Upon hearing this, Kanjuro was not angered. Instead, he observed Sab, who appeared even more refined in her anger, with the gaze of an art connoisseur, and said flippantly, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Damn it!" Sab said no more. In her rage, the sword of promised victory in her hand, though its true name was not released, still unleashed an incomparably fierce sword qi!
"Clang—!"
Jeanne's figure flashed like a ghost before Kanjuro, her holy sword precisely parrying Sab's attack.
The two swords clashed, erupting in dazzling sparks and a powerful shockwave, both retreating half a step simultaneously.
Seeing this, Kanjuro turned gracefully, as if everything that had just happened was merely an insignificant farce. "Jeanne, let's go."
"Alright." Jeanne nodded, sheathed her sword, and looked at Sab with a hint of imperceptible pity and... a complex feeling almost like shared suffering, which then turned into cold indifference.
Sab frowned, astonished by Jeanne's exquisite swordsmanship, which was on par with her own. But what perplexed her even more was why the pure and sacred aura emanating from the other party was intertwined with such deep corruption and despair?
She couldn't understand Jeanne, and countless questions surged in her heart.
"The ultimate fate of idealists is nothing more than to perish in the dust of history."
Before Jeanne turned to leave, she left a faint, ice-cold whisper, as if speaking to Sab, and yet also admonishing her past self, "In this world, there aren't many people who truly care about your noble ideals."
"Mongrel!! Mongrel—! How dare you ignore and despise this King!"
Gilgamesh watched the retreating figures of Kanjuro and the others, his furious roar echoing through the night sky. His handsome face was slightly distorted by extreme rage.
"This king will ensure you die in the most painful manner possible!!"
A sky full of golden Noble Phantasms poured down like a torrential rain, madly bombarding the empty ground in the direction where Kanjuro had vanished. Yet, it only stirred up clouds of dust in vain, venting the overwhelming fury born of being utterly disdained.
"You seem to have made them very angry,"
Jeanne walked side by side with Kanjuro through the silent darkness of the winter night. Her voice was calm and even, as if stating a fact that had nothing to do with her.
"It doesn't matter," Kanjuro's lips curled into a pleased arc, his eyes sparkling with the light of a successful prank.
"The more furious and enraged they become, the happier I feel."
"What is the next step of the plan?" Jeanne tilted her head slightly. The moonlight illuminated her somewhat pale face, carrying a trace of confusion.
"That Lancer has already left, his aura hasn't completely dissipated yet," Kanjuro's gaze turned towards the dense night in the distance. "Next, we follow him."
"Understood." Jeanne asked no more. Together with Kanjuro, they suppressed their auras, merging into the night like ghosts, quietly pursuing the faint magical traces and footprints left behind by the departing Lancer, Diarmuid.
At this moment, Saber, although the magical energy within her body was gradually stabilizing with Irisviel's help, her spirit and will were as if being tortured.
The avalon scabbard corrupted by Black Magic was like a vicious curse, laying bare the wounds and betrayals of the past before her eyes—
She saw the citizens of Camelot casting suspicious and accusatory glances, and she saw the scene of her most trusted knight, Lancelot, having a secret rendezvous with Queen Guinevere. The betrayal by those closest to her was the true source of her heart-wrenching pain.
"Saber, are you alright?" Irisviel supported Saber's slightly trembling arm, asking with concern.
"I... I'm fine." Saber forcibly suppressed the surging emotions in her heart, shaking her head. Her voice carried a barely perceptible hoarseness. "My apologies, Irisviel. It seems... I lost my composure somewhat."
"Mhm." Irisviel didn't ask further, only gently supporting her as the two silently returned to the sports car parked by the roadside.
In the distance, Emiya Kiritsugu stared through his sniper scope in the direction Kanjuro had left, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation.
"According to the rules of the Holy Grail War, there shouldn't be two Servants of the same class... Why did that woman earlier also use a sword? Moreover, her spiritual foundation reaction was clearly also that of the Saber class..."
Maiya Hisau stood by his side, asking in a low voice, "What are your plans next? Do we need to track that man?"
"Not for now," Emiya Kiritsugu's voice was icy and cautious. "First, find a way to gather more information about him, figure out his background and objectives." He was completely unaware that this most capable assistant by his side had long since dedicated her deepest loyalty to that enigmatic man.
Late at night, in the hotel suite where Kayneth was staying.
Diarmuid lay on the cold bed. Although the wound on his chest had stopped bleeding, a deeper pain was eroding him.
The evil magic Kanjuro used, originating from the dark bible, was like a festering sore. It not only harmed his body, but the dark aura entwined with despair and temptation was constantly assailing his will as a knight.
The more one upholds justice and honor, the more easily cracks can form in their heart when facing such pure evil, making them susceptible to its bewitchment and losing their way.
"What a useless waste." Kayneth looked at his injured Servant, his tone filled with undisguised disappointment and coldness.
"My deepest apologies, Master!" Diarmuid, enduring the dual discomfort of body and spirit, struggled to rise, kneeling on one knee with his head bowed low.
"Enough," Kayneth waved his hand irritably. "You rest properly first. Sola, you help treat his wounds."
Sola walked forward gracefully.
She knelt down, her eyes filled with unconcealed heartache and tenderness. Her slender fingers gently touched Diarmuid's firm yet scar-covered chest, beginning to channel magical energy to heal him.
Her gaze was as if looking upon a deeply loved but unattainable lover.
Diarmuid instinctively turned his head away, not daring to meet Sola's overly fervent gaze.
From her, he felt a heart-palpitating sense of familiarity that seemed to span a thousand years. It involuntarily reminded him of that unbearable memory from his past life—his elopement with Princess Gráinne, the fiancée of his lord, Fionn mac Cumhaill. It was a severe betrayal of his lord's honor.
Guilt and unease surged in his heart like a tide. This lady before him, with eyes similar to Gráinne's, was touching the most sensitive scar in his heart.
Kayneth, unaware of this A subtle atmosphere, turned and left the room, his mind full of irritation.
As a genius Magician of the Clock Tower, he had personally witnessed Kanjuro wield "Black Magic," one of the ultimate dreams of a Magician. This filled his heart with indescribable jealousy and a sense of defeat.
In the deep quiet of the night, only the two of them remained in the room.
Sola meticulously treated Diarmuid, gentle magical energy flowing from her fingertips, but her emotions were far more scorching than her magic. "I'm sorry you got hurt..." Her voice was soft, carrying a hint of a sob. "Actually, I don't like Kayneth. Being with him is merely an arrangement of a family alliance..."
"Please... maintain your dignity, Lady Sola." Diarmuid flinched back as if burned, avoiding her more intimate touch and her gaze that seemed almost capable of scorching him.
The knight's loyalty and the sins of his past waged a fierce battle within his heart.
Sola's heart felt as if pierced sharply. Her eyes instantly welled up with aggrieved tears. She sighed softly, "I don't know why, but I feel... as if we met a long, long time ago."
"..." Diarmuid silently lowered his head, the anxiety and guilt within him almost consuming him whole.
He could not respond, and he dared not respond.
In the end, Sola, filled with disappointment and sorrow, returned dejectedly to her own bedroom. Suppressed sobbing sounds faintly came from behind the door.
Outside the window, cold moonlight fell silently.
Two figures stood quietly within the shadows cast by the building, perfectly concealing all traces of their presence. They were precisely Kanjuro and Jeanne.
Kanjuro's gaze pierced through the glass, greedily falling upon Sola's weeping, slightly trembling, and curvaceous figure within the room. The corner of his mouth involuntarily lifted, revealing a captivating, sinister smile of certain victory.
"So, your so-called help in dealing with the Magicians in London," Jeanne's clear, cold voice sounded beside him, carrying a hint of understanding and faint mockery, "its true purpose is to obtain this woman?"
She instantly understood the deeper intention behind Kanjuro's actions.
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