Chapter 418: [418] The Rebel’s Inevitable End
"Ahahahahaha..."
A laughter that could shatter one’s courage echoed through the forest. Under the swings of the small giant’s massive blade, even the trees that banded together to block his path were shattered and toppled in explosive bursts.
Accompanied by the gladiator’s desperate grin, the downward strike from above was a blow that could likely crush Rider’s petite frame into pulp.
"Waaah!"
Though he let out an undignified scream, Rider still dodged with a dance-like step, evading gracefully.
Yet, unfortunately, this was a strike that made dodging meaningless. Berserker’s monstrous strength carved scars into the earth, and the shockwave alone sent Rider flying.
The beautiful knight in a white cape crashed into a tree, his face contorted in pain.
"Oww, oww, oww... What a brutal hit."
Though his expression twisted in agony and his bruised waist throbbed, Astolfo still stood up—his eyes devoid of fear.
A single touch would send him flying. Strength was useless, and technique was completely ineffective. For a Servant like him, facing such an unreasonable brute was the worst possible matchup.
Even so, he was still a Heroic Spirit. Moreover, as one of Charlemagne’s Twelve Paladins, Astolfo was not only a reckless warrior often described as having "evaporated reason," but also an adventurer who had traveled the world and forged countless legends.
And among the spoils of those adventures were his many magical armaments—the horn, the book, the illusory steed, Hippogriff, and the radiant golden lance.
"Alright, here I go... Argalia! Show him your power!"
Rider charged forward. Even without his mount, his speed was truly lightning-fast. However, for the Red Berserker, who had long abandoned most emotions, this attack likely brought joy rather than fear.
The more ferocious and despairing the strike, the more satisfying the counterblow would be. Even if his abdomen were to be pierced, the retaliation would surely paint the face of the oppressor with despair.
Holding such thoughts, Spartacus mindlessly raised his greatsword. His pale, granite-like abs were harder than steel, and charging toward this unyielding fortress was the radiant, platinum lance-wielding paladin, dashing forth like a flash of light!
"—Trap of Argalia!"
The lance struck Berserker—only to be deflected by his hardened skin. The greatsword descended with overwhelming force, but Rider merely sidestepped lightly, using the momentum to retreat several meters and regain a safe distance.
On the surface, the exchange seemed ineffective—but the result was anything but.
Having missed his strike, the Red Berserker roared with laughter, turning to charge again—only for his footing to suddenly give way beneath him.
"Ahahahaha—Huh?!"
With a sudden jolt, Berserker felt as though he was falling. The solid ground beneath his feet had vanished, and for a moment, he forgot the sword he should have swung. Yet his grin never faded, nor did he show any surprise. But overturning this unreasonable situation was beyond even his power.
Boom!
His massive frame crashed to the ground, and at last, Spartacus turned his attention to the source of the anomaly—his right leg, which had been struck by the lance, had somehow turned to nothingness.
The Noble Phantasm "Trap of Argalia!"—a name as whimsical as its effect was fitting.
According to legend, this lance, favored by the Cathayan prince Argalia, could make anything it touched fall. For heavily armored knights, a fall on the battlefield meant certain death. Even outside of combat, it was easy to imagine the glory one could gain by wielding such a weapon in the dazzling spectacle of a joust.
When used against a Servant, the lance manifested its legend by forcibly dematerializing everything below the knees. No matter where it struck—even if it hit armor woven from magical energy—the lance would sever the flow of mana to the lower legs, rendering physical reconstruction impossible for a time.
"How about that? Pretty amazing, huh?" Clutching his beloved Noble Phantasm, Astolfo proudly lifted his chin, boasting of the lance’s wonders to his foe.
But laughter drowned out his words. Such a trick was far from enough to stop the Red Berserker. As long as he had anything above the knees, he would crawl if he had to, if it meant crushing his enemy.
"Ahahaha... This is nowhere near enough!"
With that, the gladiator propelled himself upward using the strength of his remaining arm, launching toward Astolfo once more with a suicidal ferocity.
Yet his charge was intercepted. The golems, which Berserker could easily crush, had been lying in wait. Now, they pounced en masse.
A golem weighing over a ton pressed down on his arm to pin it. But the Red Berserker swatted it away like a child swatting a fly. With a single punch, he shattered the golem’s upper half. Yet even headless, the golems could still move unfazed until their functions ceased entirely—such was their strength.
They swarmed over the Red Berserker like ants subduing their prey, methodical and solemn. But their quarry was neither a helpless animal nor a caterpillar. No matter how the ants bit, the giant would not stop. Even with his legs dematerialized below the knees, he pressed onward toward the fortress.
"Hahahaha, this is wonderful, this is glorious! A sea of enemies, and I, battered and broken. Ah, this is truly—"
His arm, gripping the broadsword, pierced through a golem and thrust high into the sky:
"A moment worthy of a triumphant victory song!"
Every part of him was buried under golems. Twice, Berserker tried to rise. Though weighed down by shackles of rock, bronze, and steel, he still advanced.
Forward, forward, ever forward. The gladiator who rose in rebellion was a madman, but not a lost existence.
Through his nose, skin, ears, eyes, and tongue, he understood—just ahead, the tyrant was waiting.
"Hmm, well done."
The low voice struck like lightning, sending a shudder through the body of Red Berserker. His bloodshot eyes rolled as he caught sight of the black-clad lord, towering high atop his steed of a golem.
"...!"
Red Berserker accelerated his advance. Tearing through the layers of golems before him, he finally saw it clearly.
"You—"
"Indeed, Red Berserker. If it is the ruler you seek, then I am the one who stands at its pinnacle."
The man was clad in noble attire so dark it seemed to dissolve into the night. In stark contrast, his face was a ghastly pale, with silken white hair cascading loosely.
Declaring their opposition before the frenzied gladiator, Red Berserker responded with an unprecedented howl.
"Ooooh, ooooh... OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH! Oppressor!"
Letting his burning emotions consume his body and mind, Red Berserker shattered the countless golem-forged shackles with a sickening crack. The hulking beast of madness broke free from its cage, its savage grin widening as it reached out toward the Voivode of Wallachia ahead.
Just a little more—just a little more, and his hand would seize the tyrant’s head. Always, without fail, beyond such suffering lay boundless glory and joy beneath cloudless skies.
The Berserker’s logic was flawless, unassailable. Yet he had forgotten one crucial thing—what awaited at the end of that suffering was not victory, but a miserable death. A cruel conclusion.
It was the Black Lancer who uttered the words, his voice calm yet merciless.
"Kazikli Bey."
The earth surged. Sharpened stakes erupted, piercing through both golem and flesh with ease, slicing through skin that even a lance could not breach. The most brutal of punishments manifested, impaling the charging Red Berserker and pinning him in place.
Wood splintered. Blood spilled. His legs below the knees turned to spirit form, countless golems swarmed over his body, and every part of him—save his heart and brain—was skewered. Yet still, the Berserker moved. To strike down the tyrant before him. This was no longer a matter of mere hatred or delusion.
Indeed, this was what Black Lancer had sought to confirm, even at the cost of half his golems. Was this man a foolish beast content with mere rebellion against authority? Or even in madness—did he still cling to an unyielding conviction?
Hah. Lancer exhaled in satisfaction.
"In my lifetime, I have fought countless rebels like you. I slaughtered them all, impaled them upon the battlefield, and left their flesh to rot."
"But—by confronting you like this, I finally understand. Your rebellion is the manifestation of a proud soul. At no time would you stand idly by while the strong trample the weak—you fight to reduce the strong to weakness."
Not for some hypocritical pretense of protecting the weak—such heights were still beyond this Berserker. He was simply, single-mindedly—
"A dreamer? No, a mad dreamer. Have you dreamed of an equal world? For the first time—I wish to express respect for the existence known as a rebel."
After the victor’s magnanimity, Vlad III immediately began dealing with the defeated. With a snap of his fingers, the black Caster beside him stepped forward.
"Allow me to redirect your rebellion. Red Berserker, from now on, your master shall be us."
The Berserker’s smile vanished. Red Berserker turned toward Black Lancer with a look of utter fury and despair. The words declared to him were ’enslavement’—for Berserker, this was humiliation and despair surpassing even death.
"Oooh, ooooh, ooooooooh!"
The caged beast still struggled, but Black Caster merely coldly issued commands to the golems restraining Berserker. They instantly transformed into fluid, binding Berserker tightly along with the wooden stakes. Even the rebellious hero Spartacus could not escape this stone prison.
Meanwhile, Black Rider, having fulfilled his role, sheathed his lance and eagerly addressed Black Lancer as if preparing for something:
"Well then, my part here is done—I’ll take my leave first!"
Thus, Rider hastily dematerialized and returned to the fortress—of course, he intended to exploit this situation. For the time being, no one would spare attention for a mere homunculus. This was the perfect opportunity.
—The perfect opportunity to rescue that homunculus from suffering.
But what Astolfo didn’t know was that shortly after his departure, Vlad III’s expression shifted slightly as he received a mental message from his Master, Darnic.
"Lord, your assistance is required on another battlefield."
Even through the communication link, the black Lancer could sense the irritation in Darnic’s voice—and a faint trace of fear.
"That madman has gone berserk, driving our Berserker to the brink of death... At this rate, we may lose a Berserker on both sides."
There was no need to ask who ’that madman’ referred to.
"Yet to have wounded my subordinate so severely in such a short time..." Vlad III muttered in astonishment, glancing toward the direction from which ’Red’ Berserker had come. Soon, he sensed the violently clashing auras of battle and spiritual energy.
"Guarding the rear... So his words were not in jest after all?"