Orario Eastern Wilderness — the War Game's central battlefield.
BOOM—!
With an ear-splitting detonation, a red figure was launched backward like a cannonball, carving a trench nearly a hundred meters long before finally crashing into a massive slab of obsidian and stopping—barely.
"Cough… gh—!"
Emiya Shirou dropped to one knee amid the shattered rocks, spewing mouthfuls of blood mixed with fragments of what looked like… organs.
His hands trembled violently. Kanshou and Bakuya had already shattered into motes of light. The muscle fibers in both arms had torn completely in that exchange—bones screaming under the strain, some cracking outright.
"So this is… a Level 7's basic attack?"
Shirou laughed weakly through blood, forcing Structural Reinforcement to lock his broken bones in place. The pain was like dunking every nerve in molten lava.
"This isn't swordsmanship… this is just beating someone with a city wall. What kind of stat monster is this? Did the devs even do balance testing?"
At the center of the battlefield, Ottar still held his greatsword one-handed, as if nothing had happened. The Over-Black Sword exuded suffocating black mana, and Ottar himself stood like an unmoving mountain—breathing steady, posture relaxed.
The sheer ease of it made Shirou feel like a low-level mob that had wandered into a max-level zone and gotten swatted for existing.
"Your technique is excellent," Ottar said calmly, terrifyingly steady. "Your deflections, your force distribution, your guards, your counters—near perfect. In the domain of skill, you may even surpass me. That ability to read intent and act ahead of the strike… is worthy of praise."
He took a single step forward.
The earth shuddered—like the planet itself feared his approach.
"But…" Ottar continued, voice unchanged, "in the face of absolute power, skill has limits."
"If my power exceeds the upper bound of what you can 'shed'…"
"…then you have only one path left."
Death.
Simple. Brutal. Unarguable.
This was the despair of level suppression—like executing flawless inputs only for the boss to press one full-screen AoE that ignores everything and deletes you anyway.
"Shut… up!"
Shirou ground his teeth. His magic circuits roared again in overloaded protest, like a dying engine forcing one last scream.
Haruhime's enhancement had raised him into a pseudo Level 4 state. His base was monstrous—SSS across the board.
But in front of the monster standing at Orario's summit—
He was still paper.
"Trace—Overload!"
Shirou forced himself upright and reached forward with both hands.
This time he didn't choose twin blades.
Against a walking fortress like Ottar, he needed something that could actually break through.
"If mass can't compete…" Shirou's eyes burned. "Then I'll fill the gap with 'divinity'!"
Golden light gathered.
A holy sword wreathed in sunfire manifested in his grasp—
Excalibur Galatine (Pseudo).
A projected imitation, B+ at best—yet reinforced by the Development Ability Mystery, it radiated such heat that the stone beneath his feet began to melt. The air warped around him.
"Take this, Ottar!"
Shirou surged forward like a golden meteor, driving the blazing sword toward Ottar's heart with everything he had.
For an instant, the speed was so extreme that even Mind's Eye (True) could only catch afterimages.
"Too slow."
Ottar didn't even blink.
He swung the Over-Black Sword casually—like swatting a mosquito.
CLANG—!!
Sunfire collapsed.
The holy sword shattered on contact like glass, exploding into a storm of golden dust.
The impact tore through Shirou's defenses and struck his chest directly.
BAM!
Shirou was launched again—spinning end over end through the air before slamming into the ground like a broken doll, bouncing twice.
His ribs were gone—every one that mattered. Something punctured his lung. His vision filled with red, drowning in agony.
"Damn it… I can't even break his guard?"
He tried to rise. His body refused.
"Not… over…"
"It ends here."
Ottar walked up and raised his greatsword high.
Dark crimson mana condensed along the blade—dense enough to crush the land itself.
Shirou recognized it instantly.
Ottar's finishing blow.
Hildis Vini — Black Tyrant Strike.
"As a warrior, I respect your will," Ottar said, eyes steady—no pity, only respect for someone about to die. "So I will send you off with my strongest blow."
The shadow of death swallowed Shirou whole.
Mind's Eye screamed in his skull, warnings flooding his senses like an emergency system screaming GAME OVER.
He couldn't block it.
Not even Rho Aias would be more than paper against that.
"…Am I going to lose?"
Shirou's fading gaze flicked across the battlefield.
Finn and the others were locked in desperate combat with Freya Familia's elites.
Ais was tied down by Allen—no opening.
Liliruca and Haruhime hid in the rear, faces frozen in terror.
If he fell…
Loki Familia fell.
He'd be taken.
A trophy in Freya's gilded cage.
And everyone else—
"No… way."
Something snapped open deep inside his soul.
A madness—sharp, cold, absolute.
If ordinary methods couldn't win…
If "swords" couldn't cut down that mountain…
If, in this age of gods, a human's strength always ended at a ceiling…
Then he would use that.
The thing even EMIYA avoided touching.
The forbidden weapon locked in the deepest, sealed memory—
The treasure he had once witnessed with his own eyes in the Fifth Holy Grail War.
The ultimate armament of the King of the Oldest.
"…Red Archer said it was impossible to analyze," Shirou rasped. "That it's the apex of divine constructs… an out-of-spec existence that only the one holding the 'Treasury of the King' can wield…"
Shirou's eyes snapped open.
The amber color drained from his pupils, replaced by a dark red that looked like chaos burning behind glass.
It wasn't power.
It was resolve.
The resolve to annihilate himself if that was what it took.
"Still…"
"If it's the current me…"
"If I've developed Mystery in this world of gods…"
"If my body has been reforged here…"
"Trace—Start!"
"Even if it's only an instant!"
"Even if it's only a single strike!"
"Even if the price is… total collapse of my body and the shattering of my soul—!"
Shirou did not project a normal weapon.
He reached out with his right hand, grasping at empty air.
The atmosphere trembled violently.
Not wind.
Space itself was screaming—something was forcing its way into the world, and the world's laws were resisting its existence.
Ottar halted mid-motion.
For the first time, a primal chill crawled up his spine.
It wasn't a threat to flesh—
It was a threat to existence.
Like staring into the end of the world.
"…What are you doing?" Ottar asked, voice lower. The greatsword in his hand… trembled.
A man who had reached Level 7.
Shivering on instinct.
Shirou didn't answer.
His skin began to split. Blood erupted, soaking his clothes in seconds.
His magic circuits were collapsing under a load they were never meant to bear.
His brain felt like it was being stirred with a red-hot iron needle. The pain was so intense he should have blacked out—
Yet he stared unblinking into the void in his hand.
He was analyzing.
Forcing comprehension onto what was meant to be incomprehensible.
[Appraise the concept.]—A void before creation. Chaos. Disorder. The primordial hell before stars.
[Assume the basic framework.]—A rotation that divides heaven and earth. The principle that cleaves the world.
[Replicate the material.]—Impossible. Unknown. Unfathomable. A substance from before the age of gods—beyond mankind's reach.
[Warning: Mental load exceeded.][Soul integrity collapsing.][Sanity: 0.]
"Then—understand it!"
Shirou roared within his skull.
If he couldn't replicate the material—
He would fill it with mana.
With blood.
With bone.
With life.
Even if it was a counterfeit of a counterfeit—an empty shell with nothing but shape—
If it could appear…
If he could swing it once…
"Aaaaaaaah—!"
With a scream that sounded like something tearing apart from the inside, Shirou's right arm detonated—flesh shredded, blood spraying, bone exposed.
Yet in that skeletal hand—held together by tendon and will—
An unnatural "sword" began to form.
No blade.
Three cylindrical segments, black with crimson patterns—
A weapon that looked less like a sword and more like a key that shouldn't exist.
Ea — Sword of Rupture (Enuma Elish), Pseudo Projection.
A projection.
One-tenth of the true output at best.
An existence the world rejected, each second of manifestation chewing through Shirou's lifespan like paper in fire.
And yet—
It was there.
A low, monstrous hum spread from it.
A dark red pressure burst outward—not a wind that pushed objects, but a force that made the air itself crack like glass.
Black fissures opened in midair.
The battlefield fell silent.
"What… is that?!" someone screamed.
In the distance, Hedin froze. His staff slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.
His hand shook so hard he couldn't even adjust his glasses properly. The cold, calculating mage looked… terrified.
"That mana… it isn't magic. It's divine authority—no, older than divine authority. It's… the world's origin itself. What did that human just drag into reality?!"
Hogni stopped mid-mutter, staring at the rotating weapon, sweat soaking his back.
"Dáinsleif… is afraid? A cursed sword… afraid? It's screaming… it's submitting…"
Even Allen faltered, grip loosening on his spear.
"That Level 3… what the hell did he pull out?! That thing… is it something a human can even control?!"
And Loki Familia wasn't spared the shock.
Tiona clutched her head, instincts wailing.
"Is that… even a sword? It doesn't look like it's meant to cut people… it looks like it's meant to cut the world!"
Ais looked over, dread surging.
She could feel it—Shirou's life flame burning down at insane speed.
If he swung that weapon…
Emiya Shirou might vanish completely.
High above, at the top of Babel Tower, Freya watched through the divine mirror.
She rose so fast her chair scraped.
Her wineglass shattered in her grip, red spilling across the carpet.
"That is…"
Freya's pupils contracted, her face twisting into rapture and trembling ecstasy.
"That light… the radiance of the star that opens the world?!"
"It's weak—only a counterfeit…"
"But he touched it. He actually touched that realm…"
"Ah… ahhh…"
She hugged herself, body shaking with the thrill.
"Magnificent. Emiya Shirou…"
"You truly are… my destined partner…"
Back on the battlefield—
"Ottar."
Shirou raised his head.
Half his face was drenched in blood. His right eye had gone blind from backlash—only his left remained, burning with insanity.
He looked like something clawed out of hell.
"You wanted to see… my 'infinite,' didn't you?"
He lifted Ea.
The three cylinders began rotating in reverse, emitting a grinding roar like a millstone crushing souls.
Dark red mana gathered like a nebula.
Gravity warped—pebbles floated, then were shredded into dust.
"This is… my final trump card."
"Take it—"
Shirou poured everything into it.
All remaining mana—Haruhime's enhancement mana included.
And the mana converted from burning his own life force—Od.
The cylinders accelerated.
The red pressure became a storm.
The sky changed.
The once-clear night was stained blood-red, space fracturing to reveal black void beyond.
"Enuma—"
Ottar's expression changed.
Completely.
He discarded the Over-Black Sword.
His entire body tightened like a drawn bow.
Every instinct screamed the same verdict:
If he didn't run—
He would die.
Not "might."
Would.
This wasn't an attack aimed at a person.
It was aimed at space.
But Ottar didn't flee.
Because he was the Mighty.
A warrior who did not step back from a goddess's command.
He roared, red aura erupting from his body, and crossed his arms into a full guard—gathering everything he had into defense.
"AAAAAAAH—!"
Shirou's arm dropped.
No light.
No slash.
Only a swallowing, dark-red spatial fault line.
The ground split.
The air split.
Even the distant clouds were cleaved in two.
It was as if the world had been struck by a crimson delete key.
The red torrent—bearing the will to ruin—howled toward Ottar, toward Freya's fortress, toward the world itself.
In that instant, all of Orario went silent.
Everyone saw that pillar of crimson that tore heaven and earth apart.
It was proof of a mortal touching the forbidden—
And the deepest scar a man named Emiya Shirou would ever carve into this age of gods.
…
Much later, the storm finally died.
A bottomless canyon now scarred the battlefield.
At its far end, Ottar still stood.
But his armor was gone—reduced to dust.
His arms were mangled, flesh torn and blackened like charcoal.
He had endured it.
Barely.
With a Level 7 body, he had withstood this weakened "Star of Genesis."
And on the opposite side—
Shirou lay in a lake of blood.
Ea had already vanished.
His right hand was gone entirely—only an empty sleeve remained.
But he had won.
Because behind him…
The flag that symbolized Freya Familia—
Had been shredded into fragments by that crimson storm.
....
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