Chapter 10
The night over Trifas was cold and clear, the stars like chips of ice scattered across black velvet. In a rented room on the outskirts of the city, Jeanne d'Arc knelt in prayer, but her focus was not on heaven. Before her, hovering in the air, was a three-dimensional, glowing map of the region, rendered in shimmering, sanctified water. It was the Revelation skill granted to a Ruler—a divine overview of the battlefield, marking the positions of every Servant.
And it was telling a very strange story.
"Hmm… only one Red Servant in the entire city?" she murmured, her brow furrowed.
The map clearly showed a dense cluster of seven markers—all distinct hues of blue and indigo—concentrated in the ancient castle that dominated the landscape: the Black Faction's stronghold. But the Red markers were scattered. Six were in the neighboring city of Sighișoara, miles away. Only a single, pulsing crimson dot was moving erratically through the forest on the castle's perimeter.
A lone Red Servant, operating deep in enemy territory. Foolhardy, or supremely confident?
As she watched, the cluster of blue markers at the castle suddenly moved. All of them. Like a hive stirred to anger, they streamed out of the fortress and into the forest, their trajectories clearly aimed at intercepting the lone crimson dot.
They're mobilizing their entire force to stop him. What kind of Servant warrants that?
Then, new data flickered onto the map. Two more red markers appeared in the forest, moving swiftly from the direction of the town. They were following the same path, closing in on the first. And between them…
Jeanne leaned forward, her blue eyes widening. A third marker appeared. But it wasn't red, or blue. It was a pure, brilliant white, stark against the other colors. It moved with impossible speed, slipping between the two trailing red markers and racing ahead toward the chaotic epicenter.
"A white alignment…" she whispered, a chill that had nothing to do with the night air tracing down her spine. "This must be the 'irregularity' the Grail summoned me to oversee."
Her duty was clear. She couldn't intervene in the war itself, but an unknown, unaligned entity of such power appearing on the field was precisely her jurisdiction. She rose to her feet, her armor materializing around her in plates of silver light. Her banner appeared in her hand.
"I must investigate."
---
Deep within the forest, the air was thick with the scent of crushed pine needles, ozone, and violence.
"Feels like… we're being watched," Cyd muttered, leaping from one thick tree branch to another. His movements were silent, a ghost flitting through the moon-dappled woods.
Behind him, matching his pace with effortless, predatory grace, Atalanta and Achilles exchanged a glance.
"Not us!" they said in perfect, guilty unison.
"It's definitely you two," Cyd sighed, not breaking stride.
KRA-BOOOOM!
Ahead, the forest erupted. The sound wasn't an explosion, but a series of colossal, meaty impacts, accompanied by the shriek of tearing metal and splintering wood. Beneath it all was a low, unsettling chuckle that vibrated through the ground.
Cyd increased his speed, landing on a high, sturdy limb overlooking a clearing. Or what had been a clearing. It was now a demolition site. In the center stood the source of the chaos.
The man was muscle.
That was the first, overwhelming impression. He was a mountain of corded, glistening flesh, bare-chested save for leather straps, his body a canvas of scars and grotesque, tumor-like growths that pulsed with mana. He wielded no weapon; his fists were sledgehammers, his body a battering ram. This was rebellion given physical form.
Spartacus. The Gladiator who defied an empire. Berserker of Red.
"Oppressed automatons! Be free!" Spartacus bellowed, his voice a joyous roar. He didn't fight the homunculi and magical constructs swarming him from the Black Faction; he embraced them. A golem swung a stone fist. Spartacus took the blow head-on with a grin, the impact cratering his pectoral muscle, then grabbed the limb and used it to swing the construct into two others, shattering all three.
"He's not even trying to dodge," Atalanta said, landing soundlessly beside Cyd, her bow already in hand. Her green eyes tracked the berserker's movements with clinical precision. "He welcomes every attack."
"He's a Berserker. What do you expect?" Achilles said, appearing on Cyd's other side with a shrug. "Trying to reason with him is a waste of time. Even if we drag him back, he'll just break out again tomorrow. Might as well let him blow himself up here. Make a nice crater."
"More likely they'll capture him before he self-destructs," Cyd said, a note of pity in his voice. He watched as Spartacus, laughing, allowed a spear of magical energy to graze his side, leaving a weeping burn, before crushing the homunculus that had fired it. "You two are free to do as you like from here. Don't worry about me."
"Roger!" Achilles gave a sharp salute, his eyes gleaming.
"Why are you so obedient to him?" Atalanta asked, a flicker of old frustration in her voice.
"Eh? Well…" Achilles' grin softened into something more thoughtful as he watched Cyd drop from the branch and begin walking calmly toward the maelstrom. "I grew up on his stories. My mother, my father… they'd always talk about this unbelievably great hero from their time. How he gave up the peaceful life he wanted to walk into Tartarus because of some vague, world-ending threat. He was… a benchmark. The kind of hero you're supposed to measure yourself against."
"He is a great hero," Atalanta said softly, her gaze also fixed on Cyd's retreating back. "But to me, he's just…"
"An irresponsible husband?" Achilles supplied, his grin returning as he leaned toward her.
THWACK!
Atalanta's boot connected with his backside with enough force to send him tumbling from the tree branch with a yelp.
"Say that again and I'll put an arrow through your tongue," she hissed, a faint blush of anger on her cheeks.
"Okay, okay! I'm going! Gonna scout the perimeter!" Achilles' voice called back as he vanished into the foliage, his laughter trailing behind him.
"Idiot…" Atalanta muttered. She nocked an arrow, her gaze never leaving Cyd as he approached the roaring Berserker. Her aim shifted subtly, centering on Spartacus's legs. If he so much as turned his aggression toward Cyd, she would disable him instantly.
"Hey! Red Berserker! Can you hear me?" Cyd called out, deftly sidestepping a chunk of flying homunculus debris. He walked right up to the massive gladiator and, to Atalanta's horror, reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.
Is he insane?!
"Ah! My ears function perfectly, ally!" Spartacus boomed. Instead of lashing out, he pivoted, using his own bulk as a shield to block a lumbering golem's punch meant for Cyd. The impact made his massive frame shudder, but his grin widened. "Fight with me! I shall be your shield! Onward, to a future of freedom!"
"I have no idea what you're saying, but I'm moved!" Cyd said, his eyes widening in genuine appreciation for the sheer, misguided chivalry.
"Ehhh?! There's two of them! The report said one!" a new, panicked voice cried out.
A figure popped up from behind a line of ruined homunculi. He had tousled pink hair, wide, innocent eyes, and was dressed in an impractical but charming outfit of white and blue. Astolfo, Rider of Black.
"Wait, I'm not—" Cyd began.
"Oppressor! Revealed!" Spartacus roared, interrupting him. With one hand, he wrenched a small tree from the earth and hurled it like a javelin at Astolfo.
"Whoa! Too dangerous!" Astolfo yelped, performing a gravity-defying backflip. The tree obliterated the homunculus line behind him. "Hold on! I'm Astolfo, one of Charlemagne's Twelve Paladins! Let's have a proper— hey! At least let me finish my introduction!"
Spartacus responded by snatching up a damaged homunculus and using it as a club for a devastating overhead smash.
"Fine! If that's how you want it!" Astolfo pouted, producing a slender, ornate lance from thin air. He leveled it at the charging Berserker. "Taste the power of my Noble Phantasm! Trap of Argalia!"
Spartacus's eyes lit up with ecstatic madness. He saw the lance pointed at his heart. He could have dodged. He chose not to. He ran straight at it, his chest open, a howl of triumphant defiance on his lips.
The lance didn't pierce. At the moment of contact, a brilliant pink light flashed. Spartacus's forward momentum didn't stop, but his legs… vanished. From the thighs down, they simply turned ethereal and useless.
Thud.
The massive Berserker face-planted into the dirt, his upper body plowing a furrow.
"See? My Noble Phantasm isn't anything special. It just makes people fall down," Astolfo said cheerfully, gesturing with his free hand. From the trees, a fresh wave of homunculi surged forward, piling onto the immobilized Spartacus, burying him under a mound of magical clay and metal.
"Now then~" Astolfo turned his sunny smile and his now-empty lance toward Cyd. "You seem like you can talk. So, how about you turn around and go home?"
"Sorry. About thirty seconds ago, I developed a compelling reason to stay," Cyd said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he watched the mound containing Spartacus tremble with furious struggle.
"I knew it! You don't look like the type to abandon a comrade! For that, I, Astolfo, will give you a respectful, full-power strike!" Astolfo declared, adopting a dramatic stance, his lance held ready.
"It's not really like that—" Cyd started.
"Trap of Argalia!"
Astolfo shot forward, a pink-and-white blur. His strategy was simple: repeat what worked. The enemy knew his Noble Phantasm's effect—forced spiritual disintegration of the limbs it touched. Any sane opponent would dodge or block.
Which way will he dodge? Left? Right? Astolfo's mind raced.
Cyd didn't move.
He's… not dodging? Wait, seriously?!
Shing.
Astolfo's charge stopped dead. His lance, aimed at Cyd's chest, was caught not by a hand, but by a draconic claw of interlocked black scales that had snapped out from Cyd's right arm. The claw held the shaft immovably, a few inches from its target.
"A Noble Phantasm that forcibly spiritualizes limbs on contact," Cyd mused, examining the trapped lance. "Interesting concept."
"…No way," Astolfo whispered, his jaw slack. He tried to tug his weapon free. It was like trying to pull a sword from a mountain. "Uh oh. This is bad."
"Rider! Disengage!" A new voice, deep, cold, and brimming with authority, cut through the night.
Astolfo's survival instincts overrode his shock. He released his grip on his lance and threw himself backwards in a frantic leap.
The earth around Cyd erupted. Not with fire or light, but with wood. Dozens of sharpened, blackened wooden stakes shot from the ground, skewering the air where he stood. They didn't just pierce; they impaled, forming a horrific, instant thicket with Cyd at its center. The stakes then lifted, carrying him into the air, pinned like a butterfly in a collector's case.
Vlad III, Lancer of Black, sat astride a nightmarish, horse-like homunculus at the edge of the clearing. His eyes were pits of cold fury. "Kazikli Bey. This is the fate of all who trespass upon my lands."
"I'm not really a trespasser, you know," Cyd's voice came, annoyingly calm, from within the nest of stakes.
Vlad's response was a downward swipe of his hand. From the canopy above, a massive, spear-like stalactite of condensed magical wood materialized and slammed down, driving the entire impaling thicket—and Cyd—into the earth with a ground-shaking CRUNCH.
A cloud of dust and splinters filled the clearing.
Slowly, Cyd sat up from the crater, brushing fragments of dark wood from his hair and shoulders. He looked more inconvenienced than injured. He turned his head and fixed his gaze on a specific patch of shadows high in the trees.
"Seriously?" he called out, his voice tinged with genuine complaint. "You were just going to watch?"
Atalanta stepped from the shadows onto a moonlit branch, her bow lowered. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "You are the Ruler. Aiding you would be a violation of my neutrality. And besides…" Her cat-eyes gleamed in the darkness, holding a complex mixture of old resentment, fondness, and absolute certainty. "Nothing in this world can truly harm you anymore. Isn't that right, my… prey?" The last word was a whisper, loaded with a history only the two of them shared.