Even when manifested in human form, Servants are fundamentally different from ordinary humans.
Mana is their lifeblood—the more they consume, the closer they draw to death.
Such is the nature of a Servant: to burn through their existence in seven days, leaving behind another vivid stroke in the annals of the present world.
Unfortunately, Atalanta had no time for such melancholic reflections. Her aesthetics lay solely in pursuit and the hunt. The reason she expended mana to unleash her Noble Phantasm once more was simply to escape Vlad III's cage.
Having activated her Noble Phantasm twice in succession, she could already feel her Master's mana supply dwindling. Unlike the Black Faction, which had homunculus batteries to sustain them, the Red Faction's Masters—even if they devoted themselves entirely to mana provision within their chambers—had finite reserves.
Her remorse for her Master lasted only a fleeting moment. Calculating the extent of her diminished strength, Atalanta continued to recklessly expend mana, evading the relentless barrage of stakes as she raced toward another battlefield.
"Where do you think you're fleeing, Red Archer? As both heathens and invaders, you and yours shall not escape my judgment!"
Avicebron's iron steed proved its worth. Driven by Vlad III, it galloped forth, chasing the distant emerald figure. Meanwhile, the "Demon King" who ruled this land manipulated his stakes, hindering Atalanta's advance at every turn.
—A hero had retreated before him.
This fact invigorated Vlad III. Throughout the war thus far, he had been forced into a disadvantage by Sakatsuki's relentless pressure. Even one as proud and ruthless as he would, in the depths of night, question himself:
Do I have the right to lead the Black Faction?
Can I truly protect Wallachia from these invaders?
Can I... atone for the regrets of my past life?
Today's battle had answered those doubts. The epic of the Voivode of Wallachia had not been forgotten by history—it had been passed down through generations, crystallizing into a miracle capable of triumphing even over heroes of the Age of Gods.
Ah, this was the strength granted to me by my people, by the life I lived—
His heart swelled with fervor, and he could not bear to remain silent.
Once more, Vlad III spoke, his voice deep and resonant:
"Cease your flight, Red Archer. If you face me with the dignity befitting a hero, I shall not withhold the mourning rites you deserve upon your death."
"I refuse. Having been granted a second life, I have no intention of dying by torture."
Atalanta's rejection was immediate. Only then did Vlad III realize they had stumbled into another battlefield—strewn with the corpses of homunculi and golems. Even Avicebron's iron steed struggled to navigate the carnage, forced to trample through the wreckage, scattering obstacles in its path as blood splattered across its form.
"Damn you... Is this your plan, Red Archer? To defile my vestments with this inferior blood?!"
Vlad III raised his hand in fury, and an endless barrage of stakes shot forth like a massive sweeping palm, clearing away the piled 'trash' before him as he roared at the nimble huntress.
"Do you believe such methods could force my retreat? On the contrary, this insult and contempt can only be repaid with blood!"
With the Wallachian Lord's wrath, the ground shattered instantly. Amidst deafening roars, a turbid surge erupted across the parched earth.
Stakes—countless sharp stakes!
Like a dark tide that would terrify even hunters, the stakes pierced through trees, corpses, blood, and space itself, howling toward the stunned Atalanta.
This was a murky wave that even the swift feet that crossed Arcadia couldn't outrun—a bloody fury destined to catch its prey!
"To think he'd be this unreasonable!"
Atalanta had no idea Vlad III would fly into such a rage over filth. Caught off guard, she could only leap high to evade the first wave of stakes. But under the Lord's control, the surging tide of stakes abruptly rose, bearing down on the airborne and immobilized "Tama-Cat."
"Ugh!"
With no way to dodge, she could only swallow the bitter fruit of her miscalculation. Closing her eyes, Atalanta braced for the piercing punishment. Yet, at the last moment, someone wrapped an arm around her slender waist while his right hand stretched past her delicate face, letting her easily see the blue magical circuits glowing along his arm.
"Trace, on!"
A shield of pink petals filled Atalanta's vision. Five petals unfurled gracefully—seemingly fragile, yet they held back the storm.
Amidst the screeching of stakes, the young man glanced back, boldly turning his back to the deathly surge as he gently smoothed the furrow between Atalanta's brows.
"It's alright. I'm here."
Strangely, though the hair-raising sense of danger hadn't faded, Atalanta relaxed the moment she saw Sakatsuki—like a cat returning to its nest. Her tail swayed slightly as she lowered her head meekly and quietly responded.
"...Mm."
Crack, crack.
Petals from the Rho Aias fell one after another, the near-breaking sound almost mocking its owner for shamelessly flirting in such a dire moment.
Five petals weren't the complete form—it couldn't hold back the attacks, damn it!
But for Sakatsuki, defense had never been part of his considerations. The only reason he deployed it was to set up a better offense.
Revolver in hand, his iridescent blue eyes reflected the chaotic lines of death among the tangled stakes. As the petal shield shattered with a mournful cry, fragments of stakes grazed his cheeks, drawing thin lines of blood. Yet his gaze remained sharp as he pulled the trigger, unleashing a torrent of bullets!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The hammer struck, gunpowder ignited, and crimson light illuminated the deep night. Like a snake struck at its weak point, the stakes receded like a tide, revealing Vlad III's barely contained fury and wariness. But Sakatsuki acted as if he hadn't noticed, continuing his conversation with Atalanta.
"You alright?"
"Mm, unharmed. I can still fight."
"It's good that you're alright, but this was a special circumstance. I can't promise to protect you every time, so you should still be careful in the future."
"Mm, okay." In this simple exchange, Atalanta's brows relaxed, and a faint smile appeared at the corners of her lips.
Neither charging at the enemy with a battle cry nor pounding his chest in some macho display of protection... In the age of Greece, such a good man was truly rare.
While Sakatsuki and Atalanta were talking, Vlad III also snapped back to his senses, murmuring gravely:
"So this is the reason you fled, Red Archer..."
In the end, he had still encountered the enemy he least wanted to face.
But what about Rider? Why hadn't he appeared? Had he fled the battlefield?
"Waaahhh, Lord Vlad, you finally came to save me!"
Speak of the devil—a handsome knight riding a phantom beast arrived from the horizon, covered in dust and grime. The moment he saw Vlad III, he burst into tears and threw himself at him, smearing dirt and blood all over his exquisite robes.
"Let me tell you, Sakatsuki was really scary! And that Berserker too—I couldn't even get close to their fight! Then Sakatsuki got smashed into the ground by Spartacus... Waaahhh QAQ, I was so scared I had to summon my Hippogriff!"
"You—Rider! What exactly happened?! What became of Red Berserker? Explain yourself... No, first let go of me, let go!"
"Ah!" Astolfo suddenly remembered something and cheerfully released Vlad III, hopping back onto his Hippogriff. He barely had time to leave one last warning before fleeing.
"Lord Vlad, watch your step!"
"Wha—"
Before Vlad III could react, violent tremors erupted beneath his feet. The earth split open, grass was torn apart, and amid the upheaval, a massive monster with bluish-white muscles broke free from its restraints, bursting forth from the prison of the earth.
"Ahahahaha! This is rebellion!"
And, as luck would have it, Vlad III was standing right on top of the enormous creature's head!
Once again, the Lord found himself victimized—ah, what a tragic symphony of misfortune, where in this world could he find a kindred spirit?