MMMS 108

It wasn’t a fairyland or some peaceful paradise. This was something raw, something vast—like the kind of scene only heroes were meant to witness. A war that felt too large for the world to contain.

The King of Conqueror raised his banner high, bold and defiant. He wasn’t just remembering the glories of old—he was dragging them into the present, anchoring them here. Warriors who had once crossed deserts and oceans with him now rode at his side again, called back by bonds that even time couldn’t break.

Across the battlefield, the King of Heroes stood with one arm outstretched. His vault had opened without restraint. Treasures gleamed in every hand and on every back, legendary weapons paired with heroic riders. If the King of Conqueror gave them purpose, the King of Heroes gave them the tools to make it unstoppable.

The army that once swept through Asia, Africa, and Europe was now reforged—iron loyalty wrapped in golden steel.

“Crush them!” Iskandar drew his blade and pointed ahead. “AAAALaLaLaLaLaie!!”

His shout hit like a strike of lightning, and his men answered with a roar that made the earth shake. A tidal mass of hoofbeats and war cries, surging ahead like the ground itself had tilted forward. And at the very front, their king charged with laughter in his throat.

…

Waver stood just beyond the tree line, watching Rider’s figure grow smaller in the distance. The giant hadn’t looked back—not once. His crimson cloak rippled behind him as he vanished into the glowing edge of the Reality Marble.

Just moments earlier, Waver had still been on horseback. The memory was fresh, too fresh.

“Sorry, boy,” Rider had said, dismounting and lifting him down. “ I changed my mind. You're sitting this one out.”

“What? Why!?” Waver had gripped the reins, voice rising. “I’m your Master, aren’t I? If you think I’ll slow you down—”

“It’s not that.” Iskandar had met his eyes with the same easy smile he always wore, but there’d been something behind it this time—something resolute. “This isn’t about you being my Master. It’s because you’re my friend. That’s why I’m leaving you here.”

Waver had opened his mouth, but nothing came out. There wasn’t anything to say.

Maybe the enemy really had grown that powerful. Powerful enough that even Rider and the King of Heroes together couldn’t guarantee a victory.

But still, Rider had laughed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll crush that castle first,” he said, giving Waver’s shoulder a firm pat. “Then we’ll ride together again.”

And with that, he’d turned and gone, leaving only a fading trail of dust behind.

Now, alone beneath the moonlit trees, Waver stared into the shimmering air where Rider had disappeared, the edge of the Reality Marble rippling like heat off stone. He clenched his right hand, the skin pale from how tightly he was gripping it. That hand had burned with three Command Spells not long ago—every last one used for Rider’s sake.

His voice came out low, almost a whisper.

“…You have to win, Rider.”

…

The crisis struck sooner than anyone expected.

Flames seared the battlefield, twisting through the air alongside bolts of crackling lightning. The sky darkened with whirling yellow sand, stirred up by every explosion and clash of steel. From all sides, the army closed in—a divinely armed host, launching wave after wave of attacks without pause.

Lancer and Caster stood back-to-back, surrounded on every front.

They were sisters at the very peak of the Throne of Heroes. In most wars, either one alone could tear through modern armies without effort. But this was different. The force assembled by the King of Conqueror and the King of Heroes wasn’t made of ordinary men. Even the foot soldiers, clad in armor drawn from Gilgamesh’s vault, wielded weapons brimming with mystery—artifacts that could rival lesser Noble Phantasms. Against opponents like that, sheer strength wasn’t enough. This wasn’t a fight they could win by carving through the crowd.

Cavalry broke through in formation, hammering wedges between them. Javelins rained down from beyond sight, bursting apart midair like clustered fireballs. Traps spun up from the earth like whirlpools, catching Dun Stallion mid-gallop and throwing off Artoria’s charge. From below, arrows streaked upward like flashes of lightning, each one forcing Morgan to twist and deflect mid-flight.

The attackers moved like they’d done this a hundred times before—disciplined, fast, and unforgiving. Their weapons—treasures borrowed from myths—cut straight through Morgan’s layered defenses and cracked the mana-forged armor of the King of Knights. Every strike chipped away at their advantage.

Worse still were the figures embedded in the ranks—champions from across history. Real heroes, not just soldiers. Each one fought like a Servant in their own right, wielding legendary weapons and battle-hardened skill.

If either Artoria or Morgan hesitated—even for a second—they’d be swallowed by the tide. Not overwhelmed by numbers, but cut down by the steel of legendary weapons.

Powerful. Brave. Unstoppable.

If an army like this had existed in their time, how long could Camelot have lasted? A few days? A week at most? The knights would’ve scattered. The castles—leveled before the defenders could even organize. Even if every Knight of the Round Table had stood their ground, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Artoria and Morgan both understood that now. And neither of them liked the answer.

After cutting down a line of spearmen with a slash of pure mana, Morgan spun on her heel and caught a footman mid-sprint. He barely had time to scream before her spell tightened around his throat—an invisible garrote that hoisted him off the ground. His eyes bulged, mouth frothing as his limbs kicked uselessly in the air. With a flick of her wrist, the pressure snapped his neck like brittle wood.

She didn’t stop moving. Flames crackled across her fingertips as she swept her arm in a wide arc. A net of fire erupted outward, red-gold and alive, screaming like a living thing. It wrapped around a cluster of charging soldiers, clinging to armor, flesh, and bone. They shrieked as the heat seared through plate and skin alike—one man dropped to his knees, clawing at his melting face before collapsing in a smoldering heap. Another stumbled forward blindly, skin blistering, armor fused to his flesh as the net constricted and crushed them all in a spray of burning gore.

By the time the last of them fell, the only thing left was a pile of blackened limbs and a haze of acrid smoke rising from the sand.

With the immediate pressure cleared, she flew over to her sister, hovering just above the ground.

“Where’s our Master?” she asked, flicking cinders off her gloves.

Artoria didn’t look up from the knight she’d just felled. “He said he’s going to fight the King of Conqueror. Should be northwest.”

Morgan followed her gaze.

Sure enough, in the distance, she spotted him. A boy, barely more than a student, standing his ground against Rider with tentacles of black sand coiling up from the earth to strike. Her eyes narrowed.

“I see…”

The sisters shared a glance. No words needed.

That was all it took. One look—and the message passed between them as clearly as if it had been shouted.

They were sisters, after all. Not just by blood, but in spirit, forged through a lifetime of conflict and power. Some things didn’t need to be said out loud.

Without delay, they turned their attention back to the chaos around them, blades and spells ready. It was time to find the army’s second king.

Gilgamesh.