Like Gong Gong angrily crashing into Mount Buzhou, the pillars of heaven shattered, the bonds of earth snapped, and fragments of wooden stakes drifted down like solemn black snow across the land.
"What kind of ability… is that?"
His Noble Phantasm destroyed, the Voivode of Wallachia looked up at the sky, witnessing the apocalyptic scene before him, unable to conceal the shock in his heart.
Facing Sakatsuki's "Nine Lives," Vlad III's fear was only natural.
He would never underestimate the heroes of the world, especially this powerful and mysterious young man. Yet before this, even if Sakatsuki had displayed martial arts that reached the realm of the gods, Vlad III believed he would not have lost his composure—at most, he would have offered a calm word of admiration before activating his own Noble Phantasm, fighting with all his might to seize victory from his enemy.
And the source of Vlad III's composure and confidence lay precisely in his Noble Phantasm—Kazikli Bey.
When combined with his innate skill, "Demonic Defender of the State," Kazikli Bey could manifest anywhere within Romania, with an attack range spanning a radius of one kilometer and a maximum of twenty thousand stakes—each capable of stacking damage. If Vlad III truly unleashed his power, any enemy foolish enough to step foot on his territory would instantly suffer the punishment of impalement.
The key point was this: within Romania, on the battlefield, Vlad III's stakes should have been infinite—even if broken, they could regenerate endlessly!
Even if the Red Faction used magical artillery to destroy the massive stakes, they would quickly regrow. Even if the Red Faction deployed Noble Phantasms to blast them to pieces, the stakes would swiftly reform, reassembling themselves to charge toward the Red Faction's fortress in unison.
Unless a force capable of annihilating the stakes completely in an instant descended upon them, the Red Faction would have no way to resist his full-powered assault!
Yet Vlad III, holding such convictions, found himself brutally proven wrong once again by Sakatsuki's actions.
There was no grand incantation, no dazzling display—just nine simple, unadorned slashes delivered in an instant. Yet in that moment, thousands of Vlad III's stakes were obliterated, and even the Noble Phantasm's wielder, Vlad III himself, completely lost all connection to them!
This was not mere destruction—it was a fundamental undermining of Vlad III's very foundation as a Heroic Spirit. After all, Kazikli Bey's stakes were not infinite—there were exactly twenty thousand of them. Though that number seemed vast, Sakatsuki's single strike had reduced them by a quarter!
"Archer, as a sage who also lived in the age of Greece… do you know why Nine Lives is capable of such a feat?"
With deep unease weighing on his mind, Vlad III spoke to Chiron, who stood ready atop the fortress. Yet even the wise and knowledgeable centaur, the teacher of Heracles himself, could only offer a negative answer:
"If this were Heracles' Nine Lives, it would never possess such power. My lord, if what you say is true, then that young man is a grave danger to you. You must not face him in direct combat!"
Chiron was right. If Vlad III and Sakatsuki became locked in combat, every strike from Sakatsuki would inflict semi-permanent weakening effects on him—an absolutely fatal option for the Holy Grail War.
Could it be that retreating to the rear was the only choice?
Vlad III clenched his teeth in frustration, while Chiron, as if having noticed something, abruptly ended their telepathic communication.
"Please reconsider, Lord King. I too must face my own enemy now!"
Chiron's words snapped Vlad III back to reality. Only then did he notice that following Sakatsuki's dazzling slash, a green-haired warrior had charged into the ranks of the Black Faction's homunculi and golems, laughing heartily as he rode his chariot!
"Come, Servants of the Black Faction! Show us your strength! If any of you can stop this Rider's chariot, then by all means, try!"
Such a carefree, booming laugh—this man who became the wind itself, leaving bloodshed and slaughter in his wake, was none other than Achilles. The great hero of the Trojan War, renowned for his invincible might and immortality!
Under the Black Faction Servants' commands, homunculi and golems alike blocked his path. But whether it was the combat-specialized homunculi or the one-ton golems, none could withstand the divine steeds bestowed by the sea god. They were instantly crushed to dust.
Emerald battle aura burned like flames, mingling with the scent of the world and the stench of blood. A massive meat grinder carved through earth and sky at bullet-like speeds. Just by racing across the ground, the Red Rider's chariot could trample the entire battlefield—much like his own meteoric life. Facing the swarming homunculi and golems, he roared with undiminished ferocity:
"How could you lot ever hope to be my opponents!"
The response to his provocation came not from a Servant, but from the golems.
Three golems stepped directly into the path of the charging chariot. Faced with such suicidal obstacles, the Red Rider naturally chose to crush them into pieces.
"Out of my way, you worthless grunts!"
Hearing his words, the Black Caster Avicebron, observing the battlefield from afar, replied:
"Then how about this, Red Rider?"
At the moment of collision, the three golems suddenly dispersed. To the Rider's astonishment, they wrapped around the legs of his steeds and abruptly hardened—the same trick that had once trapped the Red Berserker, now halting the enemy's chariot.
"Damn it...!"
The chariot, which had been charging forward relentlessly, finally came to a stop. Seeing this, the homunculi raised their battle axes and leaped at the chariot in unison.
"Enough of your cheap tricks!"
Enraged, Achilles flung aside the reins, gripped his beloved spear, and leaped from the chariot, sweeping his weapon in a wide arc!
The clash lasted but an instant. In that fleeting moment, the violent spear strikes claimed the lives of every homunculus without exception. Fountains of blood rained down upon the earth like a storm, staining the hero's retreating figure crimson.
"An opening!"
Focused on repelling the enemy, Achilles failed to notice a Servant observing his every move from afar. Seizing the momentary lull in his assault, the watcher unhesitatingly drew back their bowstring.
Achilles' body instinctively reacted to the murderous intent surging toward him, but the blood of the homunculi obstructed his vision.
Like threading through corpses, the arrow shot viciously toward Rider's neck. Though his reaction was delayed by a split second, Achilles managed to turn his head at the last possible instant to narrowly evade the projectile—a feat made possible only by his Rider-class agility. Yet he couldn't completely dodge it; the arrow grazed past his neck, altering its trajectory.
With a sharp hiss, crimson blood dripped down. Being wounded—this surprise brought Achilles not humiliation, but exhilaration.
Ah, his blood was aflame, his mind dizzy with excitement. The scene before him felt both familiar and strange, as if he had returned to the battlefields of Troy, to those days of frenzied combat against Hector and Penthesilea.
Apart from Assassin, here stood another among Black Faction's Servants capable of wounding him, of making him feel death's chilling touch once more. Their name was—
"Archer! Where is Black's Archer?!" Standing majestically at the chariot's helm, Rider bellowed with commanding presence. "Our unfinished contest from before—let us resume it now! You shall replace Assassin tonight as my worthy opponent for a glorious slaughter!"