Chapter 456: [456] The Black Faction Strikes Back, The Arrow of Complaint!

This was completely different from the small-scale battles fought thus far—there was a battlefield, soldiers, commanders, Noble Phantasms ready to be unleashed, contested territory, and most importantly, a King that must be vanquished.

Now, only a brief moment remained before the decisive battle aimed at total annihilation. The Servants of the Red Faction silently awaited that moment—

The chessboard had been overturned, with all the red pieces crossing the river boundary. Now, it was the Black Faction’s turn to muster their forces.

The Yggdmillennia clan had conducted comprehensive speculation about the direction from which the Mage’s Association’s invaders—the Red Faction—would launch their assault and had formulated meticulous countermeasures accordingly.

A full-frontal assault from the streets of Trifas, a large-scale attack from the eastern flank, or even an aerial surprise attack were all highly plausible scenarios. However—

"...To bring their own territory with them—this is truly unexpected," sighed Black Archer, Chiron. Before his eyes floated the Red Assassin’s pride and joy: the "Hanging Gardens of Babylon."

This not only signified the Red Faction’s all-out offensive but also marked the war’s progression to the next phase—a truly brutal conflict where Noble Phantasms would be unleashed without hesitation, even at the cost of revealing heroic identities.

"Archer, what’s their current movement?" asked Fiore beside him, her voice trembling slightly. Facing her Master, who was struggling to remain composed, Chiron—the only one with Clairvoyance—smiled and replied, "They’ve stopped. Though this is merely my speculation, it seems the Red Faction intends to make this grassland their battleground."

"So, it’s an all-out confrontation."

"Precisely. Masters, you should retreat to a safe location. No doubt, they will deploy Servants and familiars to secure their position."

"—That seems to be the case. They appear to have summoned skeleton warriors, likely to counter our homunculi and golems."

With a thud, Darnic landed on the castle walls, having boldly surveyed the floating fortress moments earlier.

"Uncle..."

"Let’s go, Fiore. Now, we can only entrust victory to our Servants."

"Well said, Darnic. The rest is our domain."

Particles of light began coalescing, forming human silhouettes as noble phantasms from across time descended and gathered here.

Black Archer, Chiron.

Black Berserker, Frankenstein.

Black Caster, Avicebron.

Black Saber, Siegfried.

Black Assassin, Artoria.

And the leader of the Black Faction—Lancer, Vlad III—wore a solemn smile as he silently observed the fortress.

"Not only do they defile our land with that abomination, but they also scatter those filthy bone soldiers everywhere."

Lancer’s expression twisted with unmistakable hatred. The moment they invaded this territory, they became enemies—conquerors, the Ottoman Turks.

"The overwhelming sense of duty—’they must all be exterminated’—instantly seized Vlad III’s entire being."

"Lord King, let us first take shelter within the city walls. But if battle is to be joined upon those plains, we shall fight with our backs to the streets. Pray, indulge in combat to your heart’s content."

Darnic bowed respectfully, to which the Voivode of Wallachia gave a haughty nod.

"Furthermore, unleash the cavalry and the Red Berserker. They too must join the frontlines." Noticing Danic’s hesitation, Vlad III’s lips curled into a cold smile.

"If our enemies crave a full-scale confrontation, it is only proper courtesy that we deploy our full forces as well."

"...Understood. I shall see to it at once."

As Danic departed with the Masters, Vlad III didn’t even turn his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the invaders at the horizon while issuing commands without looking back.

"Archer, you shall command the assembled homunculus forces alongside Rider."

"Understood."

"Assassin, as in our previous operation, you shall be responsible for dealing with the enemy Rider—"

"No, forgive my impertinence." From beneath the black cloak, the Knight King’s clear voice rang out, rejecting the Voivode’s order. "I have already found the opponent I must face in this battle."

"...The enemy Saber, then?" Based on Reika’s report, Vlad III was aware of the events in Sighișoara and the ambiguous relationship between their Assassin and the Red Saber. "Very well. If you insist, then I shall—"

"There is no need, Lord King." Chiron volunteered. "If it is that cavalryman, aside from Assassin, only I can handle him."

Sensing both the emotion and resolve in Chiron’s words, Vlad III nodded in satisfaction before turning to the silent Avicebron.

"Caster, you shall remain here on standby. The timing for releasing the Red Berserker’s restraints shall be yours to decide."

"Understood. Additionally, Lancer—as a king, you cannot possibly join the battle on foot. I have prepared a steed for you, though it is merely an artificial construct (golem)."

"Oh—"

Hearing this, Lancer immediately regarded the steed beside the Caster with keen interest.

It was a massive horse of bronze and iron, a piebald construct of metal and gemstones, its ruby and sapphire eyes gleaming with an eerie light.

"Not quite my Dun Stallion..." Artoria muttered under her breath, a hint of competitive spirit in her tone.

Though lacking in aesthetic refinement, Vlad III appeared thoroughly pleased—not by the golem horse itself, but by what it symbolized.

It meant Vlad III, Voivode of Wallachia, was no longer alone. He now had capable subordinates, and his followers did not hesitate to pledge their loyalty.

"Excellent." Smiling with deep satisfaction, Lancer leapt onto the horse’s back. The steed did not neigh, merely standing motionless in obedience.

"Oh dear~ Lancer wants to ride a horse. Then I truly have no place here~"

A slightly high-pitched voice rang out, instantly tensing the atmosphere. It was the recently freed Black Rider, Astolfo. Stretching his slender frame, he addressed Lancer with cheerful familiarity.

Faced with such a carefree cavalryman—Vlad III drew the sword at his waist, its edge nearly grazing the Rider’s adorable cheek.

"Rider, I won’t bother asking if you’ve properly reflected on your actions at this point. Instead, show me your strength—demonstrate the power befitting one of Charlemagne’s Twelve Paladins."

In response, Astolfo patted his chest: "Sure, leave it to me! This is that, that is this—after all, this war is my mission!"

With their departure imminent, Vlad III let the irreverent paladin be, turning his gaze toward the Berserker silently observing the floating fortress.

The wound in her chest, inflicted by the enemy Assassin, had long healed. The girl’s heterochromatic golden and blue eyes, radiating inorganic emotion, remained fixed on a distant figure atop the stronghold.

Since being wounded by Sakatsuki, she’d grown increasingly withdrawn. Now, only her Master Caules and little Jack could elicit any other expression from her.

"Berserker, you are free. You may fight to your heart’s content, dancing wildly across the battlefield."

Encouraged by Lancer’s words, Frankenstein released frenzied electrical currents in response. Vlad III then withdrew his gaze and spoke in his deep, mission-laden voice:

"—Now then, everyone. Our seven Servants have assembled. Though we’ve acquired the Red Berserker, that’s merely a disposable ’weapon.’ In other words, we’ve mobilized our full combat strength."

"On the other hand, our opponents have likely gathered six Servants excluding their Berserker. Additionally, there’s that mysterious Assassin from the Mage’s Association who wounded both me and Berserker. Numerically speaking, we hold no advantage."

"Moreover, their Lancer has already proven his valor rivals our Saber’s, while their Rider and Archer’s exceptional skills were evident in our clashes. Need I mention that self-proclaimed ’Sakatsuki’ Assassin? He’s undoubtedly our most troublesome enemy—bar none."

Having candidly acknowledged the enemy’s strength—yes, even if not overwhelmingly superior—a conventional battle would likely end in their defeat given the power disparity.

"Therefore, I pose this question: Are any of you prepared to accept defeat?"

Every member present rejected the notion through words and gestures alike.

The clear disparity in combat strength, the high probability of defeat—Vlad III and the other Servants remained utterly unfazed by these facts. Such is the nature of Heroic Spirits. Only those who can laugh in the face of overwhelming odds and hopeless situations deserve the title of hero.

There are no warriors who concede defeat without fighting, no heroes who falter before the battle begins.

Even though shadows of blue lurked within their ranks, Sakatsuki had made his stance clear to the Blue faction members before the battle began—this fight would be fought with everything they had!

An unreserved struggle, a thrilling and unbridled clash—legends materialized here, collided, and through this single battle proved the valor of heroes and the unyielding spirit of champions!

This was the true charm of the Holy Grail War, the embodiment of a Servant’s dignity and pride!

"Yes, exactly. Victory shall be ours! If we cannot overcome this degree of disparity in strength, this level of despair, what right do we have to call ourselves heroes?"

With the infamous reputation of slaughtering twenty thousand Turkish soldiers, the voivode who ascended to the Throne of Heroes upon blood and bones—Vlad III—rode atop his towering steed, proclaiming loudly.

"Those were barbarians, defiling my lands, arrogantly bellowing their crude laughter—they were fools who could only atone with death, and it was a joy to slay them! For those who lack the very concept of terror, we must wield the bullwhip to thoroughly reeducate them!"

Don’t let them return alive. That was essentially what the leader of the Black faction meant to say, and it was also what the other Servants desired.

"Then, allow me to take the vanguard."

Having successfully rallied the Black faction’s morale, Vlad III gripped his horse’s reins and leaped from the hundred-meter-high fortress, steed and all.

Like a lone general, a one-man army—the black Lancer charged straight toward the enemy’s camp. Though this was a peaceful grassland now, it would likely become scorched earth by the war’s end.

Having regained his subordinates and revived in the modern era, the fierce king now faced an unfavorable battle once more. But this situation was no different from the past, so he felt not a shred of fear.

Meanwhile, high in the sky, the huntress who also possessed the skill of Clairvoyance suddenly opened her emerald-green eyes.

"The time has come."

As she spoke, she nocked two arrows onto the string of her beloved bow, Tauropolos, just as previously agreed.

—With her Noble Phantasm, she would ignite the flames and smoke of war!

————

This was an unprecedented Holy Grail War, surpassing mere nocturnal skirmishes and schemes. Due to the unique nature of the Servants on both sides, what should have been a battle of seven versus seven instead involved thousands of combatants.

From the vantage of the Hanging Gardens, dark golems surged forth from the Black faction’s fortress, intermingling with pure-white homunculi. Like a churning tide, this monochrome wave engulfed the verdant grassland.

Under the cold moonlight, a massive cauldron three meters in diameter soared past the garden’s prow, boiling over before swiftly turning back. In an instant, the yellowish bone fragments within rained down upon the earth like a downpour.

Upon landing, those bone fragments grew like plants, eventually forming skeletal soldiers with lizard-like heads. Their bodies flowed with matte-colored magical energy, blending into the night as they charged toward the mixed legion of homunculi and golems.

Such a grand spectacle was enough to shatter the courage of any participant, even in a conventional Holy Grail War.

Yet, the heroes present—whether it was the Grand Duke who slaughtered the Ottoman Turks, the paladins under Charlemagne, the empress who ruled the world, or the archers and riders who participated in the wars of ancient Greek mythology—all deeply understood that this was not a battlefield of ’quantity.’

Only ’quality,’ an overwhelming quality, was the key to victory.

And now, the Red Faction’s Archer would stake their first bet—

The cold, dry wind unique to late autumn brushed against the girl’s hair, and her beast-like ears twitched slightly.

The time had come.

Atalanta nocked two arrows onto her beloved bow, Tauropolos. Her target was not the vast land before her, but the night sky illuminated by the hazy moonlight.

"By my bow, I beseech the protection of the Sun God and the Moon Goddess."

The arrows began to glow. Her Noble Phantasm was neither the bow nor the arrows it shot. Both were merely catalysts. Her Noble Phantasm was the very act of "nocking the arrows and firing them"—the principle itself.

"Offer up this calamity—Phoebus Catastrophe!"

The two arrows shot into the sky traced dazzling trajectories through the clouds before vanishing without a trace. This was the signal, the first arrow.

It was an appeal to the gods—Apollo, the Sun God, and Artemis, the Moon Goddess, both deities deeply connected to the sun and moon. Apollo was also the god of archery, while Artemis was the goddess of the hunt.

The price for an Archer seeking their protection was disaster—so-called ’protection’ meant bringing calamity upon the enemy.

And now, just as Atalanta had hoped, the silver moon on the horizon bestowed its favor upon her once more. The mistress of beasts and the lord of the wilderness heeded their devotee’s call, smiling as they tipped the cup of moonlight, transforming it into a flowing river that merged into the Milky Way. Thus, the heavens were illuminated by the radiance of the goddess.

The blessing bestowed upon the faithful, the calamity unleashed upon the enemy—had arrived!