Fate/Apocrypha - Volume 1
Page 16
However, even for an excellent swordsman, it is not a matter of course that every spear thrust can be defended against without fail. It is all the more impossible to fully receive the constant attacks of a spearman that has stepped so far into the domain of Gods.
In spite of this, Saber calmly continues his advance - an act so astoundingly reckless that even Ruler, who knew of his legend, wanted to cry out for him to stop.
'Nothing ventured, nothing gained'. 'Finding life through death'. The words themselves are brutally simple. However, much difficulty lies in actually practicing them, and most who try will only end up as sunken corpses in the mud.
Saber takes yet another step further. Maneuvering his sword with the smallest possible movements, he wards off the spear's barrage. However, that is far from enough. Several thrusts connected directly with his vitals. His arteries were slashed apart, and his forehead was pierced - but it turns out that was not the case.
"...?!"
Lancer immediately fell back from the bizarre scene. After gaining some distance, he looked at Saber coldly.
"Those wounds are shallow."
Lancer has already perforated Saber, not once, but seventy-eight times - with every single one of them being in a vital point. Yet Saber still calmly holds his sword.
It isn't as though he hasn't received any wounds, but the shallowness of each is too strange. With the amount of force Lancer had put into his spear, his arms should have been torn apart and his eyes should have been gouged out.
However, thanks to Gordes' healing thaumaturgy, all of Saber's wounds closed at once, proving that they were shallow enough to allow for immediate regeneration.
But that cannot be possible. It would at least be logical, albeit unbelievable, if Saber had somehow managed to handle his spear's barrage earlier. But receiving so little damage even after being hit directly simply cannot be...
It is an impossibility and, at the same time, a phenomenon that surely occurred - so there must be a reason. A reason why the Saber of the Black cannot be severely wounded... perhaps he is a favorite of the Gods, much like the Rider of his own side, or has trained his body to become like this, or...
"Ah... I see. Finally, I understand."
A feeling of exaltation - something Lancer had not felt in a very long time - took hold in his heart. Yes... this Saber truly is most similar tohim.
Of course, Saber feels as shocked as Lancer. He possesses the Blood Armor of the Evil DragonArmor of Fafner - a cheat of an ability that re-enacts the legend of the the hero who washed in dragon-blood, nullifying all attacks of rank B and below.
In other words, it should have been impossible for Saber to be hurt in this state... not by that spear, which had only been used as a regular piece of armament and not fully activated as a Noble Phantasm.
Yet every single one of the seventy-eight strikes by Lancer have caused damage to him. The wounds were light enough to be instantly healed by his Master's thaumaturgy... but they are more than enough to terrify Siegfried.
It means that Lancer's spear possesses power proportionate to an A-rank attack. But while the spear itself is certainly a rare gem, it never could have penetrated this dragon's body and landed a blow by itself. Lancer's destructive force comes from his immense physical strength and his transcendent technique.
Incredible...
Saber maintained his appearance while allowing his joy to be revealed within himself. Not even in life did he ever cross swords with such a mighty figure. Ever since defeating the dragon that had caused so many villages to wither, Siegfried created numerous legends thanks to his immortal body... but he had long since lost the sensation of struggling against death... grazing his soul against the point of no return.
With his body proofed against any and all attacks, Siegfried simply butchered his enemies with no thought in the deed. There was never a struggle. It was closer to a form of labor.
But this battle has none of that.
Witness his fiendish spear piercing my dragon's armor... his divine skills...
Just how many legends has this man created? Just how many trials has he overcome?
The mere thought fills Saber with admiration. And it seems that the spearman before him holds the same opinion.
In silence, they nod at one another - and indulge themselves in the duel once again.
The spear is brandished again at Saber. Between them, there is eagerness to fight, to battle and to kill - two wills of steel.
Saber corrects his stance with his greatsword. Lancer grips his spear with both hands.
The night is moonless, unlit... but it matters not, for a sun of high spirits and brisk winds is shining down on them - and these two uncommon Heroic Spirits cross blades once more.
---
Chapter 3-4
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"Grgh..."
Gordes gnashed his teeth as he watched over the death-match between the Saber of the Black and the Lancer of the Red. There was no chance for him to use his thaumaturgy - the opposing Master wasn't even at the scene.
But what most displeased him was the fact that his Saber - the great hero Siegfried, the most powerful of Sabers who can ignore any attack below B-rank - was not winning.
Even Saber can not entirely defend against Lancer's assault. He must seek her aid.
"O Ruler, I beg of you. At the least, teach us his true name - "
"I cannot. That would against my position as a neutral Servant."
Ruler replied sharply. Gordes doggedly continued.
"But he tried to kill you! If the Servant of Black were to fall here, you would become his target again. We must - "
"As I have said before, that has nothing to do with it. I was summoned as Ruler - I cannot allow my personal matters to foul the battle between them."
"...!"
Gordes' impatience resurfaced. They were watching, of course they were - Darnic and the others, through Caster's remote viewing thaumaturgy and familiars.
They were watching him, the fool of a Master who can only stand there frozen by the utterly dominating presence of two mere Servants, unable to give any commands or support with any craft.
This is preposterous! Are we not fighting the Holy Grail War? Is it not supposed to be ultimate competition of thaumaturgy decided between two Masters and Servants? Where is the enemy Master? Why is he not here? Does he fear for his life? Come out and let me defeat you! I shall destroy you!
"Show yourself, Master of the Red! Let Gordes Musik Yggdmillennia see how a dog of the Association measures! You are watching this, are you not? Are you not?!"
There was no response. No one paid him any attention - not his own Servant, not even Lancer or Ruler.
The sensation of being left behind led Gordes to feel something he had not felt in a long time - embarrassment, and shame.
-- I must do something.
-- I must have the power to do something.
-- I do. Yes, I do, right at my side.
Gordes looked at the back of his right hand. Yes, the proof that he was a Master was right there - the bond between him and his Servant, the Command Spells which were carved out by enormous stores of prana.
That's right - use this Command Spell, and the Servant is effortlessly placed under his control. Gordes mustn't forget that his Servant is not a hero. He is nothing more than a puppet.
He cannot allow himself to do nothing but watch his Servant fight with blank amazement. As a Master, ought he not find victory through skill of craft and calm judgement?
However, even Gordes was calm enough to recognize that the present situation was not one he could interfere with. Perhaps it is better to say he was simply too intimidated.
Lancer's every thrust was like cannon fire, throwing out roaring gusts.
Saber's golden sword slashed the wind and cleaved the dark.
Every attack was met by its opposite, entwining together and scattering into sparks. The pinnacles of swordsmen and spearmen continued their struggle for dominance.
The superiority of Lancer's technique exceeded Saber's by a slight degree, but Saber was tougher in body. All things considered, they were more or less an even match in strength. A moment's carelessness could lead to a pierced heart or severed head.
Anyone would be hard-pressed to tell who had the upper hand, but there was the matter of Gordes. Due to the healing thaumaturgy of his Master, Saber could always recover from damage. However, Lancer's own ability to recover was also considerable, even by himself. He must be powerfully bound to his Master and supplied by substantial prana.
The clang of clashing steel rang out for over the ten thousandth time.
They were covered by over a thousand light, recovering wounds.
Finally, both knights stopped, but not from fatigue. For these matchless heroes, even three days' worth of fighting would not exhaust them. But time waits for no man - and the pitch-black sky was becoming a gloomy dark blue.
In fact, several hours had passed since they first began. Neither had used their Noble Phantasms - neither had even the chance to utter their true names.
"At this rate, we will be fighting under the sun, though that's of little concern to me. What of you and your wearied Master?"
"..."
Saber put away his sword, silent to the end. Gordes tried to say something but the words could not come. Crushed by the wills of the duelling men, he instinctively knew that there was no place for someone like him to open his mouth.
After some slight hesitation, Saber -- bound to silence by his Master -- also decided to speak.
"I dare to hope that our next meeting will allow us to do battle to our heart's content."
There was a curious earnestness to his words. The Lancer of the Red, Karna, knew nothing of what was behind Siegfried's brilliant epic. However, something in those ringing words made an impression on him. With a slight nod, Lancer showed his assent - it was also what he himself secretly wanted, after all.
To call it a promise or oath would be an overstatement. Both understood and saw the other as an enemy Servant. But that was all the more reason for them to share this feeling.
"I must say... luck has been on my side. I am grateful from the bottom of my heart that the first of my battles was with you, Saber of the Black."
Words of approval from Lancer were beyond any prize. Between them was the bond that existed between warriors - an almost innocent, adolescent hope that each would only be felled by the other's arm.
"Farewell, Saber."
"..."
Saber saw him off without a word. Abruptly, Lancer turned into Spirit Form and disappeared. The sky began to turn a light violet, signalling daybreak.
"...A splendid battle. As one would expect from the greatest hero of Germany."
Saber nodded quietly to Ruler's praise.
Gordes was glaring at Saber for momentarily speaking on his own accord, but pulled himself together and turned to face Ruler once again.
"O Ruler, would you come with us now? If you wish to continue surveying the war in Trifas, I can assure you that the Fortress of Millennia will be most welcoming of a guest such as - "
"I must decline. That would go against my impartiality. You need not worry for me - my powers of detection are many, many times beyond a normal Servant. I will be able to make my own way to any battle occurring within Trifas."
Ruler curtly refused. This Great Holy Grail War was an unprecedented clash of two forces - under no circumstances should she appear to support one side.
"...We're leaving, Saber."
It was clear from the unhappiness in Gordes' tone of voice that it was his objective from the start to secure Ruler, but his plans were thrown into chaos by Lancer. And even if his Saber could forcibly restrain Ruler, he was out of time. Gordes was a magus, after all. He would never be so foolish as to fight with a Servant in broad daylight.
With Saber in Spirit Form, Gordes turned his back on Ruler - his shoulders trembling in shame.
With Gordes gone, Ruler once again looked upon the traces of destruction wrought by the two men. There was no sense, no order and no direction in the destruction - proof that it was not caused by malicious intent, but was simply the aftermath of the duel proper. Yes... the cloven highway sign and the crater in the ground, looking like the impact of a meteorite, came about simply from the shock waves of the battle.
Thansk goodness this wasn't a bridge, Ruler thought. It would have buckled under them and they might have brought it down completely. It would not kill a Servant, but the reconstruction would require a very long time. That would be rather regretful.
In any case, the battle between the Saber of the Black and the Lancer of the Red had come to a draw. Neither had suffered a severe wound or expended a great amount of energy. It was only a scuffle - nothing more than a skirmish.
And yet a simple skirmish had led to such a scene.
From now on, the war will only intensify, and some Servants and Masters will likely attempt to break out from the framework. Was that what she - Servant Ruler, Jeanne d'Arc - had been summoned to watch out for?
Unsure, she could neither deny the possibility nor believe in it completely. Rumblings from within told her that something was amiss in this 'Great Holy Grail War'.
"...It's no help thinking about it now. I can only try my best."
Ruler told herself, tightening her fists. Then, feeling somewhat embarrassed to be standing in full battle dress in the morning light, she hurriedly released the magically woven armor and changed back to her normal clothes.
Under the faintly violet sky, the girl returned to the road, picked up her bag and began walking slowly towards Trifas.
---
Chapter 3-5
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They are all calling out to me.
It hurts... Save us... from the pain...
Their cries were all, more or less, repeating these three things - but what they lacked in variety, they made up for in sheer volume. Their wordless calls for salvation, their screams telling of agony and hardship - they were the voices of the powerless, sobbing in fear of death, crushed and overwhelmed by their own fate.
No... they are not calling for me, he thought. They are simply crying out - and he can hear it all.
That was the true tragedy. If they were imploring someone to be their saviour, then they at least still had hope in their own deliverance. But they simply cried out, with no one to answer them... their voices melting away into silence.
Then, what does that make of me...?
And so, he awoke from his dream. He opened his eyes and looked at his own body. Yes... it was nothing more than a dream; his small hands cannot hold a sword, and his first-class Magic Circuits threatened to rip apart own his body if he attempted to use thaumaturgy.
He has no power to save anyone. No power to take another's hand. Because he is only a homunculus, born a few months ago. He was born to be a battery providing prana to Servants, after which he was meant to die.
Who were the ones calling out to him, though? Was it the girl on his right? The man on his left? Or those on the other side who cannot take human form?
But whoever it was from, there is nothing he can do. The knowledge that the Holy Grail granted him allows him to understand just what an important role he - and they - will play.
There is essentially only one thing required by Servants to actualize in this world: prana. So in practice, the strongest Servant is the one with the greatest quantity of prana.
No matter how powerful a Servant's Noble Phantasm may be, without enough prana, they risk their own annihiliation by calling its true name and awakening it.
On the other hand, while a Noble Phantasm with a lower cost may logically be weaker, it can be used repeatedly without prana concerns. Compared with a gun that only chambers and fires one shot, a bow that can always replenish its supply of arrows is clearly more advantageous.
Thus, the more prana the Master possesses, the greater an advantage they hold. That is where the Yggdmille
nnia managed to turn the tables on their enemies.
Their idea was simple, and brutal: use the prana of a third party, wringing out every drop until they are reduced to a corpse. They did not use normal humans for this purpose - not for any ethical reasons, of course - but simply because that would make it harder to conceal... just as it would be difficult to gather the sufficient number of magi to sacrifice. But who would grieve for a humunculus? They cost money and effort, but little besides.