Fate: But This Is Not Solomon I Know!

(P.S: I'm currently rushing to write, so there will be a lot of flaws and lack of polish. My apologies, everyone — I'm just trying to finish this chapter quickly since I don't have much time due to overtime work. Hope you understand.)

Fuyuki – Miyama Town, inside an ancient opera house beneath the veil of night.

One by one, the lights flickered on, illuminating a grand, dust-laden stage — as if once filled with hundreds of spectators, but now only two figures remained:

A man in white-and-gold armor seated at the center, and a woman tightly bound, left alone in a silent spotlight, like an actor trapped in a dead play.

Irisviel — silver-white hair disheveled — was strapped to a steel chair in the center of the stage. Her hands, bruised red from the bindings, trembled as she struggled, only worsening the tears in her skin.

She clenched her jaw tight, eyes brimming with fury, glaring directly at the man opposite her — a figure clad in white-and-gold armor, lazily straddling a chair backward, arms resting over its back as though enjoying a private performance.

Zoth.

Behind the orange glow of his compound visor, his dark brown eyes studied her — not with sympathy, but with the cold scrutiny one might give a hazardous object.

He had just glimpsed a possible future from the Omni Force — a distorted timeline.

In that vision, when Irisviel died, her body was absorbed by the Greater Grail. It was her death that triggered the activation of the Lesser Holy Grail.

But the true tragedy… wasn't the Grail itself.

It was what emerged from within it.

A pool of black-red sludge boiled violently, spewing out of the Grail like poison from the underworld. And from within that mud rose a shapeless entity.

Not Angra Mainyu — but no less terrifying.

Something dark.

Twisted.

Unidentifiable.

And deeply, deeply wrong.

Zoth narrowed his eyes. His voice echoed across the empty theater, cold as ice:

"Hey, Homunculus… answer me.

In the Third Holy Grail War — Einzbern summoned a Servant of the Avenger class, didn't you?"

Irisviel stiffened slightly. Her ruby eyes flashed with surprise — but she quickly regained her composure and shook her head.

"No… we never summoned anything like an 'Avenger.'"

She tilted her head slightly, voice quiet but sharp as a blade:

"What the hell are you talking about?

We only used the standard system.

There was no divergence like you're suggesting."

Zoth fell silent. He lowered his head, tapping a rhythmic beat on the chair's armrest.

Click… click… click…

"So… none of you… even knew what door you were opening…"

He looked up. His gaze now blazed brighter, and though his voice remained calm, it was laced with killing intent:

"Or are you just pretending not to know?"

The stage lights flickered faintly — as if the very theater trembled under the weight of some coming, monstrous wind.

Red static crackled like miniature thunder in the dry air, slithering like serpents across Zoth's armor. A silent, suffocating pressure filled the room — oppressive, destructive.

The red lenses of his helmet glowed with intensity, as though piercing straight through Irisviel's soul.

Zoth raised his hand. Caladbolg materialized with a sharp metallic screech, and he pointed its tip directly at Irisviel. His voice dropped like a hammer:

"Tell me the truth.

In the Third War — what the hell did Einzbern really summon?"

Irisviel pressed her lips together. Her red eyes didn't waver, staring back without fear.

She replied, calm and steady in the tense silence that stretched like a string ready to snap:

"I don't know...

All I heard was that Old Man Acht summoned a Berserker.

As for his identity… no one knew."

Zoth sneered, the corners of his mouth curling in disdain:

"You think I'm stupid?

Drop the act — you broke the rules.

You summoned an Avenger, didn't you? That thing… that couldn't have been a Berserker."

Irisviel shook her head. Her voice sharpened, resolute:

"No!

There was no rule-breaking.

We truly summoned a Berserker — not an Avenger!"

Zoth's eyes narrowed. His grip on the sword tightened.

From what the Omni Force showed him — or more accurately, refused to show him — something from that war was being hidden.

He activated the Omni Visions, focusing on the year 1930 — the time the Third Holy Grail War began.

But all he saw…

Was thick gray fog, hanging like a protective barrier, impenetrable.

A chill ran down his spine.

It wasn't just "not shown."

It was deliberately obscured.

Something had twisted time at that point.

"No way…

Not Angra Mainyu…

Then what the hell was it that they summoned back then?"

Just as his thoughts spiraled—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Fireworks exploded in the Fuyuki sky.

No pattern. No ritual.

Just wild blasts — as if sending a signal.

A cry of desperation… or provocation.

Zoth chuckled softly — as if he'd expected this.

He stood, kicking the chair with a casual strike that shattered it against the stage tiles.

Resting one hand on his hip, he looked down at Irisviel with a lazy grin:

"Anyway~, you better get ready…

Because today… is your final day."

Irisviel said nothing. She lowered her head, quiet.

From the beginning, she had known — she was just a vessel, a tool.

Her only regret…

Was that Kiritsugu would blame himself.

And Illya… would be left all alone in the Einzbern castle in Germany.

Suddenly—

KRAAASHH!!

A car smashed through the theater wall. Its wheels screeched across the shattered stage.

Black smoke billowed upward — the body of the vehicle wrapped in dark energy threaded with crackling red lightning.

The door flew open — and out stepped a knight in pitch-black armor. An ominous aura swirled around him like demonic mist.

Behind him… a small blue-haired boy, face smudged with dirt but eyes still shining with innocent wonder.

"Ah! Ruler-nii!"

Shinji shouted excitedly upon seeing Zoth. He ran over and clung to the man's leg like a child greeting his big brother.

"Big bro! Do you know why papa and Uncle Kariya left me here?

Did I… do something wrong?"

Zoth looked down at the boy and laughed, ruffling his hair. Shinji's messy locks spiked in all directions under the gesture.

His voice softened — no longer cold, but oddly casual, almost conversational:

"Didn't you say you wanted to get stronger?

Didn't you like that Shikkoku sword?"

He crouched slightly, placing a hand on Shinji's shoulder, his tone low and deliberate:

"I had them leave you here because…

I'm going to train you.

To become a real swordsman, Shinji."

Shinji furrowed his brow, pointing a small finger to his own chest in confusion:

"Me… a swordsman?"

Zoth nodded — fast and firm, like slicing wind. No time for Shinji to object:

"Yep! A swordsman~!

Didn't you say you wanted power?

You may only have one Magic Circuit — but your body already outclasses most third-rate magi out there."

He stepped closer, hand gripping Shinji's shoulder with quiet intensity. Behind the visor, his red eyes flashed like a blade:

"So be ready.

After tonight… your life's going to change completely."

Shinji gulped.

Only God knew what kind of madness this "Ruler" had planned again.

Just a few months ago, Zoth had tricked him into a "test" that tortured both body and soul. He was a wreck for a full week afterward.

Shinji began to shrink away — but—

BOOM!!

A golden portal burst open in the middle of the seating rows — blinding light pouring out like it burned the soul itself.

From within stepped a figure of regal dominance —

Golden armor gleaming, blonde hair flaring upward like fire, and blood-red eyes like those of a divine serpent.

"Hmph… Mongrel."

"Planning another farce, are you?"

Gilgamesh's voice rang out, cold and sharp with contempt.

He made no effort to hide his disgust — Zoth's presence was filth, an affront to the world itself.

"Let's see what pathetic scheme you're weaving this time."

Zoth smirked. Just a crooked, knowing grin — as if he had the entire board under his control.

He drew a brown Wonder Ride Book, flipping it open with a crisp snap. A swirling black-blue portal tore open beside him.

Without another word, he grabbed Shinji like a kitten and—

"Go have fun in Wonder World for a bit, kid.

Once I'm done cleaning up this Holy Grail mess… we'll talk."

"AAAGH!! Ruler-nii! You tricked me again aaaa!!"

Shinji flailed wildly as he was tossed through the gate. It snapped shut behind him with a crisp clack, and a cold wind swept through the theater — as if swallowing the boy whole.

Zoth turned around, his eyes glowing blood-red as a torrent of crimson Aura erupted from his body, spiraling into the air like a storm of murderous intent.

Caladbolg burned with energy in his hand, his mocking voice rang out like a war god's provocation:

"C'mon now~ Pika!

If you've got the guts, come at me…

Today, I'm looting a national treasure!"

BOOM!!

Without warning, Zoth swung Caladbolg horizontally, sending a blood-red wave of sword energy screaming through the air, tearing through the wind straight toward Gilgamesh.

BOOM!!!

The stage exploded, dust and rubble flying everywhere, bricks raining down—but as the smoke cleared…

Gil stood tall—like a god, not a single speck of dust on his golden cloak.

A vein bulged on his forehead, his eyes flared with fury, his voice roaring with wrath:

"MONGREL!!

You dare blaspheme me again?!

AN UNFORGIVABLE CRIME!!"

BOOM!!

A swarm of Babylon Gates burst open around him like golden fireflies, divine treasures screaming out with the intent to shred Zoth into dust.

Vwoosh! Vwoosh! Vwoosh!

Zoth leapt upward, stepping on air like stairs, smashing through the theater roof, launching into the sky.

From below, Gil narrowed his eyes, then—BOOM!!!

The Gates of Babylon spilled out behind him like a golden sea of infinite weapons—100? 1,000? No one could count.

Divine weapons fired upward, lighting the sky like a meteor shower of forged death.

High above—Zoth smirked, hand on his Driver.

He closed the Omni Force book, and a cold, mechanical voice echoed from his belt:

[Omnimus Loading...]

Zoth raised his arm and struck the Driver twice, the Omni Force roared like thunder as its pages flipped:

[Solomon Stlash!!]

"Don't think you're the only one who can spam flying weapons!!"

Zoth swung Caladbolg, and the space behind him tore open—revealing a colossal book: the true form of Omni Force.

It opened wide, pages glowing with divine light, and from within, hundreds of Caladbolg replicas launched out like crimson comets toward the earth.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!!

Two barrages—Gil's Noble Phantasms and Zoth's phantom blades—collided midair, detonating like miniature nuclear blasts.

The entire city of Fuyuki shook.

The sky cracked red, the ground trembled, windows shattered, shockwaves surged.

There were no spectators—only two monsters turning the city into a mythic battlefield.

The Fuyuki night sky burned: on one side, the golden constellations of Babylon Gates, on the other, a colossal blood-red grimoire glowing like a demonic god.

Two lords of arsenals—Zoth and Gilgamesh—fired wave after wave as if to set the world ablaze.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!!

Each impact between blade and treasure shattered the air. Fire, smoke, and light tore through the night, turning Miyama theater into a divine bombardment zone.

Floating midair, Zoth's helmet eyes burned crimson, his white-and-gold armor crackling with red lightning, mana surging like a volcanic eruption.

Suddenly… he loosened his body and let himself fall like a meteor toward the ground.

BOOOOM!!

Air shattered as he dropped, wind compressed into shockwaves. His cloak flared open like devil wings, black-gold energy flaring from his back and sweeping the sky.

Zoth let out a roar, pouring all his power into Caladbolg. A massive red halo enveloped the blade as he struck down:

"DIE—GILGAMESH!!"

Gilgamesh didn't dodge.

He raised his hand, and a Babylon Gate opened beside him. Slowly, a dual-bladed sword emerged—Enki—ancient gold etched with divine runes, sucking the light from its surroundings.

BOOM!!

The two swords collided. Thunder roared from their clash, a golden-red shockwave sphere blasted outward, tearing up the ground and obliterating nearby buildings.

No more words.

No more ranged attacks.

Only blood, steel, and pure battle instinct remained.

The two clashed like fallen stars breaking from orbit.

Shhk!! — Enki swung horizontally, Gil slashing straight at Zoth's left side. But Zoth twisted, raising Caladbolg high to knock the strike away.

Clang! Clang! CLANG! — Steel rang against steel like the bells of death.

Each blow carried enough force to cleave a fortress in half, yet neither fought with a care for their own lives.

Zoth slid past Gil, unleashing a sweeping half-moon slash.

Gil stepped back half a pace, twisted Enki in his grip and counter-thrust toward Zoth's chest—but Zoth parried sideways, and his knee shot up, slamming into Gil's stomach.

Gil stepped back, brow furrowing, his eyes flashing like a provoked beast.

"Hmph… Mongrel.

Didn't expect you'd still have the strength to force this king into a real duel…

Or is it that you're hoping to die a glorious death by my hand?"

Zoth chuckled darkly, voice raspy like a delighted monster:

"I just want to prove one thing…

That even a King like you—

Without your little toys from that vault of yours—

is nothing but a golden paper prince with an ego the size of a black hole."

Gil's eyes widened. Divine aura surged from behind him, golden energy swirling violently around his form, radiating outward like crushing divine pressure.

"You—MONGREL!!

YOU DARE SAY THAT TO YOUR KING?!"

BOOOOM!!!

Gil stomped forward, the ground beneath his feet exploding, and his whole body rocketed forth like thunder. Enki slashed wide, cleaving the air in two.

Zoth twisted midair, raising Caladbolg vertically — CLANG!! — blades collided, spewing sparks of red and gold magic. A nearby row of buildings exploded from the shock.

They were colliding like celestial bodies—

Each strike a cleave at fate itself.

On one side: golden pride incarnate — the King who bows to no one.

On the other: a bloodstained deviant — laughing through ruin and chaos.

The air around them shattered.

The ground no longer held shape.

Each step ignited an explosion. Each clash of steel triggered a localized quake.

---

Meanwhile, beneath the ground.

Dust and shards from the collapsing ceiling rained down like ashen snow.

Overhead, the clashing of steel and thunderous explosions echoed like the roars of gods tearing the sky asunder in a holy war.

Artoria dashed through a narrow corridor, her steps swift and resolute.

Excalibur gripped tightly in her hand, her eyes locked on the only thing that mattered to her:

"Irisviel…! Please hold on just a bit longer… I will reach you!"

But as she turned a corner—

BOOM!!

A black mass came crashing down from the ceiling like a meteorite.

The impact of armored weight against the stone floor shook the earth, like the land itself groaning under the weight of unresolved regrets.

Cracks spidered through the tiles. Dust churned into the air.

And from within the smoky haze, a figure emerged —

Clad in pitch-black armor, forged as if from the night itself. His breath was heavy, seething, furious — like a beast too long chained, finally unleashed.

In his hands: a corrupted sword, and a broken, bloodstained lance.

And with only a glimpse — with just a single glance at that sword —

Artoria knew exactly who it was.

Lancelot du Lac.

No light was needed to confirm it —

those red, veined eyes, overflowing with a millennium of unresolved pain, said it all.

She froze. Her whole body tensed.

Fingers clenched tighter around Excalibur's hilt.

"...Lancelot…"

The Berserker gave no reply.

Only a low, guttural growl — filled with rage and helplessness —

like a scream choked by the sins of the dead.

"You stand in my way? Why?

Even now… mindless as you are…

you still choose to block my path?"

There was no answer.

Only a roar —

raw and broken, dragged up from the pits of hell itself —

the cry of a soul rotting in honor and betrayal.

Then Lancelot let loose a howl and charged like a wraith of wrath.

BOOOOM!!

Their blades clashed, sparks of metal igniting the darkness.

Artoria pivoted, drawing Excalibur just in time to block the incoming tempest of blows.

But the raw strength behind Berserker's strikes sent her skidding back three steps, boots screeching across the stone and carving deep grooves into the floor.

Clang! Clang! CLANG!

Sword and lance collided relentlessly.

One side: the madness of a fallen knight.

The other: the cold clarity of a king who could not afford weakness.

"Lancelot! Can you still hear me?! STOP!! I don't want to fight you!!"

But he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

This fury was the cost of the past.

A punishment he had chosen to bear—forever.

A lance thrust — Artoria evaded. Counterstrike — she swung down.

BOOM!!

Lancelot caught the descending blade with his bare hand!

His gauntlet shattered. Black blood burst from his palm.

He didn't flinch. He didn't fall back.

The bloodstained lance swept wide — slammed into Artoria's side.

She was hurled into the wall, stone cracking apart on impact.

She braced herself with one hand, pushing off the floor.

Blood trailed from the corner of her lips.

But her eyes… still burned with resolve.

"You were… the one I trusted the most…"

She steadied her breath, dropped into a lower stance, both hands gripping Excalibur.

Faint greenish-gold light began to gather along its edge.

"If there's no path left for you to return…

then let me end your pain—

as a friend… and as your king."

Lancelot roared again.

But this time, it was no longer meaningless rage.

It was the voice of a soul begging to be freed from its sins.

They charged once more.

No more defense.

No more restraint.

Just two knights who once stood side by side—

now driving their blades into one another in the dark—

to sever a bond torn apart by destiny and regrets that would never wash clean.

Just as Lancelot's spear was a breath away from piercing Artoria's shoulder—

CLANG!!

A crimson spear shot forth like lightning, deflecting the incoming thrust with a shriek of steel sharp as thunder.

A figure spun through the air—

Armored boots landed with perfect precision, delivering a powerful kick straight to Berserker's gut, sending him flying into the stone wall.

BOOM!!

The wall shook. Stones shattered.

Lancelot slammed his lance into the ground to stop his roll, lifting his head slowly.

His blood-red eyes locked onto the one who had intervened.

It was him.

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne — Lancer.

He stood firm, twin spears twirling into a ready stance, his face calm but resolute.

Eyes locked onto Lancelot with unwavering intent.

A faint smile curled at the edge of his lips.

"Saber, that was a bit careless of you."

Artoria looked at him, eyebrows tightening, her gaze flashing a mixture of surprise and guarded tension.

"Lancer… While I appreciate your help, this is a battle between Knights of the Round.

I cannot accept you interfering."

Diarmuid froze briefly.

His eyes flickered — then he gave a small, respectful nod, his expression hardening once more.

"I see.

Forgive me for my intrusion…"

"…If this is a battle between knights bound by a long-dead ideal—then I shall not interfere."

Artoria exhaled softly, her body easing just slightly.

She gave a small nod, then fixed her gaze on him.

Her voice, slow but firm, carried the gravity of command and the sincerity of trust:

"Lancer, I have a request."

"Speak," Diarmuid replied without hesitation.

"Irisviel has been captured by the Ruler. She's being held somewhere within this theater complex…

I ask of you—please, help me save her."

Diarmuid's brow furrowed.

He glanced toward the dark corridor leading deeper into the backstage.

"Saber… why do you trust me?"

"You're not afraid I'll kill her?"

Artoria was silent for a beat.

Then she raised her head, offering a faint but deeply genuine smile.

Not the smile of a king — but of a human being placing her faith in another.

"Because I do trust you.

I believe in the chivalry that lives in your heart.

I believe that Diarmuid Ua Duibhne would never harm an innocent soul."

Diarmuid stared at her.

The look lingered — as if weighing her words, testing her heart…

Or perhaps remembering the days when he once swore upon honor and love alike.

Finally, he gave a bitter smile.

"Then I can't betray that trust."

He turned away and sprinted forward.

His crimson cloak flared behind him, then vanished into the darkness like a red arrow flying into the abyss of the theater's depths.

And now — only two remained.

A King.

And a Fallen Knight.

Lancelot growled low, rising to his feet once more.

Artoria stepped forward, raising Excalibur high.

No more interference.

No more chains.

Only a battle left unfinished —

Between two who once stood side by side,

now forced to drive each other to the edge of fate.

---

Inside the theater — at the main stage.

Diarmuid charged in like a gust of wind.

On the iron chair at the center of the stage, Irisviel sat — her white hair drenched, body bound tightly by black chains that coiled like venomous serpents.

Runes glowed dimly along their length, suppressing both her will and magical power.

"Hold on." Diarmuid gritted his teeth, wasting no time as he swung Gáe Dearg down to strike the chains.

CLANG!!

The spear bounced back, sparks flying.

The chains merely quivered — unbroken.

High-tier magic. A living barrier.

He clenched his jaw and struck again.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Lancer?"

A voice rang out from behind — cold, furious — like metal grinding against stone.

Diarmuid turned.

On the balcony above stood Kenneth El-Melloi Archibald, posture rigid like a bronze statue, both fists clenched pale.

Diarmuid bowed his head slightly, his voice low:

"I wish to aid Saber… to save this girl, my Master."

Kenneth's face twisted as if he'd just heard a cruel joke.

"You… helping the enemy?"

He roared — fury and contempt pouring from every word.

"What the hell is going on in that empty skull of yours, Lancer!? HAVE YOU GONE MAD!?"

Diarmuid said nothing. His face remained still — but his eyes were heavy.

"Because… of chivalry."

Only four words, whispered like a breeze. But to Kenneth, it was gasoline on a blaze.

"Chivalry, my ass! THIS IS WAR!!

THE HOLY GRAIL WAR!

Not some morality play for you to show off your pathetic sense of loyalty!"

His shout cut like blades.

Then Kenneth raised his left arm — where two Command Seals glowed, red and twisted like a cursed brand.

"If you can't act like a Servant… THEN I'LL FORCE YOU TO."

Diarmuid paled.

His pupils shrank. He took a half-step back and whispered:

"Don't… please don't use the Command Seal…"

But Kenneth only smiled — a cruel, twisted grin.

"You want to play the noble knight?

THEN KILL THE EINZBERN DOLL, LANCER!!"

"---!!"

Fsshh!!

The first Command Seal vanished in a burst of red light.

Mana whipped out like a soul-burning whip.

Diarmuid's body trembled — he tried to resist —

but his knees buckled.

He turned like a marionette with broken joints — his face contorted in pain, his hand trembling violently.

Gáe Dearg raised against his will — its tip shaking.

He struggled… but the Command Seal's decree was absolute.

"NO!!!"

Thk—!!

The spear pierced Irisviel's chest.

A strangled gasp escaped her throat.

Blood gushed out in a dark crimson arc, painting the stage like the final frame of a tragic play.

Her homunculus body went limp — the light in her eyes faded to gray.

Diarmuid let the spear fall.

He staggered backward like a sleepwalker.

Then he looked up at Kenneth and screamed — like a beast whose soul had just been torn away:

"YOU…!! YOU CALL THIS VICTORY!?"

"VICTORY BOUGHT BY TRAMPLING MY HONOR?!"

"WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM A LOYAL DOG LIKE ME!?"

Kenneth merely scoffed, his eyes narrowing in scorn.

"Shut your mouth. You're just a tool — a pawn in my hand.

Tools don't get to talk back."

As the two argued — something began to seep from Irisviel's corpse.

Thick, dark sludge oozed out from her chest.

From where her heart had been, a golden chalice slowly emerged, hovering mid-air —

the Holy Grail.

But then—

From within the Grail, a flood of black sludge erupted, boiling and expanding, surging off the stage and engulfing the entire theater.

"What…!?" Kenneth recoiled in horror.

But before he could flee, the black mud rushed forward, swallowing his legs before he had a chance to escape.

"AGGHHH!!" Kenneth screamed in pure agony — but it was too late.

The muck quickly devoured both him and Lancer, dragging them into the darkness.

From the abyss of the tar, glowing symbols began to surface —

lines of flickering code, pulsing like ritual commands, spread across the theater like a virus.

And from within the sludge —

a figure slowly stepped out.

Brown hair, slightly tousled.

Deep blue eyes gazing up at the ceiling.

He surveyed the chaos with calm detachment —

then muttered in a cold, emotionless voice:

"Confirmation: successfully ejected from the Greater Grail."

"Terrain analysis: Fuyuki Theater, Miyama Town."

"Data retrieval: Current year — 1994. Fourth Holy Grail War in progress."

"Mission review: Order from Master — eliminate Assassin… mission failed."

"Reinitializing mission: victory… confirmed."

The man raised his hand. Immediately, the black sludge spread like a surging tide, beginning to swallow everything in its path.

BOOM!!

From the Fuyuki Theater, the mud erupted from the Grail like a black deluge, engulfing the entire Miyama town in darkness.

Zoth and Gilgamesh, currently engaged in battle, instantly sensed the anomaly. Both shot into the air to evade. Zoth hovered mid-air while Gil stood firm on Vimana, both staring down at the tide of mud devouring the land below.

Elsewhere, Artoria and Lancelot were also forced to halt their clash. They leapt up, landing atop a nearby rooftop, watching the black sludge spreading like a plague.

Half the town had already been swallowed by the thick, pitch-dark mud. Screams echoed everywhere, mixed with wails of tortured souls being dragged into darkness.

Zoth clenched his fists. His dark brown eyes flared orange — activating [Omni Visions] to track the full situation. Unable to hold back his rage, he roared:

"Goddamn it!!! Kenneth! What the hell did you eat to get this dumb?!!"

Gilgamesh scowled, pulling out Sha Naqba Imuru, glancing at the data flooding across the divine weapon. He scoffed in contempt:

"Mongrel remains a mongrel… idiotic to the bone."

From the ruins of the theater, a figure slowly emerged. He wore a black-and-white formal suit, lined with blood-red patterns that pulsed like living veins along the stitching — a presence both elegant and eerie. His lifeless deep blue eyes stared blankly ahead as if piercing through reality. His long brown hair flowed in the gloomy breeze, and his steps landed directly atop the black mud — as if it were sacred ground.

Glowing characters flickered around him, exuding a pressure that made all the present Servants shudder involuntarily.

Artoria, not far away, couldn't help but mutter, her voice trembling slightly:

"Berserker…? No way… how is he—"

Hearing that, Zoth turned toward the distant, ruined building where Artoria stood. His brows furrowed in confusion.

"Hey, Saber. You know him?"

Artoria nodded. She tightened her grip on Excalibur, eyes locked on the shadow below.

"I do. He was the Berserker of the Third Holy Grail War. Back then, I was summoned by the Edelfelt twins... I vaguely remember there being two Sabers — myself, and another version of me."

She swallowed hard. The fear in her voice was undeniable; her gaze full of unhidden dread:

"That war... was a nightmare I never wanted to recall. When he fought Assassin, it was as if all of Fuyuki was about to be erased. But then, Assassin managed to kill him... and became the final victor."

Zoth narrowed his eyes at the figure below. Behind his helmet, his gaze now carried suspicion and alertness.

The man suddenly looked up. His deep blue eyes instantly turned blood-red, sweeping coldly across all present Servants as he spoke in a flat, emotionless voice:

"Analysis: Total of four Servants present."

"Calculation: Eliminate all."

At his waist, a swirl of black-red sludge spun, glyphs appearing midair. From within them, a device formed — a Driver.

Zoth's eyes widened behind his helmet, unable to hide his shock.

"Huh?! What the hell is that?"

From behind him, the man drew a familiar device — one Zoth recognized instantly. He flipped a switch.

A sinister, mechanical voice rang out:

[Ark–One.]

Zoth froze. His eyes widened in disbelief:

"What the hell?! A Progrise Key?! How…? How the hell is that here?!"

The man raised his head, red eyes locking onto Zoth. Coldly, he uttered:

"Henshin."

He slammed the Progrise Key into the Driver. The belt snapped sideways, unlocking its transformation mechanism — forming a red-and-white belt, with a blood-like crimson core at the center.

[Singurize!]

[Destruction, ruin, despair — bring extinction.]

[Conclusion One.]

BOOM!!!

A torrent of black sludge erupted, engulfing his entire body. From within the flood, pieces of armor slowly formed, covering him from head to toe. As the sludge dissipated, a fully armored figure stepped forth.

Kamen Rider Ark–One.

The white-and-black armor clashed violently in contrast, the chest lined with coagulated blood-red markings. One side of the helmet was torn open, exposing cold, mechanical parts underneath. His dual crimson eyes blazed in the dark, surrounded by floating symbols — exuding pure malice and despair.

Zoth stood frozen.

This wasn't All the World's Evil of Angra Mainyu...

It wasn't the Grail's corruption...

This was the Primordial Evil born from humanity itself.