It was hopeless. The cold, mechanical efficiency of the puppet Saber was a wall they could not break. No matter how much they pushed, no matter how much power they poured into their attacks—she wasn't breaking. Archer's mind raced, a frantic search for any possible weakness, any gap in her defense, but there was nothing. They were running out of time, running out of mana, and running out of options.
And then—
She screamed.
It was a sharp, agonized cry that tore through the desolate expanse of Unlimited Blade Works, a sound so full of pain and raw humanity that it made both Lancer and Archer flinch. It was the sound of a living person, not a machine, and it was a sound neither of them expected to hear.
Her body trembled, a violent shudder that shook her from head to toe. Her grip on Excalibur tightened, the knuckles of her hand turning white with the strain. Her head snapped back, her eyes squeezed shut, a low, guttural growl escaping her lips as if she was fighting a battle against her own body.
And suddenly, in a movement that was both horrifying and heartbreaking, she turned the blade on herself.
The sound of metal piercing flesh was a wet, sickening noise that rang through the entire battlefield, a final, terrible note in the symphony of their struggle.
Silence.
Lancer's eyes widened in a mixture of disbelief and horror. The carefree grin was gone, replaced by a pale, stunned expression. "What the hell—?!" he stammered, unable to comprehend what he had just witnessed.
Archer's bow, which had been pulled taut with a final, desperate arrow, lowered. The magical energy crackling around the projectile dissipated into the air, forgotten. His breath caught in his throat, and the words that escaped his lips were a mere whisper. "No way…"
The golden blade, shining with divine radiance and a beautiful, pure light, had been thrust straight into her own abdomen. The hilt was still in her hand, the tip of the blade protruding from her back. Her pristine white wedding dress, once a symbol of innocence and purity, was now darkening with a spreading stain of fresh, spilling blood, staining the pure fabric in a deep, vibrant crimson.
Shirō gasped, her body jolting violently, as if a switch had been flipped inside her. Her eyes, wide with the unbearable agony of a mortal wound, were no longer lifeless. The unnatural stillness that had plagued her—the lifeless, emotionless gaze of Caster's puppet—was gone, shattered by a pain so profound it had broken the curse.
The light in her eyes returned, filled now with raw, unbearable pain, but also with something else: a fierce, defiant will.
The control was broken.
Caster's influence was gone.
Lancer took a hesitant step forward, his voice low and cautious, as if afraid to startle a wounded animal. "Oi, Saber—"
She staggered, her knees buckling beneath her weight, barely keeping herself upright with a trembling hand on the hilt of her sword. A thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. The sheer force of her will was the only thing preventing her from collapsing.
Archer clenched his fists, his body trembling with a mixture of relief and a burning, white-hot fury. "Damn it… she's back—but she…" his voice trailed off, the sight of her wound a painful, damning indictment of their failure.
Shirō let out a pained, rattling chuckle, forcing a weak, trembling smile through the agony.
"...That… sucked," she managed, her voice a strained whisper, before the effort became too much.
And then—
She collapsed, the sword still in her body, her eyes closing as the world went dark.