Chapter 777 Come Forth, Come Forth, My Fate! Come Forth, Come Forth, Inevitable Death!
[The Distant Utopia]
Lord Camelot.
The Noble Phantasm possessed by the Heroic Spirit Galahad, which Sakatsuki had reconfigured through conceptual editing before channeling its power to Fujimaru via Mash.
This ultimate defensive technique manifests the Round Table from Camelot's white-walled citadel - where the Knights of the Round once gathered - as an impregnable shield.
Its resilience reflects the wielder's mental fortitude; so long as the heart remains unbroken, these ramparts shall never crumble.
Not merely a shield proclaiming human will through physical endurance, but a mighty citadel summoned forth by indomitable conviction itself!
Beneath this miracle-like protection, people gasped in awe and heartfelt admiration. Yet the Lahmu were different - their distorted vision perceived no nobility here. They only knew some damned human had activated a Noble Phantasm, standing alone to block their path of slaughter toward Uruk.
Then kill him they shall!
Trample his corpse and hurl this city - obstructive walls and all - into the abyss!
Black exhalations birthed new storms as dark stars shot skyward through panicked air currents, gathering briefly before raining down like meteors!
Like scuttled ships transformed into cannon fire - not singly, but in waves, in multitudes, until the very world seemed to roar toward Uruk in overwhelming assault!
The initial explosions were but morning bells and evening drums, soon swelling to deafening peals. After mountain-collapsing detonations, human hearing failed with pitiful whimpers, leaving only tinnitus reverberating through skulls - suppressing thought and reason alike as countless projectiles ascended violently before smashing against the white ramparts.
Only instinctive prayers remained in their hearts.
Fujimaru... you must hold on. You absolutely must.
Otherwise, no one in all of Uruk could withstand these Lahmu's suicidal onslaught!
"Almost here, right? What? Still en route?" Ishtar muttered to no one in particular, "Stand us up and we'll die just to spite you, you bastard!"
Before the white walls, Fujimaru - the Noble Phantasm's wielder - felt consciousness slipping away.
These ramparts manifested his psyche; each Lahmu strike hammered directly against his spirit.
Yet regardless of his formidable will or powerful Class Cards, Fujimaru Ritsuka remained fundamentally... ordinary.
Not just ordinary people - even heroes couldn't withstand this endless tsunami of Lahmu assaults!
Sensation blurred. Thoughts fragmented.
Finally, even self-awareness dissolved into chaos, leaving only hazy remembrance of protecting something... an oath sworn to keep someone unharmed.
But who?
What person... what cause... could be worth surrendering his very life for?
There's no need to do this, Fujimaru.
A phantom whispers in his heart.
If even you die, what meaning does any of this hold?
The most beautiful girl, the happiest ending, the most moving reunion... none of it will concern you anymore.
You've already done enough—why push yourself so hard?
In the darkness, Fujimaru closes his eyes.
An involuntary sigh escapes him.
Yes, looking back on his journey, there are moments when even he wants to shed tears.
Times when he gambled everything, staking his life, yet still failed to save anything; even while comforting himself that as long as he lived, there was hope, he would repeat the agony of powerlessness again and again.
What was the use of deploying his Noble Phantasm? The moment the Chalk Wall dissipated, the Baal Lahmus would still mercilessly slaughter every living thing, faster and more ruthlessly than before.
Utterly meaningless.
It was all just futile thrashing as one sank into the abyss, the pitiful antics of a clown on stage for others' amusement.
In the end, he hadn't been able to save anyone...
At that very moment, a hand emerged from behind him, gripping the hilt of the Round Table Shield, sharing the crushing spiritual burden.
Fujimaru turned in shock, his blurred vision catching sight of a helmet marred by dark, creeping patterns.
Yet when the crimson tassel flared, it still burned with the same fiery intensity.
"General... Leonidas?"
There was no mistaking it—this was the very image of the Spartan King, Lancer Leonidas I, who once commanded the northern front of Uruk, holding the line against the demonic beasts without yielding an inch!
But... how?
He had clearly fallen in battle against the black-robed Sakatsuki!
As if sensing the boy's disbelief, beneath that battle helm now tinged with a hint of sinister vigor, the man flashed a bold smile.
"Do not accept fear, but overwrite it with the strength of hope. This is the wellspring of human resilience, the way of existence within our hearts."
Though sharing Fujimaru's suffering, the Spartan warrior's voice remained unwavering—deep, steady, and instilling confidence without conscious effort.
Like the fleeting brilliance of a blade's edge blooming before the Chalk Wall.
"My lord, and Master Fujimaru! I, Rider Ushiwakamaru, have returned from purgatory!"
Carving a path through the shrieking horde of dismembered Lahmus, the Genji maiden's face was now marked with demonic patterns, her smirk as bewitching and deadly as a night-stalking murderer.
Yet when she flourished her sleeves, her white robes fluttering like a crane's wings, the gleaming edge of her famed blade, Usugumo, danced with the same loyal valor as ever.
Not just Leonidas I and Ushiwakamaru—a crimson cassock draped over a gaunt figure as the priest chanted merciful incantations, black keys transforming into heavenly flames that rained down in judgment; phantoms weaving through the chaos, the will of the Fuma ninja clan manifesting on the battlefield, taking monstrous form to devour creatures that knew nothing of beauty; ghost fires sweeping the plains as a golden-haired oni child planted her war banner, hands on hips, laughing skyward like the Demon King of Mount Ooe reborn...
Under the outstanding performance of the generals, soldiers returned from the underworld raised their weapons, shouting the revered name of their king, and fearlessly charged at the hideous monsters. Even if their bodies were torn apart again, they would be stitched back together by invisible threads, gripping their weapons and persistently returning to the battlefield and the fray.
At some point, these familiar figures suddenly appeared on the battlefield—comrades long lost in war, yet miraculously returned from death, entrusting their lives and convictions to the living who had endured until now.
Yes, they had returned from death—
"Goddess Ereshkigal!"
In his surprise, Fujimaru finally realized who had brought this aid. On the city walls, Gilgamesh's gaze swept past the fearless generals, quietly observing those who charged into battle shouting vows to fight for their king unto death, undeterred by countless sacrifices. He took a deep breath—
"If you have any special thoughts, you can share them with me, Gil," Enkidu teased, noticing his dear friend's emotional shift.
Gilgamesh instinctively opened his mouth, but after a blink, he suddenly snorted coldly. "Nothing. This king is already considering whether Uruk should replace its city god with that underworld one in the future!"
"Is that so? I wholeheartedly approve," Enkidu said with a smirk.
No one would spoil the moment by reminding the king that Uruk would soon cease to exist. Everyone cheered and celebrated their long-awaited reunion before turning back to the battlefield without hesitation, embracing new farewells as joyfully as they would an old friend.
Come, come, my fate!
Come, come, destined death!