Nerve Damage

Disclaimer: I do not own Fate/Stay Night. There, now will you lawyers PLEASE stop stalking me?!

Note: If there are any grammar, spelling, or information mistakes, please tell me. I hate mistakes.

Blame school for the short hiatus. I'm on break, so I could FINALLY update.

Servant sheets have been updated as proper due to the recent revelation in this chapter.


The ritual was done once again.

"Bare and silver and iron. Stone for foundation and the Grand Duke of contracts. My great master Shveinorg for the ancestor.

A wall for the descending winds. The four gates shall close and come out the crown. Let the three-forked road to the kingdom cycle."

It was the same circle she had used before, the one made out of melted jewels. With each word, more of her prana was poured into the circle.

"Enclose. Enclose. Enclose. Enclose. Enclose.

Five times for each repetition.

Just destroy the enclosed time.


This time, she had not mistaken the time. It WAS the time of her peak strength.

"I announce.

Thy body shall be under my command, my fate shall be determined by thy sword.

Follow the call of the Holy Grail. If thou wouldst obey this mind and this reason, then answer my call."

She WOULD summon more servants. After hearing of so many others doing the same, her pride would allow nothing else, not the mention the fact that she actually needed more servants to be effective in the war.

"I make an oath here.

I am the one who shall become the virtue of all afterworld.

I am the one who shall lay out the evil of all afterworld.

Thou art Seven Heavens clad in the Three Great Words."

She will win this war!

"Emerge from the ring of control, guardian of balance!"

And a blaze of light erupted forth.

Kneeling before it, she found herself blinded by the radiance, stumbling backwards as she put a hand between her eyes for protection.

Then as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

She blinked out the spots in her eyes as she stood up, and beheld her summon.

It was a man dressed entirely in white. His sweater, his pants, his cloak, even the mask he wore was completely white. It was a stark contrast to the room, and yet, it seemed so hard to focus on him despite his glaring color.

He was a servant, that much could be said from his presence and his magical energy, but the fact that he was holding a GUN of all things surprised her.

The man nodded at her. "At your summoning, I have come forth as Servant Assassin. What is your will?"

Rin frowned. She had hoped to summon a Lancer, one of the knight classes, or barring that, a Rider. She had ended up with Assassin of all people. And one who used a gun.

A gun.

Few heroic spirits used guns, and those that did almost always had them merely as heroic weapons, tools that could harm servants and were beyond their mortal kin, but otherwise nowhere near the power of noble phantasms.

Nonetheless, that indicated a servant with a legend that was depressingly young compared to the heroes of sword and sorcery of the past ages. So then, who exactly was her servant?

"I am your master. What is your name?" She declared.

Assassin nodded. "I am Simo Hayha of Finland."

She blinked at his name. "...who?"

Assassin was about to respond when his body suddenly tensed, and his form snapped into a firing position, gun pointed at...

Oh. Right.

Of course, Archer, who had been watching her summon from one corner, would no doubt surprise a newly-summoned servant who had no information of the clusterfuck this war had become.

"Master, would you mind explaining why there is another servant with us?" He asked, pointing his gun at Archer.

"Complications." Rin answered quickly. "This grail war has diverted from the norm due to a certain...incident. There are more than seven masters, and each has at least two servants. I had summoned before the rules had changed, and I summoned once again to even the odds."

Assassin gave off the impression of raising an eyebrow despite his mask, before nonchalantly shrugging. "Very well. What is your plan?" And just like that, he was acclimated to the situation.

He needn't know more about this new grail war. The woman before him had called out for a hero, and he had answered, with all the consequences that came with that voluntary decision. He had stepped forward to answer her call, and he was now set on that road, the act demanding loyalty. In that, she was similar to his motherland in this affair. For this life, it was the winter war all over again. His enemies were hostile servants instead of invading Russians, and his country, his master.

No more needed to be said. For as long as virtue was upheld by his master, he would fight for her as he would for his own country, and that was the greatest honor Simo had to offer.

"Simo...Hayha?" Archer repeated, frowning at him as the Grail started to supply the information at the declaration of his name. "You mean...the White Death?"

A nod. "Yes."

Archer blinked. "You made a world power's army cease marching through your territory from your reputation alone." He smiled. "Impressive."

Rin herself had to admit the glory of that feat. 'Perhaps...this Assassin wouldn't be too bad.' She thought.

A shrug. Simo never truly cared for such a reputation. His country had called her children to war, and he had answered dutifully, as he had done in all things. Everything else were just trivialities.


Everyone snapped into attention, turning to the sound of the voice, a figure halfway-hidden in shadows, leaning across the wall.

The figure spoke once more. "Multiple servants, you say? How many sets? Two? Three?"

Rin frowned at the figure. Was this...another servant?

"...four." She finally said after a few moments of silence. It wasn't confirmed yet, but by the way things were going...

A laugh.

The figure stepped out of the shade, and the group couldn't help but stare in shock at the sight.

"Well then, they better be truly legendary, because otherwise they stand no chance. Don't you think so too, master?" Her newest servant proclaimed with a grin.

It wasn't hard to identify him. After all, that was a face that showed up very frequently in history books.

Julius Caesar grinned widely. "Four sets of seven. Four wishes. The possibility of multiple victors. That rules out infighting then." He laughed once more. "This shall be an interesting conquest indeed."


"Die, mongrel." Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, declared.

And the legendary weapons launched themselves at Napoleon.

Against the King of Heroes and his Gate of Babylon, most heroes would not have lasted a minute. There was just so very little that could survive a storm of proto-phantasms, each one a masterpiece of death and destruction, each one an original, each one ancient in a world where age meant power.

To dodge them was foolhardy, for the sheer number and speed of the projectiles made it moot. To block, would require an object that would not break against the continuous battering of high-rank phantasms. Even if wielding a weapon of equal rank, the hero's single weapon would be chipped away eventually.

If his skills didn't turn out inadequate and he was skewered still by the storm of blades anyway.

So why then, was that mongrel smiling?!

Then the Frenchman's voice rang out.

"King's Battery: Thundering Chorus of the Emperor!" He proclaimed, unleashing his noble phantasm.

Space shifted and opened into an armory similar to and yet quite unlike any other on earth.

A rainbow of colors spilled forth, as from circular portals, rose the weapons of the King of Artillery.

Behind Napoleon, manifested dozens of cannons. High-bores, cart-carried. Grapeshot and scattershot. Every kind imaginable.

An ancient cannon lined with gold, its barrel shaped into a snarling lion's. Another, painted in red resembling blood, a golden eagle perched upon its middle. A grapeshot cannon made of black unforgiving steel lined with regimental kill-marks.

So many, all of glorious make.

They burned with power and wrath. Their presence was overwhelming, their form sublime and perfect by all standards of man.

They were all noble phantasms.

Grapeshot and scattershot spaced out strategically spat forth a wall of steel balls that knocked away every weapon thrown at him, then the cannons, each one containing a metal sphere larger than a soccer ball, fired at the blonde servant.

Ordinary cannons could crack open a castle wall with the sheer strength of their projectiles. These weren't ordinary cannons. They were above their mundane counterparts the same way those were above a primitive bow.

Invisible barriers that were unseen save for a faint distortion in the air manifested around the red-eyed servant. Each one a power to their own, the equivalent of a fortress wall and beyond.

The first sphere slammed into the shields with a resounding clang, grinding itself a few inches into the barrier. Then the second turned it into a mess of cracks, and the third shattered the first shield.

The rest thundered into Gilgamesh's barriers, until at the very end, a single lonely barrier stood cracked but not shattered. The King of Heroes' expression was a mixture of surprise and anger. Mostly anger, but disbelief was most certainly there.

The Emperor of France grinned at him. Right then, Napoleon wished he had something to smoke. He just knew it would piss off the blonde prick a whole lot.

"Mongrel...what are you?" The red-eyed king snarled out. Multiple phantasms. How? He was the King of Heroes, the owner of the world. That was why he had so many, but how could this servant, have such an amount?!

He recognized none of the phantasms that had been used against him. And yet, he could not deny their power. To break all those shields so quickly, would require nothing less than A-rank damage.

Napoleon's smile widened, even as the mention of 'mongrel' made him vow a bloody death for his enemy. "I am many things. I am an emperor. I am a general. I am a hero. I am Napoleon Bonaparte, master of warfare, King of Artillery, Emperor of Europe." He chuckled darkly. "And I am here to grind your body to dust and burn the remains to ashes. En garde!" He declared imperiously, gesturing towards the enemy servant and aiming the artillery towards him.

The red-eyed king glared at him. "And you severely overestimate yourself, dog, if you think you stand a chance of defeating the King of Uruk." He stated coldly.

Napoleon blinked at the title. "What?" ' don't mean...'

Behind him, Gate of Babylon expanded, more weapons rising from the golden gate to be thrown at the enemy. The weapons from before had been but the simplest of the gate's arsenal, chosen due to the perceived weakness of the enemy, C-rank at the most. Faced with a much stronger enemy than anticipated, Gilgamesh had raised the bar as needed, and weapons of major legends now faced Napoleon, the equivalent of an arsenal consisting only of B and A-rank weapons.

The King of Uruk had but one order: "Die, trash." And a storm of legends shot at Napoleon.

The cannons, primed and ready, fired, meeting the proto-phantasms head-on.

Cannonfire and legendary weapons met head-on. This time, the greater weapons merely punched through the cloud of grapeshot, the cannonballs being the only ones capable of overcoming the new swords.

Napoleon swore, and a wave of his hand had a gigantic cannon appearing before him, pointing straight upwards. The remains of Gilgamesh's volley rained down upon him, sundering his cannons, until only scrap metal was left, though the last summoned piece left him unharmed.

Gilgamesh smirked at him. "Nothing can compare to the might of the true king, mongrel. That one as young as you would even consider the possibility of victory is insulting. And to insult to king, is death!" He raised his hand, and the gate widened once more, until literally a hundred weapons were before Napoleon.

Then the Frenchman laughed.

Gilgamesh blinked. "Are you...mocking me, mongrel?"

Wiping tears from his eyes, Napoleon grinned at Gilgamesh. "Not mocking. I am merely amused by your arrogance." He squinted at his enemy. "Hmm, you're about six feet aren't you? Well within range. Napoleonic Complex." The air around him changed, suddenly charged with power, and his features gained a savage element in addition to his professional calm.

He raised his arms, and the battery manifested once more, in numbers matching Gate of Babylon's, every single one a full cannon. "The every single artillery piece fielded by France during my time, and what could have been had I won my victory over Europe. Every single one raised and empowered by my legend into noble phantasms." The grin widened. "Let's see who runs out first, eh?"

Gilgamesh didn't reply with words, pointing his finger at Napoleon, and the rain of phantasms came down once more.

"Fire!" Napoleon shouted, and the cannons erupted.

Twin rains of steel met, and the air erupted into explosions and the sound of screaming, rending steel.

Mighty swords, jewel-encrusted and shining like the sun, met ebony spheres of metal, fired by magnificent cannons of glorious make.

Lesser swords broke and shattered, while greater ones punched through the spheres to penetrate or sometimes destroy the cannons themselves.

Phantasmal effects were unleashed. Fire claimed the air, hoarfrost formed and struck. Conceptual effects battered against sheer overwhelming power.

An endless exchange took place as the two kings exchanged blows with their weapons.

Gate of Babylon struck out with greater and greater weapons, struggling to overcome the battery, enhanced as it was with A-rank military tactics and the strange fury-filling phantasm declared earlier, and as weapons greater than A-rank were unleashed, Napoleon did not shy away from Breaking cannons to unleash even greater volleys of power or using them as makeshift shields, their great bulk making effective barriers.

It went on until the ground was liberally littered with the shattered steel and broken metal of phantasmal weapons.

For Napoleon, the destruction of a few hundred cannons was negligible. He had thousands in his arsenal. They were weapons, and were made to be used as such.

Gilgamesh however...

The blonde king was nigh frothing at the mouth at all his destroyed treasures. "You! Just die, you filth! To destroy so much of the King's treasures...I will make you suffer for this affront!"

The King of France frowned. The man's was truly getting on his nerves. His fists tightened. "Spare me your woes. Weapons are weapons. Use them. If I had what you had, why, I believe I'd arm my soldiers with them and conquer the world."

Gilgamesh scowled at him. "And your ignorance of your place is just another affront. That you have forced me to expend this much effort is an unforgivable-"

"Shut. UP!" Napoleon screamed, and a dozen new cannons materialized, Broke, then fired, all in an instant, full of so much prana that their discharge shattered the cannons themselves.

New, untouched barriers and shields manifested. An oval steel shield the color of the blue seas. A kite shield of solid gold carved into the likeness of a bird taking flight. A crystal half-sphere in all the colors of the rainbow. Many more appeared, each one equivalent to fortress walls that shattered like glass, and the cannonballs broke past them and...

...swept past Gilgamesh. They had been aimed to just brush past him. Nonetheless, shock could just be seen in the King of Heroes' eyes. Those had been priceless defenses, prototype NPs of the greatest make, and they had been utterly crushed by a servant that was a mere few centuries old!

"There." Napoleon muttered. "I could have killed you. You are not invincible." Truth. The King of Uruk had been too surprised to possibly react to that. If it had been actually aimed at him...

The scowl on the blonde deepened. "You think that fluke means anything, mongrel? You cannot possib-" He stopped, shocked, as an image shocking for its similarity manifested.

Behind Napoleon, hundreds of cannons, their numbers steadily rising, manifested, each one just as powerful as the last. B-rank grapeshot, A-rank heavy-bores. All of them empowered up by the unnamed phantasm that had manifested when their combat had started.

The Emperor of France gritted his teeth. "Trash this. Mongrel that. Is that all we are to you?" The air seemed to shake at his rage. "You understand nothing! We. Are. HEROES! Men and women of power and glory and skill whose trials and deeds have ascended to immortality! And you disregard that?! Fool!"

Cannons fired, and Gate of Babylon widened and launched a similar barrage in response, a volley of raw destruction that would have sundered a hundred fortresses in its time and annihilated any hero caught in the crossfire.

As ancient legendary weapons met phantasm cannonfire, Gilgamesh shook his head in defiance. "I am the King. In the end, you are all beneath me." He stated with unshakable belief born of experience, for he had never been defeated.

Then the new shields set up were shattered once more, and Gilgamesh actually had to draw out one of his weapons to shatter the metal sphere.

Napoleon continued, his face a grim line. "So you ignore all that we have done? Madness. You do not comprehend us, do you?" He raised his hand, and the barrage stopped. He sighed, then looked Gilgamesh in the eye.

The King of Heroes found himself at pause. Fire was in those eyes. Fire the likes of which the world rarely ever saw. It was determination and will and ruthlessness and pride all rolled into something greater than the sum of its parts.

This...was not a mongrel.

Napoleon spoke, and Gilgamesh listened. "When you call us heroes mongrels, you insult our very being, King of Heroes. We are, by our very nature and existence, the ones who ascended!" His voice was rising in pitch, reaching fever tone. "We the ones who looked at the masses, thought them inadequate, and rose above it! We are swordsmen who make blademasters weep. We are marksmen who humble the best of archers. We are the ones whose rages shook the earth, whose spells were the stuff of dreams. We are the generals unstoppable, the kings unforgettable! We made ourselves superior. We became as gods above the people of our time."

Napoleons' eyes narrowed. "In a time when a priest declared royalty, I spat in the face of God and crowned myself Emperor. Heroes bow to nothing. Those who do, choose to do so, not out of obeisance. So come at me, King of Heroes. Perhaps you truly are the greatest, perhaps this is a lost cause that will end only in my defeat, but..."

The Emperor of France grinned viciously. "I will show you the strength of heroes. I will make you bleed for my death. I will force you to expend yourself to sunder my cannons and break my bones. You will remember this fight. You will remember this as one of the hardest. We are heroes, Gilgamesh of Uruk, and if you deign to think yourself above us, never mock our accomplishments, for they are all memorable to a man, feats that earned us eternal glory. Even if you are our better, never deny that we are above the nameless masses that chose to be mediocre. We are not mongrels. We. Are. Legend."

Napoleon breathed deeply, then settled his sights on Gilgamesh, determination in his eyes. "So come at me, and prove your goddamn moniker, King of Heroes." With that said, before him manifested five cannons unlike any before.

They were gigantic, outsizing all others before them by a large margin. Five golden cannons, every inch of their frames filled with such incredibly superb carvings that each one might as well be a priceless work of art. The end of each barrel was designed differently, made to look like the maws of different creatures: lion, eagle, dragon, wolf, bear. Each one so painstakingly realistic, they seemed to shiver like living things before their very eyes.

They were his true phantasms, his true weapons, and their auras of power were the strongest yet. The ones from before were but drab imitations in comparison.


Napoleon continued to stare unflinchingly at him, hundreds of cannons floating around him, the five golden ones arranged in front of him, awaiting the King of Heroes' retaliation.

Gilgamesh breathed deeply, drinking in the air as he gave the sky a strange look, before turning his gaze back to Napoleon. His eyes narrowed. "Impressive. Your Battery is indeed a match for my Gate. Few can say the same." Then he dispelled his own readied weapons and sunk his arm in the gate, grabbing the one weapon that would nonetheless turn the tide. "I see your new pieces. Good enough I suppose, for one of your meager age. However..." he withdrew his hand, now holding a weapon whose mere image made Napoleon's blood freeze in his veins.

It was not a sword. Heck, it didn't seem to be a weapon. No edge to it, and the shape wasn't right for a club. It was naught but a narrowing black cylinder marked with crimson, and yet...

It started spinning, and Napoleon's heart hammered wildly as the forces he felt from the blade outright dwarfed anything he could feasibly imagine.

Death. This was his death.

Gilgamesh looked into his eyes, and declared his weapon. "This is my true weapon. Be honored, for you have been found worthy to bear witness to its glory. This is Ea, the Star of Creation that Split the Heavens. Look upon its glory, and weep. Powerful as your Battery is, I will sweep it away in naught but an instance with its power. You stand no chance. We both know this. Bend knee, and I might spare you." He said calmly.

Napoleon knew it to be true. Its power, he meant.

There was no chance. None at all. He would be wiped out the moment Ea's power was unleashed. And yet...

The King of France smiled tiredly, and shook his head. "I will not. I cannot. I will stand, Gilgamesh. I will stand and die. Perhaps it is because in life, I died in bed, in shame, when I should have died in the one battle I lost." He laughed. "But that is not it. I will stand and die because I am a hero."

He raised his arms in a grand gesture, smiling death in the face. "A hero is one who faces insurmountable odds, who knows that more likely than not, he will die, yet forges on despite it all. I stand before a superior foe, wielding a weapon sure to annihilate me. And that is why despite all that, I will fight." The cannons, all of them, hummed as prana was fed into them, nearly to bursting as Napoleon prepared to fire them all as broken phantasms, even though he knew by logic that it would not work.

"This is a good death. I will not bend knee. No hero will bend knee to a threat." A chuckle. "A good run I suppose, short as it is. I, a hero with a legend barely two hundred years old, to one whose own spans four thousand years back. Perhaps it was hopeless in the beginning, but I matched your power until the very end, and in death, I will meet the standard. I will die standing." His eyes narrowed. "So unleash your wrath, King of Uruk. I will face death with honor and dignity befitting a heroic spirit." He declared, readying himself for destruction.

Then, to Napoleon's utter surprise, Ea's three rotaries actually slowed down.

The feeling of doom faded, and Gilgamesh gave him a nod that could almost be described as respectful.

"W-what?" The Frenchman blinked, utterly surprised at his opponent's action.

"Rejoice, Napoleon Bonaparte. You have amused the King, and as such your previous transgression has been forgiven. Your life is yours once more." Gilgamesh declared.

Napoleon stared at him. "What." He said dully.

The King of Uruk ignored him, opting to turn around and walk away, Ea already faded back to the Gate.

"Wait, what the hell are you talking about?!" Napoleon screamed at the golden figure.

Gilgamesh turned back to him, a scowl on his face. "Do not question the King's generosity, general! I have given you back your life, a privilege few have experienced. Savor your blessings, and prove your worth in the times to come. Perhaps the king will be even more generous." And with a final huff of annoyance, he drew out a wide golden disc from the gate, throwing it at the ground in front of him.

The moment both feet were on it, he simply disappeared.

There was silence for a few moments, as Napoleon blinked at the space the King of Uruk once occupied. Behind him, his multitude of cannons slowly faded away back to his armory as his battle high wound down.

Then he laughed.

A loud keening cackling that would have been un-kingly in anyone's eyes, an action he himself would have considered unsightly in normal circumstances.

But then, these weren't normal circumstances. He had met what was quite possibly, the most powerful servant in existence. He had matched said hero and his armory of ancient noble phantasms up until the very end, where he faced a weapon so powerful as to be beyond comprehensibility.

Then somehow, an act of mercy had been given.

He should be insulted at the action, that he was to be spared like a common man to a king's order, but then again, what was Gilgamesh but a king among heroes? Had Napoleon himself not obtained his kingship through strength of arms and charisma? By that logic, Gilgamesh, whose force of personality matched his and whose power was beyond him as to be unfathomable, was his lord in a way.

But that was not the reason. He was alive. He lived another day. He could care less about how. Life was life, and one appreciated it all the more after brushes with death.

Still...he shook his head. "Spared or not, we'll fight again..." He muttered, and what were the chances that he'll be spared again?

Gilgamesh was after all, an enemy servant. That he had been spared meant nothing even if he won against the other contenders, for he would need to defeat Gilgamesh to win the grail war...or did he?

Were there not more servants then usual? Normally six servants for one wish. But by the numbers now...

He frowned. "Are you challenging me? Are you offering me a place in victory?" He asked out loud, but Gilgamesh did not answer, or perhaps he already had.

He chuckled. "'Prove your worth' eh? I think...I'll take you up on that one."

Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps Gilgamesh meant something else and he would be denied a wish in the end, but...

"Call it a feeling, but I think he liked more after the battle than before..." He muttered, before turning around and nonchalantly walking back to his master.


Several blocks away, Gilgamesh, once more in civilian attire, was deep in thought.

Normally, he would have disregarded anything his enemies told him. Few deserved his attention. Even his precious Saber warranted only a fraction of his full focus. One would need to be his equal for that, and only person was ever like that.

Still, the Frenchman's words...

'We are heroes, Gilgamesh of Uruk, and if you deign to think yourself above us, never mock our accomplishments, for they are all memorable to a man, feats that earned us eternal glory. Even if you are our better, never deny that we are above the nameless masses that chose to be mediocre. We are not mongrels. We. Are. Legend.'

"Hmph. Heroes, huh?" He said absently. He looked to the sky, at the stars that were visible on such a clear night. "I wonder, what would you think of what he said, my one friend?"

He was the greatest. That was a solid fact even the Frenchman couldn't deny. After Enkidu, no one else would ever be worthy of him. All other heroes were nothing before them.


"Two hundred years..." Napoleon's legend was barely older than that. And yet...his power had met and matched the Gate of Babylon. He could count on one hand the mortals who could say the same even in the age of Uruk.

For such strength to be in a hero so bore thinking upon.

"I wonder, is he a fluke? An anomaly? Or perhaps..."

Perhaps this world might still be salvageable after all...


The two Irish heroes rushed out of the house at the direction of the interlopers.

Scathach frowned at the information she had received. "There's two of them. The defenses should have slowed them down at the least, but one of them directed all the damage towards him and just shrugged it off." She gritted her teeth. "Either the guy is just that tough, or we've got a servant with a high rank in magic resistance."

Lancer scowled. "Which one should I take?"

Then another lightning bolt came down from the skies, and the two split, leaping to the sides as the earth was torn asunder, the lightning creating a blasted crater with its energy.

They tensed as footsteps neared, and gripped their weapons tightly as two figures approached, slightly blurred from the misty night and smoke of the lightning.

An old man wearing a scarred and tattered white cloak with a red scarf wrapped around his neck, both articles of clothing glowing and pulsing from a spiderweb pattern of prana. A bronze staff in the shape of a snake was gripped tightly in one hand.

Beside him was a tall hirsute man in ancient iron armor of greaves, gauntlets, and a thick solid breastplate. His bell-shaped helmet had bull's horns attached to the sides, with a T-shaped opening on the front that widened at the bottom to show his mouth. A brown and red cape was attached to his shoulders, and a massive short-handled bronze axe held in one hand.

Scathach frowned at their appearance. The defenses of her field, even half-done, were quite powerful. Even Cu Chulainn would not have been able to pass through unscathed even with his high agility, and since none of these two seemed anywhere near Cu Chulainn's level in that field, that left only weathering the storm of spells that would have tried to destroy them.

The axeman might have a high rank in magic resistance, but she doubted there any more Sabers, and he definitely wasn't a Lancer, though perhaps it was a noble phantasm? But why was it that it was the Caster that had damaged clothing? Her senses detected the scarf and the cloak as magical items, but the damage upon the cloak was not part of the design. They were recently inflicted. By her defenses by the looks of it.

Why would a Caster take point? Even if they had gotten through by meeting each spell with his own, he should have stayed at the back, letting the warrior take the hits that got through. This pair was confusing...

Her musings were interrupted when the old man spoke, and his aged voice rang out across the field, still full of vigor despite his age. "I sense the taint of pagan gods in one of you." He declared accusingly, making the two frown.

The axe-wielder grinned, and he looked at Lancer. "That one, I think. Am I right?" His deep voice rumbled out.

A nod.

The Wrathbringer of God grinned. "Then he's mine." Already, he could feel himself strengthening and toughening by multitudes after designating his opponent. His strength was at its limit without revealing his identity, while from how

"Earth, crush the heretics." The staff-wielder ordered in ancient Hebrew, and the ground rose up ten feet, then moved forward like a wave intent on drowning the Irish.


Scathach scowled at the wave. "If only I had more time..." She muttered, her free hand forming runes at a rapid pace.

A pulse of anti-magic rang out from the combination, and the section of the wave that would have hit her collapsed inert, leaving her unharmed as the rest of the attack swept past her.

Another day, and her temple would have been finished, and any Caster who faced her at this field would have had their spells heavily reduced or outright nullified.

Then she mentally shrugged, and went back to the battle. No use crying over spilled milk after all.

She stepped forward, another rune combination forming before her. "Burn, you asshole." She declared, and the array activated.

Her surroundings temperature dropped dozens of degrees below zero, flash-freezing all the water within the distance. Before her however, the air blurred, for all the heat had been transferred to the location. A tap of her finger upon the floating array, and the heat rushed out.

The enemy Caster, for what else could he be? Frowned in thought.

"Rise, water, for God commands it." He declared, slamming his staff on the ground.

The earth broke open, and a geyser of high-pressure water shot out at the moving blur.

It reached the invisible mass of heat, and the two attacks resulted in naught but the sudden appearance of steamy fog.

"None of that." She muttered, and a rune combination had wall of wind rushing out to clear away the mist and slam into her enemy.

Apparently, the Moses had the same idea, and their two wind spells impacted in the battle, resulting in a thunderclap of force that tore away the earth at the meeting point.

Then runes upon Scathach's armor burst to life, prominently on her legs, and her leap towards the enemy caused the ground to shatter to dust where she stood. The greatsword was sheathed, and throwing axes were drawn and thrown at an astounding speed.

Moses spun his staff halfway, and stabbed the snake-head into the ground. Ancient words were spoken, and when he moved his staff diagonally upward, the earth rose with it, blocking the dozens of throwing axes that nonetheless almost punched through the wall anyway.

With his limited agility, he backpedaled as fast as he could, and just in time.

The wall shattered from the force of Scathach's next blow, solid earth flying away in great shards from the force of the runemarked greathammer in her hands, the weapon visually oversized even for the tall woman. "Come on, get back here!" She shouted, grinning.

She raised her weapon, and slammed down the hammer upon the earth, certain runes she had put on the weapon glowing with power.

The earth shook. Shockwaves rang out and the ground sundered and opened in places. Moses himself stumbled, and it would have been the end for him as Scathach simply stopped gripping the hammer with its head stuck a foot into the ground, drawing two thin curved swords, scimitars, and rushing towards the vulnerable servant.

"Brass Serpent." He declared, pointing his staff at Scathach.

The bronze snake-staff came to life. Its size increased in magnitudes until it was thicker than a man, and proportionally long. The bronze reptile hissed, but its nature made it sound more like grinding steel, then lunged forward.

Scathach swore in some ancient tongue, reversing direction and somersaulting backwards as the snake sprang forward at speeds more in line with striking cobras, its fangs almost catching her.

She landed a dozen meters away, scowling at the rising enemy Caster and the large animal, which, when coiled, was as large as two cars piled together.

Moses grinned at her, putting a hand on the gigantic snake's head affectionately. "Don't like snakes, heretic? Too bad. Attack." The serpent uncoiled, slithering forward at a rapid pace unbecoming of its breed, its movements strangely...mechanical.

Scathach scowled, drawing her greatsword once more. "Yeah, fuck you too." Then she barked out a strange word, and the surroundings changed.

Runemarks suddenly littered the area, but not in the equal distribution she preferred; a haphazard, half-finished construction. Crude black walls rose up, while the sky seemed to grow even darker, half the stars blinking out of sight.

She gestured with her hand, and sent a patch of ground careening towards the snake, which hit it full on, throwing it back and stunning it.

The Witch of Dun Scaith drew a knife, then started rapidly carving runes onto her greatsword even as she dodged Moses' attacking spells, her battle-hardened mind slowly gaining a bead on Moses' fighting capabilities.

With ease born of experience, she predicted avenues of attack and reacted accordingly, avoiding dozens of lethal fireballs, earth spikes, and another lightning bolt from the prophet.

"Finished. Go bother someone else, you stupid reptile!" She shouted as the Brass Serpent drew near once more. She threw her arm back, still holding the greatsword, and let loose.

It flew like an arrow, point-first and never deviating, striking the snake through the middle of one of its coils up to the hilt, the rest of its length bursting through the other side and digging deep into the ground.

Large as the weapon was, the snake was even larger, and it should have been a minor annoyance at best.

Yet it could not budge the sword pinning it the ground. It struggled continuously, the earth around it getting pounded to dust with its movements, but it could not get away.

Moses frowned at his staff-turned-beast. "Another one of your blasted spells, I presume?" More words in Ancient Hebrew were spoken, but this time, his spells seemed weaker, reduced somehow. Not badly enough to make the battle hopeless, but a noticeable difference nonetheless. It could be bypassed by applying more prana, but while his reserves were truly impressive, it was not limitless.

It could only be her temple. The fires had led him to attack because it was not yet done, otherwise the battle would have surely resulted in his defeat. He needed to end this.

Bright red flames formed around him, before flickering into shape as dozens of fiery wolves. He pointed towards her, and they bounded forwards.

Scathach's fingers flickered as she drew marks into the air, then she closed her hand into a fist, and water rushed from the surroundings into an amount large enough to drown several elephants. As the wolves drew near, she made a violent, all-encompassing gesture.

The water followed her movements, moving like a controlled tidal wave and snuffing out the wolves in one circular movement that left small clouds of steam in their midst.

Moses muttered at the ground, and at his command, the meager grass around him grew, changing into an ancient species of thick magical vines, liberally covered in thorns that dripped with an unknown substance. The earth rose with it in dozens of vine-covered clumps, and his will threw them towards her.

Runes were formed midair, and a screaming sphere of wind formed around Scathach as she called her greathammer back to her with a word. Then she proceeded to smash each chunk of earth with powerful swings of her hammer. The vines, as she expected, ruptured and released their venom at the slightest impact, but the wind kept any from splashing onto her.

"Lightning, come to me." Moses ordered, and another lightning bolt came down from the clear skies, only this time, it struck down onto his...palm?

Millions of volts of electricity touched down onto his hand, crackling with blinding light. The prophet grinned, before slamming his palm onto the ground.

The energy was released in a wave, and Scathach had to leap into the air to avoid the currents.

"Lord, bring down your fire upon the infidel." Moses prayed, dropping to his knees and raising his hands in supplication. The most heartfelt request he had given in the entire battle, and packed with more prana than ever before. The red scarf around his neck glowed brighter than ever as its true purpose became known, and it burst into ashes.

In answer a pillar of fire came down from the heavens, wide enough to completely encompass a car, and bright as the sun, momentarily lightning up the darkened bounded field like it was morning.

Scathach's eyes widened, then narrowed in concentration. A red spear appeared in her hands, and she grinned as she faced the pillar of divine flame about to strike her down.

"Gae Bolg!" Runes lit up along its length, a complex array of force and power and projection.

Her arm snapped forwards and upwards, and the Soaring Spear that Strikes with Death met the divine flames.

Cursed red energy met the fires of heaven, the red energy cutting through the light and reaching into the skies, yet it merely split the light, and the backlash of the two forces swept her up, swallowing her whole and sending her crashing to the ground.

Moses was dozens of meters away from the fire, yet he could feel the heat. Whatever grass that was left crackled and withered and died, and the air itself felt like dust in his lungs. It was the merciless desert sun all over again.

It existed for only a second or three, then it blinked out, leaving spots in his vision, before he wearily approached her location. A phantasm. Powerful as his mystic shroud was, a phantasm was even greater.

She was alive, and the battle was not yet over, though he had spotted her getting hit by the explosion, so at least some damage was dealt.

She stood up.

His eyes narrowed, and he stopped.

The charred figure stood up. Shakily, but stood up.

Her hair was charred and halfway falling off, and her skin was blistered and red, sometimes charred black, but she was alive.

Scathach spat onto the ground, scowling as she ripped off the pitiful slag that was all that was left of her runemarked armor, ignoring the flashes of pain whenever she tore off metal that had melded with her skin, leaving only the burnt leather underneath. "Damn big fire you sent. Would have killed me if it wasn't for my spear." She squinted at him, noting the disappearance of the red scarf. "Huh. Wouldn't have pegged that as an offensive weapon." She shook her head. "Aw well..."

She raised both hands, and Moses noted with terrifying clarity how throughout the entire battle, she had only casted with one hand.

Scathach grinned at him, a too-wide smile that showed pearly white teeth. She looked like a predator. "Playtime's freaking over."

Runes were formed into the air, and it was all that Moses could do to defend himself.

A massive array was formed rapidly, a replica of her first attack in this battle. The runic combination drew in all ambient heat, only this time it had a much higher range, and there was much more heat to take in.

She didn't bother keeping it as only heat, and freely let it turn into a flame as large as a house, though not as bright as the pillar of fire from before.

"Eat this." She said, and gale-force winds carried the massive fires forward, a whirlwind of flaming death.

Moses tried to summon a deluge of water to nullify the attack, but Scathach's bounded field and his own lowered prana reserves after his attack meant all it did was lessen the fires, and not even significantly so, and the storm of fire swallowed him whole.

Scathach watched the roaring fires consume her enemy, his figure becoming indistinguishable in the flames. Nonetheless, she formed more arrays, ready to eliminate him if he survived as she walked towards him, the burns all over her body throbbing with pain each step.

As the fires faded, Moses' voice rang out from the fires. "Plagues of Egypt: Locusts!"

The air warped, and a nigh-deafening chittering sounded across the field. A shadow darker than the night sky moved, and a swarm of large black locusts came towards her, thrice as big as normal, armed with jagged fangs that could eat through solid wood.

The wind array from before was cast, more powerful this time, and the sphere of wind barely kept the locusts at bay, the monstrous beasts continuously bashing themselves at the shield, heedless of their deaths due to their sheer numbers.

From gaps between the swarm, Scathach caught sight of Moses, unharmed save for his cloak, which was even more tattered than before. Wait...

Her eyes widened. "You. You were the one who took the damage from all my defenses. That cloak of yours. It absorbs magical attacks."

The prophet nodded in confirmation. "If I had more time, I would have made it one of true magic resistance. Alas, I had too little, and had to settle with a shroud that could defuse a finite amount instead."

The witch grinned toothily. "Impressive. That firestorm, and my field's defenses too? That's quite a lot of punishment your shroud can take...Moses." She knew of him, and he was most certainly one of the greater heroic spirits around. No wonder he had managed to pass through her field's defenses, which would have been the equal of five more of the firestorm she had created.

The identified servant nodded once more. "Yes. I am indeed the prophet of legend. And now, I shall have to eliminate you for that knowledge."

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

His eyes opened.

"Ark of the Covenant."

The Ark appeared before him, a bulky object swathed in otherworldly blue cloth and the skins of phantasmal beasts.

Dangerous. Scathach's senses screamed to her, and she turned and ran as the coverings unwound from the Ark, revealing it in its true glory.

The Ark itself was an image incomprehensible to most mortals, an image that would drive them mad. And then the cover opened, revealing its contents.

Impossibly-colored lights flashed, brighter and fiercer than the sun. A pillar of heaven's light and fire that reached to the skies and pierced the dome of her bounded field.

For a moment, there was nothing in sight but the impossible lights, a blinding radiance that seared the eyes with their presence. Then the phantasm finished, and it was night once more.

Moses let out a deep breath. "What a troublesome enemy. Still, the power of God cannot be denied, and by his command you have been purged." He turned in the direction of Samson. "Now then, to kill that other-"

He stopped speaking.

Slowly, his gaze moved downward, where from his gut jutted out the blade of a jagged red spear.

Blood leaking out of his mouth, he turned his head, looking straight into the gray eyes of an even more bloodied, yet living, Scathach. "H-How? You are a Caster, and you are not divine. How can you possibly...?"

She shook her head, smiling the too-wide smile once more. "I am Scathach, Witch of Dun Scaith. Born of a mortal lineage, tainted never with the blood of the divine. I will not speak of how or why, but in my life, I slew so many monsters and men and wraiths and gods that I became as one like them, yet not."

The grail granted the knowledge unto him, and Moses's jaw dropped. "Divinity...fake. Because you are not immortal due to divine blood. You are immortal due to being a concept." He swallowed dryly. "Did I ever stand a chance?"

She laughed, before kicking him, the force dragging him painfully from the spear and onto the ground. "I'm just divine right now. Not immortal. I can be killed right now, but it's not as if I'd let you."

Moses gritted his teeth. "Very well." He grabbed the white cloak, and an application of prana had it shattering into a concussive force of energy that Scathach leapt away from.

His body screaming in pain with each movement, he spat out a word, and sent a mass of prana into the earth.

The earth around the Brass Serpent tightened, and impossible pressure was brought to bear against the greatsword. The parts of it in the earth warped and shattered, and though the rest of the blade was still impaled into its side, the serpent was free.

It sprang to his command immediately, rushing towards Scathach with all the speed it could muster as Moses shouted for his companion.


When the wave of earth was formed by the enemy Caster, Cu Chulainn simply leapt to the side, his remarkable agility ensuring he could avoid the attack.

What was not expected however was for the axeman to barrel through the wave itself and bull rush him.

The armored figure crashed onto the earth like the fist of an angry god, pounding it to dust with each step and shattering the wave into flying chunks with the impact, not even slowing down as he bulldozed through the structure and swung his bronze axe at the man in blue.

Lancer grinned at his enemy. Strong? Certainly. Fast? Compared to him? The enemy was disgustingly slow, and he easily sidestepped the overhead blow, thrusting his spear at the helmet's slit.

Then the missed strike hit the ground, and Lancer found the impact strong enough to make him stumble, and almost get caught by a telegraphed gauntleted uppercut from the axeman.

As it was, he somersaulted backwards, avoiding the backswing of the axe, landing meters away from the armored warrior. "Alright. Just what the hell are you?"

The axeman's deep rumbling voice chuckled darkly. "I am His Wrathbringer. Class? Berserker. Now get back here!" He grabbed onto the earth, and in a display of insane strength, ripped out a chunk the size of a truck in one hand, throwing it at the spearman at lethal velocities.

Lancer hopped to the side, gritting his teeth at the apparent overwhelming strength of his enemy. No wonder he seemed so unskilled compared to other heroic spirits. He doubted the man had to employ much finesse nor learn how to properly fight with that kind of strength. A single hit, and the enemy was paste.

"Well then, time to take advantage of that." He sped forward and beyond his enemy, avoiding the vertical swing of the axe, Gae Bolg cutting a thin line across his unprotected shoulder. Then he reversed direction, kicking up a cloud of dust as he leaped back in Berserker's direction, the crimson spear cutting past the iron armor and lightly slashing open his side, drawing blood.

"Stop running, you whelp!" The hirsute man screamed, swinging the axe wildly, but hitting nothing but air and ground, though each hit caused a sizable crater to erupt from the force.

"And get hit? I'm not stupid." Lancer remarked, and his next hit sliced thinly into the axeman's thigh.

A dozen more exchanges followed, leaving Lancer untouched and Berserker with a dozen more flesh wounds.

Lancer frowned at the meager injuries he had caused. The guy was tough. He was going to need to put more force into his blows to truly wound him. "What the hell are you made of?"

Samson grinned at him. "Blame clean living." He declared not at all bothered by his wounds.

Lancer gripped his spear tightly, and runes lit up. "Let's try this again. Gar." The rune of Gungnir, spear, lit up, and the spear lightened in his hand. He ducked under another frustrated swing, and just before he was about to hit... "Gebo."

The balance shifted from being almost weightless, to as heavy as a boulder, and Samson grunted when the spear slammed into his thigh, punching easily through his tough skin this time.

The wrathbringer growled low in his throat, Lancer hopping away to avoid his retaliatory backswing. "Playtime's over, demigod. Now then..." He raised his axe with both hands, and marks along the bronze axehead glowed with power. He slammed it down onto the earth.

A shockwave of force erupted, and the earth exploded, rupturing in an expanding circle like a facsimile of a tidal wave, ten feet high.

When Lancer saw it, he bent his legs and jumped. One moment, he was standing on the ground, and the next, he was high in the air, well above the reach of the attack.

Then he heard the earth rupture, and Samson's seven foot tall figure shot up like a cannonball.

"Oh shi-" Berserker slammed into him with a mighty thunderclap of force, and they crashed into the ground, separating with the impact.

Samson stood up easily, smiling as Lancer shakily stood up. He raised his axe, and crashed it into the earth once more.

It was a different attack. Instead of an all-encompassing circle, it was a single wall, faster for its smaller size.

Cu Chulainn's hand flickered, and a similar wall of earth met Samson's, the two canceling each other out into a cloud of dust as a gust of wind followed.

Samson frowned. The dust cloud came out of nowhere was larger and thicker than it should be...magic? Who ever heard of a Lancer using magic?

Then the feeling of murder came into the air, and he looked wildly in every direction, heart beating faster at the sense of danger.

"Gae Bolg."

A noble phantasm was declared. Reality and causality was written. With the power of the Barbed Spear of Piercing Death, one did not need to see the enemy. The weapon would lead him to them.

The weapon slammed home, crunching through the thick iron breastplate and piercing Samson's heart.

Berserker gazed down into the smiling face of Cu Chulainn.

The Irishman grinned. "I win."

Then Samson's fist landed into his gut with stone-crushing force, and the air left his lungs as he was propelled away like a rag doll.

Samson grabbed the spear, nonchalantly pulling it out and throwing the weapon to the side. "That wasn't nice."

Lancer stood up, his stance unsteady. "The hell? I hit you. I know I did." He held out his hand, the spear manifested in his grasp.

Samson nodded. "That you did. Not that it'll make a difference. I was made to fight on until my head was cut off. A little hole in the heart is but an annoyance." Then his shroud glowed with power, and his previous wounds visibly healed, though he could still feel the hole in his chest. Nonetheless, the smile widened.

The Irishman twitched. "Great. Strong as fuck, tough as nails, battle continuation, AND regeneration? You've gotta be kidding me."

Samson smiled. "I don't kid." His axe dragged across the ground as he charged, and Lancer backpedaled to gain distance. The wrathbringer frowned. "Oh no you don't!" His arm snapped upwards, dragging the axe free, and with its separation, the earth burst forward, a gigantic spike of packed earth heading for the demigod.

Lancer ducked under it, the spike grazing the top of his hair, then forming a rune in the air.

Fire leaped out, a roar of dragon-like fire that Berserker defended from with another charging wall of earth. Then he spun around, suddenly face-to-face with Lancer.

"Warp Spasm." Ireland's Son of Light declared, and the air changed, charged with madness and death and rage and fury.

Then his mouth gaped open, too wide, showing off teeth that were visibly growing and changing into a haphazard mess.

A sound rumbled out of his throat. A horrifying amalgamation of a roar and a hiss and screech, magnified a thousand times into an indistinguishable sound that could only carry one meaning: kill.

Lancer's arm snapped forwards, too fast to react to, slamming into Samson's stomach and shattering the iron breastplate. The force continued, carrying Samson backwards and into the dust meters behind him, choking on air.

He had barely gotten to his feet when Lancer got within range.

A blindingly fast swipe with the red spear came at him, and he barely managed to bring up his axe to block it. He saw the other arm come forward for a punch, and he met it with his own, shockwaves forming in the air from the impact.

The Wrathbringer's eyes widened. Lancer's had increased by a lot. It was but a single rank down from his own.

Then Lancer's foot slammed into his kneecap, and Samson grabbed Lancer by the arm, intending to throw him as far as possible.

Hot. Too hot. The skin was like a furnace, hot enough to burn.

It was then, that Samson got a good look as to what he was facing.

An abomination. Samson couldn't call it anything else. Lancer had grown, taking foot and a half in height. His body had distended, bloated in some places with the sheer mass of muscles, the limbs set in improper sizes and shapes. His hair stood straight up, each strand a steel needle, and his eyes bulged, somehow having grown to different sizes and colors and shapes. His blistering skin was a bright fiery red, and even now he could see the cold air steaming around him.

Lancer leaned forward, neck extending beyond what should be possible, and his fanged maw bit into his shoulder, tearing off a hunk of flesh.

Samson swore, and he slammed the axe onto Lancer's face, swearing as the head simply went with the impact, bending impossibly to the side.

The spear moved, stabbing into Samson's side, and Lancer's enhanced strength meant that it stabbed deep and true, rupturing several organs.

"Oh, FUCK THIS!" Samson swore, ripping off the rawhide trying his hair.

The air shook, and Lancer, even in his madness, leaped away as Samson's fist slammed down, missing his skull and hitting the earth.

The ground exploded, a crater that could fit a car forming from the collision. Samson glared at him. "There. No limits. No restraint. It is on, you little shit." He declared, attaching his axe to his belt, then going into a wrestling stance. "Bring it."

Lancer howled into the night sky, then leaped forward, dropping the spear as his arm distended and slammed into Samson, the wrathbringer's bones creaking with the impact. But he stood his ground, and when the warped warrior drew near, his own fist met Lancer's face with enough force to snap it completely backwards.

It was but the start. They rained so many blows upon each other of such strength and force that a lesser hero would have died in but a few seconds.

But they were not lesser heroes. Samson was the Wrathbringer of God, made to sunder and destroy the infidel, empowered by his will into an engine of divine destruction. Cu Chulainn was Ireland's greatest hero, a son of a major god, with a legend few could match and empowered by his warp spasm.

They stomped on the ground, raising clouds of dust with each step, and each impact of their blows caused the air to scream with the force. Their errant strikes cleaved the earth, and their fury-filled screams would have broken mortal eardrums with their volume.

Samson knew not how long they fought, only that it must have been a while, judging by all the destruction around them. There was no clear ground in sight. Everywhere was broken ground and deep craters.

He was getting tired. He needed to end this.

Berserker grabbed an arm even as the Lancer's other limb pummeled his side like a piston. The wrathbringer gritted his teeth and tightened his grip. With a roar of fury, he tore off Cu Chulainn's limb, throwing the still-writhing arm to the side like so much trash.

In response, Lancer headbutted him with enough strength to shatter a boulder, and his needle-like hair punctured flesh and tore out an eye.

Screaming with rage, he grabbed a leg, and started slamming the warped warrior into the ground left and right, before throwing him to the side, breathing heavily from exertion.

Away from him, Lancer crashed to the ground in a heap, before uncoiling like an animal and rising to his feet, growling still like an animal. His hand shot to the side, lifting his still-writhing arm, and Samson gaped in shock when simply attaching it to the stump had it working as perfectly as before.

" that's just bullshit." The Nazirite muttered as the warped warrior screamed into the skies and charged once more.

"Berserker!" Moses' voice rang out, and a bolt of lightning struck Lancer, blowing him away as Samson turned to his ally, his white cloak gone, and a gaping wound through his stomach.

Samson blinked. "What happened?" What in the world...Moses. Defeated? What was that woman?

The prophet reached him and grabbed him by the neck. "We need to leave. That woman is a monster I was a fool to face. This is a lost cause." He coughed and spat out a wad of blood. "Leave. Now."

When a prophet told you to retreat, you did as he said. A lost cause for a prophet was certain death.

Samson gripped his axe once more. "Where's your staff?"

Moses glanced at the direction he came, where a loud, pained metallic hiss was suddenly heard. "Dead." He held out his hand, and the staff appeared, cut into three pieces. Unlike most phantasms it could be repaired, as he had made the phantasm himself in his legend, but it would take time.

Samson nodded. He raised the axe with both hands. "Eat this, you whoresons." Unbound by the Rawhide of Constraint, and facing a foes of such power, Samson's might exceeded measurement. Right then, his strength was immeasurable, and when he slammed down the mystic code upon the ground, its effect was unlike ever before.

A gigantic tidal wave dozens of feet high erupted, an expanding half-circle headed for the enemy.

He limbered his axe and grabbed Moses, leaping away, his jumps covering vast distances due to his immense strength, which slowly lowered as they got farther away from the enemy.

"Here, take this. My battle continuation will keep me alive. You have none." He said, passing his shroud, the only one remaining from the battle, to Moses.

The prophet grunted in thanks, taking the holy cloth and already feeling his wounds healing. "That woman...was a living concept of victory. I could not detect any divinity because her immortality was conceptual, not divine." He frowned. "I was lucky to survive."

Samson gritted his teeth. "Concept of...victory? God damn it all. How do you beat that?"

Moses sighed as he drifted asleep. "The Lord...will provide."

The rest of the time was spent in silence.


Cu Chulainn chuckled as he viewed the battlefield. "Well, that was fun."

Scathach scowled at the ruined field and the half-finished temple. "Easy for you to say. Half of what I managed to do is ruined. This will take another half of a day to finish."

Lancer shrugged. "I got a good fight. That's pretty much all that I asked for in this war."

The caster sighed and simply went back to work on her temple. "And I want to win. Never forget that. Now go make yourself useful and clear up the field. You can do that much, at least."

Bazett walked out of the house, eyes wide at the destruction. "What happened here?"

Lancer, smiling even as he formed runes to raise and level the ground, replied. "A caster and a berserker came knocking. Don't know about the caster, but the berserker was Samson of Israel. No wonder he didn't activate madness enhancement. He doesn't need the upgrade." He laughed. "It'll be fun to fight him again."

Caster absently studied some of the Runemarks as she spoke. "Moses of Egypt. He's as powerful as his legend makes him out to be." She grinned toothily. "Still won though. Aren't you happy you got us?"

Bazett nodded. "The Sabers will be just as tough, and there's four of them." She smiled. "Still, good work."

Lancer gave her a thumbs up, while Scathach simply went back to her temple-creation.


Yeah. Napoleon has an entire country's worth of phantasmal artillery pieces, Cu Chulainn can activate warp spasm, Scathach can use anti-army Gae Bolg without a running start, Samson's power is proportional to the danger of the opponent (Gil is gonna be FUN, oh, and during the battle he had A+++ strength and A+ endurance. EX without the Rawhide), and Moses just called on an artillery strike from God. Yeah, I totally just called on a Flame Strike. Because Moses functions like a DnD cleric in many ways. That, and Old Testament God tended to use a lot of Flame Strikes.

I love this fic so much for letting me write this madness.

Also, I'm surprised none of you guys figured out both of Rin's servants (some got one), seeing as she was the last to summon. I mentioned I was gonna have Simo Hayha in this fic, and I mentioned a Julius Caesar sheet in the ND Servant's sheets in the Rider section. Oh, and if the words of the summoning turned out clunky, blame the Let's Play Fate thing I took it from. That's what it said there and that's what I used. If you have a better version, feel free to show it so I can replace mine.

So, the servant sheets have been updated with the shown phantasms and servants. Simo Hayha and Julius Caesar are now visible, though not their phantasms. Also, I raised Scathach's divinity (fake) to A+. Because if Gil was A+ by being 2/3 divine, then Scathach is A+ because she was, in all practicality, a god by that time. I would have written it as A++, but that's when she unleashes her phantasm.

Anyway, hope you guys found everything awesome and in character. I'm scared about writing Gil because I have plans with him that involve thinking beyond his own arrogance. I tried to write him as in character as possible and yet fit into the plot, with Napoleon's own A+ charisma functioning to make him listen for once. Tell me how well it worked, and feel free to make theories as to what I have planned.

Finally, I've been proofreading the past chapters. In Aabidah's summoning, her used Zabaniya makes more sense now. Also, Shirou and Sakura's conversation is smoother now.

Now then, review. It feeds me.

Volumen Hydragyrum

Kirei: It's a hundred and six kilometers to Fuyuki, we've got a filled Holy Grail, half a box of Origin bullets, it's spring again, and we're wearing trench coats.

Kiritsugu: Hit it.