blaze through the Athánatoi in pursuit. So the Athánatoi would have to take its original place as a obstacle that struggled against a greater legend and being.

A wall met Achilles to separate him from the King. Prepared, waiting for this exact moment, able to block that speed that was practically teleportation by that virtue, along with the work of the wheels and fodder that funneled Achilles. The giant Berserker was covered by the frames of soldiers even larger than him. Seven legions had been shaped into giants, a hundred skeletons for each woven together to become titanic warriors carrying shields equally as large. Locking together to support each other they pushed against Achilles’s charge, preventing him from reaching Darius for the lariat, able to block his flight. They slammed into his form, flaring with their overflowing magical energy that came from the Lancer’s spear in a battle that resembled more the charge between two magical beasts than a battle of humans.

To compete with the speed of Achilles and his charge was impossible, so it was matter of making sure that he would run straight at the wall, at Darius. The enraged Achilles funneled by the army. A rampage and self-ruinous drive was something that he know too well. Yet this time it became his weapon, rather than his defeat.

They could not stop him forever, and four of them crumbled from the sheer impact from his charge. Yet it was enough. For they were intended to keep Achilles there before the king. The ground itself had become a pit of death, a macabre land of the undying presented enveloping the one who was immortal. Thousands upon Thousands of warriors had been mixed as the soil of Darius’s persia. Mired in it like mud, it would restrain even the Achilles who wore that god armor.

But it was more than just an attempt to weigh him down and halt him.

A king stood above their men, supported by their empire. If so to challenge a king was to challenge the weight of that empire. Achilles was one who led the fight against the legendary Troy. But he was a slayer of people, not nations. In the end Troy fell after his death, and in the end he was not one who conquered a kingdom. To snuff out a lands heroes, its warriors, was different from taking its throne. The kind of battles that Achilles fought were different from that of the one who admired him.

Mixed in together as a mire, as soil, as mud. The legend of a loser king sought to grab, to stop a star for a time. Grabbing at it with the passion and desire that he could not voice. They covered the bright shine of that legend with their own desire. Persia would break the Comet. The soil did more than try to combat the light of the fastest star.

Perhaps he would be called a sore loser. Perhaps he was a mad man trying to defy that which he admired himself. He was not a avenger who burned with resentment at the world, he was not a despoiler who dragged things down to his level. So he tried to rise, rise and rise. Rise and conquer, like that man, overcome the obstacles to your dream and ideal.

He was simply a stubborn man. So he wouldn't admit defeat no matter what, even against this greatest of lancers.

Darius raised and brought down his axes, swirling with crackling lightning and their blazing green flames as the three giants continued to push against Achilles, striking while protected by his wall and the mire.

The weight of an empire crushed and pierced the exposed heel, and the feet of Achilles with strength that could confront even that armor. The power of that soil and the energy that overflowed doing more than just holding him down

The felling of his immortality, the crippling of his speed, the strike of a king, the restraint of a wall. One may call it a crippling blow. For many servants the individual components of this clash would be enough to threaten or even destroy them.

But to Darius who lived his life struggling against a radiance that was greater than him knew. That such a “loss” would only mark the true beginning of his struggle. To strike the heel of Achilles was simply something that lowered him to the level that made him defeatable. It was not a victory in of itself.

That radience shined the brightest in one of the greatest wars in human history. He could not quell it with just the hell. He could not reach that man with just the first opening blow.

Retreating after his blow, even as his forces continued to battle with Achilles, he prepared for the next encounter. For he was never a king who finished a war in one climatic fight. A most unheroic way to wage war.

But that was how one defeated a great hero.

---

"Here they are. Please take your time and tell me what you can figure out."

Reiki showed to Lancer the three people she had restrained in the small but cozy living room using manacles of worms. Two had fallen into fitful sleeps after their hard days, but the third was unbending in his murderous rage.

"Dead! I'll see you all gutted like animals! You think this little hut won't burn?!"

A few worms crawled over his face, returning to their positions and form as a gag in his mouth.

"I can purge him of it like the others at any time, of course, but I thought you might be able to learn more from-"

Was that a penguin?

There was a tense moment as the thing descended towards the house, but some primal instinct told Reiki that this creature shouldn't be attacked, and Scáthach seemingly got the same impression. Once it reached the ground, she noticed the small message it was holding.

"Whatever it is, it deserves respect, so I'll go get its note in person." She decided, speaking more to the air than to her Servant.

She stepped out onto the lawn and passed outside the bounded field around the property. There, she gave the penguin her best smile and took the message from it.

GREETINGS MASTER AND/OR SERVANTS OF THE SECOND HOLY GRAIL WAR IN FUYUKI. DUE TO RECENT ISSUES REGARDING THE MAGES ASSOCIATION, I WOULD LIKE TO HOLD AN EMERGENCY MEETING IN ORDER TO RECTIFY THIS ISSUE. THE LOCATION SHALL BE IN THE DIVINE DESCENDING DENOUEMENT (DDD )HOTSPRINGS. I WOULD ASK THAT YOU ATTEND IN PERSON, HOWEVER INPUT REGARDLESS OF SOURCE WILL BE IMPORTANT. THIS MEETING WILL BE HELD AT SUNDOWN. BRING YOUR OWN BEER.

-Benita Garibaldi
&
Lancer

"Oh! I see."

Nervously, Reiki still smiled.

How dangerous was this thing?

"Have a nice day!"

She hurried back inside. She would need to find some beer. It was clear that Benita had made the right decision in calling this meeting. Moreover, it implied that she might finally be able to enter that mysterious construction site and have a proper discussion with the girl who was meant to be her greatest ally in this war.

In fact, a number of people had seemingly gathered there already, for reasons unclear. That being the case...

---

---

Again, they donned the appearance of the controller. Again, they made their way towards the building. They had been shooed away last time, but the controller had advised them not to expect the same response this time around, and the place did indeed seem different.

The group that entered the lobby was, by all appearances, a young woman. It took in the scene and the individuals present. That Master, as other units had reported, now held a very different energy about him compared to his state when they had observed him at the beginning of the war. The reason was unclear, but since a Servant was already present, any power this Master held hardly changed its likelihood of dying if things devolved into combat.

"Good morning, everybody." It made a bow to the room as it entered, and a smile to the Servant, who seemed to be quite a young boy. With that done, it headed straight for the two it was familiar with. Garibaldi and Whitehall.

"Last night was rough, wasn't it? Or rather, this whole thing has been pretty rocky. There are so many things I'd like to discuss, and that's not even getting into the points I'd like to bring up during tonight's meeting. I suppose the first thing to mention is-"

Its train of thought was disrupted as its eyes shifted to focus on Sofia's hand. A mark was missing. When it spoke up again, its voice was more hushed. "What happened there? Can I assume it relates to the Servant I detected leaving this place without ever having entered?"

It could detect the controller's feelings on the subject. Relief, but also sadness. If things were as they seemed, then the Whitehalls would be able to continue participating in the war. On the other hand, it meant that killing Masters was now much more necessary.

---

---

The battle below was one between Servants, and so it was only common sense that these lesser familiars had no hope of following its events. However, they had been dispatched with specific orders. Moreover, they themselves had a Servant advising their movements. Once she had been allowed by the controller to share their senses through the karmic link, it became possible for directions to be given that would allow for the operation to go off precisely. These bugs had no grasp of what was transpiring on the ground, but they had a vague understanding that having entered the airspace of the battle, some of the Persian Emperor's soldiers would find it more productive to attempt to shoot them down than to focus on the living comet.

Well, even if they were destroyed, their payloads would fall.



The blade-winged insects dropped the stones they had been clutching. In addition to being unable to clearly perceive the fight, they now had no way to affect it. Therefore, they scattered into the wind. Perhaps the armies of Persia could make an effort to strike them from the sky, even spread out as they were, not that it would be helpful to them now.

With that, the runestones fell from above the skeleton warriors. Of course, no matter what great power they contained, if they fell on this rabble it would be of no great consequence to the overwhelming numbers of Persia.

Thus, when the runes sprang to life, a single rune of Clairvoyance, linked back to Scáthach herself guided the rest. Indeed, smashing even a large number of skeletons was like running a plastic bucket through a lake. An inconsequential space that would instantly be filled.

However, for the world's fastest hero, even that tiny opening could be a gateway to victory.

The King raised up giants and turned the ground against Achilles in an effort to slow and restrain him, but in the moment those things came to be, waves of radiant light and fire rained down onto them.

It was not an all-consuming destruction, and it was surely not a great drain on the King's manpower, but in that moment, a narrow, quickly closing pathway had been opened between Achilles and Darius.

"Quickly closing," of course, being a phrase that would be used by one who did not run like a comet.

@Floodtalon@Cu Chulainn@Argonaut @Seirei No Hai





He knew of their approach before they came, the shift in the attention and movement of the masses clear as day through the eyes of his familiars.The butchering on the streets paused as the mobs were directed towards a target. The place where they were held up.

He had returned to this first initial safehouse to rest as the streets no longer held anyone struggling to escape or in need of shelter. There were people still who were stuck in their homes, but they were somewhat more protected than the people who were stranded out on the streets earlier.

Ah, this was quite problematic. His body was recovered but this was a force that he could not defeat even in his prime. He forced the creeping sensation of fatigue away, burying it beneath his convictions as he set off to prepare for this assault that likely was the last.

But if it could be broken here, then perhaps the mob would lose its power.

But that would mean an extraordinary amount of death at this point.. But he already made his choice. The people with him were the ones he sided with. Even if that meant the death of those who assaulted this bastion.

He took a knife in hand and brought it down upon his arm.

“Hey, what’re ya doin?!” cried out one of the men who had earlier held a glum expression, pale fingers clutched around a gun. One of the yakuza-men.

The cries of those who had been murmuring to themselves, calm for a time due to his work shrieked out in terror. After all to them it seemed like a sudden act of self-mutilation. In turn he held up a palm, unshaking and firm to encompass their fears and quell them.

“It is fine.” he murmured as he raised his arm so it would drip upon himself. Anointing himself. There was no fear in using one’s blood. After all the body of one’s self was the greatest catalyst, and blood was a fluid that held great meaning in many cultures. Especially in the one he left. The safehouse he prepared was a shrine, a place where a god could temporarily manifest. He already had worked on preparing the space for various means. But now with the conflict coming to such a head there was the need for more.

It is said that the sun has a cycle of 52 years, that the night was kept away due to the works of a god. A god who brought victory, a god who brought defeat. In war he was invoked and in times of celebration he was offered sustenance in the form of human blood so the world may continue on.

His name was Huitzilopochtli.

Flames were born as the spirits were invoked. His arms became wreathed by a set of two serpents. Snake spirits transformed and colored into Xiuhcoatls, the fire-serpents of Xiuhtecuhtli, the firelord who represented the needs of people. Plenty and sustenance when they starved, light and illumination when all was dark. The father who gave birth to the gods, the one who slept within the hearths and flames in the homes of their people. With his blood as a catalyst it became a wreath of burning flames that fed upon the blood, combining the serpentine nature of the Xiuhcoalts, and the duality of Xiuhtecuhtli as a god of flame and water.

With the Xiuhcoatls coiling around them, his arms became the weapons of the sun which came to dwell in this shrine. But that alone would not be enough. To simply strike down man after man would not be enough. The weight of so many men was simply not something that a human could overturn. So he simply needed to show them that this was a battlefield of a war, that they were no warriors who would stand in such a place.

It was said that as a sun Huitzilopochtli was too brilliant even for even the greatest of warriors to look upon. Of course the Horse of Fuyuki could not bring such a brilliance that equalled a higher-order being, or a divine spirit. But the glow of the sun was one that demanded bravery to see through. The bravest flew with him, in the glory of the sun as birds.

So the birds would carry that light and show it to those who did not know of it. The brave spirits that carried all that they did not would fly and show them their mistake. The fact that they did not recognize that they were weak. They lashed out because they were weak. Fearful. It was not a display of strength, but merely their inability to cling to even hope, their failure to endure.

He took a hold of a wooden stick he had grabbed earlier while out and carved it into a beak-like spear. It transformed into a ray of the sun, a small piece of its radiance carried by bird spirits as one by one they filled the spear.

As the doors opened, giving way to the siege of the crowds he threw the beak , the sunbeam roaring through as a burning missile that pierced through the first two men, setting them ablaze before it exploded in a radiant burst of hummingbirds that pierced into the hearts of the mob.

They were no warriors, they were not strong. Simple fearful children in the eyes of the sun that pitied them and yet scorned them. The sun reminded them of their nature. This was no quest for justice, no campaign for good. A rampage that was born out of fear, a rampage that did not even have the strength to unapologetically commit crimes. Dressed up as a crusade with the flimsiest excuses they came to attack the weak in the name of “punishing the Yakuza”

Even if they chose not to acknowledge it and buried the truth within their hearts the sun would illuminate it. Chased by the birds who carried the light of courage, many fled.

There were only two gang members with him at the Safehouse, and despite their awe and incredulity at the works of the American their pride and self-preservation instincts kicked as the doors were battered down. The explosive noise of gunfire filled the building as those who pushed through the doors were shot down.

The horse charged into the ranks of the rioters that were reminded of their fear, the light illuminating the darkness that was their hearts. His fists lashed out, crumbling man after man. Crush the heart, shatter the neck, crack the skull. The flame of the serpents spread, man after man set ablaze by the fists of the defender of those innocent. The entrance into the safehouse was turned into the gate of hell, with those few who slipped past the horse shot down by the two men who fought with him.

You don’t belong on this battlefield. To those who created a hell, and yet could advance through the flames. The lesser of normal men who let themselves ruled by their animalistic instinct and fear. No warriors were among them, no brave souls. Only the desperate defined by their weakness.

If it were simply a matter of rioters who charged into the fray like animals then it would be a simple matter. But there was a problem that showed itself all too clear when a man before him suddenly fell to the ground, the back of his head burst open by a bullet. They too had guns.

Bullets rained down upon the shelter itself, the walls holding up by virtue of the spirits that reinforced it. He heard a cry from one of the Yakuza. Odashii was his name. His body collapsed, his knee collapsing under him as a shot ripped through his leg. Flames and spirits sparked up to aid and defend those in the safehouse, but the power of those modern weapons were too much. Perhaps if he had more time, perhaps if he was a greater practitioner like that man... even if their own men blocked the way, giving him more cover than the two men with him. With the enemy gunmen firing without care or restraint it would only be a matter of time before he too was shot down.

The wound of Odashii was mending, the shrine that was the safehouse allowing the influence of Ixtlilton and Piltzintecuhtli to heal and ease those under his protection. But even with that a gunshot was a crippling wound, and no amount of magical healing would help against a fatal shot in the head.

So he bid the serpents to search out for those who brandished such weapons of death. To scorch them, to devour them. With the horde of men beaten back by his fists, and more and more burning and panicking as the flames already born from the serpents in their time augmenting his fists and lashing out at those who moved to strike him, the ability to lay down fire upon the martial artist was already hampered to the maximum. The engulfing of the gunmen in flames as the serpents targeted them specifically only added to that.

Madness could only take one so far. Even if it brought one beyond their common sense there was only so far an existence that was so unpolished could go. The fear that returned to them, no longer suppressed by indulgence, violence and the chemicals that rushed through their brains created doubt. The death dealt out by those who defended the safehouse and the flames created panic was as demoralizing as the events that led to the riots, all the more powerful with how it was directed specifically at them. It was no grand catalyst that would end a world. It was no great event that threatened to separate Fuyuki into it's own texture.

But.

To advance further, to advance towards him was to be enveloped in a hell that would absolutely burn them.

Ah, how easy it was to take lives.

Men scattered and broke, warring among themselves, caught between those who still wished to push on, and those who wished to escape.

How terrible.

He hoped then that, for their sake and his own sake that they would all flee soon.

Many fled, followed by a few figures of authority who seemed unaffected by those strange birds of light, hiding in shadows too dark to be illuminated. But many more stayed, only further enraged by this man covered in flames, the man with a horse head who killed them in droves. The devil himself, they cried, many fleeing simply at the thought of facing pure evil. But mob mentality was strong, every man who tried to flee was cut down, their body used as stepping stones by marksmen who shot at the Horse of Fuyuki with their modern weaponry. Many were quickly engulfed, their weapons flung away as they panicked and fell to the ground to try and put themselves out. But then the weapons were merely picked back up by yet another man who thought they could take potshots at the devil and they too were ignited. It was a neverending horde, no matter how many the Horse could scare or kill there would always be another to take their place with even more righteous fury.

And they were only prodded along by those hidden voices in the crowd, those men who cheered for their violence and applauded their bravery in killing these witches. For this could only be a witch, possessed by the devil to defend his men.



A rallying cry as those men continued to fire, as they broke into nearby stores to steal bottles of sake and stuff them with cloth, as they lit that cloth and let their molotovs fly at the building holding the devils of Fuyuki. The building caught fire quickly, one bottle flying past the Horse's head and lighting Odashii ablaze as he tried to recover from his wounds. More bullets flew, more bottles flew, more men struck out at the Horse, it could only be described as a sea of rage led on by those figures, hidden in shadows. The sea shrunk, but it was slow, like draining a lake with naught but a bucket. A few made it away from the mob, running to wherever they could to cower in fear, many died and fell to the floor, only for the sea to simply cover them.

This is what rage looked like.

---

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.
Each time a stone fell upon the army it was shot out of the sky by a lightning bolt.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.
A few made it through, but they were inconsequential. Tesla shot every single stone near Achilles and Darius, atomizing them as he gazed though his 'scope'. His Marksmanship was unparalleled, combined with his Eye Of The Mind there was no chance of any runestones even touching the most important of Darius's soldiers.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.
He could've shot every runestone down, not letting even a single one touch Darius's men. But those men were expendable, so he focused solely on those who were most important. Darius and Achilles. If he saw even a single stone get close to them, it was atomized. His finger pointed at yet another runestone falling from the sky, then it was gone. A buzzing rung through the air, but it was not the buzz of swarms of insects coming to slice him apart. It was the buzz of his latest weapon of destruction, primed for firing at something. But what was that something, what was he getting ready to fire at.

What was the scientist's aim?

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.
It did not matter now, if his ally succeeded then it would not matter at all. All that mattered in this moment was that the king crush the hero, that the madman who always came back held down the star and extinguish it. Tesla was not as strong as Darius, he could recognize that. In a straight fight Darius would likely crush the scientist through the force of his thousands of soldiers, not even his greatest weapon would be able to fire in time before he was cut to ribbons by those thousands of skeletons.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.
No, Tesla's role was to support the frontline from the back. It was why he had manifested as Archer, his role was to fire upon enemies from miles away so the perfect opportunity could be created. His role was to create the weapons of war that they used, to make sure that their weapons were just as electric as he was. And he did it with gusto, for all he ever wanted was to help the world. That is why he sought the Holy Grail. That is why he fought. To support everyone he could.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.