The battlefield was eerily quiet, shrouded in a thin, swirling mist that clung to the ruined earth like a phantom's breath. The silence was broken only by the soft, rhythmic click of leather boots approaching. From the pale veil of fog, a figure emerged, draped in an elegant, gold-trimmed blue cloak that fluttered gracefully in the wind.
In their hand, a rapier was drawn, its slender blade gleaming with a pristine, untainted luster that seemed to defy the grim surroundings. Le Chevalier d'Eon the extraordinarily beautiful knight, the cunning secret agent, and the loyal royal spy stood before them now. Their androgynous features were perfectly composed, yet their eyes betrayed a tragic, formidable foe bound by an absolute sense of duty.
"O, maiden of the shield," d'Eon spoke. Their voice was smooth and calm, carrying an aristocratic elegance, yet layered beneath it was a profound depth of sorrow that time could never erode. "Forgive me."
Mash tightened her grip on the heavy handle of her massive, cross-shaped shield. She planted her boots firmly into the dirt, bracing herself as her amethyst eyes tracked the Chevalier's every micro-movement.
Without warning, the space between them vanished. A burst of brilliant silver light exploded from d'Eon's footsteps as they surged forward with terrifying velocity. Yet, there was no brutal charge; it was a glide, a deadly dance step. With a theatrical and graceful flourish of the rapier, the Chevalier invoked their Noble Phantasm.
"Fleur de Lis: Gorgeous Splendor of Blooming Lilies (Anti-Army C+)"
The mist surrounding them was instantly banished, replaced by a mesmerizing vortex of spectral, luminous lily petals that waltzed gracefully through the air. The dreary battlefield was temporarily painted in hues of radiant white and pale gold. This beautiful aura surged forward to envelop Mash.
Though the phantom petals carried no physical weight, they wove a spell of absolute, suffocating enchantment. The air suddenly grew thick with a cloying, narcotic floral sweetness that invaded Mash's lungs with every breath. The magical fragrance clouded her mind, dulling her razor-sharp combat instincts and violently eroding her fighting spirit.
It was a beauty so profound and overwhelming that it manifested as a spiritual shackle. Mash felt a sudden, crushing lethargy in her limbs; her eyelids grew heavy, her will to strike back draining away as she found it nearly impossible to look away from the majestic, blooming illusions. Seizing the momentary lapse in the Shielder's guard, d'Eon attacked.
Burdened by the oppressive magic of the lilies, Mash's movements turned agonizingly sluggish. It was as if the air had thickened into molasses. Her immense strength and ironclad defenses waned under the Phantasm's heavy enchantment.
Clang! Cling! Clang!
A tempest of steel rained down upon her. D'Eon's rapier struck from every conceivable angle a blinding flurry of thrusts aimed at her throat, her knees, her ribs. Forced into a desperate, purely defensive stance, Mash retreated behind her massive shield, shrinking her profile as the heavy metal became her only remaining sanctuary.
Sparks showered into the air like fireflies with every impact. D'Eon moved with the fluid grace of a master fencer, their footwork a flawless waltz across the torn earth. The strikes were so rapid, so mathematically precise, that it no longer resembled a duel between Servants. The beautiful Knight was simply toying with her, systematically dismantling her guard piece by piece.
Mash gritted her teeth, a frustrated groan escaping her lips as she slid backward, her boots carving deep trenches into the soil. The relentless, high-speed impacts sent violent, bone-rattling vibrations up her forearms and into her shoulders. Her muscles screamed under the strain. She desperately wanted to retaliate to swing her heavy shield and shatter d'Eon's momentum with a crushing blow but the Chevalier's hypnotic elegance kept her entirely pinned.
Every time Mash twitched to launch a counterattack, the point of the rapier was already there, forcing her to block once more. D'Eon was mercilessly exploiting the vast gap in their agility. They danced just out of Mash's reach, suffocating the young Shielder beneath an endless storm of elegant steel, leaving her no room to breathe, no window to counter, and drowning her in a sea of beautiful, deadly lilies.
-
Lancelot violently hurled a massive chunk of debris straight at Fujimaru. Pivoting with blinding speed, Fujimaru cleanly evaded the brutal assault. Every swing of the Mad Knight's blackened blade grew wilder and more ferocious than the last, completely fueled by an agonizing, burning hatred.
"ARTHUR!!!" Lancelot roared again, his voice tearing his own throat, completely uncaring that the opponent standing before him was not his King.
Hovering low just behind Fujimaru, Jeanne Alter aggressively thrust her tattered battle standard forward.
"Die!" she shrieked.
Pitch-black flames violently erupted from the flag, spiraling into a destructive, localized vortex that swept across the earth. Fujimaru spun around rapidly to face the new threat.
Swoosh.
A deafening chorus of roars echoed from the heavens. Jalter smirked, tilting her head toward the darkened sky. "They're here. It's time."
The smog-filled sky was suddenly blotted out by hundreds of winged shadows. A massive swarm of wyverns dive-bombed the battlefield like a tempest from hell. They circled the arena, unleashing a catastrophic, overlapping barrage of fire, ice, and lightning from their maws. The air was instantly transformed into a chaotic, lethal domain of elemental explosions and toxic fumes.
Unfazed, Fujimaru's summoned familiars the Blizzard Elemental and Sandstorm Elemental leaped into action. Working in perfect synchronization, they conjured massive, swirling cyclones of freezing frost and tearing sand, intercepting the sky-bound assault and actively suppressing the terrifying wyvern swarm.
The earth splintered beneath them. The air grew suffocatingly thick with the stench of scorched iron and brimstone.
Jalter stood atop the highest peak of rubble, slamming her black banner into the dirt. Her voice went entirely flat, freezing cold, and dripping with an ancient, unforgiving malice. A terrifying dark aura enveloped her entire being. Grotesque, dark-red cursed crests ignited across the shattered battlefield floor. Raising her hand, the Avenger declared her ultimate condemnation:
"La Grondement Du Haine: Roar, Rage of Mine (Anti-Army EX)"
Hellish, pitch-black flames violently erupted upward like a volcanic eruption, swallowing the area in an inferno that burned infinitely hotter than dragon's breath. This fire did not merely scorch physical flesh it was designed to incinerate sins, morals, and the very concept of faith.
Simultaneously, dozens of cursed, bloodthirsty stakes violently erupted from the ground beneath Fujimaru like demonic snares. They didn't strike all at once; they pierced upward with a calculated, sadistic rhythm, explicitly designed to make the victim agonize over every single, impaling thrust.
"Greater Absorption!"
Fujimaru calmly chanted his spell. A powerful pulse of concentrated magecraft flared around him, effortlessly devouring the kinetic and magical damage of the cursed stakes before they could even pierce his clothes.
When the black flames finally receded, Fujimaru was still standing there, completely and utterly unscathed. It was as if that apocalyptic barrage of Noble Phantasms and curses had merely tickled him. His gaze shifted from the retreating Jalter back to Lancelot, who was already coiling his muscles for another berserk charge.
While the cursed stakes and residual black flames still smoldered across the ruined earth... Fujimaru smiled. Reaching his right hand into the empty void of space, Fujimaru slowly drew out a terrifying weapon. It was an impossibly long, two-meter golden katana. But it was far from a holy sword. The blade, the spine, and even the hilt were grotesquely adorned with countless, blinking, blood-red eyes embedded directly into the golden metal.
"Demon Eye."
It was a Legacy-Tier Item, otherworldly power that passively radiated a suffocating, mind-bending aura of absolute Fear. The grotesque crimson eyes embedded along the katana twitched and darted frantically in every direction, drinking in the chaos of the battlefield... before all of them simultaneously snapped forward, locking their terrifying, unblinking gaze dead onto Jalter.
"Sword Style - Judge."
Fujimaru gripped the hilt of the Demon Eye tightly with both hands. For a split second, nothing seemed to happen. Yet, the atmosphere grew unnervingly still. The immediate space surrounding him suddenly became immaculately clean. The floating ash, the smoke, and the dust that had coated his clothes were completely gone, repelled as if an absolute, invisible barrier had severed him from the rest of the world.
Holding the katana firmly, Fujimaru began to walk. His steps were slow, deliberate, and chillingly calm as he advanced toward Jalter and Lancelot. Instantly on edge, Jalter's eyes darted frantically, analyzing the space around him as he took another step. He walked past a small pile of shattered gravel.
"Danger!" Jalter's instincts screamed as she realized the horrifying nature of his technique. The exact moment Fujimaru stepped past the gravel, the stones silently vaporized into fine dust. Anything that entered his immediate radius was being slashed continuously at a speed entirely beyond human comprehension, instantly reduced to microscopic ash.
A normal mortal vessel shouldn't have been capable of executing such a godlike technique. But as the battle dragged on, Fujimaru's physical body was rapidly adapting to the overwhelming, abyssal power of Natan, finally allowing him to physically manifest fragments of his true, terrifying strength.
CLANG! SHNK! CRACK!
Even the maddened Lancelot's battle-hardened instincts sensed the lethal anomaly, causing the Berserker to actually freeze mid-charge. A few wyverns that foolishly swooped too close to Fujimaru's airspace were instantly shredded into ribbons, sliced apart like wet paper without him even moving his blade. Their blood sprayed wildly into the air, painting the dark sky in horrific shades of crimson and black.
Jalter held her breath. "This technique..." Even her immense pride couldn't deny the terrifying reality: stepping anywhere near Fujimaru right now was tantamount to absolute suicide.
"He isn't slowing down..." Jalter muttered between ragged pants, a thin trail of dark blood dripping from her lips.
Lancelot stood beside her, his broad shoulders trembling not just from his burning fury, but from countless, agonizing wounds. The beastly roar was caught in his throat. Even his pitch-black, madness-consumed form... was beginning to doubt the viability of a frontal assault.
She clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Not now. We still don't know the full extent of his power. If we force this fight..." She glared at the scorched earth where her La Grondement Du Haine: Roar, Rage of Mine (Anti-Army EX) had failed to even leave a scratch on his skin. "...we will all perish right here."
Lancelot let out a final, deafening roar, his frustration violently tearing through the night air. But incredibly, he turned his back. With a single, massive bound, the Mad Knight retreated from the front lines, distancing himself from the untouchable anomaly.
Jeanne Alter cast one final, venomous glare at Fujimaru standing tall amidst the smoldering flames and the rain of wyvern blood, an utterly unshakeable force of nature.
"For now... we are pulling back," she declared coldly. "But do not misunderstand. This is not a defeat. This is merely... a postponement."
Pitch-black flames enveloped her body as she leaped onto the back of the largest surviving wyvern. With a powerful beat of its wings, the beast ascended into the smog-filled sky, rapidly retreating into the darkness alongside Lancelot.
Fujimaru stood alone in the center of the ruined, silent battlefield. The terrifying, invisible vortex of slashes radiating from his blade slowly ceased, the golden katana returning to rest.
The battle was over. His enemies... were gone.
-
The sky, which had just been violently shaken by apocalyptic flames and deafening roars, finally fell quiet... yet the atmosphere remained heavy and tense.
From high above the smoldering night sky, Jeanne Alter's voice echoed out firm, freezing cold, and absolutely undeniable. Amplified by dark magecraft, her command washed over the entirety of the ruined, porak-poranda city.
"Withdraw all units. Cease the assault. Return to the stronghold immediately."
The massive swarm of wyverns still circling the airspace instantly broke off their attack. Beating their massive, leathery wings, they turned and flew away, obeying the absolute command without a single shred of hesitation. Down on the bloodstained earth, the enemy Servants who had been relentlessly besieging the city immediately disengaged, pulling back into the shadows like a violent hurricane slowly receding from the coast.
"This battle is far from over. We will meet again." Jalter finalized her retreat with a low, razor-sharp declaration that hung in the air like a delayed curse.
From across the vast distance, her gaze locked with Fujimaru's for a fleeting second. It was a silent clash of absolute wills—neither side backing down, neither side showing an ounce of fear. Jeanne Alter let out a soft, breathy scoff. A bitter, almost predatory smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"They are going to be a massive problem..." she muttered under her breath.
Then, without uttering another word, the massive wyvern beat its wings, ascending higher into the darkened heavens. Beside her, Lancelot and the remaining enemy Servants abruptly forced to dissolved into thick, swirling columns of pitch-black smoke. Together, the dark army vanished seamlessly behind the heavy, smog-filled clouds, leaving behind nothing but a suffocating, breathless silence and mountains of shattered, burning ruins.
Elsewhere on the devastated battlefield, the holy primordial dragon, Tarasque, quietly concealed its massive form, slipping away into the shadows to withdraw from the war-torn city. The suffocating pressure of the enemy army finally lifted entirely.
Fujimaru let out a slow, heavy exhale. The terrifying, suffocating aura of his Demon Eye katana finally faded, the grotesque red eyes snapping shut before he dismissed the Legacy-Tier weapon back into the void of space.
Walking calmly through the scorched, cratered earth and the gently settling ash, he approached the specific sites where the defeated Servants Martha, Carmilla, and Medusa had made their final stands.
His footsteps slowed as he reached the scorched ground where the Rider Medusa had vanished. Kneeling quietly amidst the ruin, Fujimaru paused. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, offering a few moments of solemn, uninterrupted silence to mourn Medusa's defeat. It was a quiet gesture of respect, honoring the tragic weight of her fleeting existence and the burdens she had carried onto this cursed battlefield.
After paying his final respects, he opened his eyes and reached down into the ashes. One by one, he carefully picked up the three glowing data crystals that had materialized from their passing. Their soft, warm light offered a stark, melancholic contrast to the dark, war-torn earth as he secured them, carrying the weight of their sacrifice with him.
Securing the hard-earned spoils of their victory, Fujimaru turned his back on the retreating darkness and began making his way through the rubble, finally heading back to regroup with Jeanne d'Arc, Mash, and the rest of his exhausted allies.
The city of Vaucouleurs still stood firm, refusing to yield even as the gloomy sky hung heavy above it. The outside air remained thick with the suffocating stench of brimstone, while the earth was blanketed in the scars of destruction, blast craters, and blood that had yet to fully dry.
Inside a modest meeting hall constructed from rough-hewn stone and timber, the remaining Servants gathered. The flickering flames from torches mounted on the walls cast a dim light, highlighting faces etched with immense physical exhaustion, yet radiating an absolutely unshakable resolve.
Spread across the long wooden table at the center of the room was a worn map of France. Thick streaks of red ink marked seven major cities that had fallen: Bordeaux, La Charité, Lyon, Marseille, Montluçon, Rouen, and Thiers. At the very center of the map, the city of Orléans was circled in pitch-black ink—the beating heart of all the darkness that they ultimately had to crush.
"Our victory today is merely a beginning," Jeanne d'Arc spoke, shattering the silence. She led the strategy meeting attended by all the Servants currently present at the stronghold, excluding those who had yet to return from their expeditions.
Jeanne took a step forward, pressing her index finger firmly onto the map. Her gaze was as sharp as a blade, entirely devoid of hesitation.
"This is the current map of France. Vaucouleurs is the only remaining bastion of humanity. These cities marked in red are no longer mere ruins. They have been converted into fortresses of darkness, acting as a power source for Vlad III and breeding grounds for the enemy's Wyvern army."
She met the eyes of her comrades one by one. "Every single one of them is guarded by magical barriers and cursed troops. But... we do not need to assault them all at once. We will move with purpose, tearing them down one by one."
Fujimaru stood at the end of the table, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was cold and calculating, his voice flat but carrying a strategic weight that could not be ignored.
"Every city we manage to destroy and free from its curse will systematically sever the enemy's energy supply chain. By doing so, we will gradually weaken Vlad III before we have to face him directly."
Cú Chulainn, leaning casually against a stone pillar in the corner of the room, scoffed softly as he twirled his runic staff.
"A fine theory, General. But remember, the slower we move, the more time Jalter has to stack her defenses in Orléans. Do not give her the advantage of time, or we'll just be walking straight into a death trap."
From the other side of the table, Mash Kyrielight spoke up. The unexpected firmness radiating from her young face made several Servants turn to her with genuine respect.
"Caster is right, but we cannot afford to be reckless either," Mash stated firmly. "We cannot hesitate, but we must be precise. We choose one city, destroy its core, and then observe Orléans's movements. If the enemy reacts and sends reinforcements, we dynamically shift our attack pattern. We cannot let them predict our next move."
Fujimaru looked down at the map, his fingers slowly tracing the territorial lines connecting the seven cursed cities. A brief silence enveloped the meeting room before he finally gave a slow, decisive nod.
"Exactly. Mobility and the element of surprise are our best weapons right now," Fujimaru concluded, looking straight at the gathered Servants. "We will divide our forces into multiple teams to initiate the destruction operations."
-
Orleans City
The throne room stood as a monumental testament to tyranny, draped in a suffocating, bloodstained grandeur. Its polished marble floors a dizzying checkerboard of deep rose and bone-white elegantly reflected the flickering, dying light of the golden wall sconces. A rich crimson carpet, looking almost like a river of spilled blood, flowed straight from the massive iron-wrought doors to a jewel-encrusted golden throne.
This ultimate symbol of absolute power sat upon a raised dais, framed by cascading maroon curtains that hung like the theater drapes of a tragedy. The towering, shadowed pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling seemed to press down on the room, imposing a crushing, psychological weight upon any soul daring enough to enter.
Jalter, the sovereign of this nightmarish kingdom, sat rigidly upon the throne. Her golden eyes burned with pure, unadulterated fury, her gauntleted fingers digging so fiercely into the armrests that the metal began to groan and warp.
"Damn it all!" she snarled, the venom in her voice echoing through the vast hall. "What the hell is with that Ruler?! How have we already lost two Servants to them?! That absolute bastard!"
The residual clash of their magical energies still lingered in her mind; she had clearly sensed Fujimaru's impossible, paradoxical identity as a Ruler-class Servant. The sharp, heavy clank of armored boots echoed loudly as she abruptly stood. Her ragged, pitch-black cape violently billowed behind her like the roaring flames of hell itself.
From the deepest shadows of the pillars, Caster Gilles de Rais stepped forward. A wide, deeply unsettling smile stretched across his face as he offered a grand, theatrical bow.
"Calm yourself, my beloved Dragon Witch," he soothed, his bulging eyes gleaming with fanatical devotion. "We still possess our alliances and the strength to rise again. If the stage lacks actors... we need only summon more soldiers for our magnificent slaughter."
Jeanne Alter narrowed her piercing gaze, her anger hardening into cold, calculating malice. "Fine. Let us begin."
Raising her hand, a massive, malevolent summoning circle violently flared to life upon the marble floor, bathing the room in a sickening, purple-black luminescence.
Name: Charles-Henri Sanson
Class: Assassin
Atribut: Man
Gender: Male
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
A dark, imposing silhouette emerged from a thick curtain of violet mist. Charles-Henri Sanson stood perfectly composed, his silvery-white hair elegantly disheveled. A dark, clerical-style coat draped over his tall frame, adorned with inverted crosses and grim religious motifs that whispered of inevitable mortality. In his gloved hands rested a massive executioner's greatsword—a heavy, brutal symbol of absolute justice, or perhaps, an inescapable curse.
"I shall execute justice strictly according to your will," he spoke, his voice deep, hollow, and entirely devoid of human empathy.
Name: Edmond Dantès
Class: Avenger
Atribut: Man
Gender: Male
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
A violent, howling blast of pitch-black wind swept through the chamber, shattering the ambient light as the next figure materialized. The Count stood tall, his long, ragged black coat fluttering wildly around him. His entire body crackled with erratic, violent flashes of dark magical energy, resembling jagged fractures tearing across the very fabric of reality. Wavy, greenish-silver hair framed a strikingly handsome face, locked in a cynical, predatory smirk.
"Everyone shall receive their rightful retribution, sooner or later," Dantès declared, his voice dripping with venomous vengeance, yet as beautiful and mesmerizing as a poem dragged up from hell.
Name: Alexandre Dumas
Class: Caster
Atribut: Man
Gender: Male
Alignment: 'Chaotic Evil'
A flamboyantly dressed figure stepped from the light with a grand, theatrical stride. He wore a vibrant purple coat heavily laced with ostentatious gold embroidery, a golden-buttoned vest, and a perfectly puffed white jabot. A wide, deeply charismatic smile stretched across his face, radiating the energy of a master playwright stepping onto his grandest stage.
"History is currently being rewritten, is it not?" Dumas chuckled warmly. "Please, allow me to add a new... far more tragic chapter to this little manuscript."
Name: Jacques de Molay
Class: Saber
Atribut: Man
Gender: Male
Alignment: 'Chaotic Evil"
The very ceiling seemed to groan under the sheer, oppressive gravity of the next figure. A corrupted holy knight radiating a terrifying aura of absolute, bottomless emptiness. Silvery, curly hair framed a pale, frozen face that was completely dead to the world.
A pristine white surcoat bearing a subtle checkered pattern covered the heavy, pitch-black armor beneath it—a horrifying paradox of divine purity and demonic destruction. A golden, cross-hilted greatsword gleamed lethally in his right hand, while a massive shield rested heavily on his back. He looked prepared to simultaneously shoulder the sins of the world and mercilessly execute it. He did not speak. He did not need to; his mere, suffocating existence was a death sentence.
Name: François Prelati
Class: Caster
Atribut: Man
Gender: Male
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
A chilling, unnatural frost crept across the marble checkerboard as Prelati materialized. Shoulder-length white hair framed a pair of piercing, razor-sharp eyes that danced with an unsettling, psychopathic glee. His dark, aristocratic attire was immaculate and refined, yet his casual posture carried the lethal, unpredictable tension of a hidden blade.
"Your orders? A lie, of course!" Prelati chirped playfully, a manic, teasing lilt in his voice that completely belied the dark magic swirling around him.
Name: Phantom of the Opera
Class: Assassin
Attribute: Earth
Gender: Male
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
The final figure stepped forward, his face half-concealed by a pristine porcelain mask. He wore a pitch-black, perfectly symmetrical tailcoat laced with silver embroidery, evoking the faded, bloodstained grandeur of a ruined 19th-century theater. His exposed skin was corpse-pale, and the twisted, asymmetrical smile gracing his lips belonged to a demonic artist profoundly admiring his magnum opus of agony.
His eyes did not burn with explosive rage, but rather a chilling, detached obsession. From his hands extended elongated, razor-sharp metallic claws, already dripping with phantom blood. When he finally spoke, it was a haunting, operatic babble of madness—beautiful, tragic, and utterly incomprehensible to a sane mind.
Jeanne Alter swept her cold, commanding gaze across the room. The overwhelming, suffocating auras of the six newly summoned Servants flooded the throne room, plunging the dark kingdom into terrifying, lethal life once more.
"Go forth," she commanded, her voice dropping to a quiet, absolute whisper that carried the indisputable weight of a tyrant's guillotine. "Rampage. Destroy every last one of them."
The six Servants bowed in perfect, chilling unison. Their heavy footsteps echoed ominously through the grand hall as they turned and faded into the shadows one by one, marching eagerly toward their promised theater of death.