Mortar shells rained down steadily on the Tōsaka residence. The once-towering mansion gradually collapsed into ruins beneath the bombardment. If Kiritsugu had access to high-tech thermal scanning equipment, he would have already checked for signs of life among the wreckage.
But even without it, the devastation was clear: the entire house had been reduced to rubble. Unless someone had used specialized explosives to target the ruins directly, there was little chance that anyone inside had escaped unscathed. Kiritsugu could only hope that the golden Master, Tōsaka Tokiomi, was dead.
He had done all he could; the rest was in the hands of fate. With artillery, he had already suppressed the enemy to the greatest degree possible. The firepower of modern weaponry was formidable, but with his current connections and resources, this was the best he could acquire. It wasn't that modern weapons were too weak—it was that he himself was not strong enough to obtain more devastating ones.
The few remaining rockets would accomplish little if fired here. Better to conserve them for disrupting other Masters or Servants later.
Meanwhile, Tokiomi sat trembling in the basement, silently thanking whatever luck had spared him. The bombardment had left the underground workshop in disarray. If not for its construction—buried deep beneath the mansion and fortified as a core workshop—the structure would have collapsed along with everything else. As it was, the walls bore cracks, but still held.
Even so, the exit passage was now sealed by debris. The violent tremors had thrown Tokiomi to the ground, and his head struck against a nearby chest, leaving a small wound.
Grimacing, he pressed a handkerchief to his injury, dabbed it with alcohol, and disinfected it as best he could. Sitting heavily on a chair, he began to plan his next move. If Gilgamesh triumphed, there would be nothing to fear. He could simply cut off all magical signals and remain hidden. But if the Hero King fell…
Would this basement truly remain undiscovered? If it were found, his fate would be sealed. The thought of spending the next four days—the remainder of the Holy Grail War—trapped in this claustrophobic space gnawed at him. Food and water were available, but the lack of proper sanitation would make survival miserable.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, sighing. Why didn't I install a proper bathroom down here…?
Perhaps his disciples would realize his plight and come to retrieve him, sending him to the Church for sanctuary. If not, he would abandon this war and bide his time until the next Holy Grail War, training Rin in the interim.
Inside the King's Army inherent barrier, Balin swung his sword, deflecting a Noble Phantasm hurled at him. Even here, among so many warriors, he found himself outshone. Countless heroic figures strode across this desert, many his equal—some even stronger.
Though he considered himself a first-rate warrior, the sight of this legion stirred unease. Alexander the Great—his fame echoed across the centuries. Even though Balin lived more than eight hundred years after the great conqueror's death, the emperor's legend still dominated the Western world.
Kings throughout history aspired to match Alexander's conquests. Countless men had dreamed of standing at his side.
For an instant, Balin himself felt that yearning—but he quickly banished it. He would not falter. Still, he could not deny the truth: even if he unleashed his Holy Spear, overcoming this army alone would be impossible.
"An army this strong is daunting enough," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "But even more terrifying is a king who remains unmoved at the head of it all…"
Beside him stumbled General Ptolemy—the founder of Egypt's last dynasty, the ancestor of Cleopatra—now gravely wounded. Above, weapons rained down in relentless succession, each strike tailored with precision. It was absurd, even cruel.
Balin himself had been targeted, but Ptolemy's suffering was worse. A serpent had struck him in the abdomen—not just any serpent, but one symbolizing the very downfall of the Ptolemaic dynasty. To a deified founding king, such symbolism was poison itself.
This was the curse of emperors made into myths: their deaths, their dynasties' ends, became weapons that could slay them anew.
Balin had no means of saving the Egyptian general. All he could do was press forward, closing the distance to Gilgamesh, and hope to strike him directly with his Noble Phantasm.
Nearby, Merlin conjured illusions with all his strength—shields of light, petals blooming from broken spells—yet even he could not escape. The golden king's arsenal seemed endless. Even nightmares, which Merlin himself delighted in weaving, were targeted by specialized weapons.
Aslan, too, fought bitterly, his dragon lineage drawing a rain of anti-dragon weaponry from Gilgamesh's treasury. Watching the assault, he longed for the shields he had once forged in his homeland, or the peace of that faraway utopia.
At the center, the King of Conquerors pressed onward. His gaze swept the battlefield, his frown deepening. The assassins were nothing—his army crushed them easily beneath its march. But Gilgamesh… the golden king was another matter entirely.
Just closing the distance had already cost him more than a quarter of his army. And even as he advanced, a dark premonition weighed upon him.
-End Chapter-
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