Chapter 235: The Glorious Empire Sung by the Maiden
No affirmation. No denial. Only a flat answer.
"So what?"
The clear voice drifted with the evening wind on the summit of Mount Enzo.
The girl called Altera, the conqueror carved into human history, faced the beautiful figure with spring green hair and white robes and spoke slowly.
"He is a bad guy. Therefore, he is an enemy."
"So you neither deny him nor dislike him?" The green haired girl's voice was gentle, friendly enough that it was difficult to feel hostility.
Altera did not deny it.
"I do not dislike him."
Then her gaze sharpened again.
"But he is an enemy."
"We were enemies before. We are enemies now."
"An enemy… is that so?" The green haired girl studied her.
Wheat colored skin. Pale short hair that swayed as it fell, framing a face that was delicate and refined in a way that almost felt unfair. Most of her skin was bare, the lines of her body athletic and precise, with only a corner of white cloth covering the slight rise of her chest.
Her legs were crossed, straight, and strong. Black ribbons wrapped below her abdomen, drawing a clean outline that emphasized the firmness of her hips. A white veil rested on her head. In her hand was a sword woven from three colors.
A heroic girl.
A valiant Heroic Spirit warrior.
Enkidu knew exactly who stood before her.
Altera, the King of the Huns.
The so called Scourge of God who trampled Europe and shattered what remained of Rome.
The memories Alaya had delivered did not show any clear interaction between Altera and Rowe. Even so, Enkidu could see it in her eyes.
Hostility and resentment intertwined with something that should not have been there.
Longing.
So Enkidu smiled, as if she were speaking about something ordinary.
"Enemies are something you face before you decide what they truly are."
"You were his enemy once, but that does not mean you must remain enemies forever."
"You are not the same as you were in the past. People change, do they not?"
The warm voice blended into the wind.
Altera froze.
Not the same as the past.
The Star Hunter Sefar, now wearing the name Altera, had manifested as a Servant. Yes, she was different.
Not simply because she was a Servant.
The change had started long before, back when she still walked the world as a living calamity.
After she fell from the Moon into the present world, she seized the war god's sword from Ares and continued to pursue her instinct, the need to destroy civilization, exactly as before.
Destroy.
Accumulate.
Rebuild her mechanism.
That had been her unchanging goal.
Yet her destruction had changed in character. In the past, she was an invader from beyond. Now, she existed inside civilization.
And because of that, while countless people called her the Scourge of God and treated her as an executioner, her heart began to fluctuate.
She saw the rage and grief of people whose homes were burned.
She saw the bitterness and refusal of those whose courtyards were crushed beneath hooves.
Why did they rage?
Civilization was only dust in the cosmos. Something destined to be erased.
"Because we love our home."
Why did they refuse?
Submitting to the strong was the universe's rule. Destruction was the destination of all things.
"Because even if we are weak, we still struggle to live. The Lord in our hearts teaches us not to believe in fate. Everyone must become their own Lord."
Dust shook the will of the giant.
Looking back, Altera realized she had not only destroyed.
She had also created.
She created the magnificent Hunnic Empire.
It unified a chaotic Europe after Rome's decline.
She was the whip God cast across the world.
She shattered the crumbling Rome.
Yet she also swept away the last ash and made room for something new.
When she looked back on that era, she felt genuine joy.
The giant that devoured civilizations had tasted creation and found it intoxicating.
She changed.
And the source of that change was the mechanism Rowe took from her, the thing designed to erase civilizations.
Rowe.
Rowe was a bad guy. An enemy. The reason she answered the Holy Grail's summons.
But in truth, Altera was afraid.
Not of Rowe.
Afraid of reclaiming her mechanism.
Afraid of returning to the old self that knew only destruction.
And more than that, afraid of the position she would have to stand in if she remained Rowe's enemy.
The Lord the people spoke of, the one who gave them unshakable faith.
That was why, even after arriving alongside Nero, she remained on Mount Enzo instead of stepping into the riverbank chaos.
"Do I have to face it after all?"
"I understand."
Altera lowered her eyes to the sword in her hand.
The Sword of the War God.
Its blade was braided from green, red, and blue.
Three emotions.
A gentle maiden.
A warrior who galloped through battlefields.
An empress, or perhaps a goddess, who shaped an imperial civilization.
The moment she made her choice, red surged across the blade and overwhelmed the other colors.
She would clash with Rowe again.
She would force her heart to choose again.
In the past, he was an enemy.
So now, can he still be an enemy?
"I want to see."
Her resolute voice dissolved into the wind.
Enkidu's green hair lifted, and she smiled.
"As expected of Rowe."
"He attracts the most interesting people."
"And I find myself looking forward to the days we will all spend together."
Enkidu was not being subtle.
She had pushed Altera toward Rowe on purpose.
What would happen once they met was obvious.
History had already written the outline.
Altera, who turned from destruction to creation step by step, had offered countless sacrifices to a Lord during her lifetime.
The Scourge of God, without realizing it, had already harbored an endless longing for that Lord.
Under the bright moonlight, an innocent voice drifted down from above.
"Enkidu sama, that is too much. Dragging people into a battlefield without permission…"
Enkidu only smiled.
"Is it too much?"
"Compared to you deliberately giving me the wrong path, it is nothing."
"Eh?"
"Do not think I do not know. And do not think I cannot hit you just because you are on the Moon."
Then her expression softened, as if she were simply stating a personal preference.
"Besides, Rowe's side is livelier with more people."
Enkidu stood at the highest point of Mount Enzo, robes fluttering and clinging in a way that outlined her figure. Beauty, purity, and a femininity that did not exist in the old days of Uruk.
She watched the distant riverbank and waited for the right moment to appear.
Down below, the chaos was already blooming.
"Umu umu. Surprised, Adjutant?"
Nero's red dress swayed in the river breeze as she stood before Rowe, smiling with triumphant certainty. Her form shimmered in and out, regalia appearing and vanishing like a stage trick.
The Roman Emperor reached up and hooked her hand around Rowe's neck.
The golden Holy Grail sat on the ground nearby, shining.
Every Servant present and every Master watching in secret understood that it was genuine.
Nero had done it.
With her authority as the King of the World, she had forcibly manifested the object from the Greater Grail system buried beneath Fuyuki.
The Greater Grail was a massive ritual built into the city's spiritual foundation to accumulate magical energy. Like a reservoir, it stored power.
But a reservoir still needed an outlet.
A port.
That outlet was the Lesser Grail.
The Greater Grail was formless.
The Lesser Grail was tangible.
The Masters were shaken. Obtaining the Grail did not mean winning the war, but it meant seizing initiative.
Yet in this situation, any human who stepped forward would simply die.
The Servants dismissed the humans immediately.
They were focused on the scene in front of them.
"Ho? Another one?" Gilgamesh laughed from the Ark of Heaven, hovering high above. "AHAHAHA. Mongrel, your ability to cause trouble surpasses even this King's expectations."
"A splendid performance. If you wish to entertain me, do your best."
This bastard.
He really intended to watch.
Rowe rolled his eyes, refusing to look up at Gilgamesh, and instead looked at the figure blooming red like a rose.
Nero Claudius.
Rome's emperor.
The King of the World in the Western world.
"According to what Rowe said earlier, Rowe belongs to me now."
Nero rose onto her toes. The pressure of her authority pressed down on Rowe, and with his current manifestation as the Sage of Uruk, it was difficult to force his way free.
Her hand remained around his neck, drawing her close.
A kiss could be completed in an instant.
Yet Rowe was not flustered at all.
Because, naturally, someone would stop it.
A sharp whistle cut the air.
An arrow flashed between them, its light slicing the space just enough to block Nero's advance. Nero tilted her head back and stepped away, instinctive and graceful.
She still faced Rowe, but her hand had left his neck.
Golden hair scattered behind a crimson ornament as she turned her gaze toward the one who interrupted.
Atalanta.
The Greek huntress.
"Umu?" Nero smiled, more amused than angry. "You dare stop me and Rowe from being intimate? How bold."
"The victor has already been decided. Do you intend to renege?"
Atalanta's emerald eyes did not waver.
"No. That does not count."
"We never agreed to Rowe's proposal."
It was true.
Rowe had tried to redirect the conflict into the Holy Grail War itself, but neither Atalanta nor Artoria had given a clear agreement. They had only hesitated, tempted.
So this was not reneging.
Nero had simply been too impatient.
Nero tilted her head.
"It seems I was hasty."
Then she smiled wider.
"But it does not matter. Because at this very moment, Rowe is already by my side."
"I am the Roman Emperor. Rome is me."
"You are heroes drawn from ancient times to the present. In that case, I will let you witness it."
Nero spread her arms.
Her clear voice carried like a declaration across the night.
"The Rome I rule."
"The glorious imperial reign sung by maidens."
Brilliant light expanded from her, diffusing in a widening wave.
It covered the ground.
It swallowed the river.
It illuminated the sky.
"This is… a Reality Marble?"
"A miniature world formed from the mind and imposed on reality…"
"Cannot see inside."
"Familiar observation has failed."
Gilgamesh stared down from the Ark, crimson eyes narrowed. He had not been pulled in. He remained outside, above the light's boundary.
"Hmph. Is the show finished?"
Not everyone was trapped.
There was still someone outside.
And that someone was not alone.
Footsteps scraped across the ground below, slow and heavy.
A tall figure approached, wrapped in darkness. Eerie green flames flickered beneath a pale bone mask. Demon like horns rose from the head. A greatsword dragged behind, scoring the earth like a line of death.
He looked up at the Ark of Heaven.
Gilgamesh spoke his name.
"Ziusudra."
Ziusudra.
The hermit of the deep valley in Mesopotamian myth.
The old man in the Epic who guided Gilgamesh on his search for immortality after Enkidu and Rowe left Uruk.
Gilgamesh knew him.
And he also knew the truth.
The being who appeared now was not Ziusudra in essence.
He was one of the seven Grand Servants at the pinnacle of the Throne.
Grand Assassin.
A voice like prophecy drifted through the night.
"A beast of death will come from another realm."
"The terror after the world's end will invade like a chilling tide."
"Heaven's will cannot be severed by a single blade."
"He is already on his way to sweep over us again."
Gilgamesh's laughter rang out, delighted.
"Interesting."
"A grand performance indeed."
"Quite fitting for a King's opening ceremony."
The King and the Grand Assassin faced one another under the night sky like old acquaintances reunited.
Inside Nero's Reality Marble, Artoria and Atalanta both sharpened their senses.
A Reality Marble was a power only those with extraordinary will could grasp, a chance in ten thousand, a territory normally reserved for spirits.
To enter a Reality Marble was to enter the enemy's domain.
Nero Claudius, a king said to have been intimately bound to Rowe.
Artoria's eyes narrowed.
"Atalanta," she said, voice controlled, "you are from an earlier era, so you may not know."
"Nero Claudius was the young female emperor who, together with Rowe, built Rome's greatest prosperity in the early centuries."
Atalanta's beast ears twitched.
Her tail swayed, wary.
"Hm. That woman looks a lot like you."
Artoria's brows knit.
"I noticed that as well."
"I am also curious why our appearances are so similar."
Before they could say more, a voice cut in, light and pleased.
"Hmm? If you had not mentioned it, I would not have noticed."
Their conversation halted.
They both looked forward.
The streaming light finally converged.
Radiance intensified until it felt like the world was being rewritten.
A red carpet unrolled beneath their feet.
Golden decorations surged into existence along the sides.
A magnificent palace rose, curtains draped like theatrical wings, pillars tall and gleaming.
At the center was a high platform.
A palace.
No.
A theater.
On the platform stood Nero in flowing red, with Rowe beside her.
The golden haired emperor stared at Artoria with undisguised curiosity.
Rowe, meanwhile, understood Artoria's origin clearly. A being crafted by Merlin and Uther, burdened with Britannia's future, resembling Rome's world emperor was not strange. Camelot had grown from Rome's shadow.
Atalanta clicked her tongue.
"You dragged us into your world to show off luxury? How boring."
The princess of Arcadia had no interest in human opulence. For her, the most beautiful place was still the forest, and the most unforgettable memory was still the path she once walked with Rowe between mountains and sea.
Nero ignored her.
She also ignored Artoria.
Her gaze settled only on Rowe.
"Rowe, do you remember?"
"Remember what?"
Nero's smile brightened, almost shy despite the confidence.
"I once said I would present you with the most perfect performance."
"A dance dedicated only to you."
Rowe remembered.
To be honest, he had already tried to pull his mind back from this absurd Holy Grail War, one that had exceeded everything he expected. He was searching for a solution, tracing paths outward.
And yet, in front of Nero, he could not help but be drawn in.
The petite, lovely emperor, fiery like a rose, bowed slightly. Her lips pursed into a beautiful smile.
Then she opened her arms.
From the corners of the theater, beyond countless curtains, images appeared.
They displayed Nero's dance, flawless steps cutting through the air.
They also displayed Rome at its height.
The prosperous city.
Different people living within it.
A young man with a pack waved farewell to his parents.
"Father, Mother, I am joining the army. I will defend Rome."
In the countryside, an old farmer with weathered hands smiled at lush fields.
"This year's harvest grew again."
In a quiet schoolroom, a deafening voice rang.
"Teacher, how can one master one's own spirit?"
In a sacred church, a young priest bowed in prayer.
"Lord in heaven, King on earth, all things rest in your palm."
"The Father gives destiny to the Son, and the Son returns destiny to all beings…"
This was Nero's Noble Phantasm.
Laus Saint Claudius.
It did not reside only in Nero.
Not only in Rome.
Not only in nobles.
It lived in all Romans.
In their essence, their spirit, their vitality.
This was the splendor Nero wove for Rowe.
The Rome she ruled, sung into existence by a maiden's voice.
"Rowe," Nero asked, steps light, hand raised as if conducting the entire scene, "how is it?"
Rowe scanned the images, the faces, the lives.
Then he looked at the present and smiled.
"You worked hard."
To create this golden age, Nero must have poured herself into it.
After Rowe left, the young emperor had carried an empire on slender shoulders.
You worked hard.
The next moment, darkness fell across the theater.
The song ended.
The final curtain drew near.
Nero's last step landed.
Her dress flared in a soft, controlled spin as her petite figure drifted into Rowe's arms.
Rowe did not refuse. He embraced her, his hand settling at her waist as the warmth of her body pressed against him through the red fabric. Nero lifted her face and kissed him gently.
No one could intervene. The performance was complete; the ritual had succeeded. As the Reality Marble's power reached its zenith, everyone save for Nero was suppressed by the Emperor's will. This was not Nero's strength alone, but the collective spirit of Rome—a precious weight modern humanity could no longer reclaim. It was a treasure Rowe had once left behind, now forged into Nero's key to victory.
The mighty power of "Civilization."
On stage, heavy curtains cascaded down, sealing the view on all sides and transforming the space into a private world. In the same motion, Nero pushed Rowe to the floor. Rowe froze, looking up at the young Emperor straddling him, her lips never leaving his.
Her emerald eyes swam with desire and intoxication.
"This splendor of Rome is my gift to you," she whispered. "But the splendor I crave... is only you. My Adjutant. Offer it to me... give me your passion!"
.....
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