Chapter 31: The King's Boon (Patreon)

The Golden One walked through its halls with an unhurried pace as his golden armor’s supernatural gleaming form’s light filtered through broken windows to show the air thick with dust as a lingering residue of the destruction made clinging to everything like a shroud.

It only took a glance to know it was all inflicted by impotent rage.

Amusing. 

It was there where he found Tokiomi in the study, slumped against his desk with his still face a ruin of bruises and cuts and his suit torn beyond repair as he nurses a cup of subpar wine. The little magus's breathing was shallow and his eyes unfocused as his hands trembled with the aftershock of the beating he had received.

The sound loud enough that it echoed through the ruined room in sharp and deliberate forms that had each strike of palm sounding like divine judgment.

"Magnificent," Gilgamesh said, his voice dripping with genuine amusement. "You have surpassed yourself, Tokiomi and  have achieved something far more than anything your life looked to before. A spectacle worthy of a king's attention."

Tokiomi's eyes focused, slowly, painfully. "Gilgamesh…"

"I find myself entertained."

He stopped clapping, his hands falling to his sides.

"And so, in recognition of the entertainment you have provided me, I will offer you a boon."

Tokiomi's mind raced, even through the fog of pain and exhaustion. 

He had honestly expected Gilgamesh to continue to mock and belittle him and at this point do something extremely suicidal during his revelling in his humiliation. 

He had not expected an offer– no, a King’s boon, free of strings it seems.

 Perhaps a chance to salvage something from the wreckage of his plans as his thoughts turned immediately to the war and the Grail.

He could ask Gilgamesh to kill them all now, to unleash the full might of his treasury to destroy Saber, Rider, Lancer and every other Servant who stood between him and victory. It would be the most expedient solution, the most efficient path to achieving his goals.

The memory of Batman's face as he had delivered the beating with the cadence, his voice flat and emotionless, as his hands as he had dismantled Tokiomi's defenses one by one.

"I want him to suffer," Tokiomi blurted, his voice barely above a whisper but it was already too late and he was tired. 

Gilgamesh was silent for a long moment, his crimson eyes fixed on Tokiomi's.

He stepped closer, his golden armor gleaming in the dim light.

Gilgamesh's stoic demeanor transformed into a widened into a sharp and predatory grin. " I find myself... intrigued. You have surprised me, Tokiomi. In the midst of your failure, you have shown a spark of something that I did not expect."

"I will grant your boon."

He straightened, his eyes gleaming with a terrible light.

Tokiomi's breath caught. He had not expected Gilgamesh to agree so readily. 

"Now rest. Heal. And when the time comes, watch."

He began to walk toward the door, his footsteps echoing through the ruined mansion with his mind already turning to the battles ahead.

The King of Heroes paused at the mansion's entrance, his eyes fixed on the sky above with clouds were gathering,  as if the heavens themselves were preparing for the coming storm. He could feel the weight of the bounded fields woven across the city and  the subtle pressure of magecraft pressing down on the leylines.

Although the rank of Magic Resistance is low, due to being equipped with various anti-magecraft armaments represented by his golden armor, he can actually nullify most magecraft. 

If a magus were to attempt to use large-scale magecraft and commit the insolent act of obstructing the King's path, such "mongrels" would likely be overwhelmed in one fell swoop by a torrent of Noble Phantasm attacks, without even having the time to activate their magecraft.

And thus he scoffed.

He raised his hand, and the air around him shimmered with golden light.

"A bounded field," he muttered, his voice carrying over the roar of the bombardment. "The insects believe they can trap me within their webs and obstruct the King's path with their petty magecraft."

He raised his hand, and another wave of Noble Phantasms emerged from the treasury.

"Let them learn the error of their ways."

The Gate of Babylon opened across the sky with portals shimmering in the darkness, each one a gateway to destruction. Swords, spears, axes, and weapons of every conceivable shape and origin emerged from the golden light, their edges gleaming with the promise of annihilation.

And then they fell.

The plan of  action was simple in theory: while the bounded fields were up, her personal power a practically unlimited font with her connection to the leylines and her consciousness connected and manipulating the greater grail,  isolate the taint, contain it in a separate vessel to destroy it without giving it any power while simultaneously weakening the 2 strongest remaining players.

But theory had not accounted for Gilgamesh's bombardment.

The first impact sent shockwaves through that Da Vinci felt it like a physical blow, the backlash reverberating through her connection to the leylines and her concentration wavered and with it, the corruption she had been isolating began to leak, its influence spreading through the leylines like poison through a bloodstream. In the cave beneath Ryuudou Temple, Da Vinci watched the destruction unfold through her magical sensors, her face a mask of barely concealed horror.

"The leylines," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "He's targeting the leylines."

Da Vinci tried to contain it but the assault was relentless and the dam broke.

The leyline network convulsed, the magical energy she had been channeling turning against her, a flood of corruption that threatened to overwhelm her.

She screamed and her body arched, her circuits flaring with a searing white light. 

The corruption spilled out into the real world from the ground in a cascade of darkness and fury as corruption erupted from the leylines like a demonic incursion, a biblical plague of darkness and despair. The sky above Fuyuki turned black, the clouds swirling in patterns that were not natural, not sane. Shadows writhed in the streets, taking forms that had no place in the world of men. They took the form of twisted, nightmarish monster shadow canines, echoes of human sin, the aggregated ideations of mankind's darkest thoughts given shape and purpose. 

And they were hungry. The city descended into chaos. People screamed, their voices rising in a chorus of terror that echoed through the night. They ran, but there was nowhere to hide. The demons were everywhere, their presence spreading like a contagion. They did not kill immediately when they reached out with shadowy hands and pulled their victims into the darkness, absorbing them into the collective nightmare that was their existence.

It was like something out of a disaster movie painted in shades of black and crimson. Fires raged and the streets filled with the desperate cries of the dying and the damned.

On a rooftop in the Shinto district, Batman paused in his run to his destination and looked  at the devastation and before he could even settle that in…

And at the center of it all, he felt the pain.

When Da Vinci was struck by the backlash, the pain did not stop with her, it flowed through the link, surging into Bruce's consciousness like a tidal wave of agony.

T̸̨͝ḥ̷̽e̵̘͘ ̴̢͝š̷͎t̴͍̎â̵̫r̸̦͗t̵͔͌i̵̝͑n̸̠̈g̴̗͘ ̴̭̚ṕ̸̯ẽ̴̻n̵̠͒ȃ̵͉l̶̄͜t̷̥̒y̵̭̋ ̸̣̈i̸̖̚s̴̯̒ ̵̡̓f̵͇̌ḭ̷͂ṿ̴͐e̶̦͝.̷̼̽ ̵̳̃L̸̬̎i̶̧̓f̵̩̈́e̷͔̓ ̴̎ͅp̶̩̈́e̷͉͗n̵̻̓á̶̙l̵̨͛ţ̴̐y̷̦͠,̸̨̓ ̷͕̋b̸̘͗o̵̮͠d̷͓̄y̵͔͒ ̴̻̊p̶̛͇ę̴̕ṋ̵̔a̸̳͑l̷̯͐ṱ̶͠y̶̨̋,̷͕̓ ̵͙̓f̵̪͒r̵̲̾e̸̪͌ę̷̔d̷̹́o̷͚̕ḿ̵͈ ̴̙̃p̸̛̰e̴̼͗n̴͓̓a̴̢͒l̶̖͘t̴̨̑y̷͓̚,̷̙̌ ̶̹̈́f̶̰̎a̸̛̜m̷̹̉ȇ̵̻ ̶̻͝p̶̥͝e̷͇̔n̶̛̹ḁ̶̾ľ̷̨t̸̲̀ý̷͎,̶̛͈ ̴͔̾f̴͎̌o̵͉̾r̶͙̐t̶̳̏ṳ̵̚n̶̳͋é̶̺ ̸̧͐p̵͍̕e̷͜͝n̶͖͛ā̴̬l̸̕͜t̵̩́y̷͉̓.̴͔̐ ̴̮̉G̶͎̎i̷̜͂v̶͖̚ë̸͈ ̴̜̈́t̶͝ͅh̶̞̕ẹ̸̐ ̸̲̕p̵̺̚e̶̬̎n̶̦̍à̶̼l̵͕͗t̶̤̃y̷̛̤ ̸͙̎ṫ̷͔h̵͓̚ȁ̸̝t̵͉͠ ̶̹̍ẹ̷̎x̵̝͐t̸̥̎e̷̠͛n̷̫̄d̶̦͂s̸̲̎ ̷͓͒s̶͕̾o̵̟͊ ̴͇̈m̶̪̉u̷͎̇c̵̛̱h̵͚̓ ̴̨͊p̸̱̓ȗ̶̻ṅ̸͓í̴̘s̵̢͑h̶̡̉m̸̢̄e̷̫͒n̶͗ͅẗ̶̢́,̶̜̽ ̸̜͝m̸̤͐ṳ̸̓d̵̹̏,̸̦̀ ̴̫̋ḓ̴͐a̷̗̚r̴̭̐k̷̤͗n̶̜̿ȅ̸͈s̸̐ͅs̶͉̈́,̶̮̌ ̶̮̀ă̸̭n̴͎͝d̴͇͐ ̷̮̆m̸͓̀a̶̢̓ĺ̷̙ỉ̸͚c̷͉̑e̶̜̾.̵̼̂ ̴̜̕"̸̝͛E̷̛̱l̴̰̔i̷̘͑m̴̼͝i̷̬͂ṅ̵̩a̷̡͌t̶̝̀i̷̠͋o̸̯̒n̶̡̓ ̴̘̓ȏ̴̦f̸̗̓ ̸̜͌h̵̠̚u̸̥͑m̴̞̕ǎ̷͜n̷͍͗ ̷͈̕r̷͉̉ì̴͚g̸̝̈́h̴͙̿t̷͖͗s̶̨͊ ̸̠̃b̴͆ͅy̸̦̚ ̷̪͐ć̴̗ȧ̷ͅs̵̻͠t̸̤͐r̴̮͘ả̶̩t̵͜͝i̷̟͑ô̷͎n̵͉͘,̶̝̄ ̵̯̆e̵̝͌x̵̟̾i̸̛̫l̸̮̍e̴̙̕,̶͔̏ ̵̮̿e̷͖̚x̴͕̌e̶͎͑c̶͕̈́ũ̴̜t̸̢̀i̵̭͆o̴̢̔n̴̪͌,̷̞͝ ̸͈̽T̷͓̍ơ̴̬r̷̖̂t̵̗͋û̶̢ȓ̷̙ě̷̩ ̵͖͝a̶̳̿n̷̫̈́d̵̮̈́ ̷͕̿s̴͔͌ặ̷d̶͎͝i̸̝̋s̷̮̅m̸̝͊ ̸̘̅ṷ̸̒p̷͎̄ò̴̮ṇ̵̑ ̸̬͋t̷̡͗h̶͖̋è̶͖ ̷̧̕b̷̥͐ó̵͓d̶̛̬ỳ̸̙ ̵̤̿t̸̯̋ẖ̸̎r̵̭̎õ̸̼ṷ̵̒g̷̯͘ḧ̴̪́ ̷̛͖d̴̟̔i̸̦͂g̴̢̉ė̷͓ș̶̈́t̶͊͜ỉ̷̡o̶̮̽n̶̬͝"̵͙̊ ̶̙͘

̸̼̑"̶̦̈Ḓ̵̎ȩ̸͑n̷̜̂i̷͙͘a̶̳̿l̴̝̊ ̴̤̈́b̸̥̓y̴͕̅ ̶̛̤c̸͒ͅò̷̝n̴̟͑s̶̢̍ẹ̷͒n̴̦̚s̷̫͒ủ̶̠s̸̤̏ ̶̈́ͅo̶̡̐f̵͍̑ ̴͙́t̸̼̄h̶͎͝ę̷͂ ̶̡̏c̸̲͐o̴̜̿l̵̩̃o̷̫͋n̴̲̽ý̶͇ ̵̀ͅt̸̛̟h̸̜̽a̷̠͑t̵̼͗ ̵̮̉e̴̦͛l̵͓͛ï̸̺m̵̯͝i̷͔͆ṉ̶̿ǎ̵͔t̵̠͌è̶̺s̵͗͜ ̸̦̒ä̵̖́l̷̺͊ĺ̶̞ ̶̬͐h̶͘ͅó̷̝ṋ̸̅o̸̜̓ȓ̸̗"̴̰̕

̶̞̿"̶̫̀S̸͓̎c̷̜͝o̴͙̎r̴̪̊n̷͓͌ ̷̙̀f̷͔͑r̵͓̊ö̶̺m̸̧̏ ̴͇́j̷̞̒u̷͕̇d̵̝̿g̵̣͑m̷͍̓ĕ̵͜ṋ̷͂ť̷̺ ̶̩̑a̴͇̽n̵̨͗d̵͕̈́ ̵̻̇ŝ̴̘ë̸̟́l̴̰̓f̷͉̿i̴̯̾s̷̠̽h̵̫͠n̸̳̄e̸͚͝s̸̹̈́ś̸͔ ̷͚͌ṭ̸͑ȟ̶͓à̷͕ẗ̸̨́ ̶͕̈́t̶̠͐a̸̯̋k̷̭͆è̵̬s̶̠̍ ̶͚́a̸̳̋w̷̛̘a̷͚̾y̴͈͝ ̴̱̔m̸̙̃e̴̗̿n̵̹͂'̵̝̿s̵̹̉ ̸̢̏f̷̙̓ó̸ͅŕ̷͖t̶̟̉u̵͚̐ṉ̷̚e̶̫͠s̸͇͗.̶̳͛"̶͚̋

̶̭͘d̸̠̍ė̷̫ḁ̶͋ṱ̴̆h̴͙̄ ̸̟̿p̷̗̃e̶̠̐ń̶̗á̷͚l̴̺͒t̴̩͝ẏ̷̳ ̵͇͋p̷͎̈e̵͍͠n̴̟̎a̵͍̽l̶̄͜ ̶̳̎ṣ̵͐e̴̱̔r̶͍̚v̷͙̊i̷̛̗t̵̖͋u̸͉͘ḓ̴̔e̴̝͝ ̵̥̈́i̵̭̓m̸̬͋p̷͓̿r̸̙͝i̷̻͛s̴̲̽ỏ̸̫n̷̨͋m̵̹͆e̵͎͠n̸̜̏t̷̟̓ ̸̤̊c̸̹̀ư̵̞ş̷̈́t̴̨͆o̴̪͌d̶̜̃y̷͔͒ ̵̯́f̵̼͘į̷͆n̵̦̄e̸̟̚ ̵̟͋p̶̼̓e̷̹̓n̴̟͝a̶̝͆l̸̫̂ẗ̵̞y̴̝̏,̵̜̐ ̷̩͠c̶̬͌r̸̮͘i̵͈̐m̷̕ͅe̸̙͂ ̸̙͂f̶͉̅r̴̜̐ȯ̷̻m̵̘̃ ̸͉͘ä̸͚́ ̵͖̔g̷̻̏r̷̦̔ų̵̂d̷̖͌g̷͔͘ë̷̢,̶͙̃ ̴̟́c̸͍̾r̸̞͋i̷̳̾m̵̖̀ȇ̷̹ ̴̘̌f̵̬̍r̷͖͗o̷̝͌m̶̩̿ ̸̛͓s̶̢̾e̷̙͑l̷̺̄f̴̳͂-̶̼͂i̶̬̍ñ̷̫t̸͓̓e̸̤̾r̵͈̈́e̷͉̅s̵̼̉t̴́ͅ,̴̡͑ ̴̻͝ṷ̴͑n̵͔̾c̵̹̋ơ̷͕n̸͖̒s̴̩͛c̸̡̽i̷̫̒o̷̭͛ǘ̷̼ṡ̵ͅ ̶͎̄c̵͈̿r̸̖̂i̷̱̋m̶͍̋e̸͆͜,̷̩͘ ̴̗͠s̷̡̕e̶͝ͅl̸͙̽f̸̡̐-̸̗̈́c̸͎͐o̴̖̔ņ̷́s̴͓͝c̶͈̒í̵̩o̷̡̓ū̷ͅś̷͇ ̸͚͒ç̵̛r̴̮̀ḯ̸͈m̷̲̏e̴̫͌,̸̨̔ ̵͇͒c̶̹̾ì̸̘v̶̲̿i̵͎̅l̶̠͐ ̷̺̊w̶̞͊a̶̘͊r̷̨̒,̶̧̛ ̸̡̉ǐ̸̡ń̶̩d̸̨̎ų̸̇c̵̻̃ę̷̀m̵̱̉e̶͔͂n̷̼̄t̷̡̐,̶̼͋ ̶̪̚f̸̡͝ä̵̖́ḷ̵͛ś̸̪e̴̳̋ ̸̯̊s̴̲͛ẗ̵̤́ä̸̱́t̷͇̀ḛ̴̀m̷̺̓e̸̲͝n̸͉̂t̸̰͑,̶̝̊ ̸͍͐t̵̩̍h̷̥͑ĕ̴͇f̷̛̯t̶̮̆,̶̤́ ̸̦̈́ř̴̼o̸̜͛b̸̯̌b̷̫̿e̴̝͋r̶͍̍y̷̡̆,̶͇̆

̶̉͜k̴͚͘i̸͔͋d̶͓̊ṋ̶̆a̶͔̿p̵̭̿,̴̤̂ ̷͓͝s̸̙̊ụ̴̆i̵̝͗c̷̳͘ì̷͓d̶͔̽e̵̯͐,̴̥͋ ̷̛͓r̴͇̔ȁ̷̮p̷̯͆e̸̢͋,̶̳͝ ̷̧̆a̵̛͕ṛ̸̐ś̷͇ȏ̴̘n̷͍͗,̷̘̆ ̶̩̐b̶̖͂o̶̺̊m̶̧͒b̴̨̋i̴͈͗ņ̶̑g̶̣͐,̵͍̍ ̶̞̉v̸͎̎ḯ̵̡ọ̵̏l̶̩͗ȃ̵̰t̷̘͘ị̴̍o̸̥̐n̶͙̾,̶̦̅ ̴̻͗n̶̳̈ȅ̵̼g̵̪̔l̵̦͛i̷͎͆ġ̷̣e̷̜͛ň̴̯t̷̛ͅ ̸̭͆h̶͉͋o̵̬̓m̶̼̈ĩ̸̝c̸̤̚i̵̮̾d̴̝̀e̵͚̚,̸͔̓ ̶͚̉m̶̥̀a̵͔̐s̶̛̖s̴̡̏ ̸̪̆v̶̲͒i̴͙̅o̸̾͜l̶͍̍e̴̥̎n̴̙̈́c̶̛͔ë̸̼́,̸̬͒ ̷̢̎d̴͓́e̵̗̔a̵̻̎t̵̹͝h̴̬̋ ̴͉͒a̶̡̓ṫ̸͎ ̶̪͊w̷̝͐o̷͍̿r̶͉̀ḱ̶͖,̷̹̍ ̸͎͘o̶̠͝v̵͇̏é̸͚r̵̭̈c̵̢̊ō̵̗ņ̸̎f̶̺̂i̸̟̒d̶̙̆ė̶̼n̸̩͑ṫ̵̯ ̴̖͒a̶͎͛c̶̢̈́c̷̰̽i̸͔̅d̴̗̈e̴͇̓n̶͙̉ẗ̵́ͅ,̷̖͋

̴̫̒

He fell to his knees, his hands clutching his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced. Ever. It was a searing all-consuming fire that seemed to burn from the inside out. A spiritual violation of the very essence of his being.

He had been beaten, burned, shot, stabbed, poisoned and  had endured horrors that would have broken lesser men.

But this was different. This was an assault on his soul itself.

T̵̡́h̴͖̔e̴̯̍ ̶̖̚ô̸̲r̸͈͛í̶̞g̷̲̑i̶̟̽ṇ̵̄a̶̅͜ļ̴́ ̶̦̆p̷͐͜ú̸͜n̸̦͝i̸͖̎s̶̳͆h̸͍͆m̶̳̏e̷͎͑n̷̪̆ť̶͈s̸̥̽ ̷̲͒c̷͕̍o̵̡͒m̷͇͊è̴͉ ̵͖̊ȉ̶̪n̷̢̏ ̸͖͗f̷̥͒ỉ̵̝v̵̰̄ẹ̴̀ ̶̧̑k̵̥͂ì̶̦ň̶͇d̶̙͒s̴̗̃,̷̗̒ ̸͇͐ṭ̶̿h̸̠̒é̵̝ ̴̪͝d̴̛͇è̸̻ḁ̶̄ṯ̸̍h̶̢͠ ̷̞̾p̷̹̏e̵̮͌n̵̯̎ạ̵́l̶͔̏t̷͕͝y̸̼̾,̵̮̎ ̵̢̀c̸̡̃ö̵̱́r̸̝̍p̶̭͆o̸̱̾r̴͕̚ḁ̷̅l̸͉̂ ̸͉̓p̶̪͌u̵̠͒ṇ̸̔i̶̩͗ś̴̬h̶̘̅ṁ̶̨ē̵̱n̵͕͝t̶̳̋,̴̣͆ ̴͍̓ȋ̷̭n̴̳̏c̸͖̅a̷̱͑r̷̺̀ć̴͔e̴̩̚ř̷̤a̷̲͝t̶̩́i̵̭̋o̸̲͊n̸͎̓,̷̣̀ ̴̞̏ḧ̷̪ū̷̬ḿ̷̯i̴̦̕l̷͉̔i̷̟̅ȧ̸ͅţ̶͑i̵̠̾ŏ̷̥n̵̨̎,̴̼̆ ̶͕̓f̵̧̈́i̴̹͗n̸͖̕ȃ̵̱n̸͉̄ĉ̸͈i̶̽ͅḁ̷̊l̵͓̽ ̵̡̇p̷̰͝e̸͉̓n̶̪̈́a̵̡͂l̸͍̈t̸̼̓y̸͚̽,̸͇̽ ̷̝͌â̶̪l̴̩͊l̴͓̉ ̵̝́k̸̩̓i̶͕͋n̸͂ͅd̸͙́s̵̩̀ ̴̿͜o̴͕̐f̴̟̍ ̵͚̏c̵̹̅r̴̒͜ȉ̸͔m̴̬̅e̸̜̍s̸͇̆ ̸̟̑ã̸͕n̴̼̋d̴̂͜ ̸͎̑m̸͂͜ù̴̜d̸́ͅ ̴̢́ȁ̷͈n̸͓͒d̷̡̀ ̵̢̚d̶͇͐a̵̠̕r̴̠̂k̶͚̏ṅ̶͇è̵̺s̵̰̓s̷̮͒ ̶̨̀a̸͔̕n̷̠̕ḓ̸͒ ̷̤̓h̸̗̚a̶̞̍ť̴̥r̶͔̿e̵̺͝ď̴̦ ̸̰̐s̴͇̓p̵͇͊ị̵̚ṉ̷̉ ̷̥̍à̷̧n̵̛̮d̵̜̎ ̸̜̚ṡ̴̻p̴̛̝í̵̭n̵̢̎ ̶̝̈́ḁ̸̑n̴̙͂d̷̫̈́ ̸̼̇s̶̹̾p̴̦͆i̴̮͒ǹ̵̞ ̴͍̅â̷̱n̵̛̺ď̶̯ ̷̩̽l̴͉̈ē̶̠v̵̠͆y̶̛͔ ̴̳̀t̸̯́h̷̲̅ë̸̯́ ̵̹̓p̸̼̾u̸̦̎n̶̼̏ĭ̴̼s̴͚͑h̸̛̰ḿ̷̢e̸͇̚n̵̘̅t̷͖̄.̶̲͠ ̶̫̊“̴̗͒T̷̨̓h̴̤͠e̴̦̔ ̷̜͂e̷͇͝r̵̯̎a̵̐͜ḍ̸͘i̶͙͠c̷̡̓å̵̯ṫ̷̹ì̷̠o̵̺̐n̶̼̉ ̶̧͂ó̷̧f̷̘̀ ̷̥͠h̸͓͝ū̶͇m̸̜͛å̸̮n̵͗ͅ ̴͙̿r̸̡̈́i̶͗͜g̷͔͋h̵̜̍ț̶͋s̷͉͋ ̷̖̏b̵͎͒y̶̡̑ ̶̖̑e̴̦͑x̶̯̃e̴̪͌ć̴͓u̴͍͒t̸̠͋i̵̻͂o̷̩͆n̵̺̽,̸̬̔ ̶̳͝d̸̯̀e̷͔̓p̵̘̊o̴͙̕ṛ̸͂t̷̞̒a̸͉͝t̴̠͝i̸̧͝o̷̟̊n̵̤̊,̴̖͝ ̴͓̔ȃ̸̙ṉ̴́d̶̛̞ ̵̟̈́ö̸̖́p̶̖̄p̵͈̄r̸͖̿ȇ̸̬ś̷̳s̴̘͋i̴̛̮o̴͛͜n̸̝͝.̵̫̉”̷̗͛ ̷͚́“̷̺̾T̷̅͜a̷̗̓k̸͔̐ĩ̵̠n̷͚̆g̵̦͐ ̷̱͋s̷̟͠â̶̲t̸͚̑i̷̙̐s̶͓̆f̵̢̄ȃ̶̡c̵͕̃t̸̜̊i̶͓̎õ̶̠ń̵̰ ̴̳̈́i̸͎͐ñ̷̺ ̸̩̊s̵̪͝a̸̢̐d̵̖͑i̸̞͛ṣ̷͝m̴̯͂ ̷̗̓ã̸͜n̷̯͑d̶̩̈́ ̴̡̀t̴̛̠h̷͙͌é̷̞ ̷̥̈ṯ̵̈́ö̷͈́r̸͕̈́ẗ̸ͅủ̴͙r̵͖̓e̴̥̿ ̷͚̃o̸̪̐f̸̱́ ̸͚̑t̷͕̄h̶̲̚e̵̙͑ ̶̡́f̷̙̾l̷̮̃e̸̻͒ş̵͊ḩ̶̈́.̴̺̀”̶̝̀ ̸̼͝“̴̠͝T̶̗́h̶̞̐e̴̫̾ ̷̟̂d̸̰́é̴͜n̵̻̈́ĩ̶ͅa̸̤͝ḻ̸͝ ̸̙͆ơ̷̩f̷̤̈ ̷̹́h̸̡̓o̴͍͆n̶̞͛ó̴̡u̴̩̿r̸̟̕ ̸̺͝a̶̹͌ņ̸̌d̸̗̉ ̸̢́p̴̯̌r̵̥͑e̵͚̅s̵̬̽t̴́ͅi̴̧̊g̶̯͊e̸̱̓*̴̙͐

̷̈́ͅS̸̲͌c̷͚̓o̸͈͝r̴̗̃n̶̤̅ ̶̟͝å̴̟r̴̟̈́i̵͔̒ṡ̸̰i̷̦͝n̸̆͜g̷̡̾ ̴̤̅a̵̱̔t̶̘̾ ̸͔͝t̶̨̃h̴͈̅e̶̦͆ ̸̭̿s̴̢̀ẽ̸͙l̵̢̛f̶̻̏î̶͍s̸̫͛h̶̰͑n̷͙͑è̵͜s̶͙̐s̶̮͘ ̶̰͠à̴̻n̵̘̕d̸͔̏ ̷̬̅j̶̘̔u̸͈͑d̵͚̆g̵̱̈́e̸͙̎ḿ̶͖e̶͉͒n̵̬͐t̵̘̍ ̷̙̐t̸͕͒ḧ̶̖́a̵̖͑ṱ̶̏ ̷̘̀f̵͚̑r̷̭͝ȩ̴̄e̶̳̚z̴̫͊ḙ̸̒s̷̻̑ ̶̳̕a̴̛̘s̵͚̎s̵̖͛e̷͍̋ẗ̶͎́s̴̳̔ ̵̲̀ą̵̔n̷̟͂ḋ̷̥ ̸͈̒p̴̝̚r̷̼̃ǒ̴͙p̷̯̾e̵̔ͅr̵̩̾t̷̂ͅÿ̶̧́.̵̠̇”̶̪̋ ̵̺͐T̴̥̍ḩ̶͗e̴͈̎ ̸̛͙d̵̜̊e̶̥̓a̶͈̿t̴̟̾ẖ̷̇ ̸̪̑p̸̟̋ȇ̷̙n̴͈͠a̴̠̕ĺ̷͜t̵́ͅy̸͕̓,̵̞͆ ̷͇̂p̸̰͑è̵͜ṉ̵̂a̷͉͑l̵̻̿ ̴̰͗l̷̟͝a̷̖͠ḇ̴̿ơ̴̜u̴̹͊r̸̙̄,̶̡͗ ̸͎̓ì̵̬n̶͚̉c̶̡͝a̴̬͋r̴̲̉c̵̼̐e̵̝͋r̵̠̀a̸̩̕t̴͖̆i̸̹͘ơ̵͙n̷̟̐,̷̢̇ ̸̞͑c̵̰͐õ̵̯n̷̯͝f̷͎̚i̶̧͋n̵͓̿ë̶̟m̷̭̀e̵̘͝n̷̰͋t̶͙̚,̷̖͊ ̷̥͠f̸̜̈í̸ͅn̶̦̈́e̵̟͂s̴͙͑,̴̜͑ ̸̧̈́c̷̜̄r̸̞͝i̵͙͝m̷̢̆e̴̞͠s̶̪͗ ̵͕̏c̵̟̚ả̴̻u̶͈͝s̶̞͝ě̷̟d̷̛̯ ̸͈̒b̶̩͐y̷̭̓ ̷̠̽p̴̯͂e̸̱̋r̷͉̋s̷̠̒ö̵̭́n̷̻̓a̴̬̐l̸̗̈́ ̸̱̆g̵͙̍r̴̯̚u̴̞̽d̵̹̆ģ̵̑e̶̿ͅs̸͓̏,̵̜̌ ̶̤͑c̴̝̾r̸̥̈ǐ̵̫m̴̬͗e̸̘̚s̶͉͊ ̷̺̍ć̵̖a̴̤͑ư̵͕s̵͈̽e̶̯͐d̶̥̂ ̸̋ͅb̵̖̚y̸̗̒ ̴̞̽l̵̯͛u̸̘͑s̴͉̔t̴͉͗,̴͉̓ ̵̲̀c̴̘͒r̴̙̽i̵̳̕m̶̛̱ȅ̶̼ş̵̍ ̴͈͊c̸̮̑o̶̜͌m̴̩͊m̵͈̒i̵̾͜ť̶͜t̶̮̎e̵̥̚d̸̤̍ ̸̲́u̴͎̓n̴̞̑ỉ̴̟n̶͖͝t̶͓̽e̴̼̽n̶̠̈t̷͇̒i̴̮̽o̴͕͑n̶͓͝a̷̹͑ḷ̵̐l̸̺̓y̸̺͋,̴̟̈ ̸͙̍c̵̨̈́r̴̰͆ï̵͓m̴͓͘e̷̥̍s̵̬̔ ̸̻̄c̴̗͊ḛ̷͗l̷̗̈́ḙ̸̂b̴̳̒r̶͗͜a̷̝͂t̶̛̫e̵̼̔d̷̹̚ ̸͔͛s̶̏͜ê̸̩l̸̢̋f̶̮͂-̴̢̿c̶̩̕o̷̝̾n̵̘̾s̵̢̅c̷̨̔i̵̗̒ô̵̝ư̵͖s̷͉̄ḷ̵̆ẏ̵̳,̶͔͝ ̶̧̓r̶͔̍è̷̪b̷̹̃ĕ̴̹ľ̷̘l̴̨̈́i̶̪̋ơ̶̹n̴̡͝,̶͔͋ ̶̻̿s̸̠̕ȯ̶̪l̶̯̃i̷̫̇c̴͉̈́ỉ̵͖t̸̟͋ä̴̱́t̵̯̀ì̶̥o̶͈͂ń̷̘,̸͍͐ ̶̳̍m̵̧͐i̴̪͗s̷̱̈́r̶̳̓ḛ̶͝p̷͎̓r̷̤̾e̵̥̾s̵̮͠e̴̛͈n̶̢͗t̷͙̓á̷̞t̸̘͝ȉ̶̱o̵̠̍n̴̯͝,̴̣̕ ̶͕̌t̵͚̋h̴̲̀è̸̦f̸̞͊t̵̮͝,̷̼̉ ̷̖͂r̴̠̐ő̴̧b̵̘̒b̵̯͂e̸͔͌r̵̪̚ý̴͔,̴͖̿ ̷͕͋ḵ̶͘i̴̘͆d̵͙̀n̶̞̓ả̴͓p̸͇̆p̶̛̰i̵̟̋n̷͓̑ḡ̴̭,̴̻̒ ̵͈̈́s̵̗̍ḝ̴l̵͍̈́f̸̟́-̸̘͝h̸̟̍a̷̳̐r̷̜̋m̸̬̎,̶̦̔ ̴̧̉t̷̥͛y̸̩̍r̴̊͜a̶̬̚ń̴̤n̵̨̚y̴͆͜,̴̗́ ̶͈͠a̸͙̋r̴̗̾s̶̘̾o̸̱͋n̷̰͝,̶̧͝ ̴̭̍ḅ̸́ö̶̢m̸̧͋b̶͍̆i̸̤̽n̵͇͊g̵̅ͅ,̴͈̃ ̵̢̓t̸̹̎r̸͍͒e̸͜͠ș̷́p̴̙̀a̴͇̿s̵͉͂s̵̹͆i̴̗̕ň̵̟g̷͎͒,̶̝̉ ̸͈͘m̴̫̓a̵̰͑ǹ̸͕s̵̠̚l̵̪͑ä̵͓ǘ̴̧g̵̖̽h̸͍̉t̷̡͘ė̶̙r̶͍̒,̸̬̌ ̵͉̐m̵̫͑a̶̝̔ş̷̀s̵̟͌ ̵̪̋v̶͖̉ȋ̶̧o̵̺̓l̶͓̏e̵̦͛ń̶̙c̷̮̓e̶̤͗,̸̲̈́ ̶̩͒d̵̼́e̵̝͐a̵͜͝t̵̗̉ẖ̵̍ ̶̛̥á̴̖t̸̥̎ ̸̭̈w̷̅ͅö̷̟r̸͖͒k̴͖͒,̶̧͊ ̵̰͂ȧ̵̺c̶̩̈́c̷͈͘i̵͚̿d̶̿͜e̸̢͐n̸̢̒t̴̹̓s̵͚͒

Batman felt the waves of pain spread through his veins like liquid fire. He stumbled, his hand reaching for the nearest wall, his vision blurring.

He focused on his training, on the techniques that had carried him through the darkest moments of his life. 

He remembered the Thogal Ritual, the weeks of darkness and meditation that had simulated death and rebirth. 

He remembered the time with Boba Tomar, the body healing meditation that had allowed him to push through injuries that should have been fatal.

yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself—for yourself solicitation, misrepresentation, theft, robbery, kidnapping, self-harm, tyranny, arson, dirty dirty dirty dirty you are dirty repent repent repent repent repent every violence every crime every victim repent repent DIE AND REPENT!!!!!!

He could do this. 

He would do this. 

He would not let the pain defeat him.

He deactivated the enhancements of his mystic code suit, letting the mana drain from his circuits. The pain did not lessen, but his active connection to the corruption did as he worked to cleanse himself. 

The city was falling apart around him. The demons were spreading, their influence growing with every passing moment. 

He pushed himself to his feet, his body screaming in protest, his mind focused on a single goal: save who he could.

He did this. One man escaping him lead to this.

As he turned and looked at the apocalyptic pandemonium, the screaming of millions and more. He was already moving even as his body ached.

Waver Velvet stumbled through the chaos, his heart pounding, his breath coming in ragged gasps as golden weapons that had fallen like rain.

Throughout all this he ran with lungs that burned and legs that screamed in protest, his heart pounding a desperate rhythm against his ribs as every breath was a ragged gasp, every step a gamble against the chaos that was consuming the city. Behind him, the golden light of Gilgamesh's bombardment painted the sky in shades of amber and crimson,

It was like something out of the Bible. A rain of fire and judgment, a cataclysm that would cleanse the earth of its sins. 

Like the tales of Sodom and Gomorrah, of the flood that had swept away the world. Now he saw it with his own eyes and even he felt it in the trembling of the ground.

He ran faster.

 And he almost tripped and as he felt himself falling, the ground rushing up to meet him, he flailed, his arms reaching out for something-anything-to stop his descent.

And then a hand caught his arm.

It was a firm grip, strong and unyielding with how it pulled him upright with an ease that suggested immense strength, then released him just as quickly. Waver stumbled, his vision clearing, and looked up at his savior.

Waver's heart stopped.

Batman's gaze swept over Waver, assessing him in a fraction of a second. He saw the terror in the young man's eyes.

"Keep moving," Batman said, his voice low and cold. "Stay in the shadows. Avoid the open streets. There's a shelter two blocks east, in the basement of the old department store. Go there. Hide. Wait for the end."

Waver opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He simply stared at the Dark Knight, his mind struggling to process what was happening.

Batman turned away, already beginning to run with his cape streamed behind him like a banner  and he watched him go, his heart pounding, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

Batman did not look back as he ran. 

For every man, woman and child he saved, he knew missed more. He burned their faces in his mind and felt revulsion on those that looked at him with awe or gratitude.

He ran through the streets, his body moving on instinct, his mind focused on the task ahead. He saw the terror in the eyes of the civilians, the desperation in their movements. He saw the demons closing in, their shadowy forms reaching out to claim their victims.

He grabbed a woman and her child, pulling them out of the path of a demon's grasp. He threw them toward a shelter, shouting for them to run. He turned to face the demon, his fists clenched, his jaw set.

Then another. And another. Another and another and anotherandanotherandnotherandanotherandnotherandanother

He closed his eyes.

The golden light of Gilgamesh's bombardment was visible even from this distance, a shimmering cascade of destruction that painted the clouds in shades of amber and crimson. He could feel the vibrations in the air.

No, he could see a golden object heading for his direction right now.

He knew what needed to be done.

“Da Vinci, Fire it now.”

Even in his inner panic, he had faith in him stopping it even as the shockwave blasted him off the building.

The world was never silent. Noise was everywhere, from the rustle of leaves in Central Park, the hum of traffic on the FDR, the distant wail of sirens in Brooklyn, the heartbeat of a child probably dreaming of dinosaurs.

Especially with fifteen million souls, each one a microcosm of thought and feeling and dreams and fears in the form of a laughter of children playing in the park, an argument of lovers on the bridge to the quiet sobbing of a woman who had just lost her job and had no prospects.

The good, terrible, light, darkness, hope and despair was overwhelming as it was humbling and it was the reason he did what he did as not just a protector but as a witness that carried the weight of everyone’s hopes on his shoulders and the burden of their fears in his heart in the simple act of giving them a better tomorrow.

And it was as always something that he would fight for, most of the time in the most surprising of times.

The signal that came through on a frequency that only a handful of people in the world could access t cut through the noise of the city like a blade through silk. 

The satellite had been in orbit for over a week now..He had been listening for days, ever since he had detected the anomalous energy from the satellite array that Bruce had been using, he had known that something was coming and Bruce would eventually do something that would require his involvement. He had wondered if Bruce would contact him, if the Dark Knight would finally admit that he needed help

And now, it was happening.

He could feel it in the shift of gravitational waves of the sudden absence of mass in low orbit and…

He had faced magic– sorry, magecraft before in battles with demons and wizards.

He still had to act.

Still, within the milliseconds it took for his contemplation, his mind drifted, unbidden, to the last time he had seen Bruce was many months ago consumed by grief and rage on the verge of doing something he himself would have considered unforgivable and barely recognizable.

He had not tried to reason with him, to offer comfort or advice but had simply stood beside him, a silent presence in the darkness, a reminder that he was not alone.

He had spoken of Jason and so much.

"I should have been there. I should have saved him. I should have—"

"You can't save everyone, Bruce. No one can. Not even you."

"I. Should. Have. DoneMore."

They had not spoken since the funeral…

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle touch on his arm.

"Smallville."

"You have that look again."

Lois's voice was warm and familiar, reminding him that she had been walking beside him with her hand in his as they had just returned from their honeymoon back to the city despite his… visits for his other work.

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face, a knowing smile on her lips.

"I know that look," she said.

Lois's voice came from behind him, soft and teasing. Clark turned to find her leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, her eyes shining with a mixture of love and exasperation. 

"What look?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"The look that says you're about to do something heroic." She stepped closer, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek.

Clark leaned into her touch, his eyes closing for a brief moment. "There's something I need to do."

"There's always something you need to do." She smiled, but there was a sadness in it that he hated. "That's who you are, Smallville. That's why I fell in love with you."

Clark hesitated, his mind still racing with the calculations of the threat. "Lois—"

"Don't," she said, cutting him off gently before she reached up and touched his cheek, her fingers warm against his skin.

"Go," she said. "Do what you have to do. I'll be here when you get back."

Clark's heart swelled with love and gratitude. He leaned in and kissed her.

"I love you," he said.

"I know," she replied, her smile widening. "Now go. Save the world."

Clark turned and ran ,his feet pounding against the pavement, his heart pounding in his chest as he went through a back alley then was already ripping the shirt and was in his suit right out. The streets of Metropolis were filled with people, but they were already becoming a blur as his speed began to build.

He reached the highway, the traffic heavy, the honking of horns a cacophony of frustration. He did not stop. 

He could not afford to stop.He leaped into the air to the joy of the witnesses below and murmurs of amazement and then he was gone, a blur of red and blue streaking through the sky with the symbol of the House of El brightening the daylight.

The world became a streak of light and color as he accelerated, the speed of his flight building with every passing second where he soon was moving faster than sound, faster than thought, faster than anything that had ever existed on Earth.

He soon angled his trajectory upward, ascending to a hundred thousand feet to avoid the atmospheric shockwaves that would have leveled everything until the air grew thin.

Once high enough, he could see the satellite's payload was beginning its descent against a cascade of golden weapons that would devastate everything they touched.in and when he reached the altitude his eyes scanned the area saw a cascade of golden light descending from the upper atmosphere like a rain of judgment.

He angled his descent, aiming for a point high above the city. He would intercept the weapons before they reached the ground, would destroy them with his heat vision before they could cause any harm.

But first, he had to assess the situation.

His vision sharpened, his perception accelerating to the point that he could see the satellite and  weapons with crystalline clarity, could analyze their trajectory and their potential for harm and see the ancient power that made them more than just metal and fire.

He had faced magic before and  fought sorcerers and demons, had been trapped in illusions and bound by spells. 

He knew its dangers, its unpredictability, its ability to bypass his defenses.

But he also knew its limitations. Magic was still a force of nature, still bound by rules and laws. It could be countered, deflected, destroyed. 

It just required the right approach.

His eyes glowed with heat. The first weapon was a spear, its tip aimed directly at the heart of the city. He focused on it, his heat vision lancing out to meet it.

The spear exploded in a shower of golden sparks.

His heat vision flared to life more instantly after that. 

Instantly his heat vision beams lanced out at the highest he could, striking the first of the armaments, vaporizing it in a flash of brilliant light then to the next, and the next,and the next with each strike precise and devastating.

Superman descended through the cloud of debris, his eyes scanning the sky for more targets. The weapons were still falling, their numbers seemingly endless, their power undiminished. He would have to work fast, would have to destroy them all before they could reach the ground. Along with the satellite itself.

When every single piece of debris was less than dust he descended, his flight path curving toward Fuyuki. 

Superman's eyes narrowed before he moved.

He crossed the Pacific in seconds, the ocean a blur of blue beneath him. He could see the coast of Japan ahead, the lights of Fuyuki in the darkness. 

He had to be fast. He had to be precise. He had to save the city.

The sky above Fuyuki split open.

Superman descended through the clouds like a meteor, his cape billowing in the superheated air of his passage as he saw the literal demons and the chaos they inflicted.

And he then saw Bruce—

He found the Dark Knight was lying in the middle of a crater a few feet away from a golden halberd several meters tall,  in the street, his cape torn, his armor cracked, his face bruised and bloodied surrounded by a approaching horde.

His heat vision lanced out to meet the shadows that had the devils screamed as they were burned, their forms dissolving into nothing.

But there were more of them. Much much more.

It was only when he cleared everything within four kilometers and helped all the civilians he could that descended, landing beside him and pulling him up as he scanned him.

 "Bruce," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I'm here."

With his X-Ray vision, he saw several shattered bones and—

,̴̤̂ ̷͓͝s̸̙̊ụ̴̆i̵̝͗c̷̳͘ì̷͓d̶͔̽e̵̯͐,̴̥͋ ̷̛͓r̴͇̔ȁ̷̮p̷̯͆e̸̢͋,̶̳͝ ̷̧̆a̵̛͕ṛ̸̐ś̷͇ȏ̴̘n̷͍͗,̷̘̆ ̶̩̐b̶̖͂o̶̺̊m̶̧͒b̴̨̋i̴͈͗ņ̶̑g̶̣͐,̵͍̍ ̶̞̉v̸͎̎ḯ̵̡ọ̵̏l̶̩͗ȃ̵̰t̷̘͘ị̴̍o̸̥̐n̶͙̾,̶̦̅ ̴̻͗n̶̳̈ȅ̵̼g̵̪̔l̵̦͛i̷͎͆ġ̷̣e̷̜͛ň̴̯t̷̛ͅ ̸̭͆h̶͉͋o̵̬̓m̶̼̈ĩ̸̝c̸̤̚i̵̮̾d̴̝̀e̵͚̚,̸͔̓ ̶͚̉m̶̥̀a̵͔̐s̶̛̖s̴̡̏ ̸̪̆v̶̲͒i̴͙̅o̸̾͜l̶͍̍e̴̥̎n̴̙̈́c̶̛͔ë̸̼́,̸̬͒ ̷̢̎d̴͓́e̵̗̔a̵̻̎t̵̹͝h̴̬̋ ̴͉͒a̶̡̓ṫ̸͎ ̶̪͊w̷̝͐o̷͍̿r̶͉̀ḱ̶͖,̷̹̍ ̸͎͘o̶̠͝v̵͇̏é̸͚r̵̭̈c̵̢̊ō̵̗ņ̸̎f̶̺̂i̸̟̒d̶̙̆ė̶̼n̸̩͑ṫ̵̯ ̴̖͒a̶͎͛c̶̢̈́c̷̰̽i̸͔̅d̴̗̈e̴͇̓n̶͙̉ẗ̵́ͅ,̷̖͋

̴̫̒

What was that?!

Batman looked at him, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Something that might have been relief.

"About time," he said.

Superman nodded, his jaw set. "Tell me what is going on and what you need."

Gilgamesh paused mid-step, his eyes returning upwards, eyes fixed on the sky above.

It was not the presence of a Heroic Spirit.  It was not a Master, no magus could have mustered such power at such short notice.

His lips curled into a smile of genuine interest.

"Interesting," he murmured before he then leaped into the air, his golden armor leaving a gleaming light trail .

He would meet this new challenger and test their worth.