The Black Rider rode the Hippogriff through the sky.
Its path curved smoothly, then suddenly snapped into right-angled turns—trajectories that defied physical possibility.
Even for the fantastical creature called a Hippogriff, these movements placed great strain upon its body.
But such strain was unavoidable—master and mount were being pushed to their absolute limits. The Hippogriff had no desire to be shot down. It desperately twisted and dove, trying to evade the bombardment.
Top speed, then an abrupt change of direction.
Flesh pulled taut. Bones creaked.
Their enemy was Semiramis. Summoned as an Assassin—a Servant of the Red faction.
A queen of Assyria, infamous in legend for black magic and poison.
Her class as Assassin made sense. Her wielding of sorcery made sense.
And for an assassin of her caliber, possessing true magical craft, it should have been impossible for her to push the Black Rider and his Hippogriff to such a corner.
After all, Rider possessed a certain magic tome capable of nullifying all manner of magecraft.
Since acquiring that tome, not a single magician had managed to injure him with spells.
Summoned as a Servant, he reproduced that legend as a skill.
Even though Rider had forgotten the tome's true name, merely possessing it granted him Magic Resistance A.
A resistance on par with the Saber class—capable of rendering modern magecraft meaningless, and even nullifying most divine-era sorceries.
Thus, if Assassin relied on magecraft as her offense, she should have been doomed to be defeated by Rider.
Common sense dictated that the Red Assassin would fall by Rider's hand.
Caster-class Servants suffered a similar unfairness: in the Holy Grail War, at least half of the seven classes possessed some degree of Magic Resistance.
Thus, most Casters were forced into their workshops, barricading themselves and relying on barriers and traps.
Even though a Caster's long-range firepower should have allowed them to wipe out enemies at a distance, that advantage could not overcome Magic Resistance.
As a result, few Casters survived any Grail War, standard or variant.
But the inverse was also true:
A Caster-tier Servant whose mystery surpassed Magic Resistance could annihilate all who opposed them.
The Red Assassin, though not summoned as Caster, possessed the Caster class skill, and she herself was a priestess of the divine age—a half-divine heroine born from a Syrian woman and a goddess.
Her mystery spanned over two thousand years.
The magical energy she wielded surpassed A-rank, reaching A++, effectively overwhelming all Magic Resistance in existence.
She deployed eleven magic circles—
Each one a cannon aimed directly at Rider and his Hippogriff.
One or two could be dodged.
Five might be survivable.
But more than ten high-grade mysteries fired at once—
Even Rider could not withstand that.
Blue-white serpents of lightning devoured Rider's field of vision.
The balance finally collapsed.
Lightning wound around Rider's entire body, constricting like living chains.
"UAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
Magic Resistance A shattered.
The overwhelming divine-era sorcery crushed internal organs and ground bone to powder.
Rider fell.
Together with the Hippogriff, he plummeted.
A death by falling—
An end befitting a fool who tried to trespass upon the queen's heavenly palace like Icarus flying too close to the sun.
Assassin coolly surveyed the battlefield.
The war was evenly matched.
The flaming-spear Red Lancer clashed with the Black Saber.
The Red Archer, with animalistic movements, avoided the Black Lancer's stakes and counter-fired.
The Red Rider seemed to have been lured into the forest—but that was acceptable.
His opponent was the Black Archer, a man with the same name as her Master, seemingly from the same land. His absurd ability to fire off countless Noble Phantasms had pierced the Rider's immortality.
His parameters were low, but his true nature was unknown, impossible to trace through legend or lore.
A mystery—an uncertainty that could ruin any perfect plan.
If he died here, she would be relieved.
"Now then… as for my Master—"
It seemed he had successfully encountered a Servant.
The Black Berserker.
The weakest among the Black Servants.
Appropriate as an opponent for her Master… yet a little disappointing.
Someone that weak would never corner him to her satisfaction.
(Section Break)
The Red Rider held his spear, staring down the Black Archer.
It was their first direct confrontation.
He had been interested in this man—the only Servant of the Black faction capable of piercing his defenses.
In a true battle, he had already decided: the first he would kill would be this Archer.
Facing someone incapable of wounding him was not a battle—it was work.
And that bored him.
That childish sentiment, however, correctly foreshadowed the future.
For whether he liked it or not, the Black faction had no choice—only Archer could counter him.
As long as Rider existed, Archer was his inevitable opponent.
For now, all he knew was:
Archer possessed countless Noble Phantasms, and had clashed with the Red Saber.
He didn't even know Archer's face until this moment.
"So you really fought the Red Saber, huh?" Rider asked, eyes sharp.
"Is it strange for an Archer to take up a sword?"
"No," Rider snorted.
"War's war. An Archer can swing a sword or spear."
He gripped his spear tighter.
"But what I'm worried about is—you better not drop dead too fast."
With godlike footwork, Rider lunged—
A spear thrust faster than sound itself, aimed directly at Archer's heart.
The white blade met a crude black edge.
"No need for concern," Archer said, sneering calmly.
"I've no intention of falling so easily."
He wielded a pair of Chinese twin swords.
"So those are the blades you used against Saber…" Rider muttered, evaluating them.
Judging from their shape, they were certainly Chinese.
Rider, from the era of Troy, had never seen such blades while alive, but as a Servant, he possessed knowledge spanning ages.
He wondered—
Was Archer a hero from China?
Chinese mythology spanned four thousand years, filled with countless warriors.
An Archer who used both bow and twin swords was not impossible.
But the real question was the absurd number of Noble Phantasms he commanded.
Archer stood firm.
A fortress in human form—steady, immovable.
He had used these twin swords many times before.
Rider attacked with practiced ease, spear thrusting straight at the chest.
A lesser Archer would have died at once.
"Tch."
Blades clashed.
The spear deflected.
A second strike came instantly—
And was deflected again, this time by the black blade.
Rider possessed enough martial skill to be summoned as a Lancer.
As Achilles, the fastest of all heroes, his thrusts were beyond comparison.
More than ten exchanges—
Nearly twenty.
Archer parried every one.
Twin swords were good at defense—wider, easier to maneuver, excellent shields.
A spear gained power only after a pull-back, creating exploitable openings.
"—tsk."
Rider bent backward to dodge a sudden flash.
A conjured sword aimed for his brow.
He retreated briefly, anticipating follow-up attacks.
His reflexes were superhuman; every motion happened in a single breath.
Annoying.
Twin swords protected Archer, while additional summoned swords could come from anywhere.
Even Rider found such an opponent difficult to crack.
But this was only warm-up.
He had used only seventy percent of his power.
Meanwhile, Archer was far from calm.
He knew his class—Archer—stood at the bottom compared to Achilles, a divine-era hero whose very existence overwhelmed him.
In life, Archer had always faced foes far stronger than himself.
This was no different.
He had planned everything:
Lead Rider into the forest, confine his speed, trap him, then shoot him with anti-divine Noble Phantasms from afar.
That was how an Archer should fight.
Close combat with a superior foe was idiocy.
Yet Rider, against all logic, had reached him.
This happened because:
Rider's speed far surpassed what Archer had expected.Archer did not have enough anti-divine weapons ready.Even a tiny delay in projection allowed Achilles to close the gap.
Thus, Archer found himself forced into melee.
He could not lose—
For his defeat meant the fall of the Black faction.
He raised his swords.
He had always fought stronger foes.
Fear was nothing new.
Twin swords raised in full defense.
Not divine weapons.
But perfect shields.
Even if disarmed, he could instantly project replacements.
To kill him, Rider had to knock away both swords, then stab his heart—a minimum of three steps.
Archer needed only one moment to re-project.
Thus Rider could not finish him.
"Thirty-seven!" Rider snarled.
Another discard, another projection.
Again and again.
"Seriously, how many copies do you HAVE? Are these mass-produced or something!?"
"You speak well, Rider. But even a mass-produced stone has more dignity than you grant my Noble Phantasms."
"You're the last guy who should be saying that!"
Rider still analyzed him.
Archer's technique wasn't at Saber's level.
Not enough to match Achilles.
Yet he held firm.
Which made no sense.
Every time Rider knocked away a blade, Archer immediately had another.
This was the ability of his projections.
To break this stalemate, Rider needed more than thrusts.
He changed tactics.
Rather than pure speed, he mixed feints—
Searching for the gap.
He couldn't smash the defense.
He would slip through it instead.
Pressure tilted in Rider's favor.
He struck—
White blade knocked aside.
Black blade blocked the follow-up.
And—
As Archer attempted to summon a third sword—
Rider's kick crashed into his armor.
"Gh—!"
Thrown back like a rag doll.
Balance destroyed.
Rider did not miss his chance.
He closed the gap instantly—a literal burst of wind.
"Got you!"
The killing thrust came.
Archer could not parry in time.
He understood—
He could not block the next strike.
His body moved before thought.
Trace, on.
"Projection—start."
A shield would be too slow.
He needed something that could block that spear and act as a wall.
—Found.
He imagined the greatest of heroes.
The proud, stone-giant.
His axe-sword.
"What!?"
Rider's eyes widened.
His killing thrust—
Blocked again.
Between them stood a massive stone sword—more a boulder than a blade.
No edge.
No ornaments.
Just raw, overwhelming mass.
It stopped Achilles' spear dead.
He leapt back—
That thing might be an anti-divine weapon.
But Archer didn't stop.
Set — Nine Lives Blade Works.
"Full projection complete—
Shoot to Kill, One Hundred Heads!"
Nine godlike slashes burst forth.
A technique ranked A+, a pseudo-reproduction of Heracles' Hydra-killing art—
Nine slashes overlapping into an inescapable net.
It was not anti-divine, so it caused no real damage.
But Rider had been airborne—
The impact blasted him far back, creating distance.
He landed without collapsing.
Yet confusion clouded his face.
For one moment—
He, Achilles, had been overtaken in speed.
And more importantly—
"Nine Lives…?
That's HERACLES' technique!"
The technique of his equal—
Another hero who shared his master of arms.
"Who the hell ARE you!?"
"Is it not obvious?" Archer answered, projecting again the instant he gained distance.
"I am nothing more than a humble archer."
He nocked an anti-divine Noble Phantasm.
And fired without hesitation.