Kanjuro's merciless words were like the sharpest whip, lashing against Sola's already battered pride.
Her face instantly turned pale, stung into humiliation by the crude exposure of those shameful details. Overwhelmed by regret and embarrassment, her body trembled involuntarily.
At that moment, Kanjuro wrapped an arm around her, pulling Sola's trembling body tightly into his embrace in an irresistible gesture, as if asserting ownership.
"Let her go! This has nothing to do with Sola! She was only deceived by your sorcery!"
Seeing this, Diarmuid's eyes nearly split from rage as his suppressed anger finally erupted.
The "St. Demon-Slaying Red Rose" in his hand traced a mournful and brilliant arc, thrusting straight at Kanjuro with resolute conviction, attempting to rescue Sola from the devil's grasp.
He shouted to Sola, "Lady Sola! Hold on! I will save you!"
Hearing Diarmuid still willing to defend her even now, a faint glimmer of hope and warmth rose in Sola's heart.
She looked at Kanjuro and pleaded through tears, "Lord Kanjuro... please, let Diarmuid go! Everything was voluntary on my part; it has nothing to do with him!"
Hearing this, Kanjuro raised an eyebrow, seemingly finding it quite interesting.
He pondered for a moment, his gaze shifting between Sola's pleading face and Diarmuid's furious expression, before revealing a wicked smile.
"Let him go? Of course." His fingers brushed flippantly against Sola's cheek. "However, my little Sola, you need to show a bit more'sincerity.' If you are willing... right here, right now, to please me with your body once more, I will agree to give your beloved knight a way out. How about it?"
This condition was like the coldest dagger, piercing the hope Sola had just ignited.
Her whole body shook violently as she looked at Kanjuro in disbelief. In front of Diarmuid? This was a hundred times more cruel than any simple humiliation!
"No! Sola! Don't agree to it! I'd rather die than have you suffer such disgrace!!" Diarmuid let out a beast-like roar, his assault becoming even more frenzied. His spear shadows were like dragons, desperately trying to break through Kanjuro's defense.
"Tsk, how noisy." Kanjuro seemed to lose his patience and called out calmly, "Jeanne."
Jeanne, who had been standing still like part of the background, moved.
The holy sword in her hand suddenly unsheathed—not with a divine golden light, but wrapped in vengeful flames as dark red as blood!
A flash of sword light struck second but arrived first, precisely parrying Diarmuid's full-strength thrust!
"Clang—!"
Amidst the massive roar, Diarmuid felt an unmatched force, mixed with a strange aura of heat and cold, travel up the spear's shaft. It shattered the skin of his palms and sent him reeling back several steps, his internal energy and blood churning.
Jeanne stood with her sword, looking at the disheveled Diarmuid with indifferent eyes. Her cool voice carried a hint of imperceptible irony: "Face reality, Knight. Your woman... has already sacrificed enough to preserve your life. Leave now. This is the last chance she has won for you." Her words were cold as frost, striking at Diarmuid's heart.
"How can I... how can I live on like this!!"
Diarmuid roared in frustration, struggling to step forward again.
However, Jeanne's sword was like an insurmountable chasm. Every clash added a new wound to his body, and blood gradually stained his silver armor red.
The absolute gap in strength, combined with the immense pain and sense of powerlessness in his heart, finally drained all his energy.
Under another heavy strike from Jeanne, Diarmuid finally couldn't hold on. His long spear slipped from his hand, and his body fell heavily to the ground. His consciousness was swallowed by darkness, and he fell completely unconscious.
Kanjuro glanced at the battered Diarmuid on the ground and waved his hand casually.
Jeanne understood. As if handling a piece of trash, she picked up the unconscious Diarmuid, opened the window, and threw him directly onto the cold, silent street below.
Inside the room, the nuisance had disappeared.
Sola's face was deathly pale, her eyes hollow like a soul-less doll. Under Kanjuro's control, she fulfilled that utterly humiliating "transaction."
When it was all over, she curled up on the messy bed, using her remaining strength to grab Kanjuro's sleeve, pleading hoarsely once more: "Lord Kanjuro... I have... I have done as you said... please, let Diarmuid go, don't hurt him anymore..."
Kanjuro slowly tidied his clothes. Hearing her, he looked down at her, his lips curling into a half-smile. "Of course, I always keep my word. As long as he isn't foolish enough to come looking for death again, I naturally won't bother with someone like him." His tone was light, as if discussing the weather.
"Thank you... thank you..." Sola felt a wave of relief, and tears welled up again, though these were mixed with many unspeakable emotions.
Fully dressed, Kanjuro leaned down and tilted Sola's chin up with his fingertips, forcing her to look at him. His eyes flickered with a malicious light that saw through everything. "But, my dear Sola, have you noticed? You seem... to be developing an attachment to me."
Sola's heart jolted as if her most secret thought had been exposed. She hurriedly denied it, "No! Absolutely not! Only Diarmuid is in my heart!"
"Is that so?" Kanjuro chuckled, his tone full of mockery. "Perhaps you haven't noticed yourself. But at certain... special moments, your body and your reactions are far more honest than your mouth." He spoke suggestively, his gaze lingering on her. "Perhaps, in some ways, I really can bring you more 'pleasure' than that knight of yours?"
"You're lying!!"
Sola shrieked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, refuting him with the last of her strength, trying to maintain her already crumbling, "pure" love for Diarmuid.
Kanjuro was noncommittal about her anger, simply shrugging and standing up.
His gaze passed over Sola and landed on Jeanne, who was sitting on the windowsill at some point, quietly looking out at the night sky.
Jeanne felt his gaze but didn't look back. She maintained her aloof posture, which carried a hint of both pity and indifference, as if everything that had just happened was merely a human tragedy unrelated to her.
Kanjuro walked slowly to the window and stood beside Jeanne. His gaze swept over her cold, sharp profile and looked out at the deep night. "What is it?" His tone was flat, devoid of emotion. "Are you finally feeling dissatisfied with my behavior?"
Jeanne didn't turn around. Her cool voice seemed soaked in the chill of the moonlight. "I'm not dissatisfied. I'm just wondering, for someone like you, is there anything in this world you won't do?"
There was no condemnation in her tone; it was more like a conclusion drawn from observation.
Hearing this, Kanjuro actually sighed softly, speaking in a strange, almost innocent tone: "Besides enjoying seeing what human hearts look like when they struggle between desire and despair, I don't really... have any other outrageous hobbies, do I?" He seemed to truly believe his actions weren't particularly out of line.
Jeanne didn't respond to this sophistry, only letting out a sigh so faint it was barely audible. Her breath merged into the night wind without a trace.
Kanjuro's gaze shifted down to the ancient-looking holy sword at her waist.
Even in the darkness, the blade faintly flowed with a dark red luster, like solidified flames, suppressing a power that could burn everything. "Your sword," he said thoughtfully, "it's crimson, like an unquenchable fire of revenge. I'm a bit curious, Jeanne—the class you were summoned in is actually Saber?"
Jeanne finally turned her head slightly, the moonlight outlining the cold lines of her jaw. "To me, a weapon is just a shell to achieve a goal." Her voice remained flat. "I can also wield a spear or draw a bow. It's just that a sword... is more suited for close-quarters combat, that's all."
Kanjuro nodded thoughtfully, a hint of inquiry flashing in his eyes. "Even so, I'm still looking forward to seeing your true form when you go all out."
It wasn't an expectation of a subordinate, but rather an appreciation for a piece of art that hidden immense potential.
Jeanne glanced at him, her gaze complex and difficult to read. She indeed harbored a lingering curiosity about Kanjuro's existence—how could he practice "evil" so purely, yet not be irrationally insane? But she didn't show it, simply turning her gaze back to the boundless darkness outside, her voice carrying a trace of ethereal drift:
"I don't know how much longer I can tolerate your behavior." She paused, as if weighing some boundary. "But you can rest assured, at least within the limits of what I can endure... even if it means aiding a villain, I will stand by your side."
Kanjuro burst out laughing, with a touch of playfulness. "Heh, I thought you had already completely fallen and joined me in my wickedness."
Jeanne remained expressionless as silence fell once more. She wasn't repenting; she was thinking. She vaguely hoped to glimpse the truth of the other side of human nature from the path Kanjuro took toward ultimate darkness, or rather, to verify the ultimate form of her own fall.
Seeing her quiet yet struggling appearance, Kanjuro suddenly seemed to remember something and casually switched the topic as if talking about tomorrow's weather: "By the way, Jeanne, that fellow Diarmuid... he will definitely come back."
Jeanne sneered, her lips curling into a cold arc. "I know that, of course. And you will never let him go." This wasn't a question, but a certain judgment.
Kanjuro patted her shoulder approvingly, his movements as casual as if he were handling a handy tool. "When the time comes, I'll leave it to you."
Jeanne did not dodge, nor did she respond.
She simply accepted the command expressionlessly, as if she had long expected it. She knew that her hands were destined to be stained with even more blood.
She felt no hesitation regarding this; in fact... deep within her heart, she had already developed a nearly numb, morbid interest in slaughter and persecution.
Perhaps this was not for Kanjuro, nor was it entirely born from resentment over her own experiences, but rather a more nihilistic form of revenge against the world itself—since the world treated me with fire and betrayal, I shall repay it with blood and cruelty.
The moonlight continued to spill down coldly, illuminating the two souls inside and outside the window, both sinking into their respective darkness.
The icy rain washed ruthlessly over the streets of Fuyuki City, as if trying to cleanse all the filth and sorrow from the world, yet it only served to let the chill seep deeper into the marrow of one's bones.
Diarmuid Ua Duibhne sat slumped in a puddle in a filthy back alley, leaning against a cold, damp brick wall. His silver armor was covered in slash marks and scorch burns from his clash with Jeanne, and rain mixed with blood flowed continuously from his body, pooling into a pale red puddle beneath him.
He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his nails dug deep into his palms, yet he felt no pain. The physical trauma was not even a ten-thousandth of the agony in his heart.
He tilted his head back, letting the cold rain beat against his face and mix with his scalding tears.
Those golden eyes, which once sparkled with loyalty and zeal, were now filled only with endless grief, indignation, and bewilderment. His master's tragic death, Sola-Ui's fall and the wretched truth, and his own humiliating inability to change anything... these thoughts gnawed at his soul like venomous serpents.
He hated Kanjuro, he hated Jeanne, he hated this absurd fate, and he hated himself even more—the self who lacked the strength at the critical moment and could only watch helplessly as the tragedy unfolded!
"Ugh-aaaaaah—!!!"
A suppressed, beast-like low growl squeezed from the depths of his throat, only to be drowned out by the torrential rain.
Just then, two figures slowly approached through the curtain of rain.
Leading them was a man holding a black umbrella.
His frame was not particularly large, even somewhat thin, and he wore dark clothing. Most striking was his unusual silver-white short hair and the twisted veins and brand-like dark marks clearly visible on his face even in the dim light, giving his entire being an aura of pain and ill omen. It was Kariya Matou.
Following behind him was a knight clad in jet-black armor. The armor covered his entire body in an ancient and gruesome style, with a helmet that completely obscured his face, revealing only a pair of crimson eyes burning with madness and malice.
A thick black mist, seemingly composed of pure malice, rose continuously from the gaps in his armor, refusing to dissipate even in the heavy rain. Just standing there, he exuded a suffocating pressure. This was the Berserker-class Knight of the Round Table—Lancelot.
"Who... are you?" Diarmuid looked up warily, rain sliding down his cheeks. Despite his physical and mental exhaustion, his warrior instincts made him react instantly to these two powerful and eerie presences.
He could feel that the madness and power radiating from the black-armored knight far exceeded that of an ordinary Servant!
Kariya Matou stopped in front of Diarmuid, tilting the edge of his umbrella slightly to reveal eyes that were exceptionally cloudy from the torture of the Crest Worms, yet carried a strange obsession.
He did not answer Diarmuid's question directly. Instead, he spoke in a raspy voice, as if every word caused him pain. "A stray dog with nowhere to go... It seems you've encountered 'that man' as well."
His words seemed to imply something specific.
Meanwhile, Lancelot's frenzied gaze locked onto Diarmuid through his helmet.
Despite being in a state of Mad Enhancement, he seemed able to recognize certain traits. A low, raspy voice, sounding like a mixture of grinding metal and resentment, came from beneath the helmet with undisguised contempt:
"Betrayer... of lords... surviving here... what face... not worth... pity!"
These words were like the sharpest arrows, accurately striking the deepest scar in Diarmuid's heart—the sins of his past life!
His body trembled violently, and shame and pain made it nearly impossible for him to breathe. He could only lower his head deeply, gritting his teeth in silence.
Kariya Matou glanced at the wretched Diarmuid, then sensed the nearly depleted magical energy within him, and spoke slowly: "Your magical energy is almost exhausted. In your current state, let alone revenge, you'll likely struggle even to remain manifested." His voice carried a strange allure. "Do you want revenge? Revenge against that Kanjuro who trampled your dignity and took everything from you?"
"Revenge..." Diarmuid muttered to himself. These words seemed to possess magic, causing a weak but stubborn spark to reignite in his nearly extinguished eyes.
"Follow me." Kariya Matou turned around, holding his umbrella as he walked toward the direction of the Matou Family's gloomy Mansion.
Diarmuid struggled to stand up from the muddy water and, dragging his scarred body, followed after him.
Lancelot, like a most loyal (or rather, most bound) shadow guard, followed silently at the rear.
The Underground Worm Cellar of the Matou Mansion.
The place was filled with an indescribable scent of blood and decay, and the air was thick with dense magical energy, yet also mixed with a nauseating evil aura.
Under the dim light, countless Crest Worms could be seen wriggling and rolling within the massive Worm Den, making a skin-crawling rustling sound.
Kariya Matou pointed at the pulsating Worm Den, which seemed like a living thing, and said to Diarmuid: "Do you see? These... are all the purest magical energy crystals, the 'foundation' accumulated by the Matou Family over centuries."
On his face, those veins looked like wriggling earthworms in the dim light, appearing exceptionally hideous.
"As long as you are willing to accept them," Kariya's voice carried a nearly fanatical inducement, "not only will you immediately recover your peak magical energy, but you might even... become stronger! You will gain the power to swing your sword in revenge against that man!"
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