That speed... no, he's truly inhuman! It can't be helped, then...

As soon as Saber came dashing in with the speed something only a command spell could feasibly produce, three things had occurred. One, Rider's body had jerked on its own, as if it acted on its own, boosted with a burst of prana. The capabilities of Rider to fight against things of inhuman nature was inlaid upon his body like a curse, a burden it bears after being soaked in the blood of countless beasts. Despite this, however, this particular burden placed on Rider's body is only able to draw upon the skills and techniques used to fight things beyond human, not to emulate their physical capabilities. Even if Rider had accepted the full blessing that his command spell would entail, which he didn't, his speed would still be considered sluggish compared to the god-like speed that Lucius has displayed. Rider wished to avoid the blade altogether, but his main intent was to ensure that, even if it did land, it wouldn't pierce through anything lethal.

Second came Falke, who had also rushed over with a burst of quickness that would normally be impossible for beasts of its nature. If it meant it would save its prince's life, however, then even Falke is capable of accomplishing the impossible. Indeed, in Rider's story, Falke had served as a Deus Ex Machina of sorts, always appearing at Rider's worst moments to save his life without fail. While it isn't capable of Spatial Transference, because 'saving the day' is something of a second nature to Falke, it wouldn't be hard to say that its speed in this sort of scenario wouldn't draw close. As the black steed leaped for Saber, it through a mighty kick to his side in an attempt to throw his aim off, moving at one with Rider's movements.

Finally, Rider would shift the movement of his sword, taking advantage of Saber's ridiculous advance. Directing Mimung towards Saber's chest, Rider directed the sudden influx of magical energy into Mimung itself, empowering the blade in an attempt to charge the blade with even more magical energy. Rider had hoped that, by powering Mimung with his own prana, the concept of 'cutting' that it carries will be reinforced. Indeed, as a blade that transfers energy around it into light in order to actualize a blade of energy carrying the blade's true purpose, it would only make sense that Prana Burst, which infuses one's weapons and body with magical energy, would also extend to Mimung's true power. With the excess energy given to him by the Command Spell, Rider had only hoped it would be enough to deter his overwhelming opponent, at the very least.

Ah, it was exhilarating.

Every second, every moment of this fight filled him with intense joy.

"Excellent, excellent! Maybe your Germany really is worth taking!"

His laughter was a constant assault, casting weight onto the battlefield. It was not the same as the overwhelming pressure of his presence, it did not have a true 'effect', but...to any who had fought with the weight of lives bearing down on their shoulders, that laugh was an affront to everything they stood for.

A declaration that the lives he fought for and the lives his enemies fought for, that the weight he bore, was something to be relished and drank from deeply.

Yes, for glory and for ruin, he fought.

Simply because it is worthwhile.

Simply because it is fun.

Simply because it is something he can do.

"Yes, you're the same! Someone who became an eternal being! Someone recognized as a god on earth!"

The steed was not a factor. It had not even arrived on the battlefield by the time Lucius had begun moving, after all. While a beast such as Falke could defeat a Servant in a 'marathon', it would undoubtedly lose in a sprint. And...in order to reach the site of the battle before Lucius's blow met its mark, it would need to cross a much more significant distance than the space Lucius had to cut through in even less of the time.

In other words, it would need to 'sprint' at a speed that utterly outclassed Lucius, not to mention the difficulty of sneaking past his own instincts. Given that, such a thing was pointless. For all his faith in his steed, it would not reach him in time; even if it did, dealing with such a thing was trivial at this stage.

"But, it's not enough, dragon king! Only the owner of my heart has the qualification to kill me!"

The Command Seal impelling Dietrich was certainly there, but the power was too spread out. Under Lucius's pressure, it would not even allow the Rider to match him in agility with its power, much less cope with the limit-breaking speed he now possessed. Perhaps, if he had directed the magical energy towards that jet engine-like capability of his, using it to direct the blade faster than he himself could move, there would have been a chance. Perhaps, if he has used that magical energy in another way, he could have made his blow serious enough that it would have disrupted Lucius's strike.

Perhaps.

But, even with the Command Seal, Dietrich was slower.

But, even ignoring speed, their instincts were matched.

And so, the outcome had already been decided. In order for his blow to meet its mark, Dietrich would have needed to move faster than Lucius could react. Against a faster Servant who further possessed instincts at the level of precognition, this was simply something Dietrich could not accomplish.

And so, overestimating his opponent to the end and angling himself to avoid a blow that would never reach him, Lucius closed the gap between the two Servants, and Florent cut into the Rider.

The curse, that primal destruction wrought from the cycle of death and rebirth at the hands of the Mother Goddess, penetrated into his spiritual foundation. Regardless of the damage of the blow itself, such direct contact with the sword made any chance of resisting its curse futile. There was, perhaps, a fraction of a fraction of a chance that Dietrich, heaped in blessings, would be able to avoid an immediate death, but...

The domination of Lucius's was still present.

With him weakened by that pressure, the curse battered against Dietrich's spiritual foundation.

With him weakened by the curse, the weight of domination amplified.

With him weakened by that pressure, the strength of the curse amplified.

A feedback loop wrought by the twin powers that tore down the hero's strength occurred.

Yes, regardless of his strength, regardless of his ability to resist that curse, it did not matter before the Sword Emperor. He would not even have time for a final strike, falling before his arms could move or his steed could reach the battlefield. Not that, even were this not the case, his opponent would grant him an ounce of leeway.

To the end, Lucius showed no sign of the battle being decided. Even as Dietrich's spiritual core shattered and he laughed in glee, he did not display an opening.

"Do not despair. We are gods, now. You will surely have a chance the next time we meet."

...Because, after all, even if this man was not the same as that Red Dragon, he was an Arturus nonetheless.

An enemy like this deserved to at least be acknowledged that much.

---

Dietrich was now dead, gone, her hard work into this war vanished in a heartbeat. Well, perhaps not all if things worked out. Maybe, even if it was a small chance.

The maids had begun to get to work before she had even acted to her command seals. All of the maids sent here from Germany, at least, had been retreated away, sent at their top speeds with the best resources she could use to ensure this to flee beyond the border of Fuyuki and survive until after the war.....unless otherwise contacted by Sophia personally. If she never contacted them or brought them back, then up to 6 months later after this order they would kill themselves as per their standing orders. They even had a personally-connected familiar of hers with them for contacting purposes if she wanted them to come back early.

The network had really been doing a good job.

And the familiars in the city, they were safe too......right? It was a gamble regardless, and she had stopped all other evacuations beyond that for reasons.

Rebuilding a home, and protection for her and her husband after this war. She wanted that much, to keep those maids for this much and to ensure her new family's survival. Fuyuki was in shambles, the note she had gotten from the Einzbern headquarters in Germany was......heart-dropping to say the very least. But being wanted dead by the Association in regards to both her old and new family was not the largest of her worries right now. Survive, live, continue. They had to survive, herself and Hideyoshi, even as servants wanted them dead and the city had gone to hell. This was hell. And no cup of tea was fixing this, though this primal desire outshone her usual hedonistic tendencies in the end, the light of a human will to live coming through for this....former puppet whose body was still one.

But Leave the lesser Grail, all of the tens upon tens upon tens of homunculi she had created here. The Guards dogs, even, and her familiar army that was in the forest. All her current resources and such things. Be friendly, seek to appease the enemy servant. It was low, but if it meant survival then this could work out nicely. If not it at least meant she tried, tried to do anything to help them survive at this rate.

Those red marks on the back of her hand, they almost felt numb to her as she looked at them. It was useless to think of running, that one large contingent of only the imported maids would at least suffice. She had made far more than their numbers here anywho, far more than she had imported. They could be of use, right? At least as tribute, or perhaps sacrifice? Ah. Her hand with the command seals came down to her stomach, however, as she realized the gravity of her position and new light dawned on her. She was going to become pregnant.....to become a real mother. For her and Hideyoshi's future children's sake she had to live as well, right?

So standing at the front doorway, bathrobe still on and a large overcoat thrown over her to cover her more by a remaining created maid, Sophia looked out into the woods. She knew where the enemy servant was. She felt it in her bones at this point, though her network had helped as well

".....Keep Hideyoshi safe, please. Tell him what we're doing, but....please keep him safe. Don't let him try to fight this, tell him to keep his servant back.....please, the female Einzbern said, her voice weak, the trembling and trepidation held back as much as she could. It was terrifying, thinking of the situation, but she had to be brave. For her husband, for herself, for the future if she could manage to have one. Her hair was a mess, her skin covered in sweat.....she looked to not be feeling rather well, though not without reason.

She then took a sip of offered tea, as another maid tapped her shoulder.....ha.

It was her favorite Japanese blend. How thoughtful....

@Kyoka@Cu Chulainn@Paradox Witch

Things were not going well here, the rioters were panicked and confused, many of them refusing to pick up the guns for good reason. but the assault continued regardless with the remaining mob continuing on the fight, or at least keeping the Horse distracted, while every figure of authority fled the area, taking 75 men with them to continue the fight elsewhere. They were unseen by the Horse, busy as he was fighting off every man in that mob of thousands. They were fast, the much smaller group of 110 men quickly making their way to the next warehouse with little warning.

This warehouse was a lost cause, mere civilians like them could not take on a warehouse fortified by magecraft and protected by a Magus, however the other warehouses were not protected as such. The 35 figures picked up the guns with no fear, even when the other civilians refused to touch them. They had no fear, no emotions truly. They had been turned into mere killing machines by the one who hypnotized them, made to do his bidding and kill. So the total 110 men continued to the next warehouse near them, slaughtering everyone inside with ease while taking minimal casualties. There had been 5 Yakuza in there, prepared for a riot but unprepared for a concentrated assault like this. They poured through the door, with shooters in the back taking potshots at the Yakuza and and civilians in the front taking the brunt of the fire. 3 civilians died, 4 taking minor injuries from when they engaged with the the Yakuza up close, while the Yakuza in the warehouse all perished. The civilians were next, it was a methodical slaughter that would sicken any sane man.

These men were not sane in the slightest.

It was strange really, these killing machines were but mere men the night before, many had never fought a day in their lives. But now they were an organized squad of killers, seemingly trained by a lifetime of combat. Whoever had hypnotized these men had been thorough, practically overwriting their lives entirely to make them into cold blooded killers. The building burned afterwards, eliminating any evidence they had ever been there and beginning a much wider reaching fire that would ravage the district if given time to spread. Efficient indeed.

The loss of treasures, the loss of a dear comrade, the rage and grief following it.

Yes, as Achilles tore a path toward his foe, there were no doubts that his legend was being re-enacted once again. No matter the difference in visage, no matter the order, this was certainly how the hero Achilles would set in his self-destructive course.

Full of anger, misery and regrets. Once more, sing, o’ muse, of the rage of Achilles.

“You dolt, you’re doing it again.”

A half forgotten dream.

“Do you really think he’d have wanted to see you like this you moron? Do you think he would follow someone as pathetic as you look right now?”

A brawl on the sand, the night following the loss of his best friend.

He had won, of course. Even if they had both been trained by the greatest teacher of all, he had been both a natural prodigy and in possession of an immortal body. But no matter how much he beat the man in front of him down. . .

He just refused to stay that way.

He just refused to leave him to those regrets.

“The hero Achilles was admired because he was the brightest star, he was envied because of the dazzling radiance that surpassed even others. Seeing you like this would only make him spit on your face and regret he ever called you ‘boss’.”

The words. . .they had not reached him then. But much later, in the moment of his death, the memory struck him in the same way it had now.

Ah.

So that was another moment burned in his soul.

He had lost a friend. He had lost a precious gift. But, in that hand of his he clutched—

“I’ll leave the heavy lifting to you.”

“Do your best.”

“You can do it.”

Trust.

He could not disappoint. After all, he had already made so many promises and so many boasts. . .

What kind of hero would he be if he went back on them now?

His duty was to wonderfully grasp victory, leaving no room for doubts. All she had to do was look at his back and display the suitable amount of awe before his full-powered sprint.

The hero Achilles lived the life of a comet. Even if it would be difficult, even if he lost things, even if his regrets caught up to him — all that was required of him was to run forward with a smile and shine brighter than any other.

The loss, the rage, then the grief. And then, death. That is how it goes, that is how the chains holding you are made.

And what are those chains then?

The legend you forged with your own hands.

The legend as the great sprinter. The legend as the hero of the rushed life. The legend of a hero who fell to despair.

If those are the chains holding him, then it means. . .

“It means I just have to snap them, right?”

Heroes are slaves to their own stories. Heroes can only repeat their legends time and again.

And who decided that? To begin with, a legend that ended in grief and falling to something like being shot through the heel was plenty ridiculous, wasn’t it?

So here and now — he’d break that and forge a new one, more brilliant than the last.

If the hero Achilles was so deeply intertwined with his great losses that they would follow him, that only meant he would have to surpass that karma and hold on to what he had all the more.

If the Berserker before him had a figure he so earnestly wished to surpass, if he had an invincible wall stretching out before him he would nonetheless challenge, then. . .

How could Achilles be any less?

No, rather, he had to be even more. Burn more brilliantly than anyone else, and keep going no matter what. Because the wall Achilles wanted to surpass—

To surpass ‘that man’, surpassing your own legend was just the entry point—!

A phantom sensation, his shoulder being squeezed, and a voice so damningly familiar. It had to have been his imagination, but just for a single instant. . .

”Then go. Show me that new legend of yours.”

As thunder roared above. . .

It would not do. Even if his charge was not something that could be fully stopped, if they were able to delay him for long enough, against an enemy like this, in a situation like this, it would all come down to the following moments.

That is why he would have to change strategies. At that single instant, when the skeleton fell, he flew forward, slamming feet-first against the wall that protected Darius without a single care. As expected, it held. But all the same. . .

“Sometimes, the shortest path is a straight line. But, a friend of mine once said that didn’t have to be the case, you know?.”

He hadn’t. Not quite, back then. To him and his divine speed, certainly the shortest path was a straight run. He had lived his life trampling down whatever walls were in his way, walking his own road so far ahead of everyone else.

But maybe some walls you didn’t have to break down.

Maybe some walls you just had to—

“—Circle. Berserker, I learned something from this. In this climb I’m going to make—thank you for being my first stepping stone.”

And so, with the strength in those legs, with newfound determination, Achilles employed his divine speed not to absolutely crush the obstacle in his way, but to surpass it. After all, the greatest mistake that had been made here was that, while that wall and that soil would be able to buy an extra instant, nobody said that dealing with them was mandatory.

With the same legs that were hailed as the absolute fastest, he traveled around the obstacle course placed by Berserker to impede his path, using that divine speed to take advantage of the staggering of the skeletons in order to make his way to the side, and then behind Berserker and his army of the damned.

His face had broken into a gleeful smile.

“Hey, Berserker, right now—”

And then, with that same speed, right in front of Darius—!

“—You’re wide open!”

It was a simple punch, aimed right at his torso. Of course, that was all he could do at this moment.

After all, no matter what realizations he had, his spear’s loss was no less painful, nor had he magically gotten it back. But at the same time—

What he had crammed into that blow was more than just strength. It was more than just power. It was not something he could have been taught.

It was based on how he had lived his life. It was based on the memories he had crammed, and the ‘truth’ he had reached following this path with his head held high.

It was a blow that exemplified the hero Achilles, delivered with the same hand that held the message of a particularly troublesome little miss. And in that moment. . .

It was a radiance that equaled—no, a radiance that surpassed even a Noble Phantasm.

@Yukitamas

@Breo




The wall crumbled.

Ah.

He was defeated again.

He knew that even before the hit landed.

This would be a ruinous blow, a blow to kill, to destroy. It is a blow that would be fatal to a servant, a blow that would break him even if he rallied all his strength against it.

So knowing that he would be defeated he struggled to the end. Darius swung his axes, the blazing spiral of blue light of lightning and fel green flames raining two comets upon Achilles. It would not hurt him, but rather his actions were like a stake pounding a hammer. The full force of Darius who accepted his defeat and paradoxically struggled against it slammed into Achilles while the fist of the great greek hero blew through his chest.

Drive him lower and lower. If this great hero would climb past himself, he would push him down even further and smother him. A parting gift. Together they would travel the path to ruin.

The speed of Achilles and the strength of achilles was that even the singular moment needed to strike his heel was one that could not be attainable. Indeed, to hurt Achilles was in a way a miracle.

So he would accept death in exchange. The mire concentrated its strength, aiming for that miracle that Darius attempted to bring forth in exchange for accepting the punch that he could not deny.

The wall faded away, the army faded away. All that was left was the mire that was the last bit of defiance of Darius.

He was not a normal servant who would immediately stop fighting, or fade away even with damage to his core.

He flew. His chest exploded, his spiritual core damaged and the a full quarter of his body blown away. Yes, this battle was without a doubt a loss for the king who knew only defeat.

But he didn’t stop.

No, to simply kill him, to defeat him was not all that it took. He was the king who ruled over the immortal army who knew only defeat. To lose again and again and again, to be defeated so many times that he was sick of it, that it was the only aftermath he knew. Yet he was still alive, he was still able to fight again and again and again.

To simply defeat Darius was a matter of course.

To slay Darius was a given.

But this fatal damage too could be returned from. What should be death was not death to him. He was no great king, and yet the symbol of his legend were the famed Immortals. The warriors who were the never diminishing, never weakening elite force. The most famous soldiers of the Persian Empire in this modern day.

The armor he was granted broke. Not that it mattered with his body shattered as well.

Yet his skill, Battle Continuation which gave him the tenacity needed to shrug off such a state, to keep his army present in even such a state, to fight until he was extinguished kept him in this world.

The wall crumbled, the comet shined through and the dream of the warrior stood supreme. So what? He would try again. He would build that wall again. For most men it would be an empty boast, but for this stubborn king it was simply his reality and existence.

With his disengage his retreated, the power of Achilles added to his will to survive and ability to flee from battle, not that this was truly a fight anymore. Darius retreated to his tomb, entombing himself in his place of death, of his ultimate defeat.

Yet it was a symbol of life for him as well. For a man who abandoned his own hopes and ideals and dedicated himself as a wall, what could truly be said of his life. It did not live to fulfill passion, but to deny it. Yet that denial held as strong a passion as the actualization of a dream.

Was that not beautiful in of itself? To create the ultimate struggle, to make something beautiful into something truly admirable? It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t done yet, his foe wasn’t done yet. Iskander was not done yet.

His broken body that was dead repaired itself. Spiritual Core damage, fatal damage. None of that mattered. In this place, where he was entombed he would be reborn to fight again. He had been slain, he had been defeated. But that was a given.

He rose from defeat. He was not one who overcame, but rather one who forced himself to be what others had to overcome. A stepping stone he was called? How true it was. How laughably true. What pain was there in being told what one was? Especially if that’s what he himself consciously made himself into. No, it was a reaffirmation of his existence. What should have stung to any legend, to any hero was simply a validation of his purpose.

Ah, he had been seeing a dream. A dream in which he could overcome himself. Or was he simply looking at himself the way his foe saw him? How he wished to be seen? For a moment he dreamed that he was the challenger.

Achilles was indeed a great wall, while he was a mere stepping stone. But that was not proper at all, that was not how it was supposed to be. The hero does not block the ascension of others, the hero was one who had to rise. He’d been making a blunder.

He was never about victory.

The energy of the tomb, gathered from the spirits that had been harvested and the vast power released from the conflict between the Persian King and the fastest hero was almost overwhelming.

If Achilles had armor who would deny his injury, that would deny harm and deny defeat. Then it was only perfect that he held an army that would accept harm and embody defeat, only to rise up again.

Both were immortal in the polar opposite of ways. Yet for Achilles it was more than just his armor, it was his body, his own self as well. So he had to match that didn’t he?

Darius accepted defeat. With that his path became clear. A moment of clarity brought by the damage of his saint graph, by the overwhelming push that was Achilles, by his own thoughts reaching the conclusion that they sought all this time. He knew what he then had to do. A new path was opened.

As soon as he had entered the tomb the army remanifested. Or rather, the Anathanoi took upon a new meaning, a new shape in accordance to his resolve that swelled up in the face of that hero that he could absolutely not defeat.

The Athanatoi surrounded the tomb, or rather, they became part of the tomb, part of Darius. His army was never about the army itself. He was not the Conquerer who stood with equals and friends. He was a king who stood alone, who defied greatness by himself, when all others would not. It was a defiance that went beyond common sense, it was a defiance that went against even his own dreams. It was indeed a form of defiance that could be called madness.

This Athanatoi then was him. Death, death, death. He would accept death and strive with the vigor of life. The Athanatoi wrapped around his tomb, became one with his tomb, with Darius. It was no longer an army.

His army was for facing that man, upon the field and in the manner of combat that he shone in. That glorious conflict was for him and him alone. It wasn’t proper. IT wasn’t proper at all. He had to fight Achilles in the way that best suited him if he was to be the ultimate obstacle.

So ten-thousand became one.

The mire disappeared as they too were called to Darius after spending all their strength to maim and hold Achilles. The complete Athanatoi became a garb of defeat and death for Darius who was entombed. His entire legend, his entire self would become one to become Achilles’s foe. His standards in walls were high, after all… that city known as Troy. Was there a city with walls as great as that? It was impossible to match them, wasn’t it?

Well, good thing he wasn’t a city.








The roar shook the forest as a birthcry came from Darius.

He survived simply so he could be defeated and slain again and again.

He was never about being alive. But with that dedication, with that madness. It would be an insult to his way of life to say that Darius the Third did not live.

Overflowing with energy and passion to match the fast-burning comet, he loomed over the forest as a giant.

This was the final round.

Strategist blinked in surprise at the penguin's hostile response to her Master, which quickly resolved to anger as her Webley was, once again, unholstered. "Listen to me, you out-of-place water fowl!" she growled, taking aim. "I don't give a damn who your Master is or where they're from, but you're on my ship. Show some respect or I'll hammer it into you, the hard way!" Warning delivered, she returned her sidearm to its place as she amended, "However, your invitation is noted."

She glanced over to Carly as the latter suggested she'd send a mask along, adding, "On the one hand, I'd offer myself to go as well, Master. I suspect having a human face to the crowd would be better then having a floating mask. On the other ..." She didn't need to finish that sentence to know her Master would come to the same conclusion: that sending Strategist into the lion's den would not only be a major risk, but - if the meeting was a trap - their killing power would be entirely nullified if Strategist was killed.

Shrugging, the Strategist about-turned and headed for the battleship's citadel, calling back over her epaulet shoulder, "I'll be in my quarters in the aft section if you need me."

---

The fact that Strategist was even able to have any quarters aboard her ship was a miracle unto itself, considering most of her officers slept in tight quarters, often in fold-down cots or even hammocks.

The room itself, as a result, was a limited, spartan affair. A fold-down cot with a pair of sheets, a thin blanket and pillow (all R.N.-issue, of course) ran parallel to one of the long bulkheads. An oaken writing desk and chair sat opposite, covered with charts, writing material, intelligence reports and (in one corner) a portable telephone conneced to the bridge and a mobile Morse transmitter/reciever. By the hatch, a pitifully-small washing basin and mirror sat; there was no sign of any showering ablutions within the room. Finally, in conjunction with the sole porthole that let fresh air in, a pair of glowing bulbs were suspended in steel restraints, welded in place, and hung from the series of pipes that ran above the occupants' head.

Not exactly Five Star living at the Ritz. Adequate, however, considering the cramped nature of the ship and it's 'combat first' design approach.

For now, Strategist sat at her desk, mulling over a couple of her papers. One of these reports was the latest meteorological updates: tidal changes, expected weather patterns, wind conditions and so forth.

The other, however, was of particular import to both Strategist and any enemy Servant who might get their hands on it. It was a multi-page report featuring a list of names, required components, measurements, estimated 'Times to Completion' and reams upon reams of additional data, linked to listed appendix numbers. The names - categorised appropriately - would send a chill up the spines of any enemy who had a hint of modern military nautical knowledge:



and so on and so forth.

This wasn't a mere inventory listing: it was Strategist's grand design. A design for a fleet capable of overwhelming the entire Grail War system by force and recovering the 'ultimate artifact and weapon' mankind had ever desired and sought-for in vain:

It took almost a day to "control" a quarter of this district. After so many threats and executions to make example of, the southwestern part of the Native's District had calmed down, sure they had been forced back into their homes but it's a lot better than them just screaming some language they won't understand and attacking them with kitchen knives and katanas. Thinking back, the loud mouth Yakuza people that were stationed in this particular area were immediately silenced when some supernatural force came into play providing aid for them. Since Cassandra was in charge and not the Master of the war, Enzo Levito. She appreciated the help, whatever magic's happening around the neighborhood seems to be working as the rioters around them instead focus on another place.

Reloading bullets in both her rifle and pistol, she whistled the others to take a break for a change and those that just newly arrive continue the fight beyond. "Oh and should there be any problems, feel free to execute them slowly."



The Levito Crime Family had spread throughout the Native District, forcing everyone back into their wooden shacks or get killed off in public to spread fear. Each bullet shot, each defiant local executed. If Fuyuki hasn't burned down to the ground yet then it should have, it would be a mercy kill for a city that has suffered so much in the past four days.

Everywhere they Family go, they are met with resistance from the Yakuza. They put up a good fight but... not even they, the gang that's been living in this city for who-knows-how-long could slay their own people. Something held sway over the rioters and without a proper magus to figure out what the hell is going on. The Yakuza's control over this area could slip past their fingers and into the lap of the Levito Crime Family.

@Cu Chulainn @Argonaut @floodtalon

---

The ginger-colored heir got the message from his rat-petting Servant. He had already been dressed properly and applied the last bits of perfume to his black coat and tie. With a small fix of his hair and a third pistol behind his back wedged by the belt in his slacks. He gave a sigh and gestured everyone to remain on high alert.

Sure it had been a day since the tree fell but no one is supposed to slouch around after that attack. For all he knew they could be waiting outside the Bounded Field that he himself created and once their guard is down they will take advantage...

...what was he thinking? Maybe he was just paranoid. It's not like they wouldn't get near this fortress if they tried, right?

No. He wouldn't give them that small chance.

"As a matter of fact, Caster. I will go to the springs, those who were watching the Academy since last night may join me. You deserve it for not sleeping last night." With a groan from some of the newly placated and a loud roaring cheer from the slightly groggy night shifters, they hopped in their respective vehicles and drove to the supposed location.

...

A few cars parked outside what was left of the Foreigner's district had several 'suits' investigating what had transpired two nights ago. Whoever or whatever did this is still probably around. This didn't exactly faze Enzo for with every Servant there is a Master and if he kills the Master responsible, he kills the Servant who created this.

Of course, he didn't know that the Ruler's deadline for getting two Command Spells would last until yesterday, at the very least he would be rid of such a troublesome enemy.

"They would set up a hotsprings place in this, dump? Well... at least it doesn't look like a total dump now." With a snap of his fingers, his entourage turned. Walking to greet whoever sent him the message. While they are armed to the teeth they will not fire unless they are assaulted.

"Hey! Anyone here?" Enzo yelled, calling out whoever is in the vicinity.

@Cu Chulainn @Breo @Argonaut @ManyThings @SSW @Phonic

---

"Marriage, huh?"

It had been a day since she mulled it over. Now in armor and with her sword. She had never gotten a proposal from Roland in such a long time, after all they were dead and they never got through with it. That cute little thought in mind made her smile, cheeks red, face flushed. She kept wondering how the wedding would turn out just as he had done the time when they were alive...

...then something interrupted her recollection, or rather... someone. A terrifying power nearby and it was fighting another. Gripping the hilt of Hauteclere, Olivier steeled herself. Whatever was going on out there wasn't looking good for the other, Dietrich, she assumes.

As for the one with the strength of a hundred- no... perhaps a thousand men? I doubt that it even compares to that. Whoever that is holds the same air as a warrior who has surpassed their limits.

She looked back at the manor with worry. Would this "monster" come here and kill them all? And just as Roland proposed to her too.

Sigh... perhaps nothing changes... Fate will always find time to entertain itself...

Having been the only remaining Servant to stand guard as the last line of defense against such a fearsome power, she wouldn't dare risk leaving her Master at this instant.

Still. I am a Paladin of Charlemagne, to protect my King is my duty, even against such insurmountable odds.

Her eyes were shut tight, contacting Master Tohsaka from inside. "Master, we have an intrusion in our territory. I will move by your command."

@Paradox Witch @Kyoka @Crusader Lord

The men who ran in a panic, wrestling with their fellows to leave. Those who were crushed, broken in body and ruined in the wake of the Black Demon God’s advance. The men who ran from the various firearms, screaming about the flames as the fire serpents continued to chase down those who grabbed at them. As the offense broke more and more they returned to the fists of Tlilpojuan, no longer required for the task of hunting down those who would use those weapons of death that would turn the tide of this battle. A mound of burning bodies, a hellish tragedy. He was numb to the smell, he was numb to the sensation of gore dripping from his fists. But that only made the pain of his heart even greater.

The molotovs earlier had been smothered and pushed away with the work of the helper spirits that had been called to the site. While at the other sites the buildings reinforced with spirits, and guarded by guardian spirits. Lion animal spirits utilized as a base, brought to act due to the image held by the people huddled in the sanctuaries. Were defended enough that the invaders were repelled.

There were casualties on both sides, and there were many deaths that came out of this nonsense. Yet he would, at least to assuage himself, consider it a victory.

But there was no time to rest even then. Through his spirit familiars he saw the barbaric execution of men on the streets. What even was the point of this? They shot and shot, killing others, lording themselves above.

Was this how his ancestors felt during the invasion of their lands?

No matter how disgusting it was, he did not feel a burning hatred. They too pursued their own goals, even if he could not see the reason. But he would condemn the result of the action, he would stop it.

Against those however… in these different circumstances he’d need more than just a heart and his fists.

Gathering a number of spears, and a blanket, invoking spirits into them, he set out to slay those who simply shot to lift themselves higher.

The invisible waves that rolled out and changed the atmosphere of the building, the ashes that he spread, blowing in a windless gust. Another shrine, another place to rest. Just in case.

Well then, now he can begin.

The first strike against the Maifa came against one of the smaller groups. A duo walking about on an idle patrol assaulted. A wooden spear came whistling out from the shadows of an alleyway to rip through the side of one of the two, ripping through his body and spilling his entrails upon the ground. At the same time, rushing into action the moment the spear left his hand, covered by his blanket repurposed into a shroud that was colored in black soot, the Horse of Fuyuki rushed at the other man.

He took a breath.

The distance was closed, the speed of Tlilpojuan exceeding that of men.

The gangster saw his friend fall, both of them struck by surprise. Gore sprayed across the ground. His attention was drawn to the figure rushing towards him. The spear redirected in air, shooting back towards the hand of the man who threw it. The Gangster’s attention was divded by the whistling noise of the spear coming at him from behind. That distraction was fatal.

Crush the heart. No, at this level it would be a complete destruction of the functions of a human being. The devouring of a life.

Moving according to the techniques known as Step Movements, a wide-spread and potent martial arts skill, Tlilpojuan seemed to suddenly appear before the mobster in the small amount of time he wasn’t focused on him.Utilizing special movements, the blindspots of the enemy, and synchronizing their breathing it became an art that It was not merely speed, it was not the erasure of distance from one and their target. A combination of multiple phenomena, of multiple techniques. At its highest it was even a Sage Art that would be taught by Tengu.

He stepped in, cratering the ground under his foot from the force required to stop him, rupturing the street. That power transitioned into his fist, Tlilpojuan using the strike of the Four Meteor stable fist. His fist carved through the body of the man, his bones and flesh bending to its shape. The ribs broke, the heart and lungs were mashed into a slurry, and the shockwaves burst and minced the rest of the organs. The man’s body was launched to the side of a building and with a large crash, the oozing corpse fell against the ground.

Ah.

Who are you? Came the question.

Don’t come near me.

It hurts.

Without spending time to declare himself, without spending time to finish off what was so clearly a fatally wounded foe, without looking back or any amount of hesitation the black-drobed figure left in that dazzling inhuman speed the same way he came.

What are you?

Was it a cruelty? Was it a form of disrespect?

Ah, it must surely be.. a demon.

No. There was no need to admonish them, there was no need to curse them, there was no need to make them repent. They simply were the ones that he needed to fight… to kill.

He left because there was no time to spend to the past, to the dead, when the living were in so much need. Look to the past, honor the past, lament the past. But no matter how many centuries of pain you piled up.

A single tear of the now was heavier.

So he retreated, before he was discovered, before he’d be mowed down.

Against these foreigners he could not afford to make it a fight. Their bullets would pierce him, and even if he could survive and heal from a shot or two, it was also very possible that a single bullet would end his life. Even with the defense of the shroud it was better to avoid a hit all-together. Steeling himself to be a demon, he engineered what could only be called slaughters.

With the guidance of his spirits, his knowledge of Fuyuki’s streets, his own abilities and his prepared arms he would force them to flee themselves. There would be no more executions.

---

"Looking good, Ashimoto! Heh, a haircut... now why would I do that?" FUJIMURA laughed, scratching the back of his head and paying no heed to his limp. Whether he didn't want to call him out on it because it might be uncool to, or because the room might be just a bit too dark due to his shades were unknown. What was known, however, was the strong sense of familiarity they both treated each other, as if they were brothers instead of just colleagues. "Hey, can ya get the boys for me? Gotta start acting like a hero, now..."

"I see you put my boys to good use, Benita... I don't want to know if ya summoned a volcano 'ere and I don't care ta' find out, but I'm gonna need to borrow most o'my men for a bit. Ashimoto and a few o'the others could stick 'round, though. Figured ya need staff..." FUJIMURA greeted Benita warmly. She had fixed a problem he wasn't able to fix on his own, and had made a new tourist attraction to help with the most-likely crumbling economy Fuyuki might face. He couldn't thank her more for her contribution to Fuyuki, so helping her run things seems good enough, for now.

"Ah... older sister, huh? Man, I really don't look that manly?" FUJIMURA acted as if he had taken a hit to his ego, but in reality, he was more than flattered to be someone's "older sister." While he was the oldest of his siblings, FUJIMURA had wished he had an older brother or sister to look up to while he was younger. Getting to be both of those to someone, however, made FUJIMURA feel twice as better about himself, twice as cool, even. It appeared as if his abs and chest looked more toned than they were, moments before. Giving Benita a soft pat on her head, he looked to the newcomer, a young girl, no older than twenty.

As she 'borrowed' Benita for a few minutes, the rest of FUJIMURA's boys joined him at the lobby. "'Ey, boss! Looks like you got a new getup! Geez, been hitting the gym, lately?" Many comments like this came from each of these man, complimenting FUJIMURA in some small way as they exchanged greetings. Like Ashimoto, they already saw FUJIMURA as the coolest cat around, so there wasn't anything really different about him or his looks. Greeting each of his men individually, FUJIMURA handed them all a bundle of talismans, telling them each that they 'know what to do with 'em.' As he greeted each of his men, the same sort of glasses FUJIMURA was sporting all appeared on each of them, stylized to fit their own specific look. No longer were they mere Yakuza, but have began to reach an existence similar, but still dwarfing that of the man known as FUJIMURA.

As the young woman named 'Sofia Whitehall' greeted FUJIMURA with an extended hand, he instead started to perform some sort of strange gesture of greeting in return, slowing down in order for her to catch up on each of its intricate movements. "Heh, no need for the 'sir.' I ain't that old... ya'can just call me 'Gin'. That's what everyone else here's use ta callin' me. An' don't worry about me bein' around. I'll be gone before ya' know it!"

As the other woman had entered the building, FUJIMURA had to look twice. It was the Matou girl, for sure, but she seemed... different, in some sense. Seeing that she didn't seem to plan to do anything hostile, at least initially, however, FUJIMURA laughed it off and continued to observe her. "So this is the Matou specialty in action, then? Never got the time to appreciate it until now... Don't worry, I ain't here ta'fight if you aren't. Just want to protect my city however I can."

The sounds of tires screeching brought FUJIMURA to high alert, however. Taking a peek outside, he saw a large group of men, foreign men, loaded with guns. His eyes wandered around the group until he spotted one with command spells, an orange-haired man. It was apparent to FUJIMURA that his rivals had stood before him, outside the very spa. Indeed, they were men of the Mafia here to take advantage of the war for their profit... "Ey, Benita, ya mentioned a meeting 'ere, right? He's a bit early, though... don't like the crowd he brought, either. Too many guns, one stray bullet might hit a kid in the eye. I'll take care of those, if ya don't mind. Gatekeeper, stay 'ere, make sure ta' protect everyone in case they do go in guns blazin', not that I'd allow it." Pulling a talisman out from his coat and raising it in the air, FUJIMURA walked out of the springs to greet the newcomers, striding confidently while saying the magic words under his breath...

"Guide me."

---

What the Mafia saw was a streak of white, passing by each of them in a speed no human could feasibly reach. Before they knew it, those with guns in their hands found themselves unarmed, their weapons smacked out of their hands and onto the ground, broken beyond repair and unusable, though the men themselves remained unhurt. It was as if it were the work of a Servant, disarming them all in the span of just a few seconds, up until the last gangster. While they all searched around, trying to find just who or what was responsible for their guns being broken, something whistled for their attention.

Leaning by the entrance to the hot spring was a smiling man in a white coat with a pompadour. To these men, they would recognize the pompadour as one belonging to a man named Gin Yoshiyaki; his face was plastered around town, after all. However, something was different about him. While much of the group gathered around won't be able to tell just what, the difference was clear to the one named Enzo Levito. With a force of providence that enormous, it was like he was looking right at a Servant.

"Ah, I never got tha' chance to really meet ya guys, huh? I heard you all were causin' trouble in my city. Oh, don't worry, I don't plan on settlin' the score now. As far as I'm certain, these hot springs are neutral territory, and it would be uncool ta try an' hurt anyone here. The invitation said ta' bring your own beer, but I don't think it said anything about weapons. It ain't cool to the other guests if they head on over only ta' be shot to death, now is it?"

Tearing the gun in his hands in half and letting it fall to the ground, 'Gin' had lowered his shades, his eyes, much more intense than before, looking right into their leader's, into Enzo's eyes.

"Ah, sorry, was uncool of me to not introduce myself, huh? The name's Gin Yoshiyaki... or well, it used ta' be. Don't take my presence as anything threatenin', my boys and I plan to be on our way. I just don't appreciate guns being pointed at us, y'know. It ain't a cool thing to do. We're runnin' a business, 'ere, not an army.

"Before I go, though, I'm curious... what's yer name? I'd like t'know the name of my rivals before I actually meet 'em in battle. It wouldn't be cool, otherwise."

With Arturus defeated, his will spread out and sank into the earth.

Behold, the glory of the emperor, who builds godlike wonders.

Behold, the terror of the emperor, who conquers with a monstrous lust.

The forest sang as it was cowed under the force of the emperor. A beautiful sound. A terrible sound.

He laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

...but, this was not laughter at the opponent that had fallen. There was not an ounce of derision in his voice. No, this was a pure, unbridled excitement.

Deeper into the forest, there were some presences frantically flitting about. One Servant, and several others. The Servant lacked the strength of existence possessed by the Arturus he had just fought, and it wasn't hard to surmise that the humans near it were the Masters of the two Servants who had evidently been stationed here.

Ah, well, he was at least glad the second Servant had not interfered. It would have ruined his mood if someone had interrupted his fight, and that was something nobody wanted to happen.

Deciding to check on his Vassal, the Saber's mind stretched out to see his approach of the Native District.

The Native District that was currently embroiled in a riot.

...really, hadn't he said to avoid dying? This damned Vassal had evidently been given far too much freedom.

The other Servant was no Arturus, and the humans were mere humans, so there was no sense in tarrying any longer. Contenting himself by taking ahold of all the land in the forest that was not a part of that blossoming domain, he departed.

He cut through the Foreign District, and there he conquered all in his way. Rich lands, ones that reminded him of Arturus's Britain. A fallen leyline, one dyed in the colors of a foreign magus. Perhaps this Japan truly was worth taking.

...A strange structure, that reeked of primordial curses, a place where humans had gathered. Granted, he did not conquer the land of that one. After all, perhaps it could be a suitable exercise for his Vassal, since he seemed intent on wasting Lucius's time as it was.

Of course, that was merely one side of the coin.

'...someone with the qualification.'

Yes, this Fuyuki was truly interesting.

And so, he continued. From the forest to the Foreigner's Lowlands, from the Lowlands to the remnants of Miyama itself, and from there to the fringe of the Native District where his Vassal had departed for. Dominating the land as he went, the Servant cut a path through Fuyuki at a speed that only one existence in this war could outdo.

An amused grin cut across his face as he caught sight of the events in the Native District with his own two eyes. Even as he darted towards the location of his Vassal and his will again sunk into the land, he let out a sharp laugh.

So that's what was going on. What an entertaining sideshow for the masses, but at the same time, it was far too lowbrow for his Vassal to engage with. Ending the riot, cowing the mob mentality and either restoring peace through clearing the people's minds or killing them would be something he could accomplish in a heartbeat, but he made no effort to do it.

A problem created by humans should be solved by humans, after all. This hadn't reached near the level that required a god to step in. He had no desire to dirty his hands with the tainted blood of one of those, as well.

Appearing at the magus's side without warning, Prydwyn found himself lifted into the air before he properly knew what was happening.

"Vassal, if you must test your might, do not do it against mindless violence of the populace. Find worthy opponents and match them."

Scolding the magus with an exasperated crease to his brow, the Servant took off with him, due south.

There was only one direction a thief should expect an attack from. A fleeing thief shows only one side of himself to his foe, his back. A strike from behind is a cowardly act, but in the case of chasing a thief, it is the only direction a pursuer can strike from. Thus, to expect and be able to fend off attacks from the rear is something of a specialty for those who are skilled in running away- a running retreat is only successful if you can live and retreat.

A blow was coming.

A blow was coming, and Jack knew he could not avoid it.

He turned to defend, the miracle still activating. A defensive guard, properly put up and defending himself from immediate death.

Not Enough.

The blade wielded by the Paladin slammed into Jack’s guard, demolishing it with ease. A Giant. No. Stronger than a Giant. A strike that exceeded the idea of “what was possible for a human”. A strike that stood near the pinnacle of “strength”.

The guard crumpled, but it’s existence saved Jack nonetheless. What would have been a cut to split him twain was held back, barely by his own strength and the guard of Durandal itself and a miracle, to become a scathing blow which cut his hands clean off, the blade clattering to the ground with them.

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt.

Jack bit his lip and ran off again.

A complete and utter failure. The loss of his hands, that is. The blade was no longer the danger, not with that cursed fire gone. He could not have saved the people from the horn, but he saved them from the blade. He had contented himself with that victory.

Now it was nothing but ash in his mouth.

“Cursed paladin! Not a hint of honor or remorse, not a pause of grief! Nothing but greed for your blade! Take it and begone, man with no more honor than a thief!”

The wounds throbbed.

He could feel the pulse of his Master’s command seal as it washed over him. Too little, too sparse. He ran on.

Ran from it all.

As his blade passed through Jack's wrists, Roland came to a stop. Standing right there in front of Jack for that one horrible minute as the boy's own severed hands fell to the ground. Two wet smacks, hidden behind that metal clank of the holy blade. Roland didn't move, instead he just glared at Jack, his eyes narrows as the thief ran, screaming back at him with curses. Kill him. Stab him while he runs.

But Roland didn't give chance. Instead he watched Jack run. He could still chase. Still drive a blade into Jack's back. But there wasn't any good that would come from that. Instead... Roland felt... Satisfied. Striking Jack in the back would have been disgusting, but the boy turned at the last minute. Honor preserved. Besides, justice was dealt. The justice for theft was to slice off the hands.
Kill him! Kill that sack of meat before he gets too far!

For some reason though... Roland could feel a voice in his head. Something pounding. Something...

Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.

Roland's head turned to his hand, which had already begun to reach down for the fallen Durandal. But slowly, he realized that his hand was drifting not towards the blade.

But Jack's severed hands. Meaty, glistening, and coated in blood that drained down into the ground. Soaking down into the farmlands. The scent of iron flowed Roland's senses. And then he realized, there was a taste of iron too.

Those green eyes snapped from the hands to his arm. This was his new arm. The one covered in a shroud. But the shroud was looser now. And coated in a spray of blood.

Jack's blood. I am awake. KILL HIM! Devour him before he gets away! I need him! I NEED FRESH MEAT!

His arm had woken up, and through those loose bandages, Roland could see an eye. A bloodshot eye, staring right back at him. The shroud fell away, and Roland took a step back in shock. He was too brave for fear. The arm was a pitch black thing. But red and blue veins pulsed visibly beneath dark skin, and there was the eye.

FEED ME!

Then there was the mouth. The arm split open up to the elbow, and teeth glistened in a disgusting mouth. saliva and spit, and tusks! Fangs! A tongue, like a tentacle pushed from that filthy maw, and snapped down around those blood drenched hands.

SNAP! ^CRUNCH! _SQUELCH! Slobber and spit drenched the floor as Roland fell to his knees. Grabbing the shroud, and like a belt he wrapped it around his own spittle covered arm. _{SPLAT! GLORP! GLUK!} Tying it tightly, he looked down upon that slobbering thing as the blood on the shroud began to vanish. Drunken up like another treat. Until another knot, and the arm was still, and Roland let out a sigh of relief.

"There we go. All better." He laughed, as if nothing had just happened. He planted the gift from Dietrich into the ground, and picking up Durandal, he placed that great sword back into its sheath. For now, everything was calm again. There was no more danger, and Jack was probably gone by now. Having run home to his master. He didn't need to see what became of his hands.

"So Trieu, I still owe you a duel, do I not?" Roland said, standing to full and turning to the Rider still waiting for him. "I do hope you enjoyed our hunt together."

_________________________________________________________________________________________
_{This post contains hidden messages. Reread and highlight to uncover the messages.}

@breo @manythings @addamas @Cu Chulainn

“Don’t come back too late. If you come late to the meeting I’ll be upset,” Benita called out to Gin as he left, waving a handkerchief in his direction as he left. Gin would probably be fine. After all, his new shades looked pretty cool. The “older sister”’ had business to take care of. Whatever it was, even if Benita did think of Gin as a cool individual, it was little to her concern.

But regardless of what he did, Benita was sure he would be a star.

A gangster.

… A Gangstar?

As Gin had left, Benita finally turned towards Sofia, whom of which had a few questions for Benita. Being the rather straightforward type, Benita saw no gain from lying to the person before her and began to speak.

“You mentioned allies … I suppose I wouldn’t consider us allies. After all, I had just attempted to murder you hardly a day ago. My goal is to simply grant the Matous the victory I was asked to provide them. Regardless of my recent changes, I am a lady of principles. And my actions there should not waver from this path. Truthfully, I have no grand wish for the Grail. I am not someone designed to be a magus, regardless of my skill as a mage, so I have no desire for that swirl of nothing so many lose themselves over. I have no deeper motivations than that.”

Benita was blunt in her statement. But everything that she said seemed genuine. SOmething that she considered to be completely infallible in her conception. She did not consider the girl, Sofia Whitehall, to be an ally in the same regard as she considered the Matou to be. In fact, Benita was against the whole conception of this alliance. To place a target above the head of an already massive target would be foolish. Regardless of her stance on the matter, she would serve the role of a weapon properly for the head of the Matou estate.

“That being said, if you were to ask me if I see you as an “enemy” in this grail war, I’d hardly find you to be a dubious individual. From what you have told me, I do not believe you would threaten my goals in the end, so the conflict we had was merely a misunderstanding of the situation if what you said was true.”

“If I may, I don’t think you to be the brightest bulb in the bunch, regardless of what my stance is on your actions if your claimed ‘accident’ was truthful.”

Benita’s wryness in her conversation regarding her stance on the girl before her seemed to transition to a more flippant tone. After all, regardless of what her personal opinion was on the matter. Perhaps in an abstraction of the situation, a person with Benita’s perception would consider the macabre actions taken to be rather comical in hindsight.

Her anger was drawn out merely from circumstances, therefore the superficial high she had felt from it was long forgotten as of Benita’s current self. Perhaps if Achilles arrived earlier or her view of the fight were to have been different, circumstances could have lead to other such actions taken by both parties. And while this thought of Sofia as perhaps not the smartest Master in the war, she had a feeling that her genuineness, as if a child.

“Besides, I think my Servant would be upset if I tried anything against you. I feel he might take those things too seriously, but at the very least I can say that I have no intentions of harming you, and so long as you feel the same way, I do not see a reason to conflict with your actions. And as long as we don’t fully book this resort, I see no reason not to allow you use of that spare room, so long as you act within reason. Of course, you may leave if you wish. If Achilles told me not to harm you, then I shall not act against that interest. That being said, careful about entering the water here. There are some dangers one needs to consider.”

While Benita seemed mostly cold in her assessment, it was clear that she was not hostile towards Sofia. Perhaps it was just not easy for her to easily display her emotions, but what was clear was that Benita did not consider the girl before her an enemy, nor did she have any intention of fighting in the foreseeable future, so long as she kept herself in line.

In addition to this, Benita, as a Master, was peering into the conflict arising between Darius and Achilles. Benita could not believe the noble phantasm she was seeing from the opposing Servant. It was macabre. The fight against the loser king. The person who had lost his entire kingdom to someone who claimed to be the descendant of her very Servant. Benita began to call to her Servant through the mental link the two shared.

Another episode of “what heroic spirit did Achilles piss off this time’. Your host, Benita Garibaldi.

“Achilles, you are to return to base. Enough playtime. Your Master cannot take this constant foolery.”

A simple demand Benita called into action against her Servant before the maddened king of Persia could even consider leaving his territory. A command t5o the Servant known to disregard all others around him in favor of his own pleasure and interests.

However, his constant state of fighting was to Achilles’ Master a nuisance. Not only because of his actions drawing ire from others. That was what Benita specialized at, after all. The actual tactics used by her Servant were unquestionably reasonable to her perception of autonomous action between the two parties.

“Lancer, I am not looking for a flashy victory. If you cannot defeat this Servant within a few moments, I want to retreat.”

Those words she spoke as the first orders barked during combat. Perhaps at the time Achilles might have presumed they were simply orders from his Master to direct him in combat, but this was to ensure victory in the conflict. Killing the Servant of the Einzberns would have done nothing and would have had a substantial cost.

A Servant of Lancer Prime’s caliber required an exceptional amount of prana to sustain. Even without his chariots, which acted in a manner that would completely reduce Achilles’ effectiveness in terms of combat, he still held several high-ranking noble phantasms that constantly drained from his magical energy supply, thusly affecting his Master in such a way.

Currently, Benita was not in a position of danger, weighing the advantages of continuing the fight to her own survival ability to allow Achilles to go all out in this situation, the answer became clear in her mind. From the start, she never wished for a flashy, awe-inspiring Servant like the legendary hero of the Trojan war for a Servant. Her mentality was original to serve others, after all. A Caster or an Assassin would better relate to that previously mentioned mentality, after all. Not the Lancer of the Golden Armor; the swiftest feet ever to walk the earth.

“Do not force my hand on this matter.”

For a moment, Benita considered enforcing this command with the mantras upon her hand; the proof of her contract with her Servant, but eventually decided against it. Of course, if he would refuse her request, she would be forced to enact one of them. However, she would never force her Servant to do an action he did not see fit.

“While I have no qualms about you defeating your opponent, nor resistance to your actions, I would like for you to consider it a personal request from your Master. Return to me, Lancer Prime. Regardless of the outcome, the spear you covet is already gone.”

But one final option was presented by Benita to Achilles. Something that pained her to come to this conclusion, but regardless of this aspect, she was not the sort to waver from such a commitment she had made between herself and her Servant.

“If you’d wish to take the life of your opponent, then I shall accept the fate that awaits me. We are partners, after all. I told you when we met I was willing to die for this war.”



@Seirei No Hai

Not that the Guinavyr cared in the slightest about these actions against the people in front of her. She was not called into the battlefield to fight; likely would have refused to do so if that was the case. After all, she had someone that would be very sad not to see her return home in her life. Even if this mission could be dangerous, it was unlikely that someone would act in such a brash manner, right?

The Mafia before the Penguin were assaulted by some sort of blur that even Guinavyr could not see. Not because of a lack of capacity too, but because they were, at this time, deeply entranced by something in their hands.

A note of some sort with text written in a beautiful script that seemed to show a well-off upbringing. The penguin before the Mafia members asking to enter the hot springs was looking at a sheet of paper, nervously looking around and around As if the Penguin familiar had some sort of dark secret they were trying to prevent others from learning, embarrassment thinly concealed by an attempt of stoicism.

“W-what is your name? A-Are all of you Masters?"

A cute voice bellowed out of the penguin as it asked Enzo and his goons for their name. There was no way that they would all be allowed into the facility. Benita had direct, simple instructions laid out to Guinavyr. Something she wished to follow to the exact letter of such.



@floodtalon

Pengaeologus VII was not the sort to play games. Even if he was still a grunt in regards to ranking, he was still a rather seasoned familiar, often being called upon to clean up messes left behind by, in his own words, that absolute moron Pinkheironuínos. It was almost as if he was purposely designed to be a defect by their creator.

… No way. Pengaeologus VII did not believe their exalted creator would have such a twisted sense of humor.

But that was neither here nor there. Before him was A clockwork man with a botched plan.

A push from Pengaeologus. it was a simple playful tug in the mind of Pengaeologus, but regardless, he did not seem too keen on joining the D4R1U5 on his adventure. He was not here to play and have fun like that ‘other’ familiar. He took his profession rather seriously. And while it could be considered a “hostile” action, it was simply an honest reaction from a penguin who has seen his fair share of silliness in his lifetime.

“I don’t like to be touched, and I don’t care for your games, metal man. Consider that a warning, iron giant!” Pengaeologus said, taking out a cigar he had in his parcel, lighting it with his trusty box of matches, and blowing out a huge drag from the cigar.

This would have likely been a cool moment in any other circumstance.

… But regardless of age and design, Pengaeologus still had a cute, penguin voice as if he were the mascot of a magical girl anime.

@Paradox Witch

Red.

The colour red sprang from the stumps of the mans hands, his hands separated from his arm, like a knife through a slice of bread. Trieu wished to be angry for such a sorry fate, yet this man had delivered the same kind of fate to the man she stood with now. Without his sword, he lost his legend, without his legend and noble phantasm, those two crooks (people she would deal with later), were able to remove this knight's arm. Maybe if he had stayed after the loss he would've been dealt a more honourable fate.

But no, the coward ran, much like what she expected his life to have been like.

Watching him run was cut short as she caught sight of the arm. That was not an arm. That was a demon. This man...what had happened to him. She watched it inhumanly contort and become something other than human and devour the hands. She watched with silent composure, Nanyue trumpeting in distress but she stroked him to silence. This was what he had done to gain an arm. he had sold his soul. She recalled, a time before her death.

She had been screaming, her step mother cursing her to silence as she dragged her through the forest. She could feel her hatred, fresh as the day it flooded through both of them. That hillside forest. The screaming, the wretched sound of clothes ripping. She recalled the inhuman eyes of her step mother, contorted and changed by hatred and her grudge against Trieu.

She was but a girl, yet back in that moment, she made her choice. She made her choice not to fall to those consumed by hatred and giving up their humanity to succumb to sin and betraying their own will. She chose to stop the tears and wrench that sword from that awful woman's hands.

She looked down at her blade glistening red in the sun before looking back up at Roland, that foolish knight once more trying to hide the arm. Knowing she had seen it yet laughing it off like nothing more. Shame and embarrassment was plain to be seen. This wasn't what he had wanted, yet those foul and awful people had made it that his only option was this new arm. A smile leapt onto her face and she held out her free hand. "My sword if you would be so kind?" Her smile was angelic in nature and for once with sincere happiness. If not for this mans victory, but for her victory. She had found an honourable duel. "If I would have it, the duel would be now. I make the request of no Master interfering, a battle between two heroes of vastly different countries, different eras and different classes, with nothing but their own weapons and legends fuelling them. How does that sound Palladin?"

That arm, this mans fate, the fact Jack had escaped his own death. This was what she hated, the things war did to people. And thus, her grudges only multiplied.



The japanese man yawned and growled as he approached the place. This wasn't how this week was supposed to go down for him, he was supposed to hitch a ride on a ship out of this god forsaken place. The whole town of Fuyuki was such a fucking bore. Having lived here all his life, he had wanted nothing more than an escape from this place. Yet of course he had to go and make a huge fucking mistake but hey the pay was alright.

Having been approached by a blond foreigner before his escape, he had found himself receiving cash just to give leters to the guy every so often informing him of the goings on and now the same guy had decided to change things up. Amidst all this chaos what with the fire and destruction of the town, the Masked Man wanted him to go and visit some shady bar. He looked at the place's exterior and looked at the vial selection of vials he had been given and sighed. Taking one unscrewing it and downing it, he began to blink. Fuck here it came.

Stumbling into the bar came the suddenly drunk Natsuo, the 19 year old idiot with the odd hair and odd attire came in a large sack with him, an indent in his pocket where he was undoubtedly carrying more stuff. "Hey uh!!! I'm looking for the guy who runs this joint, also I uh, got a gift but like ti's a cool gift, Anyone got any sake god that was wretched stuff"The man was scrunching eyes up as he looked towards the barkeep with a small smile. Assuming he even made it that far.

---

The primitive method from a moment ago had proven ineffective, but had revealed something critical about Lancer Prime's situation.

A sniper was present.

In that case, the attack hadn't been a waste at all. However, if the insects dropping runestones had been "snail mail" than this would be...

...Well, it was still a physical delivery, but it was much faster.

The target point was determined to be the church on the hill. The correct projectile was chosen and loaded. The weapon in question, of course, was the thing that the Lord of Spirits had laboured on during the previous night.

A giant ballista.








What was launched from the small, well-hidden house in the Foreigners' Lowlands and instantly crossed the sky of Fuyuki was more akin to a "tree trunk" than an "arrow." Despite its immense size and girth, it passed through the air with extreme speed towards the church.




These were not the unbreakable shields formed by the original eighteen primal runes, but the layers of blue light that wrapped around the bolt made the interfering tendrils of electricity ineffective at damaging the projectile or altering its course.



A final burst of thunder from the back of the bolt increased its speed at the most critical moment, sending it straight towards Tesla.



Waves of heat and flame came first upon the inventor and his home. Wind and sound quickly followed. There were more runes written on this pole than on all the stones that had been dropped earlier, and yet...

It wasn't all that dangerous.

To be sure, it was a massive projectile carrying large amounts of offensive magecraft, but at the same time, most of the runes written on it were...

Distraction.

A cloud of darkness spread from the bolt. Rays of multicoloured light scattered through the area, and then returned to converge on Tesla. An ear-piercing tone was produced, and sustained itself for as long as possible. If he failed to resist, Tesla would also be afflicted with terrible itching.

Indeed, it was an attack that had the power to kill the man even with the projectile alone, but its real purpose was clear.

How annoying. It looks like Tesla wasn't the only one with friends in this war judging by the massive ballista heading straight for the scientist. The dome of lightning formed around the Church, slowing down the projectile as much as possible, anti-artillery cannons activated next, firing at the projectile with intent to shoot it down, make the tree into mere splinters, every single turret on the Church firing at the projectile. It was unfortunate, but he even turned his latest invention on the ballista to make sure it was annihilated. Zeus's Lightning he had christened it, a monster of metal and electricity meant to concentrate the power of Keuranos into a lesser yet more cost efficient beam. Originally it had been aiming at Achilles, but it looks like it would have to fire upon this monstrosity of wood and runes instead. The ball of lightning that had formed on the tip of the cannon shrunk in size, the energy compressing as it was focused into something more powerful and direct. Then it fired, a beam the size of one's arm blasted from the cannon with a mighty crack of thunder. It was not unlike an explosion, Tesla's hair whipping back from the force of the blast as he stared at Achilles. The tree was disintegrated, only the mightiest of barriers could hold up to a barrage of lightning from Zeus himself.

All of this took but a thought from the scientist in truth, there was still enough time to end Achilles's life. There it is, his Eye of The Mind told him that now was the time to fire. Now that Darius had pulled out his trump card, now that the king had reached the verge of death, now that the comet was completely preoccupied. It was aimed directly at his head, an attempt to blow his brains out and end the fight in but a moment. Tesla fired a beam of electricity from his fingertips directly at Achilles to end his life. But there was no real commitment to this action, it was merely a distraction while Tesla prepared the real attack.

The beam would not hit him, no it was merely the first strike. A diversion, Knight Tactics at its finest. Forcing someone to make a mistake that you can capitalize on, to make someone commit to an action wholeheartedly. He already knew where Achilles would dodge, he had been watching the battle since the very beginning, he had analyzed everything about Achilles's fighting. His Eye of the Mind told him that the comet would dodge there, so the second strike was delivered in the wake of the first. A lightning bolt formed in his other hand, his armor already activated, this was to be the beginning of the end. When Achilles dodged, Tesla aimed for the exact point where he would dodge to and he fired once more, flinging the bolt of lightning with C ranked strength. It did not sound like much when compared to Achilles's endurance, but he didn't need to break through the hero's armor. He just needed to hit that weak spot fast enough.

This was no blast to the head, this was a sniper shot to his most vulnerable area. It was a shot for the hero's greatest weakpoint, the Achilles Heel of Achilles. His heel of course. That spot which had extinguished his legend, that spot which had led to Achilles's downfall. Such a shot would be inadvisable in the midst of combat under usual circumstances, especially from such a distance that Tesla was at. But the odds were ever so slightly in his favor regardless. Marksmanship that would make the Sundance Kid whistle, an Eye of the Mind that would make even Leonardo da Vinci jealous. That Single-Minded determination that made even Edison seethe.

In the end, Achilles stood no chance. The lightning bolt pierced his heel and his blessings were stripped. Now it was all up to Darius to finish the fight, to bring down Alexander's ancestor. For now Tesla's work here was done, his focus shifted towards the direction from which the tree came. They would not be happy with Achilles's death, he would have to get ready for another assault most likely. Good. He needed to work out some frustration.

@Breo@Floodtalon@Scallop@Kyoka@Reflection@Enterthehero@Phonic@Manythings




The shining comet rose again, but he would bat it down. This time he loomed over Achilles, this time he would be that which could fight a great hero.

Iskander, Iskander, Comet… Achilles!

The words melded together, the comet of Iskander that guided Iskander that he chased. The trails of glory that spread across the world. The tale that spread beyond Okeanos, beyond the oceans, beyond the mediterranean. In a sense it was a story that exceeded the world by filling the world.

He recognized Achilles. He recognized the comet. The relation to Iskander was deep, and what truly boiled his blood, but for this moment, for this frozen second, the berserker whose mind was twisted into a madness that saw only one man saw another.

Then came the crash of lightning. The lightning of Zeus, the lightning of that thunder god, the lightning of that chariot…

It could only mean one man.

▄▅▆▇!!!“ISKANDER!”!!! ▇▆▅

His world narrowed, his world blossomed. His madness surged, overwhelming him. It was rage and yet it was not rage. It was excitement and yet not excitement. What he felt, or rather what Darius found himself mantling was a complicated emotion, a complicated burden of his existence.

But the expression of it was simple.

He would fight, he would struggle against and defy Iskander.

The giant’s head had shaped into that of a lizard, evoking the Hydra of Greek Legend. The beast that would not die, the beast that would lay low the greatest of heroes. A perfect stepping stone for one such as the Comet. He had already committed to an action, a massive shield like the gate of a giant city swung towards Achilles. But his priorities changed.

He had to match Iskander as soon as possible. He had to clash his existence against his immediately. Everything else did not matter.

So he dropped the shield and swung his hand forward, sending a blast of individual warriors in the mimicry of cannon shots at the church, aimed at Archer. The shockwaves from the force uprooted the ground and left a desolate churned land. The trees at the site of the battle between the two legends crumbling and turned into mulch. What was a fertile forest became a ruin of dirt. Or perhaps it was more like an inversion, what was underground rising to the surface and the forest above being mulched and buried underneath. To ruin what existed and create the fertile grounds for a greater empire and legend. Perhaps it was an expression of the Loser King to the fullest.

Like a dozen missiles the skeleton warriors flew towards the church, projectiles overflowing with magical energy and sailing with the power of the giant.

Yet would that legend be able to match his expectations?

Darius moved, charging towards the Church, rabidly searching for his rival. Where was he, where was he where was he where was he? Iskander where are you?

Your lightning is here, your god is here, yet you are not here. Where are you?

His eyes did not see the Archer of Lightning, whether or not he perished from the barrage of the Immortals. Nor even if his ire was directed towards the giant.

Fight me, conquer me, slay me. I will defy my death, I will burn out my lands, I will crush your dreams.

So please, show yourself.

At Prydwyn's remarks, he shook his head, a dull scowl forming on his face. "One of those monsters has taken up a fool's errand, the land cries out for as much. It must be fresh. The wiser of its kind know subtlety, and in that, they are strong. However, something like this is beyond you. The rabble are not worth handing effort to, and the puppeteer is something that it is suicide for you to face."

Lucius did not seem to plan on explaining beyond what he had said just then, regardless of if Prydwyn inquired further or not. At any rate, his dissatisfaction with whatever had caused this was evident; if he didn't consider such a task below him, there was little to stop him from eradicating the one responsible.

A feral grin split his face at the mention of the fight. "A worthy opponent, yes. If this war lives up to the standards he had set, then the world's judgment was undoubtedly a correct one."

Even restraining his speed so as to not inadvertently murder the human on the spot, the run back to the conquered fallen leyline took relatively little time. To call it a warzone was an understatement; the destruction here was nothing short of obscene. He'd expect to see something of this nature from the true name release of Florent.

Ah, that just set his blood boiling anew.

A halfhearted toss deposited the magus onto the devastated ground where the Tohsakas had once resided, wracked by fire, rain, and lightning.

"You are to stay here unless you will die as a result, or until I permit you to otherwise."

The words did not even bear the facsimile of a request, simply spoken as fact that the Saber found it natural to be obliged. Of course, for Prydwyn it was something else, a monstrous pressure bearing down on him to execute absolute obedience. Even if he were to push himself to the utmost limits, disobeying that ability which stepped into the bounds of Authority was impossible.

...regardless, with his Vassal at least removed from a foolish death, his immediate concern was dealt with.

The land sang out. Magecraft from a Great God, cacophonies from an endless defeat. It was all so exhilarating.

Yes, that was the nature of this war.

Not fighting humans, gods, or monsters, but fighting heroes. Fighting those who became immortal, who transcended the limit and found eternity.

After all, if everybody is special, nobody is.

And so he departed for the east.

To take. To rage. To conquer. For all the good in the world was his to hoard. For all the evil in the world was his to consume.

---

The newest addition to the bar would be met with an odd scene.

For instance, a fat, balding man doing body shots off of a deformed penguin.

For instance, a man in the corner who had just landed the bullseye on a darts board twenty consecutive times.

For instance, two men who seemed to be literally smoking, smoke pouring out of cracks in their skin like shattered pottery, pointing broken bottles at each other.

For instance, an immaculately dressed bartender who seemed to just be having a good day.

"Eh?"

The balding man eventually turned his eyes to the new arrival, quirking an eyebrow up in a skeptical examination as he looked the man up and down. Without warning, a bottle of sake appeared in his hand, haphazardly tossed the other's way.

"Welcome to the pub, kid. I'm tha managa' round here, what ya got fa me?"