Chapter 232: Holy Grail? Holy my ass!
Rowe's hand landed on Gilgamesh's head again, casual, unceremonious, like he was trying to pat the arrogance straight out of him.
For a heartbeat, Gilgamesh was simply stunned.
Then rage flooded in.
The crimson eyes narrowed, pupils tightening like a serpent's.
"You mong…"
"Mongrel?" Rowe cut in, deadpan. "Are you talking about yourself?"
"You goddamn…"
"What does my goddamn business have to do with your goddamn business?"
Gilgamesh choked.
He understood every word. He even understood the intent.
But put together, it was pure nonsense, as if profanity could breed and evolve into a new species.
Rowe's palm came down harder.
"Kid, you are still green."
The next instant, Gilgamesh dispersed into golden spirit particles and reformed several steps away.
A Servant was, in essence, a soul given shape. Dematerialization was as natural as breathing.
Rowe did not even blink.
"Mere stray dog," Gilgamesh sneered, fury still on his face. "No matter how long passes, your mouth still stinks."
A lock of golden hair had fallen over his forehead. His hair was a mess.
Rowe glanced down at the sinking street lamp with genuine regret, then straightened.
"No matter how much time passes, Gilgamesh still loves showing off."
Three thousand years, give or take.
In that span, neither had changed where it mattered.
In each other's eyes, the other was still the same.
"Idiot," Gilgamesh said, raising his middle finger.
Rowe returned the gesture without hesitation.
"Brain dead."
Gilgamesh laughed, sharp and arrogant.
"AHAHAHAHA. Fine, stray dog. Let this King see how much you have improved."
Rowe's smile thinned, amused rather than provoked.
"I cannot tell by looking."
"Then I suppose we fight."
Neither of them was in their prime.
Before Rowe fully stabilized the balance between his inner and outer existence, he would only use the ability he was presenting as the Sage of Uruk. The machina god and the chaos core would remain sealed for adjustment and control.
Gilgamesh, too, was not descending as a complete existence.
This was the young king, the fierce and brilliant Gilgamesh of the era when he walked beside Enkidu and first met Rowe.
For them, it was almost perfect.
They had fought alongside each other too often.
They had sparred too rarely.
"Come," Gilgamesh said, spreading his arms.
Behind him, golden ripples unfolded, one after another, like a sea made of treasure and authority. Weapons protruded from the light, swords, spears, blades of every shape.
Each one carried a condensed mystery.
Each one was a Noble Phantasm.
"As the crystallization of a Heroic Spirit's achievements, a solidified mystery given form," Kiritsugu Emiya murmured from the shadows, eyes narrowed. "Almost a trump card for most Servants."
His jaw tightened around the cigarette.
"And this king has that many?"
Even without his own Servant at his side, Kiritsugu could not simply leave. A Master chosen by the Greater Grail did not walk away from a wish that burned in the bones.
So he watched.
He stayed.
His gaze swept upward, and he spotted other eyes in the dark, other methods of surveillance.
Gem birds, condensed by Tohsaka magecraft, flitted above the river like jeweled spies.
Tokiomi Tohsaka watched through them, and despite the tension squeezing his chest, a bitter admiration surfaced.
So powerful.
If only he were obedient.
Behind Kirei, the Assassin hiding in the air gave a low laugh.
"A king who embraces the world holds countless weapons. That is power. That is authority."
Kirei's eyes did not leave the riverbank.
"Then how does the sage respond?"
The answer came, calm and certain.
"What the king holds is power."
"What the sage possesses is wisdom."
The first barrage struck.
On the banks of the Matsuensawa River, the stacked containers trembled, metal groaning as the shock ran through the ground. The Noble Phantasms behind Gilgamesh launched in a glittering storm.
Rowe's eyes narrowed.
Gold and red swirled in his pupils.
He watched every weapon.
Every trajectory.
Every fragment of condensed fantasy.
And he understood them.
He saw their True Names.
He saw the lines they would carve through the night.
Wisdom of the Oldest Sage, rank E through EX.
The wisdom of the oldest sage. The capacity to comprehend contemporary knowledge, languages, and to decipher information without hesitation.
If Gilgamesh's treasury contained prototypes for the achievements of mankind, then Rowe's wisdom could analyze the mysteries and technologies of an era as if they were open pages.
Power and wisdom.
Two answers to the same world.
Rowe stepped forward.
His robe shifted with the motion, controlled and minimal.
Light turned inside his eyes, as if he were staring at a door no one else could see.
Innate Skill: Key of Heaven, rank A.
A power acknowledged by the gods, allowing him to treat all things as doors, to open them, to close them, to seal them.
Sword light fell like rain.
Spear points flashed like a forest.
The king unleashed an unending storm of treasures.
The sage moved as if strolling through a corridor.
Each time a blade should have cut him, it missed by a precise margin. Each time a spear should have pinned him, it struck empty air. With each True Name grasped, Rowe closed and sealed the attack as if shutting a door.
Behind him, the ground remained clean.
None of the weapons reached his body.
Those watching could not help their awe.
Kiritsugu, steady but grim.
Maiya Hisau, silent and tense.
Tokiomi and Kirei, observing through layered methods, forced to acknowledge a simple fact.
The Sage of Uruk was not merely famous.
He was dangerous.
Tokiomi's hand tightened, fingers brushing his Command Spells. He lifted his hand, then lowered it again.
Tonight, too much was being revealed.
The Holy Grail War was meant to be a war of secrecy, and Gilgamesh had already displayed a portion of his treasury in full arrogance.
If Tokiomi used a Command Spell to force a retreat, it might fail.
Worse, it would anger the king.
If he did nothing, more would be exposed.
The choice was poison either way.
Then, amid the seemingly endless bombardment, Rowe stepped back half a pace.
He bent, placed his palm on the ground, and exhaled.
Light bloomed from his hand, spreading outward in widening rings.
Then the light flipped.
Doors slammed shut.
In an instant, countless Noble Phantasms vanished, collapsing into brilliant motes, their mysteries undone and dismissed.
Gilgamesh's arms crossed again, casual contempt returning.
"What, giving up?" he scoffed. "A barking stray dog. Is that all you are?"
He did not pursue.
He knew.
Rowe did not want to fight anymore.
"Endless," Rowe said, straightening. "Meaningless."
"You cannot kill me, and I cannot suppress you."
"It is a waste of time."
Meaningless battles were pointless to Rowe.
Gilgamesh could not kill him.
That was decided long ago, by a bond forged in the Age of Gods.
The proud king would not strike down the one he called a friend.
And Rowe would not strike him down either.
Gilgamesh clicked his tongue.
"Hmph. Fine."
The golden ripples behind him withdrew.
"The so called Holy Grail War is a joke," he said, voice dripping with disdain.
"All things in this world are mine."
"But if you want it, I can bestow it upon you at any time."
Tokiomi Tohsaka, watching through his gem birds, went still.
What?
Did you forget I exist?
And why did that curse sound like something Rowe had infected him with?
Kiritsugu was no better.
He had reviewed the Einzbern records. Three previous wars. Countless betrayals. Allies turning blades on each other for the Grail's promise.
The Greater Grail offered a path to the Root.
To touch Akasha.
To reach the impossible.
The allure was monstrous.
And yet these two were treating it like trash.
Rowe snorted.
"The Holy Grail?" he said. "Holy my ass."
"You want that thing?"
"No."
"It is useless."
"If it were in a trash can, even a stray dog digging for food would throw it away."
Gilgamesh's laugh rang out, delighted.
"Exactly."
"Damn right," Rowe replied.
If Kiritsugu and Tokiomi could have spoken face to face in that moment, they would have shared a single thought.
These two are outrageous.
This is a Holy Grail War, not a class reunion.
Just as Gilgamesh and Rowe were talking, almost casually, like they might go drink together and reminisce, the evening breeze carried a sound that cut through the air.
A whinny.
Neigh.
Kiritsugu's eyes sharpened.
Here.
His missing Servant.
Gilgamesh's lips curled.
"The fool who dares interrupt this King's meeting with a friend has finally arrived."
Rowe turned his head.
And his eyes lit.
A tall white steed galloped along the river road. Moonlight slid across heavy armor. Golden hair streamed in the wind, a single cowlick swaying over an exquisite face.
Sky blue eyes, solemn and steady.
A king's posture, sacred and commanding.
In her hand, a knight's spear, poised like a storm.
Sacred, yet carrying the wild force of conquest.
Without even relying on his skill that deciphered True Names, Rowe recognized her.
Artoria Pendragon.
Not the knight of the sword.
The king who bore the Holy Lance, the anchor that pinned the world.
The Knight King.
The King of Storms.
The inheritor of the Wild Hunt.
The third Servant had arrived.
"Rowe?" Artoria's gaze ignored Gilgamesh entirely and locked onto Rowe.
Gilgamesh's anger flared. Being ignored was insulting.
But the intent behind the ignorance, the way she looked at Rowe, that anger was worse.
Rowe smiled.
"It is I."
"Knight King, Artoria," he said. "Is that right?"
Artoria's refined, mature face softened into a genuine smile.
"You see True Names."
"It is you, Your Excellency Rowe."
"My spiritual mentor in the king's way."
"I have many things I wish to say."
She shifted the lance, and her calm voice carried a faint edge of excitement that she did not try to hide.
"But before that."
As a king, she knew where she stood.
In the middle of war.
So she would demonstrate her king's way here.
Rowe raised a hand.
"Gilgamesh, this is my fight. Do not interfere."
It was rare.
A Servant who actually wanted to duel him.
A precious chance.
Gilgamesh snorted, feigning indifference.
"Fool."
Rowe clapped his hands once, and stepped forward.
Artoria lifted the spear.
Rhongomyniad, the Holy Lance Rowe had created in the distant past, rested in her grip as if it belonged there by fate.
"Come," Rowe said, and his expression sharpened with anticipation.
"Let me witness your king's way."
He was ready to expose a flaw, to bait the battle into the shape he needed.
Artoria raised the lance.
Then.
Then, under Tokiomi's hopeful gaze, and Kiritsugu's stunned one, Artoria tugged the reins and spurred her horse.
She charged.
Not at Rowe.
Past him.
She leaned down, scooped him up in one smooth motion, and rode on.
Gilgamesh froze.
Tokiomi froze.
Kiritsugu lit a cigarette in silence.
Of course.
Of course it would be like this.
At this point, the magus killer who had made countless European magi tremble was already wondering if dragging the other Masters out for a fistfight would be less exhausting.
Artoria's voice carried on the wind, bright and decisive.
"My king's way is like a storm."
"Plunder."
The horse surged upward, hooves striking air as if the sky itself were a road.
Rowe turned his head, looking at Artoria's mature face as she held him with absolute certainty, smiling like she had already decided the world's verdict.
Rowe was expressionless.
He had been prepared to borrow force, to deflect, to expose an opening.
But borrowing force required an attack to borrow.
The Knight King did not attack.
She simply took what she wanted.
Rowe was the mentor of her kingly path.
Under Merlin's guidance, though she had never met him, she had longed for him all the same.
But she was a king.
And a mature king did not hesitate like a timid girl.
When faced with what she desired, her method was simple.
Obtain it.
.....
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