The moon hung low over Fuyuki's industrial docks, casting a pale silver glow on the quiet waters. But the peace was a lie—already torn apart by the clash of steel and the roars of battle.
Two warriors faced each other in the heart of the shipyard. One clad in green and gold, his twin spears gleaming crimson and gold under the moonlight. The other stood in shining silver armor, her expression cold and resolute. Her invisible blade shimmered with condensed mana, held at the ready.
Artoria Pendragon versus Diarmuid Ua Duibhne.
Their duel was fierce, the clang of weapons ringing through the night like thunderclaps. Sparks erupted with each strike as skill met skill, strength met speed. Both Servants fought like legends of old—refined, relentless, regal.
From the shadows of the dockside cranes, other Servants began to arrive, drawn by the clash. A red flash in the sky. A ripple in space. A flicker in spirit energy.
Suddenly, booming laughter echoed across the shipyard.
"Haha! Glorious!" A mighty voice bellowed.
From the far end of the docks came a massive chariot drawn by oxen, crashing to a stop. Standing atop it was a towering man with a regal cape flowing in the night breeze. His chest was bare, his grin wide.
Iskander. The King of Conquerors.
"Join me, warriors of this war!" he proclaimed, his voice as bold as his presence. "Why fight alone when you can ride with me—to the very stars themselves!"
There was a silence. Then, both knightly Servants turned to him.
Artoria's eyes narrowed. "No."
Diarmuid shook his head. "I must decline."
Iskander blinked. "What? Why not?"
Artoria responded coolly, "I am not only a knight. I am a king. And a true king bows to no one."
Diarmuid followed with a loyal bow of his head. "I already serve my Master with full devotion. I will not abandon that duty for another's dream."
Iskander was silent for a moment—then let out another booming laugh. "You are both honest and worthy warriors. I, Iskander, King of Conquerors, acknowledge your pride!"
Gasps ran through the onlooking Masters.
"He just revealed his name!" one whispered.
"Foolish!" Artoria muttered under her breath, frowning.
And then—
A different kind of laughter echoed from above, silky and scornful.
"Mad Hound, do you hear this fool?" came the voice of Gilgamesh, golden light shimmering as portals opened behind her, swords glinting from another dimension.
She floated in midair like a goddess looking down on insects. Her form now feminine, her presence just as arrogant.
Behind her, standing at the edge of a cargo container, was a man clad in black armor. He carried no divine glow, no godly aura—only weight. Weight that bent the air around him.
Guts. The Black Swordsman.
He said nothing. Only watched.
The tension thickened. With their appearance, the duel had become a chaotic tableau. Five Servants now stood on the docks.
Artoria broke the silence, righteous fury in her voice. "You interrupt a duel of honor. Leave. At once."
Guts stepped forward. His voice was gravel.
"This is a war for the Holy Grail," he said. "There is no honor in war."
Artoria's grip on her sword tightened. "You…!"
Their eyes locked. One was a knight who clung to ideals. The other, a warrior who had seen what ideals cost.
Before she could answer, something moved in the shadows. A flicker. A presence.
An Assassin, masked and cloaked, lunged at Diarmuid from behind.
But the lancer didn't falter. In a flash, his crimson spear blocked the blow. Steel clanged. Sparks flew. Assassin vanished just as swiftly, retreating into the darkness.
The moment jolted the gathered Servants out of their confrontations.
Artoria, her breath steadying, turned back toward Guts. She lunged.
Her first swing came fast—unseen, her sword was a blur. But Guts didn't even draw. He tilted slightly to the side, avoiding the blade like he had done it a hundred times before.
She came again. Faster. Harder.
This time, he moved.
With a slow motion that belied the weight of the weapon, Guts drew the Dragonslayer from his back. It wasn't a sword. It was a slab of iron—a weapon that mocked the idea of elegance. Its edge, dull. Its surface, nicked and scarred from monsters and gods alike.
Artoria didn't hesitate. She charged again.
Their blades met.
The moment the swords clashed, a shockwave burst outward. The sheer weight behind Guts' swing overpowered her momentum. Pain shot through her arms. She was airborne—sent flying back like a rag doll into a metal shipping container.
Bang!
The container crumpled. Dust flew.
Artoria stood after a moment, her breath ragged. Her arms trembled. Her eyes wide.
That power… it felt like taking a hit from Rhongomyniad…
The other Servants watched in stunned silence.
Diarmuid had never seen Artoria overwhelmed in raw force. Iskander let out a surprised whistle. Even Gilgamesh's smile faded slightly.
Guts rested the massive sword on his shoulder. His voice carried across the dock, low and rough.
"This war will end in three days."
He paused, looking at each of them in turn.
"I'm calling for a meeting. Tomorrow night. Tohsaka Manor. If you want the Grail, show up."
Then he turned his back and walked away.
Gilgamesh gave the others a glance, smirked, and followed.
No one dared to stop them.
Artoria stood in the wreckage, silent.
Diarmuid watched, uncertain.
Iskander simply crossed his arms and grinned wider.
"Well, now this is getting interesting."