Shirō barely had time to process what had happened before she felt another sharp sting—thin, impossibly fast threads slicing through the air like razors. She twisted, narrowly avoiding a direct hit, but even grazing them left fresh cuts on her exposed skin.
Illya sighed dramatically, tilting her head as she flicked her fingers. The threads danced through the air like puppeteer's strings, glinting under the moonlight. "Honestly, Big Sister, I can't just let you kill my dear Berserker so easily. That wouldn't be very fun, would it?"
Shirō grit her teeth, glaring as she dug her heels into the ground to steady herself. She had been so close. The golden light of Excalibur still flickered in her grasp, but Berserker was already recovering—his massive form rising once more, his wounds knitting back together as if they had never existed.
Damn it.
Illya twirled her fingers, and the threads snapped forward again, slicing through the air like a thousand invisible blades. Shirō barely had time to react, swinging Excalibur in a desperate arc to intercept. The golden light flared, clashing against the threads, sparks flying as they were severed.
But Illya only smiled.
"You're really something, you know? Even as a girl, you're still so stubborn." She hummed, watching Shirō struggle. "But you're not going to win like this, Big Sister."
Shirō's breath was ragged, her mind racing. Berserker was still adapting, still getting stronger. And now, with Illya actively intervening, this fight had just gone from difficult to damn-near impossible.
But she wasn't going to stop.
She couldn't stop.
She pushed forward, ignoring the sharp pain of fresh cuts as she lunged, her grip tightening around Excalibur. If she could just reach Illya, if she could just—
More threads shot toward her, impossibly fast.
Shirō pivoted, barely avoiding another deep cut, but the delay was enough. Berserker moved, his massive form a blur—
And then pain.
A colossal fist slammed into her midsection, sending her flying. The impact was like being hit by a freight train. She barely had time to process the feeling of her ribs cracking before she crashed into the temple wall, stone shattering from the force.
She coughed, struggling to push herself up.
Illya giggled, stepping closer, her crimson eyes glinting. "Oh dear. That must've hurt."
Shirō spat blood onto the ground, wiping her mouth. "Tch… yeah, a little."
Illya sighed, shaking her head. "You really are just like him, you know? No matter how much pain you're in, you just keep going. It's so ridiculous. You're at your limit, Big Sister."
Shirō exhaled, forcing herself to her feet. Her entire body ached. But she wasn't done.
Not yet.
She raised Excalibur once more.
Illya frowned, finally losing her amusement. "Why do you keep fighting?"
Shirō stared at her, golden light flickering around her blade. Her grip was steady. Her resolve was unshaken.
"Because," she said, voice unwavering.
"I won't let you kill me."
The night was heavy with tension, the air thick with the acrid scent of scorched stone and blood. Shirō barely had a second to process Berserker's relentless assault before a force yanked her backward, nearly choking her as she stumbled. Rin had grabbed her by the collar, eyes burning with barely contained frustration.
"Now!" Rin shouted.
Before Shirō could even react, the sky lit up in a crimson blaze. It was a momentary, eerie silence—just the crackling hum of mana filling the air—before a flash of red streaked through the sky like a divine judgment descending upon them.
The projectile struck true.
Berserker, still mid-motion, took the full brunt of it.
Boom.
The explosion tore through the battlefield, the sheer force of it throwing debris and dust into the air. Illya's eyes widened in horror. "Berserker!"
The towering Servant was already crumbling. His entire left side was gone, reduced to charred remains, his massive frame staggering under its own weight. The temple ground beneath him cracked from the sheer force of his fall, stone crumbling away.
And yet—
He didn't die.
Not completely.
Shirō watched, horrified, as the blackened flesh twisted and reformed, muscle and sinew writhing as Berserker's body forced itself to heal.
The fourth death.
Eight more to go.