Battles don't require overthinking. It's about outmaneuvering the opponent, imposing your will, and neutralizing them. Simple: the stronger ego claims victory and glory.
And in asserting will, none rival the Hero King.
Infinite wealth. Infinite possibilities. Above all, the wisdom to wield them.
With these, only carelessness or arrogance could trip me up.
But this Gilgamesh, due to unique circumstances, lacks both. An absolute powerhouse with human sensibilities—unmatched by ordinary foes.
"You're those humans' Servant?" a figure asks.
"Indeed. This garb hardly screams vagrant."
Before me stands a Lancer, judging by his weapon. Shadowy aura, countless weapons on his back, monk-like attire. Japanese, perhaps? His True Name eludes me.
The vessel deems a Shadow Servant's personal affairs irrelevant. Dust to be swept away. But my soul allows no complacency. Defeat means no second chances. Always a last stand.
"Wandering alone? Foolish. I'll skewer you and present your head to your Master."
"Do as you please. If a stray from heroism's path can manage it."
My words morph into arrogance, shaped by this vessel's pride—always haughty, always above others.
I don't seek to dominate this vessel, only to refine my soul within it. To see as a hero, act as a hero, protect lives striving forward, and secure a future for those girls.
Someday, I'll say I achieved something. I believe that.
"Doing what I can as a reincarnated soul."
"Let's clean up the dust. It'll be quick."
I draw a different sword from the golden ripple, not the beam-firing one.
"Roar, golden Servant! Your life is mine!" the Lancer charges, his spear a deadly blur, closing the distance instantly.
"Ngh!"
His ferocious strike aims for my neck—
But my red eyes foresaw it all.
A slight tilt of my head dodges it. A careless sword swing pushes him back.
"What—?!"
Shock crosses his face. Understandable. His all-out thrust was brushed aside with minimal movement.
"What's wrong? My head's still attached."
"Freakish agility… Then I'll pummel you with relentless strikes!"
"Hah, you have no next move."
Blood sprays. A clean sever.
"—?!"
Too late for thought.
His Spirit Core is already cleaved.
"Puzzled? This sword ensures 'something is cut' with each swing. No dodging, no blocking—it's fate. 'I cut,' so 'it's cut.'"
"So… my Spirit Core…"
"Exactly. Sweating it out in a brawl is too tedious. Even choosing a sword is effort."
"Compared to that, dodging a breeze like my strike… easy?"
"—Regret…!"
His Spirit Core shatters, and the Shadow Lancer dissolves. A fleeting end, too swift for curses or prayers.
"No Lancer could match me but that one," I mutter, tinged with faint loneliness.
The conspicuous Lancer is down. Next—
"Let's deal with an easier one."
"⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛—!!!"
"Roar away, beast! That's a Berserker for you!"
A Berserker rages, a storm of destruction and intimidation. A towering, muscular juggernaut, dwarfing even this vessel. A true embodiment of menace.
Good thing I didn't bring the Master. A normal person would faint from this pressure.
Fortunately, this vessel feels no fear. Astonishing confidence and ego. If the body's unshaken, I can't falter either.
"⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛—!!!"
His unmatched blow obliterates the ground like brittle ice.
Had I dodged slower, I'd be minced. Servant physiology saved me.
"How to dispatch this?"
The method comes quickly. Berserkers rely on raw power and durability, obvious at a glance. Without rationality's limiter, their might is staggering.
But lacking reason means no finesse for intricate tactics. Without a guiding Master, a rampaging beast is easily ensnared.
I reach into the golden ripple, grasping a golden staff.
"This'll do."
To test it, I expose myself to the Berserker.
"Here I am, muscle mound! Crush me with that fibrous bulk if you can!"
I taunt, and he charges, shattering the ground to close the distance.
"⬛⬛⬛⬛—!!!"
His weapon swings from above, death a heartbeat away.
"Fool, you stepped into death's trap!"
I tap the staff on the ground.
Countless hands seize the Berserker, hoisting him like a sacrificial offering.
"⬛⬛⬛—?!"
An altar rises, primed for a Shadow Servant sacrifice.
"!!??"
Arms, head, legs, body—devoured by writhing hands, torn apart.
"This is the prototype of human sacrifice, a Noble Phantasm for nameless gods. It claims its captive as an offering, consuming their existence."
His overwhelming presence fades—eaten, shaved, gnawed, devoured, erased.
"You're a fine sacrifice. Twelve times the delight in one go—quite the bargain!"
"⬛⬛⬛⬛, ⬛⬛—"
His Spirit Core consumed, the Berserker vanishes, even his lingering essence greedily devoured.
"Find a Master with brains next time. A beast can't outwit the wise."
I exhale, returning the staff to the treasury.
Lancer and Berserker neutralized. Now, the main target.
Assassin. Allowing their presence means no moment of peace. I won't permit the Master's head to roll in a careless instant.
"How to handle this…"
"Assassin's gone. I took care of it," a voice calls.
I turn.
"You—"
"Hey, long time no see, goldie."
A blue-haired man in a hood, wielding a staff.
"Caster, I presume. Hound."
Someone this vessel knows well.