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It's not just villains who die from talking too much.
Protagonists can die from talking too much too.
Although Lester had been incredibly unlucky today, at this very moment, he had never felt so fortunate.
Just when he was at his absolute wit's end—when William was about to pull the trigger and end everything—
The destruction from the battle between Shuten-douji and Lily came crashing down on them.
Unreasonably. Randomly. Without any regard for dramatic timing.
Shards of stone and rubble, launched like bullets by the shockwaves of clashing Servants, tore through William's body in that instant.
It was pure bad luck. The kind of random chance that had nothing to do with skill or planning or willpower.
Just wrong place, wrong time.
The boy felt a sharp, searing pain rip through him. His vision blurred. His grip on the submachine gun faltered.
And then he tumbled down the slope, landing right at Lester's feet.
Seeing this, Lester—who had been so nervous he could barely breathe—burst into hysterical laughter.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
His voice echoed through the crater, manic and triumphant.
"Sure enough, FATE IS ON MY SIDE! The victory of this Holy Grail War belongs to ME, Lester!"
He spread his arms wide, basking in his perceived glory.
"Let ALL you bastards look down on me! Let ALL you bastards mess with me! Didn't expect this, did you?! THE FINAL VICTOR IS ME!"
His eyes found William, still trying to crawl toward his fallen weapon.
"Even little BRATS dare to threaten me?! Now you know you were wrong, right?! Kids should be fucking SLEEPING at home at night, not playing games!"
Lester lowered the gun he'd been pointing at Beowulf and stalked toward William.
The boy's fingers were inches away from the submachine gun—
Lester's kick sent both the weapon and William's arm flying.
Then he raised his foot and brought his custom-made leather shoe down hard on William's head.
STOMP.
Yes, while everyone else had been engaged in chaotic battle, Lester had specifically found a clothing store and changed into a flashy pink suit.
Only this way could he soothe the damage to his fragile ego. Only this way could he experience the luxurious feeling he'd never had in reality.
"You're just a despicable scoundrel."
William's voice came out blood-choked but defiant.
"Even a child like me can see that. What are you talking about, 'luck'?"
"SHUT UP!"
Despite his face burning with pain, despite blood flowing from the corner of his mouth, William smiled as he watched Lester's expression shift from smugness to explosive rage.
And seeing that mocking smile, Lester was consumed by uncontrollable fury.
It was bad enough to be looked down on in reality.
Now he was being looked down on in a GAME too?
He didn't want to be a deadbeat. But jobs were so hard to find nowadays—two or three thousand a month, working like a dog for nothing.
He just wanted to take a break, so why did everyone call him useless?
He was his parents' son, so why did they give him such a hard time when he used their money?
They'd been willing to pay off two or three hundred thousand in credit card debt for him, but when he genuinely asked for one or two thousand to spend on games, suddenly they had "concerns."
He wanted to be like those normies—going out with girlfriends, spending money freely without a care in the world.
Wasn't it because his parents were too useless to give him a trust fund?
And they ALL looked down on him!
It was the same in this game. He'd been so accommodating, so eager to please—and yet Shuten-douji still kept her distance.
Other players were the same. They all treated him like a joke. Didn't take him seriously.
And now even this brat was doing it.
Consumed by resentment, Lester abandoned the idea of shooting William quickly.
Instead, he used his leather shoe to viciously stomp on the boy's head over and over, venting his dissatisfaction with every impact.
[Disgusted_Dave]: No, if you're gonna kill him, just kill him. What's with the torture?
[Angry_Annie]: Exactly! I thought he was despicable enough for using Command Seals to mind-control his Servant, but now he's beating up a CHILD
[Threatening_Tony]: Damn it, what's with this pathetic power trip?! If you've got the guts, come to LA and meet me! If I don't put you in the hospital, you can have my name!
[Supportive_Sam]: Support the righteous homies!
[Impatient_Irene]: Max, what show are you watching?! Go help!
"No. I don't need to help anymore."
Max's voice came through calm. Almost satisfied.
The gunshots from William's location had naturally caught everyone's attention. And to repay Beowulf for his massive contribution in defeating Vritra, Max had been planning to provide backup.
With Medea's coordination, Lily had bravely held off Shuten-douji, buying Max an opportunity to support William.
But now?
It was no longer needed.
Because that Berserker had already stood up.
"Apeng. You have already spiritually defeated this man."
"WHAT?!"
It had felt like a long dream.
Although his Spiritual Core hadn't been shattered, with all his bones removed—plus the gunshot wounds riddling his body, plus the bullet that had blown half his head apart—Beowulf had genuinely wanted to just close his eyes and sleep forever.
But the moment his eyes shut...
The scene of his final battle came flooding back.
His subordinates scattering and fleeing. His frail, aged body barely able to hold a weapon. And that one trembling but determined young knight who had stayed behind when everyone else ran.
What was I thinking at that time?
Yes. At that time, I wasn't thinking about anything.
All that occupied my mind was whether my shield could block the attack. Whether my sword could cleave the enemy's head.
That's all I needed to think about.
"Oh! How surprising!"
Lester spun around, terror flooding his features at the sound of heavy breathing behind him.
"I didn't expect you to be able to stand after being so badly wounded! But if you ask me, you'd be happier just lying there."
His voice regained some of its swagger as he assessed the situation.
"I can literally see through your wounds to the other side. And your punches?"
He gestured at the blood splatter on his sleeve.
"So weak and powerless. All you did was get my hand dirty."
It was true.
Without skeletal support, Beowulf—already critically wounded and on the verge of death—no longer had the strength to deliver a proper punch.
When he threw a fist, what burst were his own blood vessels. What sprayed out was his own blood.
So after recovering from his initial shock and realizing the opponent couldn't actually hurt him, Lester began to show his true colors.
He pulled out a handkerchief and started wiping blood from his watch, mocking Beowulf with undisguised disdain.
"This is a Patek Philippe Emerald, you know. In reality, even if I sold everything I owned, I couldn't afford a watch like this."
He held it up admiringly.
"A masterpiece that could only exist in my dreams. Even if it's just a virtual image in a game, I get distressed when it gets dirty."
Beowulf's response was to collapse to one knee, a mouthful of blood mixed with fragments of internal organs spraying from his lips.
"Pfft—!"
"Look at you." Lester's smile was pure condescension. "You can't even stand properly, yet you insist on showing off. So-called 'heroes' are truly boring."
He raised his pistol, aiming it casually at Beowulf's head.
"Dealing with you now is like catching a pop fly. Effortless."
He sighed theatrically.
"Alright, I don't have time to chat anymore. Go to hell—"
CRACK.
Just before the bullet could leave the barrel, Beowulf's fist connected.
His waist and abdomen twisted into a grotesque pretzel shape from the impossible movement—a body without bones contorting in ways that should have been physically impossible.
But his fist landed precisely on Lester's face.
Every blood vessel in his arm burst from the impact. His own flesh tore itself apart from the strain.
And Lester was instantly painted crimson.
"I've thought your watch was tacky since the moment I saw it."
Beowulf's voice was a wet rasp, but the satisfaction in it was unmistakable.
"Now it seems it's not even as good as my family's old quartz clock."
He grabbed Lester's collar before the man could fall.
"But it doesn't matter. Because your face is going to be even tackier."
One punch had stunned Lester—
But it had also "woken up" William beside him.
Beowulf seized Lester's wrist, stopping his body from collapsing, and his ruined face twisted into a savage grin.
Then he hurled Lester straight up into the air.
The pink-suited man tumbled end over end, completely helpless, unable to even scream.
Without any bone support—driven only by flesh, blood, and pure willpower—Beowulf's fists became a blur of afterimages.
This was Grendel Buster. The Noble Phantasm that embodied his legend. The technique he'd used to tear apart monsters with nothing but his bare hands.
And now, even with his skeleton ripped out, even with bullets in his body, even with death clawing at his consciousness—
He would use it one more time.
"ORA! ORA! ORA! ORA! ORA! ORA! ORA! ORA!"
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