Chapter 68: The Sky Throne of Empowerment
Silence.
Not the silence of peace, but the silence of endings.
The Golden Hind crested the final curve of moonlight like a ghost from another age, its spectral sails gliding on a wind that didn't exist.
The ghost fleet followed in formation, black ships with pale blue lanterns glowing like half-remembered memories.
Below them stretched the Final Floor — not a battlefield, not a throne room, but something in-between.
A grave.
The platform floated in an endless void, suspended high in the sky with no visible support.
It was massive — circular, impossibly wide — and ruined.
Not with fresh destruction, but with time.
Burn marks crisscrossed the stone like old scars.
There were shattered swords lodged in cracked marble.
Burnt-out tank husks stood frozen in place, half-melted.
The scent of scorched iron and old magic still clung to the windless air.
It was as if every war fought here left behind its bones.
And above — above was not the sky.
A starfield stretched endlessly across the heavens, distant and uncaring.
But laced through that velvet blackness were three massive rings of glowing light.
They turned slowly, impossibly large, each a perfect circle of shifting golden hues — like divine halos woven from time and light.
They didn't make a sound, yet their presence weighed down on the battlefield like judgment.
The Hanging Gardens of Babylon loomed in the air behind the fleet, like an inverted palace torn from myth.
Its architecture defied both logic and symmetry — an enormous fortress suspended by unknown means, composed of countless floating stone masses arranged in systematic tiers.
Marble floors overlapped with twisting stone balconies and forests of pillars that jutted at impossible angles, all wrapped in a blanket of tangled plant life that writhed across its surface like veins of living chaos.
It was a unification of unsightly disorder and decadent beauty — a godless Eden carved by an empress who had no need for heaven's permission.
The interior, seen through slits in the stone and hanging walkways, appeared reversed — its ceilings became floors, its floors spiraled overhead, as if the very concept of gravity had been rewritten in Mesopotamian script.
From the heart of the fortress, a single throne room pulsed faintly — its control crystal glowing like a blood-red star.
No engines, no wings — just mystical gravitation and elegance.
The floating citadel held its position high above the battlefield, like a watching eye.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Except him.
Twice Pieceman stood near the center of the platform, waiting.
A figure, draped in a white lab coat, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
His posture was relaxed — almost casual — but the sheer stillness of him made the air feel heavier.
Glasses reflected the starlight.
His black hair moved slightly with the ambient mana, but his expression was unreadable.
Behind him, near the far edge of the arena, sat a second presence.
A throne of golden vines had grown from the stone itself — living, flowering, unnaturally perfect.
On that throne sat the one who had not moved at all.
Buddha.
His eyes were closed.
His body was wrapped in golden robes that shimmered softly in the starlight.
His hands rested on his knees, palms open.
He breathed, but it was not breath — it was stillness given form.
He seemed untouchable.
Distant.
Radiating an aura not of menace, but of absolute indifference.
Gawain exhaled slowly aboard the Golden Hind's deck, eyes scanning the platform below.
Cú Chulainn cracked his knuckles once.
"This will be fun." he muttered.
Richard, hands on the wheel, was silent — for once.
In the Hanging Gardens', Riya sat at the throne, eyes narrowed.
He said nothing.
His breath was steady, but his fingers hovered just above the control runes.
He wasn't thinking about Twice.
Nor buddha.
Or the gravity of this moment.
He was calculating.
Every movement.
Every possible angle to destroy the sky itself.
The Grail awaited beyond this floor.
But first — this.
The Final Floor.
The silence deepened.
Then, softly — very softly — Twice Pieceman took a step forward.
His shoes clicked gently on the ruined stone, as though this final floor was a lecture hall and his students had just arrived late.
The stars twinkled unnaturally behind him, bending in rhythm to his presence, as though space itself acknowledged him.
Then, with a voice as calm as falling snow, he spoke.
"Welcome to the Sky Throne."
"The summit of all wars… and the edge of every salvation."
Riya said nothing.
Richard frowned from his position on the Golden Hind's deck, watching through the smoke.
Gawain and Cú stood like statues, blades drawn but waiting.
Only the great Buddha, unmoving, remained utterly detached — eyes closed in perfect serenity upon his throne of golden vines at the far end.
Twice raised his hand, palm open, fingers loose — not in threat, but invitation.
"You stand at the end of a thousand Grail Wars."
"Each one a stage."
"Each one a crucible."
"Masters fought."
"Died."
"Bled for wishes they barely understood."
"And yet… in the end, none could speak the truth aloud."
He turned his head slightly, just enough for the starlight to silhouette the edges of his glasses.
"That truth… is war."
A long pause.
"Not the brutality."
"Not the pain."
"But the crucible itself."
"The forging of the human soul."
"When stripped of peace, of law, of comfort — mankind shines."
"They evolve."
"They overcome."
He took another slow step, now halfway between him and the party.
"That is what the Buddha saw."
"That is what I offer."
"A world that never stagnates."
"A war that never ends."
"Not for glory."
"Not for hatred."
"But for progress."
His voice did not rise, but it expanded, filling the vast air.
The platform beneath their feet seemed to resonate with it — as if Chakravartin itself acknowledged his words.
"Even now, I ask you."
"Will you be the one?"
"Will you cast the final wish — the final command — to enshrine eternal conflict?"
"And by doing so unleash eternal evolution?"
A silence fell.
Riya, standing now at the Gardens' prow, let the wind blow his cloak behind him.
His hands were at his sides.
When he spoke, his voice didn't echo like Twice's — but it cut through the silence like a blade.
"A wish for eternal war?"
"That's not salvation." He stepped forward.
"That's just bad writing."
Twice's smile froze.
"You built this world — all of it."
"A throne in the sky."
"An all powerful god."
"And you did it all just to find someone to validate your trauma."
The words hit like a slap.
Subtle, sharp, personal.
Riya didn't raise his voice.
He didn't flinch.
He just looked at Twice — through him — like reading a report he already found disappointing.
"You're not enlightening humanity."
"You're just making everyone else suffer so you don't have to be alone in your madness."
For a moment, Twice didn't move.
Then, a faint twitch broke the calm mask — a ripple along his cheek, a hardening around the mouth.
One lens of his glasses caught the light wrong, flashing white as if it were an eye.
"So that is your answer," he whispered.
High above, the three rings of Chakravartin pulsed once — a slow thrum like the heartbeat of a god.
Twice lifted his hand.
The platform trembled.
"...You choose wrong Riya Riot."
"And now... you shall face the same judgment as the others that have answered me the same."
The rings above shimmered with golden energy.
Beams of light began to spin along their edges, and the air itself began to hum with celestial frequency.
Then came silence—brief, suffocating—before a divine whistle cut through the air.
From the highest of Chakravartin's golden rings, a single arrow of light descended like a falling star.
It struck the ground in front of Buddha's throne and exploded in a quiet, perfect detonation that erased stone, magic, and noise in one blinding instant.
More followed.
The sky darkened—not from clouds, but from the sheer number of radiant arrows slowly beginning their descent.
At first they fell sparsely, tracing lazy arcs like glowing feathers.
But soon they multiplied, spreading wide across the battlefield like a divine net.
Every arrow that landed carved craters into the Moon Cell's platform, rupturing marble and leaving behind golden embers that refused to die.
Riya's eyes narrowed.
Seated on the obsidian throne deep within the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, he reached forward and placed two fingers against the glowing command gem embedded in the armrest.
"I'll destroy the rings from above," he sent telepathically, his voice sharp and cold within his allies' minds.
"Use the Golden Hind and the fleet to pin Buddha down."
"Buy me time."
No verbal response came—but none was needed.
The Golden Hind surged forward with regal fury, sails catching ghostly wind, hull glowing with spectral flame.
Around it, dozens of phantom ships—Drake's cursed fleet—swooped across the battlefield in loose formation.
On deck, Richard the Lionheart stood at the prow, hair swept back by the rising magical wind.
"Spread the line! Protect the flagship!" he shouted.
"Port and starboard, full barrage on the man in the lotus!"
The ghost ships responded in perfect harmony.
Cannons boomed like thunder.
Black powderless shot laced with magical curses streaked across the sky and rained down on the golden throne and its surrounding vines.
The impact tore into the overgrowth, splintering roots and shaking the stairs leading to Buddha's seat.
But Buddha did not move.
He sat still atop the golden throne, legs crossed, eyes half-closed, palms resting upward on his knees.
Not tranquil—absolute.
Every explosion near him seemed to ripple and disperse, absorbed by some unseen presence that protected him without form.
On the ground, two warriors surged forward into the barrage.
Gawain led with a bellow, sunlight flaring behind him.
Excalibur Galatine cleaved forward, its arc sending molten streaks across the marble as he cut through layers of divine vines that blocked the stairs.
Each step forward came at a cost—thorns lashed, regenerating overgrowth pushed back, the divine garden fighting to protect its master.
"For the glory of Camelot!" he roared, blasting fire outward with every swing.
Beside him, Cú Chulainn moved like a wraith.
Gáe Bolg danced in his hands as he dodged between falling arrows of light.
One arrow struck the stone where he stood a moment earlier—then another, and another.
He leapt, twisted mid-air, and landed with his spear driving straight toward Buddha's throne—Only to rebound.
His momentum was halted by nothing.
No shield.
No barrier.
Just... space.
"What the hell—?" he muttered, falling back a step.
A crushing pressure filled the air around Buddha's still form.
It wasn't magical.
It wasn't Noble Phantasm-based.
It wasn't even physical.
Cú's eyes widened as he recognized the sensation.
"Kalaripayattu," he whispered. "He's not moving—but his presence is defending him."
Even the air around Buddha seemed unwilling to allow harm.
High above, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon began their slow, thunderous ascent.
The marble megastructure pulsed with violet mana, massive terraces shifting and aligning as it climbed like a drifting palace.
Arrows of divine light peppered its exterior.
Each strike exploded against its layered magical shielding, causing ripples of glowing glyphs to dance along its hull.
Riya didn't flinch.
"Distance stable," he muttered.
"Begin targeting protocol."
He wasn't ready to fire yet.
But soon.
Back below, a sudden blast of light erupted from above as three ghost ships were struck simultaneously by golden beams fired from the celestial rings.
Each was reduced to ash, no resistance—just light and silence.
Richard cursed as fragments rained across his deck.
"We've lost the left flank! Shift right! Keep the Hind between the rings and the throne—don't give them a clean shot at gawain and cu!!!"
Explosions rocked the area.
Magical fire bloomed like stars being born and dying in rapid succession.
And through it all…
Buddha remained unmoved.
His silence echoed louder than any cannon.
As if no attack, no strategy, no mortal effort could reach him.
The war had begun.
The real war would begin when Riya reached the rings.
The Hanging Gardens climbed higher into the Moon Cell sky, rising like a reversed palace of ancient judgment.
Massive terraces shifted and rotated with grinding resonance, each layer humming with residual mana.
Vines wrapped in glowing script waved in the windless air like tendrils of prophecy.
Above, the three golden rings spun in perfect celestial harmony, rotating in opposite directions.
Each bore countless markings—divine glyphs, geometric seals, forgotten truths—and together they formed a single living machine: Chakravartin.
And now, they had noticed him.
The first volley struck like the wrath of heaven.
Dozens of arrows of divine light rained down upon the Gardens.
Unlike before, they did not scatter across the battlefield — they aimed directly at Riya.
Riya is sitting alone in the throne room at the heart of the floating fortress, his hand clenched over the pulsing jewel embedded in the armrest.
Sweat beaded down his temple.
His mana was being drained by the second just to keep the Gardens moving.
"Shift all shields to upper hemisphere."
"Divert mana from the lower terraces."
"Reinforce the throne dome."
The Gardens responded at once, rotating outer marble layers to absorb the blasts.
Blue and violet shields shimmered into being above, taking the full brunt of the incoming light.
Each impact sent tremors through the air, echoing like thunder from a shattered heaven.
Massive golden beams lanced from the inner rings.
The spaces between them opened and closed like divine irises, releasing light only during precise windows.
Riya clenched his jaw and guided the Gardens between them, threading the moving fortress through holes that stayed open for barely seconds at a time.
"Too slow," he muttered.
"At this altitude, every misstep is fatal."
He swiped his hand across the throne's interface.
Panels of magical diagrams unfolded, forming a half-dome of floating script around him.
Dozens of red alerts flickered at once.
Overheating.
Mana drain.
Shield decay.
Ring convergence.
He ignored them all.
Far above, the rings began to accelerate.
Their slow, majestic turn quickened.
The sound changed—no longer musical.
It howled like metal under pressure, like stars tearing against each other.
And then... something new.
A fourth ring began to form.
Light folded inward from every direction, converging into a perfect disk.
It wasn't part of the battlefield.
"If that one finishes forming," Riya hissed, "this fortress won't even leave ashes."
He had only one option left.
"Transfer all remaining mana into the throne jewel," he commanded.
"Seal auxiliary systems."
"Disable weapons."
"Convert all circuits to focus-fire mode."
"Override: Semiramis configuration — Heaven's Reversal Protocol."
Deep within the Gardens, mana conduits lit up one by one, like stars forming constellations through the stone.
The dome above Riya peeled open.
The air grew thin, space itself beginning to bend under the weight of magical convergence.
At the highest terrace, a single cannon—blackened, ancient, and veined with gold—rose from the ceiling.
It didn't look like anything human.
It looked like it had been unearthed from a different cosmos and forced to obey.
Its core lit up, drawing energy from every inch of the Gardens.
The vines recoiled.
Marble cracked.
The sky grew dark and purple.
And then—
It fired.
A supercharged beam of compressed magical light, so dense it twisted the very air around it, launched upward.
It struck the lowest ring.
There was no explosion.
There was detonation.
Like a star being erased.
The first ring shattered into fragments.
The impact scattered them like glass across the Moon Cell sky.
The second ring followed—severed by the beam's tail as Riya adjusted the trajectory.
The shards glowed white-hot as they fell, burning up before they reached the battlefield below.
The third ring buckled.
The fourth ring froze mid-formation—its light stuttering, pulsing wildly.
And then… silence.
Far below, the lotus throne stirred.
Buddha has opened his eyes.
He did not speak.
He did not rise.
He merely looked upward.
And for the first time since the battle began.
Riya felt fear...
The echo of the shattered rings hadn't yet faded when Buddha moved.
No words.
No chant.
No dramatic rise of power.
Just a single, measured gesture.
He raised one hand — palm outward, fingers extended toward the heavens.
A mudra older than any written language.
And the sky responded.
A beam of golden annihilation—silent, pure, and absolute—launched upward without warning.
It did not ripple.
It did not explode.
It simply was.
It struck the Hanging Gardens dead center.
Riya didn't see the attack—he felt it.
A crushing heat, a divine pressure, a soundless scream that bypassed the body and struck the soul.
For a fraction of a second, his vision turned white.
Then—Impact.
The upper terraces were erased.
Not destroyed—unwritten.
The vines burned black.
Shields cracked like eggshells.
Mana circuits burst, releasing rivers of fire that raced down the halls.
The Gardens shuddered, leaned sideways, and began to fall.
The throne room exploded behind him.
"No—!"
Riya was thrown from his seat, crashing into the floor.
Marble shattered beneath him.
His cloak ignited, flames licking at his back as alarms blared in every direction.
His lungs refused to pull air.
His mana reserves screamed in warning.
The fortress was coming apart around him.
And then—
Buddha stood.
Still radiant.
Still silent.
But now, his full form had risen from the lotus throne.
Eyes open.
Gaze level.
He lifted both arms to the sky.
The Moon Cell itself seemed to freeze in reverence.
Then came the second ray.
Not a beam—
A commandment.
From Buddha's fingertips descended a divine ray so wide, it encompassed the entire Hanging Gardens from horizon to horizon.
Light filled every crevice of the Moon Cell sky, turning day to sun-death.
It was not light.
It was finality.
Riya had seconds.
He gritted his teeth, forcing his battered body upright.
His cloak trailed flames, fire eating away at the fabric as the world burned around him.
The throne room was collapsing.
Mana lines ruptured, vines shrieked as they turned to ash, and the divine ray loomed—unstoppable.
"Teleportation circle—come on... Semiramis... lend me your authority...!"
His voice cracked from the heat, but the command registered.
At his feet, dark runes flared to life, ancient Mesopotamian script glowing between shattered tiles.
The teleportation array—deep-coded into the Gardens' structure—responded to him alone now.
The air distorted.
The ray hit.
Just as it did, the array beneath Riya's feet flashed blinding dark—and he vanished, consumed in the same instant the Gardens were.
A burst of light erupted at the battlefield's far edge.
The Hanging Gardens of Babylon were erased in a flood of white-gold light.
From below, it looked like a second sun had consumed the fortress entirely.
Its shape—its legacy—its magic—
Gone.
Riya reappeared midair, dropped from the gardens teleport and hit the ground hard, skidding across stone as smoke trailed from his body.
His cloak was half-burned, scorched black and curling at the edges.
Steam hissed from his skin.
He was alive.
but only barely.
The smoke had barely cleared.
Riya lay on the scorched earth, one arm shielding his face from the falling debris.
His body trembled—not from fear, but the sheer overload of mana and pain.
His cloak hung in blackened ribbons, half-melted to his back.
The scent of ozone, ash, and divine fire clung to everything.
Boots hit the ground nearby.
Cú Chulainn, breathing heavy, blood running down his temple, came to Riya's side and offered a hand.
"Still breathing, huh?" he muttered, helping him up with a grunt.
"Barely," Riya rasped, forcing himself to his feet.
Gawain appeared next, armor cracked, his once-golden cape torn.
His eyes flicked to the ruined sky, then to Riya, and gave a small nod of silent respect.
Richard limped behind them, covered in soot, coat singed at the edges.
The fleet was gone.
The Golden Hind was gone.
Only smoke trails and falling embers remained in the sky.
The four stood together, reunited at the edge of the crater Riya had fallen into.
And then they saw him.
Up on the platform—no longer seated, no longer still—Buddha.
The world felt heavier.
With the rings gone, the air had stilled into something ancient.
The aura that radiated from Buddha's form was neither rage nor mercy.
It was acceptance—the kind that erased all defiance, all noise, all reason.
His eyes were open now.
And everything else felt insignificant in their gaze.
Behind Riya, the wind caught the last torn strip of his cloak.
The embers danced in the silence.
Four shadows stood beneath the broken sky.
A god stood before them, awakened and unbound.
It was time to end it all.