The Red Rider — Achilles.
If he was the wieler of that hero-slaying spear, then without doubt, he could only be that man.
From the spear he had analyzed, Archer was already nearly certain of Red Rider's True Name.
Overwhelming immortality.
A three-horse divine chariot.
Agility surpassing even the Lancer class.
And, of course, that spear.
With all that combined, it was only natural for the name Achilles to rise to mind.
So far, only Fiora, Darnic, and Vlad III himself were aware of Archer's analytical capabilities.
"…Well, I suppose I should make a report."
Archer murmured and lowered his bow.
He and Fiore went to visit Darnic and Lancer to deliver their findings from the earlier battle.
"Achilles, is it…? If Rider's identity is that, then his immortality is easily explained."
Darnic fell into a grave expression as he listened.
Achilles—one of the greatest heroes of the Trojan War.
"A hero of Troy's battlefield would all rank as top-tier Servants… and Achilles is exceptional even among them. But we have a thread to follow.
Isn't that right, Archer?"
Lancer looked down from his throne toward Archer.
Archer nodded once.
"Indeed, my king. My ordinary attacks did nothing, but a Noble Phantasm with a legend of slaying gods managed to wound him. In that case, any anti-divine Noble Phantasm—or simply targeting his heel—should work."
Just as Black Saber possessed a vulnerable back, Achilles' weakness was the same as in legend: the heel.
Servants manifest with the weaknesses recorded in myth—it was almost always the case.
"And another matter, Archer. There is something I wish to ask."
Darnic turned fully toward him.
"I don't mind. What is it?"
"Your True Name."
The only Servant whose identity remained completely unknown was Black Archer.
He had claimed confusion in his memories and never spoken his name.
But Darnic wanted to know it urgently—for two reasons.
First:
If Archer resembled Siegfried or Achilles in having a weakness recorded in legend, that weakness could be exploited by accident. Even if the enemy did not know Archer's True Name, misfortune could still strike.
Chiron—who Fiore was originally meant to summon—died from Hydra venom.
Had Chiron been a Servant, they would have had to guard against that poison constantly.
Many Servants had clear vulnerabilities.
And even if not, attributes mattered: dragon-attribute Servants were weak to dragon-slaying swords, for example.
Knowing a True Name was essential for awareness.
Second:
When the Black faction eventually turned on itself, Archer would certainly be an obstacle.
Darnic estimated Archer as dangerous as Saber.
To Darnic's question, Archer grimaced softly.
He sighed.
"…My apologies. My memories still have not returned."
"Even if they haven't, surely you have clues? Considering how many Noble Phantasms you used against Rider."
What Darnic valued—and feared—was Archer's arsenal.
Ordinary Servants held one or two Noble Phantasms.
Even Riders famed for many treasures rarely exceeded a handful.
But Archer's arrows—each one was a Noble Phantasm, dozens of them, spent without hesitation.
That was not normal.
No sane Servant would discard unique armaments like that.
"True. All of those were Noble Phantasms. But tell me—did any look familiar to you?"
"…That is…"
Darnic faltered.
Few people ever saw Noble Phantasms in the first place.
They had no way to recognize them.
Besides, a Heroic Spirit who wielded uncountable treasures existed—Gilgamesh.
But Archer clearly wasn't him.
"And to be precise," Archer added, "those weren't Noble Phantasms in the original sense."
At that, Lancer's eyes gleamed with interest.
"What do you mean by that, Archer?"
"They were imitations. Imitations cannot shine with the luster of a true heroic symbol. Being disposable poses no dilemma."
"Imitations…? Those?"
Even Lancer had sensed no falsehood in Archer's weapons—they had looked exactly like genuine Noble Phantasms.
If Archer said they were fakes, then they were genuine fakes.
"But Noble Phantasm forgeries of that caliber—capable of harming a Servant—can they truly be made so easily?" Fiore asked.
Archer chuckled bitterly.
Even a golem that could last several exchanges with a Servant required Caster's craft.
A fake that could wound a Servant should require impossible effort.
"No particular effort is needed. It is done through magecraft. All that is required is sufficient mana."
"…Magecraft? That was magecraft?"
Fiore tilted her head.
Archer possessed the skill Magecraft, yes—but at low rank.
Fiore had assumed he only had basic training.
But that wasn't it.
His magecraft was analysis, reinforcement, and the creation of imitations.
"…Projection magecraft?" she whispered.
"Ridiculous!"
Darnic reacted instantly.
"A complete projection of Noble Phantasm class items is impossible!"
He was a lecturer of the Clock Tower—no one knew more.
Projection magecraft was a cheap trick—shallow reproductions inferior to tools.
"Darnic," Lancer asked, "what is projection magecraft?"
Lancer had no connection to magecraft in life—only scripture.
He knew nothing of such arts.
"Projection is the magecraft of creating temporary objects from mana.
They are fragile and inferior—projected knives can't even cut meat. They're tools for rituals, nothing more."
"But he is different?"
"Yes. Unthinkably so."
Darnic stared at Archer with open suspicion.
"I cannot recall any Heroic Spirit known for projection magecraft," Archer said quietly. "That is one reason my own name eludes me. A Heroic Spirit who used projection to rise to the Throne… I know no such figure."
"Indeed. Anyone with such power would certainly be classified as Sealing Designation… I would know of them."
No hero of legend matched Archer's abilities.
Projection was not the domain of heroic epics.
"I see… so you are a nameless hero," Lancer concluded.
"Nameless, is it?
That may indeed suit me."
To discard Noble Phantasms endlessly was like holding infinite jokers.
"Projection is not that convenient. What I create is inferior to the originals. I cannot draw out their full power—they are weaker ranks. Hardly infinite trump cards."
Archer lifted his shoulders.
"Well then, I'll excuse myself. If you find anything on projection magi, inform me."
"We'll try," Darnic replied. "Though expectations should be low."
Archer and Fiore took their leave.
On their way back, Fiore asked:
"Archer. You were a mage in life?"
"…Most likely. My teacher called me third-rate even if I trained for life. Aside from basic orthodox magecraft, projection was all I had a talent for."
"Even so—you reached the Throne. That is something to be proud of."
Archer fell silent.
He had reached the Throne through magecraft…
but not because he excelled at it.
Magecraft was only a means.
He'd become a Heroic Spirit due to the accumulation of deeds, not magical talent.
Good deeds or evil—
the world had judged him suitable as a Counter Guardian.
"…Perhaps. But I think I valued something else more than magecraft."
A burning, obsessive ideal.
A dream.
A light he had once pursued.
"But that's all a mirage now. What matters is victory."
"Yes. I'll rely on you, Archer. You are the only one who has managed to wound that Rider."
"To a Greek hero, I may be beneath notice… but I'll give everything I have."
Against such opponents, anything less than full strength meant death.
The Red Saber and Red Lancer were likely great heroes themselves.
The Red faction had truly gathered monsters.
But Archer had no fear.
He had survived hopeless battles far worse.
He was a hero as well.
□
Archer returned to his room after speaking with Fiore.
He was tired from the battle with Rider, but with his abundant mana supply, fatigue faded quickly.
He opened the door—and immediately sensed something wrong.
The homunculus who should have been asleep on the bed was gone.
Caster hadn't captured him.
Which meant Black Rider had likely carried him away.
The timing was perfect—
everyone's attention had been on the battlefield.
Even if the homunculus was spotted, no magus would bother chasing a single mass-produced specimen.
"…But it still bothers me."
He cared.
He had looked after the boy—perhaps not as much as Rider had, but still.
At least he wanted to see him off.
Archer turned spirit-form, left the room, and re-materialized on the rooftop.
He found Rider almost immediately.
With his hawk-like eyes, even kilometers were trivial.
They weren't hiding—just walking plainly through the forest.
Rider's carelessness was astounding.
"What on earth are they doing…"
Worse—
Rider was restrained by Saber.
The homunculus lay collapsed on the ground, barely breathing.
It looked like Saber's Master had brutally beaten him.
Something was very wrong.
A fight could break out between Rider and Saber over the boy.
"All this over a single homunculus… ridiculous."
Archer turned to spirit-form and descended.
□
"Why didn't you act sooner!?
You could have stopped him—you could have stopped that fool!"
Rider shouted, tears streaming down his face.
He knelt beside the homunculus, gripping his frail hand.
The boy was moments from death—no time remained.
He needed proper treatment—but that required magi assistance.
And Rider had fled from those very magi to save him.
"I'm… sorry."
Saber could only apologize.
"Sorry isn't enough!
He only wanted to live!
We may be Soul Eaters—killers—mere Servants—but even so…
to deny someone the right to want to live—!"
Saber had no reply.
As the Hero of Charity, he had granted countless wishes.
But just as many pleas had gone unheard.
He had ignored the unheard, the unspoken—
and died burdened with regrets.
Now reborn, he was repeating the same sins.
Rider was right.
If Saber had taken one step toward his Master…
this outcome might have changed.
He had failed to speak, to plead, to try.
That was his flaw in life—and now again.
"I… was about to tread the wrong path again," Saber whispered.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
The heartbeat of the dragon blood he carried pulsed beneath.
"It's not too late. I still have… a life I can give him."
A life was about to perish because of his hesitation.
Then he must pay for it with his own.
It might lead him down thorns—
but it was all he could do.
"Saber. That's premature."
The voice cutting through his resolve was Archer's.
"Archer—"
Rider turned toward him sharply.
Come to think of it, Archer and Rider often spoke together.
Perhaps Archer already knew of the homunculus.
"Giving away a Servant's core is a last resort. This is not over yet."
Only Archer, who had been watching Saber closely, understood what Saber intended.
Archer walked to the homunculus, knelt, and checked his pulse.
"There's still a heartbeat.
Sturdy, for a homunculus."
Perhaps he had unconsciously reinforced himself with magecraft.
Trace, on.
Beginning structural analysis.
Archer projected his circuits and analyzed the body.
Human bodies resisted magical flow—
but homunculi were his specialty.
Minor organ damage.
Fractured skull and cheekbone.
Internal bleeding.
Severe exhaustion—likely from forced magical use.
"Can you save him?" Saber asked.
Archer nodded.
"I saw injuries worse than this many times in life."
He made instant decisions and began working healing magecraft.
It wasn't high-grade—but it was enough for emergency treatment.
He repaired the identified damage, prioritizing internal wounds.
The boy was badly injured, but not doomed—
not if he acted now.
Archer had learned healing not for glory, but to save fleeting lives slipping through his fingers.
And he knew homunculi well—they were fragile but malleable.
Their bodies could accept rough magical treatment.
He staked his hope on that.
After twenty minutes, the boy's breathing steadied.
He remained unconscious—but no longer dying.
"His stamina will take time to recover. His lifespan is short to begin with.
But for today… he will live."
"Thank—thank god… thank god—!"
Rider collapsed over him, sobbing.
But the problems remained.
Archer's healing was crude, temporary.
He reached into the arsenal of his mind and projected a simple short sword—
not a Noble Phantasm.
"What's that…?" Rider asked.
"Nothing grand. A small dagger with healing enchantments. Even without magic, holding it gives some protection."
He sheathed it and laid it over the boy's chest.
"A charm. It heals and wards off misfortune. Nothing more."
But for the boy, it was enough.
The sword's gentle power would continue mending him.
In life, Archer had seen many mystic codes shaped like blades—tools for ritual.
If he could project true Noble Phantasms, projecting these was trivial.
Keeping it close might extend the boy's life a little.
Magecraft could bend logic.
By morning, he would likely be able to walk.
"Now the rest is up to him."
Archer stood.
The homunculus breathed steadily.
No outward wounds.
The dagger would handle the rest.
There was nothing left he could do.
"Rider."
"…Yeah. I know."
This was where Rider had to stop.
The boy's life, from here on, belonged to the living.
A dead man's protection could not follow further.
"Archer."
Saber finally spoke.
"…Thank you."
"Think nothing of it. I did only what I wished.
But the problems ahead—Caster will surely hate us for this. And your Master… well."
Saber had punched his Master.
That could have consequences.
"I will speak to him. I will make him understand."
"See that you do."
Archer considered what came next.
He would need to justify letting the homunculus escape.
Darnic wouldn't approve—
but Lancer was different.
With Saber, Rider, and Archer aligned, he could likely weather the consequences.