He threw his hands up in an exaggerated shrug. "Well. It seems negotiations have broken down."
Rimuru was mildly annoyed that his feral grunts had ignored the non-lethal order, but at the end of the day, they were hissubordinates.
As a commander, you can purge your own ranks behind closed doors, but you never, ever hand your men over to the enemy.
Giving them to Acht wouldn't be a concession; it would be a complete surrender of his authority.
Acht understood this perfectly. He knew Rimuru's refusal was a calculated provocation.
But Acht also knew his own position. As a recognized, legitimate magus lineage under the Association's umbrella, meekly handing over a family treasure to a horde of Dead Apostles was the textbook definition of treason. It was collusion with the ultimate heresy.
To maintain the Einzbern name, he couldn't just open the vault. He had to resist. He hadn't even asked what Rimuru wanted to steal before drawing his line in the snow.
Acht cast a subtle glance toward the Black Princess and her towering Knight, who were watching the exchange with undisguised amusement. The patriarch felt a heavy, sinking weight in his artificial chest.
If this was a truly unwinnable war, he wouldn't fight to the bitter end. After all, he was merely the final administrative terminal of the Einzbern family.
The singular, overriding purpose of his existence, and the existence of every homunculus in this castle, was to reclaim the lost Third Magic.
Everything else was expendable.
If the item Rimuru wanted was something they could afford to lose... then the strategy was simple.
The Einzberns couldn't afford to offend the Mage's Association, and they couldn't physically defeat the Black Princess.
The only logical path was to shed some blood, put up a convincing, tragic defense, and let the item be "stolen."
It was pathetic, but it was the only maneuver available to the weak.
Acht nodded heavily. Behind him, the homunculi shifted, weapons drawing and magical circuits humming to life.
"Then, before blood is shed, allow this old man to ask," Acht said, his voice dropping to a freezing calm. "What exactly does our decaying lineage possess that is worthy of Your Excellency's greed?"
"Nothing overly important," Rimuru replied smoothly. He already knew Acht was looking for an out. "Just a scabbard with a bit of history attached to it."
Since Noble Phantasms could be replaced and Artoria wasn't the absolute only viable Saber catalyst in existence, Rimuru assumed Acht would run the risk-reward calculation and fold.
Instead, Acht's stoic expression cracked. Genuine, unsimulated confusion flashed across his wrinkled face.
"...A scabbard?"
Rimuru's heart sank slightly, though it wasn't entirely unexpected.
It was seven years before the Fourth Holy Grail War. The Einzberns had definitely started their preparations, but excavating a specific, mythical relic from Cornwall wasn't exactly a weekend project.
So, they don't have it yet. I really do have to dig it up myself.
While Altrouge's blood was currently suppressing his Vampiric Impulse, Rimuru refused to become reliant on her. He couldn't stand the idea of being a permanent addict on her leash.
Furthermore, now that Acht was spooked, the moment the Einzberns did find the scabbard, they would immediately involve the Mage's Association for protection.
With Rimuru's current political capital, prying a legendary Arthurian relic out of the Association's paranoid grip amidst a storm of factional politics would be a nightmare.
He couldn't wait. He had to accelerate his timeline.
More pressingly, Acht couldn't die here. If Acht died, the Einzbern intelligence network would collapse, and the words "scabbard" and "Cornwall" would never reach the ears of the mercenaries they hired.
Watching Rimuru's posture deflate slightly, Altrouge let out an amused little hum.
"Hey. White Knight," she called out softly. They had agreed she wouldn't use his real name during operations.
"Don't forget. Your personal shopping list isn't the only objective tonight." She offered a terrifying, angelic smile. "This is your grand debut, after all."
"I know."
Rimuru nodded. The loot was a bust, but he still had a promise to keep.
He had to ignite the German underworld. He had to make enough noise to drag the Holy Church and the White Wing Lord into a chaotic, messy crossfire.
Rimuru pointed at Acht and the looming silhouette of the frozen fortress.
"Go, my children," Rimuru commanded, his voice dead and emotionless behind the painted wood of the mask. "By the authority of the White Knight, I command you."
"Destroy. Slaughter."
"Tell the world, no matter the cost."
"The new Eighth Ancestor... has arrived."
He lowered his hand.
The dense fog surged forward. With a collective, bloodcurdling howl, the tide of Dead Apostles slammed into the organized ranks of the Einzbern homunculi.
Rimuru's physical form dissolved into black mist, bypassing the frontline entirely. Like a phantom, he drifted into the pristine, white halls of the ancient castle, leaving a trail of blooming, crimson slaughter in his wake.
…
A freezing wind swept through the courtyard, tearing dead leaves from the frostbitten trees.
The shadows cast by the castle walls flickered and danced, accompanied by the ghastly, echoing shrieks of the dying.
Heavy, bruised clouds rolled in over the moon, suffocating the estate in a sudden, oppressive drop in atmospheric pressure.
Rimuru floated silently a few dozen feet in the air, looking down at the absolute meat grinder below.
Vampires and homunculi tore into each other with mechanical, brutal efficiency. Synthetic limbs snapped. Blood sprayed across the pristine snow. The courtyard was a chaotic collage of severed parts and primal violence.
As Rimuru watched the earth turn red, the ambient mana in the air grew heavy and damp.
A light drizzle began to fall. The raindrops washed over the courtyard, mingling seamlessly with the sprawling pools of blood.
Then, the rain picked up. Faster. Heavier.
CRACK!
A deafening peal of thunder shattered the sky. In the midst of the torrential downpour, the blood-soaked puddles on the ground suddenly roared to life.
The crimson liquid defied gravity, tearing itself from the mud to form a massive, violently churning river that swept directly under the feet of the combatants.
Rimuru closed his eyes. He raised his right arm, the azure glow of his Magic Circuits flaring brightly through his white sleeve.
He clenched his fist.
RUMBLE!
The rushing river of blood and rain erupted upward. Massive, semi-solid curtains of crimson water folded over themselves with the deafening roar of a collapsing dam.
They crashed down, swallowing the slower homunculi whole. The hyper-pressurized water acted like industrial shears, crushing and shredding the dolls instantly.
The curtains of water didn't dissipate. They converged in the center of the courtyard, spiraling upward to form a colossal, translucent bud.
At its base, the river of blood flowed like a root system. The towering "petals" of the bud were walls of sheer, churning water, rippling beautifully with every raindrop that struck their surface.
Acht stared at the towering structure, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks.
"Retreat! All units, retreat into the Bounded Fields!" the patriarch roared, completely abandoning his stoic facade.
He recognized the theoretical framework of that structure.
Is that... a variant of the 'Water Flower'?!
Acht cursed violently. What kind of absolute, psychotic lunatic actually researched that useless, aesthetic parlor trick?! Let alone weaponize it into a massive... strategic battlefield spell?!
….
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