"I surrender."
From within the spreading, murky storm, thunder and lightning erupted together, forming a terrifying cumulative impact, releasing overwhelming force in any direction it pleased.
In the very next instant, everything before him was obliterated. Orlando, who could only barely defend against the lightning, instantly realized it.
It wasn't something his eyes saw—it was something he felt.
He converted the fluctuations of magical energy pouring from the leylines into vision. Of course, the perception brought by magical energy was utterly different from the information conveyed by light's reflection.
It was as if endless shockwaves were being generated without pause, their vibrations interfering and resonating with one another, rapidly amplifying the energy to an unbearable degree.
At first glance, it seemed like mere thunder. But in truth, it was more akin to the ocean, where irregular waves collided and combined, eventually giving rise to a massive surge.
It wasn't simply brute force. Rather, it was the manipulation of countless nearly undetectable currents of magical energy, threading through time and space, all concentrated by Novia into a single designated point.
And for that reason, the sheriff Orlando—who had considered his initial participation, under the terms of alliance with Charlemagne, as already sufficient—chose without hesitation to raise his hands and admit: "I've tried my best. I really can't do more."
After all, standing before him was Novia. Orlando simply could not see any possibility of victory. If not for the sake of Charlemagne's alliance, he wouldn't have come at all.
And Orlando was not alone. Enkidu, Jack, and Sigma all thought the same.
Enkidu, in truth, had no intention of fighting from the start. Novia was not just a man—he was one acknowledged by the planet itself. Naturally, Enkidu could not bring himself to raise a hand against such a being. But because of Charlemagne's incessant pleading, he eventually came forth.
Jack's original purpose had been simple: to obtain the Holy Grail and learn his true identity. But after several days spent alongside his foolish Master, Flat, Jack's desire shifted. More than the Grail, he now wished only for his idiot Master to survive. Still, like Enkidu, he had been persuaded by Charlemagne's persistent begging to come.
As for Sigma, his purpose was even simpler. His goal had been to kill Francesca. With Francesca already dead, his mission was complete. Whether or not the Novia in this Grail War was the same Novia he once knew, Sigma didn't care. That detail was irrelevant.
The reason he came was the same as the others—because Charlemagne asked.
And this was not something brought about by use of the Alien Key, either. For Sigma was summoned as a Saber, not as an Executor. Even if he had come as an Executor, Karl the Great understood clearly that the Alien Key he wielded would be useless against Novia. To speak truth, the Alien Key originally belonged to Novia—Karl was merely a borrower.
In short, it was purely personal charisma that had gathered these heroes here. To summon them with nothing but the appearance of Charlemagne—Karl the Great was indeed worthy of the title "Holy King of Europe."
"...Even demons... are afraid of him."
Jack, in his demonic guise, was not just a single figure. At the same time, he invoked another of his Noble Phantasms in tandem—
"They Are Not Worthy of the Tragedy's End."
This Noble Phantasm was based on the anecdote that Jack the Ripper was not a lone killer, but a group. The maximum number of divisions varied depending on his Master's magical energy, but here and now, Jack could split into five hundred and twelve.
His thought was simple: use sheer numbers—hordes of "demons"—to endure the lightning, approach Novia's side, and then engage in close combat. To the eyes of ordinary people, five hundred demons would already rival the forces of Hell itself.
But in an instant—when the demonic Jacks were swept by Novia's gaze—he forgot even the concept of fear. He froze in place.
That aura, so natural, was enough to terrify any being born from the very concept of Hell. Beneath his command, it was as though Hell itself unfolded, the cosmos bent to his will, and all of existence sang in praise as if possessing souls of their own.
Paralyzed, unable to move, Jack could only dissolve his two Noble Phantasms, choosing to withdraw from the battlefield just like Orlando.
"For the debt I owe you—for destroying that woman—I shall repay it with battle."
Thus spoke Enkidu, who manifested as a Lancer. The reason was simple: his Noble Phantasm, which was also his very essence.
In Babylonian myth, the King of Heroes had been meant to descend as the bond uniting gods and men, preventing their separation.
Yet whether through forgetfulness or willful choice, the King did not fulfill this duty. Instead, he promoted a reign that hastened the division between gods and men.
Enkidu was born to correct this betrayal, to question, to pierce the one who failed his mission. In other words, he was a divine weapon, forged to be the spear that pierced the betrayer, created under the concept of returning the bond into the hands of the gods.
The Chains of Heaven—that was his Noble Phantasm. Or rather, by wielding his own body as the weapon, his strike was nothing less than the piercing and suturing of the world itself.
If a barrier existed between heaven and earth, he would pierce even the concept of that barrier.
"Man—may you remain bound to the gods!"
The planet cried out.
From beneath Enkidu's feet surged a massive flow of magical energy, enveloping him as thunder descended.
"...Forgive me, that I must provoke your wrath."
These words were not directed at Novia, but at the immense torrent of magical energy that enshrouded the void and space's rift—or rather, at the planet itself.
"For this one has already consented."
Enkidu gestured toward Novia. The silver-haired youth nodded in response.
In the next instant, the magical energy until now could only be called a prelude. Severalfold greater torrents erupted from the earth, transforming into a tornado of mana that enveloped Enkidu's body. Then, with Enkidu as its core, it became a colossal spear of light, spanning heaven and earth.
It was the concept of life dispersed, the spark forged to overcome primordial fear, moving from past to future, from future to eternity. The earth, the sea, and the sky were all bound together. Even if walking beside mankind into Hell, that one still sang loudly of Paradise.
The divine spear of godly technique advanced in a straight line, stitching together the torn world, and clashed directly against Novia's conceptual lightning that ceaselessly tore at existence.
And then—
Novia raised his holy sword against the approaching Chains of Heaven. At once—
All creation responded!
He raised his hand, and within the holy sword countless magical matrices glowed with golden light. Magical energy surged forth, compressing thunder, transforming it into a cannon of mana, clearing the skies by human will.
And then—Novia swung the holy sword down.
Under the shining sun, the world fell silent.
As though in that moment, the land, the heavens, the oceans—all places touched by the light—were imbued with life and will, obeying the command of the supreme one.
At the instant of collision, there was no earth-shattering roar as expected. Not even the ordinary sound of a clash remained. Everything was swallowed into tranquil silence, as though the world had discarded all sound, suffocated into stillness.
"As I thought... I should have just chosen to run from the start."
Having unleashed his Noble Phantasm, Enkidu descended slowly to the ground.
"Moby Dick."
At Sigma's cry, a white whale roared from the heavens. From its maw gleamed a colossal blade, as though capable of severing all things.
Moby Dick was originally a 19th-century American novel by Herman Melville, published in 1851, telling the story of Captain Ahab's pursuit of the white whale, ending in mutual destruction.
But in the Nasuverse, Moby Dick was no ordinary sperm whale—it was a high-ranked Phantasmal Species, a living superweapon on par with the Greek primordial dragon, Typhon.
Facing the charging colossal creature, Novia could not help but smile.
He recalled the days of summoning Albion to slay the Three Beasts of Revelation, the hardship of calling forth Typhon to stand against Kiara, and more recently, commanding Typhon to kill the Bull of Heaven.
In that fleeting instant—shorter than a single thought—the blade wielded by the White Whale traced a vast arc across heaven and earth. It shifted course again and again, its sharp curves severing every bolt of lightning that had locked onto it, until finally it began drawing closer to Novia.
Yet, just as the blade—seemingly sharp enough to rend the sky itself—was about to fall upon Novia's face, a blazing light surged before his eyes.
Crimson waves spread outward, forcing the White Whale to retreat step by step.
At that same moment, in a certain room—
Mélusine glared at the summoning circle through which Typhon's name had been called, her teeth clenched.
"Damn you, Typhon! I'm the strongest one here. Why don't you just drop dead already? Or better yet, I'll kill you myself right now… Damn it, how infuriating! My black scales look far more beautiful than that ridiculous Egyptian-styled red of yours!"
Typhon could only nod, almost instinctively, to her words. Yet seeing Mélusine like this, her temper flaring and her pride wounded, filled him with no small delight.
The red-haired girl seemed to hear them, for she looked at the fuming Mélusine and smiled—a taunting smile, laced with amusement.
"Albion… You know, I've always wanted to see that look on your face—"
"That expression of jealousy toward me."
"...Really, I'll kill you, Typhon."
Already seething, the strongest dragon in existence snapped at the provocation. She clawed at the gaps in the summoning circle, trying with all her might to tear it open. So desperate was her attempt that, just before Typhon was fully pulled into the summoning, she had already stepped before him—her silver-haired form radiating a terrifying darkness, her face twisted with fury.
But before Mélusine could make her move, Typhon was dragged away, summoned to Novia's side.
At that moment, crimson magic burst forth before the White Whale, seething, sweeping outward in every direction—
Like a blood-red bomb exploding in midair.
And then it stopped, hanging in the air before Novia. Under the silent intensity of his gaze, the crimson mana condensed, reshaped—and at last, Typhon's true mechanical body emerged before him.
Though it was unclear why Typhon trembled, the silver-haired youth paid it no mind and immediately entered the colossal form.
Thus, step by step, the Primordial Greek Dragon Typhon advanced toward the White Whale, Moby Dick.
Sensing the overwhelming combat will—like the very concept of destruction itself—wrapping around body and soul, the White Whale chose not to evade.
In a breathless instant, it adjusted its stance perfectly, shifting its center of gravity, gathering power from nothing to full force.
And then, against Typhon's true form, it swung its blade.
In answer, Typhon's cannons erupted with a torrent of magic. Terrifying heat swept outward, devouring all in its path. From within came a roar and bellow like the fury of heaven and earth themselves.
Flame and lightning. Storms and torrents.
All of it poured unrestrained into the blade clenched in the White Whale's maw.
When the magic finally dissipated, the Whale's indestructible body—so long thought unassailable—was drenched in blood. Even the mighty blade in its jaws was fractured.
Novia pressed forward, closed the distance, and drove his fist into the White Whale—
Moby Dick crashed violently to the earth.
At that moment, all four of the warriors summoned by Charlemagne had fallen from the battlefield.
Now, only Charlemagne and Novia remained.
And for Charlemagne, this outcome was no surprise. If anything, it was expected. After all, the man before him was his brother-in-law—none other than the King of the Huns.
"Brother-in-law, I'll be going all out too—"
Charlemagne raised the holy sword Joyeuse in his hand. With a single step forward, its blade radiated dazzling light.
As humble as a gentle breeze, as devout as a spring's waters.
Though he bore Charlemagne's face and appeared in the Saber class, Charlemagne the Emperor could, for some reason, wield powers that should have belonged solely to the Arbiter.
In theory, the one who could draw forth the sword's true might was not the Emperor himself, but the "phantasm" of Charlemagne. For to the real-world Emperor, Joyeuse was merely a sword of fantasy, born after the fact.
And yet, he needed no first Noble Phantasm, "Blessed be, for God is in heaven", to unleash the sword's power.
It must have been a miracle—a moment when fantasy and reality coexisted.
"—Hallowed be, the Guardians return at this very moment!"
With his voice, a vast silver city appeared, the embodiment of impartial judgment.
This was Charlemagne's second Noble Phantasm: the Mobile Holy Capital, Carolus Patricius. A colossal, automatically expanding fortress, it served both as armor for the Emperor and as the Holy Capital itself. Patricius had once been the title bestowed upon the Guardians of Rome and Italy.
"—Hallowed be, may the Light cover all—wha—!"
Charlemagne had intended to unleash his third Noble Phantasm at once, for he knew that simply defending would not suffice against his brother-in-law, piloting Typhon. He had no intention of wasting time, since the fourth Noble Phantasm relied upon the Alien Key, which he knew would prove useless against Novia.
Hallowed be, the Light covers the world—his third Noble Phantasm, the trump card of the Mobile Holy Capital. Once invoked, it transformed the fortress into its offensive form, capable of eradicating every foe in its path.
Or at least, that was how it should have been.
But as the fortress shifted, following his will into its attack mode, the process abruptly halted. It froze midway, immobile, leaving only the bewildered Charlemagne within—and Novia, drawing near.
The architecture, the engravings, the atmosphere itself—so achingly familiar it cut to the bone.
Stepping out from Typhon's form, Novia closed his eyes, touching the fortress wall. A sigh escaped him, quiet and heartfelt.
Memories of triumphal parades in Rome. Of petals raining down, as they did once more before him now.
...What is this? Did my brother-in-law invoke some Noble Phantasm unknown to me? Some ability that could manipulate another's Noble Phantasm?
As Charlemagne wondered, he looked upward. Petals drifted from the city's sky. They were flowers, yet when they met the air, it was like metal striking metal—sparks flying, thunderous applause resounding across heaven and earth.
At once, Charlemagne understood why his Noble Phantasm had faltered.
For any who achieved great deeds, the final test was how deeply they could inscribe belief and will into others, leaving behind something that endured.
The Mobile Holy Capital, born as the Guardian of Rome and Italy, was in truth the crystallization of Italy's unconscious recognition of its unifier.
But before Charlemagne, there had been another.
Not the Empire's founder, but one acknowledged by that founder. The man who had expanded the Holy Church, indispensable to Rome itself.
Even now, his name was sung again and again in history and in faith.
His will had never faded. It lived still, within this cruel world, among those who suffered death and despair.
That name was—
"Novia."
The roar of celebration was brief, but deafening.
And in that instant, deep within the countless passages of the Holy Capital, a golden laurel bloomed.
It was no illusion wrought by a Noble Phantasm. No false simulation.
It was a tide, a surge written into the very star itself.
The sight alone stole breath, seized hearts.
And in that moment, Novia thought he heard a phantom voice—
"The symbol of prosperity and passion, the light of compassion and glory—Rome itself blesses you."
He exhaled softly, then smiled at the crestfallen Charlemagne.
"Well then. What do you say, Charle? Shall we continue?"
Charlemagne—heroic, majestic, the Holy King who had once unified all of Western Europe—was famed in the Throne of Heroes as a man who met victory or defeat without regret, ever calm, ever resolute. He had once declared with pride:
"My love for mankind is second only to God, without equal before or after me."
Perhaps, then, he would meet this loss with the same strength.
"Brother-in-law, this..."
Charlemagne hesitated, his gaze drifting to the vision of the Holy Capital, before finally speaking with determination.
"I surrender."