Once again, It descended.
A pitch-black shadow strode over the waves.
From the sea rose a colossal form hundreds of meters tall, crowned with winding horns. Its body, like withered branches, was inscribed with ominous runes.
Like a malevolent god draped in a rain cloak, it cast its dark shadow upon the world. Black, immense, foreboding, indistinct, uneven—simply gazing at that shape triggered ringing in the ears and waves of nausea. Its vast magic power suffocated every living being who sensed its presence.
In the distant Vault City, fairies who had just calmed under Oberon's command fell into panic anew. In such a confined space, a riot of that scale would normally spark a deadly stampede, trampling hundreds underfoot…
—but none of that happened. Order remained unbroken.
At the instant they beheld It, every fairy lost the will—or even the ability—to move. Humans' legs buckled under the crushing oppression; fairies, gripped by terror etched into their blood, heaved in sudden waves of vomiting. The acrid stench filled the Vault City entrance. Undigested food splattered the ground; collapsed fairies lay helpless, their clothes soaked in yellow bile.
Even Oberon—who should have been immune—turned ashen and covered his mouth and nose to suppress retching.
It's mere presence had paralyzed Norwich's defenses. The guards lacked even the strength to close the gates.
Yet Its horror went far beyond mental pollution. Even setting that aside, Its very flesh contained enough destructive force to obliterate the docks with a single step.
Calamity… so this is Calamity?
That thought flashed through someone's mind.
In a shadowed corner near the docks, a fairy stared at the unfolding horror, legs trembling, barely able to stand.
"Mother… and they… were fighting something like this all along?"
She had come only to pursue the hateful figure of someone. Now, seeing this, she wondered: Is there truly any chance of victory against such a being?
At that same moment, Artoria felt that very doubt stir in her heart.
A thud beside her alerted Artoria. She turned to see Gareth—who had been fighting valiantly—now pallid and collapsed, vomiting uncontrollably.
"Gareth…"
Artoria's grip on her Chosen Staff tightened, her hand shaking. She had been wrong—terribly wrong—to let the slight growth granted by the Bell go to her head, believing she could stand against such a force. She'd failed to remember the terror of defeat and led everyone back into this death trap.
But at the sight of It, her courage evaporated.
So hideous… utterly hideous…
Fear, dread, disgust, horror…
"I can't… I can't—"
If she gave up now, it would be just like before—no growth, no progress.
How much longer would she remain paralyzed?
How many times would she stand by, watching him fall defending her, doing nothing?
"What a joke!"
Artoria snarled through tears, her gaze hardening.
Though her hands shook violently, she gripped the staff tighter, knuckles whitening.
"I must… do something!"
No matter what, she would not stay here! Even if she failed again, even if she met a tragic end, she would not stagnate. If she never moved, her chance to defeat It would remain zero.
"I will not give up!"
Artoria poured every drop of her mana into her staff. A massive pillar of light formed at its tip and blasted toward the distant shadow.
But her beam vanished on impact—no ripple, no effect. It did not even bother to defend.
"What of it?!"
Undeterred, she unleashed wave after wave of converging light.
"Do you think I'll surrender? I will never give up!"
Her defiant roar reached Gareth's ears, and she lifted her head. Seeing Artoria fight on, she drew a spark of strength back into her limbs, rose, and hoisted her heavy lance. Though it could not harm It, she vowed to be at least a pinprick of pain among countless limbs.
…
"How comforting… you've grown, Artoria."
Atop the Vault City wall, Oberon watched the docks and whispered:
"You, who once gave up so easily, still found courage—what a remarkable step forward. At least this journey was not in vain. But it ends here. Branca, come; we must take Artoria and the others away."
He summoned Branca, the fluffy white moth. Gazing into Oberon's eyes, she understood. He sighed:
"Though it pains me, we must abandon Norwich… Perhaps the prophecy always meant only to dispel Calamity, not save this city itself."
With a "poof," Oberon shrank to the size of a small sprite, leapt onto Branca's back, and streaked away in a flash of white light toward the docks.
…
Artoria's relentless beams tore through air and night sky. Yet each met the same fate—no impact. Such power could not sway It even slightly.
But as Artoria fought on, It drew nearer. It toppled like a felled giant, intent on crushing the docks with its weight. Then, as Artoria had once witnessed, Its form unraveled: it was no single godly phantom, but countless writhing hands—the rain cloak, the horns, the towering shadow—all woven from cursed limbs.
Calamity Reveals Its True Form: The Hands of Calamity
Then those black hands surged toward the docks, blotting out the sky like Hell's gates opening. Thousands of desperate souls clawed at the living, desperate to drag all into the abyss.
Only now did Artoria's attacks affect a few hands—but as soon as one or two fell, tenfold more replaced them.
Despair welled in Artoria's heart. Helplessness crept up again. She blamed herself: her arrogance had brought everyone here. She had failed them.
But she swore to learn. Even if she lost now, or next time, each trial would raise her odds. She would never stop searching for a sliver of victory.
"One day… one day, I will defeat you—"
A final cry of the defeated? Before the cursed hands fell, Artoria snarled.
At that moment, someone moved.
Soft applause sounded as Guinevere stepped forward, offering only his back to Artoria.
"Thank you, Artoria. Your words were perfect."
He settled before her, hands on sword and scabbard.
"When I saw It, I nearly froze. I almost couldn't move and would have died without even trying. But Artoria—thank you. Your fight gave me the courage to act."
As thousands of hands surged, Guinevere turned, forcing a smile:
"Now, it's time for you to witness my moment of valor. Please, Artoria and Gareth, step back a bit—I don't want you caught in the crossfire."
Gareth opened her mouth to protest, but Artoria gently guided her back and shook her head. Then Artoria met Guinevere's gaze:
"You're not lying this time, are you? You can really handle that thing?"
Guinevere laughed softly:
"Of course, my liege. I must prove your trust in me has not been in vain. I will hold off It's full assault this once—afterward, the cleanup is on you two. I trust you."
Artoria's Fairy Eye confirmed his sincerity, and she nodded.
Once they retreated, Guinevere faced the abyss.
"Indeed—facing such an enemy calls for a line with real punch."
He gripped his azure blade. Flames curled along the steel where his hand met hilt and scabbard, coating the edge in fire.
"For those I love, I shall unleash the ultimate attack!"
He drew his sword. Passing through the arc of flame, the blade roared alight. A spectral greatsword shimmered into being, its scorching edge seeming to twist space itself.
"—Heaven's Flame, Unsheathe!"