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Moonlight streamed through the shattered ceiling of the hotel suite.
The once-elegant room, its crystal chandelier now reduced to fragments scattered across the floor, was in ruins. The television, the tea table, the sofa—all sliced and broken, their remains—wood splinters, shards of glass, torn leather—littering the dust-covered tile floor.
Water dripped onto the tiles, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room.
Lancelot knelt, wiping the blood from his eyes—a deep gash on his forehead, the white of his skull visible beneath.
His blue hair, slightly curled, stirred in the breeze. His helmet, split in two, lay discarded nearby. His blue armor, scarred and dented, was a testament to the battle's ferocity.
Diarmuid stood before him, his bare chest, sculpted with eight perfectly defined abdominal muscles, covered in shallow cuts, blood welling up, forming droplets that fell to the floor.
"You've lost," Diarmuid said, his voice flat, a hint of—melancholy in it.
Though he'd successfully completed his Master's task, he felt no sense of triumph. This victory hadn't been earned through skill.
"Lancelot du Lac. I never thought—the Grail would summon you." A flicker of regret crossed Diarmuid's face.
Servants were Heroic Spirits, their legends and deeds echoing through time, their existence sustained by the faith of those who remembered them.
And Lancelot—his legend, his fame, was considered by many to be the inspiration for Diarmuid's own.
Therefore, Diarmuid held a natural advantage over Lancelot, a subtle edge granted by the very belief that the original surpassed the copy.
Otherwise, their duel, a clash of skills honed over centuries, should have been a prolonged battle of attrition, not a swift, decisive victory in a matter of minutes.
"I am defeated." Lancelot bowed his head, baring his neck to Diarmuid.
Though he'd lost due to a—technicality, a quirk of faith, it was still a loss. And as a defeated knight, he offered himself to Diarmuid's judgment, adhering to the code of chivalry.
"Then—farewell." Diarmuid raised Móralltach, preparing to deliver the final blow.
"By my Command Spell, I order you, Diarmuid—cease your attack." Kayneth's voice, strained and filled with frustration, echoed in Diarmuid's mind.
"As you command, Master." Diarmuid sheathed his sword, his face impassive.
Lancelot's ears twitched, a look of shame on his face. He knew Kiritsugu had intervened.
Diarmuid turned to leave.
"Continue, if you wish. Against us, Servants manifested in our true forms—a Command Spell is but a—temporary inconvenience," he said, his voice laced with suppressed anger.
Lancelot's fist slammed into the floor, his fury at Kiritsugu's interference barely contained.
The Origin Bullet was Kiritsugu Emiya's trump card, the source of his reputation as the Magus Killer.
Crafted from one of his own ribs, it materialized his Origin, his very essence—Severing and Binding.
It didn't cause external wounds or bleeding. Instead, upon striking its target, it severed the connections between nerves and muscles, then reconnected them in a chaotic, randomized pattern.
For a Magician, the most terrifying aspect of the Origin Bullet was its effect on Magic Circuits. A single hit could destroy a mage, stripping them of their power, turning them into a helpless invalid.
The only defense against an Origin Bullet was a physical barrier.
But Kiritsugu had crafted his bullets for use in an anti-tank rifle. Fired from such a weapon, they could pierce even the thickest armor.
He'd already damaged thirty-seven Magicians with his Origin Bullets. And now, he was about to add another to the list.
The bullet tore through the mercury shield, reaching Kayneth.
"What—?" Before Kayneth could react, he collapsed.
As pain surged through him, he realized he'd been shot. He tried to use a healing spell.
"My-my magical energy—My circuits...?" he whispered, his eyes wide with horror. He couldn't feel his magic. He couldn't feel anything below his neck.
The wall of Volumen Hydrargyrum disintegrated, the liquid mercury scattering across the hallway, transforming the narrow space into a shimmering, silver sea.
Kayneth was paralyzed in the pool of mercury, his body twitching involuntarily. Without his magic, he was as helpless as an infant.
Kiritsugu walked towards him, a pistol in his hand, the barrel aimed at Kayneth's forehead.
Though he'd wanted to recruit Diarmuid, to use him as a weapon, he'd failed to capture Sola-Ui, and now, with Kayneth damaged, their animosity was—irreversible.
To prevent Kayneth from using his Servant to seek revenge, Kiritsugu had no choice. He had to eliminate him, remove Diarmuid from the war.
"Call off your Servant," he said, his voice cold, sensing the faint—flickering connection to Lancelot through the Command Spells.
"Not a chance..." Kayneth gasped, his eyes filled with defiance. He'd become a cripple—a failure. He wanted to die.
Kiritsugu sighed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.
Lancelot seemed to have been defeated. If he killed Kayneth now, he'd face Diarmuid's wrath. But if he didn't—Kayneth, driven by despair, might try to take him down with him.
A thought struck Kiritsugu. "Sola-Ui..."
"If you touch her, you're dead. The full might of two of the Clock Tower's Lords will fall upon you." Kayneth's eyes widened, his voice a desperate cry.
Kiritsugu smirked. He'd been right. Kayneth had arrived looking—disheveled, his clothes torn. He hadn't seen Sola-Ui—fall.
"I have her," Kiritsugu said calmly, exhaling a plume of smoke.
Kayneth froze. Despite the arranged nature of their engagement, he'd fallen in love with Sola-Ui, the woman who'd elevated his status, who'd brought him closer to his ambitions. The thought of her—in this man's clutches—it was unbearable.
"By my Command Spell..." he began.
"An unfamiliar—ceiling..." Sola-Ui murmured, her voice weak.
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