In the twisted hands of the Berserk Caster, Gilles de Rais, Prelati's Spellbook violently throbbed. It pulsed with the sickening, rhythmic beat of a living human heart dark, grotesque, and utterly unnatural. His gaze locked onto the fortress with a hatred so intense it seemed to physically burn the surrounding air. His distorted eyes, deeply infected by the Evil Eye of the Abyss (C Rank), flared with an unspeakable cosmic terror. Any unfortunate soldier who dared to meet his gaze was instantly paralyzed by a sudden, mind-shattering surge of primal dread, their sanity buckling under a fear without origin.
"Jeanne... you pathetic fakes... you blind worshippers of a holy illusion!" Gilles shrieked, his voice bubbling with a chaotic, fanatic madness. "Today, I will utterly obliterate this vile imitation of yours, and then I shall drown this entire world in the 'truth' the glorious, abyssal truth that you all so foolishly reject!"
Standing tall and unwavering, Jeanne d'Arc faced the encroaching nightmare. Her holy banner radiated a brilliant, piercing light under the midday sun, effortlessly repelling the suffocating aura of his curses. No matter how vile the dark magecraft swirling around her grew, the abyssal magic simply evaporated before it could even graze her skin—completely and absolutely nullified by her Magic Resistance (EX Rank).
"You are no longer the Gilles I once knew," Jeanne spoke, her voice laced with a profound, quiet sorrow but completely devoid of fear. "Yet, I will still stand in your path and stop you... not with hatred, but with my prayers."
Guided by her unique skill, At the End of the Pure and Clear Prayers (EX Rank), Jeanne could flawlessly sense the shifting tides of the battlefield without even needing to lay eyes on the enemy. A divine instinct—or perhaps a holy revelation compelled her actions, allowing her to perfectly anticipate the demonic assault and calculate exactly how to protect the fortress's most vulnerable points.
"Over there... evacuate all troops immediately!" she commanded, pointing her banner toward the battlements. "Those tentacles are about to sweep through the next watchtower!"
For a brief fraction of a second, the terrified soldiers hesitated in the face of the encroaching abominations. But the moment her unwavering voice washed over them, the supernatural weight of her Charisma (C Rank) ignited their dying courage. Their mortal doubts vanished, replaced by an unshakable, burning conviction, and they immediately sprinted to execute her orders without question.
With the vanguard's safety secured, Jeanne slowly turned her resolute gaze back toward the maddened Caster. She gripped her holy banner with both hands, her unyielding sapphire eyes silently declaring that the Holy Maiden would not let his madness claim another innocent soul.
"I will guide them to the light..." Jeanne murmured softly, her grip on the flagpole tightening. "...even if that light must pierce through the very depths of hell."
Standing firmly by her side, Cú Chulainn expertly twirled his wooden staff. The ancient Nordic runes carved into the wood pulsed with a fierce, burning magical energy. A cynical, yet highly vigilant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"That man has clearly completely lost his mind," the Caster commented, his sharp, predatory eyes tracking the surging darkness. "If he lays a single finger on this city, everyone inside will become nothing but sacrificial fodder for his twisted delusions." He paused, shifting his stance. "If you are hesitating, Jeanne, then step back and let me take the vanguard."
Jeanne lowered her head for a fraction of a second, the weight of her past threatening to surface. But when she raised her face again, her sapphire eyes burned with an absolute, unshakeable resolve.
"No," she declared, her voice ringing clear and true. "I will protect everyone within these walls... and I will save Gilles, if such a thing is still possible."
And with that, the battle for the fortress violently commenced.
"Prelati's Spellbook: Textbook of the Sunken Spiral Castle (Anti-Army EX)" Gilles de Rais shrieked, throwing his arms wide as if conducting a twisted symphony. Upon unleashing his Noble Phantasm, a colossal, grotesque magic circle violently carved itself into the scorched earth. The blasphemous grimoire burst open, unleashing a blinding, sickening flash of violent purple and pitch-black energy.
Through the power of his Territory Creation (B Rank), the surrounding terrain was instantaneously overwritten. The dry, barren wasteland violently mutated, rotting into a churning, repulsive sea of pulsating black flesh. Horrifying, slime-drenched tentacles from a dimension entirely alien to the world of man erupted from the gore, slithering and thrashing hungrily. With a single flick of Gilles's wrist, massive, building-sized appendages lashed out like demonic whips, violently smashing against the fortress walls and cracking the solid stone.
"Not on my watch, you freak!" Cú Chulainn shouted.
Instantly activating his Rune Magecraft (A Rank), his fingers danced through the air, carving the burning symbol of Ansuz. A raging torrent of primordial Nordic fire erupted from the rune, roaring forward like a fiery avalanche. The intense, mystical flames swept over the battlefield, violently incinerating the advancing abominations into screaming piles of ash. But the victory was agonizingly short-lived.
Almost instantly, the sea of cursed flesh rippled and violently regenerated. New, thicker tentacles erupted from the scorched earth to replace the dead ones in a matter of seconds. Cú Chulainn clicked his tongue, his smirk vanishing into a tight scowl. This was no ordinary magecraft it was an endless, self-sustaining nightmare fueled by an abyssal power.
Cú Chulainn immediately activated his Protection from Arrows (A Rank) as a relentless barrage of spear-like tentacles shot directly toward him. His lithe body flickered and weaved with an effortless, supernatural grace. He naturally evaded the deadly, high-speed projectiles, moving as if he were engaged in a lighthearted, mocking dance amidst the flying death.
"This is going to get tiresome real fast. Time to bring out the big guy!" Cú Chulainn declared with a fierce grin.
He leaped directly off the high fortress walls, his descent accompanied by a swirling storm of glowing Nordic runes. The wooden staff in his hands blazed with an intense, blinding magical energy as he struck the earth.
"Wicker Man: Cage of Scorching, Consuming Flames (Anti-Army B+)"
Erupting from the earth, violently tearing through the rotting sea of flesh, a colossal giant woven from cursed wicker and branches materialized. It blazed with a terrifying, roaring heat, its fiery form burning blindingly bright even under the midday sun. The towering Wicker Man unleashed massive, fiery fists upon the demonic tentacles, its sheer heat instantly incinerating the fleshy abominations into mounds of smoking ash.
But Gilles merely threw his head back and laughed hysterically. The absolute, twisted madness of his Mental Pollution (A Rank) rendered his fractured mind completely impervious to any form of intimidation, logic, or even Jeanne's profound empathy. He was fundamentally incapable of understanding any concept of goodwill or salvation.
"Your pathetic flames cannot burn away the darkness from the abyssal depths!" Gilles cackled, his wide eyes bulging with fanatic glee. "Because what I wield is the absolute, primordial fear of humanity itself! And do you know a secret, Caster? Fear cannot be burned!"
The foul, suffocating aura of his Appreciation of Blasphemy (C+++ Rank) violently vibrated the surrounding air. Rapidly chanting from Prelati's Spellbook, he unleashed not just a mere curse, but a sickening manifestation of twisted 'blasphemous art'.
The air grew heavy, and the ancient stone of the fortress began to echo with agonizing, mind-breaking whispers that gnawed at the sanity of anyone unfortunate enough to hear them. Yet, standing tall and resolute at the absolute epicenter of the encroaching madness, Jeanne d'Arc did not waver an inch.
The holy grace of her Saint (B Rank) skill passively activated its automatic recovery. Any minor cuts or bruises she had sustained from the magical explosions and flying debris slowly and miraculously healed over. Amidst the swirling, mind-shattering abyss and the deafening roars of the burning Wicker Man: Cage of Scorching, Consuming Flames (Anti-Army B+), the Holy Maiden's divine aura remained absolutely, flawlessly stable.
"If your curse is born from the tragedy of a lost love..." Jeanne spoke, her voice echoing with a profound, unyielding gentleness that pierced through the deafening chaos of the battlefield. "...then I shall answer it with the light of my prayers. I am not here to punish you, Gilles... I am here to set you free."
Lowering her holy banner so it pointed directly toward the encroaching darkness, she closed her eyes and began to softly chant a pure, sacred prayer. A blinding, immaculate wave of divine light erupted from the banner, sweeping majestically across the besieged fortress walls. Wherever the radiant glow touched, the suffocating, corrupted aura of the grimoire was instantly banished, dissolving the abyssal shadows into nothingness.
This light was not a violent weapon forged for destruction... it was the pure, undeniable manifestation of hope itself. But the agonizing purity of that light only pushed the Berserk Caster further into his madness. Letting out a visceral, bloodcurdling shriek, Gilles de Rais leaped directly into the chaotic heart of the battlefield.
A massive swarm of grotesque, slithering tentacles instantly surged upward, violently coiling around him to form a repulsive, fleshy shield that physically blocked the encroaching holy light from searing his flesh. Tearing a gap through his own grotesque defenses, Gilles violently locked his gaze onto the Holy Maiden.
His twisted, bulging eyes, fully infected by the terrifying power of the Evil Eye of the Abyss (C Rank), flared with an unspeakable, cosmic malice. The sheer, primal terror radiating from his gaze attempted to plunge directly into her soul, forcing her to witness the absolute depths of his bottomless despair.
"There will be absolutely no forgiveness!" Gilles roared, his fractured voice a horrifying, chaotic blend of unimaginable grief and world-ending rage.
-
On an entirely different front of the chaotic battlefield, Vlad III stood face-to-face with the legendary Dragon Slayer, Siegfried.
"You may be exceptionally powerful," Vlad's booming voice echoed ominously through the ruined city, "But everything ends here!"
Vlad's eyes burned with a terrifying, absolute authority. By invoking his Demonic Defender of the State (EX Rank), he had forcefully painted over the very leylines of the land, claiming almost the entirety of France as his own personal domain. City after city had already fallen, leaving only one final, stubborn bastion: Vaucouleurs, where the Saint, Jeanne d'Arc, still stood her ground. As long as he stood within his claimed territory, his parameters received a massive, almost godlike boost. Within these borders, he was not just a Servant he was an absolute monarch, a vampire, and a god of death.
"Kazıklı Bey: Bloodstained King Demon (Anti-Unit B+)"
Vlad III unleashed his devastating Noble Phantasm. The very earth violently convulsed and groaned. Suddenly, a terrifying forest of blood-soaked stakes erupted from the shattered ground. They were not merely forged from iron, but from twisted bone, rotting flesh, solid shadow, and compacted sand. Hundreds turned into thousands, instantly multiplying into an inescapable, macroscopic wave of impalement that violently converged onto a single target.
Standing at the epicenter of the incoming apocalypse, Siegfried slowly drew his legendary greatsword, Balmung: Phantasmal Greatsword - Felling of the Sky Demon (Anti-Army EX). A brilliant, ethereal twilight enveloped the blade, resonating fiercely with the dense magical energy saturating the battlefield. His sharp, draconic eyes remained incredibly calm, completely devoid of emotion in the face of the encroaching slaughter.
Clang! Clang! Squelch!
The infinite wave of stakes violently slammed into Siegfried's body from every conceivable angle, burying the Saber in a towering mountain of jagged spikes. Yet, as the dust settled and the stakes began to crumble, Siegfried simply brushed the shattered remnants off his shoulders.
"A truly magnificent strike," he stated, his voice perfectly steady and unbothered.
Despite the overwhelming visual destruction, his body was covered in nothing more than shallow, bleeding scratches. The terrifying, conceptual power of his Armor of Fafnir: Blood Armor of the Evil Dragon (Anti-Unit B+ Rank), bathed in the blood of the evil dragon, passively and absolutely nullified any attack of B-Rank or lower.
Because Kazıklı Bey: Bloodstained King Demon (Anti-Unit B+), it barely managed to pierce through the draconic defense but the armor's sheer absolute mitigation instantly stripped away the attack's lethal force, drastically reducing the terrifying, bone-shattering Noble Phantasm to a pitiful equivalent of E-Rank damage.
However—
"Ha... ha ha ha... HAHAHAHAHA!"
Vlad's maniacal laughter suddenly echoed across the ruined landscape, a chilling, maddened sound that shook the very core of anyone who heard it.
As the dust and lingering embers from their violent clash began to settle, the Lord of Impalement was still standing. His regal garments were scorched, his flesh burned from the sheer ambient heat of the Dragon Slayer's aura, yet a terrifying, predatory smile stretched across his face.
"You are incredibly strong, Saber..." Vlad praised, his eyes glowing with a bloodthirsty, aristocratic delight. "...However, to truly defeat me... you will need far more than that."
Without uttering a single word of complaint, Siegfried tightened his grip on his hilt. Moving with the steady, unrelenting rhythm of a machine, he continuously swung Balmung, unleashing precise, devastating arcs of twilight that cleaved through the endless, regenerating forest of bloody stakes.
Yet, the grim, mathematical reality of the battlefield was slowly setting in. The clash had devolved into a grueling, inescapable stalemate but one with a predetermined, fatal outcome.
No matter how many times Siegfried shattered the incoming spears, and no matter how flawlessly his Armor of Fafnir: Blood Armor of the Evil Dragon (Anti-Unit B+ Rank) reduced the terrifying B+ Rank strikes into mere superficial E-Rank cuts, a Servant still possessed a finite amount of stamina and blood. The endless accumulation of micro-damage was slowly, agonizingly chipping away at his vitality. Thousands of tiny, stinging scratches were beginning to paint his skin crimson.
In stark contrast, Vlad III was virtually immortal. Fueled by the absolute authority of his Demonic Defender of the State (EX Rank) the Vampire King could instantly regenerate from any fatal blow and summon infinite armaments, so long as the conquered cities of France remained under his dark dominion.
It was a terrifying, suffocating battle of absolute attrition. Siegfried possessed the strength to hold the line indefinitely, but if this war of endurance was pushed to the bitter end, the legendary Dragon Slayer was mathematically destined to fall, slowly bled dry beneath the weight of a million shallow cuts.
-
The deafening, high-pitched shockwave of Elizabeth's song violently slammed into the encroaching crimson fog. Her Sadistic Charisma (A Rank) unleashed a destructive sonic boom explicitly designed to warp the will and shatter the sanity of her enemies. The cursed earth beneath their feet splintered, jagged debris was thrown into the air, and the very atmosphere violently trembled under the crushing pressure of her acoustic distortion.
Yet, at the dead center of that ear-splitting storm, Carmilla did not flinch. Not even a single millimeter.
The Assassin simply stood there, an embodiment of lethal elegance, her dark gown fluttering gently against the winds of destruction. Her glowing crimson eyes stared blankly at the desperate, thrashing younger version of herself. She knew that song all too well. She knew every off-key note, every desperate illusion, and every pathetic lie buried deep within its lyrics.
"How noisy," Carmilla stated coldly.
She didn't shout, yet her voice effortlessly sliced through the sonic hurricane, echoing with absolute, terrifying clarity directly into the idol's ears. Driven by pure, unadulterated denial, Elizabeth lunged forward.
Her lance tore through the air, its lethal tip aiming straight for Carmilla's heart with blinding velocity. But with a nonchalant, terrifying grace that was almost too fast for the eye to track, Carmilla raised her right hand. A vicious, bladed whip forged from coagulated blood and dark magecraft violently uncoiled from her palm.
CRACK!
The crimson whip wrapped violently around the shaft of Elizabeth's lance with absolute precision, halting the deadly weapon mere inches from Carmilla's chest. All of Elizabeth's kinetic momentum was instantly killed, forcing her to gasp as a far darker, immensely superior physical force completely overpowered her strike.
"You call this singing? This is nothing but the pathetic shrieking of a child desperately covering her ears from reality," Carmilla hissed, her voice dripping with venom.
Her vampiric aura erupted. The primordial, bloodthirsty pressure of her Blood-Sucking (C Rank) skill violently awakened, passively suffocating and devouring the radiant waves of Elizabeth's Sadistic Charisma (A Rank). The air, once filled with a blinding, desperate pink energy, was instantly swallowed by a suffocating, pitch-black crimson.
"You reject your own future," Carmilla continued, slowly pulling on the blood whip, forcefully dragging a trembling Elizabeth closer to her. "But every single time you hurt someone for the sake of your 'stage'... every time you let your childish ego blind you... you are simply paving the bloody road back to this castle. You are sprinting straight into my arms."
With a single, brutal flick of her wrist, Carmilla shattered Elizabeth's footing and violently tossed her younger self aside like a broken doll. The petite Lancer was sent flying, crashing hard and violently rolling across the jagged, thorn-covered ruins. Her once-radiant pink idol dress was now bitterly stained with coarse dirt and the ashes of her own inescapable past.
Coughing violently, Elizabeth dug her lance into the rubble, desperately using it as a crutch to force herself back up. Her small frame violently trembled not just from the brutal physical impact, but from the suffocating psychological terror of facing her own inescapable, monstrous reflection.
"Stand up, Elizabeth," Carmilla mocked, her tone laced with a dark, aristocratic elegance.
Behind the Assassin, the dense crimson fog began to violently swirl and condense, slowly forming the colossal, terrifying silhouette of the most infamous, cruel torture device of their shared legend, Phantom Maiden: Phantasmal Iron Maiden (Anti-Unit B)
"Sing louder. Show me just how desperately you can struggle against a destiny already written in your own blood."
Yet, Carmilla did not step back. A bitter, melancholic smile etched itself across her pale, flawless face. From the dense, suffocating crimson fog, her bladed iron whip materialized once more, slicing through the air with a sickening crack that sounded exactly like a human shriek.
Carmilla Torture Technique (A Rank) fully awakened. Every vicious lash of the whip did not merely tear through flesh and bone; it ruthlessly ripped open the deeply repressed, agonizing psychological wounds buried in the darkest corners of Elizabeth's mind.
"Aahh! Why does it feel like... my very flesh is being peeled away?!" Elizabeth shrieked, her legs giving out as she violently collapsed to her knees in the blood-stained dirt.
"Because I know exactly where the pain resides," Carmilla whispered, her chilling voice echoing directly into Elizabeth's fractured mind. "We created it together."
Dark blood dripped from the lacerations on Elizabeth's pale skin, but it was the bleeding of her shattered memories that pushed her past the breaking point. The crushing weight of her sins, her guilt, and the agonizing physical pain coalesced into pure, unadulterated madness.
She screamed. But it was no longer the desperate, high-pitched song of an idol it was the deafening, guttural roar of a primordial beast.
RUMBLE!
Massive, terrifying draconic wings violently tore through the flesh of her back, erupting into the open air. The sheer kinetic force of their unfurling violently shook the earth and sent a massive shockwave skyward, forcibly parting the gloomy, smog-filled clouds. A terrifying, ancient aura of draconic power flawlessly fused with the absolute, heartbreaking despair of a tragic teenage girl.
Gripping her lance as an overwhelming, chaotic torrent of magical energy rapidly gathered in her lungs, Elizabeth unleashed the ultimate manifestation of her grief, her denial, and her cursed bloodline.
"Kilenc Sárkány: Dragon Cry Thundering Voice (Anti-Unit D Rank)"
The sky violently shattered, torn apart by jagged streaks of crimson lightning. The sheer kinetic and sonic force of her Noble Phantasm slammed into Carmilla with a cataclysmic power capable of leveling mountains. The guttural, earth-shaking roar of an ancient dragon and the piercing, desperate song of an idol fused flawlessly together, forging a terrifying frequency of death that warped and fractured the very reality of the battlefield.
However, as the devastating shockwave faded, the dust settled, and the shattered ruins crumbled into gravel... Carmilla was still standing.
Her grievous wounds were already slowly knitting themselves back together. The very air around her seemed to be violently inhaled, pulled toward the center of her being. Glistening particles of blood from the dense crimson fog and the stained earth floated upward, seeping directly into her pale, flawless skin. Blood-Sucking (C Rank). She silently drained the residual life force from her surroundings, replenishing her strength in an absolute, terrifying silence.
"Such an ear-splitting, humiliating noise..." Carmilla murmured softly, gracefully wiping a trail of dark blood from her chin. "...but undeniably effective."
Then, the smog-filled sky turned pitch black.
With a single, elegant sweep of her hand, Carmilla invoked her ultimate condemnation. "Phantom Maiden: Phantasmal Iron Maiden (Anti-Unit B)."
A colossal, blood-drenched Iron Maiden plummeted from the darkened heavens, descending upon the ruined castle courtyard like the absolute hammer of judgment. The ambient temperature instantly plummeted to a freezing chill. Agonizing, overlapping shrieks of the damned echoed endlessly from within the spiked, metallic tomb.
Panic finally overwhelming her feral rage, Elizabeth desperately tried to flee, her draconic wings beating wildly. But jagged, inescapable shackles forged from her own spilled blood violently erupted from the earth, tightly snaking around her ankles and locking her in place.
The massive iron doors of the Phantom Maiden slowly, agonizingly creaked open.
Inside the dark, spiked abyss, the spectral faces of countless victims stared back at her some weeping in eternal agony, some screaming in visceral terror, and one wearing a bitter, knowing smile. As their hollow voices overlapped, they formed a single, agonizing chorus. It was the exact sound of her own voice.
"No... NO!"
Elizabeth was violently dragged backward into the darkness. The heavy iron doors slammed shut with a sickening, explosive crunch of crushing steel and snapping bone. Her final, agonizing shriek violently tore through the cold night air, completely merging with the inescapable, bloody history she had tried so desperately to run away from.
And then... there was only absolute, deafening silence. But amidst the absolute, deafening silence... a sharp, agonizing crack echoed.
The impenetrable iron doors of the Phantom Maiden violently burst open from the inside, sending shards of cursed steel flying into the crimson fog. Elizabeth staggered out into the cold night air. Her petite frame was battered, drenched in blood, and covered in deep, lethal lacerations, yet her draconic eyes burned with the fierce, inextinguishable embers of pure defiance.
Hot-Blooded Encore (A Rank). Her absolute, stubborn refusal to let her stage go dark had forcefully tethered her soul to her body. She would not die. Not today.
"I can't... I refuse to die here..." she whispered, her voice frail, bloodied, but laced with an iron will. "...because if I die, my dream dies with me!"
Elizabeth stood alone, gripping the microphone with trembling, bloodstained hands. She took a deep, agonizing breath. The sound that erupted from her lungs was no longer a cheerful pop song. It was a visceral, heartbreaking lament. It was the guttural, world-shaking roar of a primordial dragon.
It was the agonizing, overlapping shrieks of her countless victims. And buried deep beneath all that terror and blood, it was the fragile, shattering dream of a lonely little girl who only ever wanted to be understood. The devastating, acoustic shockwave slammed into Carmilla without an ounce of mercy. Dark blood began to trickle from the Assassin's ears. Her crimson eyes widened in profound shock.
Forced through the sheer, inescapable frequency of the music, she was made to look at... herself. Her inescapable past. Her paralyzing fears. Her self-directed hatred. Everything she had so ruthlessly buried and repressed for centuries was violently dragged into the light.
Refusing to let the momentum die, Elizabeth leaped directly off the towering, nightmarish stage. Her lance ignited with a blinding, blood-red radiance, its deadly tip piercing through both the smog-filled sky and the heavy weight of their shared history. Channeling every last shred of her physical strength, her regrets, and her sheer willpower, she plummeted like a crimson meteor straight toward Carmilla.
"LAAAAA!!!"
A cataclysmic explosion violently shook the very foundations of the earth. A massive shockwave of displaced air and a dense mist of blood erupted into the night sky, completely obscuring the battlefield.
When the deafening echoes finally faded and the dust settled, only a single figure remained standing amidst the devastated ruins. Her petite body was trembling violently, her chest heaving with ragged, exhausted breaths. Elizabeth.
Carmilla lay silently in the cratered earth. Her physical vessel was critically shattered, on the very verge of disappearing, yet she clung to her last few moments. The older vampiress stared up at the dark, clearing sky with a blank, distant gaze... before a soft, genuine smile faintly graced her pale lips.
"You really are different... even if it is only just a little bit..." she thought to herself as her form began to slowly dissolve into glowing particles of golden light.
Elizabeth walked over, standing quietly beside her older self, looking down at the fading, tragic reflection of her own inescapable future.
"I know I am no hero," Elizabeth stated, her voice quiet but laced with an absolute, undeniable resolve. "But I am... not you."
! Berserk Assassin, Carmilla has been defeated !