Chapter 487: [487] Caster vs. Caster

The crystallization of the Kabbalistic magecraft foundation—the first and mightiest giant among all magical constructs.

Unlike the mad scientist who sought to create Eve, Avicebron was a magus, the purest creator of golems. His works could only interpret the primordial truth through the natural earth.

The giant that stood towering between heaven and earth was the final conception of Adam, the ancestor of mankind recorded in the Bible, born from generations of golem-makers’ fantasies and romanticism. Its towering, robust form resembled the golden humans of the Age of Gods.

"The giant’s materials are wood, stone, earth, and its furnace core. Of course, its weakness lies in the furnace core at its heart. With enough power to pierce that part in a single strike, it should be possible to defeat it... No, that’s not right."

Under the Ruler’s enhancement, Chiron calmly observed the giant with eyes that had discerned countless heroes, villains, and monsters.

Analyzing its internal structure, grasping the principles of its existence, tracing the flow of magical energy—yet the most critical issues lay in its head and feet. The giant was less a golem and more a Servant, for it also possessed a spiritual core in its head. Without destroying it, the giant would never stop.

Even more problematic were its feet, firmly planted on the earth. This golem continuously drew vast amounts of magical energy from the earth’s ley lines through its soles—yes, just like Antaeus, the invincible son of Gaia, the Earth Goddess, and Poseidon, the Sea God.

Thus, to completely shatter "Keter Malkuth," three forces were required simultaneously.

First, a strike capable of utterly destroying the spiritual core in its head. Second, a strike that could completely annihilate the furnace core at its heart. Third, a strike that would sever its feet from the earth.

Chiron’s gaze shifted, sweeping over the Servants who, despite their small stature, bravely fought the giant. A glimmer of relief surfaced in his eyes.

Fortunately, this time, the heroes had not failed to appear.

But just as Chiron and the other Servants focused intently on their battle with Adam, no one noticed a silver-gray mist drifting down from the Hanging Gardens, slowly, imperceptibly enveloping the Masters observing from the castle walls.

By the time the sulfuric-like toxic mist engulfed the magi, searing their throats with pain—Chiron, Siegfried, and Astolfo only sensed the abnormality through their Master-Servant contracts.

"Master!"

Astolfo turned around and finally realized the crisis behind them. The Black Faction’s Masters had been silently wrapped in the thick fog, their voices completely silenced!

"Master, can you hear me? Master!"

Not just the three of them—even the Red Faction’s Saber, Mordred, halted her attacks, shouting anxiously into the thread of causality. But Kairi Sisigou gave no response.

Only the silver-bell-like laughter of a child echoed through the mist.

"Welcome to the City of Fog."

———

While the Black Faction descended into chaos, the Red Faction also observed the turmoil below.

They did not intervene because, after Achilles, Atalanta, and Karna departed, it was inevitable that the Red Faction could only hold their defenses, unable to confront the overwhelming might of the Black Faction head-on.

The glow of magical surveillance reflected on the face of the Empress as she glanced at Reika and Artoria standing beside her, slightly furrowing her brows.

Had this Master not rebelled with her Servant, her Holy Grail War would have ended in failure long ago.

But Semiramis felt no gratitude toward Reika—she only speculated about others with the utmost malice.

If it were for the Holy Grail, staying with the Black Faction and defeating the Red Faction with absolute superiority would naturally secure the Grail for them.

So why defect to the Red Faction? If she simply switched sides based on which faction held the Grail, wouldn’t that make this Master far too shallow?

What was the difference between the Black and Red Factions?

A conspiracy? An ulterior motive? Or... numbers?!

The Empress’s pupils contracted as she stared at Reika’s gentle smile, her internal alarms blaring.

She wants to monopolize the Holy Grail!

And with Artoria as her trump card, she certainly had the power to do so!

The giant Adam on the ground, the mysterious mist enveloping the Black Faction... Not even Semiramis and Amakusa, let alone the Black Faction, could have anticipated that Reika had quietly amassed such strength!

Was this everything? Or just the tip of the iceberg?

Due to the information gap, the Empress was unaware of the Blue Faction’s existence, but her experience in schemes still allowed her to guess their intentions—though she was off by a hair’s breadth, missing by a thousand miles.

"Stay wary and use each other cautiously..." Semiramis made the wrong decision. To gather intelligence, she began paying more attention to Reika and Artoria, which soon led her to notice something peculiar.

"Thou... seem unusually focused on that Clock Tower’s Sakatsuki?"

Reika’s interest was understandable, but why was Artoria also looking at Sakatsuki, especially with the rebellious knight Mordred present?

"I simply believe his strength goes beyond what he’s shown."

Artoria saw no reason to hide her thoughts and laid them out plainly: "I’ve crossed blades with Sakatsuki many times, so I know he hasn’t unleashed his full power yet."

That explanation made sense... Semiramis opened her mouth to speak but suddenly stiffened, turning toward the entrance.

The sound of calm footsteps echoed as a golden-masked puppeteer stepped into the throne room.

"Black Caster... Avicebron." Amakusa called his name solemnly. Facing an enemy he had fought not long ago, the puppeteer replied coldly:

"I’ve betrayed the Black Faction. You may address me by my true name."

He lifted his head, also gazing at Sakatsuki in the magical projection, his impassive tone finally wavering slightly.

"So it was Sakatsuki... Even with all my precautions, I still underestimated him."

As a Servant, he could sense where his former Master Roche’s Command Spells had gone—and who had teleported him to the Hanging Gardens.

"Even thou say so?"

The Empress’s expression grew grave. With two heroes now vouching for him, coupled with the young man’s previous fearsome feats, she suddenly felt that even Karna wasn’t as dangerous as Sakatsuki.

Avicebron, having fulfilled his obsession by summoning the ’Golem Keter Malkuth,’ had come to the throne room merely to report. After a brief exchange, he took his leave.

But outside the room, a man in extravagant robes blocked Avicebron’s path.

"There are far too many tragedies in this world, and no single answer can serve as the universal solution to all of them. Thus, there exists no absolute savior."

With these opening words, Shakespeare successfully halted Avicebron in his tracks. It seemed the Red faction’s Caster had overheard his earlier remarks, stirring some profound reflection within him.

"For every comedy performed, there is a tragedy enacted; for every soul laughing in agony, another weeps in joy; some look down from lofty heights, while others exhaust themselves merely standing."

No one can make all people weep, nor can anyone make all laugh—not even a time-traveler, much less a reborn hero.

"So then—" The great playwright drew out his words, eyeing Avicebron with a critical gaze. "What makes you believe your golems can save everything?"

"...I must admit you possess keen insight, Red Caster."

Avicebron’s cold voice reached Shakespeare’s ears. Sensing something unspoken, the Bard shed his usual mocking demeanor for the first time since manifesting in this world. Meanwhile, Avicebron raised his head, regarding him with undisguised pride.

"But precisely because of this, you can only document the process—never become any ’result’."

Having delivered this remark, the golem-maker of the Black faction didn’t linger. He strode past Shakespeare without hesitation, their shoulders nearly brushing.

A great writer’s pen is mighty, sharp as any blade—yet fragile too, easily torn asunder with but a slight tug.

By contrast, Avicebron’s ’creation’ stood firm upon the earth.

As the Black Caster walked away, Shakespeare lowered his gaze, murmuring in a subdued voice:

"Indeed... perhaps this is the fate of writers..."

The two Casters moved forward then, each stepping toward diametrically opposed paths.