Kariya Matou watched indifferently as Diarmuid was completely swallowed by the jet-black tide of worms. Hearing the skin-crawling screams echoing through the damp worm cellar, his face, covered in twisted veins, showed no emotion, save for a complex shadow flickering deep in his eyes.
He knew all too well what a depraved choice it was to rely on such filthy and evil power.
But he had no way back. That man, Kanjuro, was an existence as unfathomable as an abyss, with ruthless methods and far-reaching schemes; he was the terrifying presence Kariya least wanted and was least able to face head-on. Every time he recalled Kanjuro's eyes, which seemed able to pierce through the human heart, and his composure while toying with fate, Kariya felt a bone-chilling cold.
However, he could never back down.
The face of Sakura Matou—the girl he cherished like a treasure, who had been adopted from the Tohsaka Family—appeared in his mind, innocent and slightly melancholy. He had sworn to protect her and would never allow her pure world to be defiled or destroyed by a demon like Kanjuro.
For this, he was willing to pay any price, even if it meant making a deal with the devil, even if it meant pushing his own soul and the souls of others into this filthy Worm Den.
The Diarmuid before him was merely a pawn in this desperate struggle, one that had to be utilized for its intense hatred and power—the perfect tool.
Just then, at the center of the surging black tide of worms, an exceptionally violent burst of magical energy suddenly erupted! The viscous Crest Worms were forcibly pushed aside and blown away by an invisible force, as if encountering their natural enemy.
A figure slowly stood up from the center of the Worm Den.
It was still Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, but his aura was now entirely different.
The silver armor that once shone with the spirit of a radiant knight was now shrouded in a persistent haze, with ominous dark light flowing faintly across it. The magical energy radiating from him had become immense, but it was no longer pure; instead, it was mixed with the cold, sinister, and restless nature of the Crest Worms. Those eyes, once as brilliant as gold, had now settled into a nearly solidified dark gold, and what burned within them was no longer the flame of glory, but a bone-chilling killing intent tempered by hatred and pain.
Even more striking was that the weapons he held had changed. The world-renowned demonic spears, "St. Demon-Slaying Red Rose" and "Must-Die Yellow Rose," had vanished.
In their place were two ancient and sharp longswords! Their blades were narrow and long, flickering with a ghostly cold light, and their hilts were wrapped in dark runes, perfectly matching his current aura.
In Celtic Mythology, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne was originally the most versatile warrior under Fionn mac Cumhaill; not only was his spearmanship superb, but his swordsmanship was actually even more refined and profound. It was only because he was summoned by the Holy Grail system in the Lancer class this time that he primarily displayed his spear techniques.
Now, after the magical energy of the Crest Worms—filled with pain and negative energy—had completely washed over and reshaped his saint graph, he was forced (or perhaps guided) to release this deeper source of power that had been temporarily sealed by his class. Dual swords were his true form as "Diarmuid of the Bright Face," his state for fighting with full strength!
He slowly raised his head, his dark gold eyes sweeping over Kariya Matou and the silently standing Lancelot, who radiated madness. His voice was low, carrying a raspiness from the erosion of power, yet it was exceptionally firm:
"I accept this 'gift'." He flexed his wrists, which were gripping the twin swords, feeling the surging and slightly stinging new magical energy within his body. "I am going to kill Kanjuro."
He paused, his gaze lingering for a moment on Kariya's twisted face. "I do not know what grievances lie between you and him, but I, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, am no ingrate. Once this matter is settled, if I live, I shall surely repay this 'kindness'."
With that, he spoke no more.
Holding the twin swords that emitted an ominous glow, he walked with steady and resolute steps out of the underground bug cellar, which was thick with the stench of decay and despair.
His silhouette blended into the darkness of the corridor, leaving behind only an ice-cold, bone-chilling killing intent that slowly diffused through the air like a physical substance.
Kariya Matou watched the direction he departed in, remaining silent for a long time.
The crimson eyes beneath Lancelot's helmet flickered slightly. Amidst the madness, an indescribable flash of complex emotion seemed to pass through—was it mockery at a fellow warrior's fall, or some kind of resonance with that resolute will for revenge? No one knew.
A new and even more tragic storm was quietly approaching Kanjuro's location, following the unsheathing of this sharp blade reforged by hatred and filthy power.
The faint light of dawn struggled to pierce through the haze over Fuyuki City, spilling onto the cold, empty streets.
The air carried the chill of the night, refreshing and sharp, yet it could not cool the raging flames of revenge burning in Diarmuid's chest.
He held the twin swords, and every step he took felt as if he were treading upon the wreckage of past glory and the ashes of today's humiliation.
He lowered his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the two demonic swords in his hands that emitted an ominous, eerie light.
In his left hand was beag-alltach. Its blade was wide and contained a violent, peerless power of destruction; the trembling of its edge sounded like the furious roar of the ocean.
In his right hand was mor-alltach. Its blade was more slender and sharp, its movements as elusive as a lover's whisper, yet capable of precisely finding the enemy's smallest flaw to deliver a fatal blow.
These two demonic swords, originating from Celtic mythology, possessed power far beyond his previous twin spears. Legend had it they possessed a special attribute that brought absolute death upon contact. This was his true trump card, the source of power he had exchanged his soul for by plunging into filth.
"Kanjuro..." Diarmuid whispered the name, the corners of his mouth curling into an extremely cold arc that held no mirth, only solidified killing intent.
"You demon who defiled the spirit of chivalry, toyed with people's hearts, and deserve ten thousand deaths... Today shall be your end."
He wanted revenge for master Kayneth and for the twisted and defiled Sola-Ui.
He would kill Kanjuro and then take Sola-Ui to completely escape this man's clutches, even if the road ahead remained bleak.
On a high floor of the hotel, Kanjuro stood by the window and yawned lazily, as if he had just woken from a pleasant rest.
His gaze drifted casually to the cold street below, instantly locking onto the figure holding twin swords and radiating sky-high killing intent and massive, twisted magical energy.
"Oh?" He let out a soft exclamation of ambiguous meaning. No tension could be seen on his face; instead, it was as if he were looking at an interesting toy.
Standing beside him, Jeanne d'Arc's brow was already furrowed.
She felt the aura pressing in from below like a physical weight. Her cool voice carried a hint of gravity: "This killing intent... it is filled with resentment and pain. Furthermore, the quality and quantity of his magical energy are completely different from last night, reaching another level. What did he go through in less than a night to evolve to this extent?"
Hearing this, the playful smile on Kanjuro's lips deepened slightly. He turned his head and said to Jeanne, "It seems our Sir Knight paid a significant 'price' to gain the power to swing his sword at us."
His tone was relaxed, as if discussing a piece of trivia that had nothing to do with him.
"Jeanne," Kanjuro's voice remained flat, yet it carried an unquestionable command.
"This time, I might have to trouble you again. Go 'greet' our brand-new old friend. Let me see exactly how much weight this newly acquired power of his holds."
Jeanne nodded, her face devoid of expression, as if accepting the command was only natural.
In her eyes, once filled with holiness and now filled with revenge, a flash of cold battle intent appeared. She didn't ask questions or hesitate; she simply turned calmly and walked out of the room.
Her silver armor glinted with a hard, cold luster in the morning light, and the flag behind her stirred without wind.
She knew this would be a fight entirely different from last night. That knight, immersed in pain and humiliation, who did not hesitate to use filthy power for the sake of revenge, was now an unsheathed, peerlessly sharp, and dangerous blade.
Kanjuro watched Jeanne leave, his gaze falling back onto the figure approaching step by step on the street below. A deep, inscrutable light flickered in his eyes, as if he were admiring a play he had personally orchestrated that was about to begin.
In the cold morning breeze, the atmosphere of the final battle had already spread.
Just moments before Diarmuid was about to step into the hotel's revolving door, a cool and firm figure appeared as if out of thin air, blocking his path.
Jeanne held the holy sword wreathed in dark red flames. Her silver armor gleamed coldly in the faint morning light, and her eyes were calm and placid, yet carried the sense of an impassable barrier.
Diarmuid paused, his dark gold eyes erupting with deep-seated hatred and mockery.
"Heh," he let out a cold sneer, "Look who it is? The Saint of France, the legendary banner who upholds divine will and protects justice... now acting like a most loyal hound, guarding the door of a demon who toys with hearts and is steeped in sin? What a grand irony! What right do you have to speak of faith and glory? You are not even worthy of being called a knight!"
Faced with this sharp mockery, Jeanne's expression did not change at all, as if she were hearing nothing more than the insignificant wind.
Her voice sounded like it was soaked in ice, ringing out clearly: "Chivalry? That is nothing more than a gorgeous shackle used by the weak to gloss over their incompetence and comfort themselves. When everything you cherish is destroyed by the very things you protect, you will understand how pale and laughable so-called codes and glory are."
Her gaze swept over the pair of demonic swords in Diarmuid's hands, which emitted ominous fluctuations. Her tone took on a hint of mockery that bordered on pity: "I do indeed admire your courage in plunging into darkness just to swing your sword at someone stronger.
However, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, you have no idea what kind of existence you are facing.
Your resolve is moving, but unfortunately... you can never be his match. If you retreat now, perhaps you can still retain your final dignity."
"Dignity?!" Diarmuid seemed stung by the word, letting out a low growl. "After losing everything, dignity is already a luxury! Today, even if my body is crushed and my soul dissipated, I will surely slay Kanjuro here!"
His determination was as solid as a rock; for the sake of revenge, he had long since cast aside life and death... "In that case..." Jeanne let out a soft breath, and the dark red flames on the holy sword in her hand suddenly surged, as if ignited by her battle intent. "Then, as you wish."
Before the words even faded, Diarmuid's figure turned into a dark bolt of lightning! His twin swords crossed, bringing a scream that tore through the air. beag-alltach swung down with colossal force, while mor-alltach, like a venomous snake's tongue, silently stabbed toward Jeanne's throat! The assault was peerlessly fierce, far exceeding the time he used his twin spears yesterday!
Jeanne's eyes sharpened, and her holy sword swept across, the dark red flames drawing a perfect arc!
"Clang—!!!"
The deafening sound of clashing metal exploded, sparks flying everywhere. The shockwave of the collision made the surrounding glass buzz.
The fierce battle erupted instantly!
Diarmuid's twin sword assault was like a violent storm. His exquisite sword techniques, combined with the eerie attributes of the demonic swords, were at times heavy and powerful, and at others tricky and ruthless. He seized a flaw, and mor-alltach precisely pierced through Jeanne's armor, stabbing into her heart!
However, the expected scene of the enemy falling did not occur.
Jeanne's body only trembled slightly. At the pierced wound, dark red flames surged wildly, swirling and repairing as if they had a life of their own. In almost an instant, the wound had healed as before, without leaving even a trace!
Diarmuid's pupils shrank: "What?!"
Refusing to believe it, he roared and launched another fierce attack. beag-alltach slashed down, nearly splitting Jeanne's shoulder open! Yet the result was the same; the undying flames surged once more, and the damaged part was rapidly reshaped within the fire.
"It's useless." Jeanne's voice remained calm, as if the one injured was not herself.
"My flag (Luminosité Eternelle) has turned into this undying flame, and my existence itself is the resonance and rebirth after being consumed by fire. As long as this 'obsession' is not completely extinguished, and as long as the master's mana remains, this body can be reborn from the ashes countless times. This is not simple healing, but an 'immortal curse' on a conceptual level."
She even took the initiative to meet the sword strike Diarmuid Ua Duibhne attempted to launch, which carried a "Noble Phantasm sealing" effect. That power, sufficient to disable an ordinary Servant's Noble Phantasm, was like a drop of ink in the ocean when it touched the flames surrounding her, failing to stir even a single ripple.
The Crimson Lotus Holy Fire continued to burn fiercely on her sword, unaffected.
"Your swords are indeed sharp, enough to slay heroes." Jeanne stepped forward, the flames on the holy sword in her hand becoming even more intense. "But unfortunately, they... cannot sever my 'karma,' nor can they incinerate my 'will'."
Diarmuid stared blankly at this scene that defied common sense, a storm of shock surging within him.
An immortal body? Even Noble Phantasm sealing is ineffective? How can I fight this?! A deep sense of near-despairing powerlessness began to quietly erode his heart, which had been filled with hatred.
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