Chapter 558: [558] Fate/Apocrypha

It was the moment when Servants gathered for the decisive battle in the Hanging Gardens/It was the moment when the writer obtained perfect tranquility.

["Come, the kingdom awaits you, my Master! Allow me to bring forth your steed! In the crevice between heaven and earth exist phenomena beyond our wildest philosophical imaginings (There are more things in heaven and earth. Joan of Arc. Than are dreamt of in your philosophy)!"]

Red Caster, Shakespeare, hummed a tune while enthusiastically drafting his manuscript. His quill danced across the paper like the most elegant performer, while the man’s eyes reflected the infinite wonders of creation.

"What exactly are you and Sakatsuki scheming?" The cat-eared woman crossed her arms, glaring at the flamboyantly dressed man with suspicion. "Why have I been brought here? And more importantly—why have all other Servants and Masters disappeared?"

"Is that what you believe, most beautiful huntress of Greece?" Shakespeare never paused his writing, merely raising a hand to point out the window without looking up.

"Yet we clearly witnessed Gungnir’s thunderous descent from the heavens, poised to shatter the holy knight rushing to intervene!"

"And here—behold! The profane ritual commences! Seven heroic spirits have fallen into shadow, turning their blades against humanity’s saviors!"

"Ahahaha... What magnificent developments! That indomitable meteor! So fragile yet giving everything—can mortal radiance truly pierce through the forbidden curses of the Age of Gods?"

"Marvelous, simply marvelous, my Master! Strategies interlocking like clockwork, martial prowess second to none—you carve through thorns and brambles! For victory’s sake, or perhaps... for something beyond mere victory!"

Slap Atalanta swatted away Shakespeare’s wildly gesturing hand, frowning. "Have you gone mad? There’s clearly nothing there."

The huntress spoke true. Through her keen vision, the Hanging Gardens stood empty and silent—utterly devoid of the spectacles Shakespeare described.

Yet when the playwright finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, Atalanta’s breath caught—the great author’s eyes shimmered with dazzling, kaleidoscopic colors, reflecting an overwhelming panorama of existence that threatened to swallow any observer whole.

"You... don’t tell me...?!"

"Precisely so! ’The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.’ My vision has never been clearer! This is the very wellspring of inspiration. In other words—at this very moment, I am experiencing absolute euphoria!"

"You madman." Though the other was clearly a powerless weakling, Atalanta couldn’t help but retreat several steps, intimidated by that story-seeking madness, "You actually turned yourself into part of the Noble Phantasm...?!"

"Finally realized it, have you, little girl who strayed from the tale? Pity you couldn’t see the Emperor’s New Clothes!" Shakespeare roared with laughter:

"Both Servants and Masters are now within my Noble Phantasm—’First Folio: The Tempest of Applause’!"

"Come now, my Noble Phantasm begins! Take your seats! No smoking, no photography, and absolutely no rude heckling! The world is in my hands—let the performance commence with thunderous applause!"

That said, this epic stage play had only one audience member—Shakespeare himself. After dumping all that shock onto Atalanta, the playwright turned and returned to his writer’s throne, transforming inspiration into words as he splashed ink across the page with torrential fervor.

His Noble Phantasm, the First Folio, was indeed one that could change the world. Yet it didn’t alter the world itself—rather, it sealed this world away, generated scripts, then forcibly staged the stories as a theatrical Noble Phantasm.

For Shakespeare, there could be no simpler nor more magnificent cast. Simply place each participant upon the stage, and they would clash and collide according to their own convictions and ideals, sparking endless fireworks. Even if he caught but a single ember, it would ignite roaring flames in his mind.

How fortunate—to experience such bliss in his second life. Abandoning the Red Faction to serve that young man had been absolutely the right decision.

"Caster, your legs..." Atalanta noticed the writer’s legs had completely dissipated amid strange magical fluctuations. "I see. This is why you refused to leave your seat. Though you’re sustaining the Noble Phantasm with your spiritual core, this also means your death comes the moment the Servants break free."

Unknown to all, with none to praise or condemn, this stage’s architect would vanish into obscurity as the curtains fell.

"No matter, Archer. For the likes of us, the only thing that matters is whether we can make an interesting story even more interesting. That is everything."

The collapse of death had already begun. Ah, those heroes were fighting so fiercely! Without the Holy Grail’s magical energy sustaining him, he’d have collapsed long ago—Shakespeare mused silently.

He believed.

Believed in human dreams, human ambition, human wrath.

In this world, things amusing and entertaining would never disappear. And even if they did, so long as he provided them himself, all would be well.

This story too was utterly magnificent. Everyone was living with all their might, thinking with all their might. Whether tragedy, comedy, or something else entirely—to record it all was supreme happiness.

"Be it Heroic Spirits, humans, magi, or even homunculi—the material is all the same." Tearing off a filled page, Shakespeare wrote frantically as if chasing time itself. The rate of his spiritual particles dissipating accelerated, his abdomen already vanished, the numbness creeping up to his chest.

Yet, the Red Caster’s pen never ceased. Even with half his body gone, it mattered not. Most fortunately, the disappearance began from his feet—because as long as both hands remained, he could still continue drafting.

"In other words, ’We are such stuff as dreams are made on’—hahahaha... The writing simply won’t stop! The dreams of Amakusa Shirou Tokisada, the dreams of Semiramis, the dreams of Jeanne d’Arc, the dreams of Master Sakatsuki! If I don’t record these fierce, fleeting dreams, what kind of writer would I be?!"

No one responded, nor did Shakespeare expect any. He simply immersed himself in the dream of creation. Atalanta silently watched the great literary master, seeing in his eyes the same radiance that shone in those heroes.

In that moment, she understood why this man had ascended to the Throne of Heroes. Uncrowned martial prowess and noble virtue may be what heroes pursue, but to wield the pen as a blade and ink as its edge, carving out the myriad facets of human existence—is that not also a magnificent feat?

In the blink of an eye, fame and fortune turn to dust. What endures through the ages are precisely these stories penned by people, chronicling the valor and spirit of the heroes they witnessed—the very foundation upon which Heroic Spirits ascend to the Records.

—And thus, it was destined that they remain mere chroniclers, observers. They could document all things under heaven, yet could never inscribe themselves into this thrilling parade.

So, is this why I stand here, Sakatsuki?

Atalanta seemed to grasp something profound. Just then, Shakespeare’s right arm exerted force, the pen leaving a bold, sweeping stroke across the page before being cast aside with abandon.

For writers, there exists a word both most loathed and most beloved. Sometimes writers never reach that stage; sometimes they utter it while making painful decisions.

"Hahahaha! Finished! It’s done! Complete, complete at last! They’ve reached their splendid conclusion! This is my latest masterpiece!"

Laughing thus, Shakespeare’s face shattered, erupting with divine radiance—the light of a holy sword releasing its Thirteen Restraints. The great writer saw the maiden knight roaring as she struck down the evil dragon with her sacred blade. Overwhelmed with exhilaration, he couldn’t help but spread his arms wide.

"Ahh, but... I too wanted to play the leading role—!"

Blue spiritual particles illuminated the room. By the time Atalanta’s vision cleared, Shakespeare’s figure had vanished without a trace. Only the manuscript remained—a work any connoisseur would gladly spend their entire fortune to obtain—lying quietly upon the desk.

Red Caster—Shakespeare—eliminated.

Thus began the first sacrifice of this decisive battle.

"Hmm, I see. So we’ve been trapped inside Caster’s Noble Phantasm from the very beginning. But to think he could recreate Noble Phantasms within his own..."

"It must be thanks to the Holy Grail. Achilles, as a cauldron of miracles, this degree of power is only natural."

It was a heartwarming scene—Sakatsuki had projected multiple copies of Shakespeare’s manuscript and distributed them to all Servants. Whether they were heroes who fell early or knights who fought till the end, all were inevitably captivated by Shakespeare’s masterful writing. They immersed themselves in the battles they’d experienced, feeling the convictions and choices from different perspectives, understanding the heroes’ perseverance and decisions.

"Facing hardship after hardship... you all persevered splendidly. Well done."

"Teacher, I never realized my departure affected you so deeply..."

"This... cough cough."

"Don’t worry, teacher. Next time I won’t make you grieve—I swear this upon my name as the hero Achilles."

"Hah... Is that so? I’m glad, Achilles."

Achilles and Chiron exchanged smiles, while on the other side, Siegfried and Karna locked gazes.

"Magnificent resolve, Black Saber."

"Likewise, Red Lancer. It was your heroic efforts that bought them time."

"Yet I ultimately fell to you."

"The true strength wasn’t mine, but my Master Sakatsuki’s."

"Is that so? Then to whom should I direct my warrior’s shame?"

"Ha—that would have to be me, Red Lancer. If you wish to challenge our Master, you’ll have to step over my corpse first."

Despite the lethal implications of their words, an air of refreshing camaraderie flowed between the two great heroes—their noble strength being precisely why they respected each other.

"Honestly, this is why I despise warriors. Nothing but fighting and killing in their heads."

The black-gowned Empress scoffed disdainfully, clinging affectionately to the saint’s arm: "You wouldn’t be like that, would you, my Master?"

"Ah... Of course not." Amakusa forced a dry laugh, recalling his words and actions in the final moments—the memory alone made him want to dig a hole and disappear. "Speaking of which, Assassin..."

"What was that?"

"Se... Semiramis." Amakusa wisely corrected himself. Only then did the Empress withdraw her piercing gaze with satisfaction, giving a slight nod that sent her silken hair flowing—revealing the tips of her pointed ears, flushed with embarrassment.

"My Hanging Gardens still remain. It seems we won’t need to search for another love nest, after all."

"R-really now?" Amakusa could only respond with a pained smile.

What should an Eastern saint do when being abducted by an Empress? Asking for a friend—it’s urgent.

Violet eyes flickered, taking in the scenes around them: Mordred excitedly pointing out passages to Artoria while clutching the manuscript; Astolfo being half-laughingly scolded by Sieg while rubbing his head; Avicebron silently enduring Roche’s tearful embrace...

Scene after scene—just witnessing them warmed the heart, even bringing tears to one’s eyes.

"How wonderful..."

Jeanne d’Arc held the manuscript with a breathtaking smile, until one tactless remark froze her in place.

"Ah~ Ah~~, speaking of which, I remember Shakespeare emphasized this part. Let me flip through... Ah, found it."

The young gentleman in a white-gold coat curled his lips slightly, his fingers gliding over the manuscript that still carried the scent of fresh ink. Clearing his throat, he read aloud with utmost seriousness:

"[But, if we were to meet again... I truly wish my feelings could find a home.]"

Closing the manuscript, Sakatsuki suppressed a laugh as he looked at Jeanne d’Arc, who stood frozen like a wooden chicken.

"Well then, Holy Maiden, I’m standing right before you now, aren’t I?"

Such words should only be spoken when at least one of the two parties is confirmed dead.

—Amidst the overwhelming tide of shame, Jeanne d’Arc painfully realized this truth.

"Lord, entrust this body..."

"Calm down! Don’t activate your Noble Phantasm!" Sakatsuki cried out in alarm. "Stop her! Jeanne’s about to unleash La Pucelle!"

At his shout, everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed forward in a frenzy—grabbing legs, wrapping arms around waists—finally managing to calm the emotionally overwhelmed saint.

"Look at the mess you’ve made," Atalanta chided while comforting the sobbing Jeanne, shooting Sakatsuki an exasperated glare. Sakatsuki scratched his head with an awkward laugh, then suddenly froze.

"Ah, time’s up."

White-gold spiritual particles began to scatter as Sakatsuki’s body gradually faded into nothingness before everyone’s eyes.

"What’s happening?" Atalanta’s pupils constricted. Even Jeanne forgot her embarrassment as they both rushed forward, each grabbing one of Sakatsuki’s arms in panic. "Why are you suddenly disappearing?!"

"Miracles always have their limits, even with the Third Magic," Merlin finally spoke up, stepping forward. "Time is short, Last Knight. Speak your final words if you have any."

"Nothing much to say. Just that this story has reached its end."

After gently stroking Atalanta’s beast ears and giving Jeanne a light embrace, Sakatsuki flickered and reappeared at the center of the group. In his hands, a golden chalice shimmered brilliantly.

"The Greater Grail..." The Empress showed no surprise. "So it was already in your possession all along."

Without the Greater Grail’s support, Shakespeare wouldn’t have been able to maintain his Noble Phantasm until the thirteen restraints of the Holy Sword were released to break the barrier.

"I smell presents!" Astolfo, hand in hand with Sieg, trotted up to Sakatsuki with starry eyes. "Hey hey, Sakatsuki, do you have something good for us?"

"Your ’Innocent Monster’ skill is unexpectedly useful here," Sakatsuki chuckled, tapping Astolfo’s nose. "Then I’ll be direct. My Third Magic synergizes perfectly with the Greater Grail. It doesn’t require heroic spirits as keys—the fully charged Grail has already activated."

"Though I need the Greater Grail and its energy, using a small portion to materialize Servants and fulfill the Masters’ wishes is more than enough."

"Haha, not a bad gift!" Achilles immediately raised his hand. "I’ve been wanting to properly enjoy this era!"

Sakatsuki nodded with a smile. White-gold light enveloped Achilles, and in the next moment, his aura transformed—from a mystical construct to a genuine human. The reborn hero clenched his fists, utterly satisfied.

"Perfect. Now I can punch people even harder!"

The good fight had been fought, the path to walk had been walked to its end. In the calm after the storm, the heroes finally received the reward bestowed by another hero—no one could resist the temptation of a second life. Even the most reclusive Avicebron couldn’t withstand Roche’s pleading gaze and accepted the blessing of the Greater Grail.

Not only that, with the power of the Greater Grail, Fiore’s wish was finally fulfilled. Supported by Chiron and Caules, she stood firmly on the earth with her own feet. As for Kairi Sisigou, though he tried to escape, Mordred held him down and forcibly lifted the curse left by the demon.

"Hey hey, I’m supposed to be the Master here."

"Can’t be helped. I am the Knight of Treachery after all~~"

"Mordred, no smoking under any circumstances."

"Got it already..."

Ignoring that ’father-son dispute’ over there, Sakatsuki called Caules—the only one who hadn’t received a gift—to his side. After giving him some final instructions, he completely released his restraints.

"Well then, the traveler from another world, Sakatsuki, admits defeat here. Unfortunately, your subjugation has failed, but please continue to protect this beautiful world from now on."

"Ah, that goes without saying." The heroes gazed at this young man who had overturned the entire Holy Grail War. Regardless of past grudges and conflicts, they now shared a smile and waved farewell to him.

A rainbow-blue brilliance flashed and vanished as platinum stars returned one by one to the galaxy.

"Are you really leaving just like this, Sakatsuki?" Artoria suddenly spoke up, stopping her Master. "But until the very end, you never explained your reasons for doing this. Without Shakespeare’s Noble Phantasm, this battle would have ended with you killing all the Servants, wouldn’t it?"

"Then, you who maintained ruthlessness and indifference from the start—why did you go to such lengths?"

"Isn’t it obvious, my King?" Though his features were gradually fading, the young man smiled and raised his hand, pointing in turn at Artoria, Jeanne d’Arc, Atalanta, and Sieg, his gaze gentle.

"You all... are the reason."

Early spring, clear skies, gentle breeze.

The final casualty of the Great Holy Grail War—Blue Assassin Sakatsuki—exited the stage with the Greater Grail.

All matters resolved, the world at peace.

Congratulations all around.