And so, with the shared will of all Heroic Spirits summoned in the Snowfield Holy Grail War, the conflict reached its end on the fourth day.
Of the thirteen Servants, the Avenger Alcides, the Hero King Gilgamesh, the forest's guardian Humbaba, and the humanoid incarnation of the mad goddess Athe, Francesca, all met their deaths. After Novia single-handedly shattered the alliance led by Emperor Karl, the remaining Servants, upon exchanging farewells with their Masters, returned to the Throne of Heroes.
As for the Grail itself, it had already been absorbed and fused with the Avenger. Yet since the Avenger perished shortly afterward, the Holy Grail was destroyed along with him.
Among the Masters, only three fell: the Italian mafioso Baldilot Cottilio, the American government agent Fadius, and Francesca, who had merged with her own Servant. All the others survived.
As for the countless battles that had unfolded within Snowfield City itself—its people did not perceive them as "commonplace," but simply as something invisible.
That's right: they literally could not see. From the moment Novia had appeared, he had enveloped the city in his Noble Phantasm "Trial of the Wild Hunt", crafting a miniature world. Thus, the Heroic Spirit battles never touched the people, nor was the violence of combat revealed to their eyes.
What they witnessed instead must have been something closer to a peaceful competition.
In short, for the citizens of Snowfield, the days of the Holy Grail War were nothing more than a wondrous dream.
As for Kiara's arrival, the first to be terrified was none other than Typhon.
"Y-You… You damn human! Ahhh! My body—you'll pay for it! The cracks in my armor have been there for years and still haven't healed!"
Altrouge gave a long, meaningful glance at the black-haired girl now before them, then at herself and at Manaka and the others. She wondered if it might be better to shift into her adult form—for then, walking beside Novia, perhaps they might look more like husband and wife with their children.
Mélusine, meanwhile, arrogantly declared as always:
"No matter what, you are the latecomer."
Her earlier impulse to kill Typhon had evaporated the moment Novia returned. In truth, she only dared such thoughts when he was absent.
The "pretty girl" Manaka Sajo wore her usual look of indifference, her expression saying plainly: "Well, isn't this fine too?"
"I think you've picked the wrong opponent," Kiara murmured, narrowing her eyes at the baffled Typhon.
The red-haired girl tilted her head in confusion.
Typhon felt certain her words were not meant for him at all, but rather for someone unseen—perhaps Meili, who had yet to appear but seemed to speak to him through thought alone.
A brief silence passed. Then the red-haired girl's lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly.
"Wrong opponent? You sound confident."
"After all, I'm not the kind who hides away, afraid to show her face, am I? Don't you agree?" The black-haired girl smiled in turn, her voice low. "Unlike some aging succubus."
She seemed to have forgotten that when she had first met Novia, she had introduced herself as Ciel Kiara.
Time slipped by. Eventually, the Holy Grail War reached its destined seventh and final day—
When once more the sun rose at the edge of the earth.
Within the Underworld—sealed after the Pale Rider's departure—the sound of knocking echoed through the deathly silence, reverberating across the void.
In that sealed realm, darkness surged like a tide. From nowhere, the void thickened, giving form to something real.
Like the fleeting bubbles of a dream, it rose from another world—outlining and illuminating the power once held by the "Golden King."
The spiritual foundation of the Hero King, upon which the Golden King relied, swelled rapidly. From the golden radiance flooding the Underworld, one could glimpse it clearly: the magnificent city suspended upside down against the heavens of the land of the dead.
Babylon drew near.
No—it had always been there. In the Age of the Gods, beneath the earth lay the Underworld; the end of all men was this realm of death.
And yet, though this was the modern era, the impossible had come to pass, as though this very place had returned to the divine age. The barrier between mankind and death thinned, eroded, and dissolved into nothing.
In response, a voice rang out amidst the brilliance.
It was beautiful, not a melody, but a single voice, pure and clear.
It did not belong in battle, but rather cleansed the very air.
And with that voice, the weapons that fell from the heavens gleamed golden, as though washing the mud from sullied waters.
The golden-haired king, appearing as a youth, listened to the distant roar of the approaching tide—the thunder, the lightning, the searing heat and freezing cold—as if presenting them as tokens of sincerity for this reunion.
This was none other than the Golden King, in the Alter Ego class: Gilgamesh. In the Fate/Strange Fake texts, Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, had praised him as a being equal to Zeus himself.
"As expected, you succeeded in placing the vengeful great hero in the most fitting of resting places," said AE Gilgamesh. "It fills me with joy. Even Typhon, the true Typhon, was freed from vengeance by your hand. You are truly worthy of greatness."
When he first appeared, AE Gilgamesh had been hailed as a hero, compared to Zeus himself. The Bull of Heaven, by contrast, had been named a Demon King, an echo of Typhon who had once sought vengeance upon the gods. Their roles, it seemed, were fated to mirror one another.
Novia gazed upon the vision before him—the panorama of Babylon. Just as the Mobile Holy Capital had once rejected Karl to welcome him instead, so too did this collective unconscious of Babylon's people radiate their love for the Golden King.
What the souls of Babylon wished to protect, to preserve, to entrust, to create—
A lone king, severed from divine flesh, who prayed for mankind's completion. One who sought to raise humanity itself to the throne of the gods: the Golden King.
As the silver-haired youth lifted his head, gazing at the heavens illuminated by Babylon, the cold, lifeless Underworld seemed to shine with the remnants of their light.
So faint, and yet so dazzling.
It was as if, even now, they still stood beside their king, so that he would never again be alone.
Novia let out a silent sigh, then revealed a sincere smile.
"Today, no matter what happens, there is no need for panic—
nor for sorrow."
"For I am not the only great one."
"You, and your Babylon, are as well."
As his words fell, thunder and lightning burst into violet brilliance within the sound of the lyre, while countless blazing stars tore through the golden radiance.
In response, AE-Gil first bowed deeply in respect, then spoke with reverence:
"As the culmination of all things, humanity too shall one day reach that far shore."
As his voice rang out, in correspondence, the lyre that floated behind him was enveloped in magical light and began to play in unison.
"In the age of gods, the world was filled with suffering, for the gods who created it were not perfect...
Sinners, they said, must be punished and eternally condemned. The righteous, they said, must live untroubled by fear.
But if perfection, omniscience, and omnipotence define what we call 'god,' then no being that created such an imperfect world could ever truly be divine... Understanding this, I became what I am now—
and I wished all humanity to become the same."
With the fierce yet graceful melody, a radiance of another world rose from his form.
"Humanity must never cling to the pity of gods. Humanity's survival must be decided by their own will. If there are those who would trample this future, then we must exhaust everything to oppose them."
The countless treasures that had fallen upon the ground blazed with a golden light unlike any other. Under the command of the two 'hands' that manifested behind AE-Gil, they shot forth against the descending thunderbolts and the nine branches of Yggdrasil that stretched into the heavens, forming an impenetrable iron wall, driving ever forward.
What answered them was the roaring wrath of lightning, and molten lava erupting from the skies, as though endless treasures were met by an iron curtain.
"I understand. I understand your desire for humanity to ascend to divinity. I do not deny your ideal. But I do not wish for humanity to become gods."
The storm of Noble Phantasms was held fast in Novia's grip, allowing not an inch of advance. The flickering brilliance lit his eyes.
"Perhaps you have wondered—why do humans die so easily? Why are they not eternal? I will not define it. But to me, humanity 'as it is' is enough.
Because their lives are fragile, because their span is limited, they shine all the more brilliantly while alive. They treasure the fleeting days spent with others.
That is why, as one who bears witness to all living things, as one who serves as such a witness—"
Novia smiled and exhaled, his reply to AE-Gil's philosophy echoing the same words once spoken by the last of the Huns to Kiara:
"Not gods. Only humans."
Boom!
In that instant, it was as though the roar of the sea's tides burst forth from the void itself.
It was like the roar of all humanity, uncountable power flowing through the underworld suffused in Babylon's golden radiance, as though commanded to resume its rightful order.
The people of Babylon in the Age of Gods, and all peoples after, had long since dissolved into eternal silence through the passing ages.
Now, as the proclamation of Novia's will surged like tidal waves, the earth of the underworld itself trembled, and the thunderous tide spread outward.
Thus was his will declared.
From behind Novia sprouted nine vast branches—intricate yet simple. Heat and frost entwined, and Yggdrasil, the World Tree of the Norse, sprouted anew with unparalleled precision and speed.
The endless prototypes of treasures hurled by the Golden King shattered with anguished cries, crushed to dust between ten fingers.
Amidst the radiance, the young Hero-King wiped the blood from his lips with indifference, lifted his eyes toward Novia high above, and raised both hands.
At that moment, with the lyre resounding behind him, golden brilliance once more flared from his hands.
Like divine flame itself.
The light of a spirit foundation burning at its absolute peak—
a silent eruption.
An illusory sound of shattering rang in their ears once again, the breaking of his Saint Graph growing clearer and clearer.
Like the thunderous toll of death itself, reverberating through body and soul alike.
"King! King! King! King!"
Countless voices of Babylon cried out, calling Gilgamesh—calling their "gold."
For AE-Gil, he already possessed an entire world called "Babylon."
The young Hero-King, who had never met Enkidu, smiled faintly.
Gilgamesh and Enkidu were dear friends. He cherished that possibility. He truly did.
And that was why he held such fondness for Novia—
you, who like him wished to raise humanity higher.
The Hero-King born of an impossible "what if" spared no praise, and with the entirety of his Saint Graph burning, unleashed his final strike.
In that instant, Babylon reappeared in golden radiance. Surrounded by uncountable souls of Babylon, the Golden King's power surged forth once more.
A massive, pure-white arm, standing tall.
Its smooth surface traced with luminous lines, flowing like magical circuits, like intricate machine-work. This was the beauty of the gods of Babylon made manifest, unified into a single divine hand.
"Toward the Great One—"
The chant, carrying divine majesty, resounded. It was like a black hole birthed upon the earth itself, devouring color and sound, leaving only the void—the lingering scent of myth.
The Hero-King's "hand" split open from wrist to elbow, layers unfolding into a spiraling drill. With each rotation, immeasurable mana erupted in sparks, as though within it lay an entire world.
This was no lie. The "hand" truly contained the concept of Babylon.
The space of the underworld fractured, centered upon the raised divine arm of the Hero-King.
Through the cracks, stars gleamed—an attack that could rend the firmament.
"With reverence!"
The divine arm launched like a cannon shell, soaring toward the heavens, wrapped in thunder.
Boom!
The underworld itself, and every chthonic realm of the gods, screamed and twisted.
With every clash of the Hero-King's divine arm against the Holy Sword, the very concept of the underworld shuddered.
It was as though the underworld itself were being destroyed. Were this against any ordinary god, the shockwaves alone would have driven them into unconsciousness.
Thunder roared, tearing apart the mists like lightning.
This was a battle of myth.
Every gesture warped and deranged the laws of nature.
The underworld, unchanged since the Age of Gods, sleeping in lightless darkness while the world above shifted—
now fractured.
As the Hero-King's Saint Graph burned to its zenith, and Novia's Holy Sword swung in turn, an overwhelming flash burst forth.
It was not physical light, but magical force scorching the very soul.
The first fragments were tiny, yet swiftly multiplied and spread.
Soon the underworld was filled with cracks.
And then, the trembling began.
Horrific, ceaseless, soul-chilling tremors.
"Novia."
Hearing his voice, the silver-haired youth met the golden-haired boy's gaze.
"Is this your peak?"
"Yes. I held nothing back."
"I see... So this is what it feels like to fight with all one's might."
The Golden King narrowed his eyes, as if recalling something from long ago.
"Ah... You mean the matter of the Hero-King and Enkidu."
Novia laughed joyfully.
"In my whole life, there has been only this one time. From now on, I doubt I shall ever appear again."
The Golden King spoke wistfully, as though exhaling bubbles of memory into the golden afterglow.
"So, I am glad... that I met you."
The Hero-King's Saint Graph shattered. He smiled still. Only smiled.
The twisted void tore everything apart, causing collapse. Mysteries, strength, endurance—all were meaningless before it. The sundered space was no longer merely phenomenon, but destruction incarnate.
Like the death of an aged, massive star, it devoured ether, and even a part of the underworld itself. The void spread further—until, like waking from a dream, all soon returned to its original state.
What remained was only the unending sound of the tide—
and, at the end, the booming laughter of the Golden King as he fell.
Laughter like pure joy.
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