Boom—!!
A deafening roar tore across the night sky. A sudden bolt of blue lightning slammed down from above, shattering the battlefield's solemn, heroic cadence into chaos.
That lightning—dense with terrifying mana and tyrannical divine authority—struck the Einzbern castle's bounded field with flawless precision.
Crack—!!
A clear, shrill fracture exploded through the forest, like thick glass being smashed by brute force.
Before the Conqueror King's overwhelming thunderous divinity, the castle's once-sturdy barrier proved thinner than a cicada's wing—splintering and collapsing from the outside with no resistance at all.
And after doing it, Rider didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat.
He raised his sword, summoned the Gordius Wheel, and with Kayneth and Waver aboard, burst forward the instant the barrier shattered—charging straight into the castle to decide the war in a single, lightning-fast strike.
"Rider!!"
The moment he saw that all-too-familiar lightning—and the unmistakable intent behind the assault—Arthur understood everything.
He finally understood why Diarmuid's blade and spear had carried hesitation beneath their fury… and why Diarmuid had chosen this night, even at the risk of being preyed upon by opportunists, to force this duel.
From the beginning, what Diarmuid had been waiting for was this exact opening.
He had used close-quarters pressure to pin Arthur down—forcing him to give the duel his full attention, preventing him from disengaging, preventing him from thinking deeply enough to spot the wrongness in time.
Then, at the decisive moment—when Arthur was about to wager everything in a final clash—Rider would strike Arthur's Master.
Either Arthur would split his focus… or he would be forced to withdraw and forfeit his position in exchange for his Master's life.
It was a plan.
A trap.
A meticulously crafted conspiracy aimed straight at him.
And he—he hadn't seen it at all.
"How… vile!!"
The truth burned through him like fire. Arthur's eyes blazed, his jaw clenched so hard it threatened to crack teeth, and his roar shook the air—because in that instant his mind was filled with only one thing:
Lukius.
Irisviel.
They were in danger.
This had been prepared. A swift kill was the entire point. And Arthur had already seen Rider's power—yesterday alone had proven Rider was no lesser Servant, not beneath Arthur or the King of Heroes.
Without Arthur at their side, no Master could withstand such a strike.
He had to return—now.
He had to protect them.
But—
There was no road back.
Diarmuid had already made peace with staining his honor and abandoning knightly virtue. He would not allow Arthur a single step toward aid.
Arthur's Noble Phantasm—his star-forged holy sword—had been interrupted by the calamity at the castle.
That interruption was a crack wide enough to end everything.
A once-in-a-lifetime opening.
At this point, Diarmuid could not stop.
Whatever apology remained… would have to be spoken in another world.
Because now—
It was checkmate.
"Crimson roses bloom upon the spear's point; wrathful tides surge to swallow heaven and earth. Twin polar forces pierce through space—let the裂 in all things bear witness to my loyal soul! Take this—!"
"Rós Mara-thonn · Dá-chathair Spléite!
Rose-Tide of Wrath: Twin-Polar Sundering Pierce!"
In the heartbeat Arthur's mind split, Diarmuid's Noble Phantasm finished unfolding.
As Diarmuid chanted, his boots crushed stone. In an instant, the earth split beneath him into jagged scars. In his left hand, the red spear's tip erupted into crimson radiance—like hellfire swelling into a pillar of blood-colored light that punched through the clouds.
In his right, the cursed sword howled, cleaving the very air. Molten, lava-like demonic flame streamed along its arc, becoming dozens of crimson fire-blades that surged outward in every direction.
In a blink, the two crimson forces collided into one.
With a thunderous detonation, a vast curtain of energy spread between heaven and earth. Heat rolled in waves, shattered rock whipped into the air, and the atmosphere itself warped as if scorched. Two dark-red beams—bearing a disaster's weight—crushed straight toward Arthur's position.
This wasn't a strike meant to wound.
It was a final execution—wide in coverage, overwhelming in power—far beyond anything "instinct" could sidestep.
In legend, Diarmuid once carried that crimson sword through an otherworldly adventure and slaughtered nearly four thousand warriors of the Land of Faeries in a single campaign. Its might was no ornament. It was an ending.
Even Angus, god of love and Diarmuid's adoptive father, had once warned him: in a battle of life and death, if he drew that blade, there should be no such thing as defeat.
And in the end—against the cursed demonic boar—Diarmuid had died only because he had not carried it, because he had used the short blade called Beagalltach, "the Lesser Fury," instead.
Now, for his lord's survival, Diarmuid had set this snare and cast aside every glittering ideal.
This battle was no longer about honor.
It was about protection.
"Now that's something…"
Perched high in a tree, Cu Chulainn—who had been watching like an amused spectator—couldn't help voicing his admiration as he witnessed both Diarmuid's release and Rider's thunderous breach of the castle.
"This Lancer's really gone and flipped the table. Working with Rider this cleanly, scheming Saber into a corner this thoroughly…"
He squinted at the distant glow and chuckled under his breath.
"Sure, this Arthur's way stronger than the female version—but against a combo like this? Even he's trapped."
He praised their coordination without a trace of moral outrage.
Unlike Diarmuid, who carried the weight of knightly ideals, Cu Chulainn's life had never been polished with sanctimony. Betrayal, slaughter, deception, fratricide, unjust wars—he'd fought enough of them that "honorable battle" had long since become a luxury.
War was simple:
Win first.
Win fast.
Win hard.
Diarmuid and Iskandar's double-pronged kill was dirty, sure—
but it was also logical.
If Arthur failed to see it coming, that was his miscalculation.
On a battlefield, trusting the wrong thing always demanded a price.
Still… what a shame.
Cu Chulainn had wanted to see how this Arthur's holy sword differed from the female version's.
At this rate, it looked like the release wouldn't happen.
Diarmuid's Noble Phantasm was legitimately an anti-army-class threat, elevated by the legend of "slaying four thousand." Paired with his speed and the properties of Gáe Dearg, there was no time to interfere—even if Cu Chulainn wanted to.
Arthur, distracted, with Excalibur's charge incomplete…
was facing a certain death.
Unless—
A reversal appeared.
"Marshal Gilles—please!"
Just as Arthur tightened both hands on the sword's hilt, bracing to meet the crimson tide with an incompletely released holy sword—
a silver-white figure and voice cut across the battlefield and appeared between them, right at the center of the killing line.
"That's—"
"What…?"
Both Diarmuid and Arthur froze for a fraction of a second, staring at the intruder standing between them.
"Berserker?" Diarmuid's eyes widened. "The Marshal of France…?! He's entering now—does he mean to take my Noble Phantasm head-on for Saber?"
Diarmuid's mind raced at a terrifying speed.
His Noble Phantasm was an A-rank-and-above combination strike—anti-army pressure fused with anti-person lethality. Even among heroes, it was top-tier.
And this man had stepped directly into its path.
Was he trying to die to buy Arthur the time needed to finish releasing Excalibur?
Had they been allied all along?
Even as he thought, the crimson torrent kept surging, unstoppable, racing toward the target line.
"Berserker!"
Arthur was just as stunned.
He could not understand why the French marshal—someone he'd met only on the first night—would gamble his existence to shield him and give him a counterattack window.
But whatever the reason…
Arthur had to admit this was a gift of immeasurable value.
A window.
A chance.
And he had to seize it.
"My thanks, Marshal of France!"
Arthur's voice dropped low and steady. The holy sword in his hands erupted with dazzling light, golden power converging at the fastest speed of his life.
"—Thirteen Restraints, release.
Round Table resolution begins!"
"Damn it—!"
Diarmuid's pupils shrank.
The moment he saw starlight begin to gather again, danger surged through his entire being. If Arthur truly released the holy sword—
Diarmuid's killing blow would fail.
And his lord's plan might collapse at the very last step.
That could not be allowed.
This was a battle where someone would die.
No matter the cost, he had to win.
The cursed sword: wide-area annihilation.
The demon spear: single-point armor-piercing kill.
Together, they were meant to be flawless—an ending no one could block, no one could evade. The conclusion had been written the moment the release began.
Even adding another Servant should not have changed the result.
Even if it meant cutting down Gilles de Rais first, Diarmuid would still press forward and finish Arthur with everything he had—if not killing him outright, then dragging him down into mutual destruction.
That was what should have happened.
And yet—
In the next instant, a golden fleur-de-lis banner stood calmly in the battlefield.
It rose.
It unfurled.
And the radiant flag flapped in the night wind, beautiful and blinding.
Even against Diarmuid's dual-Noble-Phantasm release, even against his fused killing strike—
the silver-white figure beneath the sacred banner did not move.
Not a step.
Not a tremor.
By all logic, an intruder like this should have had their defenses nullified by Gáe Dearg—then been finished by Moralltach's annihilating surge.
But reality defied logic.
Gáe Dearg struck the banner like a meteor—
and the banner's radiance did not dim.
The flag still shimmered.
Still swayed in the wind.
Untouched.
Even the spear's famed anti-magecraft effect seemed to vanish, unable to shake that light at all.
Moralltach's wrathful tide crashed over the silver-white figure—
and he remained standing, like a lighthouse against an ocean.
Diarmuid watched in disbelief.
His spear.
His sword.
Both had landed.
Both should have ended it.
And yet the result was as if he'd thrown them into the sea.
Gilles de Rais's expression did not change.
His eyes remained fixed on the sacred banner in his hands.
And in his gaze, there was only one thing:
Devotion.
Faith.
Diarmuid's "unstoppable" demon spear and "army-sundering" cursed sword had been stopped—entirely—by faith so pure it had become substance.
"O great Saint… please, once more, shelter our compatriots!"
"Sainte Banner Oath!
The Saint Is Here—The Oath of the Manifest Banner!"
Diarmuid's eyes trembled—then softened with sudden understanding.
Within the banner's radiance, he saw shadows.
Countless figures standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the silver-white knight, assembled beneath the holy standard.
And at their forefront—
a beautiful figure formed of belief itself, raising the banner high, guarding her people.
In that moment, Diarmuid understood why his Noble Phantasm had failed.
What stood before him wasn't merely a "defensive" Noble Phantasm.
It was a will—elevated into reality.
A vow to protect, unbroken until death.
"Jeanne d'Arc…"
Diarmuid exhaled quietly, reverent despite himself.
"We have never met… but you must have been truly great."
Then he looked past Gilles, toward where Arthur's sword-light was rising—and accepted what came next.
Because in that moment, Excalibur had finished gathering its blaze.
The clash and block had lasted only a couple of breaths.
But for Arthur—
it was enough.
Arthur lifted his gaze to the countless spectral French soldiers gathered behind Gilles, then to the sacred banner shining in the night, and his eyes filled with awe—and envy.
The Maid of Orleans, the saint who once saved France… even without meeting her, Arthur could feel her heart through this banner alone.
A heart no weaker than Galahad's.
"My thanks, Marshal of France. I will finish this."
Arthur inclined his head—an earnest salute—then gripped the holy sword and aimed it at Diarmuid without hesitation.
"Gather the breath of stars—let the glorious torrent of life surge forth. Take this, Diarmuid!"
He swung the golden-blazing sword down with absolute resolve.
"Ex—calibur!!
Sword of Promised Victory!"
Mana roared.
Light screamed.
His victory declared itself.
Golden flood erupted along the blade. Power surged like a tidal wave. The radiance tore the night sky apart—like a second sun rising over the earth—like a sea of light swallowing all things ahead.
In an instant, only starlit motes remained, drifting down like ash, dyeing the dark night into a golden dusk.
"This is the end, Diarmuid!"
Diarmuid did not deny it.
He did not struggle.
He raised his face calmly toward the oncoming gold, accepting the loss as if it were a natural consequence.
The moment his Noble Phantasm had been stopped by Gilles…
this outcome had already been decided.
Victory on a battlefield could hinge on a single heartbeat.
This time, Diarmuid felt no regret.
No bitterness.
Because no one could have predicted Gilles's entry—
and no one could have predicted that banner.
Diarmuid had done everything possible, from every angle.
But the strongest spear in the world had met the strongest shield.
"If it were any other Servant… if not for that banner… the result would have been mine."
But battles did not allow "if."
And so—
"Even after all this, I could not win. Knights… this time, I concede with full conviction."
Diarmuid let his weapons fall and looked at the two knights before him, a faint, composed smile on his lips.
"That radiant holy sword is like the galaxy itself—unstoppable."
"And that unwavering faith… even my greatest strike could not pierce it."
"Against such resolve, such will… how could I not be defeated?"
He offered the last thought in silence:
Wise lord… forgive me. I was not enough. I can only go this far.
May your fortune in war endure…
And then—
Diarmuid's body was swallowed by the torrent of light, annihilated in a single instant, becoming particles that scattered into the night like falling stars.
The forest itself was erased.
Earth, stone, grass, trees—everything dissolved into the afterglow.
Only a trench—like a channel of stars carved into the land—remained to mark what had happened here.
Arthur watched the dust drift through the air, felt Diarmuid's presence vanish completely, and tightened his grip on Excalibur as he exhaled.
"…At last."
He could sense it clearly:
Diarmuid was gone.
Reduced to ash beneath the holy sword and the sacred banner—fully withdrawn from the war.
And yet even now, Arthur couldn't help but think:
"Diarmuid… was a terrifying opponent."
Nearby, Gilles de Rais—his banner's radiance fading—stared at the golden star-river left behind, momentarily dazed.
That power—ripping the night open and overturning the battlefield—was far more frightening than he had imagined.
No wonder his Master had said he must provide support.
Such a sword deserved it.
Arthur turned sharply, urgency flooding back into him.
"Berserker—I want to thank you properly, but I must protect my Master. We can speak later."
"I know. I'm coming with you."
Gilles's reply was calm.
Because Ritsuka was inside the castle as well, intercepting the assault—Gilles was just as worried about his own Master's safety.
Arthur nodded once, quickly—too rushed even to properly express gratitude—and without caring about fatigue, without caring about the strain of releasing a Noble Phantasm after that brutal duel, he ran toward the Einzbern castle with Excalibur in hand.
Gilles followed immediately, without hesitation.
One more ally meant one more margin of safety.
And Arthur understood something with absolute clarity:
If Gilles had truly wished Arthur harm…
then during Diarmuid's killing strike, Arthur would already be dead beneath the demon spear.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 90)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 95)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League (Chapter 80)
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter70)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter70)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter50)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter60)
Can Playing Games Save the World? 30
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 30
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