Under a moonlit sky with scattered stars, the Red Faction's Hanging Gardens floated midair while the Black Faction's fortress stood firmly on the earth, like two colossal beasts locked in silent confrontation. Beneath their gaze, heroes galloped across the battlefield with abandon, etching their lives and brilliance into each other's eyes.
Yet this was no arena with rules of turn-taking. Flames danced with demonic energy, sword gleams clashed with radiant arrows, and amidst the dazzling interplay of light and shadow—beyond what mortals could fathom—even the battle cries of golems, skeleton warriors, and homunculi became insignificant.
And no matter where the battlefield lay, none could ignore the thunderous roars echoing from one particular direction.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
It was as if a giant, bare-chested, hammered upon war drums. The sound was overwhelming, deafening, and not fleeting—instead, it rose wave after wave, crescendoing into an unbroken tide akin to the surging Qiantang River!
Had anyone torn their gaze from the carnage to seek the source, they would have seen a deathly gray-skinned behemoth laughing maniacally as he clashed violently with a tall, black-robed young man.
The gladiator's sword had already been shattered by savage fists and demonic eyes, yet Spartacus never relied on external weapons—only his indomitable spirit and the muscles and fists forged through suffering!
A gladiator, by nature, was one who focused solely on killing their opponent by any means necessary. Their swords, their fists, their roars—even their howls—were all weapons to slay the enemy!
Crash!
A demonic fist, no less ferocious than the gladiator's own, struck his arm. The muscle group, which even a lion's fangs could not rend, instantly swelled with a sickening, overripe-persimmon hue before bursting with a wet splatter. Yet before the blood could even bubble forth, his vessels and cells rapidly regenerated, forming even denser, more swollen muscle.
Contrasting the agony of his mangled arm was the ever-growing grin on Spartacus' face.
"Hah! I'll return this pleasure... twofold!"
Like a several-ton iron rod crashing down, the mere sound of the wind splitting was enough to chill the bones. The black-robed youth stood entirely within the shadow of that descending arm—yet instead of dodging, he twisted his torso and unleashed another cannon-like punch, utterly disregarding the overwhelming difference in size.
It should have been like an egg striking a rock—yet what shattered was not the egg, but the rock! The colossal arm, falling with the force of ten thousand jun, was the one that broke!
The unexpected outcome stunned all who witnessed it. The black-robed youth remained unharmed, his robes untouched—how could such terrifying power erupt from such a slender frame?
Channeling the force into the earth, Sakatsuki exhaled a long stream of white breath as fissures spiderwebbed across the ground. The burning pain in his organs made him grumble once more about the loss of his Dragon's Core.
In contrast, Spartacus fared far worse. His increasingly inhuman form staggered uncontrollably, his regenerating arm throwing off his balance until the gladiator collapsed. Yet far from frustration, the man only grinned wider, his joy uncontainable.
"Ha ha ha ha... I am indomitable, rebellion is indomitable! Moreover, nothing gives me greater pleasure than being the shield of the weak!"
Spartacus, the gladiator of ancient Rome, led the slave revolt known as the Spartacus Rebellion. Though his uprising was ultimately crushed, his name was immortalized in history, becoming a symbol of hope for the oppressed.
"You and I are truly destined enemies. I am fated to be the oppressor, while you are obsessed with rebelling against us."
Sakatsuki understood this berserker who was beyond reason. The real Spartacus was long dead. What stood before him now was the embodiment of the gladiator at his most frenzied, a symbol of all defiance and rebellion.
To fight him with all one's might—while the overthrow of tyrants is cause for celebration, the execution of rebels is equally welcomed by kings and schemers alike.
As these thoughts crossed his mind, Sakatsuki suddenly raised his hand. Projection magecraft manifested once more, and a mass of iron formed on his arm, blocking the gleaming golden lance of the mounted knight.
"No way, that actually worked?" The assassin cried out in disbelief, but Sakatsuki had already turned and delivered a swift punch toward Astolfo without hesitation. However, the latter had anticipated this and quickly retreated, evading the sharp gust of wind from the strike.
"Astolfo," Sakatsuki said coldly, eyeing the pink-haired knight. "Even now, you refuse to summon Hippogriff and unleash its True Name?"
"No! I don't know how you found out, but it's just not happening!" Without even a moment's thought, Astolfo flatly rejected Sakatsuki's "advice." "Summoning Hippogriff consumes magical energy! And unleashing its True Name is even worse—I don't want my Master and her kin to bear such a burden!"
Summoning Hippogriff and riding it was one thing. At that stage, the magical energy consumption was minimal, something a single homunculus could easily supply.
The problem lay in invoking its True Name or unleashing its full power. At that point, the energy drain would be equivalent to deploying an A-rank Noble Phantasm at full strength. And it wouldn't stop after a single strike—maintaining Hippogriff's manifested form would continuously drain magical energy, making it an extremely inefficient method.
...Images of drained homunculi flashed through his mind. Then, Astolfo recalled Sieg's small, timid figure and those fearful eyes.
Without hesitation, Astolfo decided to seal away this option. If he didn't want to do it, then he simply wouldn't.
Ah, what a fool. Such a stupid thought. And cowardly, too. Normally, he should have ignored the state of the magical energy reserves and unleashed the True Name. Even Sieg wouldn't blame him for it. Servants were summoned to fight and claim victory, after all—it was only natural they be supplied with the necessary energy.
But Astolfo was that kind of Heroic Spirit. If he didn't want to do something, no amount of persuasion would change his mind.
"I see. It's for Sieg's sake."
"Exactly! So, uh... could you maybe let me off the hook? Ehehe."
"I refuse. How you choose to fight is your business, it has nothing to do with me."
"Eh~ How can you say that~~"
Astolfo cried out in dissatisfaction, while Spartacus beside him suddenly stood up, grabbing Astolfo with his fully healed arm and pulling him behind like a mother hen protecting her chick.
"No more words, weak one! Accept my love, my dignity, let me embrace you! My entire existence is meant to protect fragile and precious beings like you!"
In Spartacus' limited mind, Astolfo—who was pathetically weak (relatively speaking) yet fought against suffering and oppression (Sakatsuki: ?) for his mission and duty—might have resembled him and the countless suffering masses.
And precisely because of this, he fearlessly charged at Sakatsuki again and again.
"Oooohhhh!" Spartacus swung his grotesquely swollen arms, which dragged along the ground, lunging at Sakatsuki like a bizarre creature. Behind him, Astolfo stomped his feet in frustration.
"I told you, I'm one of Charlemagne's Twelve Paladins! How could I be weak, you big oaf? I can fight too! But... but still, be careful, you big lug!"
In response, the Berserker roared with laughter. This time, instead of throwing a punch, Sakatsuki drew his pistol, sliding between Spartacus' legs while firing bullets through his jaw, throat, chest, and abdomen.
"Hahahaha! Not enough! Not enough yet, aaaaaaahhhh!"
Flesh regenerated, his body swelling even larger. Even as he struggled to stand, Spartacus staggered forward with mad laughter.
Such a frenzied Berserker would likely never obtain the Holy Grail, no matter in which Holy Grail War he was summoned.
Yet even so, he still smiled as he slaughtered evil. While enduring pain, he sought a path to overturn everything. He was both a masochistic seeker of truth and a destroyer of despair. That was Spartacus' very existence.
Facing such a dangerous human bomb, though Sakatsuki held respect in his heart, he did not hesitate to strike mercilessly, swiftly tearing apart the gladiator's body.
"Come then! Let's see whether I collapse from exhaustion first, or you finally give out and return all the accumulated oppression to this world!"