Shirō's blade, Excalibur, slashed across Archer's chest, the razor-sharp edge parting his crimson coat and drawing a thin line of blood. It wasn't deep, but it was enough to stagger him back, enough to make him curse under his breath, a sharp expletive filled with pain and frustration. Damn it… Even with Lancer's help, even with their combined attacks, Saber was still too fast, too strong. And worse—she wasn't even fighting with her own will. She was a puppet, a beautiful, deadly doll, her strings pulled tight by Caster's overflowing mana.
And yet, that expression… or rather, the lack of one.
Shirō's face was a blank slate—emotionless, stiff, her jaw set in a cold line. Her vibrant green eyes were empty, devoid of all feeling, as if the girl he once knew had been hollowed out and replaced with something else entirely. The sight was a dagger to Archer's already frayed nerves.
Archer gritted his teeth, a fierce, desperate vow forming in his mind. I'm going to wipe that empty look off your damn face if it's the last thing I do.
His body moved on instinct, a flicker of red and black as he twisted away from another deadly thrust. He wasn't fast enough to match Saber's brute strength, not as he was now, exhausted and wounded. But he didn't need to be.
He had another way to win.
A single breath. The world seemed to slow down, the sounds of battle fading into a muffled buzz. Archer closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his focus absolute. He wasn't thinking, he was being.
And then—
"I am the bone of my sword."
The words were not a shout, but a whisper. A low, resonant incantation that vibrated through the very air, shaking the foundations of reality itself.
The world rippled. The ground beneath them twisted, warping like a reflection in shattered glass. The air trembled, bending under the weight of something massive, something unnatural and utterly foreign to this dimension.
Saber stopped mid-swing, her Excalibur frozen in a deadly arc, as if sensing the profound shift in reality. Lancer faltered, his eyes widening in a mixture of awe and disbelief.
What the hell—?! he thought, his mouth agape.
Flames bloomed, not from an explosion, but from the very horizon, licking at the edges of their vision. The castle, the battlefield, the night sky—everything vanished, replaced by a vast, silent expanse of rust-colored earth, stretching as far as the eye could see. Jagged steel pillars jutted from the ground, the broken shafts of countless swords impaled in the wasteland like the remnants of a forgotten, endless war.
An entire world of blades.
A Reality Marble. The very manifestation of Archer's soul made physical.
Lancer let out a low whistle, the sound of it filled with genuine surprise. "Well, damn. Didn't think you had it in you, Archer. This is… one hell of a party trick."
Archer didn't reply. His gaze was locked on Saber, on that soulless face that shouldn't be like that, not from the proud knight he knew.
He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the hilt of a fallen sword. His voice was low, dangerous, a growl of pure, unrestrained fury.
"I'll break that face of yours, Shirō."
Saber didn't react. Her expression remained blank, her eyes lifeless.
"You're gonna beg for mercy," Archer continued, his voice rising in intensity, a desperate attempt to elicit some kind of response.
Still nothing. Just those empty, doll-like eyes staring back at him from within the boundless expanse of his own soul.
Archer's fingers curled around the hilts of his twin blades, Kanshou and Bakuya, his grip tight, unyielding.
If she wouldn't wake up—
If she wouldn't fight back as herself—
Then he'd beat it into her. He'd break Caster's hold on her by force, no matter the cost.
He launched a volley of swords, countless blades soaring through the air like a storm of steel, each one a lethal projectile aimed with deadly precision. They rained down upon Saber with enough force and numbers to cut down any Servant. But—
Clang!
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Every single blade—parried. Deflected. Saber's movements were mechanical, precise, as if every attack had been predicted before he even made it. She barely seemed to move, a golden blur of motion, yet every strike from Archer's storm of blades and Lancer's frantic thrusts was rendered utterly useless. The sheer efficiency of it was unnatural, a flawless defensive pattern.
Archer's frustration boiled over, a hot, acrid taste in his mouth. "Tch. You just don't get tired, do you? You're just a machine, a puppet!"
Saber didn't answer. She just stood there, her pristine white wedding dress untouched by the dust and grit of the Reality Marble, her glowing blade gripped firmly in her hands.
"Damn it, is there anything that gets through to you?!" he roared, a desperate, pained sound.
He launched forward, twin swords flashing, a whirlwind of steel. Shirō met him head-on. Sparks erupted with each clash of steel, the sound echoing across the desolate landscape. Every strike he threw, she countered. Every gap he aimed for, she covered. He poured mana into his movements, pushing himself to his limits, his bones aching with the strain—
And still.
Nothing.
She was faster. Stronger. More precise. Her movements were flawless, her defenses impenetrable.
Lancer, watching from a short distance with a growing sense of dread, clicked his tongue. "Tch. Damn. If this keeps up, we're screwed. We're gonna burn through our mana and get taken out one by one."