Almost at the same time as the skull of the hill was blown off, the Supreme Masterpiece high above the clouds began locking onto the budding enemy through magic and drifting dust.
Small, boxlike objects slowly detached from the storage belt around the mecha's waist. As threads of mana linked to them, the boxes began to deform rapidly, their shapes twisting under magical influence. At the same time, special connection devices unfolded across the body of the Supreme Masterpiece.
With the crackle of completed electromagnetic links, a vast array of guns and turrets emerged across its frame. In that instant, the Supreme Masterpiece transformed into a true orbital weapon in the sky.
The thrusters, once shaped like wings, unfolded further and shifted, taking on a butterfly-like form. A mechanical rod extended from its back, tilting the wings until they angled toward the distant sun.
For sustained bombardment, without exhausting mana or overloading the divine core, Aslan had turned to the oldest, most inexhaustible power source: solar energy.
So long as the sun endured, the Supreme Masterpiece could continue. With its own self-repair protocols, the Dragon Soul, and the Heart of God, it could repair damage endlessly. Even if Aslan himself were to fall, the machine could still persist — and perhaps, one day, be recognized as a Heroic Spirit in its own right, like the great mecha of ancient legend.
Nor was the sun its only recourse. Aslan had bound the core of the Fire God into it. If needed, it could descend into the heart of a volcano, feeding off magma and geothermal heat to restore its reserves of power.
Now, all barrels and muzzles aligned with deadly precision, locking onto the enemies scattered across the Ryūdō Temple mountain range. In the next moment, beams of every hue erupted outward — concentrated light, searing lasers, raw magical energy, and heat rays. Fifteen centuries of progress and research were not to be wasted.
The mountainside shook as the black tide was swallowed in a rain of fire.
Kirei, kneeling in pain from his ruined legs, tilted his head back to watch. Skyfire blazed down in ceaseless waves, annihilating every writhing puppet before it could be born. Whenever one threatened to emerge from the black mud, the Supreme Masterpiece's targeting systems would fix on it instantly. A beam of searing power would fall from the heavens, piercing its core before it could draw breath.
For a moment, Kirei thought it must be divine punishment — perhaps the most fitting divine punishment of all. But if that was so… then had he been wrong all along?
His eyes widened as his thoughts raced. Hadn't Aslan just wielded the Holy Lance? He had seen a Holy Banner unfurling from the bladed spear. Among the sons of God recorded in the archives of the Church, there was one named Aslan — a figure tied to the age of King Arthur. Could it be that the man before him and that legend were one and the same?
The realization struck him like a thunderbolt. But it was meaningless. No one else could hear him now. Worse, the Lord's supposed Son stood not at his side, but against him.
Melusine didn't intend to give him more time to think. She had promised to kill the priest, and Melusine never broke her word.
Her black dragon wings spread once more, and she launched forward like a bolt of lightning. The evil mud reacted immediately, concentrating all its mass into a massive jet stream, spewing outward in a desperate attempt to block her path.
But how could the remnant of Albion — the Horizon Dragon — be hindered so easily? Compared to her speed, the gushing tide was laughable. She tore through it, scattering the mud with sheer velocity, and reappeared behind the priest in the blink of an eye.
Raising her weapon, she pressed the point against the back of his skull. "Little man," she hissed, "confess to your Lord!"
Kirei's eyes widened — then a beam of magic seared through his head, boiling his brain to ash. His thoughts ended in that instant.
The colossal, embryo-like mass of evil let out a sound that was neither scream nor wail, something caught between grief and perverse joy. Contradictory emotions poured into a single cry as the monstrous body trembled.
From the writhing mud, a half-giant form began to rise. Its head lifted, mouth opening wide. Inside, a twisted image of Gilgamesh emerged — but this was no arrogant King of Heroes. This was a fractured echo, more madness than majesty.
Unlike the formless puppets, this aberration possessed some measure of true ability. In its hand was a crimson weapon shaped like a cone, radiating the distinct pulse of an EX-class Noble Phantasm.
From its belly, the flesh began to bubble and surge. Bursting outward came countless half-born forms, the images of Hassan of the Hundred Faces, each armed with a different weapon, each ready to repel intruders.
It looked less like a hero and more like some grotesque, weapon-wielding zombie.
Far away, watching through his familiar, Kayneth spilled his coffee all over the carpet. His jaw hung slack.
He had thought the Holy Grail War was nothing but a simple proving ground, an opportunity to gild his reputation. But as he stared at this grotesque nightmare, he wanted nothing more than to go back two weeks in time, seize his younger self by the collar, and beat him senseless.
You fool. You thought this war was a stepping stone? That you could rise through prestige alone?
Do you even understand the disaster you've thrown yourself into? Do you have the slightest idea what it will cost if you die here?
-End Chapter-
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