Fate/Apocrypha Volume 1 Chapter 4.3

The vanguard of homunculi and golems was meaningless before the Berserker of the Red, readily turned back in a single strike. However, the Servants of the Black were not perturbed. After all, that was how a Heroic Spirit ought to be in battle. There were no surprises.

"Well… a slaughter like that is pretty abnormal, if you ask me…"

"What a dreadful sight. That Heroic Spirit does not fight with skill, but fiendishly butchers the enemy with the power he takes such pride in. No need for technique, or judgment – it is as though he was born to fight and kill. Perhaps the class of Berserker did not enhance him at all… perhaps he was not fit for any other class to begin with."

Archer agreed with the murmurs of Rider.

Surrounding the two was a force of golems incomparable to the vanguard sent earlier. In fact, over half of the golems created as the fighting force for the Yggdmillennia had been mobilized for this operation.

"I wonder if he'd kill me and you like that, too."

"It certainly is possible with such absurd strength. Do not let him strike you directly."

"Yeah, all right… I'll do what I can."

There was no fight in Rider's voice. Against this obvious display of disinterest, Archer softly whispered into his ear.

"I understand you are distracted, but if the unthinkable were to occur, and you fell here… he cannot be saved. Do you understand?"

"I-I know that!"

Rider straightened himself, firing himself up again thanks to Archer's reproval. He raised his splendidly ornate golden lance, as though daring Berserker to come at him.

"In a way, it is you who must realize the most dangerous task, Rider. Remember – stay on your guard."

The bowman turned into Spirit Form, returning to the top of the fortress wall where he ought to be. Left alone, Rider sighed and muttered to himself.

"Geez… I really wish I wouldn't get jobs like this… facing danger head-on? You can't be serious… well, I guess I don't have a choice!"

Rider said, boundlessly bright – and a tremor came from the depths of the woods to answer his call, coming closer and closer. However, the source of the noise was still sunken in the darkness of the night, imperceivable.

Is he here…?

An unexpected silence descended upon them. The noise stopped, and only a rushing wind came upon them. However, a Berserker cannot conceal his presence; even if he is not yet visible, it is fully clear that he is there.

Certain that his enemy is close at hand, Rider stepped forward.

"O oppressors, your time is nigh! Your pride shall be vanquished, your conceits of superiority routed!"

It was then that Berserker appeared, blowing aside branch and tree.

"Ugh…"

For the briefest of moments, Rider wanted to leave this place behind.

He was not afraid of giants; he had once fought the many-armed Caligorante, and paraded him around the streets. He did not fear hard-faced men or rampaging beasts. But the soft smile on the face of this colossus was… unnerving.

Yes, the fact that he was smiling was the most frightening thing. To smile in the midst of the enemy meant he was either greatly confident in himself, or so insane that he no longer cared who had the upper hand.

The giant was over two meters in height and wielded a gladius. From the previous encounter, it was evident that his fists themselves contained quite some power. On top of that, his toughness was exceptional. Most likely, even if Rider could injure him, he would not be able to finish him off.

In other words, Rider cannot hope to hurt him. Nevertheless, he understood that the tip of the spear had been entrusted to him – he must lead the advance.

"But, well… that's why I've been summoned, right? There's no helping it, then. Let's go!"

With a wide, daring grin on his face to match Berserker's, Rider brandished his golden lance.

"Let those afar hear my voice! Draw near and witness my splendor! For I am Astolfo, one of the Twelve Peers of Charlamagne… prepare yourself!"

It was a phrase that he had wanted but did not have the chance to say for quite some time, and he shouted it as loudly as he could. In the end, he even revealed his secret without much thought but, luckily, his opponent did not have the mental capacity to form strategies based on his true name.

"Hahahaha! Good. What splendid arrogance. I shall crush it beneath my heel!"

Berserker laughed as he charged, unexpectedly nimble despite his size, raging like a great wild boar.

"Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

He swung his sword high and brought it crushing down. It was a fierce blow that likely could have squashed the diminutive Rider, whom avoided it cleanly.

"Guh…?!"

However, it was one of those attacks for which evasion meant nothing. Berserker's strike gouged the earth, blowing back Rider with the force of the attack alone.

"Owww… what a horrible attack."

Rider grimaced and got on his feet, rubbing his back where he was hit. There was still no fear in his eyes.

He was facing an enemy that could blow him away with a single touch, overcome him with raw strength, proofed against any of his techniques. However, Astolfo was a Heroic Spirit… a valiant paladin of Charlamagne, whose reason was said to evaporate, and an adventurer who flew to all over the world, creating many legends. Through his journeys, he had won numerous Mystic Codes – his flute, his grimoire, his Hippogriff, and his shining golden lance.

"Come, then… let's show them what you can do, Argalia!"

Rider dashed forward. Even without his mount, his charge became a bolt of lightning.

However, to the Berserker who was deprived of almost all emotions, Rider's attack was a thing of joy, and most certainly not of fear. For surely, the more intense his strike – the deeper he despaired – the more pleasurable Berserker's counter-strike would become. Even if the lance were to run him through, Berserker would deliver his riposte without fail.

Certain of himself, Berserker raised his sword again, compressing his abdominal muscles until they became stiff as steel.

"

Trap of Argalia!

Down with a Touch!

"

Yet, killing is not the primary intent of Rider's lance.

A spear is a spear, of course. If stabbed into the enemy, it will draw blood. If pierced in the heart, it will kill. But it is nothing more than a cavalry lance; its force has not been strengthened by thaumaturgy, and it did not possess any special property to penetrate all defenses. It was not fated to pierce its enemy's heart in any way. Despite all of the above, the power of this lance is deadly in battle.

Berserker shook violently as he felt his body collapse to the ground. The solid earth which he stood firmly on disappeared, causing him to momentarily forget the sword he was supposed to swing down. Still, the smile remained on his face. He felt no shock at all. But no matter how hard he tried, it was impossible for him to overturn this preposterous condition.

The Trap of Argalia!, the carelessly named Noble Phantasm of Rider, was a spear that could only do what its name suggested. According to legend, this beloved lance of the Cathay prince Argalia causes anyone it touched to fall – and to heavily armored knights on the field of battle, a fall inevitably leads to death. Aside from that, it is not difficult to imagine how much glory the use of this lance brought its users in those pompous jousting tournaments.

Used on a Servant, this Noble Phantasm realizes its legend by forcibly returning its target to Spirit Form from below the knee. Regardless of where the lance hits – even if it is on armor woven by mana – the prana supply to that part of the body will be physically cut, rendering it temporarily impossible to take form as flesh and blood.

That being said, such a weapon would not be enough to stop Berserker. He still had his body from the knees upwards; he would still drag himself on to defeat his opponent.

"Depriving me of my legs will not stop me."

"Oh, I'm sure of that… which is why we are going to stop you now. Get him!"

At Rider's words, the golems standing by assaulted Berserker as one. The golems, weighing over a ton each, tried to press down and contain his arms. However, Berserker beat them back with ease, swinging his arms wildly. The upper bodies of the golems were shattered by his fists – but the strength of these constructs was that, even without a head, they did not completely lose their function.

Working like an army of ants overcoming their prey, they quietly overwhelmed Berserker. But their prey was not some powerless animal, and their endless bites could not stop the giant.

Berserker did not stop. Even after losing his feet, he still advanced headlong towards the castle.

"Hahaha! Yes! Wonderful! The enemy ranks are as a mist, covering me with wounds from head to toe! Yes, this… this is worthy of song when victory comes!"

Golems covered every single part of his body, their combined mass double his own. Enveloped by a suit of stone and bronze, he continued to advance.

Further, further, ever further. The Berserker of the Red might be a fool, but he was not delusional. By his skin, his ears, his eyes, his tongue – he knew that the oppressors were waiting for him.

"An admirable effort. You need not feel shame, Caster… your golems are great works. It is that Berserker that is abnormal."

"……!"

Berserker accelerated. Ripping away the golems covering his face, he saw for himself what stood before him.

"You…"

"Yes, Berserker of the Red camp. If you seek the oppressors – then I am the one who stands atop them."

"Ahh… ahhhh… ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Berserker stretched out his hand in joy. Just a bit more, and he would be able to reach the heads of the oppressors. Joy and glory had always came after the clouds cleared and the suffering ended. There were no flaws in the mad warrior's logic. It was absolutely perfect.

However, he had forgotten one very important fact. What had awaited him at the end of his suffering was a cruel and tragic death.

Lancer – Vlad III – watched with an icy gaze as Berserker rampaged on. He was the hero who ruled Romania with an iron fist and grimly massacred all those who opposed him. And his enemies, with fear in their hearts, called him…

"

Kaziklu Bey

Lord of Execution

."

Lancer declared, and the ground nearby bulged.

"I shall… crush you, oppressor!"

Berserker did not falter at all despite the weight of the golems. He raised his sword arm – but it was pierced by a sharp stake. Regardless of whether he could feel pain, the stake still stopped his movement against his will.

"I have spent my entire life fighting against insurrectionists such as yourself. I destroyed them, leaving their meat to rot on my stakes…"

Stakes several meters in length pierced Berserker, along with the golems. Lancer did not refine his strikes beyond not aiming for Berserker's spiritual core. Although he actively avoided killing Berserker, he saw no need to trouble himself with further restraints.

It would be a shame if Berserker were to die, but if he did not – only a deeper level of Hell awaited him.

His feet turned immaterial, his body covered by innumerable golems, his entire being save for his heart and brain pierced by stakes – and still Berserker moved to bring down the oppressor right before him. His actions could no longer be contained by words such as 'hatred' or 'conviction'.

Yes, this was his faith. This was what Lancer sacrificed half of his golems to ascertain: whether he was a foolish barbarian who sought only to rebel against authority – or a man who, in spite of his madness, had carved an uncrossable line, an unbreakable resolve onto his own heart.

Lancer nodded in satisfaction and said quietly.

"…I understand now that I have come face to face with you. Your rebellion is the embodiment of your noble spirit. The strong will always trample over the weak… but you fight because you are unable to accept that. You fight until you have turned the strong into the weak."

He fought not for the sake of the weak. The mad warrior would not have come so far for such pretenses of altruism. No, it was simply that…

"Do you dream of a world where all are equal? Yet your dream is but a flight of fancy. For the first time… I feel I must show my respect to those we call the rebels."

Lancer snapped his fingers, and Caster by his side stepped forth.

"But, unfortunately for you… we shall change the direction of your rebellion. Berserker of the Red – you belong to us now."

"……"

The smile disappeared from Berserker's face. Instead, his expression became one of murderous rage. What Lancer said meant one thing – slavery. To Berserker, that was a disgrace greater than death. It was despair itself.

"Now, then…"

Caster dispassionately gave the command to the golems that pressed down upon Berserker. At once, they converted to a fluid form that coiled around both Berserker and the stakes. Even the hero of rebellion would not be able to escape this stone prison.

"I leave the dissection to you, Caster."

"Yes, lord…"

With that, Lancer lost all interest towards Berserker. He was now one of Lancer's subordinates, turning his fangs against not the Black, but the Red. That was all he needed to know.

As Lancer walked away, Rider called out to him.

"Well, it looks like you don't need me here anymore! I'll take my leave!"

Rider hastily turned into Spirit Form and returned to the fortress. Naturally, he wanted to take advantage of this situation. No one would concern themselves with one homunculus right now; it was their greatest chance.

* * *

The man was a tempest. He was invincible.

The Rider of the Red laughed mockingly at the fierce assault of Saber and Berserker. The two Servants released their attacks in the same breath, aiming both high and low.

Rider curled his body and leapt. With his single, short spear he deflected both attacks splendidly.

"Weak!"

At nearly the same time, he launched a kick. He fought not with the formality of a knight, but martial skill honed utterly on the field of battle.

Berserker was blown away but managed to right herself. She moaned with displeasure, and a strange grinding noise filled the air. However, Rider did not seem to pay her much attention as he clashed with Saber once again.

There was not a single wound on either of them, and both of their attacks were being nullified. With his blood armor, Siegfried cannot be hurt by attacks not B-rank or above – which allowed him to keep the fight balanced for the time being. But if this Rider's Noble Phantasm is capable of piercing dragon-blood…

'What are you doing, Saber?! There's not a scratch on him! Use your Noble Phantasm! Use it!'

He had no choice but to ignore his Master's urgings. Rider was not fighting seriously yet, and the riddle of his invulnerability had yet to be solved. Perhaps he had a Noble Phantasm with the same power as him – or perhaps he possessed something even stronger. It could even be that he could not receive damage without certain conditions.

If Saber were to reveal his Noble Phantasm now, it would mean giving away his identity, and that will unmistakably become a hindrance in the battles to come. Eliminating Rider now would certainly prove to be an overwhelming advantage – but what if he did not fall?

It hardly needs to be said. Saber would be the fool who used his Noble Phantasm purely to advertise his own name. Not to mention that, if Rider managed to escape the battle before Saber finished him off, Saber's identity would be completely compromised among the Red camp. After that, they would all know to aim at his weak point: his back.

Saber did not mind being brazen, but he did not want to be foolish. He could only let the command go by, unheeded. He wanted his Master to understand. While under normal circumstances, he would use words to explain to the fullest, he had no chance to do so right now.

Rider jumped backwards, apparently wishing to start anew.

"This isn't going anywhere, huh."

"…"

As promised, Saber did not open his month. Rider looked rather irritated by his lack of response.

"You're a surly bastard, aren't you? Men who don't laugh on the field of battle, may forget how to by the time they reach Elysium. This world is enough of a gloomy, festering pus as it is – you should at least try to get a laugh in…"

He disagreed. Sometimes, laughter in the face of an opponent becomes nothing more than condescension. A cheery briskness in the duel due to mutual acceptance of one another's strength is a different matter entirely from mocking the corpse of the fallen.

Against Saber's wordless display of rejection, Rider chuckled.

"…before you die. You know?"

In the blink of an eye, an unseen arrow, flying faster than the speed of sound, impacted directly on Saber's chest.