Orario — the plaza before Babel Tower.
The midday sun fell straight down, yet it couldn't disperse the killing chill steeped into the air. This place was no longer a bustling market.
It had become an arena—one where gods and heroes would spill blood.
Hundreds of thousands of eyes—some watching directly, some through broadcasts in divine mirrors, some peering from behind distant buildings—were locked on the two figures facing each other at the center of the plaza.
On one side stood Ottar the "Mighty," the living legend who had reigned at Orario's peak for decades.
On the other stood Emiya Shirou, "Senji Muramasa," a comet of a man who had rocketed from Lv.1 to Lv.5 in three short months.
This wasn't merely a contest of victory and defeat.
It was the collision of the old era's strongest with the new era's monster.
"Emiya Shirou." Ottar planted both hands atop his brand-new black greatsword—the second-generation "Overlord Black Blade," rushed out by the Hephaestus Familia. His voice was steady as a mountain. "Show me."
"Does your new blade deserve the goddess's expectations?"
"Yeah." Shirou's right hand hovered near his waist.
There was nothing there—yet every strong fighter present could feel it. Something coiled, invisible, like a dragon lying in wait.
"It's a rush job," Shirou said lightly, "but it's got a nasty temper. Try not to get bitten."
"Enough." A sharp glint flashed in Ottar's eyes. "Begin."
BOOM.
Ottar vanished.
No—he hadn't disappeared. His speed was simply so overwhelming that the retina clung to the previous frame, creating the illusion of dropped time.
This was Lv.7 footwork—Shrinking the Distance.
A metallic impact detonated at the center of the plaza, loud enough to rupture eardrums. A terrifying shockwave exploded outward like a ground-level fuel-air blast, pulverizing the thick stone slabs underfoot into a storm of dust.
"He blocked it?!" Loki sprang to her feet in the stands, crushing her drink in her grip. "That brat… he actually blocked Ottar's first strike head-on?!"
In the heart of the dust cloud—
Ottar's greatsword was still in a downward cleave, like a falling mountain.
And Shirou—one hand raised—held it back with a dark-red katana whose blade flowed with magma-like patterns.
The True-Named Divine Armament: Tsumukari Muramasa.
It had finally revealed its true form.
Shirou's feet had sunk into a crater. Every muscle in his arm was drawn tight to the breaking point. Even at Lv.5, even with SSS-ranked Strength…
Lv.7 brute force still felt like a hydraulic press crushing him from above.
If he hadn't activated Structural Reinforcement, his arm would have shattered on contact.
And yet—
Shirou's mouth curled into a grin.
"It didn't break."
The sword in his hand didn't even have a nick.
"Not bad." Ottar stared at the blade he'd been stopped by—approval flickering in his gaze. "You can take one of my swings. Your capacity truly has grown."
"But it's still not enough!"
Ottar's wrist snapped—
The heavy greatsword shifted like a feather, transforming into a black whirlwind sweeping for Shirou's waist.
Shirou didn't hard-block.
Against an absolute strength gap, trading blows was stupidity. He fought with technique—though lately he'd been drifting toward berserker territory.
His left hand tightened in empty air.
A short blade manifested.
Kanshou—Throwing Variant.
CLANG!
The dagger struck the guard of Ottar's greatsword with perfect timing. It was flung away instantly—yet it nudged the trajectory off by a mere three centimeters.
Three centimeters was everything.
Shirou dropped his center, slipped under the sweep, and his Tsumukari Muramasa became a red streak stabbing straight at Ottar's abdomen.
"Naïve."
Ottar didn't even bother to parry.
His muscles contracted in an instant; the skin that looked ordinary became harder than refined mithril.
Lv.7 physical defense was a divine weapon in its own right.
And yet—
There was no ringing of steel.
The dark-red blade slid in like it was cutting warm tofu—piercing skin, splitting muscle, meeting no resistance at all.
"What—?!"
Ottar's pupils shrank.
His defense… didn't work?
No.
It had been severed.
That katana wasn't cutting flesh.
It was cutting the concept of defense itself.
"Hngh!"
Ottar roared, mana surging as he forced Shirou back. He clamped a hand over the wound; blood seeped between his fingers.
The cut wasn't deep—he'd twisted the impact at the last instant, sparing his organs.
But it was still the first time since reaching Lv.7 that he'd been breached at the opening exchange.
"That blade…" Ottar's eyes pinned the katana. "Something is wrong with it."
"This is 'Tsumukari.'" Shirou flicked the blood from his edge, gaze like ice. "A demon sword made to sever divinity, causality, and fate."
"Ottar—your 'defense' has no meaning in front of it."
"Interesting." Ottar lowered his hand. Muscle fibers writhed; the bleeding slowed, sealing at an inhuman pace. "If defense is worthless…"
"Then I'll crush you with offense."
His pressure climbed again.
This time, he didn't hold back.
Black mana coiled around him like flame—signs of magic gathering.
"Come, Emiya Shirou."
"Let's kill each other."
On the other side of the battlefield—
If the central duel was gods trading blows, then the surrounding melee was an all-star brawl.
Finn vs. the Gulliver Brothers.A civil war of prum pride. Finn's spear moved like a dragon; the four brothers' teamwork was a net of blades. Even outnumbered, Finn's instinctive danger sense—and the lingering afterglow of his recent "Lv.7 trial experience"—kept their perfect combos forever a hair too late.
"Why can't we hit him?! Is he a damn eel?!" the brothers screamed.
"Because you're impatient." Finn's voice stayed calm as he evaded, refusing to rush his own kill. He was waiting—waiting for the single, decisive opening.
Riveria vs. Hedin.A clash of the strongest mages. Emerald tempests collided with golden thunder in the air. This wasn't a spell duel anymore—it was a bullet-hell apocalypse. Wide-area annihilation magic was fired like it cost nothing, and the nearby buildings had already become rubble.
"Your chanting is too slow, old hag," Hedin sneered, pushing up his glasses with venomous precision.
"WHO are you calling an old hag?!" A vein bulged at Riveria's temple. Her staff flared. "Then take this—Fimbulwinter!"
Ais vs. Allen.Speed against speed—an extreme race at the limit of human perception. Golden wind and silver light wove across the field. Normal eyes couldn't track them; only the sparks of impact proved they were even there.
"So fast… this is the 'Goddess's Chariot'?" Ais panted, her light armor webbed with fresh cracks. Allen was still faster—but with Ariel swirling around her, she barely kept pace.
"Not only slow—weak, too." Allen appeared midair, spear striking down like a meteor shower. "With that level you think you can protect that man? Don't make me laugh!"
The battle bogged into a brutal stalemate.
Even with Shirou's buffs pushing Loki Familia upward, Freya Familia's foundation was too deep. A lineup of Lv.6 executives was still a wall that refused to fall.
And at the top of Babel Tower—
Freya watched with a wineglass in hand.
She wasn't anxious about her Familia struggling.
Instead, a feverish flush spread across her face.
"Beautiful…"
Her gaze never left Emiya Shirou.
"That blade… that dark-red blade…"
"So that is the fang you forged to refuse me."
"Ah… magnificent."
Freya's fingers traced the glass of the window like it was Shirou's cheek.
"But it's not enough."
"This level of chaos… isn't enough to make your soul bloom completely."
"I need more…"
"More stimulation."
She set the glass aside.
Her violet gown slid away, revealing skin pale as moonlit jade.
She stepped onto the balcony and faced all of Orario.
In that instant she stopped being a languid beauty.
She became a queen—ruler of love and beauty, war and death.
"Children of Orario."
Freya opened her arms, her voice pouring directly into every soul through divine authority.
"Look at me."
"Love me."
"And then…"
Charm — Full-Scope Release.
A visible ripple—pink, soft, terrifying—expanded outward from Babel Tower and swept over the entire city.
This wasn't magic.
This was divine might.
Not a command.
Just a wake-up call for the deepest lust, longing, and worship hidden in every heart.
"Freya… sama…"
On the battlefield, movements slowed.
Loki Familia, Freya Familia, even the bystanders—eyes blurred, weapons drooping. Even Finn and Riveria, with their iron mental fortitude, felt a dizzy pull as if their souls were being dragged toward the tower's summit.
"So beautiful…"
"I want to go to her…"
"I want to give her everything…"
This was why Freya was feared.
If she wished it, she didn't need a single soldier—Orario would go mad for her all on its own.
"Damn it… that lunatic!" Finn bit his tongue hard, using pain to keep clarity. "All units! Mental defense! Don't look at the tower!"
But it was too late.
Only a handful with exceptional resistance—Ais, Bete, and a few others—held.
Most mid- and low-level members were already drowning. They turned their weapons, hollow-eyed, toward their own comrades.
"For Freya-sama… offer blood…"
Riveria's face drained.
If this continued, Freya Familia wouldn't even need to fight—Loki Familia would tear itself apart.
And in the center—
Shirou felt the impact too.
A chorus of whispers flooded his mind: put down the sword, submit, go to her, embrace the goddess.
If it had been the old Shirou, he might have cracked.
But not now.
Trace Analysis.
His left eye turned gold.
It was Mind's Eye — Extreme at work.
What he saw wasn't a beautiful goddess.
He saw a twisted, colossal storm of pink mana—an obsession that devoured will.
"This…" Shirou tightened his grip on Tsumukari Muramasa.
"…is this what you call love?"
Forcing another's mind to bend.
Trampling their dignity.
This wasn't love.
It was a curse.
"Shut up!" Shirou roared, fury cutting through the haze—rage at gods who played with hearts like toys.
He raised his katana.
The red patterns on its blade blazed.
One of its properties—
Fate Severance.
It didn't only cut flesh.
It cut the invisible links between mana and will.
"Break."
Shirou swung at empty air with everything he had.
RRRIP—!
A sound like cloth tearing.
A red slash shot upward and carved straight into the pink Charm field.
The fog above the plaza split like butter beneath a hot knife—裂, a massive wound opening through the divine haze.
The fracture spread.
The whole Charm domain shattered like a mirror.
"Ghk—!"
People snapped back to themselves, gasping, drenched in cold sweat.
"What… was that? I almost—"
"I almost attacked my own side…"
Hedin shoved his glasses up with trembling fingers, true fear surfacing for the first time.
"He… severed the goddess's Charm?"
"That's impossible."
"That was divine authority!"
Shirou stood in place, his blade trembling slightly. Cutting divine authority had cost him dearly—but he held his spine straight and stared at the woman atop the tower.
"Your love is too heavy, Freya."
His voice carried through the plaza, amplified by mana.
"So heavy it makes people want to vomit."
"If you really want someone to love you…"
"Then learn to respect their will first."
At the tower's summit—
Freya froze.
Not in anger.
In shock—something that pierced straight through her immortal soul.
"He rejected me."
"No… he denied my divine authority."
"With a human-forged blade."
Then she laughed.
She laughed until her body shook and tears slipped free.
"Wonderful!"
"Yes—this is it!"
"This is the partner I wanted!"
"This is the man who can stand beside me!"
"Only arrogance that can deny even a god…"
"…deserves my love!"
"Ottar!" Freya screamed down at the battlefield.
"Bring him to me!"
"By any means!"
"I want him—now!"
"If you lose…"
"Don't come back!"
In the center—
Ottar heard his goddess's command.
He raised his head slowly.
The calm in his brown eyes was gone.
In its place was resolve—absolute, merciless, the kind that would become a demon to fulfill a duty.
"If this is what the goddess desires…"
Ottar's presence surged again.
But now it wasn't just mana.
His body began to swell; his skin darkened to a deep brown, and huge tusks pushed out from his mouth.
Beastification.
A boaz racial skill.
And Ottar's final trump card as the Mighty.
Beastification — Full Stat Increase.Hildis Vini — Charging.
"Emiya Shirou." Ottar's voice dropped into something feral, a growl edged with thunder. "The next strike…"
"People die."
"If you don't want to die…"
"Show me every card you have."
"Otherwise…"
"This is your grave."
The ground shattered beneath Ottar's feet.
His greatsword became a black sun—dense with annihilation.
"Seriously…?" Shirou gave a strained smile.
He stared at the Lv.7 monster in front of him.
Tsumukari Muramasa could cut divinity—
But against raw physical ruin of this scale, taking it head-on was still suicide.
If so…
Then there was only one answer.
"…Fine."
Shirou exhaled.
He slid the katana back to his waist—no scabbard, only intent.
"If I can't win a duel…"
"Then I'll jump you."
"…With a mob."
Even if it's a mob of one.
He spread both arms.
The magic circuits inside his body didn't merely overload—
They opened fully.
"I am the bone of my sword."
The air warped.
Red sparks danced.
The battlefield's ground darkened, and the sound of turning gears echoed in the void.
"Steel is my body, and fire is my blood."
Ottar didn't interrupt.
Perhaps it was a warrior's pride—
or perhaps he wanted to witness the boy's strongest move.
"I have created over a thousand blades."
The mana pressure made all of Orario tremble. Hedin, Hogni, Finn, Ais—everyone paused mid-fight, eyes drawn to the center.
"Unknown to Death, nor known to Life."
Behind Shirou, it felt as if countless heroic shadows rose—silent witnesses.
"So as I pray…"
"Unlimited Blade Works."
BOOM—!
The world rewrote itself.
The ruined plaza vanished.
In its place: an endless wasteland beneath a blood-red sunset.
Swords—countless swords—were driven into the earth.
Each one a legend.
Each one a history.
"A Reality Marble…" Ottar scanned the vastness, awe flickering across his hardened face. "This is your… infinite."
"Welcome to my world, Ottar." Shirou stood atop a mound of blades, countless Noble Phantasms floating behind him. In his hand, Tsumukari Muramasa reappeared—now empowered by this domain's endless reinforcement.
"Here…"
"Every sword answers my command."
He lifted his hand.
"Go."
A tide of steel tore free from the earth.
A storm of blades surged toward the strongest king.
Quantity and quality—violent beauty given form.
A mortal's throne of iron, built to challenge the divine.
"COME!" Ottar roared, swinging his black sun into the oncoming flood.
The final battle—
In that moment—
Reached its true climax.
....
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