Tohsaka Residence
"What the hell is going on—especially with that Lancer? He's a spearman, so why is he holding a cursed sword like that? And how is he using pure technique to suppress Arthur—Saber, the most favored class—in a straight close-quarters fight? How is any of this even remotely reasonable?"
After watching most of the battle through his familiars, Tokiomi Tohsaka—who had been forcing himself to stay calm—felt something cold start to crawl up his spine.
Yesterday, he'd already witnessed Arthur's power firsthand, all because the King of Heroes refused to follow instructions. Saber was absurdly strong—yes—but Gilgamesh had spoken with such confidence that Tokiomi had been able to persuade himself that the King of Heroes would defeat Arthur in the end.
And a major reason he could still cling to that calm now—especially with Kirei having returned to the Church and focusing on protecting Tokiomi's wife and daughter together with Assassin, rather than participating in the coming battles—was that Tokiomi still believed in Gilgamesh's absolute superiority.
No matter what happened, Gilgamesh would remain the most irregular existence among the Servants. Even Arthur shouldn't be able to defeat him—let alone the others.
But now, in a war where Arthur was already a looming nightmare of a threat…
The battlefield had produced another one.
The one Tokiomi had never taken seriously—Diarmuid—whom he'd mentally filed away as "one of the weakest in this Grail War," only above Gilles de Rais and the faceless Hassan—
had suddenly stood up and thrown out a sequence no one could have predicted.
Spear in the left hand. Sword in the right.
A storm of chained strikes like raging surf, hammering Arthur so hard that even Saber couldn't easily breathe, let alone counter. The difference from yesterday wasn't subtle—it was night and day.
And it made Tokiomi's heart pound even faster.
He realized it, belatedly and bitterly:
He had underestimated the heroes of antiquity.
Not a single one of these monsters was easy prey.
"Oh? Lancer, is it?"
Gilgamesh, in contrast to Tokiomi's mounting dread, remained arrogantly entertained, as if he were simply watching a play.
"How amusing. A demon spear and a demon sword together… a hero who values martial skill above all else. That level of strength certainly qualifies as top-tier."
Then he dismissed it with a lazy flick of his eyes.
"But no matter how much a mongrel is enhanced, a mongrel is still a mongrel. Not worth this king's personal attention."
This war was dull. Hollow. Rushing out to fight was a waste of time.
Gilgamesh intended to remain the final boss and let challengers come to him.
Yes, the opponent he truly wanted was the holy sword wielder—but battles had to happen at the proper moment, and this wasn't it.
Besides…
It would end soon enough.
All he needed was to wait a little longer.
And if someone asked whether he was worried that Saber might be eliminated by someone else—whether he'd lose the chance to repay that humiliating sword strike—
Gilgamesh would only look at them as if they were an idiot.
That was the holy sword wielder who had defeated him once. How could such a foe lose to anyone else? And if Arthur truly did lose, then it simply meant he had grown weaker—no longer worthy to be called Gilgamesh's opponent.
Gilgamesh only fought the strongest.
"So keep your voice down, Tokiomi," he said coldly, resting his cheek on his hand.
"This spectacle has only just begun. There is no stage for a clown like you yet."
Einzbern Forest
Bang—bang—bang!
Sonic booms and tearing wind still screamed across the battlefield.
After hundreds of exchanges, Arthur had narrowly deflected Diarmuid's attacks again and again, forcing himself to respond with the full breadth of his skill—
and yet, with every clash, the same doubt grew sharper, more unbearable.
"Are you troubled, Lancer?"
Arthur raised his sword and blocked another driving cut from the crimson blade, trying to seize a sliver of space—trying to retreat, to create distance, to break the rhythm and open a path for a Noble Phantasm.
But the moment the thought formed, Diarmuid's red spear flashed forward again, and the next wave of relentless strikes crashed down. The gap never opened. Not even for a breath.
In this close-range exchange, Arthur remained at a decisive disadvantage.
"Yes… I am troubled, Arthur."
Diarmuid saw through the attempt immediately—he answered, but his movements did not slow by even a fraction.
Spear and sword moved together, every sequence aimed at Arthur's throat, every beat driving toward the fastest possible conclusion.
"I knew it."
Arthur's eyes narrowed—not in triumph, but in grim certainty.
"And from the very beginning, you've been fighting at full strength. That means you're trying to end this quickly, doesn't it? Why?"
He locked his gaze onto Diarmuid's eyes, desperate for the answer. His instincts had been screaming since early in the duel: this fight was dangerous in a way he couldn't fully see.
Diarmuid's distraction—those fleeting flickers of unrest—and the subtle abnormalities in his patterns only confirmed it.
"Forgive me," Diarmuid replied, "but that is one thing I cannot tell you."
He would not be foolish enough to reveal his Master's plan. He only pushed harder, trying to drown his thoughts under action—trying to end the duel before his conscience could catch up.
He hated this. He hated winning through something dishonorable, unknightly, unjust.
But he had seen his Master—seen a man who reminded him of Fionn in wisdom and bearing—and understood his desperation, his resolve to defy a foretold death.
And Diarmuid would not risk his Master's life for the sake of pride.
Honor was a knight's glory. But a knight's duty—always—was to protect the one he served, to protect the people who trusted him.
In another life, he might have resisted out of resentment, believing his lord did not trust him. He might even have acted in opposition out of stubbornness.
But this time, he had been granted something rare.
When his Spirit Origin was altered in the Allen mountains—through the memory embedded in the leylines—Diarmuid had been forced to relive the mess of his own life. He had understood things he had never understood while living. He had finally grasped the true reason behind Fionn's old decisions… and the truth behind his own death.
He no longer blamed Fionn for abandoning him.
Instead, he condemned himself.
He saw how often his "honor" had been selfishness dressed in shining words—how many people he had hurt while congratulating himself for being righteous.
Only now, after death, did he understand:
The one who had been wrong was him.
He had wronged Fionn. Wronged himself. Wronged the very honor he used to cling to.
So when Kayneth—having heard the prophecy of his death—asked Diarmuid to abandon knightly ideals in order to resist fate…
Diarmuid chose without hesitation.
In the past, he had betrayed his lord in countless small ways, and paid for it with a bitter end, leaving scars on a bond that could never be fully repaired.
He would not repeat that mistake.
Even setting aside how Kayneth resembled Fionn reborn in intellect and appearance—this chance itself was salvation.
So—
"Even now, I still feel resistance," Diarmuid declared, his thoughts surging like a tide, "but my heart is not lost!"
"I will fight for my lord, for atonement… for others!"
As memories flashed across his mind, his grip tightened. The red afterimage of his weapons whirled like a wheel in the night, sweeping outward again and again, keeping Arthur's star-forged holy sword pinned under pressure.
He knew what Arthur wanted:
To release that legendary sword and end the duel with a Noble Phantasm.
Diarmuid would not allow it.
Once, he might have granted the chance out of fairness—out of an insistence on a proper duel.
But now, there was something he needed to protect more than pride.
"I am a sinner," he shouted, "but as long as these hands can still swing a weapon, I will fight you without holding anything back!"
Arthur's expression sharpened.
"A fine answer," he said. "I don't know what you're truly thinking—but your will is unwavering, Lancer."
"However… I also have a reason I cannot lose!"
This time, Arthur did not continue to merely endure.
He understood that staying in this exchange meant slow death. Diarmuid's configuration, his speed, his suppression of magecraft—this was a close-range killing machine. Arthur was not his equal in that domain, and denying it would be childish.
But he would not simply be dragged to death.
He was a king. He was a knight.
And he had his own strength.
To answer Diarmuid's resolve, he would respond with everything he had.
In the tightest sliver of an opening, Arthur withdrew his sword and shifted back—
and Diarmuid pursued.
But this time, something changed.
Arthur's silver armor dissolved into spirit particles, revealing the pure white suit beneath.
Diarmuid's eyes widened in surprise—then his intent snapped into place.
He understood.
Shedding armor. Reducing burden.
Trying to escape the pursuit.
Too naïve.
He was Lancer—his agility was unmatched. A suit of armor would never be the deciding factor.
"Too naïve, Arthur."
Diarmuid did not hesitate. He released his spear's name and lunged.
"Gáe Dearg—Red Rose of Broken Spells!"
The crimson spear tore through the air like a falling star, aiming straight for Arthur's unprotected chest.
Even though Gáe Dearg's true effect—breaking magecraft and magical reinforcement—required contact to trigger, the strike itself was a killing thrust.
With armor, Arthur might have gained a heartbeat of response time.
Without it, the margin vanished.
If it touched him, it would be fatal—or worse than fatal.
A strike that would be a guaranteed kill against most heroes.
"No."
Arthur's voice was cold.
"The naïve one is you."
The instant the spear came, Arthur sprang upward—then, in midair, twisted into an unnaturally sharp, almost impossible movement, changing his trajectory at the last moment.
He barely avoided a direct hit.
But the spear's grazing light tore into him anyway, shifting the strike from "chest" to "shoulder."
"What?!"
Diarmuid's eyes went wide, as if he'd seen a ghost.
He could not believe it.
At that range. At that speed. With his technique.
How could anyone—anyone—evade a killing thrust like that, turning a checkmate into a mere wound?
Gáe Dearg was not like the barbed spear of causality that forced fate itself into a hit.
But with his skill and speed, that attack should have been unavoidable.
And yet Arthur had done it.
Was it foresight? Clairvoyance?
No—
It was instinct.
Instinct so sharp it bordered on seeing the future.
"Now it's my turn," Arthur said, smiling despite the blood.
He glanced at his shoulder. The damage was severe—painful, ugly—but it was not lethal.
And trading a non-fatal wound for a counterattack window was worth it.
He had opened nearly ten body-lengths of distance.
Diarmuid could no longer lock him into a close-range exchange.
This was Arthur's range.
And his wound—while serious—would not end him. He carried the blood of the red dragon, and Avalon's fusion with his holy sword. If he did not die outright, he would recover.
So—
"Now, Diarmuid… take my Noble Phantasm properly."
"This sword will answer your last strike."
Arthur had fought long enough to read his opponent's full shape—and he could feel it: there were other Servants watching in the dark.
If this dragged on, even he could be placed in danger.
And against an opponent like Diarmuid, holding back any longer would be disrespect.
If he wanted to win, there was only one choice.
"Excalibur—Sword of Promised Victory!"
He spoke the name, poured mana into the blade.
A blue gale erupted—then was overwhelmed by pure golden starlight. Radiance wrapped Arthur's body, and the sword that stood as the planet's final defense revealed itself.
"Release yours as well, Diarmuid."
"Let this final exchange decide it!"
Arthur raised Excalibur, gathering the torrent of starborn light—the strongest strike he could bring forth.
Diarmuid withdrew his spear, tightened his grip on the crimson sword, and began to prime his own release.
"Your Noble Phantasm… very well," he said quietly.
"But regardless of the outcome…"
"This time, you have already lost."
"What did you say?"
The moment the words reached him, Arthur's heart tightened.
A dreadful premonition surged—
and as if to prove it, his instinct screamed louder than it had all night.
Arthur glared at Diarmuid, rage and urgency mixing in his voice.
"What have you done, Lancer?!"
Diarmuid did not answer.
He didn't need to.
The sky answered for him.
Rumble—!
A bolt of lightning tore down toward the castle from the horizon.
Arthur's eyes snapped wide.
In the next instant, the castle's barrier—his home base, his Master's shelter—shattered like glass.
"Master!!"
Arthur's shout tore from his throat. He didn't even release Excalibur—he whipped his head around toward the castle, watching the protective field collapse under the roaring thunder.
He could only scream her name.
And at that very moment, Diarmuid completed his release.
"This unjust war was never my desire," he said, lifting spear and sword as crimson killing intent thickened around him, "but… forgive me, Arthur."
Because Arthur had turned his attention away, the starlight in Excalibur had not fully condensed.
Diarmuid's strike would be faster.
"I wanted a true duel with you," he said, voice hardening, "but for my lord's sake…"
"Withdraw from this war—here and now!"
"Noble Phantasm—release!!"
Join here to read ahead.
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