The winter afternoon sun hung low over the seaside town, casting everything in a pale, golden warmth that felt almost peaceful.
It was the kind of town that existed in a state of quiet permanence. Too small for tourists, too sleepy for drama. The kind of place where nothing ever happened and nobody minded. The streets hummed with the gentle rhythm of ordinary life — shopkeepers sweeping stoops, an old man walking his dog, the distant clatter of dishes from a restaurant preparing for the lunch rush.
It wouldn't lose its tranquility for one person leaving. It wouldn't grow louder for one person arriving.
It just was.
Until—
"MONSTER! THERE'S A MONSTER!"
Screams shattered the afternoon like a hammer through glass.
The café doors exploded outward as a stampede of customers, waitresses, and kitchen staff poured into the street in a blind, shrieking flood. They hit the intersection like a wave hitting a seawall — crashing into cars, tripping over curbs, colliding with pedestrians who had no idea what was happening.
Car horns blared. A driver stuck in the sudden gridlock rolled down his window and screamed at the crowd surging around his vehicle.
"What the hell?! Watch where you're going! You wanna die?!"
"MONSTER! There's a monster!"
"Monster my a—"
The driver's rant died in his throat.
Because the thing walking out of the café entrance behind the crowd was not something his brain was equipped to process. Three and a half meters tall. Skin like polished obsidian. Muscles that looked like they'd been sculpted by a god with anger issues. A bald head that gleamed in the afternoon sun. A single gold tooth that caught the light when he grinned.
The driver quietly rolled his window back up.
But here was the thing about people: once the initial terror faded — once the survival instinct downgraded from "run" to "probably fine" — curiosity took over.
The crowd didn't scatter.
They pulled out their phones.
Within thirty seconds, half the street was filming. Cameras pointed at Berserker from every angle. The flash of phone cameras popping like paparazzi at a red carpet event. Someone was already live-streaming.
Berserker, to his credit, took it in stride. He struck a pose. Then another. Full bodybuilder routine — double bicep, lat spread, side chest — each one punctuated by a guttural grunt of approval from the crowd.
Across the street, the Captain struck a pose of his own — some kind of dramatic superhero stance with one arm raised and his hip cocked — while rubbing his reddened wrist where Lancer had pinned it to the table.
It was, without question, the most embarrassing thing Lancer had ever witnessed. And he had witnessed a lot.
"Archer." Lancer's voice was flat. Controlled. The voice of a man who was exercising every ounce of his legendary restraint to not murder his own allies before the fight even started. "Could you please use your cannon to disperse the crowd?"
Napoleon — fully materialized, towering over the civilians around him, looking magnificently out of place in his imperial coat — raised an eyebrow. "You want me to fire into the crowd? That seems excessive, even for—"
"Into the sky, Archer. A warning shot. To scare the civilians away before they get caught in the crossfire."
"Ah. That makes much more sense." Napoleon paused. "Although, being watched by an audience is nothing new for me. I once reviewed a parade of two hundred thousand troops while—"
"Now, Archer."
"Right, right." Napoleon rubbed his chin. "But one question — how did you know I have a cannon?"
Lancer's expression didn't change. "My eyesight is excellent. I saw you fire it from the bridge when you ambushed Saber. Don't worry — I won't mention it to anyone."
Napoleon stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
"...I'll trust you this once."
Lancer said nothing. But behind his impassive exterior, a single thought was forming with crystal clarity:
I am surrounded by idiots.
The Captain was a lecherous coward. Archer was a showboating narcissist. And the Berserker was currently flexing for a crowd of people recording him on their phones like he was a street performer.
But there was no turning back. The arrow was on the string. The enemy Master had overheard their entire plan — every detail, every role, every tactical assignment — and instead of ambushing them silently, he'd walked up and declared war to their faces. That was more honorable than anything Lancer's own allies had done in the last twenty-four hours.
Could they postpone? Regroup? Fight another day?
Lancer glanced at the Captain, who was still posing for cameras. Then at Napoleon, who was materializing his cannon with the casual flair of a man who enjoyed making entrances.
If they made an appointment to "fight another day," Lancer was genuinely concerned that these two would assassinate the enemy Master on his walk home.
No. Better to settle it here. Now. In the open. Even if it was a three-on-one brawl in broad daylight with half the town watching.
At least this way, when the fight ended, it would be clean. Decided by strength, not treachery. And that was something Lancer's warrior heart could live with.
He met Berserker's eyes across the street. Two warriors. Two legends. Both understanding, without words, what was about to happen.
Napoleon finished materializing the cannon. It was absurd — a weapon the size of a small car, gleaming with prismatic energy, held in his hands like it weighed nothing. The crowd's phone cameras went absolutely berserk.
"I'll say this once!" Napoleon's voice boomed across the intersection, amplified by sheer force of personality. "This is a warning shot! If you're still standing here when the next one fires, it lands on you!"
He aimed straight up.
BOOM!
The cannon roared.
The projectile screamed into the sky and detonated above the clouds — a thunderclap so massive it rattled windows for six blocks. The pristine white clouds directly overhead turned black as ink, as if the sky itself had been punched in the face.
The street froze.
Every person. Every phone. Every voice. All of it stopped at once, as if someone had pressed a cosmic mute button. The crowd stood in perfect, terrified silence, staring up at the blackened sky with expressions of dawning comprehension.
Oh. This isn't a street performance.
Then someone screamed.
And the mute button broke.
The crowd erupted. Full panic. People running in every direction, trampling each other, abandoning cars in the middle of the road, the sound of screams and pounding footsteps filling the street like a stampede.
In five seconds, the intersection was empty.
The Captain moved the instant the chaos began.
While the crowd fled and the Berserker was still distracted by the cannon blast — still looking up, still processing the explosion — the Captain sprang into action with the speed of a man who had survived his entire career by hitting first and apologizing never.
He crossed the distance in a heartbeat. Low. Fast. Under the Berserker's eyeline.
And drove his boot into the Berserker's kneecap with every ounce of force a Rider-class Servant could generate.
CRACK.
The sound was loud. Bone-on-bone loud. The kind of sound that made everyone within earshot wince.
"AHHH! MY LEG! MY KNEECAP!"
...That was the Captain.
A Servant's base parameters consisted of six stats: Strength, Agility, Endurance, Luck, Mana, and Noble Phantasm. The first three determined raw combat capability. And the Captain's intelligence on Berserker had been accurate — brutally, terrifyingly accurate.
Except for Agility at B-rank, every one of Berserker's physical stats was A-rank or above. His Endurance, in particular, bordered on A+ — the kind of defensive parameter that meant kicking him was roughly equivalent to kicking a concrete wall reinforced with steel plating.
The Captain's brilliant plan — kick the knee, buckle the giant, press a gun to his head, declare victory — had been nonsense from the very first step.
He hopped backward on one foot, clutching his injured leg, tears streaming down his face, making sounds that no self-respecting pirate should ever make.
Lancer stared.
Napoleon stared.
Berserker stared.
A long, uncomfortable silence settled over the street.
Then the Captain attacked again.
Because of course he did. Because he was a pirate, and pirates didn't have concepts like "martial honor" or "learning from mistakes" or "maybe don't assault the invulnerable giant twice."
This time, the Captain lunged forward while Berserker was still processing the kneecap incident — still standing there, confused, wondering why this small, loud man had kicked him — and went for the lowest possible blow. The cheapest shot in the history of combat. The move so dirty it didn't have a name in any legitimate martial arts tradition.
He punched Berserker directly in the groin.
CRACK.
"HOLY— MY HAND! WHY?! Why are those made of steel too?!"
The Captain reeled backward, cradling his broken hand against his chest, his face a masterwork of agony and betrayal. He looked like a man who had bet everything on one card and watched the universe laugh in his face.
Berserker's expression, which had been confused, slowly darkened.
His jaw tightened. His gold tooth gleamed. Two massive hands reached behind his back and drew out a pair of axes — twin weapons, each one larger than the Captain's entire body, their edges gleaming with a dull, hungry light.
The ground trembled.
"Roar."
It wasn't a battle cry. It wasn't a threat display. It was a simple, quiet statement of intent from a being who had just been kicked in the kneecap and punched in the groin by a man he could crush like a grape.
The Captain's bravado evaporated. His face went white. He opened his mouth to say something — an apology, a plea, a prayer — but the axes were already moving, sweeping downward in a diagonal cross that would have bisected him cleanly at the waist.
CLANG!!
Sparks exploded across the street.
Lancer stood between them, his long spear braced horizontally, catching both axes on the reinforced shaft. The impact drove him backward — his boots leaving furrows in the asphalt — but he held. Muscle straining. Teeth gritted. The runic wrappings on his spear flaring with desperate blue light.
Berserker blinked.
"Roar?"
Lancer exhaled. Slowly.
"I know," he said, and his voice carried the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who was acutely aware that he was about to risk his life defending someone who had just attempted an interdimensional groin shot. "Believe me, I know. If I could, I wouldn't save this fool either."
Behind him, the Captain whimpered.
"But a promise made must be kept." Lancer's grip tightened on his spears. His eyes locked onto Berserker's — warrior to warrior, legend to legend. "So forgive me. And then get ready."
He shifted his stance. Low. Coiled. The classic posture of a spearman preparing to strike.
"Because my spear is going to take your head."
"ROAR!"
The street shattered.
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