"Watch out!"
As soon as Tokiyo heard Shirou's warning, he immediately noticed the ominous crack silently spreading across the ceiling. The keen senses granted by his royal-level bloodline kicked in, and Tokiyo swiftly drew the ancient twin blades at his waist—Kumo Kiri and Dōjigiri Yasutsuna—while shouting:
"All units, brace for collapse!"
The members of the Orochi Eight Clans were well-trained. At the command of their young lord, they instinctively responded with discipline. Those gifted with defensive kotodama stepped forward as human shields, while others without cover or blessings scrambled to take cover.
Fortunately, the archive room of Aoiya was a single-story structure rather than a multi-level building. So even though the ceiling shattered in an instant and rained down rubble like a hailstorm, the physically enhanced hybrids on-site were hardy enough to avoid being taken out immediately—unless one got truly unlucky.
With practiced calm, Tokiyo raised his blades to deflect the falling debris. As the current head of the Orochi Eight Clans, he had been trained in the purest forms of ancient Japanese swordsmanship: Hōzōin-ryū, Yagyū Shinkage-ryū, Shingyōtō-ryū—all styles he had mastered.
His grip was firm, his posture effortless. He spun Kumo Kiri's edge with grace, slicing through incoming rubble. The fragments struck one another midair, redirecting or nullifying each other's momentum, turning the overwhelming bombardment into a manageable storm.
This was the technique of Tennen Rishin-ryū: Kōran no Waza (Natural Heart Style: Wave-Riding Slash).
It emphasized riding the flow of an enemy's attack like a surfer rides a wave—using their force against them, striking with precision and grace.
After creating a brief safe zone for himself and Yabuki Sakura, Tokiyo asked, "You alright?"
"…Yes!"
Sakura's heart fluttered at being shielded by her young lord and receiving such attention. But she kept her expression composed. She knew this wasn't anything romantic—Tokiyo was simply the type who instinctively looked after his subordinates. He had never once seen her as a young woman in the bloom of youth.
"Good. Go check on the others—injuries, damage. Regroup the clan members. And keep your eyes on Aoiya's people… I don't trust them not to pull something."
Tokiyo already suspected this collapse wasn't an accident. It looked too perfectly timed—an attempt to destroy evidence and silence witnesses.
BOOM!
No sooner had he given the command than the earth beneath them was ripped apart by a multicolored, radiant sword. Not just any sword—its destructive aura made even reinforced structures look like paper, tearing the ground like a hand ripping cheap cloth.
Damn it!
A massive chunk of stone—cleaved and sent flying like a shredded rag—descended like a meteor. Its shadow covered the area like doom itself.
Tokiyo's face fell. This time, he didn't even have the chance to protect anyone. With a thunderous crack, the bones in his body shifted and expanded.
As a natural-born hybrid of the highest tier—a Kō (Imperial Blood)—Tokiyo possessed thousands of bones in his body. When needed, they could compress or fuse to form an airtight skeletal armor known as "Dragonbone State."
In this form, his muscle and bone strength soared. Shattering a block of solid bronze with a punch would be easy.
Summoning all his martial training, he called upon the Shingyōtō-ryū: Yonban Hasshō (Fourth Form, Eightfold Heart Technique), a technique that fused mind and blade as one. He cleaved the incoming stone into several pieces in a single, precise strike.
Only then did he get a clear look at their attacker.
A dark-skinned girl stood before him, wielding a long, multicolored sword with a sci-fi edge. Its whip-like form had just returned to a rigid blade.
But the terrifying power wasn't just from the weapon.
With eyes honed by decades of swordsmanship, Tokiyo saw it clearly: her strikes had the precision and power of a legendary martial god. Even if he withstood the first attack, he wouldn't survive the second.
With or without the sword—this girl was a monster.
Even if she wielded a stick, she'd beat him into the ground.
And yet… one person was matching her move for move.
Shirou.
Tokiyo's pupils dilated. Unlike him, Shirou hadn't activated any special bone state. He was fighting as he was—with just a sword. Occasionally, an orange flame would flash around him—likely a kotodama rather than a bloodline trait.
But the blade in Shirou's hand crackled with alchemical brilliance. He moved with such ease that Tokiyo's jaw clenched in disbelief. The massive debris Tokiyo had to split with his full strength? Shirou casually swept it aside like dust.
The girl—Attila—retracted her blade and shifted back into a defensive stance. Her body tensed as soft, glowing patterns flared on her skin—lines that pulsed red like veins of starlight.
Wait… Shirou narrowed his eyes.
Those markings… the Crest of the Meteor?
He suddenly remembered. Attila's innate ability—Yūsei no Monshō (Crest of the Meteor)—provided frightening enhancements.
CLANG!
Shirou's ears rang.
He noticed Tokiyo—this man, this reckless idiot—charging into the fray. Was he trying to help?
Shirou wanted to yell: Stop, Tokiyo-san! Where is this confidence coming from?! You can't take on a top-tier Servant!
Too late.
With a dramatic swing, Tokiyo brought down his blade—only for Attila to raise two fingers and catch the strike.
Tokiyo's pupils trembled.
She caught it. With two fingers.
Am I not… of royal blood? he thought in disbelief. Didn't Father say I was?!
BANG!
Attila flipped her hand. With a casual backhand empowered by the glowing Crest of the Meteor, she swatted Tokiyo like a fly, flinging him through the air.
Then, without pausing for even a moment, she turned her sword back toward Shirou.
This was bad.
Shirou knew if he took the next hit head-on, he'd follow Tokiyo's trajectory—and maybe not get up afterward.
The blade in Shirou's hand glowed with injected mana. He activated a rotational field—compressing, spinning, folding wind into a razor-thin edge.
It was a technique he had honed through Muramasa's Trial Method—one that brought a Noble Phantasm's function to its ultimate refinement.
The spiraling wind formed rings around the blade. So concentrated, they blurred its shape. He raised it toward the oncoming chromatic sword—
Fū-Ō no Tetsui! (Wind King's Iron Hammer!)
(End of Chapter)
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