Saber was being pushed toward a decision.
She had ignored her Master's repeated orders to unleash her Noble Phantasm, continuing instead to cross blades with the Red Rider. Her Master was clearly growing impatient.
It wasn't that she was outmatched in technique, nor was she lacking in toughness.
That was precisely why the two of them remained deadlocked. Her own blows would not land—but neither would his. In this stalemate, there truly might be no path forward except a Noble Phantasm.
But that would be a gamble.
If the Rider's protection was the same type as her own—nullifying attacks below a certain rank—then that would be simple enough. In that case, anyone could find an opening through sheer force, and an attack exceeding that defense would still partially penetrate, even if some power was shaved away.
No defense, no matter how absolute, could withstand Balmung.
The phantasmal greatsword, Demonic-Slayer, Dragon-Slayer.
But what if his Noble Phantasm was the other kind—
a protection that simply made him invulnerable unless a specific condition was met?
If so, Balmung would do nothing.
She would be the fool who revealed her own True Name for no effect.
Her Noble Phantasm was to be used only at the very end—only when all other options were exhausted. To use it recklessly would expose not only the weapon's nature, but her identity.
"Damn… attacks really don't land on you, huh."
The Red Rider clicked his tongue and glared.
"Tch. This isn't getting us anywhere."
They had traded blows countless times.
His spear had reached her body again and again, and her sword had hammered into his flesh just as many times—yet they remained uninjured.
He had not even acknowledged Berserker as a threat. For some reason, even Berserker's strikes did not affect him.
By now, both Saber and Berserker understood:
His defense could not be overcome by brute force alone.
A specific condition was required.
Fire, water, wind, lightning…
Or perhaps he was immortal only within a forest, or only at night.
The Black side lacked whatever was necessary, while the Rider clearly knew he couldn't be harmed, and fought with easy confidence.
Saber! He hasn't taken a scratch!
Use your Noble Phantasm—use it NOW!
Her Master's voice rang out.
She could not obey. It would be far too reckless.
Yes, using it would make things clear—
they would see whether her holy blade could wound an immortal hero—
—but failure would be shameful, and ruin their tactical advantage.
Still, a true Heroic Spirit does not falter just because an enemy cannot be harmed. She had known from the start that in a Holy Grail War drawing heroes from all of history, she could meet someone entirely ill-suited for her.
It was no different from that hopeless battle against the evil dragon she once overcame. She simply had to dig in with all her strength.
And this time, unlike back then, she had allies.
Saber, Berserker. Listen carefully.
Archer's voice echoed by familiar transmission.
He had remained in the rear to watch for enemy reinforcements.
I'm about to use my Noble Phantasm. I'll count down.
On my signal, pull away from the Rider.
Saber had witnessed Archer's Noble Phantasm once before—
a twisted, swordlike arrow.
She still didn't know its origin, but its power rivaled anti-army armaments, imbued with a curse-like persistence that ensured it would not stop until it struck its mark. A true arrow worthy of Archer.
With his Noble Phantasm, they could test the Rider's immortality without exposing her own identity.
She could not answer verbally—her Master had forbidden it—but Archer understood her silence as assent and began his countdown.
Three seconds.
Berserker reacted instantly, twisting off the Rider's kick and creating space with unnatural agility.
Saber chose the opposite: advance.
If the Rider sensed a distant Archer charging a shot, he might evade.
The only way to hide the attack was to push forward.
She stepped in, taking the thrust of his spear with her own body.
"…Hmph."
Her blade sank into the Rider's abdomen—
The guillotine-like edge did nothing, as expected.
But shock still traveled through. Her sword could not cut him, yet it had enough force to push him back.
She kicked off the ground, leapt back beside Berserker—
"So, resetting the field?"
He scoffed, spinning his spear.
And then the world exploded.
A roar of thunder cracked behind him.
A brutal, twisted arrow tore the air apart, gouging space itself as it slammed directly into Rider's torso.
He noticed it at the last second—too late.
The instant it struck, it erupted into light and thunder, bursting with the unleashed mystery of a self-shattering Noble Phantasm.
A pillar of blinding radiance roared skyward.
Saber and Berserker recognized it immediately:
Broken Phantasm—a forbidden technique that destroyed the Noble Phantasm to release its full power.
And they realized something else—
This was not the same Noble Phantasm Archer had used against the Red Saber.
That one had been destroyed.
Meaning this was Archer's second Noble Phantasm lost.
Heroic Spirits typically held one or two.
Even a Rider known for variety would rarely exceed that.
To expend them so casually, while seven Servants and likely internal conflict awaited—
it was nearly unthinkable.
A strange distortion rippled around Berserker.
She was absorbing the scattered energy.
Saber looked to the blast crater.
The light faded. Dust swirled.
Archer's Noble Phantasm had been at least A-rank, powerful enough to breach even the scales of Siegfried.
The arrow, plus the force of Broken Phantasm—
Any ordinary Servant would have been vaporized.
Trees uprooted.
Earth hollowed out into a vast crater.
And yet—
"So that was your Archer, huh?"
The Rider's voice echoed through the dust.
"Impressive firepower. I wonder how it compares to the Big Sis."
The dust cleared.
He stood in the center of the crater, not a scratch on him.
"Still… yeah. Doesn't work on me."
Impossible.
Saber hid her frustration behind a neutral expression. Berserker growled low.
Even the Masters were speechless.
Gordes, too, was silent—no more orders to use her Noble Phantasm.
"So? What next, you three?"
He hopped up from the crater, spear over his shoulder, grinning broadly.
■
To be honest, Rider had high expectations for this Holy Grail War.
A grand conflict drawing heroes from every age and continent.
Not a mere Holy Grail War, but a Holy Grail Great War.
Both Red and Black would field their greatest champions.
The Red Rider—Achilles—was among the greatest heroes of all myth.
His name was known worldwide.
And his defining trait was the divine blessing of invulnerability.
His entire body—save for the heel—repelled all weapons.
In life, he endured countless attacks until the moment his heel was pierced.
He slew Hector, a hero equal to himself.
Achilles had come seeking worthy opponents.
Which was why the first skirmish left him disappointed.
Neither the Black Saber nor the Black Berserker possessed Divinity.
They were sturdy, but not threats.
The Black Lancer—Vlad III—was outmatched.
Even the long-range Archer had no Divinity; despite his impressive firepower, Achilles survived it unharmed.
The only promising opponents left were the other Rider, the homunculus-wielding Caster, and—maybe—Assassin.
If, by some fluke, the Black faction lacked a single hero with Divinity, then Achilles alone would end this war.
How boring that would be.
"So? What'll it be? Run? Or keep fighting?"
He truly hoped they would choose the latter.
And indeed—
Black Saber stepped forward.
"Knew you'd come."
A warrior who had battled Vlad to a standstill.
She would not retreat.
And that was fine. Achilles wanted heroes, not cowards.
"Come at me, Saber. Maybe, just maybe—your blade might reach me."
The spear and sword clashed once more.
Still stalemate. Still unwounded.
He considered using his own Noble Phantasm.
The chariot or the spear—both were treasures, not toys.
But against this Saber, he wouldn't mind.
He stepped back—
—and a glint cut through the night.
"…Tch."
A sharp impact on his shoulder.
No damage.
"Archer again? Persistent bastard."
The shots were pointless, but troublesome—
the Archer's aim predicted his movements.
Dodging was meaningless; he let the arrows hit his body, knocked aside the rest with his spear.
These were… odd projectiles.
Golden, silver, red, blue—
each ornate, shaped more like swords than arrows.
Even as a master archer trained by Chiron himself, Achilles had never seen their like.
"What the hell kind of arrows are these? And they're all Noble Phantasms?"
More shocking was the magic within them.
These weren't ordinary weapons.
Every one of them was a Noble Phantasm.
Each twisted blade, each strange edge—
all distinct, all infused with power.
And Archer was exploding them one after another.
Even Achilles was stunned.
Unthinkable.
"What kind of Heroic Spirit ARE you, Archer?"
Fire. Water. Lightning. Wind.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of Noble Phantasms shattered around him, erupting in endless blasts. None harmed him.
Archer was searching. Testing.
Looking for the concept that would pierce Achilles' immortality.
Achilles spun, weaving through a storm of destruction, his instincts aflame.
Then—
A single streak of gold.
He saw it fall toward his face.
And his instincts screamed.
His body moved before thought—jerking his head aside.
A sting.
A thin cut across his cheek.
Silence.
Everyone froze—even Achilles himself.
A wound.
A wound on the invincible body blessed by the gods.
He leapt backward—
—and the ground where he stood was gouged apart by another identical projectile.
Archer had found it.
A concept capable of piercing a god-blessed body.
Now the storm changed.
No longer random bombardment—
every sword in the air was now lethal to him.
Shapes no longer mattered: spear, sickle, blade—
each carried the same divine-killing property.
"Well now… this is getting fun."
Pain surged through him—
but it thrilled him.
Someone in this war could truly harm him.
He would defeat that enemy with his own hands.
"We'll pick this up later, Archer.
Don't die before then."
He could not remain under this barrage.
Not when the Archer had found his weakness.
He must face Archer alone—without interference.
A sharp whistle.
From the sky descended a three-horse chariot—
Xanthos, Balios, and Pedasos—the divine steeds who once carried him across countless battlefields.
He leapt aboard, snapped the reins—
"Hey, Big Sis."
—and scooped up the Red Archer hiding in the trees, carrying her off into the night.
One Rider had taken on three Servants, caused chaos throughout the Black camp, and departed utterly triumphant.
■
After the Rider vanished, Archer finally lowered his bow with a long exhale.
A true hero, that Rider.
And his reckless barrage had paid off.
He had discovered the concept needed to pierce that divine immortality.
"Divine blessing… troublesome, but understandable."
A divine body required a divine-killing weapon.
So of course the arrow that worked must have been anti-god.
Such weapons existed across the world—
and Archer possessed the original forms of most.
With the homunculus supply, his mana was effectively limitless.
Normally, projecting a high-ranked Noble Phantasm consumed vast mana, and projecting a non-sword weapon cost triple.
But with this supply, those constraints were irrelevant.
He could project spears, shields, armor—anything—at Fifth War or better precision.
He could even mass-produce the same anti-god weapon to overwhelm Rider.
He had found the path.
Now he simply had to prepare for the next confrontation with the great hero.