Fighting against a Berserker in close quarters, even if Jangar managed to perfectly deflect each and every one of her attacks, was not without its cost. Each near miss of that deadly sword buffeted Lancer with scouring wind or peppered his body with shards and flecks of debris; even after just this short exchange his robes were showing signs of wear and blood seeped from thin cuts that were healed almost as quickly as they were reopened.

Nonetheless things seemed almost stable at this point; Lancer was growing accustomed to Berserker’s attacks, strong and fast as they were, and the level of damage he was receiving was manageable if not ideal. There was always the risk of something changing, a sudden change in tactic from his opponent or interference from their Master that could tip the scales, but as things stood here and now Lancer felt like he almost had a chance against this opponent.

Berserker’s roar intensified as the Servant seemed to all but disappear from Lancer’s view, a burst of speed unlike anything his opponent had displayed up until now. They were no longer in front of him, nor did they appear in his periphery. No! Where were they? Above or behind him? The chill that ran down Lancer’s spine was enough to answer that. Which side would the attack come from? With barely any time to react he took a gamble and blocked to his left, placing the haft of the Aram spear between himself and Berserker’s attack at the last second.

The only reason he wasn’t crushed under the weight of the attack is that he offered no resistance other than to block the blade itself, letting the blow launch him off his feet and away from his opponent. His back struck the building to his right, the wall breaking before his body did as Lancer suddenly found himself inside the structure, lying on his back amidst the rubble of the shattered masonry.

“Master.” Pushing himself to his feet, using his spear as leverage, Lancer stood. “Tell me where you are.” He felt the blood run down his face, closing one eye to prevent the flow from blinding him. If he had felt broken by Berserker’s first attack then this had shattered him. “Keep me updated on your position.”

He leapt out through the hole in the building and charged at Berserker. He couldn’t allow the Servant to pursue his Master, couldn’t give her even a seconds lead or else he would not catch her in time to protect Jackson from her wrath. He could only hope the Magus was making good use of the time Lancer was buying him with his life.

Thrusting the Aram spear at Berserker’s chest, holding it by the middle of the haft with both hands, Lancer sought to put his opponent on the defensive. He followed up with strike from the side, the tip of the spear turning away as the rear half of the haft swung around towards Berserker’s head. A third strike came immediately after, the spear swinging back the other way as the bladed head raced towards the Servant’s throat. Lancer continued to attack in this manner, relentless, one attack flowing into the next and coming from all angles as he sought to take the initiative away from her.

@KoL@ItMeGritty@floodtalon

She had been planning to head to that great old building, the hotel known as the “Ritz.” to find some excitement in this night, but it seemed that it had found her instead. It seemed that someone had jumped to the tallest building in the surroundings to search for enemies, and although she was relatively well concealed in these dark alleys, unless the other Servant was quite literally blind, unlikely given the fact they were on such a tall building in the first place, they would catch sight of her eventually.

Rather than waiting for that occurrence, Yoshitsune decided to take the initiative. While it was entirely within her capabilities to simply leap up and attack the Servant with Usumidori or her naginata, and would be rather advantageous to her, all things considered, but such an assault would reveal too many cards.

...she looked thoughtfully at this “basketball” of hers, spinning upon her fingertips. It was nicely round and smooth with some inset black lines upon the brown surface. She was rather used to the idea of ball games, as she had played kemari an awful lot as a child, but the idea of “shooting” the ball was rather novel to her. Well, it was better than nothing.

She’d have to thank her “teachers” in the game again sometime later, and perhaps apologize to them for using their gift in such a method. She dribbled the ball once, twice, and as it came into her hands again, she leapt up and shot the ball, in textbook form.

As it hurtled towards the roof of the other building, surrounded and carried in part by winds, she observed keenly as she moved rapidly in another direction. If the Servant responded in kind, so be it, but if it fled, she would be happy to go towards the Ritz once more.

Either way, it would serve her purposes.

@KoL

"How curious," Tristan thought as he finally could get a grasp at the other Servant's location. Not only that but, but the sound of their footfalls betrayed the fact that they were some kind of fast, agile warrior.

Yet, the most interesting part was what came next.

Tristan was expecting it, of course, since he could listen to the ball zooming through the air. The fact that it seemed to be one with the wind itself was what caught his attention the most.

"A Servant with command over the wind and such gracious footsteps. Could it be that!?"

For a moment, Tristan got excited at the idea. However, he dismissed such thoughts quickly as quickly as they came. Gracious and agile as they may be, these footsteps were not those of his king.

As for the ball, the red-haired knight could certainly dodge, or block it. Even with all the force behind the throw Tristan could let it bounce off his armor and it wouldn't harm him in any substantial way. However, allowing it to hit himself, or anything else, with this force would cause it to destroy itself.

Instead of that, a short note would echo through the air as Tristan "shot" the ball. However, the "arrow" wasn't meant to destroy it but rather to bind with a "string". By pulling the "string" like a spring and then releasing it, he could catch the ball without destroying it.

Nevertheless, they instigated the knight's attention enough for him to "jump" from his location to a building that was closer to the path the other Servant took.

"I believe this belongs to you. It would be sad if I didn't return it. Would you come and retrieve it or should I throw it as you did, milady?" Tristan asked, raising his voice just enough that a Heroic Spirit such as this one would be able to hear him.

---

---

@BlueHelix

[UNKNOWN ENTITY IMAGE ERROR]

Nanashi,Assassin Yojimbo(?)
Bois de Boulogne

---

"Isn't that great, Master?" He laughed cheerfully, dismissing Nobunaga's threat nonchalantly. "You can get rich off this war without having to win now. Ah, money is great, isn't it?"

He stood up as his Master turned to leave, but instead of going to her side and following her along the road, he went towards the two girls, wrapping his hands around their shoulders as they walked. "No, I have a better idea. What place better to seal a working relationship than sharing drinks together? Of course, our benefactor should be the ones buying even if I'm usually the one buying drinks for women."

"Ah, right, if you don't know where to go, I found this good bar not too far from here." Looking very pleased with himself, he continued. "And call me Nanashi. Yojimbo this, and yojimbo that feels like I'm some sort of abandoned item, y'know?"

Her blade connected with his body, no it was his spear, yet still met little resistance as his feet left terra firma and he tumbled through the air. He went crashing through the wall of a building off to the right, she could hear his bones crumble to dust as he fell to the ground along with the rest of the wall. His body was broken and shattered, a slight grunt of dismissal escaped her lips as she turned away from the wreckage. There was no joy in this victory, no time nor sanity to savor it, there was much work to be done if she was to protect her Master. She honed her senses as she began to look for the Master, he seemingly headed in that direction so she would have to-

Her Instincts screamed at her to block, had the Lancer been operating on full power she likely would have been hit due to her lapse in attention. As things stood she was barely able to parry the spear away, her shroud gone as she felt the bones in her arms vibrate. The parry was sloppy om top of that, giving the Lancer the opportunity to use her own momentum against her as he turned his spear around to strike at her face. She barely leaned out of the way in time, knowing that taking a blow from that kind of Strength would take away the progress she had worked so hard to grasp. And so the battle continued in such a way, with Berserker on the defensive as he swung at her with ruthless precision.

But he was weak now, her initial blow had nearly finished him off. Each strike from his spear was met with a parry as Berserker slowly reclaimed the offensive, her monumental Strength more than enough to fend off the weakened Lancer. The fight continued like this for a bit, until Berserker roared and slammed Clarent, and Aram with it, into the ground. The spear was pinned to the ground by Clarent, making pulling it away in time impossible. The shroud of raw power flared up around Berserker, a snarl plastered onto her face as she took one hand off of Clarent and thrust it directly at the spear, seeking to snap it in half with a clean blow.

Andrews silently cursed to himself as he cobbled together a wicker doll with some dog hair in it. He had just begun the incantation to contract a demon of hellfire when Jangar reached out to him.

"Sorry, I'm a few hundred meters away between buildings. Try to keep the collateral damage to a minimum. You need healing, don't you?"

He took out a a vial of sand and dumped it onto the ground in front of him. He quickly drew something that resembled a stick figure holding his hands up. It was Yeii, or the Talking God, a benevolent protector deity healers invoked through sandrawings. In truth all he was doing was a basic healing spell with an extra step, but this allowed him to heal at a distance by tying the ritual to the ground Jangar was standing on. Waves of healing energy would momentarily snake across the ground and shoot up through Jangar's feet. Andrews put the vial back into his coat next to the remaining ones he had. He'd have to be careful not use them up.

"Try to keep it busy. The Master might fatigue and retreat. If not, I'll have some demonfire cooked up to roast 'em. Just hold out for...a little less than a minute?"

He took a breath and restarted his contracting...

"Please let my world be realised..."

---

@King Cosmos@floodtalon

---

The finishing blow.

The one that would have ended this situation and had finished with a victory on the side of Rider never came to fruition. Through clever actions and a more-than-tactical retreat, Lancer was able to keep his abdomen from splitting open with the fires of a phantasmal beast attached to a man’s hand.

“Get back here Lancer! Master, I shall chase down this foe, but be careful!”

The first action that Rider did in response to Lancer was knocking away the trash can that was flying towards him into the air, and while the majority of the trash might be in orbit at this point, a few pieces of trash fell upon Rider. And with a disgusted grimace by both him and (presumably) his wife, he threw that trash off of his, according to Sylvester, “super cool trench coat”, and began to chase his enemy in full.

It was in a single leap that Sylvester was able to make the jump from his location to his opponent’s. In terms of total speed, his opponent might be faster, but Sylvester was certain he would have the upper hand when it came to bursts. After all, he had outrun a Moorish flying carpet for several days when escaping back to Christian Europe. He was certain that his former mentor would kill him, but he eventually overcame that adversity by making an “impossibility” into an “inevitably”.

Atop the rooftop, standing with the wind to his back, Sylvester started to speak to his opponent. His words carried with them no malice, taking an almost somber tone with the person who was his first opponent of the Grail War.

“I detest fighting Lancer. If there were a more peaceful way to obtain the Holy Grail and make my wish come true, I would take that approach. But if it were between you dying, and my wish being granted, I assure you that your life inconsequential in that comparison. As a fellow Heroic Spirit called upon by the Holy Grail, I am sure you understand. It is just business, after all. I’m sorry if that is a disappointment for someone as skilled with a spear like yourself, but I am no warrior.”

Sylvester was a man of the cloth. He was never a warrior and could not share the “fun” of combat. It was merely a formality; something that he was required to do as a Heroic Spirit. Though he would not fail his Master, nor himself for that matter, Rider felt no true joy in the heat of battle.

Fighting was detestable to him. Though he was the Pontiff possessed to be a Devil’s minion, he refused that path and chose one where he could smile together with the woman he truly cared for, and if he had to fight to retain this peace, Sylvester would do anything in his power to continue.

“You are merely stalling the inevitable. I can tell that you are a powerful Heroic Spirit; your skills with the spear are enough to carry you through battles, and your tactics are honestly incredible. But against me, that skill and power are useless. I have considered every move you could do at this point. If you have any more surprises to throw at me, feel free to try them. But don’t be surprised when I corner you again!”

And with that, Rider began to close the gap between himself and Lancer in order to finish where the two had left off in their previous bout, cracking the shingles between him and his opponent with the power of his movement alone.

Fight on.

Live, no matter the cost.

Destroy those who are before you.

That is what it meant to live for a dream. If there were those who would take away that dream from Rider, then they would feel the wrath from he who acted as God’s hand on earth!

Core District, Outside his Master's Workshop

(Temporary Player Change)

---

"Yeah, I hear that. I'm no fan of fighting either, since it's a lot of work, y'know?"

Lancer retreated again when Rider came forward. He had leapt back to the building across the street, and now he did this again, landing on a rooftop another street over.

"But giving up against an impossibility... Are you really the kind of guy who'd expect someone to do that?"

I didn't give up back then, and this guy's a joke in comparison!

Rider lunged forward again, and so Lancer made a fighting retreat. He produced a bit of mud from his pocket and hurled it at the enemy before leaping to the side and trying to pierce him with his spear at the edge of its reach. This unbeatable foe would surely burst forth again and again, and without his Disengage ability Lancer would probably have been unable to match that rapid approach. Still, he attacked where he could. These opportunistic strikes at the charge of the bull would probably prove to be unwise, but when the 'flow' of the battle turned against him, he would simply reset that 'flow' to a neutral state and use what he had learned do to better the next time.

More retreats were made, with trash cans, cars, and street signs being used as cover and projectiles by Lancer, hopefully lowering the risk of the battle as it moved further from the workshop and Masters. Then, suddenly, Lancer moved closer as if to engage with Rider.

Victory being impossible was something that had already been established, but that was fine. He didn't need to win, only to arrange the situation correctly.

---

---

Hemlock's mind buzzed with flaws. Given a week or so, he was certain he could absolutely erase every problem in the likeness of the elderly Master he had created, but this art had an immediate purpose, and even Hemlock's judgemental mind couldn't deny that it was quite an accurate depiction. Now his brush dipped into the dollop of red paint that had so far been untouched. The painting was quite beautiful, but he would have to tarnish it.

The sounds of battle had grown softer outside. Lancer, it seemed, had done an admirable job of buying him time to make a quick portrait. He would repay that with the death of his enemy.

The red paint came down. A fabulous gushing of blood was added to the painting, falling from the old man's mouth to the ground, and splattering there like spilled milk. Not too violent or forceful, Hemlock had decided, but a low-pressure wave pouring forth like a small waterfall.

Magical energy was focused into the painting, and through Hemlock's gaze down to the street, where the model of the piece stood. Whether his suffering matched up to that which was depicted depended on his ability to resist, but given that the painting held no sample from his body, it was unlikely that it would be completely equal.

With that in mind, the window opened. At the very moment that Cerzelium began to feel a curse taking hold of him, an arc of yellow paint sprayed down towards him. Or rather, it began its journey through the air as paint, but moments before it reached him it changed form, becoming an attack of pure electricity that would finish him off while the curse troubled him.

Would Rider intervene? Lancer had gotten into position with that in mind.

---

^{@Phonic@Unoedipal}

---

"...I see."

In the moment before that curse came bearing down on him, he spoke, feeling those threads of karma start to wind together- as an Orchelas, whose family was steeped in the karmic arts beyond all else, it would be remiss if he was not capable of noticing that condensation of En. The sorrow that laced the words was evident, as if the magus's heart was audibly breaking. His eyes moved from the battle between his Servant and the opponent, from that beautiful display of inspiration, to the Workshop before him, as if trying to verify something.

His heartbeat pounded in his head, his mind raced with a harsh lilt of panic. A moment later, the curse bore down on him, the full brunt of it crashing down upon him.

Hemlock could not activate the curse and take physical actions such as opening a window and launching a separate magical attack simultaneously. In that sense, there was a delay between the first action and the later ones. However, this will not be an issue; the delay is incredibly minute, and moreover, Cerzelium will not be able to respond due to shouldering the curse's burden. As he falls from the curse, he will be helpless to stop the attack that comes for his life a mere moment later.

And yet, he did not fall.

The space before him rippled as that paint shot forwards. In front of the elderly man, a 'gate' formed, a pure black hole in the world that acted as a wall. The paint-cum-lightning that had aimed for his body merely met that hole, vanishing into its depths.

The veins that preceded the vanished hand bulged out, as if the hand itself held something in an unseen white-knuckle grip.

'Rider, thank you. You are nothing short of inspirational, and I am certain you could defeat this opponent. However, an attempt was made on my life. I must respond in kind, before a more successful attempt follows.'

As the enemy's attack had been negated, then, he had been forced to react.

In the world of magi, a curse is a dangerous weapon, and is in fact looked down upon by much of the western Mage's Association for this reason. Whenever a magus curses someone, they curse themselves in the process; it is for this reason that the mantra exists- for those who embark down the path of curses, dig two graves. That resentment and karmic backlash boils up, and eventually, the user will fall to the weight of their own curses.

At the same time, cursing someone opens up a weak point. In leveling a curse, one establishes a line that connects caster and target. By firing a bullet, one exposes their position. In other words, one becomes vulnerable to a counter-curse. It is for this reason that high-ranking magi of the Clock Tower have created automatic systems that detect when a curse has been directed at them, and return fire indiscriminately.

However, in this moment, there was no sign of magecraft being used. This is only reasonable- after all, in the first place, this was not magecraft. Cerzelium Orchelas does not know of magecraft theory, of counter-curses and the defenses of Lords of the Clock Tower, of Jigmarie research or the precise nature of the curse that had assailed him, only warded off by a bout of luck on his part.

Yes, while a magus would call what came next a counter-curse, what Cerzlium Orchelas could accomplish was not something within the world of magi. It was more akin to the imposition of a primal law, something born from will rather than cognition.

'I apologize, my partner, but I will be the one to take this victory. May God forgive me.'

He had to hold back tears for what would come next. The power of that unseen 'thing' gripped in his vanished hand, the trump card he had been sent to this city with, became manifest. Against this unseen enemy who could very well have great defenses, or already be in the midst of preparing a second killing blow, he could not afford to use anything other than this trump card.

"...I'm sorry."

I had hoped that I would not need to. I had hoped that you would be kind. I do not blame you, for after all, this world is possessed by evils. However...

For violating the agreement, the other party would be paid no quarter. Unlike the curse that had been levied against him, that which struck at his opponent would bring forward an unquestioned end. There would be nothing more than a simple, painless snuffing out of life. That was all he could do at this junction.


And so, Cerzelium Orchelas took his first life.

Core District
@ItMeGritty

---

Rider instantly swerved to the side and stopped his bike as he heard his name. Nobody should be able to know that, which meant it could only be... He looked upon the Servant who had haphazardly jumped into his path and called his name, recognizing him in turn. "Tadakatsu..." he laughed. Of course he had been summoned to this war as well. What an opportunity! A chance to fight one of the Four Heavenly Kings, and it took no effort on his part to find as well!

He slowly got off his bike and materialized his sword and spear, careful not to make any threatening movements, merely preparing. "That would be nice. Though I must admit that I'm excited to meet you." he said as he smiled. Turning to Rei he said "I'd suggest you stay out of the way, Master. This is not someone you want to anger."

Nobukara's face was impassive as Chieko spoke of gathering money for the shrine, her features not betraying the doubt she harbored inside. The temple wasn't that hard up on money, meaning this was almost certainly a lie. Not that it was any of her business, all that mattered was that her reasons didn't conflict with Lord Nobuaga's. Her Servant was supposedly a manifestation of all the masterless samurai of Japan, the wnadering ronin legend made manifest. However it looks like Lord Nobunaga and her were on the same page in doubting the existence of a Heroic Spirit like that, while this was a clever cover story it was nothing more than that. Speaking of the enemy Servant, it looks like the enemy Servant knows who Lord Nobunaga is, which all but proved their suspicions correct. Nanashi, Japanese for Nameless or No Name, a fitting name for the mystery before them.

Lord Nobunaga handled negotiations well, although she wasn't entirely sure the embassy money was theirs to give in the first place... Well, Lord Nobunaga was the daimyo of Japan, so any money of Japan belonged to her in the end. She also brought up the fact that if they were the last two standing, she wouldn't hesitate to blow them to smithereens and call the alliance off. That tickled something in the back of her brain, but at the moment it was only an idea. Something that would have to be talked about with Lord Nobunaga, possibly a way to resolve this possible end without bloodshed. She shook her head and coughed, refocusing on the conversation at hand. Chieko took her by the hand forcefully, insisting they go back to their temple to get started on healing, while Nanashi insisted they instead go out for drinks. While Nobukara would love nothing more than a long night of drinking with her Lord Nobunaga, getting her injury taken care of was more important at the moment.

"Forgive me Nanashi-san, I'm afraid the drinks will have to wait for tomorrow. I would rather not be in the open with these injuries, even with two Servants protecting us. A wounded Master is a very valuable target after all. You understand right?" She did her best to shrug his arm off her shoulder, while shooting a pleading look along with a mental message to ask Nobunaga to back her up. 'It would be best if we could get my injuries healed as soon as possible so I can better support you. Being invited into another Magus's workshop is also a valuable opportunity, should this alliance go sour in the future.'

---

Lancer had begun his own assault on Sylvester. All Sylvester could think was “finally”. After forcing him to use several of his strengths, it was the least Lancer could do; begin to fight against his opponent in full. Sylvester took the clash, and soon disengaged by “exploding” prana through his arm and blowing both he and Lancer around 10 meters from one another. Glowing within his left hand, the hand that was not armored, power began to explode within him, as if beginning to tap into himself to release what was within him.

“TAKE THIS LANCER. I SHALL END IT HERE!”

“O’ power of men, lend me your strength to defeat those that stand before our desire and salvation.
---INFINITE SILVER DRI-”

Sylvester stopped his proclamation before it had begun. Looking towards his opponent, he sighed to himself, seemingly resigned to what had occurred. Lancer could probably feel it as well. After all, the person who was anchoring him to this world had been killed.

“So that is how it ends, huh? I’m sorry it had to be this way, Lancer. hope we can one day have our rematch in another time and another world. Although I know not who you are, your spearman-ship is second-to-none. If this lowly man can stand up against a hero of your caliber for even a moment, I consider myself honored.”

Sylvester said, a melancholic hold taking place upon his breath. After all, he was a Heroic Spirit. The method for victory was something that he never really considered to have mattered, so long as it was the most efficient path one could take.

Going after the Master would be the most efficient way to defeat a Servant, but for some reason, this circumstance left Rider with a bad taste on his mouth. He did not completely understand why, but he knew he wished this situation would not have ended in such a way.

“I’ll see you later, old man.”

An outstretched hand behind him waved off the person Sylvester considered to be a “worthy adversary”, saluting the man and honoring him in his own, strange way. Like a cowboy riding off into the sunset, Lancer’s dream was over, and only Rider’s remained.

That is what it meant to have a dream of one’s own; one must risk their lives if they wanted to hold the Holy Grail.

His Master knew this fact.

Lancer knew this fact.

Lancer’s Master knew this fact.

But most importantly of all, he knew this fact.

His opponent’s spiritual core was disappearing back into the aether it belonged to. Rider did not need to see the end of his foe. The victory was his. And so, he returned back to his Master.

Lancer’s Master had sunk into “nothing”, and so it was time for the two to make haste.

It was quite a thing to see one’s Servant be manhandled so easily. The way in which this Berserker flung Saber into the air, with a casual movement of one arm, was as terrifying as it was unexpected; this was not someone that they should make their enemy.

Luckily it appeared that Saber had a prior connection to this Servant, a relationship forged while they were still alive; the name Saber had called out, coupled with their familiarity was enough for Cleo to learn Berserker’s identity, to remember portions of the stories she had read about the Paladins when researching her likely Servant. Ogier’s arrival had distracted the Berserker for the moment, Roland more caught up in the happy reunion than he was in his bizarre quest to kidnap Noon’s familiar.

Perhaps they could end this peacefully and with another ally on their side, albeit an unpredictable one.

"NOW YOU CAN HELP ME KILL THIS SARACEN AND CLAIM A PRIZE FOR MY LOVE!"

Or perhaps things would not be that simple.

“Saber, can you try and talk some sense into him? No… never mind, forget I asked. Divert his attention at least, keep him from killing Ywain.” Cleo spoke through her connection to Saber rather than call out during this delicate moment. The last thing she wanted was Roland’s attention on herself, when Ogier was keeping him distracted and non-violent for the moment.

@Danchou@SSW@ManyThings

----




A minute? Lancer was supposed to hold out against this beast for a whole minute?

He’d pushed back against the Berserker, not managing to land a hit but at least putting her on the defensive for the moment. He was slower than he should have been, his attacks lacking their usual snap or punch as the knight managed to block or dodge or parry them. His injuries made him sloppy, his arms felt liable to fly off with each swing of his spear and his legs ready to buckle under his own weight. His White Jade was doing its best to keep him together, this brief reprieve as Berserker was unable to attack him giving the item enough time to close his cuts and begin healing the minor fractures in his battered bones.

And then, all at once, he felt a rush of energy flow through his body from the ground beneath his feet. His Master’s healing had reached him, strength returning to his limbs and pain fading as his spear suddenly began to move faster and with more precision. It wasn’t enough to turn the fight around in his favour, but it might be enough to buy his Master the time he needed.

Berserker roared and slammed her sword into the ground, the edge of it catching his spear behind the head and dragging it down with it, pinning the Aram spear to the ground beneath the sword as the latter buried itself in the pavement. With another surge of that powerful aura Berserker slammed her hand down on the haft of his spear, Lancer releasing the weapon a moment before the blow was struck so that the weapon was slammed into the ground rather than being wrenched from his grip with the same result.

Lancer jumped away, abandoning his weapon for the moment as he sought distance from his opponent. There was no chance he would be able to retrieve his spear while Berserker still pinned it to the ground; his only hope of getting it back would be to lure the other Servant away from it. That was easier said than done however, he was without a weapon now and without the innate protection it offered. All he had was his bare hands, a magic rock, and his magecraft.

As a child Lancer had been taught the magic of his homeland. An old man had appeared to him in a dream, teaching his magecraft, martial arts and granting him the strength he needed to save his father’s kingdom from the demon that had taken it over. It had never been his forte, but that knowledge would serve as his weapon now.

Tapping into the mana at his disposal, Jangar began to weave the spell together before launching it at the Berserker. It was a quick and dirty attack; the speed of his opponent would allow nothing else, a simple assault on the Servant’s spiritual nature using the Shamanistic practises of his homeland. An assault on her very connection to this world, seeking to harm and weaken. Banishing evil spirits was something all Shamans should know how to do and Jangar had a feeling this Servant qualified.

@floodtalon@ItMeGritty@KoL

---

...killed someone.

He had killed someone.

It had been that easy?

No, not easy. He had called upon the might of the Orchelas's god. He would not call it 'easy', that was both a disgrace to the god, and to the poor man who had fallen. He could not call it that when he had grazed so close to death. If the opponent was stronger, more prepared, or more meticulous, he would likely be the one dead.

Not easy, then, but 'simple'. He had thought killing would be more. He had half expected his heart to give out, his mind to go white, his soul to strain to a point of breaking, but there was none of that. Save for the guilt that he carried of having taken a life, he felt no different than he had moments earlier.

The thought terrified him. What he had done was surely evil, and if others could kill just as easily, that was a nightmare like no other. Was there no justice in this world? A world where one could commit evil so casually, it was hardly a wonder that there were those steeped in evil, those who hurt others for their own benefit, those who killed.

...but, was he really any better now? He had just killed someone. The enemy magus, regardless of that they had tried to kill him first, had been another person. They too had dreams, aspirations, loved ones, and he had snuffed that all out. That person's smile would never again grace the world. He had killed someone for his own benefit, so-

He forced that feeling down. He swallowed that utter revulsion. Yes, even though an Orchelas cannot be evil, he had absolved himself to commit evil.

For the sake of his family. For the sake of the ones who came before and the ones who will come after, he would stain his hands with evil.

"I'm sorry. I pray that you find peace in whatever world may come after."

He would not denigrate the dead, but nor could he afford to hesitate now. If he allowed himself to break merely from this, then that would be all. That would be a disgrace to the man he had killed. For the sake of uplifting his family, for the sake of the Orchelas reaching Enlightenment, for the sake of seeing his children cast off all their evils before age caused his own soul to rot and his mind to fall apart, he would not hesitate.

He had been careless. That heartfelt offer, that request that the other not participate in the battle, had been nothing short of genuine. Cerzelium truly had no intention of fighting, for doing that risked that he would take a life.

...how foolish.

Had he not known that doing so against a magus was suicide? That was an invitation to the enemy to prepare their strongest attack to bring him down in a single blow. In this very battle, his kindness was used as a dagger to be pointed at his own throat. Kindness? No, cowardice, his hesitance and weakness to commit evil had nearly been his undoing. He had nearly died because of his weakness.

So, he would bury that weakness down. He would encase it in layer after layer of resolve. He would seal away his hesitation, his cowardice, his desire for a happy ending, because in death this man had taught him a valuable lesson. Those thoughts had no place in a carnival of evil such as this.

"...my friend, let us depart."

In that moment, he resolved himself.

Cerzelium Orchelas will turn his mind to steel, and acquire the Holy Grail.

Foreign District, Near a Tree

---

Ogier held the apprehensive calmness of a lion tamer during his interaction with Roland. He allowed himself to be grabbed and thrown without resistance, all the while reading carefully for any sign of actual violent intent. He grabbed a lamppost as he flew through the air, denting it, but then holding onto it with one hand and foot like a sailor hanging off of a mast and watching for a coming storm.

Sadness touched him as he saw what his friend had been reduced to. Roland's mind held no thought of justice, of the Emperor, nor of the Lord. The hero was consumed by nothing but love for a woman. Had Angelica been summoned as well, then? Or was it Astolfo in a dress? Given Roland's state, there was just about no feminine person who Ogier would've been surprised to learn Roland had mistaken for his love.

Moreover, he hadn't bumped fists with him! Truly, his mind was beyond repair.

"I don't know of any Saracen around here, my friend. That man is a brave knight who joined me in battle just now. Let me introduce Sir Noon and his Servant: Saber. They're on a righteous quest to reclaim Sir Noon's scabbard from a coward who stole it."

Ogier dropped back to the ground. The tone he spoke with was a calming but sturdy one, born from experience with the maddened Roland during his lifetime.

"Of course I'll help you on your quest as well, brother-in-arms, but what would your love say if she knew you were treating a lady this way? It seems to me you'd be better off seeking and destroying some foul villain."

Ogier hid the tension in his body quite well. He really didn't have the best understanding of what would or wouldn't set Roland off, so as he spoke casually he was also prepared to spring into action.

---

Core District, Desperate

(Temporary Player Change)

---

Lancer lunged forwards as Rider prepared his attack. Even if he ended up in a bad way, it would be worth it to prevent Rider from saving his Master's life. He couldn't win against this man, but if his anchor to this world disappeared, he wouldn't have to.

Indeed, a Servant with no Master was lost, regardless of their fighting power. How dearly he now wished it weren't so.

Rider was no longer moving to attack, and Lancer saw Hemlock slump lifelessly out of the line of sight provided by the apartment window. Immediately, his supplies disappeared.

"...Well, damn. We got too greedy and screwed the pooch, eh, Master?" He said to no one in particular.

If he could only have a second chance, he would surely regain his honour. He would accept anything, no matter how tenuous.

The Prince of Troy disengaged one last time, vanishing into the night.

The goliath of a Berserker kept his eyes on Saber, but it wasn't a cautious or suspicious look. It was one of excitement. An excitement of knowing someone, and an excitement of knowing with absolute certainty. 'There is something fun in this world still.' Also he wasn't nearly pretty enough to take Angelica's love. A bonus. _{Just imagine a tiny Roland giving a thumbs up in agreement to that statement.}

"I don't know of any Saracen around here, my friend. That man is a brave knight who joined me in battle just now. Let me introduce Sir Noon and his Servant: Saber. They're on a righteous quest to reclaim Sir Noon's scabbard from a coward who stole it."

There was a pause, and Berserker looked at the Saracen. Armor... Check. Sword... Check... Saracen? Apparently not. BUT WHAT IF HE WAS AND HAD JUST TRICKED OGIER!? UGH THE HEAD HURTS! He stomped his foot, arms spreading a bit wider, eyes narrowed at this Saracen. But if he wasn't a saracen, then he was a friend of Ogier. That meant he might not be a threat to his love. This meant another person willing to give themselves to the cause!
"Friend of Ogier is friend of me!" Berserker declared, before reaching out for Ywain. The threat was minimal, but it all depended on if Ywain could survive a hug from a Berserker. Or if his bones would shatter under the pressure. If he dodged, that was fine. Roland would probably chase after him for a bit, constantly trying to hug Ywain as Ogier kept talking.

"Of course I'll help you on your quest as well, brother-in-arms, but what would your love say if she knew you were treating a lady this way? It seems to me you'd be better off seeking and destroying some foul villain."

Wait, was Ogier telling him he couldn't have his fairy tree!? Berserker's hugging chase made a pause, and he scowled at the idea of having to give up on his fairy tree. But there was another option. Destroy a villain! "I will slay an enemy for my love!" He declared, stomping his foot and making another swipe for Ywain. "And then she will love me! FIND ME THIS VILLAIN! I WILL SLAY THEM ALL!" His mind having moved on from the fairy tree, since there was a new way to prove his love! FOR SURE THIS ONE WOULD WORK OUT PERFECTLY!

In his hand was his sword, materalizing suddenly. The glorious Durandal. The shining blade that had no equal. He finally stopped trying to hug Ywain, and stepped towards his fellow Paladin. "I WANT TO DESTROY MY ENEMY AND THEN ANGELICA CAN LOVE ME!"

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


"Actually, Nobukara, I have an idea." It was a brilliant plan actually. Something for everybody. Chieko really was a once inn a lifetime genius. "Tomo-Kun and I are more than capable of taking care of your leg. I even have Tatsu-chan coming in tomorrow. She's a lot more focused on that healing stuff. So, maybe our servants should run around town. Have a drink. Learn a bit about each other." There was a smile on Chieko's lips, clearly interested in spending some alone time with her former pupil.

It wasn't even a conversation, as Chieko scooped up Nobukara's arm, and began to march off. "Nanashi, Archer. I expect both of you to go run off! Have fun! Get drunk! Maybe go fight somebody! I'm sure there is somebody out there you two can spend time with. I'm sure "

From there, it wasn't hard to simply walk away. A servant wasn't needed, since after all it was poor taste to attempt to kill somebody you had taught anyway. And Chieko certainly wasn't about to waste a chance at a lot of money just because it was convenient. And Nobukara was in no position to attack Chieko either. So both servants could run off happy with the knowledge that the two masters were going to get along fine. Oh... And Tomo-kun was there too... I guess.

-----------------------------------
"So, Miss Nobukara, what do you think of our makeshift shrine?" Chieko said, as she was already working on that leg. It wasn't exactly hard to tell that something was already going on. The lightning burns were obvious. It was clearly a bad look, and even worse? It was clearly a serious threat. Nobukara has lucked out that this was the only serious damage. Burns, clearly some of the muscle was damaged. It was out of her skill to simply undo something like this. Well, not in the time the war was designated for.

"So, I can certainly ease the pain, and you'll be walking without a limp. But it's some serious muscle damage." She said, with a hand hovering over a nasty lightning scar. "You won't be doing kickflips immediately. I suggest we start looking into other options if you need something fast." There was a slight huff to the way she said that. Oh, what she wouldn't give to be a three hundred year old persian man with a severe case of chronic backstabbing disorder right now... Wait, why was she getting that specific?

---

Traversing the sewers, Isidore lead the way for his newfound allies as he peeked through each corridor, scrutinizing every nook and cranny for a suitable place to have a proper meeting at. A normal man would easily be lost in such a damp maze, but the Atlas alchemist was able to maintain his bearing by utilizing his memory of the city above to get a rough idea of what lies beneath. Of course, through his own photographic memory, Isidore was also capable of mapping off the entire sewer system itself. Ideally, he would find himself at another section of the Paris Underground, though it would also be quite interesting if they were to find themselves in the catacombs. Perhaps Caster would find some suitable mats there?

Of course, wherever they would find themselves at, it would be a bad idea to return home at this time. Of course, such a dangerous gathering of knights would surely spell the end for Isidore and his Servant if they were found. No, he needed to evade their detection for now, or at least until his pursuers are all dead.

We'll need to find a new base for now. Retrieve the sheath if possible, Assassin. If that isn't possible, then I trust your judgement in handling the situation. Either way, leave them with nothing.

Turning to Caster as he ordered his own Servant to depart for now, Isidore put out a hand.

"It seems we will need to take a slight detour for now. May I request that you make a suitable place for us to hide now? It will be troublesome if we were attacked by that group."

His wounds knit together, his second wind finally kicking in as his Master pleaded for just one minute. The spear and sword slammed into the ground, the weight of the two legendary objects shattering the earth and peppering them both with shards of concrete and stone. His hands left the spear an instant before her own collided with the shaft, shaking the weapon as the rest of it plummeted to the broken ground below. The spear clattered onto the ground, he leapt backwards to try and make space between them, he had been deprived of his only defense. She stared holes through her prey, it was over before he even knew what happened.



Berserker's aura of mana flared up around her one last time, giving Lancer absolutely no time to react. There would be no weaving of spells, there would be no assault on her spiritual core, his world erupted into pain and blood as Berserker disappeared and then reappeared directly in front of him. She had let go of her Clarent, leaving it impaled in the ground on top of Aram so she could use both her hands. Her right was clutched to his throat with a bone crushing vice grip, lifting him up into the air as she panted with exhaustion like a mad dog finishing it's hunt. She stared into his soul as her grip tightened, the bones in his neck creaking as she pushed her other hand further. Her left hand was in his chest, no, it was through his chest completely now, she had punched a hole directly through him and had not withdrawn her hand quite yet. It was around this time that Lancer would probably notice the distinct lack of a heart in his body, along with 75 percent of his lungs being missing.

She grunted with exertion as she tore out her arm with ferocity, further damaging what few organs Lancer had left as her aura died out completely. But she wouldn't need it for this last blow, she wound her left hand back just enough, just enough so she could properly crush the skull of Lancer with a single blow. His blood dripped off of her, the scent of iron heavy in the air as Berserker screamed and thrust her clenched fist directly into Lancer's face. His nose broke first, but after that his skull was completely evaporated all at the same time. And as she struck his face, all he would know is darkness and pain. And after that passed, nothing remained of the Khan known as Jangar.

Did they... win? The realization of what happened came to Madhisi as Berserker's rage subsided enough to allow her to do more than prop herself against a tree.

Berserker... defeated the enemy Servant. A clean victory without causing any excess damage.

Their second victory. The thought alone was enough to make Madhisi sigh a sigh of relief.

"However, there's still more to do," she said to herself.

Maybe this mage that tried to ambush her could be useful for them. Without his Servant, he was as good as dead, anyway. Making use of him was the smartest thing to do.

"Well done, Berserker. You really impressed me. Now, capture the enemy. Don't kill him yet, but if he tries to do resist, you are free to crush his limbs. Once you do, bring him back to me," Madhisi said over her telepathic link with Berserker as she walked back to the museum, to fetch a knife. She would need it for the curse she had in mind.

---

---

@floodtalon@ItMeGritty@King Cosmos

Jackson could feel Jangar suddenly in grave danger.

"Jangar get out of-"

It was too late. He could hear the awful noise of a fist being thrust through a chest just a few feet away, blood splattering on the road. He covered his mouth, dropping the doll he had been working on. He slide down the wall of the building he had been leaning on as his Servant's presence began to fade from the world. As Berserker wound up for the final blow he sent a message to the Lancer...

"I...I'm sorry Jang...we were ill-prepared. It's all my fault. I leapt before looking. I hope...you find your home in the next life..."

The awful sound of a head exploding shook the American to his very core. It seemed his dream of a united world had been dashed upon rue along with his Servant's visceral remains before dissolving into nothing. He held his breath, all to aware that just feet away there was an exceptionally powerful Berserker who could make quick work of him. He sat, quaking in fear, praying.

My world...

---

Meanwhile...




Honda kicked his spear out of the ground, the ground offering no resistance to it's incredibly sharp blade. He began to spin it. He felt honoured to be face to face with someone from his era, even if they were from an enemy clan. He had never encountered Yukimura in life, but had learned of his exploits and his successful defence of Osaka Castle. Honda himself had accomplished a similar feat. Maybe in another life they would have been close friends. Still, the inkling of camaraderie he had with the samurai before him did not mean he would hold back. Far from it in fact. So far he's had two unsatisfactory fights in this Grail War, both where he was forced onto the defensive by overwhelming attacks. Now it was his turn to go on the offensive. Although the feats of the Last Samurai were impressive, Honda knew for a fact he wouldn't have anything that could resist a decisive blow from a legendary weapon.

"Since you already know who I am, there's no reason to not lead with this..."

He charged the Six Coins Rider, spinning the spear quickly like a buzzsaw and looking to slice the Servant in half. This was his Noble Phantasm and an elegantly simple one at that. During his military service he had obsessively maintained his spear, sharpening it whenever he got the opportunity, sometimes for hours on end. This rendered the cutting edge so thin that a dragonfly landing on it would be split in twain. The blade was deadly sharp as is, but this unlocked it's true legendary cutting potential. The very air around Rider would be sliced as razor winds would close in on him.

"TONBOKIRI!"

---

@The World@floodtalon@King Cosmos@KoL