The gold did not move.
It did not need to.
He stood for a long time after noticing it—long enough for the wind to change direction, long enough for the ache in his body to settle into something dull and constant. The gleam on the horizon remained unchanged, a thin line of certainty cutting across the far edge of the world.
Not approaching.
Not retreating.
Waiting.
He exhaled slowly and turned away.
If it wished to be met, it could wait a little longer.
The ground here was broken but stable, a shallow basin of stone and earth carved out by battles that had ended long before his own began. He chose a place where the rock rose slightly, shielding him from the wind, and lowered himself with care. Every joint protested, every muscle burned, but he did not rush it. Rushing was how mistakes happened. Mistakes were how people died.
He sat.
Then, deliberately, he laid the box in front of him.
Its surface caught no light. It never did. Not because it absorbed it—but because it rejected attention altogether, a thing that existed regardless of whether the world acknowledged it. He rested his hands on his knees instead of opening it again.
Six cards sealed inside.
He did not know what they truly contained.
He did not need to.
Right now, they were quiet. That was enough.
He closed his eyes.
The world did not vanish when he did—if anything, it became sharper. He could feel the wind brush against his skin, could hear distant stone settling, could sense the faint hum of mana flowing through the land like a slow, ancient breath.
And beneath it all—
Steel.
Not summoned.
Not traced.
Present.
It did not clamor for release. It did not press against his mind like it once had, demanding form and function. Instead, it lay beneath his awareness like a foundation—vast, silent, enduring.
Unlimited Blade Works did not open.
It remembered.
His breathing slowed.
Pain receded just enough to be ignored. Not healed—never that—but compartmentalized, pushed aside by something more important. His heartbeat steadied, each pulse grounding him further into himself.
This was different from rest.
This was preparation.
The Archer card stirred faintly against his chest.
Not violently. Not urgently.
It felt… attentive.
He focused on it, not drawing power, not forcing resonance. Just acknowledging its presence. The fractures still ran across its surface—he could feel them like hairline cracks in glass—but they no longer felt unstable. Something had changed since Gluttony fell.
Not repaired.
Recontextualized.
As if the card had accepted that it would not survive what was coming—and was adjusting accordingly.
"Don't get sentimental," he murmured under his breath.
The card, as always, did not answer.
He reached deeper.
Past the structure the card provided.
Past the borrowed instincts and half-remembered techniques.
Down to the place where everything began.
A memory surfaced—not an image, not a voice, but a sensation. Heat against skin. The resistance of metal under strain. The ache in arms that had hammered and folded and sharpened until they shook, not from weakness, but from repetition.
Forging.
Not tracing.
Making.
His fingers twitched slightly.
Steel did not rush to meet them. It waited.
Good.
He opened his eyes.
The sky had darkened subtly, clouds drawing closer together as if pulled by an invisible current. The gold on the horizon was brighter now—not closer, but clearer. Defined. Like a crown glimpsed through fog.
He stood again, more easily this time.
Fatigue was still there. So was pain. But something beneath it had settled into place, locking his posture, aligning his weight. When he straightened his back, it was not forced.
It was correct.
He rolled his shoulders once, testing range of motion. His left arm still burned when he moved it too far, but it responded. Slowly. Reliably.
Enough.
He reached for the box and secured it at his side.
Only then did he look forward again.
The gold pulsed once.
Not like a signal.
Like acknowledgment.
He did not respond.
Instead, he took a step away from the basin, boots crunching softly against gravel, and began to walk—not toward the gleam, but across the ridgeline, choosing higher ground.
If this was to be the end—
Then he would meet it on his terms.
As he moved, something subtle shifted in the air. Not pressure. Not killing intent.
Expectation.
The land ahead felt ordered. Claimed. Every stone seemed placed deliberately, every shadow cast with purpose. It was not oppressive—it was immaculate, intolerant of imperfection.
He felt a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
"So that's how you see the world," he said quietly.
The wind did not answer.
But somewhere, far ahead, something ancient and absolute took note of him moving out of alignment.
And for the first time since this hunt began, the boy felt it clearly—
Not fear.
Not doubt.
But anticipation.
The intermission was over.
The final act had not yet begun—
—but the stage was already being prepared.
The land changed as he climbed.
Not abruptly—there was no clear boundary where one world ended and another began—but with a gradual, unsettling precision. Broken stone gave way to smooth, dark slabs half-buried in the earth, their surfaces etched with faint geometric patterns that caught the light at certain angles. The air felt cleaner here. Thinner. As though imperfection itself had been filtered out.
He slowed.
Every instinct honed by battle urged caution, but this was not the kind of place where ambushes waited. There were no blind corners, no uneven footing, no clutter for concealment. The terrain unfolded openly before him, offering no cover—and needing none.
A king's land, he thought.
Not ruled.
Defined.
He stopped at the crest of the ridge.
Beyond it stretched a vast plain of obsidian-black stone, fractured here and there by veins of gold that ran like frozen lightning across the surface. At its center rose a solitary structure—not a castle, not a fortress, but a platform elevated just enough to dominate the landscape without towering over it.
And there—
He did not step forward.
He did not need to.
The figure stood at the far end of the platform, back turned, gaze fixed on the horizon beyond even this place. Golden armor encased him completely, every plate pristine, every edge sharp enough to draw blood from the light itself. It was ornate without being excessive, regal without being fragile—a warrior's armor worn by someone who had never doubted he deserved it.
Blond hair spilled down his back like molten metal, unmoving despite the wind.
The boy did not approach.
Neither did the figure turn.
Time stretched between them, thin and taut.
So this is Pride.
Not announced.
Not proclaimed.
Simply present.
The boy's grip tightened briefly on the strap of the box at his side before he forced his hand to relax. His heartbeat remained steady, but he could feel something else now—an invisible pressure bearing down on him, not hostile, not even aggressive.
Evaluative.
Like an artifact being examined for flaws.
"You're late," the armored figure said at last.
His voice carried effortlessly across the distance, smooth and resonant, tinged with faint amusement. Not irritation. Certainly not concern.
The boy exhaled through his nose. "You didn't give me a schedule."
A chuckle—soft, refined, entirely unthreatened.
"How quaint," Pride replied. He turned then, finally, golden eyes locking onto the boy with unmistakable clarity. There was no malice in them. No rage.
Only ownership.
"I gave you time," he continued. "More than you deserved."
The boy met his gaze without flinching.
"If you wanted me dead," he said, "you wouldn't have waited."
Pride smiled.
A slow, knowing curve of the lips that spoke of certainty earned long ago. "Correct."
The pressure intensified—not crushing, but clarifying. The boy felt it press against his body, his mind, his very sense of self, testing boundaries, searching for points of collapse.
They did not come.
Instead, steel answered.
Not outwardly.
Internally.
The foundation beneath his awareness settled, countless blades aligning in silent defiance of being measured. Unlimited Blade Works did not expand—but it stood firm.
Pride's eyes narrowed a fraction.
"Oh?" he murmured. "Interesting."
The boy took his first step onto the obsidian plain.
The ground did not resist him. It accepted his weight without a sound.
"I'm not here to entertain you," the boy said evenly. "So say what you want to say."
Pride regarded him for a long moment, then laughed—openly this time, rich with genuine delight.
"Straight to the point," he said. "Very well."
With a casual gesture, golden light rippled behind him.
Space folded.
Portals bloomed into existence like jeweled wounds in the air—countless, overlapping, each one brimming with weapons of every shape and origin. Swords, spears, axes, blades too alien to name, all suspended in perfect, immaculate stillness.
Gate of Babylon.
The boy did not react outwardly, but something in his chest tightened.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"So you see," Pride continued calmly, spreading his arms slightly as if presenting a collection, "this world has always belonged to those who possess it. Strength. Will. Authority. You and the others were never obstacles—merely… resources."
The weapons shifted subtly, responding to his presence like loyal subjects awaiting command.
"You," Pride said, eyes gleaming, "are a particularly rare specimen."
The boy stopped ten paces from the platform.
"I don't belong to anyone," he replied.
Pride tilted his head. "You will."
The air trembled.
Not from released power—but from the promise of it.
The boy inhaled slowly, feeling the Archer card stir in warning, in acceptance. He did not reach for it yet. Not now.
This was still—
Prelude.
He met Pride's gaze, unwavering.
"Then stop waiting," he said.
Pride's smile sharpened.
"At last," the king of treasures replied softly. "Let us see what you are worth."
Behind him, the Gate of Babylon began to rotate.
The first weapon fired without warning.
Gold flared.
A spear tore free from the Gate of Babylon, space cracking as it launched—not thrown, not swung, but declared. It crossed the distance between them in an instant, its tip aimed not for the boy's heart, but his head.
He moved on instinct.
Steel screamed into existence in his right hand—
Kanshou.
He twisted, blade flashing up just enough to deflect the spear's trajectory. The impact sent a shock through his arm that nearly tore it from the socket, boots skidding back several meters across obsidian stone.
The spear did not slow.
It corrected midair and came again.
"—Tch."
Bakuya formed in his left hand, the paired blade crossing Kanshou in a familiar X. The second impact rang like a bell struck by a god, the sound echoing across the plain as both blades bit into the spear's shaft.
The weapon shattered.
Golden fragments dissolved into light before they could hit the ground.
The boy did not exhale in relief.
Because Pride had not moved.
More portals opened.
Not dozens.
Hundreds.
Weapons aligned behind the first, ranks upon ranks of perfected death, all pointed in his direction.
"You recognize them," Pride said calmly, almost conversational. "Every blade you have ever borrowed. Every edge you have ever depended upon."
The boy rolled his shoulders, blood seeping fresh through his bandages as strain mounted. "Then you already know," he replied, breath steady despite the pain, "this won't be quick."
Pride's eyes gleamed.
"So you intend to delay me."
The rain began.
Swords fell like judgment.
The boy vanished in a burst of motion, tracing mid-run—
A longsword here.
A curved blade there.
Twin daggers formed and discarded in the same breath as he deflected, redirected, survived.
Each step forward cost him something.
A sword meant for reach shattered after one clash.
A heavy blade buckled under pressure it was never meant to withstand.
A traced spear snapped the instant it pierced something real.
He did not linger.
He could not.
The Gate of Babylon did not pause to learn—it knew. Every weapon it released carried centuries of refinement, each strike calculated, optimized, perfected.
He slid beneath a descending halberd, traced a short sword and drove it upward to redirect a rain of knives, then twisted hard as a massive axe slammed into the ground where his spine had been a moment earlier.
Stone exploded.
He felt the shockwave in his teeth.
"Still standing," Pride observed. "Impressive."
Another volley.
The boy traced Caladbolg mid-leap.
The spiraled greatsword manifested fully charged, mana screaming as he hurled it—not at Pride, but into the densest cluster of portals. The detonation warped space violently, twisting gold and steel into a collapsing spiral that swallowed dozens of incoming weapons.
For half a second—
The barrage thinned.
The boy landed hard, knees buckling as he skidded across the ground, breath tearing from his lungs. His vision blurred, dark spots blooming at the edges.
Not enough.
Never enough.
Pride raised one hand.
The Gate shifted.
New weapons emerged—older, heavier, angrier. Swords that had ended wars. Spears that had toppled heroes. Artifacts that carried names the boy's mind recoiled from fully processing.
The pressure intensified.
This wasn't combat.
This was a king demonstrating excess.
The boy traced again.
A familiar weight settled into his grasp—
Durandal.
The blade sang as he swung, intercepting a descending greatsword with a clash that sent sparks cascading like a storm of stars. He forced the weapon aside, muscles screaming, then pivoted sharply, using Durandal's unyielding edge to carve a path forward.
Step by step.
Weapon by weapon.
He advanced.
Every blade he had ever used answered him now—not as memories, but as tools. Kanshou and Bakuya returned, spinning through his hands as he wove between attacks. A curved saber flashed out to sever a spear's haft. A broad shield manifested for a heartbeat, shattering as it blocked a rain of daggers that would have turned him into pulp.
Blood soaked his sleeve.
His breathing grew harsher.
The Archer card burned—not violently, but insistently.
Not yet, he told it.
Not yet.
Pride watched the advance with something close to fascination.
"You imitate flawlessly," he said. "Yet you are drowning in what you borrow."
The boy lunged.
A traced blade pierced a portal's edge, destabilizing it just long enough for him to slip through the gap between volleys. He was closer now—close enough to see the fine engravings on Pride's armor, the flawless polish unmarred by battle.
Close enough to feel the difference.
This wasn't like Berserker.
This wasn't brute force.
This was absolute superiority.
A sword descended from above—
He traced Rho Aias.
Petals of light bloomed into a seven-layered shield just in time. The impact detonated against it with catastrophic force, shattering two layers instantly and driving the boy to one knee.
He coughed blood.
The shield dissolved.
Pride's expression sharpened slightly.
"A Noble Phantasm," he noted. "And still you endure."
The boy forced himself upright, legs trembling.
Because he wasn't fighting to win.
He was fighting to finish something.
Inside him, the landscape stirred.
Not yet visible.
But aligning.
Steel remembered steel.
A battlefield of blades pressed closer to the surface of reality, waiting for the words that would let it exist.
Another volley came.
The boy screamed—not in pain, but defiance—as he surged forward into it, tracing and discarding weapons at a frantic pace. His movements lost polish, became raw, desperate, driven by timing rather than elegance.
He slipped.
Recovered.
Bled.
Advanced.
Seconds stretched unbearably long.
Pride finally moved.
He stepped forward.
The pressure doubled.
The Gate of Babylon roared as hundreds of weapons aligned at once, their tips glowing faintly as mana gathered for a single, overwhelming release.
The boy skidded to a stop, chest heaving.
This was it.
He could feel it now—the edge of his reality straining, screaming to be let loose. His bones ached, his nerves burned, but beneath it all was something steady.
A world of swords.
He drew in a breath so deep it hurt.
Steel rose in response.
Not yet formed.
But close.
Very close.
"Still standing," Pride said again, this time with unmistakable approval. "Very well."
The weapons behind him ignited.
The boy raised his head, blood running freely down his chin, eyes burning with resolve.
"Good," he whispered.
Because he finally had enough time.
And the world was ready to break.
The chains came first.
They did not announce themselves with sound.
They asserted themselves.
Gold warped as the Gate of Babylon shifted configuration, portals folding inward instead of outward. From their centers erupted links of divine metal, each segment etched with runes that burned with authority older than kingship.
Enkidu.
The chains did not fly.
They arrived.
The boy felt them wrap around his limbs before he could move—around his wrists, his ankles, his torso. The moment they tightened, his body screamed in protest as mana flow was violently suppressed, joints locking as if the concept of movement itself had been denied.
He slammed into the ground hard enough to crater stone.
"—Gah!"
Blood sprayed from his mouth as his back hit first, breath driven clean from his lungs. The chains tightened further, dragging him spread-eagle across the fractured earth, pinning him with merciless precision.
Not restraint.
Judgment.
Pride stood above him now, golden armor immaculate, eyes cold and assessing.
"These chains bind divinity," Pride said calmly. "You are not divine."
The chains responded.
They constricted.
The boy's vision blurred as pressure crushed down on him from every angle. His ribs groaned. His muscles spasmed uselessly, mana stuttering violently within his circuits like a dying flame.
He tried to trace—
Nothing formed.
The Archer card flared, then dulled, its signal smothered under Enkidu's authority.
Pride raised one hand.
The Gate of Babylon roared open behind him, forming a single, massive portal. From it emerged a sword—long, broad, radiant with overwhelming power.
The air bent.
The boy recognized it instantly.
Not by name.
By fear.
The blade descended.
Reflex alone made him act.
"—Rho… Aias!"
The shield erupted into being in a desperate burst of petals, seven layers flaring into existence between him and annihilation.
The impact was cataclysmic.
The first layer shattered instantly.
The second and third collapsed like glass under a hammer.
By the fourth, the ground beneath the boy fractured violently, fissures racing outward for meters as the force pressed down.
"—Ghh!"
The fifth layer cracked.
The sixth flickered.
The seventh—
Shattered.
Rho Aias collapsed entirely, petals disintegrating into light as the blade finally struck true.
The boy screamed.
Pain unlike anything before tore through him as the shockwave crushed his body into the ground, stone pulverizing beneath him. His bones rang. Something in his shoulder snapped audibly. Blood pooled beneath his back, soaking into the earth.
The chains held.
Pride lowered his arm slowly.
"You endure far longer than expected," he admitted. "But endurance is meaningless."
The boy lay still.
For a heartbeat—
Nothing.
Then—
A laugh.
Low. Broken. Hoarse.
"…Yeah," the boy rasped. "That's… kind of the point."
Pride's eyes narrowed.
The chains trembled.
Not loosening.
Resisting.
The boy's chest rose and fell unevenly as his consciousness dipped—not into darkness, but inward. Past pain. Past fear. Past the desperate calculations of survival.
Into steel.
The world answered.
A pressure built—not outward, but everywhere. The air grew heavy, vibrating faintly as if reality itself were being tuned to a different frequency.
Pride felt it.
"…What are you doing?" he asked.
The boy's lips moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"I am the bone of my sword."
The chains tightened violently in response, reacting to something they did not recognize—something that did not count as divinity, yet carried a weight that rivaled it.
"Steel is my body," he continued, voice growing steadier, resonating strangely with the air itself, "and fire is my blood poured."
Mana surged—not from him alone, but from everywhere. From shattered blades embedded in the battlefield. From weapons long since dissolved. From steel that remembered being wielded.
Pride took a step back.
"I have withstood the pain of forging countless blades," the boy said, eyes snapping open.
They were no longer reflecting the battlefield.
They reflected another world.
"I overcame many battlefields, never once afraid."
The ground cracked beneath him.
Swords began to rise.
Not summoned.
Recognized.
"Never once retreating, nor tasting victory's song," his voice layered over itself now, echoing as if spoken by more than one throat, "all while awaiting a man whose coming felt so long."
The chains strained, links glowing white-hot as they attempted to suppress a reality that was no longer centered on the boy alone.
"Upon a hill of diamond dust, made of swords aligned—"
The sky split.
Red bled through the clouds.
Steel jutted upward from the earth in endless number, blades of every shape and size embedding themselves into the landscape as far as the eye could see.
"Yet he never came," the boy said softly, almost sadly, "though my prayers were confined."
The battlefield was gone.
Replaced.
"My body remained motionless, awaiting still," he continued, rising despite the chains, feet lifting from the ground as if gravity itself had reconsidered its claim, "though his arrival never came, I endured by will."
The chains snapped.
Not broken—
Overwritten.
They fell away as lifeless gold, clattering uselessly to the ground.
Pride stared.
Through all the endless pain," the boy finished, standing fully now upon a hill of swords beneath a crimson sky, "my resolve remains true."
He raised his head.
Steel screamed in answer.
"My body will persist—"
The world locked into place.
"Unlimited Blade Works."
The reality marble completed.
And for the first time—
Pride smiled.
The red sky did not move.
It watched.
Blades stretched to the horizon in every direction—spears half-buried in diamond dust, swords planted upright like grave markers, countless edges humming faintly as if awaiting command. The air carried the scent of iron and heat, a forge without flame.
Pride stood upon that hill of swords as if it were his throne.
Golden portals bloomed behind him in pairs—larger than before, heavier, dragging the air down with their presence. From each emerged a massive blade, twin greatswords of radiant gold, their forms impossibly precise, edges sharp enough that reality itself seemed to shy away.
They were not merely weapons.
They were authority given shape.
The boy felt it instantly—the difference. These were not artifacts meant to be copied, not legends refined by human hands. Their construction resisted understanding, their existence rejecting imitation at the most fundamental level.
Divine constructs.
Pride grasped one in each hand effortlessly, armor gleaming beneath the crimson sky.
"Let us see," he said, voice calm, almost indulgent, "how long your imitation can endure before true originals."
He moved.
The swords came down together.
Not swung—decreed.
The world screamed as the blades carved through space, twin arcs of annihilation racing toward the boy. The force behind them was absolute, crushing, carrying the weight of countless treasures unleashed without restraint.
The boy raised his hands.
Steel answered.
Two greatswords manifested in his grasp—identical in shape, identical in size, forged in an instant from the logic of Unlimited Blade Works.
They met the incoming strike.
And shattered.
Not cracked.
Not deflected.
They collapsed into hollow shells of light the moment they touched Pride's blades, disintegrating like empty molds that had never truly been filled.
The impact hurled the boy backward, boots carving trenches through the sword-strewn ground as he skidded across steel and dust. He barely managed to twist mid-motion, driving one knee into the ground to stop himself before he was thrown clear off the hill.
His arms burned.
Not from impact—but rejection.
"Tch," he hissed, shaking numbness from his fingers.
So that's how it is.
He looked up.
Pride was already advancing.
Golden portals multiplied behind him, dozens opening in layered arcs, each disgorging weapons of every imaginable kind—axes, spears, swords, hammers—each one real, ancient, perfected. They hovered for a heartbeat, aligned with impossible precision.
Then they fired.
The sky became a storm of gold.
The boy inhaled sharply—and stepped forward.
Steel erupted.
Blades surged up from the ground around him in a spiraling wall, swords rising to meet incoming weapons mid-flight. Every projectile Pride unleashed was answered by its reflection—copied, traced, materialized an instant before impact.
Gold met steel.
Explosions rippled through the reality marble as collisions detonated in rapid succession. Sparks flew like falling stars. Shockwaves tore through the hill, blades snapping, reforming, embedding themselves into the ground at wild angles.
The boy moved through it.
Not dodging.
Advancing.
Each step carried him forward as he traced weapon after weapon, hands moving faster than thought—short swords for deflection, spears to redirect, curved blades to intercept at oblique angles. His body became a conduit, motions blurring as muscle memory borrowed from countless lives guided him.
Pride's attack did not slow.
It escalated.
More portals opened.
More weapons fired.
The boy's answer grew sharper.
He copied everything.
Not just the weapons—but the intent behind them. The angles. The trajectories. The timing. Each incoming strike taught him how to counter the next, his movements synchronizing perfectly with the storm.
A lance screamed toward his heart—
—he twisted, tracing its twin and batting it aside mid-flight.
A greatsword descended from above—
—he met it with its mirror, redirecting the force downward and splitting the ground instead.
A hammer meant to pulverize—
—caught, countered, dispersed.
The rhythm built.
Steel rang without pause, a relentless symphony of collision and correction. The boy's breath came steady now, movements fluid, precise. Blood still stained his clothes, but his stance was unwavering.
Pride's eyes narrowed.
"You adapt," he said, tone sharpening. "Again."
The portals doubled.
Weapons poured forth in such volume that the sky itself seemed paved in gold. The boy planted his foot and answered—the ground beneath him erupting as countless swords launched upward, forming a rising tide of steel that met Pride's barrage head-on.
The collision was deafening.
For a moment, nothing existed but force and motion—gold and steel annihilating one another in a chaos that tore at the fabric of the reality marble itself.
Then—
Silence.
The last weapon fell.
The boy stood amid the wreckage, chest rising and falling, swords embedded all around him like the aftermath of a fallen army. His hands were steady. His eyes locked onto Pride without hesitation.
A faint, exhausted grin tugged at his lips.
"I hope," he said, voice carrying clearly across the hill, "you have enough weapons in store left, Pride."
For the first time—
Pride laughed.
Low.
Amused.
"Bold words," he replied, golden portals beginning to form again behind him, brighter than before. "For a man standing on borrowed steel."
The ground trembled as the hill responded, blades humming louder now, as if offended by the claim.
The boy rolled his shoulders once, steel shifting instinctively around him.
"Borrowed?" he said quietly.
His gaze hardened.
"No," he corrected. "This is my world."
And as Pride raised his arm to unleash another deluge, every sword in Unlimited Blade Works angled upward in unison—
Waiting.
The chains screamed.
Not with sound—but with resistance.
Golden links strained and vibrated as the boy moved against them, Enkidu tightening with merciless precision. His muscles tore, bones screaming as he forced motion where none should have existed. Steel beneath his feet rose, embedded swords grinding upward as if responding to a call older than command.
Pride's eyes narrowed.
"So you still resist."
The boy twisted, using the chains as anchors, dragging himself forward through raw refusal. Mana flared violently as a blade forced itself into existence in his bound hand.
Kanshou.
Imperfect. Starved. Barely holding form.
But real.
He swung.
The strike should never have reached.
Yet steel kissed flesh.
The blade scraped across Pride's cheek.
For a heartbeat—
Nothing.
Then a thin line of red surfaced.
Blood.
The battlefield froze.
Golden portals behind Pride shuddered violently, artifacts rattling as if insulted by the impossible. The air thickened, pressure crashing down hard enough to bend the embedded swords around them.
The boy stared.
He had cut him.
Not deeply.
Not decisively.
But undeniably.
Pride lifted a hand slowly, touching his cheek. His fingers came away stained crimson. He looked at them in silence.
Then at the boy.
Something cracked.
"You… forget yourself," Pride said quietly.
The chains snapped taut.
The boy was hurled backward, slamming into the hill of swords as pain detonated through his body. Bones protested. Blood flooded his mouth. He coughed—but did not scream.
Pride stepped forward.
The golden armor flared brighter now, arrogance stripped away and replaced with wrathful authority.
"You forget what stands before you," Pride said.
Behind him—
The gates shifted.
Not expanding.
Not multiplying.
They aligned.
And from one, slowly, deliberately, Pride reached in and withdrew a weapon that dwarfed all others.
Ea.
The Sword of Rupture.
It was grotesque and magnificent—three rotating segments spiraling around a central axis, its form defying the logic of forged steel. The air recoiled from it. Space itself seemed reluctant to remain intact near its presence.
This was not a sword made to cut flesh.
This was a sword made to tear the world open.
The moment Ea fully emerged, the ground cracked. The sky warped, clouds twisting unnaturally as if reality itself were being wound tighter.
The boy felt it instantly.
This was not something to block.
Not something to evade.
This was annihilation.
Pride leveled Ea toward him.
"Hearken."
His voice carried weight beyond sound.
"The heavens split.
The earth returns to chaos.
All that exists is torn asunder—"
Ea began to rotate.
Faster.
Faster.
The pressure crushed downward, snapping remaining swords from the ground, hurling debris skyward. The boy's feet slid backward, stone tearing beneath him as he struggled to remain standing.
"Enuma—"
The world screamed.
The Archer card burned against his chest, fractures widening as if warning him—this will end you.
And then—
He saw it.
Not a copy.
Not a projection.
Something real.
Not the sword in Pride's hand—but the truth beneath it.
A blade that did not rupture space—
—but severed inevitability.
A memory surfaced.
Not his.
Older.
Hands folding steel endlessly. Countless blades reduced to essence. A man who forged not weapons—but conclusions.
The boy planted his feet.
Blood streamed freely now, soaking into the steel beneath him. His body begged him to stop.
He didn't.
"All that I forged, all that I bore," he spoke, voice steady despite the world tearing itself apart,
"Condense into one—the last sword evermore."
The hill of swords answered.
Not rising—
Dissolving.
Blades melted into streams of light and steel, unraveling into raw intent. Thousands upon thousands of weapons collapsed inward, drawn toward the boy's outstretched hand.
"From countless blades," he continued, mana screaming as the Archer card began to sacrifice itself, its structure unraveling,
"I craft the edge of fate."
Steel screamed.
Light collapsed.
The pressure bent reality inward.
Pride's eyes widened.
"That sword—no. You cannot—"
"Muramasa's might," the boy declared, raising the forming blade as the last fragments converged,
"my final state."
The sword completed.
Simple.
Absolute.
Tsukamari Muramasa.
Ea reached full rotation.
"—ELISH!"
The rupture surged forward.
The boy stepped into it.
And swung—
not to break the world—
but to cut through fate itself.
The world did not shatter.
It hesitated.
Ea's rotation reached its apex, the three spiraling segments screaming as they ground against reality itself. Space convulsed, layers of existence peeling back like skin torn from muscle. The air screamed without sound. Light bent inward, stretched thin, reduced to something fragile and wrong.
Enuma Elish was not destruction.
It was regression—the will to return all things to the moment before form, before distinction, before meaning.
And Tsukamari Muramasa stood against it.
The instant the blades met, pressure collapsed inward rather than exploding outward. The battlefield warped violently, the hill of swords bending as if gravity itself had lost confidence in which direction it was meant to pull.
The boy's feet gouged trenches through steel and stone as he was driven backward, heels carving sparks from embedded blades. Blood sprayed freely from his mouth, painting the ground red as his body absorbed force no human structure was meant to endure.
Muscles tore.
Bones screamed.
His vision tunneled, the edges of the world darkening as his heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Yet the blade in his hands did not bend.
Tsukamari Muramasa did not resist Ea by strength.
It resisted it by denial.
It did not oppose the rupture of space.
It severed the assumption that the rupture would succeed.
Pride felt it.
For the first time since his awakening, disbelief flickered across his face.
"That sword—" his voice sharpened, authority cracking like strained metal. "That blade should not exist here."
The golden armor flared violently as Gate of Babylon erupted behind him, portals blooming open in frantic succession. Hundreds—then thousands—of weapons surged forward, divine constructs and legendary arms tearing through the air in a storm of annihilation.
The boy did not turn.
He could not spare the attention.
But steel answered him anyway.
Not individually.
Not consciously.
Every weapon Pride had ever drawn, every artifact he had ever displayed as proof of supremacy, was remembered.
Copies tore themselves into existence around the boy—flawed, imperfect, mortal—but countless. They surged outward like a tidal wave, colliding head-on with the original vault.
The sky tore open.
Steel met steel in a deafening cascade, the impact shredding clouds and splitting the heavens into ragged seams of light and shadow. Artifacts detonated midair, their authority canceled not by power, but by overwhelming contradiction.
"I told you," the boy rasped, blood running freely down his chin as he forced Tsukamari Muramasa forward another inch.
"I hope you have enough weapons left."
Pride snarled.
Ea screamed louder.
The rupture intensified, spiraling outward as reality itself began to unravel. The ground beneath them vanished entirely, replaced by a yawning void as the clash escalated beyond physical law. Fragments of terrain were pulled upward, torn apart, erased mid-motion.
The pressure crushed downward.
The boy's knees buckled.
His arms shook violently, muscles screaming as they threatened to tear from bone. His vision flickered, the world breaking into overlapping afterimages.
Then—
the Archer card screamed.
Not in pain.
In surrender.
The stolen Archer card Pride carried—already strained from forced synchronization—began to fracture violently. Cracks raced across its surface, glowing white-hot as Tsukamari Muramasa drew deeper, consuming the accumulated weight of Unlimited Blade Works itself.
This was not a copy.
This was not projection.
This was conclusion.
The boy felt it.
Unlimited Blade Works was collapsing—not shattering, not dispersing, but folding inward. The endless horizon of swords began to dissolve, each blade unraveling into raw intent, raw memory, raw will.
Not infinite.
Focused.
"I am the bone of my sword," he whispered—not as a chant, not as defiance, but as truth.
Steel dissolved behind him.
The hill of swords vanished.
Unlimited Blade Works condensed into a single line of inevitability.
Tsukamari Muramasa burned.
Not with light.
With finality.
Pride's eyes widened.
"No—" his voice cracked. "That sword forges endings. You would dare—"
Ea reached full rotation.
"—ENUMA ELISH!"
The rupture surged forward in a catastrophic wave, reality folding into itself as the sword of rupture asserted absolute authority.
The boy stepped into it.
And swung.
Not to destroy the world.
Not to overpower a king.
But to cut the path that led here.
Tsukamari Muramasa passed through Enuma Elish.
Ea did not break.
It was overruled.
The rupture split—not torn, not dispersed—but severed cleanly, as if the future it represented had been invalidated mid-existence. Space snapped back violently, the void collapsing inward as Tsukamari Muramasa continued forward.
It cut through Pride's golden armor.
Through authority.
Through inevitability.
Through the stolen Archer card.
The card shattered.
Fragments of light scattered into nothingness, erased before they could even fall.
The Gate of Babylon screamed as portals collapsed, artifacts dissolving into dust mid-materialization. Pride staggered backward, blood pouring freely now, staining gold red as his footing failed him.
The boy fell to one knee.
Tsukamari Muramasa dissolved in his grasp, its purpose fulfilled. His body convulsed violently as the last remnants of Unlimited Blade Works burned away, nerves screaming as borrowed strength abandoned him entirely.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Absolute.
The world trembled, slowly knitting itself back together as gravity returned and the sky reluctantly remembered how to exist.
Pride remained standing.
Barely.
For the first time since his ascension, the King of Pride breathed heavily—one hand pressed against a wound that refused to close. Blood dripped steadily from his fingers, staining the ground beneath him.
"…So," Pride said quietly, eyes burning with something new—something dangerous. "This is the blade that cuts fate."
The boy did not answer.
He could not.
But he was still alive.
And that—
was enough.
Silence did not come gently.
It pressed down like a weight, heavy and suffocating, as though the world itself was unsure whether it was allowed to continue breathing after what had just occurred. The sky hung in tatters—clouds torn into uneven bands, light filtering through fractures that should not exist. The land beneath them was scarred beyond recognition, the battlefield reduced to a wasteland of warped stone, molten steel, and shallow craters that still steamed faintly.
At the center of it all, two figures remained.
One stood.
One knelt.
Pride did not move at first.
He remained upright, golden armor fractured and stained, the once-pristine surface now cracked with jagged lines that pulsed faintly before dimming. Blood ran freely down his side, dark red against gold, dripping steadily onto the broken ground. Each drop struck with a soft, almost obscene sound in the vast quiet.
He looked down at himself slowly.
Not in panic.
Not in disbelief.
In assessment.
"…Interesting," Pride murmured.
His voice was lower now, stripped of its earlier arrogance, resonant with something deeper—something older. The sound carried authority not because it demanded obedience, but because the world had once obeyed it without question.
Across from him, the boy remained on one knee.
His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers digging into shattered stone as if anchoring himself to existence itself. Blood matted his hair, ran freely from his nose and mouth, soaked through his clothes in dark, spreading patterns. His chest heaved violently, each breath dragged in through clenched teeth, sharp enough to make his vision flicker.
Unlimited Blade Works was gone.
Not sealed.
Not dormant.
Gone.
The horizon of endless steel—the place where his mind had always retreated, the forge that had defined him even before he understood it—had collapsed inward and vanished. In its place was something terrifyingly empty.
No echoes.
No waiting blades.
Just silence.
His body knew it before his mind could fully accept it.
Every traced weapon he had ever forced into existence had taken something from him.
This time, it had taken everything.
Pride took a step forward.
The ground cracked beneath his foot.
The sound echoed far louder than it should have, rippling outward across the battlefield. The boy flinched despite himself, muscles screaming in protest as he tried—and failed—to rise.
"So," Pride said calmly, his gaze fixed on the boy. "This is how far you can go."
Another step.
"I will admit," he continued, golden eyes narrowing slightly, "you exceeded expectation."
The Gate of Babylon stirred.
Not fully.
Not explosively.
But faintly—golden portals flickering in and out of existence behind Pride like dying stars. Many failed to stabilize. Some collapsed outright, artifacts disintegrating before they could fully emerge.
Pride noticed.
His jaw tightened.
"You destroyed the Archer card," he said, voice flat. "Not your own. The original."
The boy's head lifted weakly.
His eyes were unfocused, dulled by pain, but there was something steady beneath the exhaustion—something Pride could not crush simply by standing taller.
"It wasn't… yours," the boy rasped.
A thin smile touched Pride's lips.
"No," he agreed. "It belonged to something greater."
He raised his hand slowly.
Golden light gathered, not into a weapon, but into something heavier—something denser. The air bent inward toward his palm, pressure building until the space around his fingers warped visibly.
"But you misunderstand," Pride continued. "You did not take it from me."
The light hardened.
"I allowed it to be consumed."
The pressure detonated outward.
The boy was thrown backward violently, his body slamming into the ground hard enough to shatter stone beneath him. He skidded across the battlefield, leaving a dark smear of blood in his wake before coming to a stop against a jagged outcrop.
His vision went white.
Then black.
Then returned in fragments.
Pride advanced.
Each step felt heavier now, slower—but no less inevitable. His wounds continued to bleed, regeneration lagging, refusing to fully close. Tsukamari Muramasa had not merely cut flesh.
It had cut continuation.
"You have severed many things today," Pride said, voice echoing across the ruins. "Authority. Fate. Possibility."
He stopped a short distance away.
"But you did not sever me."
The boy forced his eyes open.
Pride stood over him, golden armor cracked, bloodied, but still radiant in its own way. Still absolute.
Still standing.
"You are exhausted," Pride said. "Your forge is gone. Your body is ruined. Your future… diminished."
The boy tried to laugh.
It came out as a wet cough instead.
"…You're bleeding," he muttered.
Pride looked down again.
Blood pooled at his feet now, soaking into fractured stone. His armor's glow flickered faintly, unstable, as if something fundamental had been disrupted.
"…Yes," Pride said quietly.
Then his gaze sharpened.
"But I am still a king."
The Gate of Babylon roared.
Not gently.
Not cautiously.
Golden portals erupted into existence behind Pride in overwhelming numbers, far more than before—hundreds upon hundreds, filling the sky in a vast, oppressive constellation. Each gate pulsed with restrained violence, artifacts trembling as if eager to be unleashed.
Swords.
Axes.
Spears.
Chains.
Weapons whose names had been lost to time.
Weapons that had ended eras.
The boy's breath hitched.
Instinct screamed at him to move—to trace, to defend, to do something—
Nothing answered.
No steel rose.
No familiar pull responded to his will.
Unlimited Blade Works was silent.
For the first time since his journey began, he was truly, completely unarmed.
Pride noticed immediately.
His smile widened.
"Ah," he said softly. "There it is."
The gates tilted forward as one.
"You have nothing left."
The boy pressed his palms into the ground, trying to push himself up. His arms shook violently, muscles screaming as they failed him. His body had reached its limit long ago; it was only stubbornness keeping it upright now.
"…I'm still here," he said hoarsely.
Pride laughed.
A deep, resonant sound that echoed across the battlefield like thunder.
"Yes," Pride agreed. "You are."
The gates opened.
Weapons fell like rain.
The sky darkened as steel screamed downward, hundreds of legendary arms descending at impossible speed. The boy braced instinctively, raising one arm as if it might somehow shield him from what was coming.
Then—
The box moved.
Not violently.
Not dramatically.
It slid across the ground, stopping beside him with a soft, deliberate sound.
The boy froze.
His breath caught.
The box's lid trembled.
Just slightly.
Pride's expression changed.
"What—"
The lid opened.
Inside, the cards lay still.
Rider.
Caster.
Assassin.
Lancer.
Berserker.
Saber.
Six sealed remnants of sin, dormant, silent.
But something stirred.
Not a voice.
Not a command.
A resonance.
The falling weapons faltered.
For a heartbeat—just one—the rain of steel hesitated, trajectories skewing, momentum disrupted as if something unseen had interfered.
The boy felt it.
Not power.
Not strength.
Permission.
His hand closed around the edge of the box.
"…So that's it," Pride said slowly, realization dawning. "You don't draw power from victory."
The weapons began to fall again.
"You draw it from endurance."
The boy pushed himself upright.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Blood streamed freely now, his body screaming in protest, but he stood anyway—using the box as support, his legs shaking beneath him.
"I don't draw it," he said quietly.
The weapons screamed closer.
"I carry it."
The box snapped shut.
A shockwave rippled outward.
The falling weapons veered violently off course, slamming into the ground around them instead of striking true. Explosions tore across the battlefield as legendary arms detonated on impact, throwing debris skyward in violent arcs.
Pride staggered back a step.
His eyes widened.
"That container—"
The boy took a step forward.
Then another.
Each movement felt like tearing himself apart from the inside, but he did not stop. He dragged the box behind him, its weight immense now, far heavier than it had ever been before.
"You sealed them," Pride snarled. "You sealed sins into a mortal vessel."
"I didn't know," the boy replied honestly.
Pride's expression twisted.
"Then you are even more dangerous than I thought."
The Gate of Babylon roared again, portals flaring brighter as Pride prepared to unleash everything he had left—artifacts, authority, rage.
The boy stopped.
He could not go further.
His body had reached its final boundary.
He met Pride's gaze anyway.
"…If you're going to end it," he said quietly, "do it."
Pride hesitated.
Not long.
Just enough.
Then—
He raised his hand.
The weapons surged.
And the world leaned toward its conclusion
The weapons did not fall all at once.
They waited.
Suspended in the air like a held breath, hundreds of legendary arms hung motionless above the battlefield, tips angled downward, their combined presence bending light and shadow into something oppressive and wrong. Mana crackled faintly around them, threads of authority binding each artifact into Pride's will.
The boy stood beneath them.
Barely.
His legs shook violently now, no longer hidden by adrenaline or purpose. Each breath scraped through his lungs like broken glass. The box at his side felt heavier than stone—no, heavier than meaning—as if it carried not objects, but conclusions the world had not yet accepted.
Pride watched him closely.
Not with mockery.
Not with contempt.
With calculation.
"You should not be able to stand," Pride said. "Your forge is gone. Your world has collapsed. Even now, your body is unraveling."
The boy swallowed blood and forced his spine straight.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "It is."
The suspended weapons trembled.
Pride's fingers curled.
"Then why," he asked, voice sharpening, "do you persist?"
The boy did not answer immediately.
He looked down at his hands.
They were shaking. Bruised. Cut. Fingers stiff with swelling and dried blood. Hands that had forged nothing, only borrowed—hands that had traced legends and discarded them like breath.
Hands that were empty now.
"…Because," he said at last, lifting his gaze, "someone has to be here at the end."
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
Then Pride laughed.
It was not loud. It was not cruel.
It was genuine.
"A sentimental answer," he said. "And a foolish one."
The weapons moved.
They descended.
Not as a storm.
As a verdict.
The first wave struck the ground around the boy in a ring of detonations, shockwaves ripping outward and tearing the battlefield apart in overlapping blasts. Stone vaporized. Steel screamed. The boy was hurled backward, tumbling end over end before slamming into the ground hard enough to crack it open beneath him.
Pain exploded through his body.
His vision blurred violently as he struggled to draw breath, chest refusing to expand for a terrifying second too long.
More weapons fell.
The second wave targeted him directly.
He rolled on instinct, dragging himself across broken stone as spears and swords slammed into the ground where he had been moments before, their impacts carving deep craters that collapsed inward immediately.
He could not outrun this.
He could not block it.
There was no steel left to answer him.
Another explosion caught him from the side, hurling him through the air. He struck the ground shoulder-first, something tearing with a sickening sensation as his arm went numb.
He screamed.
Pride stepped forward, golden armor glowing brighter with each artifact released, Gate of Babylon roaring as it emptied itself without restraint.
"End," Pride commanded.
The third wave fell.
The boy curled instinctively, raising his remaining arm over his head as weapons screamed downward—
And stopped.
Not shattered.
Not deflected.
Stopped.
The box opened.
Not fully.
Just enough.
A pressure rolled outward—quiet, heavy, immeasurable. The falling weapons slowed as if submerged in deep water, trajectories skewing, authority bleeding away into nothing.
Pride froze.
"…Impossible," he whispered.
The boy felt it again.
Not power.
Not strength.
Inheritance.
The box rattled violently beside him, lid trembling as if something inside strained against containment—not to escape, but to remain.
He pushed himself up on shaking legs.
Each movement was agony. His vision swam. His heartbeat thundered erratically in his ears. He should have collapsed.
He didn't.
The weapons resumed falling—
But now they curved.
Deflected not by force, but by refusal.
Artifacts struck the ground around him instead of him, detonating in violent arcs that reshaped the battlefield but left him standing at its center, untouched.
Pride took another step back.
"That vessel…" he said slowly. "You don't understand what you're carrying."
"No," the boy agreed hoarsely. "I don't."
He closed the box.
The pressure intensified.
The remaining weapons faltered, then shattered midair—authority unraveling as if the world itself had rejected their purpose.
Silence followed.
Pride stood rigid, chest rising and falling heavily now. Blood streamed freely from multiple wounds, staining his armor dark. The Gate of Babylon flickered weakly behind him, portals collapsing one by one.
"…So this is how it ends," Pride said softly.
The boy shook his head.
"No," he said. "This is just where you stop."
Pride's eyes burned.
"You think this is victory?" he snarled. "You think sealing remnants into a box absolves you of consequence?"
He raised his hand again.
No portals opened.
The Gate was empty.
Cracked.
Pride stared at his palm.
Then laughed bitterly.
"…So be it."
He straightened, golden armor dimming as authority bled away. For the first time, he looked less like a king—and more like something cornered.
"You have denied fate," Pride said. "Cut it. Delayed it. Mocked it."
He met the boy's gaze.
"But fate remembers."
The ground trembled.
Far away—far beyond this battlefield—something stirred.
The boy felt it too.
A shift.
Not here.
Not now.
But inevitable.
Pride smiled faintly.
"You will be judged," he said. "Not by me. Not by sins. By humanity itself."
The boy said nothing.
He was too tired to argue.
Pride turned away.
His form began to fracture—not dissolving, not dying, but withdrawing, pulled backward by forces older and colder than even him.
"This box," Pride continued as he faded, "will be opened again."
Gold vanished.
The battlefield fell quiet.
The boy stood alone.
For three seconds.
Then his legs gave out.
He collapsed forward, the box slipping from his grasp and landing beside him with a dull, final sound.
His vision dimmed.
The sky above began to change.
And somewhere far beyond this ruined land—
Human eyes turned toward what he had done.
The battlefield did not celebrate.
It did not mourn.
It simply existed—scarred, silent, and uncertain, as though the world itself was still deciding whether what had just occurred was allowed to have an ending.
The boy lay where he had fallen.
Face turned to the side. One arm twisted beneath him at an angle that sent quiet, insistent pain through his nerves. The other lay slack across shattered stone, fingers half-curled, empty. Blood pooled beneath his cheek, dark and sluggish now, no longer steaming.
For a long time, nothing moved.
Then—
His chest rose.
Once.
Again.
A shallow breath tore free, followed by a low sound that might have been a cough or might have been a broken laugh. His fingers twitched without coordination, nerves firing blindly as his body attempted to remember how to exist without borrowed frameworks holding it together.
Unlimited Blade Works was gone.
The absence did not announce itself.
It was simply there.
Where there had once been depth—layered steel, endless reinforcement, the quiet certainty that a weapon would answer if he reached—there was now only emptiness. No internal horizon. No forge. No echo of swords waiting behind his eyes.
Just flesh.
Just pain.
Just him.
His eyes opened slowly.
The sky above was pale and wrong, clouds stretched thin and uneven as if reality itself were still recovering from being torn and rewoven. Light filtered down hesitantly, illuminating the devastation below—craters overlapping craters, scorched stone fused with molten metal, broken weapons embedded in the earth like fossils of a war the world already wanted to forget.
He stared at it without expression.
"…So it's quiet," he whispered.
His voice sounded unfamiliar. Raw. Unlayered. Speaking hurt. Breathing hurt more.
He rolled onto his back with a small, involuntary sound as his shoulder screamed in protest. White flared at the edges of his vision. He stayed still until it passed, jaw clenched, counting breaths.
He had survived.
That fact alone felt strange.
A soft scrape sounded nearby.
The box.
It lay a short distance away, half-buried in cracked stone. Untouched. Unmarred. As if everything else had been optional—but this had never been allowed to break.
He reached for it.
His hand shook violently. It took conscious effort to make his fingers close around the edge of the lid. The contact sent a dull ache up his arm and into his chest, where something unstable fluttered in response.
He pulled it closer and sat up slowly, spine protesting each movement. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the box resting between his feet.
For several seconds, he did nothing but breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Then—something shifted.
Not outside.
Inside.
A pressure he had grown so accustomed to that its absence felt unnatural finally began to withdraw.
The Archer card.
He froze.
The realization struck him with sudden clarity.
He had never uninstalled it.
Not truly.
Not since Lust.
Every battle since then—Wrath, Envy, Gluttony, Pride—had been fought with the card partially engaged, layered into his existence so deeply that it had stopped feeling separate. It hadn't been power anymore.
It had been structure.
Now—
It was breaking away.
Pain bloomed suddenly in his chest, sharp and disorienting. He gasped, clutching at himself as something peeled loose from his core. It wasn't physical, but his body reacted as if a vital organ were being torn free.
His vision blurred.
Memories surfaced unbidden.
Steel singing as it was forged.
A man standing beneath a sky of swords.
A life lived endlessly in preparation for battles that never ended.
Resolve without rest.
Hope without reward.
The boy grit his teeth.
"…That's enough," he whispered.
Not a command.
A request.
Slowly—carefully—he reached inward, not to draw power, but to let go. He loosened his grip on the framework that had supported him for so long, allowing the Archer card to disengage fully for the first time in what felt like ages.
The sensation was wrong.
Like standing after leaning against a wall for years—only to realize your legs no longer remembered how to hold your weight alone.
The pressure vanished.
The alignment shattered.
And the silence that followed was terrifying.
He slumped forward, hands braced against the ground as nausea surged violently through him. His body shook, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Without the card's reinforcement, every injury asserted itself at once—cuts burning, bones aching, muscles trembling under their own weight.
This was his body.
Unbuffered.
Unforgiving.
He stayed there until the shaking subsided.
When he finally straightened, he felt smaller.
Lighter.
More fragile.
But undeniably—
Alive.
He reached for the box again and opened it.
Inside, the cards lay as they always had.
Rider.
Caster.
Assassin.
Lancer.
Berserker.
Saber.
Six sins.
Silent.
Contained.
He did not know—could not know—that something of each remained sealed within them. That fragments of authority, instinct, and will had been bound and stored piece by piece.
Neither he—
Nor the world—
Was ready for that truth yet.
He closed the box gently.
The click echoed.
A distant sound followed.
Footsteps.
Measured. Human.
He looked up.
At the edge of the ruined battlefield, figures had begun to gather. Armed. Cautious. Watching from a distance they clearly did not intend to cross yet.
Observers.
Judges.
He stood slowly, legs trembling without reinforcement, but holding. He secured the box at his side with practiced care.
They did not approach.
He did not invite them.
Instead, his gaze shifted beyond them—toward the place where the land dipped unnaturally, where reality felt thin and strained, like a wound refusing to close.
The Demon Gate.
Still open.
Still bleeding into the world.
He exhaled once.
Straightened his back.
"…Guess I don't get to rest just yet."
With the Archer card fully uninstalled and his borrowed world gone, he took his first step away from the battlefield—not toward judgment—
—but toward the place where the world was still unfinished.
The aftermath was complete.
What came next would decide whether any of it had been worth surviving.