"I've heard the chest armor gets bigger the larger the ship is."
The Black Masters each watched the Servants' battles from whatever place they believed safest.
Some retreated into underground chambers; others sealed themselves inside their own rooms.
None gathered in a single location. If they did, and the enemy managed to break in, they could all be wiped out at once.
More importantly, one's own room was one's own workshop, and another's room was another's workshop.
Aside from a few exceptions, every magus believed that their personal workshop was the safest place for themselves.
The battle erupted in an instant—
and slaughter began upon the grassland, gruesome and ferocious.
No one committed the stupidity of rushing out to assist their Servant.
Within five seconds of the clash beginning, every Master understood:
to stand on this battlefield in one's flesh was no different from being dead already.
Thus, like turtles retreating into their shells, they could do nothing but shut themselves in and watch.
One of the Masters of Black, Gordes Musik Yggdmillennia, stared at the battlefield reflected in his crystal, wearing an expression twisted with conflicting emotions.
Anxiety. Resignation. Irritation.
On the back of his hand, the three Command Spells shone—his spiritual link to his Servant.
Though he had summoned Siegfried, Saber of Black, with absolute confidence,
Gordes found he could not fully trust him.
It was because Siegfried's death was simply too famous.
When one spoke of the necessity of concealing a Servant's True Name, Siegfried's end was always used as an example.
Even with an invincible body, the great hero had been felled the moment his weak point—his back—was targeted.
A Servant was an incarnation of a legendary figure.
Their strengths were real—
and so were their weaknesses.
And Siegfried was the foremost example of a hero slain by the exploitation of his flaw.
Thus, Gordes had forbidden Saber from speaking, and ensured that aside from Darnic and Lancer, no one in the Black faction learned his True Name.
The result: Saber and Gordes suffered a fatal lack of communication.
To Gordes, Saber was both his trump card and merely a familiar—
and with the Command Spells in his possession, opposition seemed impossible.
A Servant who did not speak was, to him, a weapon without a personality.
But that Saber had defied him.
Simply to allow a homunculus to escape, he had struck his Master and knocked him unconscious.
Naturally, that made Gordes appear the fool—a Master rebelled against by his own Servant.
It wounded his pride deeply.
Blazing with fury, Gordes had hurled abuse at Saber.
"How dare a puppet raise its hand against its master!
You have brought shame upon the name of the Musik family!"
Red-faced, spitting in rage, Gordes had berated him relentlessly.
And yet—
Saber never spoke a word in reply, listening in silence.
Then he said only this:
"I am a Servant who dedicates victory to my Master.
That will not change.
Master summoned me for the sake of victory—did he not?"
That had been their first real conversation.
"Then… I ask only that you trust me.
Just a little."
To be trusted—
that alone was the wish of this great hero.
Gordes could not answer.
To distrust Saber was to deny the talent by which he himself had summoned him.
And Saber's statistics were equal to Lancer's; his Noble Phantasm was truly fatal.
Even considering his weak point, he was unquestionably powerful—
and denying that would be the act of a fool blind to reality.
——Then prove it,
Gordes thought as he watched the battlefield.
Black Saber and Red Lancer—faster than the eye could track—traded blows with relentless brilliance.
Neither gave an inch; sparks scattered without end.
In the end, Gordes could do nothing but believe in his Saber's victory.
He ground his teeth in frustration at that reality.
■
A hurricane roared.
Dazzling blossoms of sword-light flared in empty air.
The stage of probing blows had long since ended.
Now it was pure strength and technique colliding.
Black Saber marveled again at the Red Lancer's power and skill, gripping his hilt with reverence.
Red Lancer, for his part, let a faint joy—long unfelt—seep into his expressionless mask as he thrust his great spear.
Saber's defensive Noble Phantasm,
Armor of Fafnir — Blood Armor of the Evil Dragon,
was an outrageous defensive armament that nullified all attacks below its rank.
In life, no one had been able to wound him; his demise came only because he exposed his own weakness.
Yet this Lancer pierced Saber's ironclad body with mere thrusts.
The wounds were shallow—easily healed with magecraft—
but the fact that Red Lancer could wound him at all, from the front, proved his battlefield prowess was among the greatest in this entire Holy Grail War.
A torrential storm of spear strikes raged.
Through that golden deluge, Saber pressed forward—one step, then another.
He did not rely solely on durability.
Against a peer, even a minor wound could decide the battle in the seconds before healing took effect.
His opponent's True Name was unknown, but unquestionably he was a great hero—
one who had overcome countless trials in life.
Thus, Saber used not only his toughness, but every art he had honed, to face the Lancer's magnificent spearwork.
Siegfried was famed for his steel-like body—
but he had not become a hero through toughness alone.
When he slew the evil dragon, his body had not yet been special.
Meaning: his swordsmanship alone had been sharp enough to kill a dragon.
Saber caught the spear aimed for his heart on his blade, twisted its direction, and stepped forward once more.
Range traditionally determined advantage.
Throughout human history, increasing range was a constant goal—
the longer the reach, the safer and more dominant the attacker.
Spears were supreme in melee precisely because they maximized reach.
A swordsman could lose their head before ever landing a strike.
But spears were not perfect.
Long weapons suffered poor handling; the longer they were, the heavier, the slower.
A missed thrust left a massive opening—
especially with a spear whose blade alone exceeded a meter.
Granted—such burdens were nothing to a great hero.
What Saber admired was precisely this:
the Red Lancer's terrifying skill, strength, and the spirit that honed them into perfection.
Saber closed in during the fraction of a second when the spear was drawn back.
He parried the rushing strikes and swept aside the storm of blows with exquisite swordcraft.
Magnificent—
Saber praised Lancer inwardly.
Lancer's spearwork centered on thrusts.
He unleashed a curtain of godlike rapid strikes to keep Saber from approaching.
But in spear technique, thrusting was not ideal.
Though the fastest strike, it lacked power—
and unless it struck an exposed vital point, armor would deflect it.
And long weapons were vulnerable to counterattack after a miss.
Thus, true spear kills used the weapon's reach and centrifugal force to deliver slashing and smashing blows.
Yet this Lancer wounded Saber with thrusts alone.
Saber's brow and chest were grazed by thrusts too swift to fully deflect.
Enduring the unimaginable impact with grounded feet, he watched the spear closely, advancing.
Red Lancer too admired Saber inwardly.
A swordsman who could match his spearwork—
and strike repeatedly at his divine armor—
was a rarity.
In life, perhaps only Arjuna or Krishna.
Even then, curses had prevented his full strength.
Thus, despite the anxiety of limited mana from his Master, he felt grateful—for the fortune of meeting a worthy rival.
Even his strongest blows left only shallow wounds—
and Saber countered by slashing the golden armor.
The world around them crumbled under sword and spear.
Sand ripped into whirlwinds of mana; the ground churned to gravel.
The battle intensified, the terrain carved into a circular wasteland.
And still, neither faltered.
No words were exchanged.
Their eyes brimmed with battle-spirit.
Their blades clashed, shining with pride, scattering sparks in their earnest pursuit of glory.
Until one yielded their helm—
this sword-dance would continue without end.
If victory never came, they would fight forever.
■
This was, in the truest sense, a total war.
The duel between Black Saber and Red Lancer was awe-inspiring—enough to steal one's breath.
And yet, thirteen heroes gathered here.
Their battle was but one fragment of the whole, showing the immense scale of the Great Holy Grail War.
And the battles of heroes were not confined to the ground.
Across countless legends, there were warriors who soared through the sky.
And among them—
was him.
Flowing pink hair trailing behind him, astride his beloved mount—
Astolfo, Rider of Black.
Unaffected by the chaos of the battlefield, he let moonlight wash over him as he cut through the night wind.
Above stretched a silver-blue canopy—his dream's final destination peeking through.
"All right—let's go."
He quietly flicked his reins.
To reach that place—the Hanging Gardens—he first needed to reach the Grail.
Rider whispered softly, then accelerated in an arc.
Hanging Gardens of Babylon
His target was the enemy's stronghold—
the Skyborne Garden of Vanity.
If the enemy held the sky, then he, who traveled the sky, would go.
And he had reason to believe he could succeed.
Rider's Noble Phantasm,
Luna Break Manual — The Magic Omni-Manual,
granted him A-rank Magic Resistance simply by possessing it.
Not even a magus of the Age of Gods could easily harm him, much less a modern one.
Their Caster—or Assassin—was surely the one controlling the Garden.
If a Caster, his Manual ensured victory.
If an Assassin, that class lacked direct combat ability.
Thus, he decided he could reach the Garden without unleashing
"Hippogriff, Phantasmal Lord of Flight"
in its true form.
He could summon and ride the Hippogriff in its lesser state without much mana.
But fully activating its power consumed mana on the level of a high-ranked Noble Phantasm—
continuously, as long as he rode it.
Thinking of the homunculi supplying mana,
Rider chose to seal it.
Black Rider streaked through the sky—
and Red Assassin smiled thinly upon seeing him.
She alone had remained in the fortress.
Because this airborne citadel was her battlefield.
"Oh? So the Black Rider also possesses a sky-steed.
Then these creatures won't go to waste after all."
She wove her fingers as though pulling threads.
"Come, Rider of Black—let us indulge in a little amusement."
Before Rider appeared monsters of indescribable form.
Harpy-like creatures—
but worse.
Upper bodies of dragon-tooth warriors,
lower bodies of birds.
Too cowardly to be guard beasts as pure harpies—
but when fused with dragon-tooth soldiers, they became perfect aerial hounds.
One might call them dragon-wing soldiers.
A storm of monstrous birds descended upon the lone Rider.
Their claws and fangs would tear him apart, devouring him completely.
Unfortunately for them—
their opponent was Astolfo, one of Charlemagne's Twelve Paladins.
He knew exactly how to deal with such creatures.
"Okay—line up nicely, please—
La Black Luna — The Bewitching Flute That Calls Madness!"
With a casual voice, he drew the flute at his waist—
which expanded until it enveloped his entire body.
"Scatter."
Rider blew the flute.
In legend, its sound made monsters flee—
but this was far more brutal.
A shockwave that barely qualified as "sound" blew the dragon-wing soldiers to pieces in an instant.
Their rank was low.
A Noble Phantasm released with True Name was far beyond their endurance.
Aerial combat was Rider's dominion.
He rode the impossible offspring of griffon and mare—
the Hippogriff.
Born of predator and prey,
it had become the very metaphor for the impossible.
Recognized as a phantasmal beast,
no ordinary airborne enemy could challenge it.
And Rider held a lance that caused any target it touched to topple or have their lower body turn spiritual—
a fatal weakness in aerial combat.
In the sky, Rider should have no equal.
"Well… unless the enemy counts this as the ground."
He muttered as he saw his foe.
There was no falling for her—because she was already standing upon what was, to her, solid earth.
Upon the terrace of the fortress stood a woman in a jet-black dress, long glossy hair exuding an eerie sensuality.
"I take you as the Red Caster. Prepare yourself."
From her appearance and the situation, Rider judged her class.
"Incorrect, fair maiden.
I am Red Assassin… though as you can see, I am quite skilled in magecraft."
Without incantation, Assassin shaped vast mana into sorcery.
Four blue magic circles—
cannon ports—
all aimed at Rider.
"Wha—"
The sheer mana compressed into them made Rider's eyes widen.
A Servant with such magic—yet not a Caster?
Perhaps it was a bluff—
but there was no reason for a bluff now.
Thus, she truly was Assassin.
"Even so… all I need is to defeat you."
Since her spells were routed through the fortress,
this meant she was the master of the Hanging Gardens.
Her True Name was obvious: Semiramis.
If he defeated Red Assassin,
the fortress would collapse,
crippling the Red camp.
Caster or Assassin—
it mattered little.
His Manual would serve him either way.
"Fall, Rider."
Blue-white bolts of lightning streaked forth.
"Not that easy!"
Rider invoked his Magic Resistance as a shield,
driving his Hippogriff forward.
■
Swords and spears.
Magic and phantasmal steeds.
Stakes and arrows.
And cutting straight across this ancient battlefield—
a single car barreled through, as if to deny the age entirely.
A classic American sports car—
a Chevrolet Corvette, battered and dented—
yet spinning its tires with desperate resolve.
This battlefield was ancient in style, distorting one's sense of era—
but in truth, sword and spear had no place in this age.
A sports car, ironically, was more period-appropriate than a warhorse.
At the wheel sat Red Saber, dressed lightly in a leather jacket, tank top, and cut-off jeans.
Her clothes looked more suited for a picnic—
but the car was caked with blood and mud.
"Hey, Master, this American heap's fallin' apart! Didn't you have anything sturdier?"
"Don't be ridiculous! Who designs a car for rampaging across a battlefield—?
Hey—!"
"Whoa—close one!"
Saber yanked the wheel hard right, swerving around Black Caster's golem and plowing through homunculi.
With her Riding skill at A-rank, Saber could drive better than any human on earth—
or at least she should have.
But her driving was beyond wild—
emergency stops, rocket starts, drifting like a spinning top to mow enemies down, jumping off broken golems like ramps—
a Hollywood chase scene made reality.
No vehicle could withstand such abuse.
"This thing's the second-most expensive item I own, you know,"
Shishigou muttered.
"Expensive or stolen, same thing! C'mon, admit it's fun! I used to run wild on stolen famous horses—feels damn good!"
The car screeched like a dying animal, yet somehow held together.
Sorry, owner,
Shishigou apologized inwardly to whoever he had stolen it from.
The car was destined for the scrapyard, but at least it would die having carried a legendary knight.
"So much for being sturdy. Softer than a horse."
"The horse is what's insane!"
Shishigou, at peace with the absurdity of it all, quipped as the world spun around him.
(The most valuable thing he owned was actually a dagger made from a hydra's offspring.)
The car knew no rest, rampaging across the battlefield in search of a free Servant.
Seven versus six—surely someone would be unoccupied.
Despite bantering, Saber kept her senses razor-sharp.
That saved her life.
For a moment, she mistook him for a golem.
A massive figure—towering, pallid, monstrous—burst from the trees, demolishing everything in its way.
"Whoa!—"
She spun the wheel, pulled the handbrake, drifted—
and accelerated again just as a small blade came crashing down.
"That's… the Black Berserker?!"
Shishigou blanched.
They had known he'd been stolen, but meeting him like this—
"Master, switch seats!"
"At this speed?! Are you INSANE—?!"
Saber grabbed Shishigou by the collar and hauled him toward her.
He fumbled with the seatbelt, grabbed the wheel—
all while the car kept moving.
"Don't get caught."
Without waiting for a reply, Saber kicked the door open and leapt out.
White and red light flashed—
and in an instant she donned her heavy armor.
Shishigou slowed, putting distance between himself and Berserker, hunting for a place to hide while still supporting Saber.
Red Saber now faced the traitorous Red Berserker.
The height difference was nearly thirty centimeters;
the weight difference over a hundred kilograms.
Truly an adult versus a child.
Normally, not even a fight.
Still, Saber stood proudly, blade raised.
"Berserker.
Not exactly the kind of opening act I wanted for this party—
but fine. I'll knock ya out fast."
Her priority list was clear:
First, the hated Black Archer.
Second, Black Saber, her rival class.
Berserker barely ranked.
But if he blocked her path, she would cut him down.
Saber launched forward with explosive acceleration—
her rocket-like charge easily exceeding Berserker's reaction time—
and her greatsword plunged deep into his abdomen.
The impact lifted the giant off the ground.
Blood ran down the blade to the hilt.
"Seriously? That easy?"
Saber spat.
A beast-level opponent indeed—
but being skewered so quickly was pathetic.
She tugged the sword free—
—and realized it wouldn't budge.
"What—?"
"Something like this… will not make me fall."
Berserker spoke—in a slow, heavy voice.
"You—!"
Among Red Berserker's parameters, his Endurance and Mad Enhancement were exceptional—
EX-rank, beyond standard evaluation.
Even impaled, he endured via inhuman durability.
Saber's skin prickled.
Not just because he raised his weapon—
but because he smiled while skewered.
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!"
Saber kicked him away, blasting mana like a jet engine to retreat.
She tumbled across the ground, but better that than taking a blow from those log-thick arms.
She rose quickly, helm concealing her furious expression.
"Beast-spawn speaking human words… you sick bastard."
Being dirtied by a Berserker offended her deeply.
She tightened her grip on her sword.
"Hope you're ready to get minced—Berserker!"
"Hahaha! Splendid!
To call me a beast proves you are the dog of tyrants!
Come—try to trample me!"
His laughter ignited her rage.
Saber roared and charged.
A small armored knight versus a mountain of brute muscle.
To a normal eye, it was a child attacking an adult—
but both were Servants.
Saber's strikes were too fast to follow,
and Berserker receiving them with raw flesh was sheer insanity.
Unlike Black Saber's defensive armor,
unlike Red Lancer's divine protection,
Berserker relied on nothing but raw toughness—
and intended to survive anyway.
But if he blocked and countered,
he could not possibly win.
Unless—
one considered his Noble Phantasm.