"… and that's about it."
Jack doesn't like talking. He likes thinking even less.
But what else can he do?
Cú Chulainn doesn't know the whole story — not from their side. Olga wouldn't deign to ask.
And Mash? She could probably explain it. If she ever spoke above a whisper.
So now it falls to their new Archer.And he's worried about the old one.
Moriarty's brow furrows — just slightly. The rest of his face doesn't move. That smirk of his stays affixed, unreadable.
A sigh escapes him. Unexpected. It's gone just as fast. Then:
"There are still pieces missing. You mentioned other Shadow Servants. None have appeared, correct?"
"Yes," the Master replies. "Still don't trust it. Doesn't feel right. But what can you do?"
"Indeed. Suspicion is correct. Action, however — must be measured. Overthinking, even when warranted, leads only to paralysis. A lesson earned, not learned."
His tone sharpens. Calculated now.
"That Archer… you've seen him once. And already, he tried to kill you. Unlike Medusa — who avoided striking at your weakest — he made no such distinction. He could appear again. And if he does, it will be precisely when it hurts most: just before we engage Saber."
He adjusts a cuff. An idle movement, but deliberate.
"Saber, despite her constraints, is manageable. I can say that with confidence — so long as the Grail is factored in. I presume it empowers her. If not, then guarding it would make no sense. A liability with no payoff."
Another pause. Moriarty seems to enjoy letting silence work for him.
"Here is the plan."
His tone is final. Precise. Like reading from a ledger.
"The skeletons you previously destroyed — we return to their sites. Caster will reconstitute them. He will then animate them, not merely as fodder, but as functioning decoys. Their purpose: to bait Archer."
"Their path? Deliberately chosen. We'll lead them toward Saber's position, through zones where tall structures remain intact — even in this ruin of a city. Structures high enough that Archer would be compelled to act if watching."
"I will accompany the decoys. As you've correctly inferred, Master — you're not the only one paying attention — you know of my skill End of the Spider's Thread. Its effects are subtle, but real. So long as I'm alone, the threads of fate will twist — and his 'shot', if it comes, may rebound upon him."
He smiles, faintly. Not kindly.
"The rest of you will remain hidden. Once the attack comes — and it will — you rush him. Do not hesitate. I will pursue as well, but from an alternate route. Should he flee, I will intercept."
"He's an Archer. So am I. And unlike most, I do not need proximity to kill."
Then — his voice lowers, thoughtful.
"When he's dead, we claim his perch. More skeletons will be needed. Caster will distribute them across numerous vantage points — all with sightlines to Saber's mountain."
"The Grail itself may not be vulnerable. But the terrain is. The skeletons will bombard her location — launching enchanted rubble, explosive in nature. We don't need to destroy the Grail. Only make it untenable for her to remain near it."
"While she's occupied, Mash will advance. She will draw Saber's focus — force her to engage. I will strike next, from concealment."
"And then… Caster. His Noble Phantasm. Deployed swiftly. Precisely. To finish her."
-
Moriarty doesn't ask for approval.
He doesn't need to.
He finishes speaking, hands folded behind his back like a man surveying the aftermath of a chess game — every piece either a memory or a message.
Jack doesn't respond right away.
Not out of hesitation.Just that same old pause — reflexive, unwanted.Thinking always comes first, even when he hates it.
"…Fine," he says. Eventually. "We try it your way."
Not agreement. Not belief. But permission.
Moriarty accepts this with a slight nod. Not gratitude. Just acknowledgment.
Mash, as ever, watches from the side. Anxious. Trying to look steady. Her knuckles tight around the handle of her shield.
Cú Chulainn shifts his weight, surveying the broken street. Calm. No theatrics. This version of him — this one wears purpose like a mantle.
"We'll need the skeletons," Cú says. "Back where you dropped them. If there's enough structure left, I can work with that."
"Reanimate?" Mash asks, softly.
"Not in the way you're thinking. I'm not raising them for a fight — just movement. Barely that. Think of it like puppetry through runes. No thoughts, no instincts. Just enough to pass for soldiers with them."
Moriarty allows a thin smile.
"Good. That's all we need."
Jack doesn't smile.
The walk back is quiet.
They cross cracked pavement and burned husks of buildings, a city long past saving. Sunlight cuts down in thin slants, filtered through broken windows and dust in the air.
Nothing follows them. Nothing waits.
And yet, Jack keeps checking.
They find the skeletons near where the last battle ended. Scattered across alleyways and craters, broken but still whole enough to recognize.
Cú kneels next to one — a collapsed ribcage and three-quarters of a spine.
"Still got enough frame. Just need anchoring points."
He brushes a rune into the ground beside it — delicate, old. The bone glows faintly, shivering in place.
"Once the sigils bind, they'll move in sequence. Not fast. Not clever. But they'll walk like they mean it. Most importantly? They'll look like people."
"How many?" Jack asks.
"As many as we've got bodies for. I'll patch them together if I need to."
Jack looks to Moriarty.
"And you're just going to walk with them?"
Moriarty's expression doesn't shift.
"Precisely. A lone human among constructs. He'll be watching for threats. But the right kind of irregularity draws more attention than conformity."
Jack's voice is flat.
"You're gambling he'll take the shot."
"I'm counting on it."
Half an hour later, the decoys begin to move.
Nine of them — shuffling, rattling, held together by Cú's sorcery and stitched runes that glow faintly at the joints. No weapons. No armor. Nothing hostile.
But they move.
And that's what matters.
They walk in a slow arc — toward Saber's position, but not directly. Through a series of streets that cut under several ruined skyscrapers, ones still tall enough to serve as perches for an unseen Archer.
Moriarty walks in their midst, posture elegant and composed. His hands remain behind his back. He does not speak. He does not glance up.
A scholar among phantoms.
From a rooftop not far off, Jack waits.
High ground. Behind broken steel beams and scorched rebar. From here, he can see Moriarty, the skeletons, and five possible vantage points. He watches all of them.
Cú is hidden deeper — two floors up in a fractured apartment complex, crouched over glowing script.
Mash waits further back, shield angled to hide her outline in the shadows of a concrete awning.
"He'll fire," Jack mutters under his breath. "Has to."
He's not talking to anyone.
Just saying it so the silence doesn't win.
-
A Master.
That was unexpected.
He'd thought they were all dead.
In this broken replica of Fuyuki, where flames had already consumed everything worth saving — and where the Grail's filth puppeteered what's left — the idea of a surviving Master was... novel.
But there he was.
No Command Spells glowing from his hand, not from what Archer could see, but he moved like one. Confident. Unarmored. A soft target. He'd tracked him through the smoke, through a lull in the chaos.
Alone.
Archer hadn't waited.
Trace On.
A bow shimmered into being. Not a projection this time — a memory. Familiar. Functional.
He released a full spread — explosive arrows, arcing precisely. Efficiently.
But she got in the way.
That girl.
Shield large enough to cover two. The barrier had held — surprisingly well.
A Servant, clearly.
But one he didn't recognize. No class markings. No data. A complete unknown — just like the Master she shielded.
He should've known better.
He used to know better.
A counter-guardian lives on certainty. Patterns. Recognition. You don't fire unless the outcome is assured.
But that logic… faded now.
Corruption eroded it.
Left behind a man who pulled the trigger not because it was smart — but because he was angry.
The ambush failed. He didn't try again.
They escaped.
He let them.
Not because he wanted to — but because he couldn't win. Not in that moment. Not without mana, not without backup. He was masterless. Alone. His Independent Action allowed him to survive, yes — but only just.
And Saber had to be protected.
He clenched a fist, bloodless and tight.
Nearly an hour had passed since.
Time moved strangely here. He didn't need a clock — he felt it. In his bones. In the draw of power through tainted ley lines. In the flicker of spirit signatures across the grid.
There had been a fight — he'd sensed it. Over by the place where Lancer had made her territory — her "garden."
He didn't need to watch it to know the result. Lancer wasn't strong enough. Not against a proper Servant-Master pair. She never had the instincts. Just the poison and pride.
He dismissed it.
Instead, he watched the perimeter. Waited.
For him.
For Heracles.
Berserker was the real threat — wild, broken, rage unfiltered. If he came near Saber's position, Archer wasn't sure he could stop him.
He had to.
Because that's all that mattered now. Not the war. Not the prize.
Just her.
Saber.
King of Knights. His former partner. Not that she remembered. Not that he even counted as the same man anymore.
He didn't want the Grail.
He just wanted to die for something. And taking an arrow for Saber was the cleanest exit he could hope for.
Then—movement.
Silhouettes in the haze.
A group. Not the same as before, but connected. He could feel it. The girl with the shield was there again. And the Master — the boy.
But now with them: another girl — white-haired, unarmed — and two more distinct figures.
One... off. Old. Too dressed-up for a battlefield. The other — instantly recognizable.
Caster.
Blue robes. Runic shimmer. Crimson eyes like fire under frost. He knew that man. Knew him in every timeline.
They were headed toward Saber's mountain.
A direct route.
Too direct.
Could be a trap.
He should know better.
But the rot in his head — that dark static born of Grail corruption — didn't want patience.
It wanted action.
They looked exposed. Perfect targets. Vulnerable.
He shifted higher in the ruined building's frame, one eye closed, the bow already in hand.
Trace On.
The projected longbow formed again — not for ceremony. Just speed.
And he fired.
-
The plan worked.
The projectile struck one of the decoys — the bones scattered, the glow of Cú's runes briefly flaring out as it collapsed.
Not Moriarty.
He'd placed himself just close enough to look like a target — just far enough to be safe.
Jack didn't cheer. He didn't smile.
He just turned, already moving.
"He's here."
"Move!" Cú Chulainn's voice barked — almost in time with Jack's own.
The team exploded into motion.
Mash ran ahead with Olga close behind, shield raised and ready.
Fou bounded over debris like a shadow with paws, yipping once.
Jack led the charge, sprinting ahead with a hunter's focus.
"Follow the shot," he said, low and cold. "He's not getting another."
Cú remained only long enough to flare a rune across the street — a quick-binding glyph. Then he followed, slower, muttering under his breath.
"Cornering a wounded dog. Let's see if he bites."
-
They moved fast.
Not recklessly — but with purpose. With training. With the weight of prior loss keeping their strides sharp, not suicidal.
Jack was the first into the alleyways — quick and quiet, tracing the angles of the shot like he was born for it. He didn't look back. The others would follow. He trusted that.
Moriarty had already vanished into another route, unseen.
Exactly as planned.
Archer was still up there — they could see the structure now, half-intact, a skeleton of rebar and warped steel. The upper floor was the only place with a clean shot, given the line of debris and ruin leading toward the mountain.
"There," Mash said, her voice raised for once, pointing with her shield. "That rooftop."
Jack didn't respond. He was already climbing.
Olga muttered something acidic — something about the absurdity of a high-rise ambush in a cursed warzone — but followed Mash nonetheless. Cú Chulainn remained in the back for now, carving glowing symbols with his thumb on the nearest wall, muttering as he layered contingency after contingency into the stone.
"He sees us," Jack hissed once he crested the edge of the floor. "Not firing yet."
Mash climbed up behind him seconds later.
"He's—waiting."
He was.
Archer's figure stood in partial silhouette atop a skeletal metal beam — unmoving, drawn like a cut-out against the burning sky.
His bow was projected, but not drawn. His stance, tense.
Hesitation?
Maybe.
He'd seen the numbers.
More likely: paralysis by pride. The corrupted kind. A mind too trained, too disciplined, buckling under a plan it couldn't anticipate.
Moriarty's presence wasn't felt.
But his influence was.
It manifested in small things — and fate rarely announces its twist with a flourish.
Just as EMIYA took a step to reposition — a rusted girder beneath him gave way.
It shouldn't have.
Structurally, it had held weight long past collapse.
But this time — it bent, shrieked once, then snapped.
Archer faltered.
One foot slipped — the movement reflexive, not fatal — but just enough to tilt his center of gravity off-balance.
The arrow he'd meant to fire went off early.
A wild shot.
It struck nowhere close.
A signal flare of failure — if there ever was one.
"He's compromised—move!" Jack snapped, already pushing forward.
Mash followed behind, shield raised like a wall of steel and conviction. Olga flanked to the side, using rubble for cover. Fou bounded low, almost silent.
From a side street, Cú raised a hand — runes glittered across his forearm, activating.
"I'll block the escape," he said. "He tries to bolt, he'll run into me."
And Moriarty? He was nowhere in sight.
But Jack felt it again — a pull.
Like the threads of something distant tugging gently. As if somewhere, someone had already accounted for every move they were making.
He didn't question it.
Not now.
On the rooftop, Archer recovered his footing.
Snarled under his breath.
Corruption burned in his chest — the red veins of the Grail's influence pulsing hotter now, reacting to danger.
He projected again — a different bow this time. Stronger. Sharper. He had no time for elegance.
But by the time it had formed—
They were already there.
Archer twisted, barely avoiding the first strike — only to feel the thud of Mash's shield slam against the platform behind him. She hadn't even swung — she'd just arrived. And her presence alone disrupted the battlefield.
They were surrounding him.
Closing the net.
And somewhere — unseen — Moriarty smiled.
-
"Trace, on—"
The chant was automatic. He discarded his new bow already.
Too slow.
By the time the twin white-and-black blades took shape in his hands — Kanshou and Bakuya, forged from will and regret — Mash was already upon him, her shield battering against his guard, and Cú surged up the other side, runes crackling like lightning along his skin.
"–So it's you," Archer spat, deflecting a swing and backpedaling over concrete that crumbled beneath his steps. His voice wasn't calm — wasn't composed. Not anymore. "The dog of Ulster, dressed like a priest."
Cú grinned like he'd been waiting for the insult all day.
"Not a priest. Just a humble death god, passing by."
The air split as another rune detonated behind Archer — it hadn't been aimed to hit. Just to cut off escape.
"You're not what I expected," Archer hissed, twisting between blows. "This Grail… it's twisted you."
"You think you're the only one fighting corruption?" Cú snapped. "We're all breathing this cursed smog. Trick is not choking on it."
Mash moved again — steady, brutal, like a living wall. No wasted motion.
Archer parried low, twisted hard, and struck with his left blade — Cú caught it mid-air with a rune-etched palm.
"I know those daggers," the Caster muttered, looking him dead in the eye. "You used them to kill a king, didn't you?"
"And you used yours to kill a friend."
That should have stung.
But Cú just laughed.
"Difference is, I never said sorry."
A sharp twang cut through the chaos.
None of them had time to react before the impact hit.
A shot — too fast to be normal — tore through the air and buried itself straight through EMIYA's thigh. The exit wound was messy, mangled — bone visible.
He collapsed to one knee, teeth clenched in agony.
Far off, unseen but not unfelt — Moriarty adjusted his stance atop a crumbling statue several blocks away. His smoking barrel gleamed like gold in the last rays of ruined daylight.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
The plan didn't need further involvement. His part was precise.
Back in the fight — Mash saw her chance. She didn't speak. She didn't ask.
She charged.
The shield hit like a wrecking ball — a flat strike, center mass — launching Archer backward.
He crashed through a pillar of concrete and collapsed at its base, coughing blood.
But still breathing.
Still trying to stand.
That was when Caster arrived.
Not running. Walking.
He approached slowly, runes still glowing along his arm, calm as death.
"I'll give you this much," Cú muttered. "You didn't beg."
Archer didn't answer.
"And you didn't run."
Still no answer.
"...That part," Cú said, stepping closer, "is why I'll make this quick."
A rune flared in his palm — and a thin spear of light, barely more than a flash, pierced Archer through the chest.
No theatrics. No explosion.
Just a clean end.
Archer slumped forward.
Kanshou and Bakuya hit the ground beside him, vanishing into sparks.
His body followed moments later — scattering into faint motes of black and red, corrupted ether finally spent.
The rooftop was silent.
From below, Jack's voice echoed up, calm, clipped:
"We have the perch."
Moriarty's voice answered seconds later, through their master-servant connection— old-fashioned, but clear:
"Then we move to phase two."
"The mountain?"
"Naturally. As I said: the Grail may be indestructible. The hill it rests on, however… is not."
-
Smoke still curled from the upper ruins where Archer fell.
Mash stood quietly, shield resting against her shoulder, gaze locked where EMIYA had vanished.
Fou made a soft, uncertain sound from beside Jack — who hadn't moved from his observation post.
"You alright?" Cú asked her. Not unkindly.
"...I didn't expect it to be that fast," she admitted. "Or that... quiet."
Cú exhaled through his nose.
"Not every Servant dies screaming. That one was tired — you could see it. Like he'd already lost, way before we showed up."
Mash nodded once. But her knuckles still clenched around the shield's grip.
Jack descended the broken stairwell just as Cú turned toward him.
"No injuries?" the Master asked, calm but not cold.
"Nothing that won't heal," Cú replied, glancing down at a faint scorch across his side. "Guy was good — even sick in the head. I'd rather not fight him again."
Jack gave a brief nod. No praise, no relief. Just focus.
"Then we move."
They regrouped quickly.
Moriarty met them in the shadow of a half-collapsed hotel tower, adjusting his tie with calm satisfaction.
"I assume everything proceeded as planned?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"He's gone," Jack said simply.
"Ah, good. Then we capitalize before the window closes."
Moriarty turned, and pointed a slim cane toward the distant silhouette of a mountainside — faintly glowing with sickly golden light. The Grail. Guarded still.
"Caster. Begin reconstruction."
Cú crouched near a pile of shattered bones — the remnants of the skeletal mobs they'd encountered before. His fingers glowed as he traced rune after rune along their surfaces, murmuring incantations in ancient script.
The bones twitched.
Then lifted.
One by one, skeletons stood again — animated not by rage or base programming, but deliberate intent. A semblance of life, enough to trick a watchful enemy.
"That's four… five… good. Give me another minute and I'll have ten. That should be enough to simulate a full formation."
"Scatter them across the high points," Moriarty instructed. "I want overlapping fields of view on the slope — but varied enough that Saber cannot strike them all down at once."
"I can tag them with a couple explosive glyphs," Cú added. "They won't be powerful, but if Saber gets close, they'll make her pay attention."
"Perfect. We need to disrupt her flow — not defeat her outright."
Mash stood nearby, shield slung across her back for the moment.
"And I go next?"
"Indeed. You will make the first real contact — once she's already distracted. No words. Just impact. We want her reactive. Rushed."
Mash nodded, jaw tight.
"And me?" Jack asked.
Moriarty looked toward him, voice unreadable.
"You watch. You command. You do not engage."
"Even if it goes wrong?"
"Especially then. If we fail, you survive."
There was no warmth in it. Just truth.
Jack didn't argue.
The skeletons finished rising, their forms crude but functional. Cú directed them with short bursts of runic code — not speech, not gesture. Efficiency. They moved in small teams, each taking a different route toward the Grail's mountain perch.
One climbed a bell tower.
Another settled in a broken chapel's steeple.
A third entered the shell of a collapsed highway overpass, just enough elevation to fire rubble over long distances.
"How long until Saber notices?" Mash asked.
"Soon," Moriarty murmured. "The moment she begins hunting for the sniper who never existed."
He smiled faintly.
"And when that happens — the terrain turns against her."
Off in the distance, the corrupted air shimmered slightly — a shift in golden light.
-
The Grail pulsed.
Its light bled through the fog-choked sky like a fever. Unsteady. Sick.
Saber stood beside it, unmoving. Not watching — sensing. Her eyes had long stopped focusing like a human's. What they saw now was something else.
Threats weren't observed. They were intuited.
And she felt them now.
The movements, distant and fragmented, of Servants and animated constructs. No killing intent. No strong presence. Just enough to pull at her instincts.
Her hand tightened around invisible steel. No sword drawn. Not yet.
The enemy was near. But indirect. Testing her.
She would answer.
Far below, the first volley of enchanted rubble was loosed.
Not one stone. Not a hailstorm.
Just a single piece of rebar — wrapped in glowing runes, flung from a skeleton atop a scorched skyscraper like a javelin.
It arced. Cut through fog.
And detonated against the mountain's slope, not far from where Saber stood.
Smoke and sparks. Earth cracking beneath the blast.
Another came. Then another.
From all directions.
The trap was sprung.
Moriarty watched from a rooftop three blocks out — monocle glinting as another blast shook the terrain.
"That's three… no counterattack yet. But she's not fleeing. Predictable."
He adjusted a dial on the small mechanism affixed to his wrist.
"Mash. Now."
-
Mash's boots grind across the scorched ground, her shield held firm, knees bent to brace against the impossible force bearing down on her.
And Saber — Saber Alter — towers just ahead, her corrupted armor pulsing faintly with every breath, her sword still lowered, but gripped with grim certainty.
"You're no knight," she says, bluntly. Her voice doesn't echo — it flattens the space around her. "That shield... You have no right to carry it."
Mash doesn't answer. She can't. She won't. Not here.
But her heart beats faster.
Saber's eyes narrow. She steps forward. The ruined stone beneath her boot cracks.
"A borrowed name. A borrowed shield. You think devotion makes you worthy?"
She raises her blade.
"It makes you predictable."
Then she strikes — faster than before, black steel colliding with luminous orichalcum. The blow sends Mash skidding back — gouging a deep trench in the ash-strewn earth. She grunts, staggers, but her shield doesn't drop.
From behind rubble, Jack watches, tense but still.
Olga exhales sharply. Fou's ears twitch.
Saber's stance doesn't change. Her left hand rises, glowing with condensed magical energy.
"I knew you weren't alone. You think I don't see them — scattered like roaches, whispering in shadows?"
She breathes slowly.
"A trap. Pathetic."
Then her blade lifts high, black lightning coalescing around it. The air bends around her arm.
"Let me show you what devotion looks like — burned to ash."
She's going to fire.
Excalibur Morgan.
The Grail-fed blade begins to swell with raw mana. Purple light roars to life around her.
And then —a shot rings out.
A high-caliber arcane round pierces the outer curve of her cuirass — just above her left hip — throwing off the casting motion. The mana in her arm destabilizes — violently. She staggers one step back.
"Tch."
Saber doesn't scream. She doesn't falter. She turns, eyes scanning the high ridges.
Above her — like a phantom in an overcoat — Moriarty stands in perfect silhouette, his rifle already resetting for the next shot.
"Twist the thread…" he murmurs.
Another shot comes. She sidesteps — but the trajectory bends unnaturally. The second bullet grazes her jawline, carving through corrupted steel. Her head snaps sideways, black strands of hair breaking loose.
Then — the second wave.
A fire rune detonates against her chestplate. Orange flame flares bright — she withstands it, only stumbling slightly. Her armor cracks along the ribs, but her footing holds.
"You'll need more than that," she hisses — and her eyes fall on him.
Cú Chulainn steps from the haze, staff in hand, grin sharp.
"Bit rude, I know!" he calls. "But not every day you walk into a perfect ambush."
Saber's eyes flash.
"You," she growls — finally showing something more than cold disdain. Recognition. "You're the Caster. The failure."
"Guilty as charged," Cú says. His tone is light, but his stance shifts, readying. "But today? I'm just the warm-up act."
Mash surges forward again — shield high. She slams it against Saber's sword, staggering her just a half step more.
The air shifts.
Saber's feet dig in. Her mana flares.
She lets out a deep, guttural breath, then shouts — and explodes forward.
A Mana Burst. Compressed magical energy detonates beneath her boots — her speed triples in an instant.
She slams into Mash's shield, knocking the demi-servant back, flipping her end over end. The impact cracks earth in a ten-meter radius. Dust rises like thunderclouds.
Saber's hair flicks as she turns — readying Excalibur Morgan again. This time, no delay.
But—
"Wickerman!" Cú roars.
The sigils at his feet ignite red-hot — the earth splits wide.
From below, a groaning moan rises — roots and bones and iron and fire.
A towering wooden colossus bursts from the earth, engulfing Saber in shadow.
She barely turns before massive hands — tree-thick and wreathed in curse-fire — slam around her.
"—!"
She tries to leap — but Moriarty's red filament snaps taut around her ankle.
She's dragged in, roaring.
The Wickerman closes, the flames swirling into a blazing inferno.
"You think this will stop me!?" she snarls from inside.
"Not for long," Cú mutters, sweat on his brow. "But long enough."
Another arcane round slams into the Wickerman's side, laced with sealing glyphs. The air sings with burning pressure. Saber's mana begins to lash out wildly — disorganized, but still deadly.
Mash rolls to her feet. Her shield glows. She dashes forward, toward the flames.
"No time— she'll break out—!"
She leaps, shield-first, just as another wave of mana builds inside the inferno.
And from the shadows, Moriarty lowers his rifle.
"The web is drawn tight," he says softly. "Now snap."
-
The Wickerman groans — a terrible, ancient sound. Its torso swells outward as flames begin to churn within, a reddish-orange glow pulsing through cracks in its barklike flesh.
Saber Alter struggles, her back pressed against the cage's internal bars. Excalibur Morgan pulses at her side — trembling, unstable — but she can't lift the blade. Her left arm is caught, jammed between two twisted ribs of the Wickerman's burning structure.
The air is molten.
She snarls — not in fear, but rage.
"This? You think this will destroy me?"
Her voice is distorted, echoing off wood and flame.
"You cower behind numbers. Behind tricks and schemes—"
Another gunshot cracks the air. A projectile slams into the side of her exposed thigh, carving through armor, embedding in flesh. Moriarty's shot, laced with suppressive magic, detonates inside her leg. She flinches — and that moment is all it takes for the Wickerman to begin burning from within.
The cage glows. Inside, the temperature spikes instantly, high enough to ignite human bone. Steam erupts from the floor as corrupted mana in her blood boils.
"Galahad's whelp. The 'heroic' detective. A failed mage of the isles…"
Flames reach her boots, her skirt, climbing up her back. Her gauntlets heat to red, then white.
"…none of you could ever understand."
Her voice drops lower, trembling from within the firestorm — yet unyielding.
"I was the only one who chose to carry the burden. To become what no one else dared."
Black armor blisters and warps, the symbol of the lioness-king buckling under pressure.
She raises her chin, eyes slitted against the flame. Her hair is beginning to smoke.
"If this world truly rejects the strong… then burn it all."
The Wickerman's chest flashes bright.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then—detonation.
The giant erupts from within, turning into a pillar of fire ten stories high. Its wooden form cracks, collapses, and then crumbles into flame-fed embers — and inside, nothing remains.
No scream. No body.
Just scorched earth, and the last fading echo of Excalibur's hum — silenced before it could sing.
The smoke parts.
Mash lowers her shield, still panting. Her armor is scorched — her gauntlet smoking — but she stands.
Cu slowly lifts his hand, snapping the last rune closed. Sweat runs from his brow. He doesn't look pleased.
"Hated to do that to her…" he mutters.
Moriarty steps down from the ridge, his rifle still warm. He adjusts his monocle with a gloved finger.
"Necessary, but... inelegant," he says, voice cool. "Still, a fitting end to the corrupted king."
Fou lets out a low whimper, fur bristling. Jack doesn't speak.
Olga looks at the scorched battlefield — at the place where Saber had fallen.
"So even she was lost to the Grail…"
Mash, still breathing heavily, just whispers:
"She was so powerful. But it wasn't… her, was it?"
No one answers.They all know the truth.
-
The battlefield had gone quiet.
A silence more final than any battle could create—like the world itself was holding its breath.
The Grail shimmered, sunken in the broken terrain, as if it didn't belong in this world at all.
Mash held her shield close, wary. Caster rested his staff across his shoulders, watching. Jack stood at the edge of the chaos, coat torn, skin bloodied, but calm—eyes narrowed, shoulders squared. The battle with Saber had burned through the worst of the adrenaline. Now, only tension remained.
No one approached the Grail.
Moriarty raised a single hand, halting motion like a conductor stopping a symphony.
"No closer," he said smoothly. "We're not alone."
Jack tilted his head, eyes flicking toward the space just beyond the Grail.
"...Why?"
Moriarty didn't reply. Only stared at the air where something was beginning to shift.
A voice cut the silence. Smooth. Familiar. But wrong in ways that chilled the spine.
"You handled it well. Better than anticipated. That Saber was meant to be a gatekeeper, not a martyr. But no matter. It served its function."
Moriarty spoke before anyone else could.
"A singularity designed to fail, just barely. Corruption in the mana fields. Truncated horizon. A city sealed off from its own reality. You never expected to win. Only to observe. A prototype."
He turned toward the voice now forming into a figure.
"Clumsy work. You'll forgive the critique."
A spiral opened in space. Geometric, impossibly clean—lines of red light forming a doorway that bled wrongness into the world. Out stepped Lev Lainur, coat immaculate, golden eyes glowing.
"You're always the mouthy one, Professor," Lev said, smiling without warmth. "But accurate. As expected from one who walks the boundary of truth and invention."
Mash stiffened. Jack stepped in front of her automatically.
Lev looked directly at the boy.
"You... are the anomaly. A child who survived the incineration. A body meant to be ash, now serving as the fulcrum of resistance. An empty vessel... but you still act. Fascinating."
Jack's eyes didn't waver.
Lev stepped further into the ruined plaza, arms open.
"Do you understand what you've been dragged into? You've no doubt noticed something amiss. The lost light of humanity. The cut threads of fate. History itself—dying. This isn't an accident. It was never a malfunction or attack. It is by design."
He turned slightly toward the others.
"But before we get ahead of ourselves—yes. I am Lev Lainur Flauros. I served Chaldea as its head technician. Friend to Olga Marie. Loyal to Marisbury Animusphere. A trusted researcher."
He smiled wider, teeth white and cold.
"All lies."
The air shifted. His silhouette began to distort—legs too long, spine subtly arched like some quadruped learning to stand. The human shell flickered.
"I am Flauros. One of the 72 Demon Gods. Pillar of sin. Incarnation of foresight. Chosen by Goetia, King of Demons, to infiltrate Chaldea and ensure the end of mankind."
Mash gasped.
"You were... there from the beginning?"
Lev nodded.
"Years. Carefully positioned. I oversaw the Rayshift systems. I embedded myself so deeply even Marisbury never knew. The Bomb you escaped—my design. And you, Olga Marie..."
He turned finally to her. She had stepped forward. Hope in her eyes.
"Lev... you're lying. You're not—this isn't funny. I know you. You were always kind to me. You took care of me when father—when father left..."
Lev turned his head slightly, then sighed.
"You really are a disappointment."
Olga recoiled.
"What...?"
"You were meant to die in that explosion. You were supposed to. You clung to life like a parasite. Dragging yourself across the void. You were an error I tolerated only because I didn't need to acknowledge it. But now you've become... irritating."
"You live even in death. I don't wish to waste more words with you, Olga. You are useless, pathetic—you always were. But I see what you do not. All you are is remnants of thought. I was wrong, my bomb did kill you. Sadly, it left the insufferable part alive... let's rectify it."
Mash stepped forward, panicked.
"Wait—!"
Jack raised a hand, stopping her.
Lev raised his arm—and light surged.
A needle-thin beam tore through Olga's chest.
She didn't scream. She only stared. Her lips moved soundlessly. Jack didn't look away. No one did.
She collapsed—no blood, no body. Just fading particles, like data torn apart by an unstable connection. Not even Chaldea could retrieve her.
Lev let out a breath.
"No more interruptions."
And then—the monologue began.
He gestured. The Grail behind him pulsed. Images rose like holograms made of flame.
Cities burning. Ages dying. Singularities bleeding out into history.
"The planet burns. Time has been severed. This world has already ended. Humanity's future has been deleted."
"Seven Singularities. Created with precision. Each one the fulcrum of a historical turning point. Each one modified, twisted, infected with a Grail. One for each era where humanity's path can be rewritten."
He turned to face Jack directly now.
"Your purpose now is simple. Go to them. Fix them. Restore humanity's future. A task so futile, it borders on mockery. But necessary—for our own ends."
Mash looked horrified.
"Then... all of this...?"
"This? You've lost the grace of the king. It's really that simple."
Jack didn't flinch.
Lev looked amused.
"You really don't understand. You think this is about saving people? Chaldea has always been an experiment. You were never the Master. You were a fallback—an unintended variable that proved more... persistent than expected."
The sky behind him cracked. Red light spilled out. The Grail began to react violently—its containment rupturing.
Lev smiled.
"You've passed the prologue. But humor me, personally. Let's see how far you can crawl before the weight of history crushes you."
[COMM INTERRUPT – ROMAN // DA VINCI]
"NOW—! We're pulling you back—Mash, Jack, anyone still standing—get ready!"
"We're out of time—the singularity is collapsing!"
Mash turned, eyes wide.
Cú bellowed something in Irish—shielding them with a barrier.
Jack's voice was calm, almost amused.
"Guess that's our cue."
[FLASH – Emergency Rayshift Engaged]
The world exploded—space folding in on itself, voices distorted by tearing gravity.
Only three figures made it out.
-
[Chaldea – Rayshift Room]
Steam. Cracked floor. The platform flickered back into view.
Mash, Jack, Cú—alive. Even Fou.
Roman ran in, pale.
"You made it. You actually—you made it back...!"
Da Vinci appeared seconds later, scanning instruments.
"Olga's gone. No trace left. Lev—Flauros—scrubbed her out completely."
Mash looked down, lips trembling.
Jack stood still, arms folded. The Grail's image still floated behind his eyes.
"We go to the next one. Now."
Roman hesitated.
"You just got back—Jack, we need to regroup, to plan—!"
"He said there are six more, maybe even seven if this one didn't count" Jack said simply. "Let's start with the next."
Moriarty, standing silently behind them all this time, finally turned.
His voice was quiet.
"Oh, this will be interesting."