"Hmm? What are you staring at, you mad dog?"
Gilgamesh, still perched high on the lamp post, looked down at the Berserker who was gazing up at her.
This Servant—now manifested under the Berserker class—was none other than the Black Knight of the Lake: Lancelot. Stripped of reason and sanity, he followed the will of his Master… and that Master had directed his wrath straight at the Servant of Tohsaka Tokiomi.
"Watch, Tokiomi… I'll crush your ambition. I'll grind your pride into the dirt!!"
Matou Kariya muttered from the shadows of a dark alley near the port, his voice low and bitter.
"The pain you brought to Sakura and Aoi… I'll make sure you pay for it tenfold!"
"Tear her apart, Berserker!!"
"Raaaugh!!"
The Mad Dog howled. With a single stomp, the ground beneath his feet cracked as he launched himself straight toward Gilgamesh's perch atop the streetlamp.
One punch later, the iron post gave a tortured creak and snapped in two.
Gilgamesh landed calmly, her golden hair fluttering in the night breeze.
The Black Knight—Lancelot of the Lake, now Berserker—turned his burning red eyes toward her. Then, he reached down and seized the broken streetlamp. The moment his fingers closed around it, crimson magic veins spread rapidly across its surface.
What was once a mundane steel post had, in an instant, become a Noble Phantasm.
Knight Does Not Die with Bare Hands—Lancelot's cursed skill.
A senseless beast, yet the first to strike at me…?
Gilgamesh gracefully evaded his downward swing, analyzing with irritation.
Clearly, his Master harbors strong resentment toward me… But I've only just manifested in this war. Which means... Tokiomi, you wretch—you've made me your scapegoat?!
The memory of Tokiomi's pitiful begging last night flashed through her mind. She had humored his ridiculous monkey show with that pitiful Assassin…
Tch. Tokiomi, you are truly a boring, repugnant man.
Berserker's two strikes missed their mark, but Lancelot was no mere brute.
Even in madness, the First Knight of the Round Table retained the finesse granted by Unending Martial Discipline—a terrifying trait. His next set of strikes cornered Gilgamesh, leaving no room to retreat.
Clang!
A golden blade emerged from the Gate of Babylon—Gilgamesh barely parried the blow from Berserker's weaponized streetlamp. The two locked in a fierce struggle. Though she was at a disadvantage due to her class and physique, she managed to forcefully shove him back.
"Flawless technique... If only your sanity remained intact, I might've praised you. But alas—what a waste," she murmured, watching the Mad Dog howl to the sky like a beast denied its prey.
Lancelot's frenzy intensified. He swung the glowing streetlamp like a halberd, its power distorting the air itself. And yet—
To everyone's astonishment, Gilgamesh held her ground.
Though she was gradually being overpowered, her movements—graceful yet lethal—allowed her to match Lancelot in this deadly close-range dance. Her sword clashed with the berserk weapon again and again, neither side giving way.
"Is she… really an Archer?"
Waver, who had finally regained control of his body, couldn't help but blurt it out.
"To think she could fight a Berserker like that up close…"
"Are you really an Archer?"
Meanwhile, more than two kilometers away—atop a high-rise building—someone else said the exact same thing with a wry smile.
There stood a red-clad man with snow-white hair—Arash the Hero, bow in hand.
"I most certainly am," Arash answered with a grin, swinging his crimson longbow with overwhelming force.
The bow slammed into the floor like a warhammer, cracking the entire rooftop.
A flash of silver danced away—Emiya Shirou, Saber-class in this war, dodging deftly.
"I'm not seeing it," Shirou retorted, eyeing the gaping hole in the floor.
The two had run into each other roughly ten minutes ago, just as Rider arrived at the port.
Arash had been lying in wait, preparing to offer long-range support. According to Kiritsugu's calculations, the Archers in this war were Shirou and the infamous Golden King. With the latter now confirmed at the docks, no one should have been on this rooftop.
No one except Shirou.
Neither had expected a melee-loving Saber or a bow-wielding powerhouse to show up in their respective places of advantage. And so—
They threw hands.
Arash had the passive skill Robust, which in game terms boosted resistance and defense. But in real-world terms? It meant he was absurdly strong.
So now, a very confused Saber and a very exasperated Archer were locked in a brawl involving a bow used like a club and twin swords that looked suspiciously like kitchen knives.
It ended, unsurprisingly, in a stalemate.
Hey, Faker! Where the hell is my ranged support?!
The Golden King's furious voice rang out from afar.
Shirou sighed and answered telepathically.
I tried. But I ran into another Archer up here. We're kind of stuck...
You pathetic mongrel! You're a Saber and you can't even beat an Archer in melee?!
Yeah, well, I'm not proud of it. But King of Heroes, aren't you currently fighting a Berserker toe-to-toe as an Archer?
You insolent cur! You think all Archers are like me?! There is only one Gilgamesh! Do you think I'd reveal my true arsenal in front of that oaf of a Rider?!
This guy's a tanned-skinned archer swinging a bow like a club. It's giving real Saber vibes, you know?
Trash! You're all useless trash!!
Gilgamesh roared, unleashing her fury upon Berserker. Her golden sword blurred as she hacked and slashed with terrifying precision—just enough to push him back.
Clang!
At last, the glowing streetlamp cracked in half, unable to withstand the relentless blows.
Even weaponized as a Noble Phantasm, its origins were humble.
Lancelot arched back in an iron bridge, dodging the next slash by a hair's breadth. Then—clap!—his palms snapped together, seizing the blade mid-air.
Empty-Handed Blade Catch—another terrifying aspect of his cursed skill.
The red markings crept up the sword, infecting it with magic. Gilgamesh's eyes narrowed.
With a sharp hum, she channeled mana—and detonated the sword in her hand.
Boom!
The explosion flung Berserker away. His charred form tumbled across the ground, scraping to a halt dozens of meters away.
Gilgamesh raised her hand.
Golden ripples shimmered behind her, countless Noble Phantasms glinting in the starlight.
"What the—?!"
Even the spectators, who had been watching from the sidelines, stared in disbelief.
"Die, mongrel!"
She prepared to fire.
But just then—a distant Command Seal pulsed in the air.
She clicked her tongue and lowered her arm.
"Tokiomi!!"
Her form shimmered—and vanished into golden particles.
"…Seems her Master lacks her courage," Iskandar muttered with regret.
"…Gil…" murmured a figure beside Kayneth, his voice barely audible, eyes lingering on the fading glow where the Golden King once stood.
Just as the crowd was caught somewhere between amazement and regret, several blinding spotlights suddenly blazed on, illuminating the top of the highest shipping container.
Bathed in the radiance, three figures stood dramatically revealed—Nero in her signature eyepatch, Elizabeth also sporting an eyepatch and a mic in hand, and finally, Dracula himself, eyes hidden, fingers poised over an electric guitar.
"Hey, heroes! Cease your meaningless brawling, and lend your ears to the celestial voices of me and my partners!" Nero called out, her tone imperious and theatrical.
"We're the hottest new idol group on the scene—Golden Dragon!" Elizabeth declared, waving her mic in a dazzling arc.
Dracula strummed a few notes, glanced down at the dumbfounded crowd, thought for a moment, then asked with a raised brow:
"Excuse me... where is Miss Gilgamesh?"