The rooftop of the Miyama Commercial Building was a cold, windswept altar of steel and concrete. From this vantage point, the burning skeleton of Fuyuki was laid out like a map of hell.
Archer—Shadow Emiya—stood at the edge, his red coat snapping in the gale. His bow, the black, sleek matte of a modern compound fused with ancient mystery, was drawn taut. A sword, twisted into an arrow, hummed with destructive prana. His hawk-like eyes were fixed on the bridge four kilometers away, tracking the movement of the terrified Master and his Servants.
He was a machine of efficient slaughter. He calculated windage, spiritual pressure, and the defensive rhythm of the Shielder. He was preparing the next shot, a *Caladbolg* variant designed to bypass the runic barrier he'd just tested.
He did not calculate for a hole in space opening up three feet to his left.
There was no sound of footsteps. No displacement of air. Just a wet, twisting sound—*Schlorp*—like a boot pulled out of deep mud.
Archer's instincts, honed over countless battlefields and lifetimes of regret, screamed. He didn't turn his head; he simply abandoned the shot. He let the bow dissipate into motes of blue light and materialized his twin blades, Kanshou and Bakuya, in a blurring cross-guard motion.
But he was already late.
From the dark, swirling void that had manifested on the concrete, a hand emerged. Then a torso. Then a face—pale, glasses askew, eyes burning with a terrifying, desperate focus.
Kim Min-jun had unzipped reality and stepped out of the wormhole directly into the sniper's nest.
He didn't monologue. He didn't hesitate. The moment his feet touched the roof, his right arm snapped up. The index finger aimed straight at the corrupted Servant's heart.
The distance was less than a meter.
*CHUMIMI~!*
The sound was a piercing shriek at this range. The golden drill of Act 2, empowered by the momentum of the Act 3 transit, spiraled into existence. It wasn't just a bullet; it was a spinning singularity of intent.
Archer's reaction was supernatural. In the microsecond before the nail fired, he twisted his torso, abandoning his footing to fall backward.
The golden drill missed the heart by inches. Instead, it grazed the hardened leather of his chest plate and struck the heavy, reinforced shoulder of his red coat.
**CRACK-ZZZRRRT!**
There was no blood splash. The rotational energy didn't cut; it *erased*. A chunk of the Shadow Servant's spiritual body simply vanished, twisted away into oblivion. The force of the spin threw Archer backward, skidding across the gravel roof.
"What—?!" The Shadow Servant's voice was a distorted rasp, his composure shattered for the first time.
Min-jun stood panting, smoke rising from his finger. The transition had been a nightmare—a kaleidoscope of being crushed and stretched—but he was here. He had closed the distance.
Archer recovered instantly. He kicked off the ground, a blur of black and red, closing the gap before Min-jun could fire again. The twin blades, Kanshou and Bakuya, swept in for a decapitating scissor-cut.
Min-jun's eyes widened. He couldn't dodge. He was a technician, not a martial artist. He couldn't track the swords.
But the Spin could.
*Infinite Rotation isn't just a projectile,* the lesson echoed. *It is a state of being.*
Min-jun didn't try to block with his hands. He thrust his right arm forward, directly into the path of the incoming blades.
"TUSK!"
He channeled the residual wormhole energy—the Act 3 void still lingering around his body—into his forearm. He didn't just spin a nail; he spun his *entire arm*. The flesh and bone seemed to blur, twisting into a visual distortion of pink and gold stars.
**CLANG!**
Archer's blades struck Min-jun's arm. But instead of slicing through flesh, they hit a grinder.
The rotating field around Min-jun's arm caught the blades. Sparks flew in a blinding shower. The infinite rotation grabbed the conceptual weight of Kanshou and Bakuya and torqued them violently.
It was like sticking a sword into a jet engine.
The force traveled up the blades, shattering the projection. The swords exploded into shards of mana. The recoil slammed into Archer's wrists, throwing his arms wide open.
"Impossible," Archer hissed, staring at the technician whose arm was currently vibrating like a tuning fork. "A Reality Marble? No... a conceptual override?"
Min-jun gasped, stumbling back, clutching his arm. The pain was excruciating—the Spin protected him from the cut, but the impact felt like he'd blocked a sledgehammer. His bones rattled.
But the opening was created.
"NOW, CASTER!" Min-jun screamed into the wind, his voice raw.
From the edge of the roof, a streak of blue light vaulted over the parapet.
Cú Chulainn had arrived. While Min-jun had taken the "shortcut" to disrupt the sniper, the Caster had sprinted across the bridge and up the building, using runes to enhance his speed to godlike levels, exploiting the confusion Min-jun had bought with his life.
"Gotcha, you projecting bastard!"
Cú's staff, burning with the full intensity of the *Ansuz* rune, came down like a meteor.
Archer, off-balance from the clash with Min-jun's spinning arm, couldn't dodge. He crossed his arms, projecting a new pair of swords instantly to block.
**BOOM!**
The impact cratered the roof. Archer was driven to his knees, the roof cracking beneath him. Fire from Cú's runes washed over him, singing the red coat and forcing the Shadow Servant to roll away, putting distance between himself and the two attackers.
Archer landed in a crouch ten meters away, smoke rising from his shoulders. He glared at them—not with disdain, but with wary calculation. The situation had flipped. He was no longer the hunter; he was cornered in melee.
Min-jun fell to one knee, wheezing. His right arm was numb, hanging limp at his side. The golden light flickered weakly. Using Act 3 to travel and then immediately channeling a full-arm rotation block had drained him to the dregs.
"Hah..." Cú Chulainn landed lightly beside him, twirling his staff. He looked down at Min-jun, and for the first time, the look in his eyes wasn't just amusement. It was the fierce, grinning respect of a warrior who recognized a kindred spirit.
"You crazy, magnificent son of a bitch," Cú laughed, the sound sharp and bright in the gloomy air. "You actually stuck your arm in a blender to stop him. I haven't seen guts like that since the old days."
"I... didn't possess... a sword," Min-jun choked out, trying to force air into his lungs. "So I became... the grinder."
"Well, you ground him good," Cú said, stepping in front of Min-jun, interposing himself between his Master and the enemy. "Catch your breath, Master. You broke his rhythm. You broke his swords. Now let the Dog finish the hunt."
Min-jun nodded weakly, staring at his trembling hand. He was alive. He had teleported through a bullet hole, punched a Heroic Spirit's swords with a spinning arm, and survived.
He looked up at Archer, who was watching him with unreadable eyes.
*I'm not just the foundation anymore,* Min-jun realized, a fierce heat burning in his chest that had nothing to do with pain. *I'm the trap.*
"Don't let him... gain distance," Min-jun whispered.
Cú Chulainn grinned, baring his fangs. "Don't worry. He's not going anywhere."
The Caster slammed his staff onto the concrete.
"WICKER MAN!"
- - -
Archer didn't die easily. Even cornered, even pressed by a Caster with a grudge and a Master with a physics-defying cheat code, the Counter Guardian fought with the tenacity of a cockroach. He projected shields, unleashed barrages of swords, and turned the rooftop into a chaotic storm of steel and fire.
But the rhythm was broken. Min-jun, though drained, stayed in the fight. He became a persistent, annoying variable Archer couldn't solve. Every time Archer tried to disengage to charge a high-power Phantasm, a *Chumimi~* would whine through the air. Min-jun wasn't aiming to kill anymore—he didn't have the energy. He aimed to harass. A nail drilled through Archer's footing. Another curved around a chimney to nick his ear. It forced Archer to split his focus, constantly wary of the wormhole-traveling technician.
That split focus was fatal against Cú Chulainn. The Wicker Man, a towering construct of flame and wood, eventually pinned Archer against a water tower. The Shadow Servant, realizing the checkmate, tried to overload his circuits for a final, suicidal explosion.
But Cú was faster. A rune-enhanced strike to the spiritual core shattered the corruption holding Archer together. The Shadow Servant dissolved into golden dust, his final expression not one of anger, but of a tired, cynical smirk directed at Min-jun.
"Not bad... for a fake," the dust seemed to whisper before vanishing on the wind.
Silence returned to the rooftop. Ritsuka and Mash, who had finally caught up, scrambled onto the roof just in time to see the last motes fade.
"We did it," Ritsuka breathed, slumping against a ventilation unit. "We actually did it."
Min-jun didn't celebrate. He sat heavily on the gravel, checking his vitals. His mana was critically low. His right arm felt like it had been dipped in liquid nitrogen. But the Tusk energy, resilient and strange, was already slowly trickling back, fed by the leyline convergence of the defeated Servant.
"Don't get comfortable," Min-jun rasped, forcing himself to stand. He pointed toward the looming silhouette of Mount Enzou. "The Guardian was the lock. The King is the door."
They descended into the Miyama district. The atmosphere here was heavier, suffocating. The very air felt thick, like walking through deep water. The corruption from the Grail was bleeding into reality, turning the shadows into sticky, grasping tar.
The climb up the mountain steps was a silent pilgrimage. Torii gates, usually vermilion symbols of the sacred, were blackened and rotting. The stone steps were cracked.
As they ascended, Cú Chulainn grew quieter. His usual banter faded. He held his staff in a two-handed grip, his eyes scanning the tree line.
"She's awake," Cú murmured, his voice low. "I can feel the pressure. It's like standing next to a reactor leaking radiation."
"Saber Alter," Mash whispered, gripping her shield. "The corrupted King of Knights."
Min-jun walked beside Ritsuka. He could see the boy trembling—not with fear, but with the sheer scale of what they were approaching.
"Fujimaru," Min-jun said quietly.
Ritsuka looked up. "Yeah?"
"Remember the lesson of the detour," Min-jun said, adjusting his glasses. "She is stronger than us. Faster than us. Better equipped. In a direct confrontation of power, we lose 100 times out of 100."
"Then... how do we win?"
"We don't play her game," Min-jun said, looking at his right hand. The golden light was faint, but steady. "We change the rules. We find the path she can't see."
They reached the summit. The Ryuudou Temple stood before them, bathed in an eerie, sickly black light. The great wooden gates were blasted open.
And there, standing in the center of the courtyard, waiting for them, was the King.
She was terrifying. Clad in blackened armor that seemed to absorb the light, her pale skin stark against the dark metal. Her eyes were golden, cold, and utterly devoid of humanity. In her hand, the blackened holy sword, *Excalibur Morgan*, released a pulsing, ominous hum that vibrated in Min-jun's teeth.
She didn't speak. She didn't posture. She simply raised the sword, pointing it directly at them. The air around her ignited with black mana.
The pressure was immense. It forced Ritsuka to his knees. Mash struggled to keep her shield raised. Even Cú Chulainn took a step back, gritting his teeth.
Min-jun stood his ground. He felt the crushing weight of her presence, the despair she radiated. It was the same despair that had nearly drowned him in his old life. The emptiness. The inevitability.
But he wasn't empty anymore.
He stepped forward, past the kneeling Master, past the bracing Shielder. He stood beside the Caster.
He raised his right hand. The index finger pointed back at the King of Knights.
Min-jun didn't wait for a signal. He didn't wait for her to monologue or charge. He understood the rhythm of this fight: Initiative was survival.
"TUSK!"
His hand snapped up. *CHUMIMI~!*
A golden drill Act 2 shot screamed across the courtyard, aiming dead center for the visor of her blackened helm.
Saber Alter didn't panic. She didn't even raise her sword to block. She simply tilted her head to the left. The movement was minimal, efficient, and terrifyingly fast. The golden nail whizzed past her ear, carving a groove into the stone lantern behind her.
She took a step forward. The stone beneath her sabaton cracked.
"Disappointing," she intoned, her voice a cold, resonant monotone. "Is that all the resistance you offer?"
"Not even close," Min-jun gritted out.
He pointed his finger at the ground.
*VWORP-SHHHK!*
He fired three shots directly into the pavement at his feet. The stone didn't shatter; it swirled. Three dark, star-speckled wormholes opened up, looking like oil slicks on water.
"Mash, keep her busy! Caster, flank!" Min-jun ordered, his voice cracking with strain.
As Saber Alter raised *Excalibur Morgan* to sweep Mash aside, the ground beneath the King's feet erupted.
The three wormholes Min-jun had created didn't stay at his feet. They traveled underground, burrowing like moles, and popped up in a triangle formation around Saber.
From the holes, three golden nails shot upward.
It was an ambush from below.
Saber's eyes narrowed. She spun, her black sword becoming a blurred wall of defense. *Clang-clang-clang!* She deflected all three shots, the impact sparks illuminating her pale, emotionless face.
"Tricks," she scoffed. "Cheap parlor magic."
"I'm full of them," Min-jun muttered.
He raised his hand again. This time, he didn't aim. He focused on the *concept* of the target. Act 2. The Golden Rectangle. The tracking shot.
*Curve. Hunt. Find.*
He fired a volley of five nails. They flew wild, arcing high into the air, curving around pillars, corkscrewing through the heavy mana fog. They looked like erratic fireworks.
Saber ignored them, focusing on the Caster who was now engaging her with a flurry of rune-enhanced strikes. She parried Cú Chulainn's spear-staff with contemptuous ease, driving him back.
"Too slow, Hound," she stated, preparing a horizontal slash that would bisect him.
But the nails returned.
Like angry hornets, the five tracking shots converged on her from five different blind spots. The back of the knee. The nape of the neck. The gap in the elbow armor.
She sensed them at the last microsecond. With a roar of irritation, she released a burst of Mana Burst, an explosion of black energy that blew the nails away like leaves in a gale.
"Annoying fly," she growled, her golden eyes locking onto Min-jun. "You first."
She vanished.
It wasn't teleportation, but it might as well have been. Pure, explosive speed fueled by infinite mana. One moment she was twenty meters away; the next, she was in front of him. The black sword was already descending, a guillotine falling on his neck.
Time stopped.
Min-jun saw the blade coming. He saw his death. There was no time to dodge. No time to block with a spinning arm—Excalibur would cut through even the Spin at this range.
*The hole,* his mind screamed. *Enter the hole!*
He didn't shoot her. He shot the air directly in front of his own chest.
*ZZZ-VWORP!*
A wormhole opened mid-air, a dark mouth swallowing him.
Saber's sword slashed through the space where his torso had been a fraction of a second ago. It hit nothing but the fading edge of the void event.
"What—?" Her eyes widened slightly.
The wormhole didn't take him far. It spat him out instantly—right inside her guard.
He reappeared literally inches from her face, his body still twisting from the spatial compression. He was so close he could see the individual specks of corruption in her golden irises.
He didn't have a weapon. He didn't have a nail ready.
He had a fist. And he had the Spin.
He cocked his right arm back, channeling every scrap of Tusk's energy into the rotation of his knuckles.
"GOLDEN... RATIO... PUNCH!"
He drove his fist into her breastplate.
**BOOOOOM!**
The impact wasn't flesh on metal. It was a kinetic explosion. The infinite rotation transferred directly into her armor. The black steel groaned and buckled. The force lifted the King of Knights off her feet and launched her backward.
She flew ten meters, skidding across the courtyard, her boots carving trenches in the stone until she slammed her sword into the ground to arrest her momentum.
Min-jun fell to his knees, gasping, clutching his right hand. His knuckles were bruised, his arm screaming in agony. He had just punched a Servant with a magical reactor core. It felt like punching a mountain.
Saber Alter slowly stood up. There was a dent in her breastplate. A visible, swirling indentation.
She looked at the dent. She traced it with a gauntleted finger. Then, she looked at him.
"You have no sword," she said. It was a flat statement of fact. "No technique. No grace."
She took a step forward, her golden eyes boring into him.
"You tore your own body apart through a hole in space just to deliver a punch," she continued, her voice heavy with judgment. "It was crude. Ugly. Suicidal."
Min-jun swallowed hard, trying to reconcile the terrifying presence with the fleeting memories of *Fate/Grand Order*. He remembered a tyrant. He remembered a glutton.
Then, the corners of her mouth twitched upward.
"But it was heavy," she said, a small, wintry smile breaking the mask. "I don't hate that."
Min-jun blinked, sweat stinging his eyes.
"You broke yourself to strike the King," she mused, the smile lingering, strangely honest. "A Master with that kind of reckless weight... if this were another time, another summoning... having a contractor who serves up that kind of intensity wouldn't be bad."
It was praise. It was the highest praise a tyrant could give.
Then, the smile vanished. The mask slammed shut with the force of a coffin lid.
The black mana around her flared, doubling in intensity. The air shrieked as *Excalibur Morgan* began to glow with the light of a corrupted star.
"But you've had your hit," she declared, raising the sword high above her head. "You proved you have weight. Now prove you can survive being crushed by mine."
The dark pillar of light pierced the clouds. The sound was deafening—a low, oscillating hum of impending annihilation.
"I'm going to use it all," she said simply. "Morgan... charges."
Min-jun stared up at the pillar of death, his eyes wide behind his cracked frames. The compliment was nice. The tactical nuke was not.
"...Please don't," Min-jun whispered, his voice tiny against the roar. He held up a trembling hand weakly. "...Please?"