In the great canyon of Snowfield City's northern outskirts, the moment Novia manifested in the world, the illusion Francesca had cast dissolved instantly like a mirage. The canyon's original form returned once more to surround the gathered few.
"...We'd better head back to the police station and talk this over. Damn it, what a pain... I can't win, but I don't want to fight either. What am I supposed to do? If only this were a different Holy Grail War... then at least brother-in-law and sister could've been together..."
Muttering so, Charlemagne sighed lightly, then sheathed the holy sword Joyeuse. His body dissolved into shimmering particles of light and vanished on the spot.
"It seems... that is a place worthy of standing alongside the true King."
Having gathered himself, the King of Heroes looked toward the thunder crashing at the city's center, one brow raised.
Of course, in that instant, he understood: this was an invitation. A summons extended from the newly descended Servant to all others.
"Hmph. An invitation then... very well, I shall accept it, mong—"
Before he could finish, a supersonic arrow shot toward the King of Heroes' face.
"...Tch!"
Sensing instinctively that this was provocation, not an attempt to kill, the King of Heroes dismissed it with the disdainful ease of kicking a pebble. From his Gate of Babylon he unleashed a downpour of Noble Phantasms. Avenger Alcides weaved between the storm of treasures, his movements precise and brutal, loosing arrows at blinding speed in retaliation.
"Golden King—recognized as the mightiest of kings, unmatched among rulers I know. Yet at the same time, you are a fragile warrior. I haven't even broken the divine power you keep buried deepest within you. What is this? Are you running away already?"
As he spoke, Alcides let his entire body swell with a sludge-like surge of malignant mana that wrapped around him.
"Ahhh, I've had enough! Time to raise some real hell." Francesca's voice rang once more through the canyon. "I approve, everyone! No need to keep a cool head—tear each other apart to your hearts' content!"
"...Heh. For the sake of the mad goddess, I shall oblige."
Alcides cast a glance toward the departing Francesca. Through the peculiar telepathy of Greece, he already knew she was heading to the western forest—apparently, someone had left behind a little parting gift, specifically to deal with the King of Heroes.
Had he been Heracles in his noble prime, or even as a mindless beast, he would never have allowed his opponent to fall into disadvantage while he stood by. But Alcides was no longer the pure hero of steel. He was a Revenge-Seeker, born for vengeance, not honor.
Victory alone mattered. Dignity and glory were meaningless.
"Two clownish fools, that's all." Gilgamesh laughed through gritted teeth, mocking yet delighted. "Once, twice—thrice? A King does not tolerate such insolence."
"...Foolish."
Alcides muttered softly, and stretched his right hand straight out to his side. There, cloth shimmered into existence.
At first glance it looked like nothing more than a simple belt, patterned with modest designs. But to those capable of discerning true mysteries, it was unmistakably abnormal.
"That... that cloth—it can only be a Noble Phantasm..."
To Tine's eyes, the mana swirling around the belt-like cloth was uncanny. Gilgamesh narrowed his gaze, for the aura of that cloth was dense with divinity, reminiscent of relics once used by gods themselves.
"The aura differs from the gods I know... but the origin seems the same as that thing at the city's center..."
For one who claimed to loathe the gods, this treasure filled Gilgamesh with distaste. And yet, his Gate of Babylon proved ineffective against Alcides now. Even a sneak attack was futile.
"Lord Gilgamesh!"
Watching the battlefield, Tine broke out in a cold sweat as she gazed at Alcides standing before him.
The oppressive force radiating from Alcides had increased severalfold.
The reason was clear: from his body surged red-black shadows, writhing like living things.
Hatred. Fear. Slander. Regret. Envy. Pity. Rage. Resentment. Loathing. Remorse. Despair. Emptiness—boiling together until they became vengeance.
And from the depths of that festering mire came a voice, a curse that seemed to drag all who heard it into damnation.
Tine felt for an instant as though her own heart had stopped.
But Gilgamesh, unfazed, merely curved his lips like a critic enjoying a fine comedy.
"You barbarian, possessing the means to kill me—very well. I shall acknowledge you as my enemy here and now."
Though engulfed by the seething red-black miasma, the King of Heroes shone undimmed. His mana flared higher and higher.
The answer was simple. Gilgamesh was unleashing treasures from his vault, one after another.
This time, however, the method was different.
The treasures swarmed like a tidal wave, each one charged with immense magical power. Instead of the straightforward volleys of before, their trajectories twisted and coiled like serpents.
Golden chains stretched from all sides of space, binding and forcibly redirecting the barrage.
From the red-black radiance, Gilgamesh emerged, weaving the downpour of weapons into a waterfall of Noble Phantasms, crashing downward like a golden dragon consuming the Avenger's arrows.
"Mongrel! The King's judgment upon you is—"
But in that instant, another arrow shattered the space, colliding head-on with the treasures in a thunderous crash. The forces cancelled out, fragmenting into nothingness.
The storm of red-black mana surged, murderous intent pressing upon the self-proclaimed Judge.
Gilgamesh clicked his tongue and turned, slowly, toward Alcides, who now landed at the canyon's far edge.
"So, the mask has fallen, clown. You actually accept such a repulsive self? How pitiful."
Seeing the writhing red-black sludge enshrouding Alcides, Gilgamesh asked no questions. He simply mocked.
"Fine. Then I'll even permit you to strip away that cloth. Show me how you weep."
"...The tears that could flow long since ran dry. The day my future was stolen by the gods."
Gilgamesh squinted, probing:
"Then tell me—what will you do? Strike me while you still have strength left? Insolent, yes, but the right choice... though you really believe I cannot cleanse such filth?"
"You're right, mighty King. With those treasures of yours, such filth is nothing."
Alcides stood calmly, unnaturally relaxed amid the churning miasma.
And then, without warning, his limbs exuded a predatory edge sharp enough to sever heads.
"But the one who slaughters you will not be this filth..."
"Oh?"
"It will be the madness festering in the heart of man."
Gilgamesh's brow twitched. He crushed the creeping madness clawing at his mind and sneered.
"Fool. You think I would fall to such madness twice?"
Alcides pulled his bow taut.
"...Hydra Shot."
The bow bent near to breaking, unleashing nine arrows veined with cursed mana. Their paths twisted like serpents, coiling together like the legendary Hydra to devour the King of Heroes.
"The Hydra's venom? Poisoning a King is nothing new—but tiresome."
Gilgamesh reached for the antidote in his vault—
And then the world changed.
The forest around him warped into a grotesque garden wrought by a monster's curse.
Behind him came a roar. Not the song of Enkidu and the earth, but a sound twisted in hatred—a curse upon all creation.
Gilgamesh's eyes widened.
Impossible... not false?
Shock, anxiety, confusion... and the faintest trace of fear crossed the King's face.
He had no time to ponder why his vault would not open.
In that heartbeat, arrows pierced his shoulder, his limbs, his vitals, even his spiritual core.
"Bastard... you... impossible!"
Drenched in sweat, Gilgamesh glared at Francesca, who shed her Fimbulvetr beast guise.
He had prepared against her illusions—but the voice, the resonance, had been real.
Francesca smiled down smugly, dangling a key.
"Well well, mighty King. Recognize this?"
It was the catalyst once used to summon him: the key to the Babylonian vault's outer gates.
"You... damn... that woman left it?!"
"Indeed." Francesca nodded sweetly. "The goddess left this behind just for you. Even imprinted her little hound's bark upon it—so whoever picked it up afterward could savor watching you squirm."
"The goddess'... echo..."
Even facing death, Gilgamesh remained expressionless. Only his eyes turned toward the heavens as the Bull of Heaven manifested above the city.
Then, he laughed.
"Hahahaha! How disgraceful! Fertile goddess Ishtar—you perished even faster than I did!"
With those final words, the King of Heroes vanished completely.
Francesca glanced idly at Tine, weeping over her fallen King, and addressed Alcides casually:
"That little brat—she's yours to deal with. If you want any hope of winning against that one, maybe we should team up? After all, folly and madness are my origin! Ahahahaha!"
Her innocent voice rang mad with laughter, echoing into the distance.
When silence returned, Alcides approached the grieving Tine.
"...Child. You truly refuse to retreat?"
Through tears, she nodded.
"He told me to run... but I can't..."
"I see. Just as you have those you must protect... I have what I must seize. There is no need for understanding between us. Any who compromise my will are my enemies."
He raised his bow, his voice cold.
"And so... I will kill you."
The girl trembled, yet did not avert her eyes.
Scarlet-black light consumed the canyon.
And when it faded, only silence, and the girl lying upon her King's body, remained.
Alcides turned to leave. To the faint white light flickering before him, he murmured:
"Thank you—for saving me from the King's strike."
Though the light did not speak, Alcides understood.
"I am you."
"No matter. Thank you... for not abandoning me."
---
Meanwhile, inside Snowfield Police HQ—
"It's hard to believe you came here..."
Police Chief Orlando Rive eyed the Servant before him: false magus Alexandre Dumas.
"Ahh, I didn't want to, honestly. I'm weak, after all." Dumas sighed, sipping water. "But there was no choice. To focus on this Holy Grail War... I'd finally allied with Karl—or rather, Charlemagne, as he insists. Thought victory was within reach."
Orlando kept his doubts to himself. A magus' ramblings sometimes hid truths.
"So why now—"
Before he could finish, Dumas rocked back in his chair and gave a bitter smile.
"Brother, I mean it. Let's surrender. There's no chance of victory. I can't even get past that lightning."
"...Is that so."
"I'm not joking, Chief. I may have written heroes, but I can't contend with a figure who verges on godhood."
"You've concluded it really is Novia—the Church's founder? Could such a ritual truly summon him? From the magi's view, Novia belongs to the Age of Man, long after the gods. He shouldn't rival divine heroes."
"Ah, but it's not that simple."
Dumas chuckled sadly, speaking with grim weight.
"Novia was born the very day Christ ascended—yes, the day He died. And Christ was never just faith. He was far more than the Church's 'Savior'..."
"...Go on."
"And Novia was never just the Church's founder. In Britain, sealed away from the world, lies the foundation of modern magecraft—the Clock Tower itself rests upon relics he left behind in Rome."
"London's cavernous void was filled, by Nero's order, with the mystic flesh he procured. The very mysteries powering the Clock Tower today exist thanks to him."
Dumas paused, his tone heavy.
"Do you know what they called Novia in our time? Perhaps they still do now."
"The Holy One?" Orlando ventured.
"No. The Holy Spirit."
The words struck like iron, leaving the Chief silent.
If Novia was truly one of the Trinity, there could be no hope of victory.
"Then why... why would such a being enter a Grail War?"
"Who knows? Just speculation. Some even claim Novia and Attila the Hun were one and the same. But don't spread that—the El-Melloi faction won't accept it. The Association and the Church are enemies, after all."
Then, with a glimmer in his eyes, Dumas added:
"Do you know the Count of Monte Cristo?"
"Yes. A character from your novel."
"No, no." Dumas shook his head. "Edmond Dantès was real. I merely wrote his tale. My point is this: whether Novia is the Holy Spirit... is like Edmond being the Count of Monte Cristo."
"...You're losing me. Speak plainly."
"Monte Cristo is literal, Chief. Cristo. Christ."
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