Yggdmillennia had naturally drafted multiple predicted invasion routes when constructing their battle plans.
Would the enemy charge through the city streets?
Or advance through the forest as before?
Modern magi were largely incapable of flight, yet since the opponent consisted of Servants, the possibility of an aerial assault had also been considered.
However—
They had not, in their wildest estimates, imagined the enemy would come dragging an entire territory with them.
Archer, standing atop the castle wall, caught sight of it through Clairvoyance.
Rider, beside him, perceived it through his own monstrous, inhuman eyesight.
"So… this makes us fortress-owners on both sides, doesn't it,"
Archer murmured.
Rider planted a hand on his hip and laughed boldly.
"Heh. Honestly, it makes things easier! They brought their whole domain to us—that's their entire fighting force in one place. Saves us the effort of searching."
"Indeed. From the beginning, clashing with full force is the natural conclusion of this Great Holy Grail War. Nothing to fear at this point."
Unlike a normal Holy Grail War—where Servants fought individually—this was a direct confrontation between two defined armies.
If they continued skirmishing, they risked being encircled and crushed.
To force decisive, one-on-one engagements, a total war was required.
Especially since they held the home advantage—the Millennia Fortress.
The Red side could not accomplish anything through piecemeal assaults.
"So, Archer—can you shoot it down?"
"Don't ask the impossible. With that kind of mass, even an anti-fortress Noble Phantasm might not suffice."
"Yeah, figured."
The scale of the moving fortress was beyond absurd.
It was equivalent to suspending the entire Millennia stronghold in the air.
"Archer… then it's beginning?"
Fiore, standing beside him, spoke with a faint tremor in her voice.
It was almost imperceptible—any ordinary person would see only her resolute composure.
But because Archer stood at her side as her Servant, he alone sensed that tiny flicker of fear.
"Yes. It appears the enemy has made their preparations. A reversed citadel… Nebuchadnezzar II, or perhaps Semiramis. Likely their Assassin or Caster.
A troublesome thing to pull out."
He continued:
"Fiore… from this point forward, the battle will be centered entirely around Servants. The enemy Masters will almost certainly not show themselves.
You must return inside the fortress."
"Archer speaks correctly, Fiore. The enemy has chosen this method of attack—we must leave the rest to them."
With a thump, Darnic landed lightly upon the wall.
"It seems the enemy has summoned dragon-tooth warriors. Likely to counter our golems and homunculi."
He spoke as though he had witnessed it firsthand—somehow, he had already scouted the enemy's preparations.
A reckless man indeed.
"Uncle…"
"Magi have no place in a Servant-to-Servant clash. Our only task now is to avoid hindering them."
If the enemy Masters ventured out individually, that would be another matter—but since they had come with their entire base, there was virtually no chance of that.
The enemy Masters were surely sealed in the safest point:
The vantage point that overlooked the battlefield—
the aerial fortress itself.
"Darnic. As you say, this is now our—Servants'—battle. Enter quickly."
Brilliant particles gathered into human shape.
Vlad III
Lancer of Black
The Black Lancer appeared with a fearsome smile, glaring up at the floating fortress—
Hanging Gardens of Babylon — The Vanity of the Sky-Borne Garden.
"They invade my land with such an abominable fortress… and scatter such filthy skeleton soldiers besides."
Rage surged through Lancer—not simply as a Servant, but as the ruler of this region of Romania.
This land was his domain.
Invading it marked the enemy unmistakably as invaders—
no different from the Ottoman Turks whom he despised above all else.
The Black Lancer, who fought invaders all his life, felt a bitter nostalgia.
A battle with no chance of victory—
yet surrender had never once been an option.
And by winning a battle with not even one chance in ten-thousand, he became a hero.
Thus, even with their fortress breached—
Despair was impossible.
Even if gods of the Age of Gods descended upon this land—
a Lancer with his feet upon Romanian soil could not be defeated.
"Lord of the land—we will retreat into the fortress. And since the enemy has taken position there, we may fight with the town at our backs.
Unleash your full strength."
Darnic bowed deeply and disappeared inside.
"Archer—your opponent is…"
"Rider, of course. No one but I can match that one."
Rider of Red — Achilles.
A hero known across the entire world.
His parameters far surpassed Archer's.
"Do not worry. Even if the enemy is a great hero, what I must do does not change.
And more importantly—there is no possibility that the Servant summoned by you is anything less than the strongest."
He declared this boldly.
Fiore gasped softly.
It was the very same thing Archer had once told her.
And he had proven it—
in two battles against Red Saber,
and in his brief clash with Red Rider.
A Servant's true strength could not be measured by parameters or fame alone.
Despite his handicap—being a future Heroic Spirit with no established legend—
he had stood equal to mythic heroes.
Reckless? Perhaps to others.
But not to Fiore.
"Very well, Archer. I won't say anything more.
…Everything is in your hands."
She turned and descended into the fortress.
Wind brushed the wall, scattering a shimmer of particles—
Berserker of Black — Frankenstein.
Carrying a mace as tall as herself, she stared silently at the distant fortress.
Caster of Black — Avicebron.
Standing one step behind, with the captured Red Berserker shackled beside him.
His face remained hidden behind a mask, but he too was a Heroic Spirit—with no hint of fear.
And then—
Saber of Black — Siegfried.
Standing quietly with his holy sword lowered.
In total: Seven.
This was the full strength of the Black faction.
Small in number—countable on two hands—
yet their presence, their dazzling brilliance, outshone even the armies of great nations.
"Everyone is here,"
Lancer said, stepping forward.
"Rider—command the homunculi and golems."
"Roger!"
Rider beat his chest with a bright grin.
"Archer—your role is to restrain Red Rider. Only you can face him."
"I shall endeavor to meet expectations."
Red Rider could only be harmed by Archer's Noble Phantasm.
It was imperative he encounter no other Servants.
Thus, from the outset, Archer's role had been fixed.
"Caster will remain here. The timing for releasing Red Berserker is yours to decide."
Caster nodded.
Handling Berserker required more caution than operating golems.
He was connected only by a chain of mana supply—and this Berserker was classified as such not because he lacked thought, but because his entire thought process revolved solely around rebellion.
A far cry from the usual mindless Berserkers.
If his Master contradicted him, he could very well rebel of his own will.
The most troublesome Servant of all.
"Ah, and Lancer—naturally you cannot go to war on foot. I have prepared a horse."
"Oh?"
Lancer looked at him with interest.
"An artificial one, of course."
"All the better. Ordinary horses couldn't keep up."
Caster, being a master of golem-craft, had created a horse-shaped golem—
a patchwork of bronze and iron, its sapphire and ruby eyes gleaming ominously.
"Splendid."
Lancer mounted it with satisfaction.
"Saber—your opponent will be Red Lancer?"
Saber nodded silently.
A blessing.
Only Red Lancer had ever dented his dragon-slaying armor—
and without even unleashing a Noble Phantasm.
A rematch was his deepest desire.
"Berserker—slay the enemy before your eyes. Rampage as your instincts demand."
"Uuuh… uiiiii…"
Grasping Lancer's words with the faint rationality remaining to her, Berserker gripped the edge of the wall, ready to leap.
Lancer exhaled.
"Now, comrades—the time to determine victory and defeat has come.
You all understand without me saying it: this war demands killing and being killed.
Are you prepared?"
None answered aloud—
because they had always known.
Summoned to a war requiring total annihilation of the enemy, there was no need to vocalize resolve.
"The enemy counts six Servants. Their Berserker is in our hands, but ultimately disposable.
Their real numbers equal ours.
Red Lancer fights Saber evenly.
Red Rider can only be harmed by Archer's Noble Phantasm.
Their great fortress is controlled by Assassin or Caster.
Every one of them is a formidable foe."
He surveyed the battlefield, the sky-borne fortress, and his steadfast companions.
"Is anyone here afraid?"
Of course not.
Everyone except Red Berserker expressed denial in their own way.
"That is what makes you heroes. Each of you has overcome trials.
If so—
how could a hardship of this level possibly stop you?"
His voice rang with strength.
Encircled by Ottoman invaders and still victorious, Lancer did not see this as a crisis at all.
The enemy had indeed penetrated their territory,
their blades sharpened for the king's head—
Very well, then.
Come if you dare.
What awaited them was—
The relentless king.
Vlad III — the Impaler.
The terror of invaders.
"They are barbarians. Defilers of others' lands—stealing wealth and staining the earth with blood.
Such vermin must be disciplined—thoroughly."
Clear and simple:
Leave none alive.
"I'll take the vanguard."
Lancer leapt from the fortress mounted on the golem horse.
Caster's constructs were robust—such a fall meant nothing.
Lancer lacked the Riding skill, yet sheer horsemanship allowed him to guide the golem steed.
He landed smoothly and began walking across the plain.
A battlefield.
He had not felt this pulse in so long—yet now his fighting spirit blazed.
Once, on this same Romanian land, he faced twenty thousand enemies.
And now, revived in temporary form, he returned again.
This time there were only six foes—
stronger individually than the Ottomans, yes—
but he felt no fear of defeat.
In life, he was undone only by lack of manpower.
Had he possessed a single hero capable of facing an army,
he would not have needed the stake.
Remembering those days, Lancer felt fortunate.
He had excellent warriors by his side now.
Behind him marched the homunculi and golems under Rider's command.
Even Red Berserker, bound yet straining, was brought forward.
Archer had already vanished—
surely lying in wait for Red Rider.
Black Berserker had taken distance to avoid harming allies when she unleashed her final blow.
Both armies were now arranged.
Next would be—
"Now then… how will they come?"
Lancer murmured, glaring at the floating fortress.
■
The Red faction too had completed their preparations.
Facing the impressive array of enemy forces, their war spirit naturally rose.
Red Archer—Atalanta—nocked two arrows to her divine bow, Tauropolos.
A name of Artemis, meaning "slayer of bulls."
A supreme gift from the goddess of the hunt.
"With my bow and arrows, I offer prayer for the blessing of the Sun God and Moon Goddess."
Bathed in the cold light of late-autumn moonshine, Archer released both arrows.
Her Noble Phantasm was not her bow, nor her arrows—
but the very technique of drawing and releasing them.
Phoibos Catastrophe — Complaint Message of Accusation.
She offered the enemies' lives in exchange for divine favor.
The arrows soared high—
then transformed into a rain of death.
Moonlit droplets, each one imbued with crystallized killing intent.
Countless shining arrows poured downward.
A single arrow killed homunculi instantly;
even the toughest golems shattered under the barrage.
She had spread the attack over a wide area—
so density was insufficient to wound Servants.
They evaded, parried, or withstood the rain.
Blood-red flowers bloomed upon the ground.
Gazing coldly upon the carnage she had wrought, Archer turned.
"The clearing is done. Your turn—Rider."
"On it!"
Brimming with joy, Rider sprinted forward.
Archer's duty had always been to seize the initiative.
So she begrudgingly ceded the first charge to Rider.
Leaping from the airborne fortress, he whistled sharply.
At once, a mighty war chariot descended—drawn by three grand horses—and carried him aboard.
"Now then—let the battle begin.
I, Rider of Red, shall lead the charge!"
The chariot plunged swiftly toward the battlefield.
Waiting below: battle homunculi and war golems—creatures built to crush magi with ease.
Rider laughed broadly.
"You think this rabble—
—can stop me?"
A gale tore through the ranks.
Nothing remained in his wake but pulverized bodies and scattered rubble.
Terrifying force.
Specially-modified homunculi and one-ton golems—products of the greatest golem mage—were shattered instantly.
Two of his horses were immortal divine steeds granted by Poseidon himself.
The third, though mortal, was a famed noble horse.
Two beasts capable of killing Servants on their own.
Three beasts whose combined charge could not be stopped by any ordinary method.
Destruction was impossible.
Brute force was meaningless.
Only tricks could stop him.
Black Caster watched the devastation without panic.
"It will not be so easy for you, Rider of Red."
He flicked his fingers.
Three golems manifested before the charging chariot.
Not especially strong or durable—
and Rider knew it.
With a click of his tongue, he moved to crush them—
But Caster's golems were not mere lumps for punching.
At the moment of contact, the golems dissolved into viscous slime,
coiling around the divine horses' legs—
then hardened instantly.
A special restraint—capable even of binding Red Berserker.
Even Achilles' immortal horses could not escape.
The chariot lost speed and halted.
Homunculi rushed in.
A Rider whose mounts were trapped should have been weakened—
But this Rider was no ordinary one.
"Tch—annoying."
He tore out his sword and, twisting his body, cleaved the approaching homunculi in one stroke.
He was a Rider, yes—
but possessed a monstrous body and skill that needed no chariot to slaughter.
As he cut them down easily, a gleam of gold flickered through the trees—
Between the brows.
No proof, but certain.
He spun his spear in one hand—
and struck aside the flying divine blade aimed for his head.
"So, you've come—Archer."
He grinned savagely.
In the Black army, only Archer could wound him—
thus their confrontation was inevitable.
"Black Archer—
I've come to reclaim the duel I entrusted to you."
Unseen, Archer answered by sending a streak of golden light.
But Rider already knew this opponent.
He easily deflected the Noble Phantasm arrow with his spear.
"As always—chock-full of Noble Phantasms.
Come on—let me see your face properly!"
Normally, he should have broken the restraints and continued charging—
as his duty was not only to strike first, but to clear a path for the rest.
But that required exposing his back to the enemy in the forest—
an intolerable affront to a hero's pride.
A hero does not turn his back.
This was Achilles.
Born of a great hero and a goddess,
companion of honored comrades,
he would never ignore a worthy foe.
He dismissed his chariot into spirit form and strode into the forest alone.
■
Black Lancer, though summoned in the spearman class, bore no weapon in hand.
He was no swordsman, spearman, archer, or cavalryman.
His legend was not of martial prowess, but of unmatched tactical genius—
and the feat of repelling the Ottoman Empire—
which earned him a seat among Heroic Spirits.
A Lancer unlike any other.
Why, then, was he summoned as a lancer?
Because, according to the historical record he embodied—
the lance was the only fitting class.
Though it was not a spear
nor a weapon to wield in the hand—
indeed, not originally a weapon at all.
He raised both hands as though commanding troops.
Before him, countless dragon-tooth warriors.
To him, mere vermin.
"Now then—barbarians who trample my land—
your punishment begins.
Know that mercy and wrath alike shall become burning stakes that pierce you—
and that their number… is truly infinite."
Magic burst from him.
Kazikli Bey
— The Lord of Execution.
The skeleton soldiers likely never understood what happened.
A tremor.
The next moment—
they were impaled from below by countless slender stakes erupting from the earth.
Displayed like executed criminals,
their bodies collapsed into clattering bones.
It took less than a second to annihilate every dragon-tooth warrior nearby.
Without pausing to confirm, Lancer spurred his horse.
As predicted, Archer was already engaging one of the enemy's two main flanks—Red Rider.
Next would come either Lancer or Archer—
Or both.
In the distance, he saw two shadows sprinting across the battlefield—
Red Lancer, in radiant golden armor with a divine spear.
And Red Archer, who had launched the opening attack.
He unleashed a wave of stakes toward them.
Red Archer's speed faltered.
She slipped through the forest of stakes and released a flowing arrow.
It was intercepted by another stake before reaching Lancer.
Another two arrows—also denied.
A wall of stakes—
an impenetrable shield.
"What a troublesome one…"
Red Archer clicked her tongue and loosed more arrows.
For her, archery was the only means.
A Servant protected by stakes.
In all history and myth,
there was only one hero who could wield stakes in this manner.
Vlad III—beyond doubt.
She fired as she dodged,
while Red Lancer assisted with wide swings of his sacred spear.
"Black Lancer—Vlad III, I presume."
"Ho… one who speaks my name must be the Red Lancer."
A duel between Lancers.
Impossible in an ordinary Grail War—
yet here they stood, facing one another.
Black Lancer summoned more stakes.
Red Lancer shattered them effortlessly.
"So these stakes are your Noble Phantasm…
But this number is unnatural."
He continued running without stopping.
To halt would make him an ideal target.
A single stake was fragile—
even Red Archer's normal arrows could break one.
But numbers were everything.
What if countless stakes erupted without limit?
That was the true essence of this Noble Phantasm.
Limited radius: 1 kilometer.
Maximum output: 20,000 stakes.
A treasure that embodied the legend of Vlad III—
the Impaler King
who executed twenty thousand Ottoman soldiers upon stakes.
An overwhelming tide of sheer quantity.
Breaking them was futile.
Dodging only bought seconds.
Another wall rose at once.
Red Lancer and Red Archer were forced to keep their distance.
"Then—let the preliminaries end."
Black Lancer snapped his fingers.
A line of stakes surged upward, separating the two Red Servants—
and continued to spread like a blossoming flower,
driving them apart.
Pressed back, Red Lancer found himself circling the perimeter of the stake-forest—
Until suddenly, he saw an opening.
A single place where no stakes rose.
There stood a young man.
"You are…"
For the first time, Red Lancer's expression shifted.
Even while being attacked, he had shown no change of emotion—until now.
Silver hair fluttered in the wind.
A holy sword upon his shoulder.
His opponent at the start of the war:
Black Saber — Siegfried.
"So that was your plan from the start,"
Red Lancer muttered, raising his divine spear.
Black Lancer had intended from the beginning
to send Black Saber against him.
A body capable of enduring his divine spear with only minor injury—
a spirit that refused to break—
a foe with whom he had fought all night without conclusion.
Now—
"It seems we can finally kill each other without interruption."
Siegfried raised his holy sword silently—
his answer.
He did not waste words.
He simply fulfilled his role.
Red Lancer did not mind.
He had no desire for verbal exchange.
This Saber had come to kill him.
That was enough.
Killing intent saturated the air.
The holy clash of wills shook the atmosphere.
Stakes no longer mattered.
The chaos of distant battles faded.
All that existed was—
The hero before him.
No one knew who struck first.
But when they realized it—
Brilliant sparks were already blossoming
within the roaring winds.