Disclaimer: The works of Type-Moon and Jō Taketsuki are their own despite my most fervent wishes. This is a fan work and if anyone does pay me for it the only thing it will accomplish is to get me into trouble. This is being done purely for fun, constructive criticism is welcome, and flames will be ignored. Please be gentle though, this is the first fanfic I've put on the net.
This chapter was a little harder to write than I originally expected, as it turns out the writing of a prolonged action scene is even harder than dialogue. Still, I think managed a fair job of it in the end.
This is also getting ridiculous by the way, every time I set out to try to write a shorter chapter I end up writing a bigger one, case in point this fellow that you're reading. Originally this chapter was meant to be 18,000 words or so, before I knew it I was at 20,000 and not even two thirds of the way through. By the time I finished it was my longest chapter to date. It would appear that writing small chapters is my weak point.
Oh well, more for you guys to read I guess.
Now a lot of people have been commenting that I've been sticking to the Campione canon a bit too much. To all of you who thought or wrote that I say that that's kind of ironic because this is the chapter that more of less sounds the death knell for the canon plotline, from now on this story's all MINE. There's been a reason that I've stayed with it so far, but if you want to know what it is then either check out my spoilers or read the chapter to find out. I might keep some elements of volumes 8, 9 and 10, but from now on it will be a case of them fitting into my story rather than the other way around. Have no fear I have LOTS of ideas.
Incidentally near the bottom of this chapter is a somewhat revised list of Shirou's Authorities and their limitations. For the most part it's only a few details that have been changed, but some of those minor changes will be relevant to the story in this chapter so I thought I'd include them.
SPOILERS
Okay, as you can see I've played around a bit with the various war gods that my research says appeared in Greece and Rome. All in all I'm actually quite pleased with how things have turned out, after all if Campione can get away with turning Lancelot into the queen of the Amazons then I think this is perfectly acceptable.
His powers and Authorities gave me a bit of trouble, but in the end I think that I was able to convey the kind of God he is quite nicely if I do say so myself. I'm waiting for more info on the Fate/Apocrypha version of Mordred to come out, but I'm thinking of including her in the second 'stage' of my fic. If you want to see the picture that inspired his dragon warrior form then there's a link on my profile that you can use.
There are also some new Noble Phantasms in this chapter, Aži Qubla is my own invention, but I'd like to offer special thanks to Logan- Murder of Crows for his suggestions and info that led to the development of Angurvadel.
I've also played a little on the fast and loose side with Arondight and how it works inside Unlimited Blade Works. Honestly I'm not sure if the things I've described are possible under the Nasuverse rules, but honestly Lancelot was one of my favourite characters in Fate/Zero and I can imagine his powerful emotions being imprinted upon his sword as part of their history together.
I hope you all like the final clash between Shirou and Mordred. I wrote it while listening to the 'Emiya' music from Fate/Stay Night on a loop and I think the final result has a definite Fate/Stay Night flavour to it that I'm very pleased with.
In regards to Guinevere, she can be regarded as the first 'official' victim of The Hero's Bride. I know I said that Shirou wasn't going to poach any of Godou's girls, but for the moment my female original characters have been shaping up as friends and allies rather than romantic interests. That might change in the future, but for now I thought I'd introduce a viable romantic subplot. In the canon Guinevere developed a crush on Godou, but nothing came of it. Here I think things will be a bit more interesting.
Also how many people saw my plan for a new Feast of Kings coming? That's been the reason I've been sticking largely to canon up till now, because I wanted to get four Campione together for this.
At the end of this chapter is another Omake which I hope proves to be as well received as the last one. Once again it's the result of exhaustion induced inspiration as well as me getting temporarily stuck on the main story. In all truth I'm actually somewhat fond of the sentai genre so this isn't be flaming it, it was sort of how it came out so I just decided to run with it. Hope it gets a laugh or two out of you lot.
One last thing, as many will no doubt have noticed I haven't written what Authority Shirou has gained by defeating Mordred. That is completely intentional. I do have an Authority planned, but I thought I'd take this opportunity to ask for suggestions and ideas since it isn't set in stone yet. If you'd like to give me a suggestion feel free to put it in a review or to send me a private message, even if I don't use it it will serve as excellent inspiration and hopefully help me get the new chapter out all the sooner.
Also special thanks to my Beta who has been an immense help in regards to both grammar and some plot points I missed, all in all without his help you'd be enjoying a much more inferior work.
God Slaying Blade Works: Chapter Twelve: The Four Kings Part 4
There once was a god in the lands of Africa, a god of war and blood, of violence and death. Where he went conflict erupted and where there was conflict there he went. He had no name for none would name him; he was what he was and needed nothing more.
In time though his worshippers crossed the sea and integrated themselves into the culture that they found there. Their god of violence and war went with them and was changed by the belief of his people. He was given the name Laran and his form was changed into that of a naked man wearing a helmet and carrying a spear.
In essence the once wild god of blood and slaughter had been 'civilized', though his naked stature remained as a reminder of his berserker past when those suffused with his influence would tear the armour from their bodies and charge into battle naked in order to savour the injuries they took as much as they did the wounds they inflicted.
In time his worshippers were once more assimilated into another culture, this time the Greeks, and Laran became Ares.
The Greeks though, feared the violent and bloody past of the god of war. And because of that fear he was changed.
The once fearsome god of war and slaughter was reduced to a fool amongst his new pantheon. He was still the patron of violence and slaughter, but true warriors no longer paid him homage, instead they sought the blessings of the goddess of the art of war Athena. For years the god was bound by his myth, forced to play the part of the fool hated by his new 'family' and treated largely ambivalently by his people.
Then the Greeks were absorbed into the Roman Empire and their gods changed once more. Foolish Ares became fearsome Mars, far more dignified and disciplined than his earlier self. The god of battle and slaughter was now truly a god of war in all its forms, for the Romans took the militant aspect of the goddess of crafts and passed it to their god of warfare.
For centuries the god gloried in his new position granting his grace to generals and soldiers alike as the mighty empire spread and flourished. But then came the great decline as the Roman Rule finally began to degrade.
At that time the god had been carried by his worshippers to the island nation of Briton, and it was there that he met his destiny.
Faced with the majesty of the Strongest Steel the god of war chose to become a follower of the King of the End. In so doing he took a new name and in time his appearance changed as the image of the knight became inextricably linked to the legend of the one called Artus.
Thus was the black knight Mordred born.
-()-
From the very first blow Shirou knew this was not going to be anything like his previous battles with Heretic Gods.
Granted though, none of the battles he'd undertaken since coming to this world had been very usual. As far as his fragmented memories of the fight went and from what Illya had been able to tell him, his 'fight' with Angra Mainyu had been little more than the final suicidal charge of a dying man against a foe that had yet to come into his full strength. In the case of Perseus, well it could be said that the Heretic God was never actually fighting him in the first place. Throughout their whole battle he was competing against a memory of one he thought he was fated to defeat, and as such never took the fight seriously.
As for Hades, the god had possessed power, strength and stealth, more than enough of each to have killed the young Emiya if he had fought intelligently. Instead he'd squandered his advantages in pointless displays of anger and unskilled frontal assaults.
This, though, this was something completely different.
As the armoured giant had swung his sword at the young red head Shirou had shifted his centre of balance so that he could roll with the blow as he deflected it rather than try to flat out block it. Even so the force of the sword stroke nearly dashed him from his feet despite the boost he was receiving from his Authority.
Damn, his foe was every bit as strong as Hades, maybe even a little bit stronger. The only other time he'd faced a stronger foe had been during his battle with Berserker. Also that blow hadn't been some wild flail; there had been skill and balance behind it as well as raw power. This was the worst kind of foe to be facing, one that sacrificed neither power nor skill, but rather combined both.
The force of the blow caused him to stumble, and as a result Shirou was off balance when the follow up stroke came only an instant later. With no other options available to him he relied on a desperate strategy that he could vaguely remember Archer having used a time or two in the past.
Rather than trying to firm his stance as he crossed his swords to block, he instead threw himself backwards as the blow connected bleeding a bit of the force off and allowing the rest of it to hurl him away from his enemy, thus opening some distance between them. If executed properly he'd come down in a controlled tumble and be back on his feet in an instant.
Instead the Traced Noble Phantasms in his hands exploded into shards of Prana as he was sent hurtling backwards as though he'd just tried to block a cannon ball fired at point blank range.
Shirou's short flight was arrested by him crashing into a tree, quite a nice sized one, hard enough to crack the trunk and bring it crashing down next to him in a cloud of leaves and twigs. The brief instant that it concealed him was enough time for him to recover his wits and Trace two new weapons.
This time he didn't produce Kanshou and Bakuya, those were good blades but not suitable for the current situation. Instead he Traced two nameless Noble Phantasm broad swords, each was more than a metre long and meant to be wielded two handed, but with the power of Dragon Slaying Hero running through him Shirou found it easy to wield one in each hand.
Pushing off the fallen tree with his legs, the red haired teen shot towards his foe. As he closed he couldn't help but wonder, was this what it was like for Servants? Being able to shrug off impacts that would have broken a regular human, being able to move so fast the rest of the world seemed to slow, was this what being a Heroic Spirit was like?
The huge black broad sword came at him again, the cut sharp and accurate. His own left hand sword met it mid-blow with enough force to send a jolt of displaced energy down his arm to the shoulder. He knew that his own blade should have shattered on contact, it might be a Noble Phantasm but even so the forces being placed upon it were beyond its limits, but it didn't.
He could feel it once more, the sensation of the steely Authority flowing into his weapons, strengthening them, enhancing them. The steel in his hands would not yield as easily as it once would; its mettle was being reinforced by his own power.
Still he mustn't let his exultation distract him; his successful clash with his larger foe had produced an opening that he could use. With their swords locked as they were Shirou could use his swords' position as well as his enhanced strength to pull himself into a jump straight at Mordred's head. As he closed the distance he twisted his body in a full turn as he built up centrifugal force to lend to his stroke. He'd aim it right at the God's neck, right where the armour was weak. If he could deal a blow there then-
He didn't know quite what happened. He'd only lost sight of the armoured giant for an instant as he'd whipped his head around as his body spun. The time that he hadn't been watching the black knight couldn't have been more than a split second, and yet it had happened. In the brief fraction of a second in which Mordred had been out of his view the black armoured knight's position had changed. It wasn't by much, only as though he'd moved a step and altered the set of his shoulders while raising his free arm, but it was more than enough. It wasn't speed, of that he was sure, it was as though he'd somehow gone from one position to the other without having to take the intervening steps.
Now rather than being idly placed to deliver a decapitating blow the red haired King found himself swinging at empty air as a gauntleted fist slammed towards him. With only an instant to spare Shirou was able to bring the flat of his swinging sword round against himself to act as an impromptu shield. The swords flat took the blow rather than his own exposed side, but the force of the impact was still enough to send him rolling across the ground as he hit it.
"What-"
"Tis as I said to the fallen Goddess," Mordred answered with total calm and confidence, the voice of one who was well aware that they had control of the battle field, "The actions and designs of the black knight art hidden to others, such is the right and privilege of they who abandon their old self and takest up the armour of the Black Knight. Try as hard as thou wishest, thou canst not divine nor fully read mine actions."
Damn, this was like an inherent Noble Phantasm, which explained why he hadn't been able to properly Trace his sword. Doing so would have let him read this god's history and so discover his true identity.
Further contemplation was cut off as the huge knight came charging at him, his long strides eating the separating distance. Using his swords as levers Shirou pulled himself to his feet and was in a ready stance just in time to meet his enemy's attack.
Sparks flew once more as his Authority reinforced Noble Phantasms met with the divine weapon wielded by Mordred. Twice, thrice, four times in rapid succession, the bursts of sparks bright enough to cast shadows. The eighth Campione held his ground this time, his feet shifting constantly to secure his balance, but not retreating a step. Then the black armoured titan ceased his swift blows and instead raised his blade for a massive overhead downwards chop. The attack would have little in the way of skill or elegance to commend it; in truth it would be closer to the stroke of a butcher than it would be to the blows of a warrior. But it would possess far too much power for the young faker to block as he had been doing.
Before the stroke could even begin its decent Shirou was already dodging back and to the side, it wouldn't put him out of range of that huge blade but it would make the chop more awkward, less dangerous.
He saw the blade begin to fall and readied his own swords for the deflection and counter. When he diverted the sword to the side with one of his own weapons he'd use the other to strike out at the exposed armpit where-
Something happened again, it wasn't movement or him losing sight of his enemy. It was as though for an instant he couldn't read Mordred's movements. It was as though he'd been reading a page of perfectly legible script and then suddenly the familiar characters had been replaced with Egyptian hieroglyphs.
Shirou bit back a curse as he was forced to use both swords to block the blow that he'd previously been planning to deflect. He was able to stop the stroke from cutting into him, but couldn't prevent himself from once more being sent tumbling as the sheer strength behind the sword's swing knocked him off his feet.
This . . . this wasn't going well at all. Right now Mordred was dominating the fight and all his options were either bad or not ones that he wanted to use yet.
The thing was that even with Dragon Slaying Hero boosting his physical attributes the huge black knight was still stronger and faster than he was. The red haired Emiya was able to compensate that to a degree by being able to wield two swords against the one that Mordred had, but even that was being negated by this Root be damned unreadability.
Right now the only Authority he could reliably use was the one he was using. Rule of the Underworld might let him call up some help, but he doubted his resurrected warriors would be on a level where they could prove a threat to the Heretic God. He could try dropping a few tonnes of gold and silver on the black knight, but he doubted such a mundane approach would be good for more than a distraction
Curses without End was a dangerously double edged sword, potentially it could prove the deciding factor, but if his hold on it got broken before the fight ended then the price for its use would leave him helpless.
That left Noble Phantasms, but that same unknowableness that kept him from getting a read on his foe's weapon also kept from learning anything else about him. Against Perseus and Hades reading their swords had given him an idea of their strengths. He'd had at least some knowledge of which of his Noble Phantasms would have been suitable to use against them and which would have been powerless.
Now though he had no such idea, and that unfamiliar ignorance was causing him to be a bit more hesitant in his decisions than he normally would be.
The worst, and possibly best, part of this mess was that Mordred was obviously not taking him seriously. He was clearly a powerful deity, but rather than using his Authorities he was content to fight the eighth Campione in a purely physical fight. He might be slanting the odds in his favour using that strange . . . distortion around him that made it impossible to properly read him, but that seemed to be a passive ability that was on all the time. If he really wanted to end the battle now he'd be bringing out his more active powers. Still that same thing was also Shirou's advantage. If he wasn't being taken too seriously then it meant he was being underestimated.
And that he could work with.
Deciding to abandon close combat for the time being he threw both of his swords at the knight of Treachery. Both blades spun through the air like buzz saws, but were casually swatted aside with ease. Still they'd accomplished their task as distractions and Shirou had used the instant they'd provided to get some more room as well as to Trace his Bow.
"Oh? Hast thou chosen to abandon thy blade for another strategy boy?"
Despite the distance that separated them the young Emiya could hear his enemy's voice with ease. There was something there that irritated him, that pulled at his nerves and heated his temper. It seemed such an attractive option to cast his bow aside and simply charge at the knight in black with his swords swinging. Certainly it would be more satisfying than hitting him with an arrow.
Shirou clamped down on those thoughts and tried to imitate the iron discipline that his memories told him EMIYA had been so good at. He wasn't fighting for satisfaction, he was fighting to win. If using the bow could help his chances then he was more than willing to forgo some enjoyment.
"Trace, on."
In his left hand formed Caladbolg II, a modified form of the original Caladbolg that had been the sword of Fergus mac Róich, a heroic spirit from Ireland. This was one of the Noble Phantasms that the Archer of the fifth Holy Grail War had been able to best alter into an arrow that could be fired by his bow.
And it was also one of the few Noble Phantasms that Shirou could Break properly.
Breaking a Phantasm was normally very easy for its true wielder. To them the treasure was as much a part of them as their own fingers, therefore they knew it intimately in ways no others could. On the other hand even with his use of Tracing to reproduce the skills of the original owner the art of correctly Breaking his creations in such a way as to guarantee maximum output was something he was still working on. However there were some which Archer had consistently broken due to their usefulness, so much so that the knowledge of how to do it had been passed directly to him rather than going into the slight limbo in his mind that much of it had.
And Caladbolg II was one such Noble Phantasm.
"Caladbolg!"
Speaking its name in order to activate its power Shirou released the arrow from his bow. The altered sword ceased to be a physical object and instead became an arrow of pure energy, red at its head and then fading to blue at its tail, surrounded by a twisting wind.
The time it took to cross the distance between them was less than an eye blink, yet somehow in that time Mordred managed to take the shield off his back and had it braced on his left arm in front of him to block the arrow.
Caladbolg II might not have an 'official' rank due to its modified nature, but given that it had been able to wound Berserker despite his God Hand that meant its Broken Phantasm state was A rank. Its mere passage had been enough to break through Caster's defensive spells; no direct hit had been needed. Its impact produced an explosion large enough to raze a substantial plot of land making it not merely an anti-unit type but also a minor anti-army Noble Phantasm.
All in all the Fake Spiral Sword was a formidable weapon when used in this fashion.
This was why Shirou was understandably shocked when he saw the great bulk of the black armoured knight come charging out of the smoke thrown up by the arrow's detonation. Even worse was the fact that he seemed to be largely undamaged, only a few scuffs and scrapes on the metal of his garb gave any hint that he'd just had to weather such a destructive attack.
Letting his bow fade back into prana fragments the red haired teen dove to the side and away from the reach of the knight's weapon. Even as he moved Shirou was careful to keep his eyes on the figure of his foe. The last thing he wanted right now was to lose sight of him only to find he'd somehow used his Authority to shift about again, this time into range of a sword stroke.
"Thou!" For the first time there was heat in the Heretic God's voice. Not the irritating confidence and surety of before, now there was some real anger there. "How dare thou rend mine shield thus? Knowest thou what thou hast done?"
A thin smile crossed the eighth Campione's face as more of the smoke cleared and he could get a better look. It seemed that his shot hadn't been as ineffective as he had originally feared. Lying on the scorched earth were three pieces of ruined metal that might once have been the shield that Mordred had defended himself with. Even as the King watched those remnants dissolved into energy and disappeared like one of his dismissed Tracings. The shield must have been an instrument of divine protection, and a powerful one to have stood up to the Broken Phantasm as it had. Still by the look of it not even its sacrifice had been sufficient to block all of his arrows power.
It also seemed that the knight himself was a little more damaged by the experience than he'd originally thought. Mordred had worn the shield on his left arm, and it seemed as though all the armour between his wrist and just above his elbow had been broken. The metal had fallen away to reveal some sort of black leather sleeve beneath, but the main protection was gone. Clearly it hadn't been able to withstand whatever force had made it past the shield.
"Thou shalt pay for this," the Kinght of Treachery snarled, "Thou shalt pay in blood."
The arm that Shirou had been watching dropped to the Heretic God's waist where the still gauntleted hand seized the coiled whip that was hanging there.
Again thought wasn't the deciding factor, if it had been he would have been too late. Before his mind had even finished making the connection between the whip and potential danger his body was already throwing itself backwards.
Only just in time as well, where the eighth Campione had just been crouched the earth suddenly tore upwards in a horizontal slash across the ground. A second frantic leap backwards just managed to get him to safety before a second such gash tore through his former location.
That whip changed the rules of this engagement, he realized as he got to his feet once more. Before it had been a close quarter's battle, sword against swords, now though the 'range' had changed with the introduction of his enemy's new weapon. That whip was fast, powerful and had a good range; if he wanted to avoid experiencing how potent it was first hand then he'd need to adjust his own approach.
Fortunately he had a suitable weapon ready in his Reality Marble.
"Trace, on."
Once more he felt the heat of Prana running through his magic circuits, not painful, merely hot.
"Aži Qubla."
The weapon that formed in his hand was a long sword of a design that clearly hinted at its Persian origins even though the blade was straight. Though long as a broad sword the width of the blade was much thinner than the broad swords that Shirou had been wielding before. All in all it didn't look like a suitable weapon with which to fight that huge knight.
However he had no intention of using it as a sword.
As Mordred swung his arm in order to deliver another lash Shirou swung out the sword while at the same time pressing a switch cunningly worked into the hilt of the sword.
With a jingling sound the blade came apart into a long series of bladed chain links.
Aži Qubla was a chain sword possessing a number of useful abilities, but right now the ones that were of greatest interest to its wielder were its speed and length. At a mental command the three metre long chain extended itself to five time its original length while at the same time coming to life in the Campione's hand as though it were a new limb.
A loud and rapid series of cracks echoed through the clearing as the two whips met again and again in midair. Both flicked back and forth at speeds that most human eyes simply wouldn't have been able to follow. Both moved in ways that no mortal weapon of their type would ever have been able to mimic. However as a result the battle was at a stalemate since both weapons were so evenly matched that it was impossible for either wielder to gain the advantage.
No, wait, that wasn't quite true.
Straining his reinforced eyes right up to the level that was almost dangerous Shirou was able to note the condition of his enemy's weapon.
It seemed that the Serpent's Kiss had a slight advantage over the whip that the knight of treachery was using. The Traced Noble Phantasm was a weapon of metal, whereas the black whip that Mordred wielded was leather instead. Certainly it was leather reinforced by the power of his divinity, but in the end even that only went so far.
The edges of his weapon were growing ragged, not by much, but the wear was definitely there. The longer this battle went on the more the advantage would shift in his favour as the weapon of his foe lost more and more power. The only problem was, then what? Even if he ended up breaking this weapon it would only put him back in the place he was originally since Aži Qubla wasn't a weapon that could penetrate even the weak spots in the black knight's armour. the only place it could harm the Heretic God was on the arm where the armour was broken, however he doubted the whip sword could inflict a serious wound even there. he also guessed that its venom would be unlikely to affect a god.
Sure he could try to use another Broken Phantasm arrow, but Mordred would probably be ready for such a tactic now, and with that blasted unreadability of his he'd probably dodge and . . .
His thoughts paused as he realized something; he was reading his opponent's moves now wasn't he? For the last hundred moves he'd been able to read and anticipate his enemy's actions with all the ease of his normal ability.
What had changed, what had brought this about? Was it the whip? Was it somehow exempt from the effect of the Authority? No, that couldn't be it, the sword had been affected after all, so had the shield, so why should the whip be any different? It had to be something else.
Hold on, the whip was being wielded by the left arm, the arm which had had most of its armour blasted off by the detonation of the Caladbolg II arrow. Sure his hand was still covered in a gauntlet, but that metal glove wasn't connected to the rest of his armour.
And there was what he'd said earlier? 'Such is the right and privilege of they who abandon their old self and take up the armour of the Black Knight.'
That was it, his Authority that allowed him to be unreadable and to distort his actions and movements whenever he was unobserved must be somehow tied to his armour.
His eyes narrowed. Now he had a goal, a target, the destruction of his foe's armour and that Root blasted Authority. First though he was going to have to get rid of this whip.
Fortunately that wasn't going to be too much of a problem, not for someone with his edges in this particular fight.
The next time that the two whips met rather than using the impact to accelerate his rebound and speed into the next move Shirou allowed the bladed chain to absorb the impact instead of reflecting it. The sudden change of strategy caught the Heretic God off guard and for a brief instant his movements halted as he tried to decide what to do next.
That was all the opening that the young Emiya needed. At his mental command the chain sword responded and moved with the same speed that had allowed it to slay a demon faster than the wind. In a single instant the two long weapons were intertwined like wrestling snakes, both unable to move properly while in this state.
"Aži Qubla!" the faker declared as he Broke the Noble Phantasm.
Granted it wasn't a very elegant or even well done breaking. Archer would have been able to do something more effective he was sure. Maybe have the links spew forth a highly concentrated dose of their venom before exploding into a cloud of poisonous shrapnel. Still at this point elegance wasn't really needed, what he wanted was raw destructive power.
And that was what he got. The entire length of the chain whip exploded as though every link had been replaced with a hand grenade. Shirou had to drop the handle and leap back in order to avoid being caught in the blast. Mordred remained unmoving, his armour easily protecting him from the stones and pieces of metal being flung up by the destructive eruptions.
The same could not be said of his whip though. Having been entangled with Aži Qubla as it exploded the black knight's weapon had been effectively shredded since even divine leather wasn't able to stand up to a point blank Broken Phantasm, even an inexpertly done one.
"You-"
"Yes, yes, I know," Kiritsugu's adopted son cut the god off, "I'm going to be sorry I did that, I'll rue the day I was born, I'll pay in blood. Can't you say anything that I haven't already heard in one of my sister's anime?"
His words were mocking, insolent and irreverent, intended to enrage his foe.
In that they were a resounding success.
With a wordless bellow of rage Mordred grasped his sword in both hands and began a direct charge. Shirou stood calmly in place as he waited for his foe to come to him.
In a way the situation mirrored another battle that he had been in before, the one where he had first fully committed all his resolve to and the first he had won with his own strength. Once again he was facing a hulking foe bearing down on him like an avalanche, only this time his enemy wasn't a blinded and crippled version of what he had once been, this time the black giant bearing down on him had all his power and strength intact.
At the back of his mind he wondered to himself why he wasn't going with an overkill option. Out here, far from any hint of civilization, there was nothing to hold him back. There were no innocents to risk and no structures to destroy. So why was he fighting in this manner? Why hadn't he simply Traced Excalibur and unleashed it against his foe? Even if he was a god and had some sort of defence he doubted there was anyone or anything that could endure an attack by the Sword of Promised Victory without being at least partially weakened.
However something about that just didn't seem right. It was a tiny nagging at the back of his mind, but he'd long since come to at least listen to his instincts, if not always follow them. Perhaps it was because this enemy was an alternate version of Saber's 'son', or it might be because this Heretic God was a member of this world's Round Table, whatever the case it just didn't seem . . . right to use the blade of King Arthur against him, not yet at least.
From a purely practical point of view Excalibur was probably the single most powerful Noble Phantasm he was capable of Tracing, it made sense to keep it as a last resort rather than bringing it out right away.
Right now though he didn't have to dwell on that, right now his goal wasn't the defeat of his foe but rather a step in that direction. The destruction of his armour was what was needed now, and he had a good idea on how to achieve it. Earlier the explosion of Caladbolg II had been enough to shatter both the shield and the armour of the arm that had been wielding the shield, but not done damage to the rest of it. Using that as a basis he estimated that the shield might have been roughly equal to a B rank defensive Noble Phantasm that possessed no other special powers. That meant that the armour itself must be slightly below B rank in terms of its own power.
So the problem wasn't in what level of power to use, since he had dozens if not hundreds of B rank weapons, but rather in how to attack all parts of the armour together in order to shatter it completely. There were a number of options open to him since several of the weapons in his Reality Marble fitted the bill; however he chose one that he felt a certain connection to.
"Trace, on"
He didn't hold his hand above himself as he Traced the weapon, that would have been absurd; rather he stretched his left hand over himself as he performed his unique magic. Normally he was right handed, but to employ this weapon it felt oddly 'right' to use his left arm instead.
The weapon that formed in his grip could only barely be called a sword. In all truth it was more of a huge stone club that had been chipped into a roughly bladed shape. This huge stone axe/sword had no name; it was simply the weapon that the Berserker of the fifth Holy Grail War had wielded before his demise. Carved from the same stone pillar that had been used to summon him it had been infused with a portion of his power and turned into a weapon capable of standing up to Noble Phantasms.
However for Shirou this mammoth sword of chiselled rock held a special significance, it was the weapon he'd first used after making the decision to unseal the arm of EMIYA, even though he had known that doing so would mean his death. It had been the tool he had used to achieve the first victory, the first time that he'd used his own power to fight against his death and win. Granted it had only been Illya's aid that let him survive, but it had been with his own power that he'd slain a Servant.
This time though things were different. Before he'd relied upon reinforcement to allow him to duplicate the strength needed to use this huge weapon. Doing so had placed a huge strain upon his body even as the knowledge that he'd been using placed an even greater strain upon his mind. He could still remember it, the feeling of pain as he actually felt a part of his brain break under the pressure.
This time though, this time his body already possessed the strength needed to perform the technique that he drew forth from the weapon. This time the knowledge of how to do so flowed into him as easily as water running downhill between stones.
"Trigger, off."
He could see them once more, nine of them in his head just like before. Upper right arm, collar bone, windpipe, temple, diaphragm, rib, testicles ad thigh, the eight targets to hit followed by the ninth and final blow.
Torrent and swirling vigour, just like before.
The huge black knight bore down on him, but somehow the sight of the huge figure didn't seem to be as intimidating as it had been an instant before. In the strange almost meditative state that Shirou had slipped into he couldn't help but compare the knight of treachery to the mad warrior he had faced with this technique. In the end though Mordred was fierce he couldn't quite match up to the terror of Berserker. The knight might have been larger even than the mad Servant, but there had been a terrible . . . resolution to the insane warrior's actions.
The young Emiya had seen it in their last clash. Berserker had been consumed by Sakura's shadow after being mauled by a corrupted Saber and then regurgitated as another Servant for the corrupted girl. He'd been mad, blind, been slain twice over and had his skin rotted off, and yet he had still been fighting to protect Illya even though he no longer knew who his foe was.
In the face of such unearthly determination could even a god hope to measure up?
But enough of such thoughts, his enemy wasn't in the past but rather in front of him.
"Set . . . Nine Lives Blade Works."
It happened in an instant. Even with the enhancements that Dragon Slaying Hero granted him Shirou had always used it more for power than speed, now though that changed.
With almost mechanical precision he felt his body move through the motions of the eight attacks at a pace that could only be described as Godspeed. One, three, five, seven blows of his weapon slammed into the black knight. His sword went spinning into the air having been wrenched out of his hands as he succeeded in blocking the first of the attacks. His skill had been able to intercept the swing, but the sudden sheer force of the attack had taken the Heretic God by surprise. The brute force of the impacts arrested his forward charge and seemed to freeze him in place.
CH-CH-CH-CH-CH-CCHNK!
With a sound like two boulder sized chunks of metal slamming into each other the entirety of the black armour shattered into shards of metal that went flying in all directions. The red haired teen abandoned his Traced weapon, allowing it to dissolve back into Prana, and brought his arms up to protect his face.
The first step towards victory had been taken, now the only question was whether or not he could keep taking them.
-()-
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"
Brynhildr was mildly surprised to see her long time companion lose her cool like this, she was normally so reserved. Certainly once in a while she'd let her frustration or irritation get the best of her, but those occasions were normally marked by sullenness or argumentativeness. This wholesale loss of composure or control was something she'd never seen before.
It was actually somewhat amusing.
"I've done what needed to be done," she replied her own posture unruffled. "Sir Mordred will subdue the young child of Pandora and bring him back to us. Once that is accomplished we'll be able to move forward with the ritual as soon as we are ready."
"And what of the other Campione? They all saw your champion challenge him and take off with him, if he does not return then they will begin searching for him, all three of them. We cannot afford to draw such attention yet, not until we have regained our power." The blue and red haired Divine Ancestor was practically snarling.
"We will only need to hide from them for a week or two at most. Should worst come to worst Sir Mordred has told me that he has no problem with leading them off on some wild goose chase through the lands of the main continent. He'll be happy to draw them off, separate them and face them one by one in combat. While he does this we will remain undisturbed as we restore your full power and move on to our next target."
The golden haired child-woman answered with total calm and no concern. In the face of her partners composure the older Divine Ancestor visibly exercised her will and reclaimed her calm.
"You play a dangerous game in this Brynhildr; even if your plan succeeds it will leave us deprived of your champion's aid when we seek to subdue our next target. That fellow in Italy may be an idiot, but he has not gained such power as he has by being weak. While I am sure that with my full strength restored I can kill him, I 'm unsure if I can capture him for our ritual without slaying him."
"That will not be a problem," the younger of the two answered, "Even if my champion is distracted with dealing with the other God Slayers you will not need to face the King of Swords alone."
From seemingly nowhere she produced a globe of crystal radiating golden light. It was the one that she had shown to her ally and Athena in Naples all those weeks ago, but in the time since then the sphere had changed. Before it had only been the size of a tennis ball, now it had swollen into the size of a well grown melon.
"He will be returning to this world soon, the aid that honoured Athena has given me has allowed me to accelerate his return to this plane by more than a decade. Though we have yet to speak formally I have sensed his gratitude and am sure that he will be willing to aid us in the capture of our target before he departs to face the one who defeated him the last time he was in the mortal realm."
That caused the elder Divine Ancestor to pause. The god her ally proposed to aid in returning to the world was powerful and famous for bearing a grudge. He'd be well motivated to face his old enemy, and if they could persuade him to aid them as a sort of 'trial run' then the chances of their success would increase considerably.
"Very well, I will admit that your plans are well thought out and could well work," she conceded, "However they all hinge upon Sir Mordred being able to subdue his foe without killing him. His corpse might serve in our ritual, but the results that would yield would be far from what we seek."
"Do not be so worried," her partner reassured her, "We both know that he's powerful, when last he travelled he slew two of the bastard children of Pandora and Epimetheus. I doubt that this youngling will prove to be too much of a challenge for him."
-()-
Shirou backed off slightly as he stared at his foe. In the instant that his armour had been broken the same strange black haze that had covered him when he had been flying had sprung up once more to conceal him completely. The young Emiya had backed away a goodly distance and now stood, poised for any sudden action and ready to Trace whichever Noble Phantasm was most appropriate for whatever came next.
Slowly the black cloud faded away to reveal what was beneath it.
It was . . . another suit of armour?
No, something was definitely different now. The figure before him was smaller than he had been before, still tall, but rather than being superhumanly massive the dimensions of this new figure were more in keeping with those of a man of mortal stature. At a guess Shirou would say that this new suit of armour stood at about two and a bit metres, taller than the Archer of his war, but shorter than Berserker.
The design of the armour was also different now, before the entire thing had been black as coal and bedecked with hooked blades and strange curves that had lent the entire thing a certain malevolent feel. In other words, it had been the armour that one would have instinctually have attributed to an evil knight.
This new suit was likewise black, but the design was oddly different. It still felt dangerous, but the lines and curves of its design no longer felt malevolent as they had before, the impression he now got from looking at them was more . . . military was the closest word he could think to describe it. This armour wasn't so much meant to intimidate as it was meant to be functional.
"Impressive young one," once more red eyes glowed through the visor as the strangely charming and sophisticated voice of his foe reached him across the distance that separated them. "Only twice before hast mine outer armour been shattered thus. One who succeeded in doing so was the Strongest Steel; the other was one of thy kind, a child of Pandora who was more than a century old when we battled. Thou art young when compared to he, and yet thou hast matched his feat. I hope thou dost feel appropriately proud."
With a wave of his hand the black knight once more summoned up the black haze and sent it boiling forth from him in a wave. At first Shirou thought that it was an attack, that the dark tide would try to engulf him. But before it even covered half the distance separating them the billowing wave of mist seemed to fall back to the earth and then fade.
At first the red haired Campione wasn't sure what the purpose of the action had been, then the last of the haze cleared and he saw what had been left behind in its wake.
Rank after rank of armoured soldiers, they stood in lines of thirty every one of them six feet tall, ramrod straight and armed with swords and shields. Their armour was of similar design to that which Mordred wore, though theirs was clearly of inferior quality, not poor by any stretch of the imagination, but it was abundantly clear who was the commander of this force and who were the common soldiers. He couldn't see exactly who wore the suits of armour as they were all as completely concealed as the Heretic God that commanded them. However where he at least showed some sign of his existence with his burning eyes that shone from within his helm these newcomers showed no such hint of life. They all gave the disturbing impression that there wasn't actually anybody inside the armour, that the suits of metal were somehow animated and moving on their own.
"Perhaps I have been too . . . dismissive of thee my foe. In mine eagerness for battle have I abandoned mine caution. It seemeth to me that twould be the most prudent path to take if mine servants were to test thine mettle before mine eyes."
Damn, though he'd managed to get rid of the Authority that was keeping him from properly reading his enemy's actions it seemed that in doing so he'd also caused some sort of shift in his character. That made sense; if what he understood was correct then the Authorities of a god were linked to the aspects that made him or her up. Whichever god had become Mordred had been changed by the experience, by breaking an Authority that was an intrinsic part of that 'Mordred' persona it allowed more of the original personality behind it to leak through.
In this case it seemed that had resulted in his foe taking on a more military mindset as well as setting aside the overwhelming confidence he had shown earlier. That wasn't good for Shirou, confidence could too easily become arrogance and arrogance could become error with very little effort. Before Mordred hadn't pressed his advantage nearly as much as he could have due to that arrogance. He'd been willing to 'play' with his foe, secure in the knowledge that he held the advantage.
Now though he was using a strategy that Shirou could approve of, were it not being used against him. Many deities possessed some Authority that let them produce minions of some sort or another. Using them as expendable drones with which to test the power and ability of an unknown foe was a smart approach in his opinion, one that he would have considered employing himself in other circumstances.
Right now though wasn't the time to be thinking complimentary thoughts about his enemies battle tactics, now was the time to start working out a way to beat them.
Alright, first work out just how many enemies he was facing. There were five lines of those armoured warriors, given that each line consisted of thirty people that meant that the Heretic God he was facing had called up a hundred and fifty soldiers. The question now was how to deal with them?
In that regard Shirou had a number of available options. Firstly there was simply charging at them with weapons in hand and just keep hacking at them until there were none left. Despite their numbers he was quite confident that using Dragon Slaying Hero would provide him with enough of an enhancement to his abilities that he'd be able to pull it off regardless of what powers those summoned soldiers might have.
The downside to such an approach would be that Mordred would receive ample opportunity to evaluate both his skills and his powers. Though he might not have shown too much of a strategic mind so far the young Emiya wasn't willing to take the risk of showing so much of his hand if he could help it.
His second option was Tracing, either through the creation of an anti-army Noble Phantasm or through the same rain of swords that he'd used to take down Hades' army of the undead. Of course that was a rather wasteful move as far as Prana was concerned. His reserves might be enough to make even a Caster envious, but they weren't infinite and the last thing he wanted to happen was for him to run out of magical energy while still in combat.
That left him with his third option, and the one that he elected to go with.
"Past the jaws of Cerberus, down the twisting path to the kingdoms three, before me lies the domain over which I am monarch. Beneath the earth, beneath the darkness, all within is my possession."
Rule of the Underworld was a very useful Authority. It had to all intents and purposes librated him from financial concerns and had allowed him to recruit extremely capable and totally loyal subordinates. Granted in terms of combat use it was the least of his godly powers. Though the servants that he summoned up were formidable, even terrifying, by human standards against the likes of Heretic Gods or Divine Beasts they were little more than beetles. Certainly they could sting or bite if one wasn't careful, but even so they were easily stepped on.
Still despite that his undead were a useful resource, so Shirou had invested several hours into the construction of what he jokingly referred to as his 'battle bag'. It was a small thing, about the size of his empty palm, and was put together out of a combination of kevlar, heavy duty polyester mesh and a treated leather shell. Inside this extremely tough bag he had placed carefully cut fragments from eighty eight of the focuses he used to call up warriors. Experimentation had shown that as long as he'd used the focus first it was possible to chip off a tiny part and use that as a focus at a later time. He'd spent those hours after putting the bag together shaving off those small fragments from the focuses of the warriors that were the most skilled and eager for battle. Each of them was aware of his preparations and knew that if he summoned them they should be ready for combat unless he told them otherwise.
Now, as he recited his spell words, they materialized about his person in their skeletal forms. European knights, Native American braves, Chinese soldiers, Indian assassins, Viking raiders, Japanese samurai, warriors from more than a dozen cultures and of all sorts of types and styles. When compared to the ordered and identical ranks of his foe's troops his own servants looked more like a motley gang than anything else, a mob of individuals rather than a united fighting force.
Still as his summoned undead formed up into a vague sort of formation about him Shirou saw how Mordred was reacting and knew that he'd made the right choice. Rather than drawing his sword from its sheath once more he instead folded his arms behind his back and gave the red haired teen a very slight nod.
It was strange how much could be read into such a tiny gesture, but for some reason Shirou could understand it clearly. His armoured foe was willing to temporarily forgo direct combat and would instead allow their servants to serve proxies.
Well if that was how he wanted to do it then fine.
"I thank you for answering my call to war." He said, addressing his undead servants, "Let us show this god what you can do."
No further words were spoken as with inarticulate battle cries the two small armies charged at each other.
-()-
Illya really wasn't too sure of what to do right now.
Earlier her role in the conflict had been pretty clear, hold off the Divine Beasts while Godou fought the Monkey King and hopefully rescued Yuri's younger sister. It had been a furious battle, one with more of the huge apes than any of her previous encounters.
In the end the white haired girl had been forced to split her attention between controlling her puppet Berserker and wielding Beautiful Head Taker in self defence. It had been a strange experience, but between her own formidable mental strength and the skills imparted upon her by wielding the Noble Phantasm she'd been able to manage it.
She hadn't really been paying much attention to what else had been going on, fighting giant golden haired fire breathing monkeys had taken up all her focus. As such it had only been when she realized that there were no longer any enemies to fight anymore that she'd noticed what was going on.
Four Campione were facing off against four Heretic Gods.
It was a historic event since to the best of her knowledge there had never in recorded history ever been such an occurrence. Faced with this monumental event Illya had exchanged glances with the other girls present and they had all wordlessly agreed on the best course of action.
They'd all turned and ran for the nearest edge of the plain as fast as they possibly could.
Once there they had turned to watch what was taking place while the younger Mariya sister, freed by Godou's efforts, had begun to employ her limited knowledge of healing upon the more injured members of the group. Manaka had recovered nicely from the knock she'd taken to the head earlier, but Kaida was still suffering from fatigue after having over exerted herself earlier.
As it turned out their decision, that being at ground zero for a confrontation of this magnitude would be only a step or two removed from suicide, had been correct. After one of the gods had flown off taking Shirou with him the fight had begun once more in earnest. One of the gods had become some sort of six armed giant while the other had taken to riding on some sort of serpentine dragon.
In retaliation John Pluto Smith had transformed into a gigantic demon bird after causing an earthquake and flown into the sky to engage in a supernatural dogfight with the water dragon riding god. Meanwhile Luo Hao had used one of her Authorities to manifest an enormous golden benevolent king and had actually thrown her foe, through sheer brute strength, to the other end of the plain.
Illya knew, at least on an intellectual basis, that the Servants of the Heaven's Feel ritual were capable of similar feats of prowess. However her own experiences in combat had been to witness the battles between Saber and Berserker, first when Saber had just been summoned and then later when she was corrupted. Both battles had been magnificent and awe inspiring, but since they hadn't involved the release of Noble Phantasms they lacked the raw . . . hugeness of these clashes.
That led to her current predicament, she didn't know what to do.
What she wanted to do was rush to her onii-chan's side and unleash her puppet Berserker upon the Heretic God he was facing. The problem was that her reason was getting in the way.
Whether or not she wanted to admit it fighting so many Divine Beasts had left her tired. Her reserves of Prana might be on a level surpassing any mortal mage, but powering her counterfeit Servant was no easy task. Right now she was at about just under half her normal Prana reserves, fuelling her puppet and reinforcing her body had proven to be quite draining when done to the maximum levels.
That meant that though she dearly wished it wasn't the case she simply wasn't in any state to help Shirou. Had she been at her best then she could have stayed a safe distance away and sent in her creation alone. His destruction would have been a foregone conclusion, but with his imperfect God Hand Noble Phantasm such destruction wouldn't be permanent and would possibly provide an opening for her adopted brother to exploit.
The problem was that the range at which she could send her puppet dropped rather sharply as her Prana reserves fell. In her current state she'd have to be dangerously close to the fight in order to operate her puppet as well as was necessary. And if she got that close she was more likely to distract Shirou at a critical point than help him. The simple fact was that in a battle between Campione and Gods even with the strength of her creation and the Noble Phantasm that she'd received she was simply out of her league.
It was a hard conclusion to come to, but right now the best thing that she could do was to stay out of her adopted brother's way.
That and hope.
-()-
The best way to describe the clash between the two small armies was as simply a collision between chaos and order.
There was no teamwork or discipline in the actions of the warriors that Shirou had summoned up. The only hint of teamwork that any of them showed was that they took barely enough care not to accidentally inflict damage on each other.
The thing was that any sort of discipline between them was almost impossible. Every one of them came from different cultures, combat styles and honour systems. Every one of them fought in their own way and at the beat of their own drum.
By contrast the armoured knights of Mordred were absolute models of rigid uniformity. They advanced in perfect step, held their shields in an almost mathematically ideal overlapping pattern and maintained identical stances. This wasn't to say that they were inflexible or incapable of independent action; it simply meant that the principle thrust of their fighting method was the group rather than the individual.
So far the battle had been surprisingly even despite Shirou's force being outnumbered. By holding their formation the armoured knights had the defensive advantage, but were unable to bring the full force of their numbers to bear. On the other hand his skeletal fighters were far more mobile and somewhat protected by the fact that their bodies no longer had any flesh or organs to stab or slash.
There had been some losses on both sides. A small group of his undead had become overenthusiastic for a fight and had charged the mass of knights, though they had 'died' they'd been able to take out an equal number of their enemies before their bodies crumbled into glowing powder which then dissipated.
That had also confirmed his theory that what he was facing was animated armour. When the sword of a Viking berserker had stabbed into a joint and taken a leg off the inside had been filled with a thick rubber like substance. As soon as it was cut though it dissolved into the strange black mist that the armours had appeared from. The armour had sagged and then fallen completely as though whatever had inhabited it had simply vanished.
He needed to change the odds somehow. Right now things were pretty even between the two forces, but that would change as time went by. With the formation slowly but surely bearing down on him his forces would be forced to be more aggressive even though the shield wall stacked the odds against them. Sure he could move back and buy them more time, but somehow he knew that if he retreated, if he abandoned the spot where he now stood, then even if he destroyed the opposing force then it would still be his enemy's victory.
What he needed was some way to break the formation, some way to neutralize the advantage of that magic armour. Something to-
His thoughts suddenly cut off as a memory that was not that of any Emiya Shirou crossed his mind, a memory that had been bargained for and then shared by the lone surviving master of the fourth Holy Grail War. It was a memory of Saber fighting against a Lancer wielding twin spears. It was a memory of a weapon that passed through magic armour as though it weren't there.
"Trace, on"
There it was, waiting patiently in his Reality Marble. Granted it wasn't a sword, but it was a melee weapon, the kind of thing Unlimited Blade Works excelled at recording and recreating. He now tapped that record, that blueprint, and loaded it into his mind again and again.
"Gae Dearg."
As he spoke the name of the Crimson Rose of Exorcism he began to Trace it, again and again and again.
First one red spear thudded into the ground before him, then it was two, then four, then eight. The number continued to double and redouble until forty eight of the crimson spears were embedded in a line before him.
"EVERYONE THAT KNOWS HOW TO USE A SPEAR OR A LANCE GET OVER HERE AND GRAB ONE!" he shouted at his undead warriors, "EVERYONE ELSE HELP COVER THEM!"
Out of his remaining seventy nine fighters just over half broke off their attack and dashed back to seize up one of the waiting spears. The rest acted as defenders for those who had broken combat, but there turned out to be little need. The knights didn't break formation to chase their foes, instead they continued to advance at the same slow but deliberate and relentless pace.
The undead warriors turned as soon as they'd taken up the new weapons and returned to the fray. None stopped to question his ordering them to use the spears instead of their own weapons, they had no need to. Every one of the resurrected souls had sworn their loyalty and obedience to the King that called them even without him having to enforce his will upon them. Without hesitation or worry they attacked with the weapons he had provided.
In all truth Shirou was quite surprised at just how effective the Traced spears were.
Gae Dearg wasn't the most powerful or efficient of Noble Phantasms. Its ability was useful, but hardly overwhelming, and its legend was old, but not epically famous. What did set it apart was that it needed no additional Prana in order to activate because its effect was a passive one that was constantly active. Consequently it was one of the few Noble Phantasms that could be used by anyone, not just their original owner.
Quite simply this meant that the eighth Campione had armed more than half his servants with legendary weapons that they could use.
The first of his skeletal warriors to reach the enemy formation was a former Zulu warrior. In life he had been a massive and muscled man, fast and strong, someone that Shirou had enjoyed sparring with. Now he was little more than a skeleton wearing some scant furs. In one hand he grasped a shield of wood and animal hides, in the other was one of the copies of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne's crimson spear. He'd ducked beneath a sword blow and thrust the lance at his attacker. The knight had tried to block with his shield, but the scarlet head of the spear passed through both shield and armour as though they weren't there. The knight seemed to freeze in mid-stride, then collapsed the black mist seeping out of every joint and opening.
From there on it was less of a fight and more of a rout. With their shields and armour unable to defend them from the red lances the armoured knights abandoned their defensive formation and went on the attack, however this proved to be too little too late. Shirou's servants proved to be too agile and aggressive, and despite their earlier unco-ordination they fell into a simple but effective bit of teamwork.
The warriors without the lances would attack and engage the knights to create an opening, then those armed with the Traced spears would dart in and deliver a killing blow. It was simple but devastating, so much so that by the time the knights had managed to disengage their formation more than half their numbers were 'dead' with only two casualties on the God Slayer's side.
The thing was that the Crimson Rose of Exorcism was proving to be an ideal weapon against these knights. With its ability to pass through the magically created protections of the warriors of Mordred the major advantage of the knights was lost. With the red lances being used against them they were soon overwhelmed. It wasn't that they were unskilled fighters; it was simply that they were at their best working together. With that advantage lost to them it was soon only a matter of time.
Shirou remained standing in place as the last of the knights fell, impaled by three separate spears. Across the field the Knight of Treachery hadn't moved, not even as his forces were slaughtered. However there was a tenseness to him, some vague sense of power straining to be unleashed but still securely chained.
For his part Shirou was starting to feel a sweat build down the back of his neck and back. Though not the most costly Noble Phantasm to Trace Gae Dearg still took a fair bit of Prana to make, and he'd made four dozen in the space of seconds. Even with his expanded reserves and the increased quality of his circuits that wasn't a feat that could be undertaken lightly.
THNK!
He was brought out of his thoughts as he heard a noise that was oddly familiar, but yet had a different . . . note to it. Looking up he tried to find the source, only to blink in surprise when he found it.
It was one of his servants, a samurai from the Kamakura period. He was standing transfixed with a . . . sword of an odd red metal running through him?
Shirou had only enough time to blink one more time in confusion before suddenly dozens more swords came flying down on his servants as though fired from a cannon. Some tried to dodge, others tried to block, but all were cut down by the rain of blades. In less than five seconds all his remaining warriors had been impaled and dissipated. On a purely intellectual level the young red head knew that they weren't dead, how could they be when they were already dead, simply returned to where he'd summoned them from. However even so he couldn't help but feel a growing anger at their decimation.
So far none of the swords had actually been directed at him, that had been why they'd taken him by surprise, they'd not tripped his senses as a direct threat to himself. In addition there'd been a slight moment of shock at finding himself on the receiving end of one of his favoured combat methods. His counterparts had all experienced something like this at Gilgamesh's hand before their own Tracing was advanced enough to emulate it. However while he had their memories it had been something else to personally experience it.
As the last of the skeletal warriors faded from view, back into the underworld that held them, Mordred's voice rang across the clearing.
"Thy servants fight well, especially with those spears thou provided them. However if thou shalt lend them thy spears then I shall bring forth mine swords."
As he spoke those words that same black mist rose up once more. No, wait, it wasn't the same. Where before it had been black as a starless night now it had another tinge to it. It was still dark, but the young Emiya was sure that he could catch a hint of red in there now.
Regardless of its colour the Mist surged up behind him in a huge cloud bank so thick that even with reinforced sight he couldn't see through it. Before five seconds had passed he could no longer see the mountains behind the Heretic God or even much of the sky at this back, all that could be seen was that huge wall of mist that was such a dark red it might as well have been black.
Then the cloud began to thin, no, that wasn't quite right, rather than thinning it was condensing. Before his eyes the fog shrank and condensed into hundreds of swords made from a red metal and now floating in the air. Their design was strange, not European, not ancient Greek or roman, but rather a sort of hybrid of all three.
"So many wars hath been under mine dominion, through ages long past hast I been the patron of that violence. And from each bloodletting was born a sword that twas mine right to claim. Feel honoured that thou now faceth them, twas by their might that a most challenging member of thy kind was cut down. His Authorities were strong, but even they couldst not protect him from a shower of more than a thousand blades."
Shirou listened to the Heretic God's speech with only half an ear, the majority of his attention was being taken up but those strange red swords.
They were . . . strange, with the Authority of mystery broken he could analyse them, but despite that he couldn't feel them being recreated within his Reality Marble. Despite their solidness it seemed that they weren't so much swords as they were spells in the shape of swords. He could read them just fine, but despite that they simply would not appear within Unlimited Blade Works.
And that was something for which he was extremely grateful.
Those swords . . . it might not hurt him to look at them as it had when he'd seen Ea, on the other hand gazing upon them made him want to throw up. Each sword was a sort of condensed history of a war given semi physical form. Every death, every murder, every rape, every theft, every atrocity that had been committed during the course of the war that the blade represented was written into their existence in perfect crystal clear detail. And as his natural affinity to the weapons tried to copy them into his internal world he found himself forced to experience the knowledge stored in each one.
Thankfully that knowledge faded as soon as he looked away, like the skills he accessed from the weapons he Traced, or he wasn't sure his sanity would have been able to endure. Still simply the memory of the memory of what was in those red metal blades was enough to cause his stomach to almost heave up its contents.
With a conscious act of will he suppressed his urge to vomit in revulsion and instead focussed back on his enemy. The swords that he had been able to analyse hadn't contained any information about the true identity of Mordred, instead they simply told of the pain and bloodshed that had taken place during the wars they represented. No dates, names or locations, just atrocity after mindless atrocity. Still it all did tell him one thing. Whoever the Knight of Treachery was he was certainly a god of war. Not a god of warriors or discipline, this Authority had the 'flavour' of a god of violence and bloodshed only.
Still, even that bit of information was of minimal importance right now, of greater concern were the swords pointed at him.
But he knew how to handle them.
"Trace-" he whispered under his breath.
"Perish." The word wasn't a command or even a threat, it was a pronouncement, a statement of what was going to happen as immutable as someone saying; 'the sun will rise'. Mordred had absolute confidence that no matter what defence Shirou might be able to erect it would fail. "The Thousand Blades of War shall now claim thy life."
At first it was only a single sword, it was fired at him with all the speed of a bullet, but it was alone. Without even thinking the eighth Campione Traced a sword in his right hand, reinforced it with the divinity of steel that flowed through him from Dragon Slaying Hero and swung it at the incoming sword. Both swords shattered into a cloud of metal dust that shone briefly before vanishing into the aether.
"So thou canst defend against a single sword," Mordred's mocking voice echoed off the nearby trees, "But how willst thou fair against ten? Or a hundred? Or even a thousand?"
As though to punctuate the words of their master all the swords that had been floating in the air behind and above the black knight suddenly swung and stopped with every single one of them now pointed at the red haired teen.
"On." He quietly finished.
He now had an idea of how strong the swords aimed at him were. Some were stronger, some were weaker, but by and large their strength was within a similar margin. Their danger, their threat, was in the fact that they possessed overwhelming numbers and could come at a target from multiple directions at once. He could understand why a powerful Campione would fall to such an attack, if one didn't have an Authority of invulnerability or an omni-directional defence then surviving it would be extremely difficult.
Were Shirou a normal Campione, if such a creature could be said to exist, then he'd have trouble defeating this Authority with the ones he had. However the young Emiya wasn't merely limited to the powers he'd usurped from the deities he'd slain, he had the magic he'd inherited from his other selves.
He brought his head up and glared at the Heretic God ahead of him with his mask of a King firmly in place. Into that glare he focussed all the arrogance and contempt that he could muster and fake. He tried to stare upon the Knight of Treachery as though both he and his swords were beneath contempt.
"A thousand swords? Is that all?"
As he spoke he took a slow and deliberate stride towards his enemy, utterly unmindful of the mass of blades pointed at him. As he did so he began to Trace.
They began to appear behind and above him, hovering in the air but moving along with him as he advanced. Swords, first ten, then a hundred, then many hundreds. Before him the black knight actually took a step back in shock as more than three thousand swords appeared in flashes of golden light behind the advancing God Slayer.
Shirou didn't give his enemy the chance to attack; instead he seized the offensive initiative and broke into a run.
"Trace Bullet, fire!"
As he spoke the murmured incantation the vast curtain of floating swords behind him began to fire. At first it was only one or two, but over the space of a couple of seconds the rate of fire increased until an avalanche of steel descended upon the Thousand Swords of War.
-()-
From her hiding place a goodly distance from the battle Guinevere watched the battle unfold with awe.
In all honesty she hadn't expected the young Campione to last so long, let alone be the one to be pressing their advantage. Though he might be a God Slayer she knew that he was the newest of his kind to be born and so was the least experienced. She also was well aware of just how powerful Mordred was, even if her memories were hazy and filled with holes, even if she couldn't discover his true identity, the memory of his strength carried down the centuries in her mind. He was a Heretic God able to decimate the armies that Campione had raised to use against Artus, a monster able to gravely wound even the Strongest Steel.
Before such an overwhelming foe she had expected the young man to fall. The only reason she was observing the battle was so that she could gain further knowledge of her enemy's capacities. Her plan had been to watch the new King die and then pass the knowledge she'd gained to one of the older Campione, thus letting them vanquish Mordred or at least supply her with more information should they fail.
However the one that she'd dismissed as a sheep going to the slaughter was proving to be surprisingly powerful. And he had so many Authorities, as far as she could determine he'd already demonstrated as many as ten or maybe even more. How could he possibly have so many? It made no sense.
Whatever the case may be though he was fighting with commendable strength and tenacity, while she still felt he'd fall before Mordred's true power she was hopeful that he might provide the opening she needed to deal her own fatal attack.
She'd already made the preparations, a spell designed to unleash a piercing lance of light able to damage even a Heretic God. By using the Holy Grail to 'supercharge' the spell she'd be able to actually kill her foe if she could strike correctly. All she needed was for him to be open to her, not guarded enough to notice the build up of power until it was too late for him to dodge or defend.
All she had to do was wait and watch.
-()-
Shirou charged forward as the world around him exploded into a crazed chaos of sparks, shattering metal and exploding ground.
All around him the two rains of swords contested with his flesh as the prize. The crimson swords that served Mordred shot towards him intent on running him through, only to be intercepted in turn by one of his own Traced creations. Both swords would explode in midair in a powerful explosion. Other times the blades wouldn't clash completely, but instead glance off each other in a shower of sparks and a loud metallic ring.
But despite all the Swords of War that threw themselves at him not one came near. Either they were intercepted in a booming explosion or they were deflected to land away from him. His own swords protected his dash as he closed in upon Mordred himself.
Shirou's right arm extended to the side as he sent more Prana to his hand. Right now the Knight of Treachery was off balance, stunned by the sudden upset of his supposedly secured win and by the sudden bedlam unleashed around him. Not even a God could remain unfazed by the abrupt eruption of explosions, sparks and noise about him, especially given that his Authority of swords was being effectively smashed apart around him. This was probably the most vulnerable he'd been since the battle had begun.
"Trace, on."
For a moment he considered Tracing Caliburn or Excalibur, either was powerful enough a blade that they would almost guarantee the defeat of his foe. However something still held him back, some internal voice telling him that it wasn't yet right to use the Noble Phantasms of his former Servant against this world's counterpart of her 'son'.
Instead he drew another of the swords that waited in his Reality Marble, a sword that was ideally suited to the current situation.
"Angurvadel!"
The sword that materialized in his hand was of Old Norse forging and meant to be wielded with one hand. This was the sword of a Viking hero that had driven all his foes before him, claimed the woman he loved and became a great king despite all the efforts of his foes. As it completed its manifestation the blade began to glow a burning scarlet and was wrapped in a shimmering haze of colours that resembled the famed Aurora Borealis of the Northern Lights.
"What-?"
Mordred barely had time to utter the surprised questioning word before the eighth Campione was there in front of him swinging his newly Traced sword.
Angurvadel was not the highest ranking Noble Phantasm under normal circumstances. However its lack of rank was offset by its useful power. When drawn in the presence of conflict its power rose in proportion to the amount of battle in the immediate area. It was drawing upon such power that allowed the humble C rank to potentially ascend to power levels equal to the fabled Sword in the Stone.
And right now at least two thousand swords were clashing and destroying each other in the air around them.
That was a lot of conflict.
"HAAAAAAHHH!"
With a wordless cry of effort Shirou swung the glowing blade right at this enemy's chest plate with all the speed and strength he could muster. Mordred, still caught off guard by the sudden change of what should have been a suicidal charge into a direct attack, reacted just a hair too slowly. His right hand had only managed to half draw his sword before the eighth Campione's blow caught him on the left side of his upper breast plate and drew a glowing slash across and down towards the right side of his waist.
For a moment the two froze in place, neither moving as the slash glowed and shimmered.
Then the Heretic God exploded.
-()-
Mordred seethed as he felt his armour disintegrate and his flesh tore from the power of the brat's blow.
How could this be? How could such a thing happen? In the past he'd faced the bastard children of Pandora before, first in the service of his then king and then later alone, he'd faced those who had been God Slayers for decades and they had not dealt him such wounds. The only one to ever harm him more grievously had been Artus himself during their final duel
This . . . this was beyond infuriating. His armour failed, his servants fell, his weapons broke, again and again he was being humiliated by this . . . this child, this insignificant speck not even two decades old. What matter was it that he'd defeated lesser gods? What matter was it that this Shirou was called King? Was he, Mordred, not one of the oldest gods of war? Had he not resolved to supplant the King Who Appears at the End of the Era as the Strongest Steel? Why then was he being pressed like this?
He refused to allow this; he refused to let defeat touch him in this manner. No, he refused to allow defeat to touch him at all.
As he felt himself tumble through the air, thrown by the force of the brat's last attack, the Knight of Treachery reached deep into himself. He could feel it there, his oldest Authority, the one that he'd not used for more than two millennia. Even when faced with the overwhelming power of Artus he'd refused to use it, because its transformation was not yet complete.
Now though, now he would use it. He'd use it to heal himself and to overwhelm and crush this arrogant insect that chose to defy him. He'd tear the limbs from his body and cauterize the wounds with fire before he dragged him back to that foolish fallen goddess that thought she controlled him. He'd laugh as they used their ritual to drain the power they needed from him, and he'd then take great pleasure in mounting the still living remains on a lance and leaving them for the crows to feast on.
-()-
The first hint Shirou got that things might be heading down hill was when an ear splitting roar tore across the field of battle.
The explosion caused by the release of Angurvadel's power had sent him hurtling backwards even as it threw up a huge cloud of dust. The Traced sword in his hand had broken under the strain of the powerful blow it had delivered. In all honesty the young Emiya had been surprised by the sheer force of the attack; the power released into his slash had to have been A rank at the very least.
Whatever the case might be that drifting debris was currently blocking his view of his enemy. Not wanting to be in close range to a surprise attack Shirou backed off in a rapid short series of backwards jumps. As he did so he Traced another copy of Kanshou and Bakuya. Tensing his muscles he crouched slightly, ready to take any action necessary as soon as he could see Mordred clearly once more. No matter what Authority he might choose to use the eighth Campione intended to be prepared for it.
Then a gust of wind blew the obscuring dust away revealing the black knight's form.
There was no way Shirou could possibly have been prepared for what he saw.
The most suitable word that sprang to mind to describe what he saw was 'abomination'. It was a harsh description, but in all honesty he couldn't think of another term to label the horror that the Knight of Treachery had become.
Originally it had been in a crouch, but as the wind blew the dust away Mordred's new body had stood and risen to its full height of ten metres. Huge leathery wings had unfolded and stretched while a long serpentine tail lashed behind it.
At first glance the eighth Campione thought he was dealing with some sort of dragon, one that stood on its hind legs and had wings instead of forelimbs. The scales that covered it were the colour of dried blood and were more like overlapping plates of armour rather than the skin of a reptile. It was an impressive sight, but not a disturbing one.
It wasn't until the dust fully cleared that Shirou was able to see the full horror of what was before him.
It looked as though some mad deity had tried to weld a partially armoured giant knight into the dragon's torso. The chest, head and arms of a huge man jutted out from the chest of the creature like some kind of insane cancerous growth. Both the giant's hands held huge swords easily five metres in length that scraped along the ground. It was protected by plates of primitive armour that seemed to have been melded to the giant's skin over parts of his chest, forearms, upper arms and shoulders. The red haired teen could see where the metal was literally melted into the flesh of the giant rather than being attached by straps or the like.
On the head of the giant was a helmet of a style similar to that worn by the famed warriors of Sparta, the face beneath the helm cast into obscuring shadows save for the glowing red eyes. What was truly horrifying was the way in which the flesh of the dragon's head was joined to the metal of the helm and the shoulders of the giant.
The head of the dragon had no eyes, no nostrils, no ears; it was as though all features had been stripped from the monster's head save for those huge fang filled jaws that were topped by a huge blank mass of scales and flesh. The lower jawbone seemed to have fused to the head and shoulders of the giant in some sort of unholy union, fangs protruding from his shoulders and head like jagged bones sticking out of the flesh. The crest of the helm seemed to have warped into a single line of huge and wickedly curved teeth that reached upward to meet with the warped dragons head. The teeth in the giant's flesh, the helm and in the upper jaw were all stained and discoloured, as though they had been used to tear apart a living meal only a short time ago.
There were other touches too, the way the skin of the giant was too pallid and pasty, the way in which the belly of the dragon seemed to cave inwards as though the monster's innards had been scooped out. The more Shirou looked the more tiny hints he noticed, such as the way the scales were flecked with discolorations or the odd raggedness of the edges of the wings.
The monstrosity that faced him looked . . . diseased, rotting even. This thing was wrong, wrong on a completely fundamental level. It-it was as though-
"URRRUUGGGHH!"
Any further contemplation was cut off though as the enormous horror stalked forwards and swung one of those huge swords at him. Its loud bellow was not that of some dragon or animal, it was the kind of noise one would expect a corpse to make as it clawed its way out of the earth in search of the flesh of the living to feast upon.
The sword stroke contained none of the finesse or skill that Mordred's previous form had used, all that had apparently been traded for sheer raw power. Shirou didn't even try to block, instead he threw himself back as far as he could in a desperate attempt to dodge the huge blade. As he flew backwards he hurled both of his swords at the glowing eyes of the helmeted head. Kanshou and Bakuya might not be able to stand up to that magnitude of raw force, but perhaps they could at least serve as a distraction.
In that they were a success at least, the sword swing was diverted to the side as one of the leathery dragon's wings folded over to block the pair of spinning blades. The pair of Noble Phantasms embedded themselves into the thick leather like membrane of the wing, but stuck there not having had enough strength to punch through.
Still, that brief moment of respite granted Shirou the opening he needed to Trace a new weapon. He was moving purely on instinct at this point, the overwhelming pressure of the monster's presence made it hard to do otherwise. All his will and discipline was devoted to keeping the fear and revulsion that writhed within him under control, so he didn't have much to spare. He simply reached into his inner world and pulled at the sword that felt right.
The huge sword came swinging at him once more, less a sword and more of a huge slab of slightly sharpened metal. The force behind it was enough to smash trees to splinters, to crack boulders into gravel.
SHIIING!
With a burst of golden light and a peeling metallic ring the enormous blade was blocked and sent back with such force that the mockery of a dragon was sent stumbling back a few steps. The red haired King could only blink in astonishment, then glance down at the sword he held in both hands.
Caliburn, the Sword in the Stone, the Chooser of the King. In another world this would have been the first true Tracing he ever accomplished, in yet another it was the sword he wielded against the King of Heroes in his Reality Marble. Though it had always had a certain link to his other selves, Shirou had never yet wielded it himself, there had always been a certain nagging worry making him wonder if he was truly worthy to hold such a blade.
Now he had no such worry though, the sword felt right in his hands, not out of place or in an unworthy grasp. More than that though, the Tracing felt . . . complete, perfect. There wasn't even a hint of the degradation that marred his other creations; this was an exact recreation of the blade, right down to its full power.
How? How could this be? On pure reflex he used Structural Grasping on the Noble Phantasm, yes there was something there, something he'd never seen before. It felt something like the power that he channelled when using Dragon Slaying Hero, the sense of Steel was there, but at the same time it felt slightly different. Whatever this strange power was it was serving to effectively reinforce his Tracing and bring it up to the level of the original.
Further analysis was made impossible because the twisted dragon warrior had regained its balance and charged at him once more swinging those huge swords.
SHRRING!
SHINNG!
CHIINNNN!
Once, twice, thrice did the beautiful sword of gold, blue and silver meet the blows of those gargantuan weapons and turn them aside. It was lunacy, it was idiotic, but somehow it was true. The eighth Campione could feel the power behind those swings, knew that at this point the strength of the twisted thing that Mordred had become surpassed even that of Berserker himself at his best. Even if he was wielding a powerful A+ ranked Noble Phantasm he shouldn't have been able to do this.
It was only as he deflected another blow that he once more saw that flash of light again that it all clicked in his head. Somehow he was accessing the skills of Saber through the swords, enough so that he was instinctively throwing together some crude version of her Prana Burst skill using the power of Caliburn. Every time his sword met his enemy's weapons he was reflexively loosing a burst of the golden power of the Noble Phantasm in order to make up the difference in strength.
And so far it was working. Saber had been able to use this skill so marvellously that even in her diminished state she'd been able to hold her own against Berserker for a short time despite the difference in their power at the time. His own version was cruder and less efficient, but for the time being it was up to the task of keeping him alive.
But it still wasn't enough. Both sword and skill were keeping him from being overwhelmed, but little by little he was being pressed back. His enemy was just too strong, too fast and too relentless. He needed something more, something to let him slay this twisted effigy of a dragon.
Slay this twisted effigy of a dragon . . .
Slay this dragon . . .
He didn't quite know how he did it; it was as though he'd opened up a new section of his mind and simply walked into it. As he did so words began to spill from his lips, he didn't know where the words came from, only that they felt right and they felt true.
"Everything about you points towards you being a God of Steel, your armour, your swords, your Authorities, everything. But that's not true is it?"
He didn't expect a reply, nor did he receive one, instead he simply kept speaking as he parried and dodged.
"But you're not a god of Steel, that's only been added to you over the ages. Originally you were a god of violence, a god of blood and earth. But as time past metal became the best material to use as weapons and armour. As the centuries passed and you changed, you became sheathed in that metal and a god of earth took on the aspect of a god of Steel."
The twisted abomination roared its strangely human bellow and swung at him once more. This time though when Shirou met the sword with his own fresh strength and power shot through him. With a heave he pushed the huge sword back and forced his foe off balance once more. This time he didn't retreat, instead he charged, seizing the initiative and going on the attack for the first time since Mordred had transformed.
"But even though you took on the aspect of Steel it isn't your true nature. No matter how much you might try to become of Steel your basic core can't change. That's why you're in this state, the power you've tried to take on is incompatible with your true origin and they're at war within you."
He slashed at the dragon thing with his sword, but it gave a great flap of its wings and opened up space between them.
"You're a god of blood and earth, so it's only natural that you took on the form of one of the earth's greater beasts. And that's it isn't it? That's why you've been reduced to this twisted rabid state? You're not Steel, at your foundation you're a dragon!
"And I can slay dragons."
Even more power surged through the young Emiya as he relentlessly pursued his foe. Never had he felt so strong, so light. Right now he had made some sort of connection inside him and Dragon Slaying Hero was roaring through his veins like some surging river barely contained by its banks. He felt like he could take on anyone, Hades, Berserker, Perseus, Saber Alter, it didn't matter who, bring them all on, he'd crush them all barehanded if he had to.
Still even in his slightly power drunk state Shirou saw that he wasn't overwhelming his enemy. Sure he'd initially been pressing him back with his sudden increase in power, but now the huge dragon warrior was holding its ground.
Ten blows were exchanged.
Then fifty.
Then a hundred.
Then two hundred.
Despite their number the entire series of exchanges took less than a minute, the staccato noise of clashing steel and the bright flashes of sparks gave the clearing a sense of unreality as the two awesome forces clashed.
-()-
Guinevere watched the battle unfolding before her and realized that for the last little while she'd forgotten to breathe.
It was her head and vision swimming that finally made her notice her error. She'd been so focused on the fight that she'd subconsciously stopped doing anything that might have distracted her, moving, blinking and, in the end, breathing. Granted she was an immortal of divine origins, but even so she wasn't divine enough to ignore her need to take in fresh air.
It was just that she couldn't help herself. Despite her appearance it had been decades since this incarnation of her had been born, and in that time she'd seen many battles. Gods against gods, gods against Campione, Campione against Campione, Campione against mortals. So many battles, but none had ever been like this one.
It wasn't the scale or the skill, in the past she'd seen entire islands razed to nothing and skills far greater, there was something else, an intensity to it. There was the revelation of Mordred's true nature; there was the increasing power and skill of the young Campione.
And there was that sword.
The instant that she'd seen it two conflicting impulses had started screaming at her. On the one hand she was absolutely sure that she knew that sword, she knew it with the same total surety that she knew the colour of her own blood. On the other hand she knew with equal certainty that this was the first time that she'd ever laid eyes upon the weapon.
But even as the two conflicting certainties conspired to give her a headache she'd kept watching, fascinated.
Not even when he'd fought her beloved King of the End had Mordred gone all out like this. It was as though he had abandoned all rationality in exchange for more power. And yet he was being matched, as absurd as it seemed he was being matched.
-()-
Shirou needed more.
Despite the increase in power that he'd received by fully unlocking his enhancement Authority it still wasn't enough. The blows continued to come at him relentlessly, hell they seemed to have actually grown stronger since this earnest fighting had begun.
The problem was that his foe wasn't a 'normal' god, if any such thing existed. This was a deity so old that his original form predated formalized language. This was a god that had changed and altered over the millennia, becoming more than just a single deity. It was more as though he were a collection of gods that had been amalgamated.
Yes, that was it; if he focussed enough he could practically read it in those crude blades that the abomination swung.
Laran, Ares, Mars, Mordred, he wasn't one being, he was many. When last he had descended to this realm humanity hadn't been as aware of his legends and so they had fused into each other almost seamlessly, but in modern times that was no longer the case. Mass media and greater knowledge had led to greater awareness. Now rather than being the same god Ares, Mars and Mordred should all be separate entities. If this Heretic God he was fighting right now were to return to his legend then he'd immediately fragment into those parts.
That explained it, right now his existence was not . . . natural? Balanced? Complete?
There were too many conflicting parts of him, too many contradictions. This might lend him great strength, but with him trying to tap into the root of his self the result was a sort of rabid berserker.
And that was why he was starting to lose.
The simple fact was that he was getting tired. Hardly a surprise, he'd been using his Authorities pretty much non-stop since this battle had begun, not to mention that he'd Traced literally thousands of Noble Phantasms. His reserves might be many times what they'd once been and his Circuits might be of much greater quality now, but that didn't mean his stamina was unlimited.
His muscles were burning, his body slick with sweat beneath his clothes. His magic circuits felt uncomfortably warm, just short of painful, and blood was seeping from a number of shallow scrapes and cuts on him. Little by little he was slowing down, his arms becoming more and more sluggish by tiny increments. How long would it be before he was just that little bit too weak or too slow in dealing with one of his foe's sword strokes. Reinforced physical structure or not if one of those huge swords hit him full swing he'd be lucky if what was left of him afterwards could be recognized as having originally been human.
So he needed more.
Fortunately he still had one more card to play.
"Trace, on"
His left hand left Caliburn and thrust out to the side. Immediately his right arm screamed in protest as it was forced to bear the full brunt of Mordred's onslaught, but Shirou gritted his teeth and endured.
Into his hand he Traced the weapon he wanted, one gained by his counterpart having observed it when Gilgamesh drew it forth from his treasury. It was an old sword, the prototype for Caliburn itself, and despite its fine appearance it was a blade of demonic glory.
Merodach, the Original Sin.
In appearance it was like a simpler version of Caliburn, less ornate, less decorated. However even as he grasped it the eighth Campione could feel the darkness within it, the link to its demonic origin.
And that was just what he wanted.
"A mother who sees her child die, a soldier who gazes on his killer, the beggar in the gutter who stares at the palace. From them I take their bile, their hate, their curses."
Inside him he could feel the battered little puppy wake up and wag its tail as it felt its master call upon it again. The next instant the adoring pet had turned into a blood thirsty rabid wolf as it turned its attention onto the target of its master's ire. A grimace formed on Shirou's face as he mentally reached into the seething pit of filth and poison that was the wellspring of his Authorities power and drew upon it.
The sweet rotting filth flowed through him and seemed to be eagerly drunk up by the Noble Phantasm in his left hand. That was what he'd expected, well more like hoped for anyway. The Authority that he'd usurped from Angra Mainyu was not compatible with the majority of the higher ranked Noble Phantasms he could Trace, normally it was best to 'load' the curses into an 'empty' sword allowing it to be twisted and altered by the malevolent power of Curses without End.
However this sword was one of demonic origin, one that had know curses and evil during its existence, this was a sword that could take in, even welcome, the power of his malevolent Authority.
Weakness.
The curse went into Merodach as easily as a fish dropping into water. On the next clash with Mordred's swords the curse was released into the enemy's weapon.
Nothing.
Ruin.
Anther curse was sent into the demon blade, this time a stronger one. Once again it passed into the huge sword, and again there was no obvious reaction.
Fragility.
Age.
This time it was two curses, each one made strong by the sheer effort behind them, and this time he felt something. It was faint and subtle, easily missed by one not as attuned to swords as he was, but it was definitely there. A slight shift in the 'note' of the swords' clash.
Destruction.
Failure.
Two more curses, each with as much effort as he'd put into Tracing Caliburn. Sweat trickled down the side of his face and tickled at the corner of his eye. This time his foe's blade chipped, a piece of metal the size of a finger nail coming loose as the huge blade collided with the sword known as the Original Sin.
Annihilation.
This time he put all the strength he could muster into the curse and drove it deep into the huge weapon of the twisted dragon warrior as their swords met.
With a sound like metal screaming one of the mammoth blades shattered into a hail of flying shrapnel. Excellent, now he only had one sword left to deal wi-
Any further thoughts were cut off as something impacted on his side sending him tumbling. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tail of the abomination flick back from its blow, then he lost sight of it as he flew through the air. Stars filled his vision as his head impacted on a log of wood on the ground as he came to a halt. Grimly holding to the power of his Authorities Shirou shook his head in an attempt to clear it.
The strength of Dragon Slaying Hero still flowed through him and he was able to quickly shake off the ringing in his head as his sight came back into focus.
Just in time to see his enemy's remaining sword coming down on him in a brutal arc that would leave him in two pieces.
There wasn't time to dodge or evade. He was stuck lying on his back with his head resting on the log it had hit as though it were a pillow. He had only one choice, in the split second before the sword struck he brought up the two swords he'd managed to hold onto and crossed them in front of himself to block the blade. As he did so he forced as much of his prana as he could to reinforce both the swords and his body.
The impact was tremendous, so much so that he could feel his body being driven into the ground. The log against which his head had been resting broke apart as the sudden impact running through his form smashed it in two. His arms screamed in protest and his bones groaned in pain.
But he held, the sword bore down upon his guard like the weight of the world was behind it, but his swords and his strength held.
The only problem was that now he was trapped. With that force pushing down upon him like some vengeful mountain determined to bury him, all he could do was hold. He couldn't move, he couldn't counter, all he could do was hold until one of them ran out of strength.
And the eighth Campione had a worrying certainty that it wouldn't be the dragon thing that grew tired first.
-()-
Snow soared on the wind and looked down on where Master fought.
Snow had taken to wing and followed the dark one as soon as the dark one had carried Master off. Since then Snow had been wheeling in the sky above them unnoticed as Snow watched Master fight.
Snow didn't like that, Snow wanted to be there with Master, to lend Snow's aid in the fight against the dark one, but Snow knew that Snow wouldn't be able to help enough.
Snow's strength was to be found in the sky where Snow's wings and speed could be lent to Master. On the ground Snow wasn't able to move enough to be able to aid Master, so even though Snow didn't like it Snow wheeled in the sky and waited for when Snow could help Master.
Snow loved Master, Snow knew that. Snow also knew that Snow was born of Master's power and so would always answer and obey when Master called just as Snow always had . . . before, in the time before Master.
However Snow knew that the time with Master was different from the time . . . before. Master treated Snow kindly, rode Snow well and even sometimes gave Snow nice crunchy things to eat. More than that Master had named Snow Snow, for the first time in . . . ever Snow had a name. And with that name Snow had come to realize that Snow was Snow.
And it was for that that Snow loved Master, that was why Snow had followed after the dark one carried off Master rather than simply letting Snow fade back into nothing sleep. Snow hadn't wanted to enter the nothing sleep while Master was fighting, so that was why Snow had followed.
Now Snow saw that Master was in trouble. The dark one had changed, becoming a . . . twisted one, a not right one. The not right one had Master trapped under his big shiny hurting stick, Master was holding it off, but Master's strength couldn't last forever against that of the not right one.
Snow had to help Master, but how could Snow do that? If the not right one was still the same size as he had been when he was a dark one then Snow could have attacked him with Snow's hooves. Snow knew that Snow wasn't strong enough to hurt the dark one who was hiding inside his hard other skin, but Snow would have been able to at least push him off Master. But now that the not right one was so big that wasn't something that Snow could do.
What could Snow do? Snow couldn't make Snow bigger unless others rode Snow, so that meant Snow couldn't knock the not right one of Master. What could Snow do? What could Snow do?
No, there was one thing Snow could do. Snow didn't like having to do it since it hurt and it meant that Snow would have to go into the nothing sleep for a very long time and not be able to wake up even if Master called him. But it was better that than Master never calling on Snow again.
Snapping Snow's wings close to his body Snow aims at the back of the not right one and begins to release the power that Snow always knew was waiting inside Snow.
-()-
The first hint that Shirou had that something was going on was when he looked up at his twisted enemy and saw that the warped dragon's head had apparently developed a halo. For an instant he'd thought that he was growing so exhausted that his mind was playing tricks on him, then the abomination had leaned forwards to bring more weight upon its sword and he'd seen the source of the light.
Snow, glowing with a pure white light, had come crashing down on the draconic deity's back with a thundering impact that would have made Rider's mount proud. The twisted thing that had been Mordred had just enough time to make a confused barking noise before the Pegasus exploded.
Intellectually the young Emiya had been aware that his mount possessed this capability, careful meditation upon his Authority had revealed it to him, but to actually see it was something else. The winged horse erupted into an expanding globe of white energy so huge that you could have fitted an entire castle into it; it seemed to hold the form of a huge globe which pressed down upon its target as though it possessed huge weight. Shirou could feel the power emanating from the force his steed had unleashed; he knew that its power was comparable to, though definitely not equal to, Excalibur's full power blast.
Ironically Mordred's own huge form served to shield the God Slayer from the blast his Divine Beast had released, so as the twisted dragon warrior slumped forwards in pain as its back and wings were blasted by the sacrifice of Snow Shirou was free to act.
With a heave he pushed the sword to the side and let it stab into the ground as the Heretic God stumbled forwards. With the god's full attention on him before he hadn't have been able to do that earlier, but with Mordred distracted and confused by the pain of the surprise blow it was doable.
This was it, the best chance he could hope for. The former Black Knight had now slumped to his knees under the weight of the blast, putting his giant form within leaping distance. One of his swords was broken and the other immobilized.
No better chance was coming.
Using the strength granted to him by Dragon Slaying Hero the eighth Campione leapt at his foe. As he did so he drove one last curse into Merodach even as he surged his Prana into Caliburn and activated its power.
Death.
Death, Death.
Deathdeathdeathdeathdeathdea thdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathd eath.
"Caliburn!"
The Sword in the Stone could in some ways be regarded as the prototype for Excalibur in that it was able to release a similar destructive force. Certainly the Sword that Chooses the King couldn't unleash a blast of the same scale or magnitude, but despite that its power was not to be dismissed. In another world and in the hands of another Shirou the sword had been able to slay Berserker seven times over with a single thrust.
Likewise the curse that he was unleashing from his other Noble Phantasm was on a whole other level compared to the ones he had used before. Previously he'd been trying to save his stamina and so had measured the amount of force he put into the maledictions, but now he was effectively forcing the majority of his remaining reserves into a single curse as he stabbed with the demonic blade.
Both swords jammed into the chest plate of the giant's armour with a sound like a bunker penetrater hitting a tank. For a moment Shirou froze there, his hands gripping the hilts and his feet braced against the metal of Mordred's armour, as he felt both the golden power of the Kings sword and the black bile of Curses without End tear into his enormous enemy. Then he let go of the swords and kicked off in the longest jump he could manage.
And not a moment too soon as it turned out. Caught between the globe of destruction born of Snow's sacrifice and the dual forces released from Shirou's swords the twisted dragon warrior seemed to fold up in on himself.
Then he exploded.
The force of the blast caught the eighth Campione while he was still in mid air and struck him like the hand of an invisible titan. This time Shirou wasn't sent tumbling, that was too gentle a term, this time he careened. He smashed into a tree with such force that the trunk exploded into splinters as he tore through it and impacted on another tree. That one managed to arrest his flight quite painfully before gravity regained its hold on the teen and he dropped to the ground.
As he laid there, pain radiating from various parts of his body and staring back at the blast crater that was still billowing smoke, Shirou's slightly concussed mind noted that this was the third time that Mordred had exploded over the course of their battle. Wasn't that a bit strange? He was a god of bloodshed and war, not explosions. Ah well, whatever worked.
That was the last thought he had before a sword came flying out of the smoke, stabbed him through the shoulder and effectively nailed him to the tree.
The shock of both the injury and the pain was too swift, too sudden and too much. Even as he opened his mouth to scream in pain he felt his tentative grip on his Authorities slip.
Losing Dragon Slaying Hero wasn't too disastrous since he could reactivate it with a minimum of effort. The graver issue was Curses without End, as soon as he lost his grip on the malevolent power it began to exact the price for its use.
Shirou couldn't scream, even though he wanted to, he wanted to scream out in agony until his blood came spraying from his shredded throat. But he couldn't, he couldn't move, he couldn't speak, he couldn't move, and he couldn't fall unconscious. Pain beyond anything he'd ever experienced ran through his veins and yet the same force that inflicted it upon him denied him the escape of unconsciousness even as it left him helpless.
Still despite the pain that seemed to consume his world some small part of the God Slayer's mind remained rational enough to note what was happening around him. That sword, the one that now had him pinned to the tree; it wasn't made of metal but instead was carved from stone. In a way it was a smaller version of Berserker's own weapon, but this one was clearly meant for mortals to wield.
Movement in the fog of smoke caught his eye and he blinked, just about the only thing he could do at this point, to clear his vision. Coming out of the smoke was a figure, a big one.
Each step brought the large man into better view, for a man the figure was. He was a big man, just over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and thickly muscled limbs. His facial features were brutish and partly obscured by his wild mop of long matted black hair. He was clad in what looked like primitive leather skins that served as the simplest kind of armour. In one hand he had a simple wooden club and in the other a crudely chiselled stone sword. Blood dripped from him as he stalked forwards, running from ugly wounds on his back and chest, yet he still strode on ignoring the pain they must have caused him.
This was the most basic form of the god that had become Sir Mordred, the injured Campione realized. The earliest form of violence and war clad in simple protection and wielding the most elementary of weapons from the time before metal had been discovered. The primitive god that had known no name only wordless worship and fear.
Oh come on, some small part of Shirou's mind complained deliriously. Was this guy a boss in a video game? Was he one of those characters that had stages that you had to defeat? Why hadn't anyone shown him the instruction manual? This just wasn't fair, it was a cop out.
Of course the much larger part of him was currently screaming in pain while the small part that was still rational was screaming in frustration at his helplessness.
"Thou . . ." in contrast to his appearance his voice remained the same smooth and charming tone that it had always been. "Thou hast done this to me. Thou ruined mine weapons, shattered mine armour, bested mine warriors, broken mine swords and slew mine dragon. Thou hast wounded me more gravely that any other hast ever managed. Even Artus himself was unable to wound me so ruinously, even when he slew me.
"But I do not care. This pain is but a measure of the weakness I must exorcise from mine self. In time that which thou hast rent will repair, mine Authorities will return and mine full strength with them. But thou, thou shalt perish here. I care neither for the plans of mine allies nor for mine promises to them. For what thou hast inflicted upon me thou shalt die now."
Raising the wooden club above his head the wounded Heretic God stalked forward murder in his glowing eyes.
No, no it couldn't end like this. Through his pain Shirou struggled to stand, to sit up, to raise an arm. Not like this, not like some stunned animal unable to even fight back. If he was going to die at least let it be with a sword in his hand. Desperately he tried to push Prana though his limbs to Trace a weapon, a Noble Phantasm, a Mystic Code, a mundane knife, anything.
Nothing came out, even though he could feel the swords waiting for him in his inner world he couldn't reach them. He was just tapped out, nothing was left, he barely had enough strength to support his own life force.
"I shalt enjoy this brat," the war god's voice remained the same, yet something about it twisted, grew uglier, hungrier, "I shall not make it easy for thee, thou shalt know pain before thou knowest deaths release thou shalt-"
Suddenly Mordred's eyes opened wide and he threw himself backward so hard he lost his footing. The eighth Campione had only an instant to wonder what he was doing before a bar of white light as thick as a telephone pole burnt its way across his vision. Even though there was good bit of distance between him and the attack Shirou could still feel the force of its passage and the intensity of its heat.
The attack only lasted for a second, but by the time it subsided Mordred was back on his feet again and glaring into the forest at the edge of the plain.
"YOUUU . . . !"
As though words failed him after getting that one out the former Black Knight let out an inarticulate bellow of rage and gestured with one hand. In the distance the red haired teen heard a feminine cry of alarm which was then suddenly cut off.
-()-
The instant that she saw her spell had missed Guinevere's heart had leapt into her throat.
That spell had taken much of her strength despite her use of the Holy Grail to further empower it. Frantically she tried to weave her power around herself to shield her from detection.
"YOUUU . . . !"
The bellow of rage told her that she hadn't been quite fast enough. Abandoning her attempts at stealth the Witch Queen tried instead to cast a spell of travelling, something to get her away from here, out of Mordred's reach.
Her attempts were interrupted as invisible hands closed upon her limbs. She cried out in fear, but another unseen hand closed over her mouth and throat cutting her off. Before she could even think of resisting she was being dragged along the ground towards her enemy. The grass stained her dress, the twigs and branches ripped at it and cut her skin, her hair was pulled from its curled locks. Inwardly she fumed in both fear and outrage. Not only was she being pulled to her death, she was being humiliated as she did so.
Desperately she tried to pull just one arm free, to gasp out a few words. That was all she needed, a few syllables, a few gestures, either would be enough to let her summon Sir Knight to her aid. Certainly her champion would be able to at least defend her if not slay the wretched traitor. All she needed was one little opening.
"Guinevere thou art foolish, very very foolish. I wouldst have been content to leave thee in peace, to let thou continue thy quest to revive thy Lord. But such an attempt on mine life cannot be ignored."
Slowly, oh so slowly, he lifted his crude stone sword until the point was aimed directly at her heart.
"Die now Guinevere, it shall be troublesome but I shalt raise up Artus in thy place. And when he is returned shall I slay him and claim the throne of the Strongest of Steel."
No, no it couldn't come to this. She couldn't be murdered like this and leave the fate of her beloved King in this monster's hands. Abandoning all decorum and dignity the blonde immortal squirmed on the ground like an unearthed worm as she frantically tried to escape the invisible grasp that held her.
"Oh? Hast thou some final words? Very well I shall hear them, but be warned if thou triest to summon thine protector I shall have thine head off before thou canst finish thy first word."
Oh how cruel he was, to provide her with the opening she sought and yet deny her its use. Well if she was to die at least she could spit her bile at him before she fell.
"You'll never supplant Artus, you are nothing before him." the Divine Ancestor spat as she glared her hatred at the primitive warrior looming over her. "You are nothing more than a snake wishing it was a bird. You aren't even true Steel, merely a fake, a counterfeit."
"All things change with time little witch, and with enough time even earth can be refined into Steel. Tis true I seek to emulate Artus, to imitate him. But nowhere is it cast in stone that the imitation may never defeat the original.
"Go back to thy wait in the underworld knowing that; knowing that when thou dost reincarnate that if thou still intend to be handmaiden to the strongest Steel then thou shalt serve ME!"
With a look of cruel yet exultant glee upon his brutish face the Heretic God drew back his stone sword to stab her.
No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. Please, please, please, not this, anything but this. Help, please help.
There was no time to cast the spell needed to summon her protector, not even enough time to make the gestures. All she could do was scream in fear.
"HELP SIR KNIGGGGGHT!"
-()-
Shirou could feel his consciousness begin to fade. He was just so tired, his blood was seeping from his wound, his body was a battered mass of bruises and his Prana was so spent he could barely even feel it anymore. Even the pain that still wracked him wasn't waking him; rather it seemed to be burying him in the darkness of exhaustion. He was spent, that was all there was to it. He'd put up a good fight, a damned good one, but in the end Mordred had been able to outlast him.
"Guinevere thou art foolish . . ."
What was that? Guinevere? Even as his hazy mind tried to focus onto what he was hearing he felt something . . . shift inside Unlimited Blade Works.
"Die now Guinevere . . ."
Die? Guinevere?
On hearing those words the strange sensation coming from within his inner world changed again. No longer was it a shift, now it was a push, strong and insistent. Something wasn't waiting for him to Trace it, something was trying to force its way out of his Reality Marble on its own. It was trying, but its efforts weren't quite enough, for all that it strained it was still merely a part of Shirou's inner world, unable to make the transition to material existence on its own.
Not really knowing what he was doing, merely operating on instinct rather than thought, Shirou reached for the sword that was calling to him so insistently.
It practically leapt into his hand, no Prana cost, no Tracing effort. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before, this wasn't him making a copy, this was him helping an existence come into being.
Arondight, the Unfading Light of the Lake, the sister sword to Excalibur and the weapon of Sir Lancelot. Even as his fingers convulsively closed around it he could feel its strength flow into him. And with that strength came knowledge, came reason.
Never would Lancelot let Guinevere come to harm. He had betrayed his King, his comrades, his oaths and even himself, but he had done it all to protect the woman he loved. He'd regretted much in his life, regretted it so much that he had abandoned his reason and sought relief from his guilt in the oblivion of madness. He'd regretted slaying his friends, he'd regretted breaking his oaths, he'd regretted never being punished by his King.
But loving Guinevere, saving her, that he'd never regretted.
That was a love, a desire, so strong that it had been imprinted onto his sword. Just as it was stained by his madness and resentment his love and will to protect his love had also sunk into its very metal.
Now that resolve, that strength flowed into the wounded God Slayer. Arondight was a very powerful Noble Phantasm, wielding it increased all his parameters considerably.
Including his Prana.
The darkness that had been threatening to engulf him was driven back. The pain of the price of Curses without End was likewise forced down. Strength flowed through his limbs and the haze cleared from his mind. Even as he held onto the bark broadsword in his right hand his left came up and seized the stone weapon that impaled his shoulder. Gritting his teeth and bracing himself the young Emiya tore it out.
Pain flared up once more, but it quickly subsided, his endurance had been enhanced to superhuman levels by becoming a Campione, and with Arondight in his hand that endurance was enhanced further.
Now, Guinevere, he had to protect Guinevere.
"HELP SIR KNIGGGGGHT!"
The cry of panic ran through him like an electric shock. Any hint of drowsiness or lethargy vanished in an instant as adrenaline and Prana surged through his system.
There she was, just a few yards away. A young blonde girl struggling on the ground while Mordred drew back his crude stone sword to stab her. She wasn't Lancelot's Guinevere, not the one he had loved, the one he had sacrificed all for, but at the same time she WAS Guinevere, he simply knew it all the way down to the metal hearts of the swords that made up his inner being.
She was Guinevere but not Guinevere.
She was Guinevere.
And Lancelot would always save Guinevere. Shirou held the sword of that knight, used its power and employed the skills of its last wielder.
So in this he would play the part of Lancelot.
How fitting for a faker like him.
He didn't even notice himself crossing the distance that had separated them. One instant he was watching them, the next he was standing before the helpless girl and swinging the sword in his hands with all his might.
With a sound like thunder and a shower of sparks the stone sword was forced back with such force that the war god was sent stumbling back.
"Wha-"
"Sir Knight?"
Both the god and the girl spoke at the same time, both expressing confusion.
"I . . . I guess I can play the part of Lancelot in this." Shirou gasped as he tried to catch his breath. He could feel a slightly crazed smile tug at his lips, and suited his mood perfectly. Right now the only thing keeping him up was the fact that he was essentially faking the role of his swords true wielder, well that was okay, that he could work with.
"THOU?" the roar of anger and frustration drew his attention back to his foe. "How?! How dost thou continue to get up? What must I do to break thee?!"
Without waiting for a reply the Heretic God came at him swinging both sword and club. The eighth Campione didn't move from his spot, instead he held firm and swung his own sword in the defence of the girl behind him.
Mordred's blows were strong and savage, but they lacked the overwhelming strength they'd possessed as the twisted dragon abomination as well as the skill he'd had while armoured. The Unfading Light of the Lake met his attacks and turned them aside. Once, twice, thrice the Traced weapon defied the primitive arms.
Then there was an instant, an instant where the momentum of the parries had left Mordred with his arms spread and unable to defend. Shirou's own sword was above his head, a prisoner of its momentum, and couldn't come down n time to take advantage of the opening. Instead the red haired teen lifted one foot, placed it against the primitive gods abdomen and pushed with all the strength he had.
Mordred was sent tumbling back in a graceless roll, but he was back on his feet and glaring at his enemy in less time than it took to tell. Shirou met his glare with a cool look of his own, never moving from his spot protecting this world's Guinevere.
"Thou, what is that sword, why do I feel I shouldst know it?"
"Arondight, the Unfading Light of the Lake, the sword wielded by the Heroic Spirit Lancelot." Honestly Shirou wasn't too sure if he should be answering so truthfully. The existence of Noble Phantasms and their origins was arguably the single greatest advantage he had in this world, next to his ability to Trace them of course.
"Sir . . . Knight?" the confused question came from behind him, but he didn't turn away. This was the last stretch of this battle, neither he nor his opponent had much left to them, therefore the victor would be decided within the next two or three exchanges.
"Thou, just who art thou really?"
The question that came from the one time Black Knight of Treachery was utterly calm, no hint of the rage or frustration that had stained his voice before, now there was only genuine curiosity. Shirou's mind still felt . . . off. Not hazy or tired, simply slanted, altered. His exhaustion as well as tapping Arondight so much more deeply than he'd ever done to any other Noble Phantasm had led to this strange altered state of mind. Not a bad thing, more like a meditative state than anything else.
"You can't tell? Ama no Murakumo no Tsurugi saw it mere minutes after meeting me."
"Thou . . ." the words trailed off as the god of war and violence glared at him once more, no, not at him, into him.
Suddenly he recoiled as though he had just seen a viper ready to strike.
"What-What art Thou? How can thou have such Steel in thee?"
"Steel is my body and fire is my blood."
A line from the aria that both Emiya Shirou and the Servant Archer used to manifest their Reality Marbles. This Emiya Shirou didn't know if it would be part of his own aria once he became able to use his own inner world in such a way, but for now it described him well enough to suit the situation.
"How? How canst a human be of Steel? Thou art not a god; Thou art but a thief wielding usurped powers given to thee by that wretched witch's curse. How canst thou be Steel?"
Mordred's voice was taking on a note of hysteria now, the kind of panic that could well result in mad fury rather than fear though.
"I'm not Steel," Shirou answered. Truly he didn't know where these words were coming from; all he knew was that they somehow felt completely right. "I am Sword, I'm the Steel that has been refined and forged, hammered and tempered. Given form, given purpose. I'm the Strongest Steel."
The colour seemed to drain from Mordred's face and from behind himself the young Emiya heard a hushed gasp.
"No, no no no No No NONONONOONONOOOOOOOO!"
The Heretic God attacked, rage and denial burnt on his face and both his weapons moved even faster than before.
Shirou didn't move, he knew now, knew with perfect crystal clarity what would happen.
Both the club and the sword came at him together. Both were blunt, but they were swung with enough strength that if they touched him his flesh would become bloody vapour. Therefore . . .
SHTHUNK!
SHINK!
Arondight swung in a single perfect arc. Both the skills of Emiya Shirou and Lancelot of the Lake combined into the one movement. The sword that had been cursed by the deeds of its master sheered through the club as though it were cheap plywood and smashed into the side of the stone sword with enough force to tear it from the deity's hands.
Then Shirou let go.
The blade of the Lake vanished as it left his hands, but some of its strength stayed with him, enough for what was to come.
Mordred came on. His weapons might be lost or broken but he still had his own strength and he saw that his foe was unarmed. If he could close and grapple then the victory would be his.
Shirou reached into his inner world.
One last sword, that was all that was needed, the sword that had been waiting for the right time, for the right reason.
"RRRAAAGGH!"
Mordred's bellow of defiance echoed across the plain as he bore down on his smaller foe.
"Trace, on"
His hands closed around a hilt that was not yet there. His muscles tensed to swing the sword that didn't exist yet.
It all happened in an instant. The brutish god descended upon his foe with arms spread to envelope him. There was a flash of golden light and a soft thud.
Mordred's eyes dropped to the sword that was protruding from the centre of his chest. The Campione's hands gripped the hilt and his whole body was pushing the thrust. Sword and wielder, one and the same. His eyes widened in amazed recognition. That was a sword he knew, and yet did not know at the same time.
"Exca-"
"Excalibur."
One softly spoken word, all that was needed to release the power of the Sword of Promised Victory. He might not have the Prana to unleash its full power, but right here, right now he had strength enough to release what power was needed.
Golden light consumed the Heretic God.
For a moment Shirou simply stood there, the sword of Saber held in his hands. Of Mordred there was nothing left, the vast majority of his body had been blasted into oblivion and the little that remained had crumbled to sand and then disappeared.
His legs gave out under him, he'd won, he'd WON, but now there was absolutely nothing left.
As the blackness rose to claim him once more he felt that strange sensation that he'd experienced three times before in the past. A sensation of something he couldn't see insistently pressing into his chest.
That meant something; he was sure, something important.
The only problem was that right now he was too tired to think about it.
Shirou sank into the deep comfortable darkness.
-()-
Guinevere lay on the ground utterly stunned.
She'd been staring her own death in the face, then the next instant the young Campione that she'd dismissed as defeated was standing before her and defending her from Mordred's attack.
And he'd been holding that sword. The blonde Divine Ancestor had never laid eyes upon that weapon before, but something about it, something in its very presence thundered of Lancelot du Lac, her beloved protector. More than that he'd felt like her champion.
She'd honestly not had any idea of what to think, she'd been so shocked that she hadn't even thought to call Sir Knight or of use a spell to escape. All that she could do was sit up on the grass and watch as the young Campione had stood before her, as immovable as a mountain, and defended her from the Traitor Knight's attacks.
Then the Witch Queen had heard his declaration, his claim to be of Steel despite his being a human. It was, absurd, impossible, and yet . . . he spoke with such surety, an absolute conviction that what he said was true.
Guinevere possessed many skills, and among them was a form of Spirit Vision that allowed her to divine the nature of others and their powers. It was this that she had used upon the God Slayer protecting her. She knew it was foolish, she should have been using her power to escape, but for some reason she felt that this was something that she needed to do.
Swords.
So many swords that they filled her entire vision. Swords so far beyond counting that they might as well be infinite.
With a conscious effort of will she'd cut off the vision and simply stared at his back. With half an ear she'd heard Mordred's protestation, denials that mirrored her own. Yet it was his reply that drew a hushed gasp from her before freezing the breath in her lungs.
He was laying claim to the title of Strongest Steel? What kind of absurdity was this? It was madness; it was an utter defiance of all that she knew. No human could ever be of Steel, let alone claim the title of Strongest, it made no sense, it made-
She stared open mouthed at the sword that Emiya Shirou had just driven into the chest of his foe.
More dazzling than gold, more pristine than silver, the steel that tears apart heaven and earth, causing the very stars to crash down, the Divine Sword of Salvation wielded by the King of the End.
Excalibur.
No, no it could not be the sword of her beloved Lord. Surely had that Divine weapon somehow been reborn into the world she would have felt it. And yet . . . everything within her, down to the blood in her veins and the marrow in her bones, screamed at her that this was the sacred sword of her King.
Power unlike any she had ever felt erupted from the blade, more than enough power to slay the god impaled upon the weapon. For an instant the eighth Campione stood, the sword held in his hands and his every muscle locked, then like a puppet bereft of its puppeteer he collapsed to the ground.
For a few moments she didn't move, she simply continued to lie where she was and gaze at him, her mind a tangled mass of conflicting thoughts. Then, ever so slowly, she stood and made her way over to him.
The young red head had fallen on his side so his face was visible to her as she stood over him. Guinevere could see the slow and weak rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, could see the pallor of his skin. His battle had drained him of all his strength; here he lay, helpless as a newborn babe.
She could kill now, if she so chose. Drained as he was there was no way he could resist her. A single spell conjured knife could take his life. She wouldn't even need that, with naught but her bare hands she could pinch his mouth and nose closed and he'd not have the strength to save himself from suffocation. She might not even have to do anything at all, if she just left him he might well expire on his own given how drastically low his life-force had fallen.
He was a Campione, a God Slayer. He was the natural enemy to all deities and to former deities like herself. She should just leave him here to die. It would be one less threat or challenge to her beloved King once she brought him back into the world.
And yet . . .
He'd saved her. When she'd thought him beaten he'd risen up in her defence and protected her when she thought her death a certainty.
More than that though, this young man was no ordinary Devil King, as ludicrous as the thought that any Campione being called 'normal' was. He was of Steel, and there was some sort of connection there. Some sort of link that let him wield the powers of both her King and her protector.
And he had saved her, he'd fought for her.
Guinevere knew herself to be a schemer and a trickster, often in the past she had manipulated others to her own ends without thought or care of what woes her actions might inflict upon them. However for all her ruthlessness there was also a certain core of honour to her, depths to which she refused to sink lest it taint and stain both her own honour and that of her King.
She would not take this boy's life, she decided. She would save his and even out the debt between them both.
Her decision made the blonde Divine Ancestor knelt down beside the Campione's prone form and pushed at him until he rolled onto his back.
"Be suitably honoured," she told the unconscious form, a blush forming on her face, "This is Guinevere's first kiss that she gives you."
With a deep breath she leaned forwards and sealed her lips over his.
The first thing she noticed was that at first his lips felt cold against her own. However as she poured healing magics into him they warmed until they felt hot against her own flesh. More and more of her power flowed into him, more than she'd initially been planning to give him, as she found herself oddly reluctant to break the kiss.
The second thing she noticed was that even though he was still out cold he was apparently kissing her back ever so slightly.
With a startled squeak of embarrassment the Queen of Witches jumped away from him. That . . . that hadn't quite been what she'd planned. One hand unconsciously rose to touch her lips as she gazed down at the young man before her. Now that she took the time to look at him properly she supposed that he could be called handsome by some. He had fine features and a strong build; she supposed that if she had to give up her first kiss then at least he wasn't a bad choice for it.
With a sharp shake of her head Guinevere tried her best to dismiss the thoughts from her head even as she felt the blush creeping over her face. Those were not appropriate thoughts to be having at this point, she had to be rational, she had to be cunning, she-
A groan from the side indicated that the cause of her emotional turmoil was returning to the world of the waking. For an instant the Divine Ancestor stood there frozen once more, her eyes locked on the young King's face as his eyes fluttered open.
Naked panic gripped her heart and the urge to simply flee rose up inside her. Still she didn't feel it right to leave without at least some brief parting words.
"My thanks for your protection Sir Shirou, Guinevere hopes we can meet again soon."
Arrgh, she hadn't meant to say that last bit. What was wrong with her? It was as though she couldn't think straight while around this enigma.
Giving in to her urge to flee she wove a spell and disappeared from the battle site.
-()-
Shirou got to his feet as he stared at the spot where the blonde girl had been standing just a moment before. The way she'd disappeared like that, that and the panicked look in her eyes. Was she in some sort of trouble?
As he straightened the eighth Campione couldn't help but blink in surprise. He . . . didn't hurt?
Surprised he flexed his limbs and took a few experimental steps. The wounds and bruises that had littered his flesh before were gone, even the wound in his shoulder had sealed up and healed without a scar. Sure he still ached slightly, but it was the kind of dull burn that one might expect after a good work out rather than a drawn out fight to the death. He also didn't feel so tired anymore, his Prana reserves were still low, but nowhere near the level at which it would be a danger to him.
With a glance over in the direction of the other Campione he saw that their own battles seemed to have also ended. He could feel no hint of the presence of the three Heretic Gods that they had been engaging in combat. Best to get over there, he thought, after all there was no way of knowing what had happened over there. For a moment he opened his mouth to form the spell words that would call Snow to his side, then he closed his mouth again as he remembered his mount's sacrifice.
Honestly he hadn't even known that the Pegasus could use that power on its own, he'd thought that it was something he'd have to order consciously. When he could summon the winged horse again the Divine Beast was going to find him waiting to greet it with an entire bucket full of apples and carrots. It was the least his mount deserved for the loyalty it had shown him.
Oh well, with no other options available Shirou reinforced his limbs and took off running. His circuits protested slightly, but it was nothing to be too concerned about, he'd pushed them harder during some of his experiments so he'd be fine.
In the end it took him just under five minutes to make it back to where the others were. Not a world record, but for a man as tired as he was it was a considerable achievement considering how minor his reinforcement was.
-()-
Brynhildr glared at the view as though she could alter it by sheer force of will.
How? How could this possibly be?
Her champion was slain and there was now no chance of her and her partner being able to capture the Campione on their own. Not with his strength having been restored as it was.
Curse it all to the darkest regions of Niflheim, had it not been for that blasted Guinevere's interference all would have been well. But not only had her presence distracted her knight at a crucial juncture but she had also protected the boy while he was helpless and then gone on to restore his strength before she left.
The Witch Queen was regarded as the Queen of the Divine Ancestors for a reason. Even among the fallen Goddesses her power was exceptional and this was compounded by her possession of the Holy Grail, an artefact containing more power than any one goddess could ever hope to hold. As much as it galled her to admit it the blonde Divine Ancestor knew that even together she and her partner could not have faced the Witch of Brittany and hoped to prevail.
Had Athena been with them there may have been a chance, even if Guinevere had summoned her famed protector, however their ally had been away on her own business and they had no way to call her.
Curse it all.
"Does this satisfy you then?"
The voice was cold as an arctic tundra and laced through with venom enough to give the World Serpent pause. Startled at the sheer rancour in the voice Brynhildr turned to face her ally.
"What-"
"You have lost your champion, strengthened our target and let him know that he is being hunted. Can you think of any way in which this affair has not been a total failure?!"
Her partner didn't wait for a reply; instead she turned and stalked to the exit of the room pausing briefly at the door to speak some parting words.
"I'm leaving now before I say or do something I shall regret. However I ask you to think on one thing; this would not have happened if you had listened to me."
For a moment the blonde former goddess stood there staring at the closed door, then with a scream of rage she kicked over the pedestal upon which the scroll the spell of scrying had been cast on had been resting. As the valuable scroll feel and tore as the stand landed upon it she simply glared at it as though to give vent to her fury.
How dare she?! How dare she?! How dare she stand there and smugly say that she'd been right? How dare she belittle her partner's efforts to advance their goals? That red and blue haired fool had been content to let the opportunity slip them by, all she'd done was try to take advantage of it.
Deep within her heart, unnoticed even by her divine mystic senses, a tiny black seed of malignance and discord split open and put forth a shoot.
Brynhildr had allied herself to the Knight of Treachery, and though she did not yet know it there would be a price to pay for that in the future.
-()-
He arrived in time to see Kusanagi Godou tucking his cell phone away with a look of pained aggrievement on his face.
"It looks like losses were unexpectedly small. Ah, and you have returned to join us King Emiya, splendid. And you have been victorious in your own battle, truly wonderful.
"For us three it has been particularly delightful to finally close the case on the Great Sage Equalling Heaven. Godou and Smith, I, Luo Hao, must surely reward the both of you well for your contributions in our cooperative battle."
The eighth of the Devil Kings turned to look at his fellow God Slayers. So it seemed that they'd united against their foes, how unusual. Still it seemed to have worked for them.
"Then I shall take my leave. Until next time."
The words of the masked king caught Shirou by surprise. He was leaving? Just like that?
"You're going already? Isn't there still a lot of cleanup to handle? You're not staying to help?"
Godou's own words were surprised and . . . disappointed? Huh, it seemed that his fellow Japanese King and the hero of Los Angeles got on surprisingly well.
"Truly regrettable, but it won't fit John Pluto Smith's style otherwise. When the curtain falls upon the stage, the actor must exit. When the battle concludes, the hero and devil king must also vanish."
The American Campione answered with an obviously posed tone of voice.
"Actually John Pluto Smith, do you mind holding on from saying your goodbyes for a moment." Shirou spoke without thinking, merely slipping back into his role as a King once more. An idea was growing from that seed at the back of his mind. It hadn't yet fully formed but he felt it might be important.
"Oh? Do you have something that you wish to say to me Emiya Shirou?"
"Not quite, but I ask you to indulge me in this for the moment. It could be that the curtain has not yet fallen."
"In that case I shall obediently wait," there was a mocking edge to the voice, but it was the jest of good humour rather than challenge or anger.
With a nod of thanks the red haired Campione turned to face Luo Hao.
"So sempai, can you tell me who the victor in our wager was? I confess that after my own battle ended I wasn't in a fit state to check on your own progress."
"It would seem that you have once more managed to achieve a draw with me King Emiya," the Ruler of the Martial World declared grandly, "Truly consider yourself fortunate, in the entire world none other can make a similar claim."
"I shall feel suitably honoured sempai; however I'm curious as to whe-"
The rest of his words were cut off as a white and purple missile crashed into him with enough force to make him stumble. Looking down he saw Illya with her arms wrapped around his waist and holding him so tightly he was pretty sure an anaconda would have approved.
"Shirou! You're alright, I was so scared when I couldn't sense you anymore, then you came back and I felt you fighting again and then you went away again and I thought you'd died and then you came back and I was so scared that you'd go away again and and . . ."
The rest of her words were muffled beyond understanding as his adopted sister buried her face in his torn and bloodied shirt and started to cry. Looking up he saw that Kaida and Manaka were also present, but keeping a respectful distance.
"King Emiya, who is this disrespectful young girl that dares to interrupt a discussion between Kings?"
Okay, not good. Luo Cuilian did not sound happy that someone had dared to intrude on their conversation. In fact she sounded as though she were getting ready to pronounce sentence upon the object of her ire, and given her views on her rights as a King that might not be too far fetched a notion.
Best head this off before she could develop a full head of steam.
"Sempai, allow me to introduce my beloved adopted sister Illyasviel Von Einzbern. Please forgive her lapse of manners; normally she's much more polite." Gently disengaging her arms from about his waist Shirou patted her on the back of her head and gestured towards the Chinese Campione. "Illya please introduce yourself to my honourable sempai on the path of being a King."
The white haired girl rubbed the tears from her eyes and looked up at her adopted onii-chan. Seeing him nod encouragingly to her she nodded back before turning and curtseying low to the elder King.
"My sincerest apologies for my most rude behaviour your Eminence. I am Illyasviel Von Einzbern and I offer my deepest thanks for the opportunity to meet your august self."
The eighth Campione blinked in surprise at that. Given how childish her behaviour often was it was all too easy to forget that the white haired girl had been brought up knowing almost as much about formal conduct as she was mage craft.
"Very well, as a favour to my fellow king I shall refrain from chastising you for your impropriety in disturbing us. Thank me well for my generosity."
"My sincerest gratitude for your gracious forgiveness." Said Illya as she combined her curtsy with a bow. Luo Hao nodded in approval and then turned back to Shirou.
As she did so he noticed that the rest of Godou's harem as well as the girl that Sun Wukong had been possessing had arrived. Off to the other side were the young Chinese boy that he'd caught a glimpse of just before he'd been sealed into the cave by the Monkey King and that Committee agent he'd met on the night Godou had confronted Ama no Murakumo no Tsurugi. Right now he didn't look so good considering he was fairly flushed and wearing a medical mask. By the looks of it they'd seen how the Ruler of the Martial Realm had reacted to being interrupted and were wisely keeping quiet.
"Though it pains me to leave my 'little brother' behind as well as not being able to resolve our own competition I fear I must say goodbye. There are the sayings; friendship between gentlemen is as insipid as water, while all banquets naturally come to an end. I feel they ring true in this case. Godou, your elder sister needs now return to Mount Lu."
"Is there any urgent need? Could you perhaps not delay a day or two?" Again the words were out of his mouth before he really took the time to consider them. Still he could feel things moving towards a . . . conclusion, no, that wasn't right. To a turning point, that was it.
Luo Cuilian blinked at the question before nodding slowly.
"There is no great urgency; this Luo Hao was merely observing the courtesies. It is regarded as poor manners or a challenge to remain in the lands of another King uninvited."
"Then . . . Then I invite you all." The idea blossomed in his mind, and he could see it for all its beauty and danger. What he was about to propose was playing with fire, but at the same time he felt that it was not an opportunity that should be allowed to pass him by.
From behind him he heard a sort of strangled croak, as though someone were trying to say something but couldn't get the words out due to shock.
"We have a full half of the Kings in this world gathered here. And we have just fought a battle the likes of which, to the best of my knowledge, has not been seen before in the course of recorded history. Four gods have been vanquished by four Campione in the same place at the same time; doesn't it seem a waste that we should all just go our separate ways? What we have here is an opportunity, so let me put forth my proposal."
Shirou glanced up at the sky where the light of the sun shone from where it had risen less than an hour ago.
"I invite all three of my fellow Kings to my manor tomorrow evening. I shall see to providing food and drink worthy of such august guests, of that you need not fear. Feel free to bring whomever you wish with you, bring servants, disciples, lovers or friends, it is purely up to you. There shall be only one rule; all who attend must come under an oath of peace.
"What I propose is a competition of our Kingships using words rather than fists or weapons. I know of one other such meeting that took place, and if it was good enough for the likes of Gilgamesh then I'd like to give it a try myself."
He turned to face all three of the other Campione.
"Too often when we God Slayers meet it leads only to conflict and confrontation, this once let us take the chance to try for something . . . more, something interesting. What say you; will you answer my challenge in this?"
"A banquet of Kings and a contest of Kingship? King Emiya you certainly know how to intrigue this Luo Cuilian. Very well, I and my young hawk will attend your feast, be sure not to disappoint me."
The beautiful musical voice of the Ruler of the Martial Realm carried hints of humour and imperiousness, but more than anything else she sounded . . . interested. This was something new for her, something she hadn't seen coming. With a nod of her head she was surrounded by a swirling haze of flower petals and disappeared. Off to the side her disciple was speaking to Godou and his harem, but Shirou was paying more attention to the Masked King than them.
"Well King Emiya, when you said that the curtain had yet to fall on this drama I wasn't expecting this. Very well, I, John Pluto Smith, will gladly attend this Banquet of Kings that you are preparing. I shall make arrangements so I may be contacted with the details, until then I shall take my leave."
With a dramatic flourish of his cape the flamboyant King transformed into a demon bird once more and took wing into the sky where it swiftly disappeared into the clouds.
That left only the two Campione native to Japan standing in the middle of the blasted wasteland that had once been the plains of Senjougahara.
"Will you be attending my feast Kusanagi Godou? It would be a shame if you could not."
The black haired teen opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off as Erica spoke up.
"Of course he will. It would be a sad day when the first King of this land failed to attend such an auspicious event."
Godou's eyes widened in sudden alarm and he opened his mouth to speak again only to be cut off once more, this time by Liliana.
"Indeed, as a knight to my lord I must see to both his person and to his reputation. To be absent from such a grand event upon his homeland, such a thing is unthinkable. Do not worry Godou, I will ensure that nothing keeps you from attending this Banquet of Kings."
By now the seventh Campione had a decidedly hunted look in his eyes. None the less he tried to speak once more, but was again cut off before he could even begin, this time by Ena.
"This would be an excellent time for Ena to be officially announced as one of his Majesties' women. I could be officially recognized so I'd no longer have to be his underground lover."
"E-Ena-san you shouldn't say such things in public." Yuri spoke up.
"Oh don't worry Yuri, you can be announced as the official wife, Ena is content to be the mistress."
"ENA, don't say things like that."
"Can I come as well Onee-chan? I know I'm the youngest member and not yet officially recognised but-"
"I have won the wager, and it didn't even take a fortnight to-"
"H-Hikari! What on earth-"
As the general conversation descended into an incoherent babble Godou's shoulders seemed to slump in defeat.
"I'm please to see that you'll be attending," commented Shirou as he fished out his cell phone. Remarkably despite everything he'd been through it was not only still functional but only a little on the scuffed side. "And with such . . . lively company too."
As he turned away and started to dial his manor the eighth Campione was very careful not to let his true feelings show on his face. The truth was that despite the calm front he was putting up inside he was running around in panicked circles and tearing his hair out.
What had he done?! It had been a complete whim, an act of pure impulse, and yet somehow he'd ended up setting up a new Feast of Kings with him as the host. Sure when he'd first experienced the third hand memory he'd thought it had been a magnificent spectacle to see the three Kings of the Fourth Holy Grail War engaging in their discussion, but he'd never thought of setting something like that up himself.
Yet when the opportunity had presented itself he'd seized upon it and done his best to convince the others to go along with it as well.
Okay, calm down, take deep breaths, find your centre.
Events were in motion now, there was no changing that. He'd gotten this cart up to the top of the hill, now it was his job to make sure it got down the other side without turning into one huge accident.
He could do this, he could do this.
After all how hard could it be?
. . .
Had he really just thought that?
Maybe it didn't count if he didn't say it out loud.
. . .
Gods damn it.
(-)
Aži Qubla: The Serpent's Kiss
Type-Anti-Unit
Rank-B
Range-1-10
No of Targets-1-5
In ancient Persia there once was an evil Magus that served the will of Angra Mainyu. Granted protection by three demons that served the evil god none could slay him and he brought pestilence and other hardships down upon the people. In time though a young hero sought to slay the Magus and received four weapons from the Peri, three with which to slay the demons and a fourth with which to kill the Magus himself. The hero was successful in his quest, as well as in a number of adventures before reaching the Magus' stronghold, but died in the attempt. All four of his weapons were elevated tot the status of Noble Phantasms when he died.
Aži Qubla is the weapon created to slay Evil Wind, a demon able to move faster than the wind itself. The blade of this long sword breaks up into a long bladed chain/whip at least three times the length of the sword.
Aži Qubla possesses a number of abilities, firstly it is capable of extending its length to many times its original length. Secondly it is prehensile to a degree, responding to its wielders will, this is not perfect though, and a certain level of skill is necessary in order to use this Noble Phantasm to the maximum effect. Thirdly the bladed links of this weapon naturally secrete a paralytic venom. Though not lethal or fast affecting it is very hard to resist and will cause a victim to lose a rank in agility every hour until the antidote is applied or the poison wears off (This takes twenty four hours on average). If the victim possesses a Noble Phantasm of their own that can counter the venom, or Magic Resistance of B rank or higher then the poison will be ineffective.
It is the last ability of this sword that is it's most potent. Designed to defeat a demon capable of moving at extreme speed this weapon is also capable of achieving rapid movements far surpassing the Agility rank of its normal wielder. Unless the target of this sword possesses A rank Agility or higher then the odds of being able to dodge a blow from this will halve with each consecutive attack. However due to this speed the weight of the attacks is correspondingly lowered, meaning that a target equipped with even light armour can deflect the blows of this weapon.
Ideally this weapon would be used against agile targets with low Endurance, such as the True Assassin summoned in the fifth Heaven's Feel or the Lancer of the Fourth Holy Grail War. Against such targets as Saber or the Berserker of the fourth war this weapon would be largely ineffective. It should also be noted that due to its origins this Noble Phantasm has absolutely no compatibility with Curses without End, indeed should Shirou try to use them together this weapon will most likely self destruct before accepting one of the curses being loaded into it.
-\-
Angurvadel: Stream of Anguish
Type-Anti-Unit
Rank-C
Range-1-2
No of Targets-1
Sword belonging to Frithjof inn Frœkni, inherited from his father Thorsteinn Víkingsson. A magic sword, fatal even to the giants, with a golden hilt and brilliant blade, inscribed with runic letters that gleamed a dim blue-white in times of peace and blazed a furious crimson-red in times of war, shining like the Northern Lights. Wielded by Frithjof during the course of his adventures and his life as a Viking.
The power of this weapon increases proportionately to the amount of conflict going on nearby. As a result if it is used in a one on one battle its rank will remain unchanged. However if it is used when other conflicts are taking place its rank will rise in accordingly. Its theoretical maximum would be A+, however due to the nature of the Holy Grail War there aren't sufficient combatants for it to attain this level even if all of them engage in simultaneous combat.
The best foes against which to use this Noble Phantasm would be Casters. Both Medea's dragon's tooth warriors and the demons summoned by Gilles de Rais would possess sufficient numbers to bring out the full potential of this sword. However, ironically, the more effectively the wielder uses it to destroy their foes the faster the rank will decrease once more.
Shirou's Authorities.
Angra Mainyu: Curses Without End – "A mother who sees her child die, a soldier who gazes on his killer, the beggar in the gutter who stares at the palace. From them I take their bile, their hate, their curses."
This Authority allows Shirou to fashion and use a virtually infinite number of curses that can bring pain, misfortune, despair, disaster and ruin to those they are used upon. These curses can be in the forms of spells, be infused into objects or take the form of monsters such as snakes or demons that will be subject to Shirou's will. These monsters can be dispelled by a simple mental command, but it must be delivered while Shirou has line of sight to his target. Should one of these creations stray too far from him and grow too strong then it is possible for it to grow resistant to his commands. Creating these monsters takes time though, enough that it isn't practical for him to try to do it on the battle field.
To date the best way that Shirou has been able to use this Authority has been to load the most potent anti-deity curses that he can onto his traced weapons. Though incompatible with most of the Noble Phantasms that he can trace he has found that purely 'empty' swords can be elevated to the point where they become extremely formidable.
There is a penalty to the use of all the world's evil though. As soon as Shirou releases the power after using it he will be wracked with extreme pain and weakness proportionate to the strength of the curses he has brought about. When using curses of a magnitude powerful enough to affect a god then it's enough to leave him helpless for a full day.
Perseus: Dragon Slaying Hero – "A hero endures; a hero perseveres, through adversity and challenge, through victory and joy. Tempered by life and forged into legend this steel shall slay all monsters before me."
An Authority that grants Shirou the aspect of a legendary hero, it manifests as simply an enhancement of combat ability. Speed, strength, endurance, all is enhanced to superhuman levels, though not on par with Godou when using the likes of the raptor or the bull. In simpler terms it allows him to enhance himself to the point where he can battle a god through sheer physical abilities. Additionally when used against an opponent that can be considered to be a 'dragon' or possesses the attributes of one then its effects change to providing its user with greater resistance to all of the opponent's abilities as well as providing an even higher boost to physical abilities.
However this ability is not an automatic one. If he faces an opponent who has a dragon attribute then Shirou has to make the connection with spell words in much the same way that Godou has to use knowledge to prepare his sword. Only after he makes a definite link between his foe and the concept of 'dragon' will the full power of this Authority becomes available to him.
Additionally the 'steel' nature of this Authority is highly compatible with Shirou's own element and origin. As a result he has been able to incorporate it into his tracing resulting in him being able to grant divinity to his creation as he sees fit resulting in what can only be described as 'Pseudo Phantasms' that act similarly to the godly weapons Perseus wielded. Its power can also be used to further reinforce the structures of some of his Traced Noble Phantasms. This only works with ones to which he has a strong affinity, such as Caliburn of Excalibur, but it will allow him to produce perfect copies rather than ranked down ones. These perfected copies will only last as long as he's holding the power of this Authority, once he releases it they will dissolve back into Prana.
Mount of the Hero – "Hooves that thunder over the earth, wings that soar through the sky, sacred beast born from a monster yet pure as finest silver, hear my call and serve as the mount to a hero once more."
This Authority allows Shirou to manifest Perseus' Pegasus at will and to exert full command over it. Able to fly at speeds equalling or surpassing any modern machine, as well as boasting excellent manuvering and control in the air or on the ground. It also seems to have a natural ability to home in on a target even over continental distances such as how it was able to take its riders unerringly to Japan even when they did not know where it was. As a divine beast this mount is immune to all mortal weapons and extremely resistant to all forms of magic, also being mounted on it further increases the power of Dragon Slaying Hero's Steel. In terms of the Nasuverse mounting the Pegasus grants bonuses to combat ability. As a last resort the Pegasus can be sacrificed to transform it into an attack similar to Godou's Horse Authority, though only about two thirds as powerful and lacking the fire element. After being sacrificed in this manner Shirou has to wait a full week before he can summon the Pegasus again. It should be noted that Shirou does NOT like to use that ability as he feels it is cruel to his mount.
As far as control over his steed goes this tends to vary depending upon how much contact Shirou has with the Pegasus. At a distance he can send simple instructions through their mental connection. When in physical contact with his steed he can impart more complex commands and control his mount with greater ease. When he manifests the golden bridle then it become possible for rider and pegasus to deepen the bond to the level where Shirou can access his steed's senses and instincts, in effect a sort of natural riding skill far beyond his normal abilities.
The Hero's Bride – "Bask in my glory, revere my magnificence, I am the hero, the saviour, the prince on the steed of white. I come to claim my prize that I have saved, the heart of my maiden bride."
A variation of the Divinity of Steel that Perseus possessed. Rather than granting him control of women with priestess lineage it has changed so that Shirou will appear as far more attractive to any woman that he is 'saving'. In addition this Authority will also act as a mild healing spell upon those it affects, bolstering their vitality, imparting minor healing abilities and aiding in releasing them from other influences. Though manipulative this Authority is gentle and does not inflict harm on its recipients' minds, merely nudging them instead. Unlike his other Authorities this one is always active to one level or another, which places Shirou in some interesting and embarrassing situations. If he so chooses Shirou can employ this Authority to fully dominate the will of a woman under its effect, however using it to such a level can only be employed on a single target at a time, plus he dislikes doing so.
Hades: Rule of the Underworld – "Past the jaws of Cerberus, down the twisting path to the kingdoms three, before me lies the domain over which I am monarch. Beneath the earth, beneath the darkness, all within is my possession."
Slaying Hades has granted Shirou a potent dominion over the afterlife aspect that was Hades' main attribute. In effect it grants him two abilities; the first is that he now has access to all the wealth beneath the earth that belonged to Hades as 'the Rich One'. By accessing this wealth Shirou can essentially pull jewels and precious metals out of nowhere, he can even choose the form they take such as the gems being cut or rough or the metals being in nougats or coins or bullion. With practice Shirou has been able to pull his desired treasure out and return it at lightning speed meaning that this previously non-combat ability now has some potential as a weapon.
The second effect is that Shirou can call forth the souls of the dead and manifest them into servants that have to obey his will. Such servants can take the form of skeletal zombies such as those that Sasha Dejanstahl Voban uses or as ghosts without a physical form, but at a higher cost in energy Shirou can incarnate them into fully functional spiritual bodies similar to those produced by the Heavens Feel magic. As with a servant maintaining such bodies is a constant drain on his strength, but given the power he now wields as a Campione he can maintain many such servants with ease even in a combat situation. There are conditions on this ability though; where Voban could only summon up those that he had personally slain Emiya requires some form of link to those he is calling. Ideally it would be part of their remains such as a lock of hair, a bone fragment or a piece of a treasured possession; however such things as a personal effect or an object with a strong association to them will suffice. These links must be within a certain radius of Shirou and he must be aware of their presence for them to work.
-/-/-/-/-
OMAKE: Fear What Could Be.
The mugger ran down the side alley and away from the scene of his latest crime. Behind him a middle aged man groaned in pain as he felt his left eye begin to swell.
"Nooo," he moaned in pain, "That money was meant to pay for my grandson's surgery, nooo."
The young thug didn't stop, but instead hightailed it as fast as he could until he finally reached the riverside dock where the rest of the clichéd gang of delinquents that he hung out with were gathered.
"Hey, check it out!" declared Mugger A as he displayed his ill-gotten gains (Rather stupidly as well considering he was in less than honest company), "The old man I rolled earlier today was loaded."
"Heh, the boss'll be happy to hear about that." Commented Delinquent A as he lit up a cheap cigarette.
"Yeah," agreed Delinquent B, "He says we'll need all the dough we can get together if we want to move up in the mysterious and dark villainous organization that we barely know anything about and yet are none the less fanatically loyal to."
"Exactly." Said Delinquent C nodding enthusiastically.
"Oh? What's this I hear about something I'll like?" asked as slightly better looking and dressed Delinquent youth as he walked in wearing sunglasses even though it was indoors and getting towards evening.
"Delinquent A was just telling us about all the money he was able to steal from an old man." Explained Delinquent C.
"Ah, well that's good. We can use it to-"
The gang boss's words were cut off as the glass window in the warehouses roof exploded into a rain of glass that strangely failed to hurt anyone and that mysteriously disappeared as soon as nobody was looking at it. As the gang covered their faces from the glass shards that weren't actually coming anywhere near them a white Pegasus flew down through the broken window and landed on the floor.
As soon as it was down a figure in a blue and white armoured costume with a long red scarf tied around his neck dismounted in a series of flashy and largely pointless movements. As he landed on his feet it could be seen that his head was encased in a superhero style helmet.
"It's Sword Rider Saber X!" Declared Delinquent B as he pointed at the superhero. "Get him!"
In total disregard for any sort of common sense the three delinquents hurled themselves at the intruder while pulling out a variety of crude weapons such as pipes and butterfly knives. In a totally predictable fashion the masked hero quickly crushed them all with casual ease.
"Well done Saber X!" declared the boss of the downed gang, "But now let us see how you fair against the common generic cannon fodder nonhuman troops of the mysterious and dark villainous organization I have sold my soul to."
In response to his words twenty figures covered from head to toe in black spandex and wielding a collection of strange and impractical weapons materialized in puffs of black smoke.
"Trace, on!" Declared the masked hero as he spread his arm, "Black and white swords . . . Equip!"
With twin swords coloured black and white now in hand Saber X charged forwards to meet the hoard of inhuman flunkies, all of whom were making a variety of strange and apparently nonsensical noises.
The fight was savage but brief, and punctuated with sudden showers of sparks and explosions of coloured smoke that seemed to possess no logical cause, and ended with the victorious Sword Rider posing heroically over the downed bodies of his foes.
"Damn you Saber X," shouted the boss as he ran over to a pile of crates sitting in the middle of the otherwise largely empty warehouse in a very suspicious manner, "I won't let you stand in the way of my fervent, and possibly suicidal, loyalty to the mysterious and dark villainous organization I serve. Even if I'm just a totally expendable pawn, even if I'm so unimportant I haven't even got a name, even though there doesn't seem to be any actual motivation for my fanatical loyalty, I will still recklessly throw away my life in order to advance the as yet only vaguely defined plans of my shadowy masters. PREPARE TO DIE!"
From amidst the stack of crates emerged some sort of mechanical exo-suit into which the boss had strapped himself. Cables ran from the inside of the machine to sucker cups that had attached themselves to the gang leader's exposed skin.
"With this experimental and highly unstable weapon I shall-"
"EXCALIBUR!"
Any further words by the nameless villain of the week were cut off as a massive blast of golden light swallowed him and much of the warehouse. No, that wasn't quite right; if one listened carefully they could hear a faint fading wail saying: "But what about my fight scennnnnnnnnnnnnne?".
"Weren't you a bit abrupt onii-chan? This was his one moment to shine in his otherwise unimportant life, shouldn't you have at least let him attack you a bit before Excaliblasting him?"
The mysterious hero turned to the voice that was coming from beside the warehouse door.
"I was a bit annoyed because you missed your cue. You were meant to jump in before the first wave of flunkies attacked so we could do our introduction speech."
"But-but do I have to?" the young girls voice whined. "It's so stupid."
"You will do it and you will like it." Declared the Sword Rider, "Now come out Naginata Rider Lancer Y, how do you expect to become a hero of justice if you keep hiding like that?"
"But . . . I don't want to become a hero of justice." The young woman said in exasperated confusion as she entered the warehouse.
She was shorter than Saber X and was wearing a more feminine version of the armoured costume as her male counterpart; only instead of a scarf billowing dramatically from his throat she had a sort of frilly skirt around her waist and a long ribbon running from the back of her helmet. Also instead of being in blue and white her armour was in pink and purple.
"Nonsense," her male companion declared, "Of course you do, you just don't know it yet. We'll keep on finding and defeating these minions of evil until you realize that."
Suddenly he was standing in front of her and somehow managing to loom over her even as he leaned his helmet covered face closer to her.
"We'll keep it up forever if we have to."
Forever . . .
Forever . . .
Forever . . .
Illya sat up in bed and wildly tried to look everywhere at once. That was just a dream right? There weren't any Shirous dressed in ridiculous costumes hiding in the shadows ready to jump her, force her into an equally stupid costume and force her to fight even stupider mysterious enemies?
Right?
Right.
Taking a few deep breaths the young Einzbern brought her pounding heart back under control. Turning her bedside light on and glancing at the clock on her bedside table she noted it was two o'clock in the morning. For a couple of moments she sat in bed contemplating her dream, then with a decisive nod to herself she settled on a course of action.
Getting out of bed she walked over to her closet and rummaged around until she found the object of her search. This had been intended as a gift for Shirou come Christmas, but after that dream she decided that perhaps it might be too dangerous to give him ideas. Especially with how impressed he was with that American Campione.
She'd find him something else instead. Preferably something that wouldn't lead him into . . . taboo thoughts. This she'd drop off at one of the charity shops or something after school when she walked back home instead of catching a ride with Yusuke.
With another nod to herself she placed the complete box set of the last fifteen years of Kamen Rider into her bag and then went back to bed.
Maybe she could get him some American films instead, she thought to herself sleepily as she drifted off. That trilogy about the man that acts like a ninja and dresses up like a bat, surely that wouldn't give her onii-chan dangerous ideas.
