Beneath the fading twilight, an apocalyptic pillar of divine fire ignited across the western horizon.
High above the battlefield, the phantom titan raised the colossal flame blade into the clouds.
Concentric rings of solar fire compressed along the fuller like a supervolcano reaching catastrophic critical mass, its blinding radiance instantly blotting out the setting sun behind it.
This was the exact, terrifying spectacle that greeted the four combatants the split second they breached the perimeter of the fire tornado.
Scorching, gargantuan, and suffocating with absolute despair.
The acrid stench of brimstone and superheated ozone flooded their nostrils.
Just how much apocalyptic, planetary destruction was condensed into that single descending blade?!
They were about to find out firsthand.
The instant their silhouettes cleared the smoke, the fiery broadsword cleaved downward!
There wasn’t even a mathematical window to dodge.
Iskandar’s expression hardened into pure, battle-hardened solemnity.
The enemy Master had anticipated their exact breakout vector, patiently waiting for them to deliver their heads straight beneath her blade.
No…
had they refused to charge outward, they would have simply been baked into ash within the vortex anyway.
‘Hah…
we truly walked straight into her palm.’ Thinking back, that girl had clearly detected their presence on the rooftop from the very beginning.
If they didn’t intervene, she would harvest Berserker if they did intervene, she would wipe all four of them out in a single sweep.
What an overwhelmingly aggressive, ruthless battle plan.
Even staring down the barrel of annihilation, Iskandar couldn’t help but roar with genuine admiration for her audacity.
Speaking of which, he had found himself in an identical predicament a decade ago—on a moonlit night, facing a knight holding a golden holy sword, he had charged his divine chariot forward with the exact same reckless fervor.
Back then, Excalibur had obliterated his wheels.
So, how would history write this clash today?
Iskandar grinned ferociously, snapping the reins to pump every ounce of his remaining mana into the chariot’s hull, driving the Gordius Wheel upward to greet the falling sun.
Yet deep down, he knew his output was insufficient.
Breaking through the fire tornado had already drained half his reserves in such a hurried interception, the magical energy he could muster was severely limited.
Completely neutralizing that apocalyptic strike was impossible.
‘Looks like my beloved chariot is getting scrapped for the second time.’ The conqueror mused with self-deprecating optimism.
Yet in the very next heartbeat, a youthful, fiercely resolute cry tore through the thunder from behind.
“Berserker—!” ROAR—!
Almost simultaneously, a towering black silhouette launched past the chariot like a living missile!
Heracles’s massive, hyper-muscular frame blotted out Rider’s vision like an iron bulwark, taking the absolute brunt of the descending solar blade head-on!
Sizzle—!
The sickening sound of demigod flesh and bone flash-vaporizing echoed through the air.
In less than half a second, Heracles’s skin, muscle fibers, and skeletal structure were pulverized into fine powder by Muspelheim’s hellfire.
Yet that momentary sacrifice bought an invaluable, miraculous sliver of time for the allies behind him!
“Obliterate her, Rider!” Waver roared at the top of his lungs.
The physically frail professor screamed that command with the fastest neurological reaction speed of his entire life!
He, too, vividly remembered that moonlit riverbank ten years ago—back when he was nothing more than a terrified, weeping child clutching Iskandar’s cloak.
Today was different.
Prior to entering this Fifth War, he had survived a decade of brutal Clock Tower politics.
He had sworn to stand beside his King as a true strategist and seize victory together!
Flash—!
A crimson Command Spell vanished from the back of Waver’s hand.
Under the miraculous omnipotence of the Command Spell, Iskandar’s surging magical reserves expanded exponentially!
The divine thunder enveloping the chariot reached an unprecedented, apocalyptic crescendo, roaring with the fury of Olympus itself!
KRA-BOOOOOM—!
The divine lightning symbolizing Zeus and the primordial inferno of Muspelheim collided violently in the center of the boulevard!
The unimaginable thermal output instantly liquefied the asphalt into bubbling glass.
Escaping arcs of lightning shredded commercial buildings into concrete dust, while the resulting shockwave flattened the entire suburban district into smithereens.
A gargantuan mushroom cloud—woven from roaring crimson fire and blinding white thunder—soared hundreds of meters into the night sky!
The gale-force sonic shockwave forced Illya’s petite body backward, forcing her to shield her face with her arms as she squinted through the blinding dust storm.
“Did we…
win…?” She whispered anxiously to herself.
Simultaneously, her senses remained on hair-trigger alert against a sneak attack from Caster.
If Berserker hadn’t thrown himself into the blade, their entire faction would have been wiped out yet throwing him forward meant leaving her personal flank completely exposed to the witch’s dagger.
Between two lethal choices, she had chosen the lesser evil.
Illya reasoned that as long as she stayed vigilant, her hair familiars could stall Caster long enough for Berserker to respawn.
Of course, that calculation was predicated entirely on Caster being the sole infiltrator.
“A draw, I suppose.” A crisp, languid female voice drifted casually from directly behind her neck.
Before Illya could even flinch, a soft, warm hand came resting gently upon her silver head, casually ruffling her hair as if petting a stray kitten.
“While the Gordius Wheel is undeniably formidable, in terms of raw kinetic destruction, it still ranks half a tier below Lævateinn.
However, combining Berserker’s body shield with a Command Spell’s miraculous boost barely managed to force a mutual cancellation.” The female voice calmly dissected the battlefield dynamics right into Illya’s ear.
Don’t ask how she analyzed it so clearly Illya was far too terrified to care.
Surtr could feel the petite frame beneath her palm instantly freeze into rigid stone, her lips parting in a silent, suffocating gasp.
Yet Surtr had zero intention of granting her a window to counter.
Stab.
A sharp, piercing numbness flared across Illya’s abdomen, followed by an agonizing spiritual shockwave rippling through her nervous system.
Looking down in sheer horror, Illya saw a jagged, iridescent lightning dagger buried shallowly in her stomach.
Standing before her was the dark-hooded sorceress of Colchis, her purple-painted lips curling into a triumphant, mocking smirk.
“Got you this time, little brat.” There was zero blood spilled, yet an agonizing spiritual tear—as if her very soul circuits were being ripped from her flesh—rushed across Illya’s body.
The intricate Command Seals engraved across her skin involuntarily flared and unraveled into thin air.
Clutching her aching stomach, Illya collapsed onto the curb, curling into a trembling ball as she desperately whimpered the name she trusted above all else.
“Berserker…” Yet there was no reply.
The moment Rule Breaker severed her contract, the spiritual tether snapped into oblivion her beloved guardian could no longer hear her cries.
In an instant, the vibrant ruby light in her eyes faded into hollow, lifeless gray—resembling an abandoned, broken porcelain doll.
Watching her curl up, Surtr confirmed the girl had merely suffered psychological shock and dismissed further action.
She was no romantic poet capable of uttering dramatic lines like ‘I killed your Berserker, but you still have me’.
Her future interactions with Illya would be minimal once Medea cleansed the Greater Grail shard from her body, she would simply dump the girl onto Emiya Shirou’s doorstep and let that stubborn Hero of Justice reform her with warm tea and home-cooked meals.
Though speaking of which, this ‘child’ was technically eighteen years old—a fully legal homunculus.
Pity Surtr wasn’t particularly into petite girls.
At the exact same instant, a crisp system kill prompt echoed in her mind.
[Eliminated: Berserker (Heracles)] [Reward: Primogems ×300] [Current Primogems: 1173.2] Heracles was dead for good.
Without a Master’s mana tether to sustain his God Hand resurrection cycle, the demigod couldn’t reconstitute his Saint Graph from raw ether.
Interestingly, Surtr checked her quest interface and noticed that Berserker’s commission to ‘Protect Illya’ was still active in her log.
‘System, can quests issued by deceased clients still be fulfilled?’ [Because Heroic Spirits are fundamentally dead souls summoned from the Throne, their spiritual requests remain valid until the world line resolves.] The system clarified.
Surtr nodded, satisfied with the mechanics.
Raising her right palm toward the billowing smoke, a crimson streak of light flew out from the crater and landed neatly in her grip—Lævateinn returning to its wielder.
While categorized under the Servant framework as a Noble Phantasm, Lævateinn was fundamentally different from ordinary armaments.
It possessed its own primordial sentience.
The magma titan was akin to an ancient weapon spirit as long as mana was provided, unleashing its destructive authority didn’t require Surtr to swing it manually every time.
A moment later, Rider’s chariot rolled out from the dust.
The bronze chariot halted ten paces away from Surtr.
Aside from the twin divine oxen having their coats lightly singed by stray embers, the vehicle had sustained zero structural damage.
Iskandar’s dark red eyes first swept over the flaming greatsword in Surtr’s hand, before locking onto the despondent, silver-haired girl slumped upon the curb.
“I truly did not expect you to pull off the subjugation in the end.” A rare, helpless sigh escaped the conqueror’s lips as he asked: “What do you intend to do with Berserker’s Master?
Now that she is stripped of her Servant, surely you won’t go as far as executing an unarmed child?” “Foster her at our base until the Holy Grail War concludes, then release her into the wild.” Surtr answered casually, sounding as if she were discussing adopting a stray street puppy.
“Even though she poses zero threat to your victory?” “Just a personal preference.” Surtr waved her hand dismissively, clearly unwilling to debate ethics.
“Is there anything else keeping you here, King of Conquerors?
Surely you don’t intend to start round two against me right now?” “Nay.
There is no longer any purpose in clashing today.
Besides, the ruckus we kicked up was slightly too grand.” Iskandar gestured toward the distant avenues.
The piercing wails of municipal police and fire sirens were already echoing through the night even with Medea’s bounded field, a mushroom cloud of that magnitude was impossible to conceal from the city.
Turning his massive torso around, Iskandar locked his fiery gaze onto Surtr, his expression becoming solemn and dignified.
“This King’s True Name is Iskandar, the King of Conquerors!
Unknown Master…
have you ever considered joining my grand banner?” Saying so, the great King extended his massive, calloused palm toward Surtr.
A legendary, all-too-familiar invitation.
Hearing those booming words, Surtr had the bizarre illusion of walking straight onto the anime set of Fate/Zero.
Beside the chariot, Gray leaned toward Waver and whispered nervously: “Lord El-Melloi II…
isn’t a Servant’s True Name supposed to be their ultimate classified secret?
Is it truly wise for him to announce it so openly to an enemy Master?” “…That is simply who he is, Gray.” A fond, self-deprecating smirk tugged at the corner of Waver’s lips.
Yet precisely because of that unyielding, majestic charisma, the man was so hopelessly captivating.
The dialogue between the two titans continued under the quiet night sky.
Surtr gave a languid shake of her head at Rider.
Naturally, she flatly rejected his offer conquering the mundane world held zero interest for a casual dimensional traveler.
“Is that so?” As if anticipating her refusal, Iskandar didn’t press the matter, continuing with a hearty grin: “In that case, how about revealing your True Name before we part ways?
A warrior of your caliber surely has no petty rules against declaring her name.” “Hmm…
fair enough.” After brief consideration, Surtr saw zero reason to conceal her identity.
Parting her lips, she calmly declared: “My name is…” “Surtr.”