"Archer, he…!?"
It wasn't until Shirou had a wounded Fergal in his hands that Masao finally realized—just moments ago, the invincible Heracles… had died?
"Crack… crack…"
From the abyss ripped open by the divine sword came a brittle sound like breaking ice. Looking closely, the colossal rift carved by the strike stretched dozens of kilometers, the surface smooth as a mirror. Small fragments crumbled off the cliff edges and tumbled into the abyss below, their echoes resounding endlessly against the sheer walls.
Masao froze, breath caught, as an icy chill spread through her whole body.
She was certain—before Heracles had fallen, there had been no such abyss here. What kind of power could alter nature itself so casually? This was divine power. Archer, who had been their reliable ally just a moment ago, was now… dead?
"—Chiyo, pull Archer back! He's not dead!"
Shirou's voice rang out, leaving Masao stunned. Was this a joke? Split clean in half and still not dead? Were Servants really such monsters?
On the other side, Mochizuki Chiyo tossed aside her chain sickle and managed to hook Heracles' "corpse" just before it slid into the abyss.
Masao could hardly bring herself to look at the tragic state of the giant's body. But then—a glow of prana burst from the corpse, drawing her gaze.
The sundered flesh, cleaved away by the divine sword's light, began to restore itself. It resembled the regenerative process of the dragon-specimens they had fought, yet it was… different.
Masao could only gape in disbelief as Heracles, split in two, slowly knit back together. Prana wove flesh and bone anew, a miracle of resurrection.
This was Heracles' Noble Phantasm. The glory of completing the divine labors in life had been sublimated into the Noble Phantasm "Twelve Labors." In short—it granted him immortality and a defense nearly unmatched.
Especially its "resurrection" effect—usable eleven times in total. In other words, Heracles had twelve lives.
Now lying on the ruined rooftop, Heracles' eyes snapped open. He leapt to his feet. "Thank you for pulling me up. Had you not, even with the Twelve Labors, I might have perished from some accident upon falling into that abyss."
Indeed—if he had touched the black mud that turned the dead into pseudo-Servants, the consequences would have been dire.
Meeting their astonished gazes, Heracles explained plainly: "No need to be surprised. My body itself is a Noble Phantasm. Each time I am summoned into the world, this effect functions—eleven times."
"Eleven? Meaning you have twelve lives. Then… Archer, you must be the demigod of Greek myth, the one who completed the Twelve Labors—Heracles?"
Shirou said the words aloud, though he had already guessed the truth.
"…That is so."
"The rules of the Holy Grail War demand that Servants conceal their true names and Noble Phantasms. Revealing yourself could endanger you and your Master."
Heracles merely smiled. "Normally, perhaps. But that presumes a Holy Grail War that is functioning as intended.
"If we cannot escape this world, then what meaning is there in hiding information? All our caution would be wasted."
He took Fergal back from Shirou, fastening the pelt to his body again. "Besides, my role here is limited. The Twelve Labors are not absolute lives. That divine strike just now was so powerful that four of my resurrections were consumed at once."
He did not add aloud that his Master, Fergal, could not sustain him indefinitely with her limited prana. Even conserving as much as possible, the last battle had drained her heavily. Her body must be straining.
If need be, Heracles was ready to burn his own Saint Graph to keep fighting—so long as his Master and these allies could escape safely.
He quietly made his resolve for self-sacrifice.
"…."
Shirou, unaware of Heracles' heavy thoughts, could only sigh inwardly. Four lives gone at once—really? He almost wanted to ask aloud, Heracles, are your twelve lives all connected in one lump?
After all, even in the original tales, Heracles rarely had his twelve lives neatly whittled away. The worst case had been in FGO's Atlantic Lostbelt—where, to cover the retreat of the Anti-God Alliance, he took two direct blasts of the mechanical Artemis' Moonlight Cannon. All twelve lives erased in an instant.
"Our situation is dire. If that serpent is the root of this world's corruption, we have no choice but to fight it."
Heracles lifted his arm, pointing to the square where a monstrous serpent rose. Dozens of heads and necks stretched upward, pressing the earth beneath them like mountains.
Shirou followed his gaze. The multi-headed beast, its terrifying slashes, its form—there was only one possibility. Yamata no Orochi, the eight-headed serpent of eastern myth.
Which meant the weapon it wielded must be the divine blade Ame-no-Murakumo-no-Tsurugi (Sword of Gathering Clouds of Heaven). Losing several lives to a single stroke seemed almost reasonable.
The eight heads roared, splitting the clouds. A reeking wind scattered dust across the battlefield. Poisonous flame belched from its maws, igniting the land into a sea of fire.
"There's… someone there?" Shirou narrowed his eyes. A familiar white silhouette darted around the Orochi, a rainbow light-clad sword clashing against the bone blades of Ame-no-Murakumo.
Wait—that extending rainbow whip-sword… Attila!?
"You know that Servant?" Heracles asked, his keener vision spotting her too.
"…We've fought. I thought she was a Servant of the Grail War's orchestrators, an enemy. But she's fighting the serpent. Perhaps things aren't as they seemed."
Heracles nodded, already stringing his bow. "The enemy of our enemy is our ally—for now. Alone, we'll all be slaughtered."
"That's true enough…" Shirou muttered. Yet something about all this felt wrong. This Holy Grail War—none of the Masters and Servants he had met were competing at all. Instead, they were… uniting. Was this really still a Holy Grail War?
———
"Endless! How long is this supposed to go on!?"
Xia Mi twisted, barely avoiding another slash. The bone blade of Ame-no-Murakumo grazed her ear, severing strands of hair that scattered in the wind.
The ground was gouged into deep trenches, intersecting scars across the plaza. Only narrow strips of earth remained intact—like tightropes strung between abysses. And Xia Mi danced along them, toes landing lightly.
Her war god's sword flashed like a rainbow, carving bloody blossoms into Orochi's scales. They bloomed in lurid beauty, then vanished, erased by the beast's regeneration—faster even than the experimental dragons.
Still, Xia Mi wasn't panicked. She had already mapped Orochi's habits. It spat venom, or swung its sword-tails. The first was easy to dodge. The second—
Clang!
Their blades collided again. Sparks showered like hammer on steel. Were they common swords, both would already be chipped to ruin.
The impact sent Xia Mi staggering back. Even with the Crest of the Stars bolstering her strength, she could only hold Orochi's monstrous power for moments at a time.
If it came to endurance, she would surely lose.
"Norton! How's it going over there!?" she shouted. Her infiltration mission—"Plan A"—had failed. She had found no fragment of the White King's soul, and was trapped by Orochi. The only hope now was "Plan B": Fenrir destroying the alchemical matrix sustaining this Nibelungen.
"Not done! Far from it! And you should know your brother better than me—his reliability, I mean."
Norton's tone made it clear what he really meant: unreliability.
"Three hours ago he was still staring blankly at your geomancy blueprints. If I hadn't shouted 'If you slack off, your sister will be trapped forever!' he'd still be digging around like it was a game. Honestly, even I'm anxious watching him."
Cold sweat broke down Xia Mi's back. "What? Norton-sama, you didn't guide him yourself? You left Fenrir alone to handle geomancy? What if he makes a mistake? Can he bear the consequences!?"
She imagined him accidentally triggering an earthquake with a single word, collapsing the entire world. Everyone inside Nibelungen—including her—would be buried alive.
"You hear that? Your sister doesn't trust you." Norton's voice drifted, speaking to someone beside him. Obviously Fenrir.
Another voice, deep yet boyish, rang out: "Don't worry, Sister! I'll get it done!"
The pledge was less reassuring than a child promising to finish homework while their parents were away.
"Well?" Norton asked.
"What do you mean 'well'? Aren't you there with him? If you're working together, you should manage. At least get everyone out."
"…We'll see."
The vagueness in Norton's tone made Xia Mi's heart sink.
"Norton-sama, what's the risk!? Speak plainly!" she shouted. How could he act so smug at distance, yet be so evasive when it mattered most!?
She gritted her teeth, still dueling Orochi. Her rainbow blade wrapped around one serpent head, biting into scales. With a heave, she drew blood. The beast roared in rage—but wounds healed almost instantly. Still, the pain bought her precious seconds.
But only seconds.
The serpent suddenly shifted, its rhythm gone wild. Blades crashed again and again, shockwaves numbing her arms.
This battle… couldn't go on. Someone, anyone—help!
"The risk? Hard to say. I'm King of Bronze and Fire, not of Earth and Stone. You're the ones with the better feel for ley lines."
Norton's voice returned at last.
"But it's not hopeless. I'll tell you plainly. Fenrir and I discovered that this Nibelungen is sustained by an alchemical matrix deep underground. But it's been altered—linked directly to the ley lines powering our Grail War. They share one fate.
"In short—we can't just destroy it. Or we'll lose our own ley lines too. Fenrir's trying to dismantle it carefully—enough to stop this Nibelungen, while keeping our foundation intact. That's the plan. Only then can I bring your people back."
Xia Mi let out a long breath. "So… how long do I need to hold out?"
"A long time," Norton replied, infuriatingly calm.
"…Fine."
Xia Mi lifted her numb arms again, staring up at the shadow of the serpent and its divine sword. Blow after blow fell, hammering her into exhaustion. In that moment, Ame-no-Murakumo seemed less a sword than a giant mallet—pounding her into the bitter, chewy flavor of a miserable eastern life.
(End of Chapter)
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