In the ink-thick forest, the Voivode of Wallachia clutched his severed arm and roared, his sharp and brutal gaze locked onto the figure ahead.
Cloaked in black robes and wielding twin guns, the young man moved like a specter, yet his rainbow-colored eyes held a chilling emptiness.
The throne room of the Millennia Castle was deathly silent. The magi of the Yggdmillennia bowed their heads in fear, not daring to look up, as if the wrath of their king could spread from the distant forest and reduce the insolent magi to ashes.
Yet even with their heads lowered, questions swirled relentlessly in their minds.
Who was the one who had ambushed Vlad III?
Was it a Servant?
If it was a Servant, how had he found his way here?
And who was his Master?
"Raise your heads, magi of Yggdmillennia."
Darnic, the head of the Yggdmillennia clan and the Master of Lancer—Vlad III—spoke. Though he too had briefly faltered, the shock and fury that had risen within him were swiftly suppressed, and the composed demeanor of a clan leader once again took its place before the magi.
"Our king, our Voivode, has been ambushed by an Assassin and lost an arm—yet there is no need to shy away from this truth! This is but a trivial glimpse of the fierce battles yet to come! Servants are beings gathered under the radiance of the Holy Grail, destined to fight for our grand ambition and bring us victory!"
"Since we have enshrined the Lancer of Black as our king, it is only natural that he must fight with blood and sweat for this honor. Even if he is wounded, even if he must lay down his life—this is his duty as a Servant, as the king of Romania's land!"
Under Darnic's impassioned speech, the fear in the magi's eyes gradually faded.
Indeed, only a Servant could defeat another Servant. The fact that Vlad III had survived the mysterious Assassin's ambush was proof of his strength.
And more than that—
"An Assassin exposed to the king's wrath is nothing more than an insignificant insect!"
Even if the identity and origins of this Assassin remained a mystery, Darnic knew he had to say this—and act accordingly—to restore the morale of the Yggdmillennia magi.
Before the eyes of all, Darnic, as the head of Yggdmillennia, bowed deeply toward the image of Vlad III, offering his reverence. The mana of a "Grand" magus flowed unceasingly along the threads of causality, transmitting to the distant Servant.
"Please, bring us the first victory in this war of Servants, Voivode!"
As if in response to Darnic's words, Vlad III, bloodied yet undiminished in majesty, raised his remaining arm and pointed forward.
"Kazikli Bey!"
***
"Kazikli Bey!"
The sound of splitting air roared as stakes surged forth with unprecedented might, as if seeking to replace the forest itself. In an instant, they covered the earth, pierced the sky, and converged upon the lone figure caught between heaven and ground.
Muzzle flashes erupted. A bullet of pure iron struck one of the stakes, shattering it—but that was merely one among countless others.
Like beasts drawn by gunfire, stakes surged forth one after another toward the assassin's location. The assassin gripped his triggers with both hands, firing repeatedly to shatter the sharp tips aimed at him. Yet from the gaps between the destroyed stakes, new ones sprouted forth.
Endless and inexhaustible—this was the terror of this Noble Phantasm.
The stakes themselves as a Noble Phantasm weren't particularly concerning. Individually, they lacked destructive power and were slow-moving... but their sheer numbers were horrifying. The stakes barricading the space between the assassin and the king had already surpassed a thousand, and since they erupted suddenly from the ground, evading them was exceedingly difficult.
Quantity—this was undoubtedly the most defining feature of this Noble Phantasm. The number of iron stakes it could deploy reached roughly twenty thousand. This alone made it an anomaly.
Among anti-army or anti-fortress Noble Phantasms, there certainly existed those capable of annihilating hundreds or thousands at once. But Noble Phantasms operating on a scale of tens of thousands? Those were exceedingly rare.
This was because Vlad III's Noble Phantasm wasn't a holy sword or spear, but rather the recreation of a "historical event"—the legend of twenty thousand Ottoman Turkish soldiers impaled upon iron stakes.
True, each individual stake might be insignificant, unworthy of being called a Noble Phantasm. But—faced with the overwhelming number of twenty thousand, even steel-nerved Heroic Spirits would feel an intangible pressure. Though steeped in madness, it was the most intense and impactful military demonstration. It was something utterly impossible for any ordinary human to achieve.
Thus, this Noble Phantasm was called "Kazikli Bey," the most terrifying Noble Phantasm bearing its owner's name.
Destruction was meaningless. Bullets could pierce steel and shatter flesh, but they could never stop a river.
—Especially not a mighty river composed of punitive iron stakes.
With his safe distance compromised, the assassin had no choice but to flee to escape being swallowed by the 'murky torrent.' Yet no matter where Sakatsuki appeared, the endless stakes pursued him like a shadow, as if he were already placed upon the guillotine, and 'Kazikli Bey' was the descending blade of Louis XVI's happy machine.
No escape. No evasion.
Any hero without absolute defense would inevitably have their chest pierced by these encroaching stakes, becoming another vivid stroke in this bloody legend.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The gunfire grew more frantic, but as shattered stakes fell, new ones sprouted in the next instant, squeezing the assassin into an ever-narrowing space.
The one-armed King of the Night stood motionless, the sharp stakes his soldiers, his limbs.
His eyes, darkened with fury, narrowed as he watched the mysterious assassin dart about. Disappointment and the thrill of slaughter gradually filled his heart.
Ah, how foolish. Not only had I placed too much expectation upon him, but to think I was wounded by such an insignificant insect.
For this proud monarch, if the assassin had the achievement of severing his right arm to boast of, he shouldn't be so pathetically weak as to fail to break through mere stakes. Otherwise, even he, the wounded party, would become a laughingstock!
Consumed by shame, Vlad III clenched his left fist as the onslaught of stakes grew increasingly fierce. At this rate, the feeble Assassin would soon be impaled by hundreds of stakes simultaneously—a scene that would be unspeakably bloody and brutal.
Within the Wallachian Voivode still lingered the legend known as ▉▉▉, a trait that intensified Vlad III's thirst for blood and slaughter.
But at least for now, the figure standing here was not one corrupted by legend, but a noble and dignified hero bathed in the glory of Romanian tales!
"Merely losing my spear means nothing! Though I manifest as Lancer, it is my legend as a hero that you vermin can never overcome!"
Driven by the last shred of hope in his heart, Vlad III roared these words. The stakes lifted the fallen spear from the ground, and with his left hand, he grasped its shaft, pointing the tip directly at the increasingly cornered Assassin.
"If you wish to prove your valor, if you still cling to your pride as a hero, then abandon this futile evasion! Use every means at your disposal to claim the head of Vlad III!"
"Otherwise—even as you are impaled, I shall keep you clinging to your last breath, dragging you back to the Fortress of Millennia to endure the scorn and derision of all!"
For a great hero of myth and legend to be captured in the present world, with his name and dignity threatened—this was a punishment no heroic spirit could accept.
To discard concealment, to unleash all his power to defeat and slay this tyrannical king—
This thought had barely surfaced before the Assassin suppressed it. Deep down, he knew his true self would never ignore Vlad's provocation, even if it was mere taunting, and would respond with absolute violence.
Alas, as an Assassin, what he valued was simply whether the scales of cost and benefit balanced out.
Seeing the Assassin remain unmoved, ignoring his words, Vlad III let out a frustrated growl as he brandished his stakes, continuing his relentless advance.
Yet, focused solely on Sakatsuki, he failed to notice that the 'cleanup crew' he had recently slaughtered and trampled had not fled. Instead, while the Assassin held his attention, they had dispersed throughout the forest, placing the array disks Sakatsuki had entrusted to them.
Their purpose was singular—
Bang!
A mysterious light shot into the sky and exploded. The Assassin, gradually ensnared in the cage of stakes, looked up, finally allowing a faint smirk to curl his lips.
The time had come.
His rainbow-hued eyes locked onto the king beyond the army of stakes. Without hesitation, Sakatsuki activated the magical array switch, simultaneously unleashing a burst of magical energy. The mana burned like fuel, erupting in a surge of light that propelled the Assassin through the iron wall of stakes, launching him like a bullet straight into Vlad's line of sight!
"Is this your final struggle, Assassin?!"
Facing Sakatsuki's sudden assault, Vlad III remained utterly unshaken, confidently raising his spear with his left arm. "Then let me grant you the supreme punishment of impalement... Huh?!"
At this critical moment, Vlad III inexplicably ignored Sakatsuki's attack, staring in shock at his own hand.
Without warning, his presence plummeted continuously, directly falling from the pinnacle of top-tier Servants. Even the sharp stakes withered in response, degenerating into the weakened Noble Phantasm "Kazikli Bey," losing its original formidable might.
This was precisely why Sakatsuki broke through the defenses so effortlessly. It was almost laughable how this king still hadn't realized his connection to Romania had been severed!
"My power!!!"
Before Vlad III, the Voivode of Wallachia, could recover from the shocking turn of events, the assassin's spearpoint was already closing in on his chest, aiming for that faint line of death!
"Die!" This was the assassin's second strike—an unavoidable, fatal blow that Servant Vlad III could not evade.
Thud!
The king's blood splattered. Under the dazzling crimson light, the forest returned to silence once more.
Only the corpses impaled on stakes remained. As the wind blew past, the souls of the dead swayed upon the ground, hollow and empty, as if sighing.
***
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