The blood-red rain slowly stopped. Rimuru folded away his bat wings and landed on the earth, now thoroughly stained red with blood and riddled with holes.
Corpses were everywhere, chunks of bodies scattered all around. Amid the ruined castle dragged into the fray and beneath the broken giant trees, a small number of relatively powerful Dead Apostles had managed to withstand the terrifying storm. They huddled together, staring in fear at the Demon King who had just landed. Trembling, yet with a trace of fervent admiration, they gathered behind him.
Acht had only managed to activate a few barriers in the castle, concentrating them to block part of the attack's power. His face had gone completely pale. When he saw Rimuru land, he shakily raised a hand and demanded, his expression furious but tinged with fear, "What do you want?!"
Rimuru's sweeping attack had not only displayed power comparable to a Heroic Spirit unleashing a Noble Phantasm; more importantly, it had wiped out his numerical advantage.
That was why Rimuru had released the attack without hesitation, despite knowing it would not distinguish friend from foe. The Dead Apostles were a mixed lot. A few were reasonably strong, but others were useless enough to be on par with ordinary Homunculi. Even if the two sides wore each other down, Rimuru's utterly rational assessment was that the Dead Apostles who might be killed by the shockwaves of his battle would otherwise be taken out by the Homunculi at a lower cost. Either way, the Dead Apostles would only end up at an even greater disadvantage.
After all, there were only a few hundred Dead Apostles at most, while the Homunculi... That old man was still shamelessly churning them out! The entire Einzbern Castle was like Acht's Magecraft workshop. Under his control, the most terrifying thing about this workshop wasn't that it was packed with traps, as other magicians' lairs tended to be. It was that the place itself was a giant arms factory, capable of producing Homunculi to replenish his forces without end!
So Rimuru had simply unleashed the most terrifying Magecraft at his disposal and cleared the field by force!
Kill all the grunts!
Leave only high-quality units who could withstand my attack for me to fight!
High-level Homunculi required more intricate Magic Circuits and all kinds of adjustments, so they could not be produced in large numbers in a short time.
Acht would only awaken and deploy these kinds of Homunculi in the most dire of emergencies.
But Rimuru had forgotten that his performance was like a hero unit suddenly appearing among a crowd of grunts. It had almost completely crushed Acht's spirit.
As a humanoid terminal of sorts, he was not without combat ability. But most of his expertise lay in setting up Magecraft workshops, researching the Greater Grail, and creating Homunculi. In short, he was a summoner, the sort who sent out waves of troops. His direct combat ability didn't even match that of a first-rate magician, let alone a Ranked Colors magician or an existence on the level of one of the Dead Apostle Ancestors.
That was why Acht had asked, "What do you want?"
It meant he was ready to give up resisting and was only hoping to be spared. Rimuru hadn't been surprised. After all, his opponent's mission—his core programming, so to speak—was simple: survive and complete the Third Magic.
But although his opponent was ready to negotiate, Rimuru hesitated. Come to think of it, wasn't this old man partly responsible for Emiya Kiritsugu being unable to see Illya in the original story, and the tragedy that followed? So even though the family had ties to several famous characters, Rimuru didn't actually think much of them.
If Rimuru wanted to announce his rise in the Dark World, make the Church and the Magic Association take the threat of the Dead Apostles seriously, and spur them to crack down on evil and strike at the White Winged Duke, then he had to make them feel the pain. He had to leave the Einzbern Family badly weakened. At the same time, that would keep the family from focusing on Cornwall for a while longer and ensure once again that they would have to rely on outsiders during the Holy Grail War.
All in all, as long as Acht didn't die, the worse things were for the Einzbern Family, the better it was for Rimuru. In truth, one reason he was doing this was... Acht's earlier taunts had genuinely annoyed him.
You're just a machine! Who the hell are you mocking?!
So, in response to his opponent's strained question, Rimuru tilted his head and gave him a cold look before ignoring him.
He glanced at the roughly one-third of his subordinates still standing behind him, then at the few dozen Homunculi left on the other side. After confirming that even if his opponent made stronger Homunculi, they wouldn't trouble his subordinates, he thought for a moment, then slowly headed toward the Black Princess, who stood on a distant branch and had been watching him from afar.
"Please decide, Your Highness." Rimuru looked up and spoke softly. "I originally planned to eliminate every Homunculus in the Einzbern Family except Acht and destroy some of their manufacturing facilities. But considering how many Homunculi are active outside the Einzbern estate... it doesn't seem very meaningful."
"If all you wanted was to cause chaos, this is already enough. But if you want to completely inflame the conflict between the Dead Apostles and the Magic Association... my suggestion would be..."
"That's enough."
"Hmm?"
"We should withdraw." Altrouge looked up at Rimuru and blinked. "My familiar told me that people from the Church have noticed something is wrong and are heading here."
"Still, an invasion this spectacular would be rather unimpressive without any spoils or rewards." Altrouge curled her lips into a smile. "Don't you want to let your subordinates do a little looting?"
"...Mm." Rimuru shook his head. "I'm not used to doing that. My goals were the scabbard and inciting conflict. Now that those goals..."
"But you haven't gotten the scabbard, have you?" She tilted her head.
"So I still have to go find it." Rimuru's lips curled into a smile. "If you really want to reward me, why not lend me some more people? This time... I need Dead Apostles in the UK."
"The UK?" The Black Princess raised an eyebrow. "That's not a good place to go. It's the Magic Association's headquarters. Shouldn't it be exactly where you're strongest?"
"My influence only extends to the Clock Tower—or rather, London." Rimuru spoke calmly. "I believe I'll rule the world someday, but right now I'm only somewhat well-known in the rest of the UK."
"And that bit of fame actually... limits what I can do."
"Got it. Celebrity baggage." Altrouge bared her little fangs and rocked her head as she thought for a moment. "After ravaging Germany, ravaging the UK too sounds like fun."
"But after I help you this time, you'll have to do something for me."
"Of course." Rimuru raised an eyebrow. "Your Highness."
Inside a cathedral in Croatia, a priest murmured a prayer. As he did, the quill before him raced through the air, writing something as though upon a sheet of invisible paper.
At that very moment, in the branches of the Church far away—in the Vatican, Italy, London, and elsewhere—sheets of paper were filling with ink from nowhere, one line of information after another.
"Outrageous!"
Beneath the wavering candlelight, a shadow gritted its teeth and cried out in indignation. "Joining the Dead Apostles would be bad enough, but now he dares to provoke us so brazenly—"
"Calm down, Father Alexander. Remember, the other side only joined them for some unknown reason after first eliminating the Eighth Ancestor..."
"Some reason? Hmph. What other reason could there be? You think the title of King of the Dead Apostles is just for show? Even a Magician can become a Dead Apostle after being bitten, let alone these foolish magicians." The shadow spoke bitterly. "Leave specialized matters to the specialists. These fools don't know their place..."
"You can't quite put it that way." After the shadow's voice faded, another, slightly flippant voice rang out. "Even if he was forced to become a Dead Apostle, he should still hate them, like Zelretch. Instead, he inherited the title of White Knight—and he's even managed to get the Black Princess to willingly help him seek that so-called scabbard..."
"What are you trying to say?" The shadow was taken aback, then gritted its teeth and asked, "Are you saying I drove him to the other side with my bad decision?!"
"Isn't that so?" The flippant voice chuckled. "As I understand it, you've been insisting that he's Brad, the White Knight. You even requested that a special Executor hunt him down... and yet..."
"Even the Inquisitor died at his hands..."
"You!"
"Enough, Faust." Suddenly, a middle-aged priest interrupted their quarrel by the candlelight. His voice was low and grave. "Father Alexander's judgment was not wrong under the circumstances."
"But he's a very powerful magician." The candle flame wavered, its glow falling across Faust's face in Italy. He raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips as he looked at the candlelit figures in the communication Magecraft. "And he's different from the previous White Knight."
"He's confident. He's reckless."
"Unlike other Dead Apostles, who prefer not to stir up trouble everywhere they go..."
"From the moment he took office, he announced to the whole world that a new Ancestor with boundless ambition had emerged among the Dead Apostles."
"Think about it, everyone." He slowly lowered his left leg and crossed his right over it. "Altrouge was powerful to begin with, but she never had a faction of her own—or rather, she didn't know how to lead one. The only thing she was interested in doing with the forces at her disposal was probably opposing the White Winged Duke."
"But what about now? What if this White Knight... is another White Winged Duke?"
"What kind of effect do you think he could have with Altrouge by his side?"
"..." Hearing Faust's words, everyone fell silent. Even Alexander was left speechless.
"In any case, we've shared the intelligence with the Magic Association. We hope that, through the Association's oversight of magicians, we can uncover the White Knight's true identity."
After a long silence, the candlelit figure at the head of the table spoke in a low voice. "If our opponent really is a magician with ambition and ability on par with the White Winged Duke, then we can only eliminate him before he gains momentum..."
"Eliminate him? Who would we send?" A sinister voice spoke up. "The Inquisitor has already died at his hands. The report says it was the Black Princess who killed him, but... do you really believe that someone like her would attack an Executor?"
"Alas..." A long sigh drifted out, instantly drawing everyone's attention. "If there's no other way, then we'll wait for their reply."
"The information has already been sent to the Magic Association and..."
"The Burial Agency."
At the mention of the Burial Agency, everyone fell silent.
The Burial Agency was nominally part of the Church, but in practice its authority and operations were largely independent.
Its authority even surpassed that of the ordinary Church, and it had the power to execute even a Pope on the spot.
With an agency wielding such immense power, it was only natural that these few popes... didn't care much for it.
Rise up, City of the Dead Apostles!
Cornwall, UK.
The King's orders had already been issued. Beasts wearing human skin would soon set foot on this land and drive out all who stood in the way of the King's command. But just as every place blessed with light must also have shadows, wherever evil went, justice would follow.
In a modest but rather elegant mansion, the current Duke of Cornwall—the governor, who could also be called the county administrator—sighed with a deeply troubled expression. He ignored the wool blanket his wife draped over his shoulders and gazed gloomily at the starry sky outside the window.
Within just a day or two of the news spreading, he—the very person the Dead Apostles had singled out as their target—hadn't even had time to react or receive any intelligence before the Church and the Magic Association jointly informed him: he was to immediately hand over all magical authority over Cornwall, strengthen government intervention, and use the earthquake as a pretext to move the population out of the crowded cities.
The order suggested that the entire region might become a battlefield. It had kept the Duke of Cornwall awake every night lately, and he had completely lost his appetite. Cornwall was merely a small, unimportant territory passed down through generations. Now it had suddenly leaped into the sight of everyone, all because an existence standing at the pinnacle of the world had issued an order summoning Dead Apostles there.
To attract the world's attention meant that this land might... cease to exist forever.
If Cornwall were gone... what would become of his family? The country itself was already leaning toward capitalism and so-called democracy. The feudal system of noble estates was becoming increasingly rare. If he lost Cornwall, what would this so-called duke be worth? Not a damn thing.
After sending his wife back to the bedroom, the Duke of Cornwall sighed. Then, after letting out another heavy sigh, he cursed viciously, "Those damn magicians!"
"You should know, Duke, that the whole idea of territorial rule was created for the powerful and their families."
Suddenly, a soft voice sounded in his ear. He jerked his head up and saw, reflected in the glass, a pair of deep eyes glowing with a faint red light.
"The ancestors of every noble family must have been magicians or enjoyed the protection of magicians, and that's especially true in the UK." The speaker was a ghost—or rather, a ghostly vampire—with a pale face and an otherwise indistinct appearance apart from his lively, deep-set eyes. He spoke unhurriedly, then gently pressed a hand against the Duke, who had been about to sound the alarm in his panic. "I mean no harm."
"Wolf? What's wrong?" A gentle woman's voice came from the bedroom next door. It belonged to his wife, who had just gone in to rest. But at the sound of her voice, the earl, who had been ready to fight to the death, suddenly stopped moving.
The ghostly earl paused, then smiled. "You care more about your wife than yourself?"
According to the principle that the Mysteries must remain concealed, ordinary people weren't permitted to come into contact with the supernatural, much less learn of its existence. This even applied to people in high positions. Unless they had good relations with another magical family, or their ancestors had belonged to a fallen magical family that had lost its legacy, they weren't allowed to learn about the Mysteries. It didn't matter if you were the president.
When a disaster like the one in Fuyuki City occurred, the Church and the Magic Association would actively reassure and involve some of the people under the protection of magical families. As for everyone else—even members of parliament without the proper qualifications—they would be dealt with by having their memories erased, suggestions implanted, and the like, not by recruiting them or cooperating with them.
Because they weren't qualified. It was absurd, but that was how things worked in Type-Moon, and how traditional magicians operated.
So if the Church and the Magic Association had contacted and reassured Cornwall, rather than simply using Magecraft to knock him out, that meant either his ancestors or he himself had maintained ties to Magecraft—and held legitimate rights within the Magic Association.
But that wasn't important. What mattered was that if his family was a fallen magical family, they must have hoped to restore their standing. They must have had the constitution to wield Magecraft!
And yet... seeing how much the man cared for his wife made Rimuru wonder for the first time if his judgment might have been wrong.
Well, it could be wrong.
"What do you want?" After hearing the clearly ill-intentioned Dead Apostle's remark, the earl's expression shifted at once. He lowered his voice and spoke darkly, afraid that his wife might hear something was wrong and come in, only to meet a terrible fate.
"What do I want?" Hearing the question, the pale ghost slowly grew more corporeal. The ghostly flames flickering in his deep-set eyes grew darker and more volatile. He pondered for a moment, then decided to continue approaching this from a magician's perspective. After all, unless absolutely necessary, he preferred temptation over threats.
He was a businessman, after all. Peaceful dealings made for profitable business.
"Before I answer that, I'd like to ask you something, Duke."
"Have you ever chased the glory of the past, only to find it beyond your reach? And did it ever... cause you pain?"
The black figure gradually took on a solid shape. As his deep-set eyes began to shine gold, his form shrank, and he transformed from a ghost into the White Knight.
The Duke of Cornwall stared at the small figure who had landed before him, then suddenly understood what the other man meant.
"You want..."
"Mm." Rimuru nodded. He walked to the Duke's side, tilted his head at the reflection in the window, and smiled. "I want this place."
"All of Cornwall... Every last bit of it!"
As Rimuru spoke, a faint mist rose on the glass. Scene after scene appeared before the Duke of Cornwall's eyes like images in a mirror. Ordinary people were being transformed into Dead Apostles. Well-known nobles, close acquaintances of his, were willingly bowing their heads—
"Are they... doing this of their own free will?" Watching each scene, the Duke felt as if he were seeing himself trapped inside a besieged city completely overrun by Dead Apostles and vampires. He murmured in disbelief.
Only people with magical potential could survive the transformation into Dead Apostles. Most others became Living Corpses rather than Ghouls. Ordinary people... were more likely to die outright and become Ghouls, like wild beasts!
"Of course." Rimuru nodded gently. "Just as you hated magicians a moment ago, everyone has their own dissatisfaction buried deep in their heart."
"Just as commoners resent the nobility but still try every possible means to become nobles, ordinary people who hate the power of the strong can never resist the faint possibility of entering the world of the Mysteries."
The Duke swallowed and stole a glance at the boy. Cold sweat soaked his back.
This madman! He was exploiting the temptation of revealing the Mysteries, using it to lure and recruit people like crazy. He was relying on the support of ordinary people to achieve his goals, yet he didn't care that the more people learned about the Mysteries, the less mysterious they would become—and the weaker he himself would be—
Rimuru smiled as he spoke, as if explaining it to the Duke, explaining it to someone else, or simply talking to himself. "The Mysteries are like a fixed amount of wealth in this world. That's not entirely wrong, because ultimately, they're a limited resource on this planet."
"And how resources are distributed always raises one question: the more people there are to share them, the less each person gets."
"The ancient magicians of this world stubbornly cling to tradition. They believe wealth is fixed, so they should reduce the number of people it's distributed among. They'd rather wipe everyone else out and keep it all for themselves, isolating themselves and making the majority resent them."
"They're convinced that their strength can keep anyone from coveting what they have. They believe that the greatness of the individual can suppress everything."
"But the times are changing."
At that, Rimuru couldn't help laughing. He spoke softly. "People in the future will understand!"
"Investment is the way forward, not hoarding. People's hearts are the true measure."
First, spend freely to win people over, unite their strength, and seize the market!
Then, harvest a wave of gains. What belonged to him would, in the end, still be his. The ones who died would always be those who refused to change.
Of course, power wasn't as freely transferable as money. The only way to take it back was to make its holder perish.
But so what?
As the saying went, the winner took all in the end. Rimuru firmly believed that as long as he emerged victorious, the power he lost—and the power that flowed into the hands of the newly recruited commoners—would always come from the defeated capitalists: those ancient magical families!
Before you continue