He Tore Through The Holy Grail War, And You Still Call Him A Dragon?

"Incredible."

Rikio wiped the blood from his ancient blade, kicking aside a severed red oni's head. Its hulking body collapsed limply by the roadside.

Fangs, horns, warped bodies… nothing like any Dead Apostle. These were the forms of oni from legend, as if he had been cast back into the Heian era, when demons roamed unchecked.

The cuts were clean—proof of his sharp edge.

But truthfully, he had only been playing support.

A short distance away, his younger brother Rikino fought like a tempest. With only that Silver Arm, he cut through monsters like Watanabe no Tsuna himself, mowing them down as easily as fallen leaves.

Rikio, by contrast, found it difficult. His ancient blade couldn't pierce their hides; at best, his words could restrain their movements.

Still, the world was becoming stranger and stranger—first a Holy Grail War, Servants summoned from legend, and now demons made flesh.

…Yet he had no time to dwell on it. Time was precious.

"Miyamoto-dono, is Kaguya-hime's anomaly report finished?"

Rikio's role wasn't at the frontlines anymore, but in command.

…Between father and sons, he was already falling behind. Better to accept it, and find his place as coordinator.

He had deployed their clan—especially the Miyamoto family and geological experts—to assist Charlotte in probing the "leylines."

She claimed to be a prodigy of the Clock Tower. Rikio had never heard the title, but she had healed his brother's arm, so he honored his promise.

Next, he contacted Miyamoto Shio, head of the family, who had long been optimizing the super AI, Kaguya-hime.

What he needed most now was real-time data. Ever since gods had begun staging accidents and massacres, their clan had built a rapid-response system. Kaguya-hime monitored the nation's networks and sensors, feeding back constant updates.

Meanwhile, his father Uesugi had gone to contact the Holy Church, and an old friend—Angers. Only now did Rikio learn their late Shadow Emperor had ties to the Secret Party's leader.

Normally they would never trust such interference, but now? Pride meant nothing. Even the eight heads of Orochi could not face a crisis like this alone.

No proof was needed—only a god could orchestrate such catastrophe.

"Patriarch, we've compiled the results," Miyamoto Shio's calm voice came through the comms.

"In short, the 'black mist field' has already spread from Tokyo to the surrounding satellite cities—Saitama, Chiba, Kanagawa—consuming the entire Kanto metropolitan zone."

Tokyo's sprawl, the "Tokyo Sphere," encompassed one capital and seven prefectures, tens of thousands of square kilometers. With Yokohama, Kawasaki, Sagami, dozens of districts, towns, and villages, the reach was far greater still.

"It's expanded this much already…"

Rikio knew from Uesugi about the "Night Banquet of Yomi," but even so, no Nibelungen should cover more than Tokyo alone.

The Grail War was spiraling out of control.

"Contact the Secret Party immediately."

"Eh? After what we did, you still want to call HQ?" Miyamoto Shio was surprised—referring to the incident with the Academy expulsion.

"We don't need HQ. Contact Angers. He's here, in Tokyo."

——

Fingel felt like a puppet.

"Hurry, hurry! Shoulder plates, gauntlets—locked in!"

"Michael's core fit complete! Ready to start at any time!"

A swarm of white coats bustled around him, strapping ugly, bloated parts onto his body. His burly frame only looked more ridiculous inside the obese machine.

Fingel wanted to cry. Not a full suit, but piece by piece? What if it fell apart mid-battle!?

"Fool! You don't understand our devotion to Michael! The Morning Star fell, and the archangel descends with a flaming sword to slay the dragon!"

Director Arcadura crossed himself like a zealot.

Fingel gritted his teeth, gripping his twin blades beneath the armor. Flaming sword? Those were his Murder Flame Blades!

And Arcadura—a Christian now? He'd abandoned his old faith?

Arcadura sneered back. A mutt like Fingel could never grasp the supreme romance of a super robot. Faith itself was nothing compared to mecha.

"How's the prep?"

Angers entered, folding knife in hand. "Nibelungen is encroaching. The longer this drags on, the worse our position."

The message was clear: hurry.

"Headmaster!" Fingel pleaded, "I don't want this! It ruins my… uh, my agility! What if it runs out of juice halfway!?"

Arcadura barked back, "Impossible! Michael has years of testing! Output above S-class hybrids, full-speed range over 500 kilometers, dual backup cores—"

"—Wait. Years of testing?"

Angers' eyes narrowed. "So you've been embezzling board funds to build this behind our backs?"

Arcadura choked like a strangled duck, unable to deny it.

At the crucial moment, Deputy Karl stepped in.

"Headmaster, based on your intel, we contacted Norma. With full meteorological surveys, we confirmed signs of the 'Great Tide' and 'Black Moon.'"

He continued, "Persistent storm clouds for days, abnormal sea retreat near Tokyo Bay—classic tsunami precursors. With satellite and Coast Guard data, we projected both timing and impact."

Perfect topic shift.

Angers raised a brow. "Oh? My old friend Uesugi told me similar tales. I thought they were folklore."

Indeed, Uesugi said the ancient texts spoke thus: continuous rain heralds the opening of Yomi's Banquet. Water is the medium bridging worlds. When it fully opens, the tide washes cities away beneath a blackened moon.

The "Tide of the Black Moon."

"All right, I see the tide. But where's the moon?"

"Please watch."

Karl switched on a projector. The room darkened, a crimson-black image flickering to life.

In the mist stood a scarlet column, like a towering trunk. Its roots tangled in pulsing knots, alive.

At its crown—a black, circular hole.

Then the screen went black.

"Our new drone captured this before it was destroyed. Location: Bunkyō district."

Angers stroked his chin. "…So that is the 'Black Moon'?"

——

Before Shirou's message arrived, Nono dreamed.

She wandered a mist of blood, down Yomi's ancient path. From a throne above, she saw legions of souls crawling like ants, passing endless crimson torii gates toward her.

The gates twisted like roots.

At her side— a throne of veins and gore, built from corpses, crowned in blood. Souls wailed within its pillars, feeding it like living sacrifices.

Above sat a god of death.

Long crimson hair streamed as the god reached toward the black hole in the sky.

Wait—she was that god? First-person vision?

The divine sleeves spread like wings. The left, painted with sun, life, and dreams; the right, moon, bones, and eternal Yomi.

Amaterasu. Tsukuyomi.

But beneath the white robe gleamed a brilliant colored gown—yet crawling with maggots. A funeral shroud.

The truth was clear.

The Mother of Creation. Izanami.

"Let the rite begin!"

Thunder roared—the cry of the Eight Thunder Gods. Souls were herded through the torii, cast into a crimson pool.

Most were mindless. Some shrieked in agony.

One soul in particular caught her eye.

Its pale face was sewn to a black-and-white noble mask. When it tried to tear free, stitches ripped its flesh, oozing bloody ichor.

"No—you can't do this to me!" it screamed, before a black hand dragged it into the pool.

"I ruled the Eight Houses! I commanded the Oni! I was this nation's shadow! I should have seized the throne and ruled the world! You all—mere fodder! Damn it, this isn't my fate!"

Even in death, its will was fierce. Desire, rage, refusal to yield.

Which only made the torment worse.

All souls alike became fuel for the throne, fused into its base, raising it higher toward the hole in the sky.

Nono shivered.

…That mask looked familiar.

(End of Chapter)

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