MMMS 111

"Come then, Beast. If you don’t want to die here, draw that sword."

Ryuuto didn’t move. He tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to remember something. "Ah... you mean Ea."

That one name told him everything. Gilgamesh had Noble Phantasms that could restrain Ea—or at least thought he did.

Which only made Ryuuto more stubborn.

The more you try to force me to draw it, the less I want to. That petty, almost childish thought dug in like a splinter.

"Sorry," he said casually, rubbing the back of his neck. “I used your sword to beat the bedding earlier this afternoon. Might’ve left it out on the balcony.”

“…Hah?”

For a moment, Gilgamesh’s face twisted in disbelief and raw fury.

But just as fast, the anger vanished. His expression settled into something calm—and much more dangerous.

“In that case, disappear.”

The air behind him warped.

Circles of gold flickered open one after another, and weapons burst out—swords, spears, jagged things from forgotten ages—each one hurled straight at the boy standing in the sand.

Of course, Gilgamesh never expected these Noble Phantasms to harm Ryuuto.

He wasn’t aiming to kill. He wanted to see what the Beast could endure.

Even the strongest, most broken skill had limits. If it was an active ability, then there had to be something. A gap. A cooldown.

Just like before, the weapons came from every angle, as if space itself had twisted open.

And just like before, Ryuuto didn’t budge.

But what followed stopped everything.

With a sound like bones snapping under ice, blade after golden blade tore into him. One sank into his thigh. Another skewered his shoulder. A third punched through his side and came out dripping red.

He stood there, shaking slightly, blood already soaking through his clothes.

Gilgamesh stared.

“…What.”

That single word slipped out—soft, almost inaudible.

From across the battlefield, voices rang out in horror.

“Master!!”

“Ryuuto!!”

“Lord Ryuuto!!”

From far across the battlefield, female voices rose in alarm.

Gilgamesh’s eyes didn’t leave him.

His voice came low and rough.

“…What are you doing?”

Ryuuto stood swaying in the sand, a smear of blood running down his chin. His lips curled in something that tried to be a smile.

“Hah... cough... it’s nothing,” he muttered, forcing a crooked smile. “Just a minor wound.”

He exhaled, steadied his footing, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well then. I guess it’s my turn now, King of Heroes.”

"Why... Lord Ryuuto, why didn’t you dodge...?"

Irisviel stood at the edge of the desert, nearly a kilometer from the heart of the battlefield, her hands trembling as they clenched into fists. Her eyes stayed locked on the boy now riddled with swords, blood staining the golden sand beneath him.

The Ryuuto she knew was a quiet mystery—an enigma who had once batted aside that arrogant Archer’s attacks like they were nothing. She had seen it with her own eyes. And perhaps, somewhere beneath it all, her heart as a maiden in love had filled in the blanks with wonder and belief.

To her, Ryuuto was invincible.

But now?

That same boy had taken Archer’s strike full-on, and could barely stay upright. He looked like he might collapse at any moment.

"Lord Ryuuto... that's right—where are Lancer and Caster?!"

She turned, eyes darting toward the two other Servants still on the battlefield.

But instead of seeing confusion or alarm on their faces, she saw something far worse.

Their expressions were frozen. Bloodless. Fixed in place, like statues caught mid-motion.

All across the plain, tens of thousands of soldiers stood frozen in place. None moved. None spoke. Just tens of thousands of pale faces staring at Ryuuto, their eyes wide with something primal.

Terror.

"...?"

Irisviel blinked, struggling to understand.

Because she was a homunculus.

Because she was not human.

She didn’t know—couldn’t know—the one truth all humans instinctively remembered.

The terror of once being ruled by the wrath of ■■.

…

“It’s… cough, cough—cough!”

Ryuuto, who a second ago had vowed to launch his counterattack, suddenly collapsed to one knee. Blood poured from his mouth in thick spurts, splattering across the sand.

“…Hmph.”

Gilgamesh narrowed his eyes. Crimson ran freely from the boy’s wounds—but something was wrong. The blood wasn’t just red.

It was laced with black.

Dark shadows twisted within it like ink, writhing as they dripped onto the battlefield and pooled at his feet. Then came the bubbling—thick and unnatural, as if the ground itself were about to boil.

“What’s going on, Archer!?”

Iskandar’s voice rang out as he galloped over, cloak billowing behind him. His horse kicked up dust as he pulled up beside Gilgamesh, eyes wide at the sight below.

Ryuuto knelt in a spreading puddle of what no longer looked like black blood.

“Don’t come any closer, Rider.”

Gilgamesh’s voice was serious as he stared at the black mud.

“So that’s the mud… the filth capable of staining Heroic Spirits black.”

He held his breath.

“Don’t tell me... you think you can kill every soldier here with just this pitiful amount leaking from your body?”

To the King of Heroes, the threat was real—but still laughable. That tainted mud might have twisted spirits in the past, but this amount? A single anti-army Noble Phantasm could scorch it away in a heartbeat.

If this was Ryuuto’s grand counterattack, then he was being hopelessly naive.

“Hey.” The boy hadn’t even looked at him. Instead, he slowly wiped the mud from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Look closely. This isn’t my blood.”

“…?”

Had the boy become so unstable, so near death, that he was reverting—melting back into the black mud from which he’d once emerged?

No.

If someone truly knowledgeable had been there—someone who understood what once festered beneath Tokyo—they would’ve recognized it at once.

This wasn’t the same mud.

It only looked similar.

The black mud oozing from Ryuuto wasn’t a part of him. It wasn’t greed. It wasn’t hate. It was something entirely different—something that should not, could not, coexist with him.

It carried no curse.

No hunger.

Only love.

And sorrow.

A voice whispered from within the mud—deep and distant. It echoed not with fury, but with mourning.

Gilgamesh exhaled, the edge gone from his gaze.

“…Enough. I’ve heard enough of your nonsense. It was my mistake… expecting anything from you.”

Even if he truly was the prophesied Beast, in this moment, Ryuuto was nothing more than a worm groveling in the dust—not even fit to be the snake he once loathed.

Gilgamesh raised his blade.

Original Sin glinted in his hand.

As a reward for providing even a flicker of entertainment, the King of Heroes would now erase the boy’s fragile existence with Merodach.

“Disappear, young beast.”

Golden armor shimmered as his body surged, magical energy flaring like a supernova. The sword in his hand began to glow—he was seconds away from releasing its true name—

"This is truly… mother’s tears."

The voice was barely louder than a whisper.

But it stopped everything.

The wind stilled.

Time itself seemed to pause.

Gilgamesh froze mid swing. Not from hesitation, not from doubt, but something stranger.

His heart.

For just an instant… it felt like it had stopped beating.

Ryuuto slowly raised his head.

“After hurting someone as adorable as me this badly,” he murmured, “Mother… is very angry now.”

"Hey—what on earth...?" Iskandar stared at the boy, confusion turning to dread as the air around them dropped to a suffocating stillness. His steed, sensing something it couldn’t understand, let out a sharp, panicked neigh and reared back, hooves clawing at the sky.

Even the King of Conquerors felt it.

Something wrong.

Something terrifying.