After the black dragon absorbed the power of the island of Great Britain, its once small body began to glow, stretching and expanding within the light. Long white hair brushed across Aslan's cheek, while golden eyes shimmered with tenderness. If not for the urgency of the battle, Aslan might have given in to his impulse to claim the girl right then and there.
Instead, he patted her head, spread his arms, and began to fall from the sky. Mid-descent, the girl's body shifted again—her dragon tail unfurled behind her, and a dark sheen spread across her limbs, harder than forged steel.
At last, a pair of black wings spread wide. Melusine caught Aslan and carried him swiftly toward Mount Ryogu.
Of course, a battle against the Evil of this World could not be entrusted to Aslan alone while others stood idle. Artoria and Balin fought fiercely, carving through puppet soldiers born of the mud.
Lancelot, though still consumed by madness, had shifted his obsession. His self-loathing, once fixated on punishment from his king, had been replaced by the desperate longing to see his beloved daughter. Because of this, he was able to suppress his fury just enough to avoid striking at Artoria directly. Now, he rained bullets from the weapons Irisviel had provided, his rampage directed outward.
For the larger struggle, however, the burden fell on his Master, Kariya. His body, half rotted by the Crest Worms, had been warped into something resembling a magus. Every time Lancelot unleashed his full might, Kariya's dwindling life was consumed. His vitality burned away like candle wax.
No one—not even Kariya himself—was willing to let Berserker rampage recklessly, as he had on the first night. Not when his death would mean both his own failure and the end of Sakura's faint hope of salvation.
Unless Kariya chose to throw away his life entirely, then—and only then—could the Holy Grail consume him as fuel for a Heroic Spirit.
Balin, wielding the Holy Lance, struck down a puppet soldier. But suddenly a black chain lashed out from the mud, coiling tightly around his legs. He swung the spear to sever it, only for a second chain to burst forth and wrap around the shaft of the Lance itself.
Balin was a knight most skilled with the sword. Summoned as a Swordsman, he had never possessed a Noble Phantasm as destructive as the Holy Lance. With a blade in hand, no chain could have ensnared him like this.
"Tch!"
He thrust the Lance into the earth. If dragged into the mud, at least it would not be corrupted—its sanctity would hold. Reaching for the knight's sword at his waist, he prepared to cut himself free.
But before he could swing, steel clashed against steel. A puppet Assassin lunged, dagger flashing. Balin had never imagined that these mud-born husks, usually mindless berserkers, could mimic an assassin's true craft.
The chains pulled tighter, dragging him down. Above, the puppet Conqueror King swooped from his chariot. Lancelot fired his machine gun to intercept, but the puppet sacrificed its chariot as a shield, leapt clear, and thrust its blade toward Balin's chest—
Bang!!
The sound was like bone shattering under an anvil. A massive forging hammer slammed down before Balin, crushing the puppet's skull before snapping back into Aslan's hand.
Touching his chin, Aslan remarked dryly, "It seems the Conqueror's head isn't as hard as I thought. Or perhaps the real one is sturdier?"
Balin cleaved the chains at his feet and glanced at him. Aslan still wore modern, fashionable clothes, and the aura radiating from him was distinct from his Servant self. Realization struck.
"Aslan… you're pretending not to know me!"
Aslan only smiled.
A puppet Assassin lunged from behind, but before it could strike, a divine light pierced its skull—Merlin's power raining down from above.
Aslan flicked his fingers, and the Holy Spear with its flag reformed in his grasp. He swung it in a wide arc, the wind carrying the sacred banner's glow. Its holy light washed over the battlefield, healing his allies. A puppet Conqueror was bisected cleanly by the gleaming spear.
Then a black chain shot out, coiling around Aslan's arm. Malice surged along it, trying to drag him into the abyss.
He looked down at the chain and smirked. "If someone's offering me mana, it would be rude not to accept."
Negative energy poured into him. Aslan drove the spear into the ground, produced a small bottle, and took a slow sip of the black "island happy water."
In the next instant, the aura around him shifted. Holy light dimmed, turning into a shadowed radiance. His golden hair dulled, losing its sheen. The ahoge atop his head vanished. His sky-blue eyes burned gold, dragon scales etched across his neck.
Beneath his hair, horns unfurled, curving like obsidian crowns. His nails sharpened into claws. He turned to a puppet, seized it by the neck, and crushed it with a single squeeze. Bones cracked under his grip.
"Really? You're not even qualified to be my nail clipper."
-End Chapter-
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