The man was pure muscle.

However you think about it, that is the only word that can do him justice. Anyone who sees this giant of a man - over two meters tall - will find their eyes drawn to his extraordinary mass. The sense of hopelessness only increases as you tilt your head to try and guess at his height.

From the innumerable scars carved into his pale skin, one can easily imagine the immense amount of training and battle the man has overcome. However, it is obvious that not a single one of those wounds had truly pierced him.

After all, what could come of taking a paring knife to a ball of metal? The man's body is a steel mass in itself. A sharp blade may cut his skin - even draw some blood - but it stops there.

His arms alone are virtually the size of crocodiles. There is nothing covering his pectorals, but it is clear that the toughness of his body is practically armor. His legs trudge along with the force of mammoths.

Leather straps tightly coil around his entire body, including his face, but he does not appear to be suffering. In fact, the man is smiling, as though enjoying it - as though asking, is this all that constricts me? Certainly, the straps around his waist and between his legs cannot be considered protection at all.

That is fine; his flesh is not something meant to be contained within armor. If anything, it is unnecessary. That is the immensity of the man's mass.

The man crashed through the forests east of Trifas as evening set in. To the onlooker, a fish walking on land may be more believable; he stood out like a sore thumb against the abundance of nature that surrounded him.

He is the Berserker of the Red.

"Would you stop, Berserker?!"

Someone was pursuing this unchained brute. Leaping from branch to branch, a girl clad in verdant green called out to Berserker again and again. Her cold, sharp eyes contained a beastly glint. Her hair stretched out long and unkempt, utterly devoid of the silkiness that one would find amongst those of noble birth; however, it befitted someone which such an feral appearance. Yes... she may well be a beautiful beast in human form.

Berserker chortled and answered her words without ever breaking stride.

"Ha ha ha! I cannot respond to that order, Archer. I must bring myself to that castle, to where the oppressors are."

Archer shouted in exasperation.

"You gull! We merely wait until the time is ripe! Why do you not understand?"

However, Berserker did not stop. He continued to walk, one powerful step after another. He had been walking for two days already, and spotted by passers-by more than a few times. Archer could only pray that that shady priest had things under control.

"To me, the word 'wait' does not exist."

This is it - Archer decided to give up on him. More accurately, seeing as she could not persuade him, she chose to focus on supporting him instead, as ordered.

"Only a madman, in the end... this task is beyond me."

She sighed as she muttered to herself - but she was answered by another.

"I guess so... not for nothing is he a Berserker."

Archer looked up towards the source of the voice; standing on one of the branches was a man with a carefree smile on his face. He was pleasing to the eyes - but not in the way of knights of old whom softened the hearts of noble ladies with their courteousness. His eyes were those of raptors, he was of a strong and firm build, and yet he was free from any appearance of crudeness. He looked the image of a great hero - one adored and admired by any man and woman, young and old, who looked upon him.

He was the Rider of the Red - the man who, according to Assassin's Master, could match the invincible Karna.

"Rider... do you suggest we forsake him?'

He shrugged and replied.

"Do we have a choice? The only thing he can think about is fighting. You're the strange one here, trying to talk him out of it."

"I was rather skilled in the restraining of wild beasts. I did fancy putting a shaft through his knee and being done with it, but..."

If she had done so, Berserker would undoubtedly have changed his course and rounded on her instead.

"Well, I'm glad you decided not to."

"So, why did you come?"

Rider grinned affably, as though he had been waiting for her to ask.

"Why else? I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Indeed."

Archer showed no embarrassment, surprise or even anger. She simply did not react to his words at all - even though said words, coming from someone of Rider's demeanor, should have flustered even a virtuous wife.

But to Archer, who had lived in the wild alongside beasts, words of courtship hold no meaning. Rider scratched his head awkwardly as she shrugged off his sure-fire advance with ease. He coughed and returned to his original mission.

"Anyway... we were given the role of the rearguard: support Berserker if reasonable, and gather as much information as possible."

"The enemy is already close at hand. I dare say he will reach the fort in the small hours. No doubt he will be checked before then."

"Huh... well, in any case, here's hoping some of the Melas will grace us with their presence."

Both Archer and Rider are superb hunters and warriors. They hold no illusions about winning a battle against seven entrenched Servants with barely half that number.

"Stopping such a Berserker calls for two Servants at the very least - if they do not send their entire force."

Yes - stopping that man would require such an exceptional effort.

"Yet... he truly has leapt from our given understanding of what a Berserker is."

"I'll agree with that. You'd think his Mad Enhancement was low, seeing as we could talk to him..."

However, the Mad Enhancement of the Berserker of the Red is an irregularity. It is possible to talk to him, but it is impossible to communicate fully. He does not disobey commands as much as he simply does not understand them. Even an order given with a Command Spell will do nothing more than weigh him down; two Command Spells are required to stop him.

"The Thracian gladiator and symbol of rebellion, ... what an obdurate man."

Spartacus was a Roman slave and gladiator who escaped with seventy-eight of his comrades. He later repulsed an assault force of nearly three thousand, becoming a hero and inspiring armed uprisings by slaves in many places. In the end, he was betrayed by the pirates whom he depended on, and cut down by the Roman legions - but until then, he had not lost a single battle. He remained a shining beacon of hope to the undertrodden slaves.

He hated all oppressors, his will to fight set aflame by those with power. This mad warrior fought the masters to protect the weak - care for them, heal them - but moreso than anything else, to stand in defiance. That is the Berserker of the Red.

"Where is your mount, Rider?"

"Well, we're here to gather information... no need to give them any in return. I'm keeping them out of this."

"Hmm... I suppose that will not prove to trouble you. What of your weapon - is it a sword, or a spear?"

"A spear, of course."

Rider and Archer continued to pursue the loosed Berserker; there was no way they could lose track of his slow, unwavering stride.

"By the way, Archer, there's one thing I want to ask..."

"Ask, then."

"Have you seen your Master's face?"

"I have not... I have only met the mediator for my Master... that priest."

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