MMMS 116

The warriors on the scorching sand had long since lost even the strength to cry out.

The battlefield trembled beneath the weight of annihilation.

The King of Conqueror raised his sword high—the Sword of Kupriotes catching the light one final time—as he charged headlong toward the youth.

The King of Heroes bared his teeth, golden armor flaring like a dying sun, and brought down his demonic blade with a snarl, unleashing a storm of destruction—over five hundred Noble Phantasms hurled across the sky in a single instant.

And behind them, twenty-eight thousand warriors roared and surged, each bearing Gilgamesh’s Noble Phantasm, each ready to die with steel in hand.

But it made no difference.

Not here.

Not now.

In the blink of an eye, the blood-drenched battlefield was gone.

Only sand remained.

A vast, colorless void.

A still world where time held its breath.

In this new world, what awaited every living being was not death as they knew it—but something deeper. Something older.

Inevitable fate.

Annihilation not of flesh and blood—but of principle.

Of being.

[Nega-Genesis]

It was not an attack.

It was a declaration.

A Conceptual Bounded Field that rewrote the laws of genesis itself—denying the Earth’s evolutionary path, severing history, rejecting the narrative arc of creation.

Those born from proper human history—Servants—were most vulnerable. Noble Phantasms, no matter how divine or refined, failed to pierce the veil.

The field itself pushed back. Resisted.

Reality folded, not with noise, but with reverence.

Yet even so—

“Men! This is our final expedition—AAALaLaLaLaie!!!”

With a defiant roar, Iskandar kicked his steed forward, voice thundering across the emptiness.

The air cracked.

His crimson cloak billowed.

It was his last charge.

He knew it.

He wasn’t blind. He could see clearly—this battle was long since lost. No strategy could rewrite what had already been sealed.

But even if he stood alone—

Even if all his soldiers had already vanished into dust—

He would choose how he left this world.

This was not surrender.

This was not despair.

What pounded in his chest was exhilaration. Fierce. Liberating.

Even now—especially now—his spirit soared.

'What a monster…’

This was no man. No god. No king.

This was the final tide that washed away all meaning.

The end of the world, made flesh.

Only now did Iskandar understand what Gilgamesh had once said.

That youth… was the sea at the world’s end.

And now, facing him—

He understood.

This youth was the end of the world.

“Ah—hahahahaha!!!”

The King of Conquerors roared with uncontained joy, trembling with exhilaration as he charged into the pale, unraveling world.

His voice echoed like thunder in a sky that no longer held clouds.

He rode forward without hesitation, his beloved steed galloping beside him—and then, in an instant, the world fell utterly silent.

No clash. No cry. Just—absence.

A stillness beyond death.

Iskandar felt himself being torn apart.

Not by blades. Not by force.

But by truth.

There was no pain—only the sensation of unbeing. A dim awareness as one by one, his senses faded into nothing. Sight. Sound. Touch. All stripped away.

The horse beneath him dissolved, as did the shape of his own body. His hands, his limbs—his flesh—gone.

Yet still, he ran.

He ran because that was who he was. Because this was his final expedition.

Each step carried him forward—not on legs, but by will alone. Even as he disintegrated, even as only shreds of thought remained, he kept moving.

Only one thing endured.

The heat in his chest.

A fire that had never once gone out. A flame born from boundless ambition, from dreams too vast to be caged by reality.

By that flame alone, Iskandar advanced—dragging what little remained of himself through the world’s collapse.

Until, at last, he reached the youth standing at the center of it all.

“…Magnificent.”

Ryuuto’s voice was quiet. No condescension, no cruelty. Only calm surprise.

Iskandar said nothing. He no longer had a voice to offer.

Instead, he raised his sword—one final time.

With a hollow, echoing sound, the long blade sank deep into the youth’s shoulder.

Ryuuto’s expression shifted. The detached apathy vanished from his eyes, replaced by something real.

Respect.

“You truly are magnificent,” he murmured. “To reach me… even here.”

Of course, the words could no longer reach Iskandar.

What he heard now—was the sound of waves.

Not crashing. Not violent.

Just waves. Gentle. Distant. Familiar.

A sound that came from the farthest horizon and yet whispered just beside his ear. The sound of the sea at the end of all things.

“Even this expedition…” he thought, as his form scattered like dust into the pale wind, “…it stirred my heart… one last time.”

The King of Conquerors smiled.

And vanished into the eternal breeze.

…

“In the end,” he muttered, “I never did settle things with that mongrel. That Rider... so full of himself, even at the very end.”

Gilgamesh stood unmoved, regal to the last, as the white light rose to swallow the world.

The planet was rewinding.

Time itself unraveled like silk.

And yet, even in the face of erasure, the King of Heroes remained planted—feet firm against the dying earth, chin raised in defiance.

The once-invincible legions that had marched with him were gone now. Scattered like dust. Broken like illusions. Destroyed—by the hand of a single youth.

His golden armor, forged to reflect kingship itself, was cracked.

His divine flesh was crumbling like dried earth under sun.

And still—he stood.

Before the Beast. Before the child of sin and judgment. Before the end of the world.

He stood.

There was no rage in him.

No regret.

Only acceptance—cold, absolute, and proud.

Gilgamesh had not faltered. Not once. In this battle, he had fought with everything. No arrogance, no underestimation. Just will sharpened like a blade.

And still—it had not been enough.

Not against this Beast.

Not against the culmination of mankind’s inherited curse.

Not against the one thing that could not be ruled or reasoned with: original sin itself.

The King of Heroes closed his eyes.

And allowed the light to take him.

Soon after, the scorched earth beneath his feet began to fracture.

Cracks splintered in every direction, veins of darkness spreading like dry ink across parchment. The ground buckled, then crumbled—pulled into the endless abyss.

Gilgamesh let out a long, tired breath. “How detestable this world is,” he muttered, almost like it amused him. “And yet… it is this king’s garden.”

Ryuuto tilted his head. “Still holding onto that delusion, huh?”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Here’s something that might cheer you up. Next time we meet… odds are, we won’t be enemies.”

“Ha!” Gilgamesh scoffed, lips curling in disdain. “What kind of idiotic joke is that? How is that good news? I have no desire to see you again.”

But his eyes told a different story. Something flickered there—quick, hard to name.

Then, without a word, he flicked his wrist.

The void rippled, and something metallic dropped into view. Like he was pulling it out of a pocket only he could see. “Catch.”

Ryuuto didn’t think. His hand moved on its own.

A solid clink.

Cool weight hit his palm.

He glanced down.

Chains. Silver. Familiar. Almost warm. They pulsed faintly in the glow of the dying plane, humming with something too old to define.

The Chains of Heaven.

He turned them over once, brow furrowed. The links brushed against his wrist like they remembered him.

Gilgamesh gave him a crooked, half-bored smirk.

“I can’t stand the thought of Ea and the Chains being separated,” he said. “So I’m leaving them with you. For now.”

A pause.

“…Farewell.”

His voice didn’t soften. It never would. But it lost some of its bite.

“This manifestation… was mildly entertaining.”

And that was it. He was gone.

Dissolved into the encroaching white, swallowed by silence.

Only the vast, empty void remained.

And the faint clink of chains, still warm in Ryuuto’s hand.