While Arthur and Karna clashed in a distant corner of the battlefield, Jeanne d'Arc continued to advance with unwavering determination, her banner raised high as a beacon of order amid the chaos.
"You there… you must be the Ruler, right?"
The voice came from above. Turning her eyes skyward, Jeanne saw a slender figure with long emerald-green hair gliding gracefully through the air before landing with the poise of a wild predator. The young archer touched down beside her with a soft impact, bow still firmly in hand.
"You are… the Red Archer?" Jeanne asked, already raising her guard.
The Maiden of Orleans hardened her heart in an instant. She had already faced assaults from the Red Faction and could not afford to lower her vigilance.
But the archer only stared back at her, surprise flashing in her feline eyes.
"You're a Ruler, aren't you? And yet you can't even tell friend from foe?" Atalanta sighed, almost as if scolding her.
Jeanne blinked, studying her. From the young woman's expression, it was clear the Red Faction was far from united. On the contrary—at least Atalanta and her Master seemed to have no interest in hunting her down.
Relaxing her stance slightly, Jeanne tilted her head. "I see. In that case, I won't treat you as an enemy."
A small wave of relief washed through the Ruler's chest. But it wasn't Atalanta she needed to be most wary of in that moment.
Her gaze shifted forward—and her entire body froze.
"That over there… is the Berserker?"
For a brief moment, Jeanne thought she was staring at a deformed hill. But no—this thing breathed.
"Yes…" Atalanta answered bitterly. "The more I struck him, the stronger he became. There's nothing left of his human form."
She lowered her eyes helplessly, her bow hanging limply in her hands.
Before them stood Spartacus, now a monstrosity straight out of a Lovecraftian nightmare. The gladiator's body had twisted into something grotesque: eight warped arms, some without joints, swung with force enough to crush trees like twigs. His legs, multiplied in uneven numbers, resembled those of an insect, holding up the massive, absurd bulk of muscle and flesh that stretched far beyond human proportions.
Jeanne shivered. It wasn't just his size that unsettled her—it was his condition.
This is the price of his Noble Phantasm… she thought, swallowing hard. A weapon meant to symbolize rebellion and freedom had now become a curse.
And yet, Spartacus lived. He moved. He sought battle.
The damage he received was converted into magical energy; that energy in turn not only strengthened his abilities but regenerated his body, creating a vicious cycle that defied all natural limits. The result was this: a monstrous being, a hero turned into an abomination.
Five misshapen eyes opened across his body—on his shoulders, abdomen, and neck. All locked simultaneously onto Jeanne and Atalanta.
"Careful!" Atalanta shouted, raising her bow.
But the warning came too late. Spartacus charged. One massive arm slammed down, raising a wave of dirt, stone, and debris. The explosion tore through the air like blades. Jeanne raised her banner to shield herself, but even then felt the impacts pierce through—the shrapnel tore her skin and splintered her armor.
Atalanta retreated, sliding across the rubble with panther-like agility, though even she wasn't unscathed.
Had the blow not been amplified by magical aura, any Servant could have endured it easily. But this attack was something else entirely.
"Tch…" Atalanta narrowed her eyes, her expression hard. "Looks like I caused you trouble, Ruler. Forgive me."
Jeanne shook her head firmly, despite the blood trailing from a scratch on her face.
"Do not apologize. On the battlefield, such things are inevitable. Besides… I cannot treat him as an enemy. Spartacus is a hero of rebellion; his fight is against tyranny. I cannot oppose him on principle."
Atalanta bit her lower lip. "I understand. But…"
Jeanne lifted her gaze, sensing hesitation. "But what?"
The archer turned her eyes away. "My Master has given me orders. It's time to retreat."
A heavy sigh escaped her lips. Atalanta laid a hand on Jeanne's shoulder, almost like a sister.
"I'm sorry. The rest is in your hands."
"Wait!" Jeanne reached out, but it was already too late.
Atalanta, the famed huntress of Calydon, vanished into the forest with the same speed that had immortalized her in legend—a green blur too swift for the eye to follow.
Jeanne now stood alone before the monstrosity. Spartacus panted, every exhale sounding like a roar, every movement shaking the ground.
The gladiator raised his sword—a blade that, compared to his colossal body, looked no larger than a needle. But in Spartacus's maddened eyes, it was the weapon of justice against all tyranny.
And to him, Jeanne was just another tyrant to be struck down.
"I was deceived…" Jeanne muttered, her voice laced with frustration. "This is truly… vexing."
Her heart pounded heavily. How could she fight an enemy who only grew stronger the more he was wounded?
But there was no time to ponder further.
From the skies, beyond the walls of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, a colossal light flared. A beam of energy pierced through the clouds, aimed directly at her.
The magical cannon fired by the Red Caster.
Jeanne's eyes widened, banner ready in her hands.
"No… it can't be…" she whispered.
The beam descended. Spartacus, drawn to the brilliance, lifted his arms toward it, roaring in ecstasy.
For a moment, Jeanne froze, her voice trembling in despair:
"Oh no… Spartacus!"
When the dust settled, Spartacus was already fully charged, ready to unleash his power at its peak.
Jeanne knew she could not escape this.
Before her very eyes, Spartacus was no longer a man. His monstrous body swelled and twisted into grotesque proportions, as though about to burst at any moment. Every swollen muscle and throbbing vein pulsed with unstable magical energy—a cauldron ready to overflow.
"O Lord… I beg of You…" Jeanne murmured, closing her eyes for but a heartbeat. "Grant me the strength to protect those most precious to me."
Her voice rang like a sincere prayer, brimming with faith.
"LUMINOSITÉ ÉTERNELLE!"
Gripping her banner with both hands, Jeanne drove it into the ground. A golden, immaculate light burst forth, expanding outward as a radiant barrier. Her Noble Phantasm—the sacred flag that once inspired soldiers to believe in miracles—once again raised a field of hope amidst the chaos.
By invoking her Noble Phantasm, her EX-rank Magic Resistance was converted into absolute protection against all forms of physical and spiritual harm. Thus, the colossal impact of Spartacus's attack was neutralized.
But Jeanne had no time to breathe a sigh of relief.
An instant later, a blinding light ripped across the sky. Another colossal magical beam descended from the floating fortress and struck the battlefield.
---
"What the hell is that!?"
Mordred, still locked in combat with Achilles, stopped abruptly. Her eyes widened at the torrent of energy crashing down upon them.
Achilles instantly pulled back, bracing himself against a tree to keep his footing. Sweat streamed down his brow, his body heaving with exertion. With every clash, it had become obvious—he was being pushed back by the relentless fury of the Rebel Knight.
"Heh, looks like I won't be killing you today, Greek." Mordred chuckled, even covered in dust and cuts. "I'd say I look forward to a rematch… but we both know you won't come chasing after me."
Without waiting for a reply, she spun Clarent in her hand and vanished.
Achilles stood frozen for a few seconds, eyes fixed on the beam of light devastating the field in the distance. Then, without a word, he too disappeared into the forest.
---
Elsewhere, Karna and Arthur halted their duel almost simultaneously.
The air vibrated as the massive beam tore across the plains, devouring everything in its path. Both instinctively withdrew, silently aware that continuing their battle in that moment would be sheer folly.
And just as quickly as it had come, the energy dissipated. The world fell into silence.
Where once the forest lined the plains, only smoldering craters and ash remained. Entire trees had been erased from existence, as if they had never been. Homunculi, golems, and dragon-toothed warriors were obliterated en masse. Only those who had withdrawn early, by instinct or fortune, survived the cataclysm.
Arthur whistled softly, impressed.
"Well… someone was eager to put on a show."
He knew exactly who it was.
"Seems like that priest's plan is moving along nicely."
Then he lifted his gaze.
High above, breaking through the clouds, the floating fortress revealed itself in full splendor. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon loomed over Millennia Fortress, casting its shadow upon Trifas.
Arthur yawned, folding his arms, as though all of this were nothing but a play he had already seen. He had no intention of interfering. Not yet. Not while Jeanne was not in mortal danger.
The Holy Grail? To him, it was nothing more than a relic without true worth. But… if the chance to make a wish presented itself, perhaps…
With that thought, he walked across the devastated battlefield. Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of blonde caught his attention.
A faint smile curved his lips as he moved in that direction.
---
(End of Chapter)
"Hmph. If you really want to be useful, then entertain me, try to throw those pathetic power stones at me. Let's see if even your insolence can amuse a king."