"Ah... ah... Water! It's water—!"
"Out of my way! That belongs to me! You lot can wait! It's mine!"
"Damn it... it's so good... it tastes so good...!"
On the journey to the Wailing Wall, the party distributed rations to the 'Those Who Lost Their Hearts' who set upon them.
"Fuhahahaha! To think I would grant mongrels such as you the honor of receiving my treasures! It may be but a half-day's reprieve, but savor the glory that is far beyond your station!"
Following the Ritsuka Manual: "First, share with the hungry and thirsty. Talk comes later!", Ritsuka distributed food to those surrounding them.
"Please don't push! Don't push! There is enough food—it is infinite!"
She handed out water and meals to those clamoring to be first.
—This is a fighting style only the King of Heroes can pull off!
(Hmph. Squandering resources is acceptable once in a while! Overwhelming material quantity, waste flowing like water! Striking cheeks with bundles of cash is a royal technique permitted only to me!)
Along the road to the Holy City, the party took a brief respite, gathering around a meal.
"Are you guys heading to that Holy City?"
"That's the plan! Do you know what kind of place it is?"
"...It is a dreamland. It has everything. But—the more beautiful something is, the more terrifying it becomes... If you value your lives, you should stay away...!"
"—It sounds incredibly dangerous... I wonder what's waiting for us..."
('Gil! Two Servant responses, 5,000 meters ahead!')
"Mm. Can you identify the class?"
('Hello! This is Artoria! Gil, my Artoria Sensor is tingling...!')
"—This sensation is a 'Gift.' —It is the Round Table."
"Hoh—"
"—Huh...?"
"...Senpai?"
"—From over there... I can hear something... the sound of a bell...?"
Dancing dust. Kings facing off.
Egypt. The territory of the Sun King. Outside its borders, one step beyond. The Middle Eastern lands where the authority of Pharaoh Ozymandias does not reach.
That place had burned out.
Even in this Singularity, which had gone mad in the aftermath of the Incineration of Humanity, the influence of the flames that scorched the world had fallen upon it.
Temperature: 48 degrees Celsius. Relative humidity: 0%. Atmospheric mana density: less than 0.3%.
A hell of extremes where no living creature was permitted to survive.
Solomon... no, Goetia had achieved the great deed of incinerating the entire era. It was a karma that burned away human history without a trace. Conversely, the aftermath should not have affected a Singularity, but...
There were too many impossible elements. Far too many.
The Pharaoh's territory, the ruined Crusaders, and—the Pure White Holy City.
The world could not maintain itself against such massive fluctuations. This was the reason the Pharaoh of the past had not used the Holy Grail.
Even without doing anything, this Singularity would perish. There was no need to lay a hand on it. Slowly, but surely. Destruction waited with its maw wide open.
—However, even if the land perished, those living there had not given up.
The people who fled the Holy Land found hope in the Sun King's declaration that he would protect them without discrimination of race.
Though the Holy Land was lost, they did not give up the faith held in their hearts, their precious neighbors, or their tomorrow.
Huddling together, helping one another. They aimed for the Sun King's territory.
If they could take even a single step into the Sun King's domain, safety and security were guaranteed.
To head there to be chosen for the Holy Land, or to receive the Sun King's protection? And—
—There was an Old Man of the Mountain who aided, protected, and fought for that choice.
"Everyone, run! The territory of the Sun King is just ahead! Once you step inside, the King's authority will immediately shine upon you!"
It was the 'Smoke-Drunk Hassan.' He was an Old Man of the Mountain possessing a noble character.
When the other Old Men of the Mountain prepared for battle, saying, "We must destroy the Holy City or the people will reach their limit. We must slay them," he voiced his objection.
'What will happen to those who do not wish to fight, or those who cannot? Are you telling them to simply die?'
The Smoke-Drunk, who could not condone sending those he lived with to their deaths, eventually found his own battle and rose from the village.
'I shall beg the Sun King's aid. If it is that King, he will surely not abandon the weak.'
He decided not to confront, but to protect those who could not fight.
As a duty of the Old Man of the Mountain... prioritizing the 'now' of those he protected over pride or anything else.
From the moment he decided to rely on pagans and foreigners, he had prepared himself to be beheaded.
To confess that 'My own hands are insufficient to protect the people' is synonymous with an accusation of incompetence. He had already offered his head.
To the Great Founder, the 'Old Man of the Mountain' himself.
Prepared for his head to fall in a split second, the Smoke-Drunk Hassan rushed about, guarding, protecting, guiding, and leading the refugees.
Utilizing his skills to the fullest, with his noble spirit, he continued to guide the people.
His battle was protection. He did not engage the Knights but continued to save those seeking help.
'Peace to those who cannot fight, fortune to those who fight.'
His existence became known to the Knights, and punitive forces were dispatched many times.
But running alone, he was caught by no one.
For some reason, even the Lion King did not condone pursuit, stating, 'Harm is forbidden against commoners attempting to flee alone.'
It was a delicate battle, truly meant to save.
A lonely Old Man's battle, without compatriots to support him.
And that battle—was brought to a dead end by a treacherous Knight.
Chapter VIII: The Lamenting Bow
"Stay calm—Ngh!?"
Before Hassan, who was leading about forty people, lay the boundary of life and death, with the territory just a stone's throw away.
There—a beast lay in wait.
"—I am sad. If you had been but one step, a few moments faster. You would have escaped my pursuit. But fate is truly cruel."
Red hair. Closed eyes. A peerlessly beautiful man gripping a 'harp' in his left hand.
"—Tristan... of the Demon String...!"
Hassan groaned the name of despair, the abominable name.
He was a Knight of the Round Table, Tristan, the 'Child of Sadness.'
A Knight of the Demon String who committed atrocities without hesitation, his name roaring with infamy—
"Good evening. I have been waiting. Waiting for 'you to move with the meatbags.' And for you to head toward that territory."
He had ambushed them. No matter that he was an Old Man of the Mountain, his mobility dropped when guiding refugees.
If he fought while protecting them, even if he survived, they would not.
It was a vicious pursuit that exploited the Lion King's words: 'If they are not alone, annihilation is permitted.'
"The King's whims are troublesome... If it were left to me, it would have been easy to cut down every single commoner who fled..."
"—My failure... What immaturity—to think I would be ambushed...!"
"With the warriors from elsewhere gone, there is no one left to protect you now. ...Ah, I am sad..."
He spoke while shaking his head.
—I will be killed.
His honed instincts told him so.
There would not be a one in ten thousand chance of mercy. The people behind him would be massacred.
Retreat was impossible. They would be cut down from behind.
...Resistance would only result in being slaughtered. Challenging a hopeless battle is the act of a fool.
—The regret is overwhelming. To think I came this far only to underestimate the viciousness of these beasts calling themselves Knights...!
...No. Lamenting and regretting can wait until after my head falls.
"Ah, I am sad..."
Right now, I must somehow pull closer a way for 'them' to survive...—!
"I am sad. Old Man of the Mountain. If it were just you, escaping this predicament would be easy. —However, it seems you have not given up."
He spun words like a poem of lamentation. In those words, human emotion could not be found.
"The people of the Holy Land trembling behind you. You continue to fight to protect these refugees..."
Though lamenting... on his lips, the treacherous Tristan wore a sneer.
"To protect the worthless, the valuable is lost... To me, that is sad..."
—Hassan found hope in those words.
There is a way. A means to save them.
Now, he could strike at the arrogance of this man who declared these valuable people 'worthless' and prattled on about himself being 'valuable.'
—Even if the Mandate of Heaven falls.
"H-Hassan-sama..."
"It... it's because of us..."
—No matter what, I shall fulfill the heart's desire of the 'Old Man of the Mountain' who protects the people—!
"...Valuable. You said that you are more valuable than they."
"Yes. Even with my bow, capturing you would be difficult."
Then, even if it is a bluff.
If I offer this body, there is something I can do—
"...A deal. If your so-called Chivalry is genuine..."
The Smoke-Drunk spoke clearly.
"I offer my life here. In exchange, I ask that you overlook the people."
Forty lives of the people.
One life of my own.
There is no need to even consider which to save.
"What a noble person. —However, specifically, what do you mean by overlooking them? ...Since I have found you here, I cannot simply leave this place..."
"...—Then."
—The Pharaoh's words crossed his mind.
'Smoke One. The one standing in your way will be the "Demon String."'
'...Tristan, is it?'
'Indeed. Do not forget. He "accomplishes things with but a single finger." If you wish to seal him, steal his fingers.'
—Fingers...
"—Then, Tristan. Instead of my head, 'do not move even a single finger.' For one day from this moment, seal the plucking of that string."
Recalling the Sun King's words, he voiced them so as not to be misheard.
"—That is a good proposal. I have no reason to refuse."
Confirming Tristan's acceptance, he smiled thinly.
—This is fine. Even if my battle collapses here. Surely the Pharaoh, surely everyone, will receive my will and save this era.
I want to believe that achieving this assurance... is the greatest result of my battle.
"It is a pathetic head, but it should be a fair exchange."
He spoke to the people, his compatriots behind him.
"Run! Brethren! The Sun King will surely accept you!"
At the same time, he raised his hand high like a blade.
With the honed hand of the Old Man of the Mountain, he could decapitate himself instantly.
"Farewell—Forgive me!"
—My battle ends here.
Forgive me, Cursed Arm. And laugh at my immaturity—
In the instant he swung down—
—It happened.
[—Fool. To abandon the struggle you began yourself is unforgivable.]
"—?"
At first, it was a gust of wind. A wind of 'natural phenomena unaccompanied by magic' swirled around the two and the refugees.
"This is—!?"
Tristan was suspicious; Hassan was astonished.
[Spirit, Karma. If they have not degraded, the head shall not fall. Fulfill the life of the Old Man of the Mountain, Smoke-Drunk.]
It became a tremendous force, covering the area, turning into a storm so fierce one could not see an inch ahead.
"—Impossible, impossible, this is—!"
He saw it. As the wind rose, becoming a storm, a tornado, a gale—in the sky above.
—He witnessed the mask of a 'Skull' like a Grim Reaper.
"Khhh—Everyone! Follow me! Do not get separated! Keep running!!"
If it were the people who had lived in this land, with the guidance of the Old Man of the Mountain, they could traverse even a storm such as this.
(To think, for such an immature one—to think—!)
"...How very convenient that the laws of the earth side with you."
Yes, he knew this.
He understood the existence causing this paranormal phenomenon.
(—I thank you! 'First Founder'—!)
It was the Hassan who kills Hassans—
Tristan slowly raised his harp-bow.
"Unfortunately, I have lost sight of you. ...Therefore, 'playing to ensure safety' is by no means a breach of contract, is it?"
And with a single finger, he played the Demon String, firing a blade of sound speed.
Tristan's bow was the 'Harp Bow, Failnaught.' A bow strung with strings; by playing it, it released blades of sound. A bow proclaimed by King Arthur to be 'fundamentally misunderstanding what a bow is.'
Those blades would pierce the refugees and Hassan without exception—
"—!?"
No. The fired arrows were all swatted down.
(What—!?)
Not erased—[Swatted Down]. —Impossible, Tristan was aghast.
His blades were sound itself. Refugees, or even Hassan with his back turned, could not possibly perceive them.
To [Swat them down]—that was a supreme feat impossible without skill on the level of Lancelot.
"—Who goes there—"
—In the illusion like shimmering heat, beyond the darkness of night, Tristan saw a vision.
A mask like a Grim Reaper.
Pitch-black armor.
In his hand, a greatsword stained with blood and faith.
"—You are..."
[Heretic. The one who tolls thy destiny has come.]
Whap, he swung his cloak.
[—Behold. O dead man who has lost sight of his time of death, O beast feigning knighthood. Thy sorrow shall be severed here and now—]
In the instant the giant pitch-black ghost resonated a voice that chilled the bottom of the soul, the sandstorm and the ear-ringing cataclysm subsided instantly, and silence returned to the area.
"—Just now... what on earth..."
—Tristan was not permitted to think calmly.
"――――"
What that ghost conveyed became reality.
"—Hah, you've polished that stupid look on your face, Bird-brain."
The Knight of Treachery and Crimson, Mordred, laughed ferociously.
"Sir Tristan, the Knight of Dozing, whom I struggle with greatly because I cannot tell if he is asleep or awake! I will cut you down without room for defense! Please answer with 'Yes' or 'Hai'!"
Artoria held the white and black Holy Swords in both hands, thrusting them forward without hiding her killing intent.
"The day has finally come!! Round Table Purge: Match Seven! Let's go, Mordred! We'll kill them all, resolve and everything! Saber: The Round Table Must Die!!"
"Hell yeah! Crushing the Round Table is my specialty! I gotta beat out of him why Gareth isn't here!"
"...Knight of the Round Table, Tristan...!"
Mash Kyrielight roused her trembling body.
[We came to where the bell was tolling... and found a Knight of the Round Table!?]
Master, the Dragon of Dialogue. Ritsuka.
And—
"—You are...!"
Blue leotard, golden crown. Silver armor.
A beautiful woman with blonde hair and turquoise eyes. Holding the Holy Sword, wielding the Holy Lance, riding a white horse—
"—The Lion King—!"
Toward the astonished Tristan, the one pointing her sword was—
"Wrong. I am the King of Knights who protects Human Order and carves open the path. I shall admonish the mad Round Table, and correct it—"
The Knight King delivered the verdict to the Lion's Round Table.
"I shall send you back to the heavens. —Take up your bow, Tristan. Your beastly body, having received the Gift, shall be severed here."
As if responding to the opening command.
"'The Flower of Hope that Nestles with Human Order: Chaldeas Animusphere'!!"
Powerfully rewriting the surroundings, dragging them into a Reality Marble!
"This is—!?"
[I heard from the Pharaoh, Tristan! If what you did is true, it's definitely better to take you down here! Let's go! Mash!]
In the barren land where cold winds blew, the Defenders of Human Order and the Knights roared to slay the Blessed Knight.
"Yes! Mash Kyrielight! —I will follow the scream of Mr. Galahad inside me!"
She swung her shield and shouted!
"He says—'I want you to stop them'—!"
Here, the battle to shatter the Lion's Round Table begins—!
Epilogue: The Selection from Above
[Above the Sky - Vimana]
(Now then, a touching reunion. For Artoria's sake, let us observe.)
—My King, I heard that the 'Holy Selection' is a process to select the chosen ones.
(Indeed. It is likely a foolish ritual to choose subjects worthy of that Lion King.)
—Then... what happens to the 'those who were not chosen'... I wonder?
(—Air. Begin the sorting. Prepare the 'Anti-Personnel Weapons that can be fired from the sky'.)
—Yes.
—Please, may my worst prediction... be wrong...
(Air...)
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