The "man's" tall, muscular body was completely encased in armor, without a single gap. Yet it was utterly unlike Saber's silver-white armor or Archer's lavish golden attire. The black armor worn by that man had neither exquisite decorations nor a polished sheen. There was only a black as deep as boundless darkness, as bottomless as an abyss. Even his face was covered by a hard steel mask, impossible to see through.
The only thing visible was the eerie gleam blooming from a pair of blazing eyes deep within the slits carved into the mask.
Without question, this was a Servant.
But what kind of Heroic Spirit possessed such an ominous appearance? This black knight had none of the radiant qualities displayed by the Heroic Spirits who had already revealed themselves.
Diarmuid, Knight King Artoria, King of Conquerors Iskandar, Hero King Gilgamesh—each possessed a distinctive charm of their own. That was something to be proud of as a Heroic Spirit. This glory was called "legend," formed from the admiration and longing of countless people, and was also a necessary element in making them "noble fantasies" (Noble Phantasm).
Yet the newly appeared black knight possessed none of those qualities. If anything, he was perhaps closer to Assassin. The darkness surrounding that black armor was entirely a "wave of negative energy."
Then that person should not be a Heroic Spirit, but some kind of "vengeful spirit"...
"...Hey, King of Conquerors. Why aren't you inviting him to join you?" Lancer kept his eyes fixed on the black knight without lowering his guard in the slightest. Only his tone remained flippant as he teased Rider.
Rider, having been mocked, frowned. "Even if I wanted to invite him, that fellow looks like he left no room for negotiation from the start."
What radiated from the black knight was nothing but endless killing intent. Even the whirlwinds produced by his mana seemed to carry the sinister wails of resentment.
Berserker... Everyone instinctively knew that he was Berserker. There was no need to ask. Such vicious waves of killing intent could belong to no one else but a Berserker.
And besides...
"I-I can't see!" Webber stammered as he stared at the black knight. "I can't see anything at all—not his parameters, not any other information!"
It was not only Rider. Saber, Lancer, and even Irisviel, who was observing from the side, noticed it as well. No matter how intently they looked, they could not make out Berserker's appearance clearly.
The black armor resembled an out-of-focus image. Its outline was always blurred and indistinct. At times, it even seemed to split into two or three shadows. Apparently, not only their vision, but even a Master's abilities were being affected.
That Heroic Spirit likely possessed some special ability or curse that could bewilder enemies and conceal his origins.
"Even a Master's abilities don't work?" Iskandar muttered. "A Berserker capable of hiding his identity... The quality of this Holy Grail War really is high."
At that moment, the black knight stood in the middle of the long street, staring at the golden king standing atop a streetlamp.
Between them lay the mangled Assassin, sprawled across the concrete like some mixture of liquid and solid. Only his occasional convulsions showed that he was still enduring the agony of living.
But soon, a golden spear pierced Assassin's head and mercifully granted him death.
Gilgamesh, who had fired that Noble Phantasm, did not even spare a glance for his nominal "ally." Instead, he stared at the pitch-black knight. His eyes, more like those of some serpent than a human's, concealed fury like an erupting volcano.
Only he knew that Berserker's terrifying gaze was directed solely at him, standing upon the streetlamp.
"You think I would save him? Hmph, wishful thinking!"
The swords and spears floating around the Hero King slowly turned and shifted direction, their tips aimed at Berserker, now their primary target.
"Mongrel. At least die beautifully. Entertain me."
Following Archer's icy declaration, the spears and swords shot through the air.
He could launch weapons from his treasury without even touching them—perhaps that was why Gilgamesh qualified as an Archer.
Yet his treatment of Noble Phantasms was far too casual. His crude throwing method was like tossing stones, recklessly hurling and smashing about the most precious weapons of Heroic Spirits. Even so, the destructive force of his attack was immensely powerful. The road exploded upward as if blasted apart, and shattered asphalt became dust that obscured everyone's vision.
Everyone held their breath—because Berserker had not used any weapon such as a shield to defend himself.
But when the dust settled, the slender black figure emerged faintly from the haze, proving that Berserker was still alive.
Near his slightly shifted feet, the road had been gouged into a deep crater. This was the result of one of Archer's spears, which had flown slightly slower and missed its target.
However, the sword that should have struck its target before the spear had caused no damage whatsoever. Because that sword was now in Berserker's hand.
How many people had clearly seen that lightning-fast exchange of attack and defense? At the very least, Irisviel and Webber had no idea what had just happened.
What had actually happened was this—Berserker had effortlessly caught the sword from Archer's first attack, then used the weapon he had just acquired to deflect the spear from the second strike.
"...That guy, is he really Berserker?" Lancer whispered tensely. Rider grumbled in reply, "For a madman who's lost his reason, his skill is remarkably refined."
Even Sakutsuki, who had expected it, could not help but praise him. "As expected of Unending Martial Refinement. As expected of the Knight of the Lake."
Unending Martial Refinement was peerless martial skill that united mind, technique, and body into one, allowing its user to display one hundred percent of his combat ability under any mental restraint, including Mad Enhancement.
As the Knight's Flower whose martial skill surpassed all others at the Round Table, Lancelot's prowess remained formidable even after he became Berserker.
"Honestly, even I'm getting fired up." Sakutsuki licked his lips, then suddenly raised both hands. The paired yin and yang swords appeared in his grasp.
Even though he had merely inherited Emiya's abilities, the married swords known as Gan Jiang and Mo Ye were still the weapons that felt most natural in Sakutsuki's hands.
His white robe fluttered. A conceptual Mystic Code made from the Shroud of Magdalene replaced his kimono, and the young man smiled as he tied a red headband around his forehead.
His scorching killing intent rushed without hesitation toward the handsome man wielding the demonic spear—Lancer.
"Wha..."
"What's going on?"
Webber and Irisviel both retreated several steps, taking shelter under their Servants' protection. Their eyes were filled with shock as they looked at Sakutsuki.
This was insane! There was a traitor among them!
A Master here was itching to fight a Servant!
Even Diarmuid failed to react at first. He had actually been challenged by a Master. After staring blankly for a while, he finally laughed with some irritation.
"Looks like I've been underestimated. Hey, young Master of some unknown Heroic Spirit, you still have time to apologize properly before I truly lose my temper."
Sakutsuki, fully armed, returned his smile and elegantly performed a knight's salute. "Please."
Invited with a knight's etiquette, Diarmuid no longer had any reason to refuse. Besides, his Master, Kayneth, had also given him an order.
"Kill him, Lancer."
"As you command, my lord." Diarmuid's smile turned bloody. His twin spears traced graceful arcs through the air before he raised his leg, stepped forward, and dove toward Sakutsuki!
With every attribute except Strength restored, Sakutsuki felt no fear. He swung his twin blades and charged straight at Lancer!
"How did it end up like this..." Webber wailed, watching helplessly as the situation abruptly descended into chaos.
With Assassin's second withdrawal as the fuse, the golden king clashed with the knight in black armor, while a Master who could rival a Servant with a mortal body battled a wielder of twin spears. As for the rest...
"There's no reason for us to fight each other, is there, King of Conquerors?" Noticing Iskandar's ill-intentioned gaze, Artoria stepped back to shield Irisviel. Her words sounded conciliatory, but carried an unmistakable threat.
"Hmm, though I am tempted, now isn't the time to fight you." The burly red-haired man shook his head and soothed the divine bull under his command. "Besides, kicking someone when they're down is not the act of a king."
At those words, Saber silently loosened her grip on her sword. The wound on her left hand was no longer bleeding, but a feeling of weakness remained, preventing her from wielding her sword freely.
Even worse, her trump card... could not be used because of it.
Rider and Saber, whose Masters and Servants were both present, tacitly restrained their fighting spirits. They watched the two battles in silence, gathering the necessary information.
But since they were on a battlefield, how could they possibly emerge unscathed?
The flames of war between Archer and Berserker were the first to spread to the Rider team nearby.
At first, Archer's volley was easily neutralized by Berserker. Adhering to the principle that one should return what one received, the black knight let out a low roar and suddenly drew a sword.
"This is..." The golden king frowned in displeasure. "A counterfeit?"
The sword was twisted into a spiral. Its original colors had been tainted by Berserker's mana, and red patterns flowed through its black surface.
Before Gilgamesh could say anything further, Berserker silently swung his sword. A torrent of black-and-red mana surged forth, transforming into a beam of light that charged toward the golden figure on the streetlamp.
Before the iron pole snapped, Gilgamesh lightly leaped away and landed on the ground as though nothing had happened.
Ignoring the path of the black beam—or perhaps even if he knew, the Hero King's target would not change.
"Damned fool... You actually made me, whom you should look up to in awe, stand upon the same earth as you!"
His rage finally reached its peak. The deep furrow between Gilgamesh's brows made his beautiful face incomparably ferocious.
"Such insolence cannot be forgiven even by ten thousand deaths. You mongrel, I will absolutely reduce you to ashes!"
As Archer declared his killing intent, another group of Servants was also facing a crisis—whether intentionally or not, Rider now stood directly on the line between Gilgamesh and Lancelot!
The black beam cannon effortlessly swallowed the streetlamp and continued toward Iskandar's chariot without losing momentum.
"Prepare to fall, kid!" With no time to explain, Rider fiercely waved his hand. The Chariot of Gordius Wheel dissolved into mana, and they began falling from midair.
For Rider alone, he could have simply unleashed divine lightning to offset such an attack. But he had a little burden beside him—Webber.
The impact from a collision between the beam cannon and lightning was not something Webber's frail body could endure. Worse, caught off guard, Webber had not even cast a basic magical barrier.
"Waaaaah!" Along with the weightlessness of the fall and the terror of the black beam grazing past his scalp, Webber screamed at the top of his lungs as he plummeted.
Rider, meanwhile, was caught in the brief stiffness caused by dismissing his Noble Phantasm and remaining suspended in the air. He was unable to protect his overly immature Master.
This was a perfect opportunity!
As the Knight King who had weathered countless battles, Saber naturally caught that opening. But her hand merely twitched before she turned away with an impassive expression, as though she had noticed nothing.
However, a Servant's nobility did not mean that her Master would likewise forgo the chance to strike someone when they were down.
"The crosswind is strong. Adjust the reticle three marks left. Building winds, a vortex from three directions... adjust the reticle one mark right. Target locked."
Hidden in the darkness, Kiritsugu Emiya—the true Master of Saber, with three Command Spells engraved on his right hand—aimed at Webber's head and pulled the trigger.
The muzzle of the Walther WA2000 flashed.
I won't say which anime this references. Hehe.
Walther WA2000 sniper rifle.
It was originally designed for Olympic shooting competitions. Its accuracy rivaled that of the semi-automatic PSG-1 sniper rifle. Since production had long ceased and only 176 were ever made, each one was worth around ninety thousand dollars.
For the Magus Killer, a freak in his own right, this weapon—an anomaly among firearms—suited him perfectly.
The 7.62-millimeter bullet flew toward Webber's forehead. If nothing unexpected happened, this young magus's skull would be easily pierced.
Even Webber himself realized, in that instant, that his time had come.
Is this... the end?
Scenes from his past flashed before his eyes like a revolving lantern. Yet in the end, Webber felt the urge to laugh bitterly.
His past really had been dull, boring, and laughably childish.
Coming to participate in the Holy Grail War simply because of a fit of spite was like a runaway barging into a war-torn Middle East—it was unquestionably a suicidal act.
Perhaps people could only gain insight before death. But all of this came far too late.
The bullet tore through the air. Death's kiss was only a step away.
Then silver light tore through the sky, arriving later yet reaching him first, blocking the path before Webber.
Bang!
Amid a shower of sparks, the sturdy Sword of Cyprus knocked the bullet aside. The recoil then slapped it against Webber's head, like a certain king's "gentle" flick of the finger, jolting Webber awake from his vision of death.
"What are you standing around for, kid? Defend yourself!" Iskandar shouted, maintaining the pose of having thrown the short sword.
"Ah, ow, ow, ow!" Webber clutched the red welt on his forehead. He had barely cast a defensive spell when the firing sound of a suppressed submachine gun came from elsewhere.
There was more than one assassin!
Although the bullets from the Steyr AUG lacked the penetrating power of the Walther WA2000, the overwhelming barrage was enough to tear a person's flesh to pieces.
"Why are they all coming after me?!" Webber looked on the verge of collapse, yet he did not give up resisting. He gritted his teeth and set up another defensive spell.
Though the magical layers were easily torn apart by the bullets of modern firearms, they still bought Webber enough time.
Boom. A thunderous sound rang out, like a heavy weight striking the ground. Clearly, Webber's small frame could not have produced such force. In the next instant, wind howled around him. Rider, who had landed before him, wrapped an arm around his waist and shielded him in his broad chest. Then Rider drew his short sword and swept it fiercely toward the storm of bullets.
The instant Iskandar shielded him, Webber felt an unprecedented sense of security. But he quickly came to his senses and realized the problem—without using a Noble Phantasm, Iskandar was merely a sturdier ancient soldier. How could he possibly emerge unscathed before modern gunfire?
"Rid—" The word caught in Webber's throat. His pupils shrank as splattering blood seized his attention.
Indeed, the Sword of Cyprus had cut down many bullets for Rider. But Iskandar was a king who had conquered through commanding armies, not a warrior whose martial skill had reached the divine. He could not block all thirty bullets.
For the remaining danger, the burly red-haired man chose a simple method to stop it.
That arm, corded with muscle, was thick enough to serve as a small shield, enough to block the barrage of bullets after their force had diminished.
Thus, flesh and blood splattered. More than a dozen horrifying holes were left in the King of Conquerors' arm, and smoke even hissed from them.
Before you continue