Jayr POV - Nasuverse, Moon, Far Side, Sakura Labyrinth - 2030 AD
Almost two hours passed without incident.
The artificial sky above the Sanctuary Floor remains unchanged. It's still bright, serene, indifferent. No tremors. No other announcements. No prana flares rippling across the Sakura Labyrinth.
It's strangely peaceful, almost too much.
I stand before the wide projection screen in the hall of the Athena Temple, watching the feeds from the Funnels stationed along the staircase connected to the floors of the still active Master.
The staircase of the forest floor leading to the factory floors of the Master of Avicebron remains undisturbed, and from time to time, I send one of the Funnels to scout the situation.
Beyond the ascending staircase, Avicebron's factory floors continued their quiet industry.
Metal shifted. Casting arrays pulsed. Half-formed golems hardened inside their moulds. His Master and the golden making Caster had chosen patience over provocation. They were building, preparing, and accumulating.
It is clear that they planned for a slow war, where they would focus on strengthening their position as much as possible before starting their invasion.
On the other hand, the Funnels that were scouting Rani's floors finally crossed the whole maze-like structure of the last floor of the set and arrived in front of the staircase leading to the next set of floors.
However, I didn't continue to scout ahead as the distance between the Funnels and us would become too large, and this would force me to use more Spiral Cosmo to keep the connection strong, thus making them much more likely to be found by extremely sensitive Masters or Servants.
Despite that, the staircase in Rani's former territory has shown no movement at all, which seems to indicate that whoever is on the other side chooses to either be more passive, like the Master of Avicebron and me, or invade the floors in the opposite direction.
During this time, I kept my gaze on the feeds, but every so often, I also glanced behind me to check on my companions.
At the far end of the hall, seated comfortably upon the throne positioned at the end of this hall, Nero taps her fingers against the armrest in thoughtful rhythm.
A small parchment hovers before her, held aloft by a delicate thread of prana as she murmurs fragments of melody under her breath.
Even in such a cruel Holy Grail War, she finds time to compose, as in her words: "War did not diminish Rome. It inspires it."
To the right, in a space I had materialised for her using my authority over this floor, Rani works in silence.
A compact laboratory with sterile surfaces, geometric arrays etched in light, analytical lenses suspended midair surrounded her.
At its centre floated the translucent cube containing the preserved fragments of Lu Bu's spiritual data.
Thin lines of energy ran across its faces as Hermes hummed faintly within her core, synchronising with the cube.
Rani's eyes are unfocused, scanning layers of information invisible to ordinary sight.
The atmosphere is stable and controlled, at least until the Sakura Labyrinth speaks again.
[Elimination confirmed. Master Alix Faye Bazalgette has been eliminated.]
The mechanical voice echoes across the Sanctuary Floor, making me exhale slowly and murmur, "That makes five."
Nero looks up from her composition, one eyebrow rising slightly as she comments, "If the architect of this revised War wished to reduce the number of participants swiftly, then they would surely have chosen one of the most effective methods."
There was no anxiety in her tone, only plain observation.
Rani steps out from her laboratory space, the cube of preserved spiritrons hovering beside her palm before she notes calmly, "Elimination frequency has decreased. The remaining Masters demonstrate higher competence indices. Increased caution is statistically probable."
She is not wrong. As numbers fall, recklessness becomes more expensive and dangerous, and those who will survive are likely to take that into consideration.
I fold my arms, still watching the screen and say, "Maybe. But I doubt whoever is behind this will allow stagnation. Sooner or later, something is going to happen that will force everyone to act."
Silence follows that statement, the kind of silence that precedes a great upheaval.
Time passes, and no further eliminations are announced.
The forest remains still. The factory floors continue their controlled production. The staircase leading to the next set of floors in Rani's inert labyrinth continues to show no movement.
Like that, three hours pass in measured stillness.
Not the careless kind of quiet that comes from safety, but the deliberate, watching silence of predators who know other predators are nearby.
The artificial sky above the Sanctuary Floor does not change colour. The light remains evenly diffused, neither warming nor dimming. The temple halls hold their symmetry. The air feels stable, almost too stable.
Even the ambient prana currents feel flattened, as though something vast is holding its breath.
I notice it first in the smallest ways. A faint delay in the echo of my own footsteps against the marble. A barely perceptible fluctuation in the projection feeds, not distortion, but latency, as if the Labyrinth's processing has been briefly diverted elsewhere.
The Funnels report nothing unusual, yet the silence begins to feel structured rather than natural.
Back on the throne, Nero stops tapping her fingers.
She doesn't say anything, but I feel the shift in her through our bond. Her attention sharpens. The melody she had been murmuring fades mid-phrase, unfinished.
Rani's analytical lenses flicker once, then twice. She tilts her head slightly, gaze unfocused, before she calmly says, "Energy distribution across the Labyrinth has altered by 0.7 per cent. Source indeterminate."
Three hours and twenty minutes pass.
The stillness grows heavier.
The air tightens. Not enough to hinder breathing, but enough that my Spiral Cosmo responds instinctively, rising in faint defence. The stone beneath my boots feels subtly different, as though tension has been introduced into its structure.
Three hours and twenty-nine minutes.
The projection feeds flicker again; it isn't static, nor some kind of interference. It feels more like recalibration.
Then, precisely at three hours and thirty minutes, the entire Sakura Labyrinth begins to shake, but not in a violent manner, not yet.
It starts as a low vibration that runs through the stone like a distant tremor, too deep to be called an earthquake. The columns lining the Athena Temple hum softly. Fine dust loosens from unseen seams in the architecture and drifts downward in thin, pale veils.
The artificial sky ripples.
Not visibly at first, but I feel it in the prana currents overhead. A subtle distortion, as if the ceiling of the world has flexed.
The vibration strengthens by degrees.
It travels upward through my legs and into my spine. The marble floor emits a low resonance, almost like a note held just below the threshold of hearing.
The Funnels' feeds begin to tremble as well. Forest canopies shudder without wind. In distant corridors, small fragments of stone detach and skitter across the ground.
Nero rises slowly from her throne; she isn't startled, nor rushed in her manner, but ready.
Her green eyes lift toward the artificial sky as if daring it to explain itself.
Rani's laboratory space flickers once before stabilising. She extends one hand, steadying the floating cube of spiritron data beside her. Hermes emits a faint harmonic pulse, automatically compensating for spatial instability.
The tremor deepens, and for a brief moment, it feels like the Labyrinth is inhaling.
Then the awaited announcement comes.
The mechanical voice does not raise its volume, yet it fills every inch of space with absolute clarity.
[Sufficient time has elapsed. Inactive floors will now be removed.]
The words echo without echo, embedding themselves directly into the structure of the air.
The tremor intensifies slightly, no longer subtle. Hairline fractures of light begin to form along distant walls, thin glowing seams tracing geometric lines through the stone.
[All Masters are advised to vacate inactive territories immediately.]
A pause follows, not too long, just enough to give that sense of dread and pressure.
Enough to let the meaning settle.
Rani's eyes narrow while Nero's lips curve faintly, not in amusement, but in recognition.
Then the final line arrives, delivered with the same indifferent tone.
[Failure to comply may result in random relocation.]
The vibration surges once, sharper this time, like the crack of a massive lock being disengaged somewhere beyond perception.
The Sakura Labyrinth has made its decision.
Shortly after the announcement, the tremor intensifies while Nero rises from the throne in one fluid motion and asks, "Removed?"
Rani's eyes sharpen slightly as she comments, "Inactive floors likely refer to territories belonging to eliminated Masters."
At the same time, my thoughts move faster than the tremors, 'Random relocation. If a Master and Servant were separated... Servants cannot function independently for long unless they are Archer class or, for some reason, have the Independent Action skill. And most Masters would not survive alone. This forced separation feels more like a convoluted execution method rather than some system regulation.'
While I am still thinking through the implications of forced separation, the entire Sakura Labyrinth convulses.
This time, there is no gradual build. The tremor just suddenly spikes.
Through the Funnels' feed, we watch as distant sections of terrain begin to unravel like a woven sock.
The forest floors flicker first.
Trees shudder, their trunks fragmenting into grids of luminous lines. Leaves disintegrate into motes of pale spiritron dust before they can even touch the ground. The soil beneath them fractures into geometric plates that lift and peel backwards, like layers of reality being stripped away by unseen hands.
Entire groves vanish in synchronised silence.
On the mountain floor, the stones quietly follow.
Massive pillars of the Chinese Temple, carved with intricate reliefs, do not crack or crumble. Instead, their surfaces ripple, then liquefy into streams of light that spiral upward and disperse. Walls lose texture, then colour, then dimension, flattening into glowing outlines before blinking out of existence.
There is no rubble, no debris, no ruin, only absence.
Rani states, her voice steady but noticeably faster than before, while analytical arrays flare to life around her, "The spatial coordinates are being rewritten in real time. This is not regular destruction. It is system-level deletion."
A distant staircase disconnects midair.
One moment, it anchors two floors together. The next, its lower half dissolves into cascading light while the upper half remains suspended in nothing. For a fraction of a second, it hangs there, unsupported.
Then space folds.
The staircase bends sharply, as if reality itself has been creased, and reattaches to a completely different structure now occupying the adjacent coordinates.
Floors are not falling.
They are being folded inward, compressed, consumed by spiralling turbulence that resembles a storm made of data and prana. Vast whirlpools of luminous code churn across entire territories, swallowing forests, halls, laboratories, and battlefields alike.
The turbulence does not rage wildly.
It rotates with precision. Deliberate. Controlled.
One of my Funnels tilts violently as the space around it distorts. The horizon in its feed bends into a convex arc. Trees stretch unnaturally tall before thinning into lines of light.
Warning signals spike across my perception as the connection strains, making Nero say sharply, "Praetor."
I am already moving as another feed dissolves into static.
Not because the Funnel was destroyed, but because the floor beneath it ceases to exist.
The image fractures into shards of white noise, then cuts to pure black.
For a split second, through a third feed, oncoming from a Funnel that is being displaced, I glimpse something worse.
A distant structure half-erased.
One side intact, the other fading into nothingness and at its edge, two figures.
Human silhouettes running toward a staircase that is dissolving faster than they can reach it.
The image distorts before I can identify them.
The turbulence engulfs the entire zone, and they are gone.
Nero's jaw tightens as she comments, "So that is the consequence of hesitation."
Rani's lenses flare brighter, "Probability of survival for any Master remaining within a deleted floor approaches zero. Random relocation clause will likely force Servants and Masters to separate and find themselves in hostile territories."
This confirms what I've been considering, as soon as a set of floors becomes inactive, they immediately turn into danger zones as they can be erased at any moment, thus forcing the relocation where both the Master and the Servant may end up powerless.
The only result will be death. No ceremony. No duel. No heroic final stand.
Seeing all that, I make the decision instantly and without hesitation, "Recall."
The command leaves my lips quietly, but my Spiral Cosmo surges in response.
The remaining Funnels dissolve into motes of light at my command, collapsing back into pure energy before the turbulence can relocate or sever them. Their structures disassemble layer by layer, retreating through the Spiral Cosmo threads that bind them to me.
One connection snaps just as the surrounding space folds.
A flicker of resistance travels up the link like static along a wire, but the construct fully dematerialises before the distortion can catch it.
The feeds go dark.
The hall falls silent except for the deep resonance of the Labyrinth reshaping itself while I consider, 'The decision is simple. Better to be temporarily blind than carelessly exposed.'
The convulsion intensifies for several seconds more.
From within the Sanctuary Floor, we feel the compression pass through neighbouring territories like a shockwave travelling through a massive organism. The floor beneath us tightens. The air thickens with condensed prana.
Somewhere far above, something enormous locks into place with a sound too deep to hear but impossible not to feel.
Then, as abruptly as it began, the shaking stops.
Complete stillness descends with no residual tremor and no settling debris, just silence.
A silence that feels heavier than before until the mechanical voice returns, unchanged in tone.
[Inactive floors have been erased. Compression complete.]
No further elaboration. No acknowledgement of loss. Only confirmation that a process has been completed.
Silence follows the announcement, but it is immediately clear that something fundamental has changed.
The prana density has increased, not to a dramatic level, but unmistakably perceptible.
The ambient energy feels closer now, as if the walls of the world have shifted inward by unseen degrees. Spatial resistance presses faintly against my senses, like depth has been reduced.
Nero exhales slowly before she says, "The stage has grown smaller but more focused."
Rani nods, "Confirmed. Total spatial volume has decreased. Remaining Masters are now in closer proximity by an estimated thirty-two per cent."
Which means encounters will no longer be optional.
After that, I extend my senses cautiously. The Sakura Labyrinth feels more refined. Compressed into a tighter battlefield.
What was once a sprawling war has just been condensed into something far more intimate and far more dangerous.
Without wasting any time, I extend my Spiral Cosmo and rematerialize the Funnels, reconstructing them from condensed energy, pre-arranged structure, and will.
They take form once more, sleek, precise, obedient, and almost undetectable through regular means.
Then I order quietly, "Resume scouting."
They silently move, once again dividing into two groups, one heading toward the ascending staircase, the other toward the descending one.
It doesn't take them long to pass through the buffer floors and reach their destinations.
The ascending staircase connects exactly where I had expected, now that the forest set of floors has been erased, to the factory floors, the domain of the Master of Avicebron.
Watching through the feed, I instantly realise that the factory remains intact.
I see no panic, no structural damage, no confusion; the production of Golems continues undisturbed, which means that for the moment, nothing has changed for them.
Then I shift my focus to another section of the projection screen as the descending staircase feed stabilises.
For a moment, the image wavers, recalibrating to new spatial parameters after the compression, then it resolves.
What lies beyond the stone threshold is not a maze, nor a mountain range, nor a forest. It is a battlefield.
An open plain stretches outward beneath a muted sky, the terrain unnaturally level, as though shaped deliberately for war. The ground is darkened in broad, irregular patches, scorched repeatedly but not reduced to ash. The earth has been burned, churned, and packed down so many times that it has taken on a hardened, iron-like sheen.
This is not land that has suffered battle.
This is land that exists for it.
Rows of war banners rise across the plain in disciplined intervals.
They are unmistakably inspired by the Sengoku era. Tall, rectangular nobori flags mounted on rigid poles, their fabric snapping sharply in the dry wind. Each bears bold crests and stylised flames in stark black and crimson. Some display the stylised character for "Ten" in exaggerated brushstroke, others variations of demonic sigils intertwined with military insignia.
More importantly, they do not flutter randomly; they align in formation.
Wooden fortifications divide the field into layered defensive zones. Low barricades of reinforced timber form staggered lines, creating kill corridors and controlled retreat paths. Watch platforms stand at measured distances, each manned.
Earthen rises have been sculpted into artillery positions. Upon them rest cannons of varying sizes, their barrels angled with mechanical precision to dominate the approaches. The metal gleams dully, well-maintained. Some are conventional in appearance, reminiscent of matchlock-era artillery.
Others are not.
Several cannons appear fused with organic matter. Veins of dark energy pulse faintly along their frames, as if the weapons themselves have been fed something beyond powder.
The sky above carries a thin haze.
Not thick smoke from an active blaze, but the lingering residue of countless discharges. The air itself seems dry and metallic, as though saturated with the memory of gunfire.
Even through the projection, I can almost hear the echo of coordinated volleys.
The rhythmic thunder of disciplined fire, then the movement draws my attention next.
Across the plain march countless figures in structured formations, and they are very familiar.
An endless horde of imp-like demon creatures moves with unnerving coordination. Their silhouettes vary in size but share common traits: hunched frames, elongated limbs, clawed hands gripping weapons with competence rather than savagery.
Their skin ranges from ashen grey to deep obsidian. Some bear faint, glowing fissures along their bodies, cracks filled with dim crimson light that pulses in time with some collective rhythm.
Others possess serpentine features. Fanged tendrils coil from their shoulders or backs, swaying like alert predators. A few have elongated necks that split near the jawline, revealing secondary maws lined with needle-like teeth.
Yet despite their monstrous forms, they are not chaotic; they move in ranks.
I do not need further confirmation; these creatures are the Darklings, which means that this set of floors belongs to Ledram Vassago, the Master of Oda Nobunaga, and more importantly, the Champion of Darkness.
Watching the feed beside me, Rani also notices them and asks, "What are these creatures? My database has no information about them."
Hearing that, I calmly explain, "It's natural. Those creatures aren't part of this universe, and they are called Darklings. They are agents of the Darkness and servants of its vessel. Created as lesser beings in the likeness of their makers, Darklings possess their own collective consciousness; beholden to the will of their wielder but ultimately sworn to the Darkness. Darklings come in many shapes and sizes with varying degrees of strength and intelligence. They are a reflection of the mental strength of their master as well as their energies. Wielders with a strong will manifest potent Darklings, while those of weak will manifest Darklings either too weak to be of use or the wielder is overwhelmed by the power of the Darkness."
Rani nods and comments, "I see... They seem to be quite the troublesome species. Especially considering the numbers. From the feed alone, I've already counted 692.357 of them."
I smile wryly and add, "No joke. Their number is the least troublesome trait. They are technically immortal, as they live as long as their master does, strong enough to, at the very least, eviscerate a man barehanded, have enhanced senses, and have high fighting skills. On top of all that, as the wielder becomes more experienced with the Darkness and the summoning of Darklings, the Darklings themselves become more accustomed and familiar with their wielder. And as the wielder invests more energy and time into mastering the Darklings, they begin to evolve in appearance and abilities. In simple words, they have both quantity and quality."
Then I focus back on the screen and watch as lines of Darklings equipped with matchlock-style rifles kneel in synchronised rows, their weapons braced against wooden rests. Behind them stand larger variants, carrying heavier firearms resembling primitive cannons mounted on reinforced frames. Each squad is positioned with calculated spacing, ensuring overlapping fields of fire.
To the flanks, shield-bearing units patrol in rotating patterns. Their shields are not uniform but vary in design, some resembling lacquered Sengoku-era tate shields, others forged from jagged black material that seems grown rather than crafted.
Sword-bearing Darklings drill in tight formations, practising thrusts and counter-steps with mechanical discipline. Their blades catch the light, some forged steel, others composed of condensed darkness that leaves faint distortions in the air with each swing.
Further back, towering Darklings, nearly twice the height of the others, haul ammunition crates and reposition artillery with brute strength. They move more slowly but with deliberate purpose, responding instantly to silent signals passed through the horde.
Communication occurs through subtle gestures, minute shifts, and what I recognise as their shared collective consciousness.
At the centre of the field stands a raised command platform.
It is built from dark wood reinforced with iron, elevated enough to oversee the entire plain. From this distance, I cannot see who occupies it, but the formation of troops subtly orients around that central axis.
Rani steps closer to the screen as she observes, "They are organised. Command hierarchy present. Units differentiated by function. Artillery, ranged infantry, melee vanguard, heavy support. A literal army"
I reply quietly, "Yes. That is surely Nobunaga's influence."
This is no longer merely a horde of Darklings under Ledram's control but a true war machine.
Oda Nobunaga's militaristic genius layered over the infinite reproducibility of the Darkness.
Where a normal army would rely on supply lines, morale, and human endurance, this force has none of those weaknesses. The Darklings do not tire. They do not question orders. They do not fear death.
And any that fall can be replaced as long as their master endures, and from what I've seen, Ledram can endure quite the punishment.
Nero studies the scene with narrowed eyes before she comments, "So this is the stage prepared by the self-proclaimed Demon King and her Master."
Her voice carries neither disdain nor admiration, only calm assessment.
Meanwhile, I continue observing.
Scattered across the plain are scorch marks arranged in patterned arcs, not random explosions but pre-measured firing tests. Trenches have been dug at calculated distances from the staircase entrance, clearly anticipating a frontal advance from above.
Even the open ground between fortifications is deceptive.
There are shallow depressions and concealed channels that would funnel an advancing force into crossfire. The layout is not purely defensive but devised to invite attack and then punish it.
At this point, Rani says, "They are waiting."
I agree, "Yes."
The Darklings are not roaming aimlessly. They patrol. They drill. They maintain readiness. But they are not advancing, not marching.
Which means they know compression just occurred.
Which means they expect contact.
I let my Spiral Cosmo extend slightly through the feed, testing the density of prana on that floor and see that it is thick.
Thicker than before the compression and laced with something else.
A faint undercurrent of oppressive intent.
Nero speaks through our bond, her tone measured, [An army that does not sleep, does not doubt, and does not retreat without order. How very troublesome.]
I nod faintly and say, [And at its centre stands a Champion whose Servant is a military genius.]
After that, I focus back on the screen, observing the feed, while thinking, 'Another Champion this close, huh? For some reason, I can't help but feel that this is not a coincidence, but a deliberate act...'
It seems that I'm not the only one thinking that, as Nero appears beside me and says through our bond, [It almost seems like we are being targeted, doesn't it? First Rani, now a powerful Champion... Quite a few notable competitors are gathered all around us.]
Hearing that, I smile wryly and reply, [I feel the same. But it is still too soon to decide if we are the real target of this plot. At least, the good news is that the Champion in question is Ledram, and while we didn't meet him personally, we've seen him fighting Aletha and know for sure that he is a fair and reasonable man. So, he may be willing to talk before actually fighting. However, the bad news is that he is strong. Very strong. And his Servant is almost my natural counter.]
Nero nods and comments, [Umu... Oda Nobunaga is truly the natural counter for anything Divine in nature. For sure, we have to be careful if we stand against her.]
I almost exhale before I add, [That's not the only problem. If we are forced to fight, we will not be able to defeat him without revealing more than I'm willing at this point in the Holy Grail War. On top of that, if we actually end up fighting. Even if we are victorious, we may be too tired and end up ambushed by yet another nearby Master or even Champion, and that may be a fatal mistake.]
The camera feed continues to pan slowly as the Funnels adjust their vantage point.
Rows upon rows. Hundreds upon hundreds.
The earlier estimate of nearly seven hundred Darklings may have been conservative.
And this is only the visible surface.
If their floor plans have depth similar to ours, then reserves may be stationed beyond the immediate plain.
This is Sengoku-era total war rebuilt with immortal soldiers, and it is now directly connected to our territory.