The "Black" Berserker left the battle line and sprinted through the forest.
She was searching for the Servants of the opposing "Red" faction, but her Master had already relayed via telepathy that Black Saber vs Red Lancer, Black Lancer vs Red Archer, Black Rider vs Red Assassin, Black Archer vs Red Rider, and Red Berserker vs Red Saber were all already in combat.
She was completely behind schedule.
Black Caster was overlooking the battlefield and commanding his golems, so Berserker's role would naturally become the destruction of the "Red" Caster.
Berserker looked up at the floating castle.
According to telepathy, that was Assassin's Noble Phantasm. She had assumed it belonged to Caster, but apparently not.
If so, then the Red Caster was likely deep inside that structure.
Casters possess the skill Territory Creation, which allows them to construct an environment beneficial to themselves — a workshop or a fortress.
Normally, Casters do not go on the offensive. They wait.
If the Red Caster had established a workshop inside that airborne garden, its defenses would surpass even the ramparts of Millennia Castle.
With her firepower, Berserker doubted she could break through.
Thus, she would have to infiltrate the floating garden.
But in the sky above her, Black Rider and Red Assassin were exchanging dazzling magical blasts in a violent aerial duel.
Even a Rider, with A-rank Magic Resistance, had to keep distance from that barrage.
Approaching it meant certain death for Berserker.
"Uu… vuu…"
Even as a Berserker, she retained high intelligence.
She understood death. If she died, everything would be meaningless.
She hesitated — but only briefly. Long contemplation was impossible for her.
Either she could do it or she couldn't. Either she would or she wouldn't.
If the answer was that she must, then hesitation had no place.
The problem was only one: how to infiltrate the floating garden.
The Command Spell's teleportation was an option.
But there was no guarantee that Red Caster was inside.
If not, it would be a complete waste.
At that moment, she sensed a figure in the shade of a tree and immediately drew her mace.
"Well well… so it seems you are to be my opponent, Black Berserker—
—Frankenstein."
A young man with white hair and black clothes appeared.
He looked physically fit, but not superhuman.
Since he was on the battlefield, he was obviously an enemy Master.
But the fact that he showed himself so boldly raised suspicion.
Black's Masters considered this war one fought mainly by Servants and had locked themselves inside the fortress.
Was he planning an assault on the fortress, counting on their passivity?
That would be unbelievably naïve.
But what bothered her was not the young man's behavior.
A reckless Master could be explained easily.
What disturbed her was that he had spoken her True Name aloud.
"Vv… vu…"
She couldn't speak language — she could only express Yes or No.
There was no way her True Name should have leaked unless their own Master or a Servant betrayed it.
"Well… it seems that despite being a Berserker, you retain higher-order thought. A rather modern heroic spirit, then."
The young man smiled gently and extended a hand.
"I understand you very well. I know you deeply.
What do you say? If you would like, you may join us in place of Spartacus.
Terms are negotiable — I promise you will not be treated poorly."
Her mace crashed down on that outstretched hand.
Receiving her clear rejection, the young man stepped back with a wry smile.
"Oh dear… what a pity."
"Well of course, Master."
The Servant materializing behind him triggered Berserker's full alert.
So he truly was the enemy Master — and the Servant he commanded was the one class yet unaccounted for.
Red Caster.
"Ah— forgive me. I will not be the one fighting you.
Your dance partner will be my Master here.
I shall merely watch and cheer him on."
Shockingly, the Servant stepped behind the Master as if hiding.
"Yes — that is correct.
Your opponent is me.
I am Shirou Kotomine."
Shirou swung his arm.
"—!"
Berserker instinctively spun her mace.
Three sharp metallic clashes rang out; silver blades fell to the ground.
They were Black Keys, the conceptual weapons used by Executors of the Church.
Basic, but difficult to handle.
Anyone who used them effectively was either eccentric or formidable — and judging from that surprise attack, this man was quite skilled.
Worthy of standing before a Servant.
"NAOOOOOOOOOO—!!"
But that was all.
It was still human technique.
No scheme could overcome the superior existence of a Servant.
She identified Shirou as the immediate obstacle and charged him.
Shirou threw four more Keys — impressive for a human — but nothing she couldn't swat aside with a mace.
At a mere two meters of distance, she needed only one step to pulp his skull—
"Too bad, too bad."
Yet Shirou smiled thinly.
"Set.
I announce."
Berserker felt magical energy radiate from his body.
Sensing danger, she slowed her charge and twisted her body, swinging her Noble Phantasm ―
Bridal Chest — her mace.
Unbelievably, the Keys she had knocked away earlier were now spinning back toward her neck.
Shirou followed with three more between his fingers.
Berserker, already off balance, had to intercept them.
Mace and Keys collided — and she was shocked.
Her inhuman strength could not fully blunt the impact.
The blow launched her off her feet.
Some kind of magecraft reinforced them.
A human should not be capable of budging a Servant.
"Vuu… uu!"
She took a rolling recovery. Irritation welled up.
A troublesome foe — but still human.
Being toyed with by a human sickened her.
"Vvvu… NAOOOOUU!"
With a feral roar, she blasted forward using her magical jet-like propulsion.
"She comes. Caster— my sword."
"Yes, yes, of course. Feel free to wield it as you like.
Let this blazing battle weave a tale never to fade.
My Master, please—
Show me your glory."
Shirou raised his hand to the air.
A flash of lightning — and a Japanese katana appeared.
Berserker instantly recognized it as a Noble Phantasm.
He could use one?
But even so — her physical abilities still far exceeded his.
Strength, speed, endurance — all superior.
And unlike him, she did not tire.
That alone was an overwhelming, fatal difference.
She unleashed continuous attacks. One hit would kill him instantly.
Shirou slipped between her strikes, his blade intercepting her mace.
Any ordinary weapon would have bent or snapped instantly, but a sword elevated to a Noble Phantasm could withstand even Berserker's blows.
His swordsmanship was basic — far from the elegance of true masters.
Rigid, straightforward, lacking flourish.
Berserker would not fall behind such technique.
But she was still a Servant — inhuman strength, inhuman fuel.
She was a pseudo–perpetual-motion machine, constantly replenishing herself with ambient mana.
She did not tire, and her mana did not run out.
Time favored Berserker alone.
Unable to finish things quickly, she let out a furious scream and continued swinging her mace.
Caster of Black surveyed the battlefield from above.
His golems were excellent as vanguards, but not suitable for finishing off Servants.
Even the stronger ones could not last ten full exchanges against a Servant.
But that didn't mean his golems were weak.
Ordinary magus-made golems would not last even one exchange.
The fact that his could face Servants at all proved their exceptional quality.
His golems were scattered across the grassy plains.
Nearly everything happening on the battlefield was relayed back to Caster through them.
His role was that of a command tower.
"I would have preferred to use my Noble Phantasm here…"
A +-rank Anti-Army Noble Phantasm.
A mystery he believed surpassed all others in the Black faction.
More than that — he joined this Holy Grail War for the sake of completing that Noble Phantasm.
To create the greatest golem the world had ever known, something he could not complete in life.
He had no wish for the Grail; only to activate the Noble Phantasm and behold the world it would manifest.
Once activated, it would overwrite the world — the supreme golem.
The origin and archetype of all golems.
The one meant to guide suffering humanity to glory.
That was his Noble Phantasm:
Golem Keter-Melkuth
"The Crown – Light of Wisdom"
The problem was that, because he had failed to complete it in life, he still needed to gather its materials even in this era.
Thanks to Darnic funding thirty percent of his resources, most issues had been resolved.
Only one thing remained: the core furnace.
With that, he could activate it immediately.
"Teacher."
A telepathic message reached him.
It was his Master — Roche.
The youngest of Black's members, yet an exceptionally talented golem mage.
He was descended from Caster's own lineage — a successor of his arts.
That someone at the end of time inherited his magic…
For someone who called himself a misanthrope, it was a strange irony.
"What is it, Roche?"
"Um, Teacher… when you return, can you check my new golem?
I think this time it really worked."
Caster raised an eyebrow in interest.
Roche's passion for golems was considerable.
His skill was excellent — good enough that Caster would have accepted him as a disciple in life.
"Very well. If time allows, I will see it."
"Thank you!"
Not exactly battlefield conversation —
but Roche could not imagine Caster being defeated.
He believed his teacher would return.
Caster himself did not intend to perish here.
Even if he had no wish for the Grail, dying before achieving his dream was unacceptable.
"It's dangerous. Return to the workshop."
Roche hurried back to Caster's workshop.
In all of Millennia Castle, nothing was safer.
Not a fortress of magic, but a factory brimming with unused golems.
If anyone broke in, those golems would immediately intercept.
Thus, Roche had to stay there.
If Roche died, Caster would disappear regardless of how intact his body remained.
"…Children really are difficult to handle."
In life, he'd been ill and isolated.
That isolation worsened his distaste for people.
And now, by some twist of fate, he found himself talking to Roche.
…Well, it wasn't unpleasant.
He even liked the boy.
He simply wasn't used to children.
Through a golem, fresh information arrived.
A little off the main battlefield, in the woods—
Black Berserker had begun fighting Red Caster and the Red Master.
"Hm…"
Caster stroked his chin thoughtfully.
He directed a group of golems toward Berserker.
For some reason, Red Caster was not fighting — instead making her Master fight.
There were hardly any magi alive who could match Servants.
Even if there were, no such mage could fight Berserker while handling a swarm of golems.
If it was Red's Master, then using him as the core furnace posed no issue.
Fortunately, the Red Caster seemed incapable of combat.
He wanted to retrieve the furnace before Berserker accidentally killed it.
Meanwhile—
Red Saber felt no attachment toward the big man who had once been part of Red Faction.
He had always seen him as nothing more than a disposable pawn, destined to go berserk.
So when Berserker stormed Black's fortress, Saber had written him off immediately.
But now that they were enemies, Saber did think:
…I should have cut him down back then.
Red Berserker — Spartacus.
The myth-history boundary breaker.
The gladiator whose revolt shook the Roman Empire before Christ.
His Strength and Endurance were extraordinarily high.
But his Agility was E-rank, painfully slow compared to Saber.
Power meant nothing if it didn't hit.
Saber danced around him with explosive acceleration, slashing repeatedly.
"OOOH!"
Red lightning burst with every strike; crimson arcs tore through the night.
Saber's blade split the pale flesh of Berserker's body, exposing meat and blood.
"Hahaha! Wonderful blade! Go on— hurt me more!"
Even with his forehead split and blood flowing, he smiled — he had been smiling since the fight began.
"…Creepy bastard…"
Cold sweat trickled down Saber's spine.
He had fought many foes.
Among them were pride, honor, joy, hatred, rage — and yes, pleasure.
But enjoying being cut open… that was deranged even for Berserkers.
"Well, that is what makes him a Berserker…"
He could speak, but true communication was impossible.
His Mad Enhancement was EX-rank, absurdly high — yet he spoke human language.
The reason:
His thoughts were locked.
His mind cycled endlessly on one concept —
"struggle against hardship."
That singular obsession defined him.
"Fine then— if you want it so badly, I'll give it to you.
I'll shove it through your skull and send you flying!"
Saber boosted with Mana Burst, leaping into Berserker's guard.
She planted a foot on his knee and rammed her sword upward into his jaw.
Her blade pierced through from throat to crown;
brain matter spilled from his ears.
Even Berserker halted for a moment.
Blood gushed from his mouth; his shattered jaw hung grotesquely.
Then his dark eyes rolled and locked onto her.
"You—!"
With no jaw, he still moved.
He threw his arms wide and pulled Saber into a crushing embrace.
Impossible.
A Servant's spirit core lay in the heart and the brain.
Destroy either, and they vanished.
That was the rule.
But his monstrous Endurance defended even his core.
And his Noble Phantasm—
Crying Warmonger
"The Wailing of the Wounded Beast"
—converted damage received into magical energy, storing it within his body.
That accumulated energy raised his physical abilities further.
Already immense strength boosted even higher.
"Come— let me hold you tighter."
A horrible voice echoed from the ruin of his jaw.
Metallic creaking followed.
"A—gaaAAAAAAAHHH!!"
His arms squeezed like logs crushing steel.
Even Saber, with A-rank Endurance and thick armor, would be pulped if this continued.
"Don't— you— DARE— underestimate me!!"
Red lightning erupted outward.
A Mana Burst used as an explosion.
At point-blank range, even Berserker could not endure.
The blast tore the earth, flinging Saber from his grasp.
She hit the ground hard, rolled, and quickly rose again.
She readied her sword—
—and glared at Berserker.
Berserker collapsed to his knees.
His upper body was twisted unnaturally, half of it blown away.
Both arms were gone from the elbows.
His abdomen spilled organs like wet sacks; chunks of flesh scattered everywhere.
"Damn… piece of work…"
She swung her sword to shake off the blood.
Even with A-rank Endurance, that kind of destruction should have left him near death.
Berserker consumed twice the mana of a normal Servant —
healing those wounds should drain his Master dry.
Victory should have been decided—
—but Saber froze.
"What…?"
Berserker's corpse wriggled.
Foamy blood bubbled from wounds as flesh swelled.
His missing arms doubled in number, splitting from the stumps.
His torso ballooned, like a turtle shell growing out of his back.
His head sank halfway into a wall of warped meat.
Master.
What is it, Saber?
Saber spoke through telepathy, unable to contain himself.
How did Rome ever keep that thing penned in?
They couldn't. That's why he rebelled.
…yeah, fair point.
Saber glared at the creature.
It had abandoned humanity entirely.
To mutate without divine blessing or demonic pact— it was unnatural.
Destroying the head did nothing.
Blowing off the torso did nothing.
Only vaporizing him on a cellular level might work.
"…Fine.
I'll kill you until you stop."
Arthur Pendragon had slain giants.
As his successor, Mordred would not flinch.
Saber charged to resume the battle.