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Chapter 461: Divine Crest

It was spear against sword, a clash of demonic steel; the scarlet radiance of blade and lance had reached the realm of the divine. Both were heroes of Europe—the great dragon-slayer and the Child of Light of Ireland—champions from different ages, now crossing weapons upon the same stage.

And battling alongside them was the one who stood at the pinnacle of the Valkyries: the Heroic Spirit named Brynhildr.

It was an unimaginable, grand battle; even the aftershocks alone tore the land around them, carving it into ravines.

A war of myth.

Blade and spear collided in an invisible storm, forming a domain of death no living thing could approach.

Utterly oblivious to it, Alaric strolled unhurriedly into the battlefield. His pace was very slow—often three or four seconds per step—yet he slipped past the pressure waves that tore through the air.

Trusting his instinct for danger, Alaric skirted countless threats until he reached the heart of the fighting—

—like an invisible shadow.

This was the craft of assassination: walking on the edge of cognition, at the vanishing point of sight, hiding one's body within it.

Though the Saber class is very different from Assassin—and Alaric, not a composite-class manifestation like an Assassin, should by rights only be able to use Saber-side abilities—

—or rather, emphasize his Saber-side abilities—

when all is said and done, no one ever wrote a rule that a Saber can't use Assassin-side techniques. Just as an Assassin doesn't have to shoot a bow, or might instead be a magus.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Unlike the duel with Brynhildr and Cú Chulainn, Napoleon and Mash were tying down the three Valkyries. But Thrud and her sisters had already entered a state of magical overload, their parameters spiking, and the fight was growing harder and harder for Napoleon and Mash.

The Valkyries moved with seamless coordination—far beyond what Mash and the newly-met Napoleon could match—but the two of them, by sheer quality alone, held the line in a delicate balance.

Until that flash of swordlight rose.

Schhk.

A jet-black arc of blade ignored the magical reinforcement on flesh; even a demigod's body was paper before it, easily sliced apart.

"!"

Eyes widening to the point of splitting, Thrud and Ortlinde snapped their heads around. The knight strolling past as if through a garden had, like someone merely passing by, flicked out a casual stroke that severed Hildr's body and brought her death.

Before he struck, no one had noticed him at all.

As though he didn't exist.

When did he get there?

Such was the question that rose in Thrud's and Ortlinde's hearts—but there was no time for an answer.

Because the instant they turned, Mash's and Napoleon's attacks were upon them!

The Round Table, heavy as a city wall, slammed down onto Thrud, the surging force threatening to grind her to paste.

"Grk!"

Unable to withstand such power, Thrud was blasted away, spitting blood as she flew a hundred meters.

Ortlinde, hammered by shellfire that pierced her mystery, was knocked from the sky. The moment she struck ground, her vision filled with a wash of inky swordlight—

Schhk!

Alaric swung again, face calm, watching blood spray across the white snow, becoming a mournful ink painting.

All he could do was seize the opening and swing. In a straight-up fight, he likely wouldn't even have time to raise his blade.

Mash did not press the attack. Shield in hand, she immediately sprinted past Alaric and dove into the brawl with Cú Chulainn and the others—

Clang!

Without even turning his head, Sigurd flicked a blade behind him, forcing Mash back more than ten meters.

"I can take it!"

Mash grit her teeth and shouted, "I can maintain combat status—!"

The Saint Graph exoskeleton, against a Heroic Spirit of Sigurd's class, was still too frail—there was even a risk of shutdown. But she didn't have time to return to the Shadow Border to adjust it; all she could do was grit her teeth and charge!

"Oh! Now the main act begins!"

With his hands freed, Napoleon laughed. "Valkyrie Brynhildr—how does it feel? Can you keep him suppressed if we go on?"

"It's going to be a little difficult. I didn't expect a battle hero like Sigurd to be this strong—"

Brynhildr spoke softly, confusion on her face. "I thought I knew him well. It seems I'm still not mature enough. The one I know is the man at rest, far from adventure, in his calm days.

The one who swings the demon sword at his enemies is—"

Strong.

Even with Brynhildr and Cú Chulainn together, it was hard to gain the upper hand against this Sigurd.

Of course, if Mash and Napoleon joined, the situation would change.

But not enough—far from enough. And so—

"Ah, brave hero. Terrible man."

Brynhildr murmured. "I'm in a bind. If you are such a strong, unhesitating warrior, then I can only burn myself to the limit of my soul—Divine Crest—Prototype Activation!"

Boom!

With her resolve set, the magical output wreathing Brynhildr surged sharply, for a moment nearing Sigurd's—and seemed about to overtake him outright.

"Divine Crest—Prototype Activation—"

Unable to mourn her sister, Thrud returned to the battlefield and whispered, "We three sisters weren't loaded with that. It belongs only to our elder sister.

Lady Brynhildr—our elder sister—so you've gone so far."

It was the Primordial Runes granted by the great god Odin—power no half-god like a Valkyrie should touch. The price for using them was the complete burning of one's soul.

"Primordial Runes—"

Cú Chulainn, recognizing it, cocked an eyebrow. "This Valkyrie's really going for broke. Runes at this level pack hundreds of times the usual juice—close to the domain of True Magic.

The price must be steep, huh?"

"Mhm. Even the soul will be scattered to dust—so it seems."

Unafraid, Brynhildr looked at Sigurd. "Come then. I've kept you waiting, Sigurd. Let's keep slaughtering each other."

Sigurd curled his lip. "I thought you might bring me some fun, and now you trot out a mere 'great god's' trick."

Crack, crack.

He lifted the demon sword again, ready to hack everything before him to bits.

"Hold, Saber."

At last Ophelia stepped forward. "That demon sword of yours need only kill the Servants. I've stressed this again and again, and yet you still mean to kill everyone, don't you?"

"And what of it?"

Sigurd shot back. "Don't tell me you intend to spare that Shielder?"

"Miss Ophelia—"

Mash pressed her lips together, looking at the girl standing at the far edge. The feelings burning in her chest could not be put into words.

Catching Mash's gaze, Ophelia said, moved, "Mash, you've become strong. Compared to me we're worlds apart. I can't become like you—but I won't yield this path. As for that decision by Wodime—"

She tore off the eyepatch she always wore, revealing heterochromatic eyes—Mystic Eyes, the same kind of existence as Alaric's gem-like pupils.

"Mystic Eyes, is it—"

Alaric raised an eyebrow. To use a Mystic Eye now—could it be something that could sway the battle?

"Awe-inspiring Primordial Runes and the Divine Crest—"

Ophelia declared, "I will not see them shine!"

Hum.

Her Mystic Eyes flickered—and fixed a future in place.

Chapter 462: A Dragon-Slayer That Is and Isn't

Hum.

A crimson brilliance anchored the future, and in that future—

"My—runes are fading?!"

Brynhildr's boiling magic plummeted rapidly, soon close to her state before triggering the Divine Crest—an absolute impossibility for someone who had already activated it.

"Your radiance is too dazzling. Therefore my pupils will not look upon a future where that possibility occurs."

Ophelia spoke coolly.

"What is that? A rollback of phenomena?! But—but—time is the one thing it shouldn't be able to interfere with!"

Mash blurted, "Even with 'Noble Color,' even with Gem-class Mystic Eyes, it shouldn't be possible!"

Possibility?

Alaric lowered his sword, his gaze sweeping to Ophelia's crimson pupils. "Interesting," he said, impressed.

"Guh—"

The power granted by the Divine Crest had vanished, but the Saint Graph collapse sparked by its activation had not. Agony without end surged over Brynhildr, drowning her completely.

Under Sigurd's gaze, she screamed.

"Now that's more like it!"

Sigurd's face lit with pleasure at last. "Your Saint Graph can't handle a Primordial Crest, can it? The power drawn out by activation is shut off, leaving only the collapse of your spirit core?

Writhing agony suits you, woman who's fallen to a mere human—crawl and grovel; it becomes you."

"Sig—urd!!"

Brynhildr dropped to her knees, teeth gritted, howling, "Aaaahhhh!"

Pain from a collapsing spirit core was agony that touched the soul itself. Even a demigod like Brynhildr could barely endure it.

"I'll use a Mystic Code to stabilize you—right now!"

Seeing this, Fujimaru Ritsuka spoke at once. "Please—hold on!"

"Ah—ah—no… need…"

Drenched in sweat, Brynhildr forced out, "Not yet—not yet. Fujimaru Ritsuka, those eyes—enduring them once is enough."

Having taken it once herself, she had found the answer.

"!"

Ophelia frowned, then snapped, "Phenomenon—Target Fixation!"

Whatever Brynhildr intended, it would not be allowed to appear before her.

But that was before the answer had come.

"Divine Crest—Reboot. Ignite again."

Brynhildr rose unsteadily, face pale, but the magic surging from her was as mighty as before—exactly the same as just now.

"I won't be misled by your eyes again."

She stared hard at Ophelia. "You didn't rewind phenomena. Right—what you did was like pinning a possibility in place with a tack—"

A Mystic Eye is an independent magic circuit, a single-process working—in other words, Single Action magic.

In the broad sense, Mystic Eyes are eyes imbued with magical energy; in the narrow sense, they are eyes that can project a magical formula.

The "Mystic Eyes of Death Perception" Alaric possesses are closer to the other side than they are to Mystic Eyes—put bluntly, they are akin to a superpower. They do not obey the natural laws by which magecraft interferes with the world; while still human, they surpass the human frame.

Some are one-generation mutations; some bloodlines preserve superpowers through close consanguinity.

Ophelia, however, is different. She is a Mystic Eye user in the narrow sense—one whose eyes carry the "Noble Color."

Only Mystic Eyes possessed from birth bear the Noble Color.

Ordinary-grade Mystic Eyes are typically green or red; Golden-grade blaze with a brilliant gold; Gem-grade shine with violet light.

Ophelia bears Gem-grade Mystic Eyes of Protraction.

In her sight, a possibility she has once seen can be pinned in place like with a pushpin.

In short, she can defer possibilities unfavorable to her—a power that, at its core, sees possibilities, and can be categorized alongside forms of future sight.

Whoosh—

Magic roared as it burned. With the reboot, Brynhildr's power peaked. Seeing this, Thrud whispered, "Reboot… For a Servant whose functions depend on a spirit core, this is the same as further collapsing it, Elder Sister—"

Why will you go this far?

"You can't see anymore, can you?"

Brynhildr, sweat pouring down, stared at Ophelia. "To blind your eyes, I narrowed the possibilities.

The Demon Eye—the eye of power. I've seen such things before, so I won't be defeated by them—not even by Balor's eye.

Perhaps even if it were my father's eye, I—" "I would still—kill Sigurd!"

By now Brynhildr was half-mad. The result of narrowing the possibilities was to fix the ending. In this moment she existed for one thing only.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

Runes flowered in an instant—not toward Sigurd, but toward Alaric. Without pausing to inspect, she overlaid him with an absolute suppression of runes, mending the damage to his Saint Graph.

Alaric's Saint Graph wasn't damaged like Brynhildr's—it was simply overtaxed power, with no harm to the root. Unlike Brynhildr, whose very soul was burning.

With Primordial Runes at this level, a brief repair was entirely within reach.

"The great god's runes—the Primordial Runes, hmm—"

Offering no resistance, Alaric felt his Saint Graph knitting. Though the recovery was bound to the runic effect, it was enough; his power was rising in solid measure.

It was the first time Alaric had seen the so-called Primordial Runes—in contrast to the rune magecraft handed down to the modern day, these were the Primordial Runes given by the great god Odin.

It is said that the All-Father Odin, seeking a higher wisdom, hung himself upon a tree for nine days and nights, contemplating the mysteries of the cosmos.

When he descended from Yggdrasil, he had grasped the secret of the runes.

Thus mystics believe that Odin obtained the runes—the secrets of the cosmos—and that this secret was taught to mankind by Ríg (that is, Heimdallr), embodied in the form of the runic alphabet.

"How vexing. For a mere doll, she sure can scream."

Sigurd made no move to stop Brynhildr's action. Perhaps he also wished to see Alaric rejoin the fight.

But Ophelia thought otherwise. With the failure of her Mystic Eyes confirmed, a great shock ran through her.

"Impossible. How is this possible?"

Ophelia muttered, "To restrict your path forward to a single line, allowing no other possibility of yourself to appear—someone can do that?"

What Brynhildr had done was not to use runes to cancel the Mystic Eyes' power, but to contort her own spirit, denying any development outside her chosen self. Now, there was only one road before her.

"Human will couldn't do that. Ordinary will couldn't possibly block the emergence of possibilities."

Sigurd said, "An ordinary demigod couldn't, either. But a demigod who burns and warps herself—maybe she can.

To twist yourself that far—swing the spear of madness!"

"Sigurd Sigurd Sigurd!!!"

Having finished laying runes on Alaric, Brynhildr had gone fully mad—her eyes held only one figure.

"Ahhhhhhh! I will deliver my flames, my frenzy, my longing—to you, who have strayed into depravity!"

With a thunderous report, Brynhildr soared skyward, her surging magic sending strange light rippling through the high air.

"This is a killing spear—for slaying dragon-slayers, great heroes, the man I love—my all-in strike—"

Brynhildr proclaimed. In her arms, the divine spear swelled visibly, growing to tens of meters in length—so massive that even she could only hug it to hold it.

"This enormous blade cannot be evaded—so long as you are the Heroic Spirit Sigurd!"

From the heights she dove at Mach speed, the giant spear in her arms like a weapon of giants, rending the air—shockwaves from successive sonic booms rolled outward.

"The spear that turns longing into colossal weight is—"

Brynhildr cried, "Brynhild Romantia)!"

Rumble—!

The colossal spear punched straight through the earth. It was a Noble Phantasm for slaying a person—but the shockwave from that gargantuan mass piercing the ground was on par with an Anti-Fortress weapon.

Hum.

Almost at the same time, a black canopy unfurled, shearing away everything that came its way—objects and shock alike.

Landing lightly, Brynhildr let out a breath. "Got you."

"No—you can't touch me."

Sigurd still stood upon the earth. Though his body had suffered grievous damage, it did not slow him.

"You're not Sigurd, are you?"

Dropping the barrier, Alaric looked intrigued. "Otherwise, how could you take only that much damage?"

"Indeed. I am not the Heroic Spirit Sigurd."

The man called Sigurd said flatly, "I'm not even the hero the Valkyrie loves."

At those words, everyone present froze—whether they knew the name or not, they had been certain this knight was the dragon-slayer called Sigurd.

How could he be someone else?