Typemoon [463-464] (Patreon)

Chapter 463: The Magic Spear That Reverses Causality

Brynhildr and Alaric confirmed Saber's true identity beyond doubt: the Nordic dragon-slayer hero, Sigurd.

But—

"Ophelia, remove contact restriction, second layer."

Grievously wounded, Sigurd said, "Hurry. This Saint Graph won't hold much longer—though I don't particularly care."

After consecutive battles, Sigurd's output had already exceeded the limits of his current Saint Graph, showing signs of collapse similar to Alaric's. Combined with Brynhildr's fatal strike—though for special reasons it failed to kill him outright—it still left severe injuries.

Without reinforcing his Saint Graph, Sigurd might die here.

Of course, the man called Sigurd didn't care about dying.

"No!"

Startled, Ophelia cried, "We can't let this body be destroyed. In the Lostbelt, you must remain my knight."

Drawing a deep breath, she used the last stroke of her Command Seals. "Forced Saint Graph Ascension. Final restraint release. Eradicate all enemies who stand in our way, my knight."

With the edict formed by the Command Seal, the restraints limiting the Servant Sigurd's power finally vanished entirely. His armor fell away, the mask disappeared, revealing the true face of an exceptionally handsome man.

The very face of the man Brynhildr was fated to kill.

"Restraints released. Final stage."

Sigurd grinned. "Deploying the full performance of the Servant Sigurd. Commence enemy annihilation."

Only now did Sigurd truly face his foes in his prime!

The suddenly soaring mana turned into a curse, howling across the mountains—yet Brynhildr's deployed rune magecraft blocked it all. Even so, Chaldea's group felt enormous pressure.

"Ah, my body feels light. That annoying mask is finally off."

Sigurd touched his face and scoffed. "To think someone would like wearing that sort of thing. What peculiar taste."

"You're wearing glasses? What Mystic Code is that?"

Alaric eyed the black-rimmed spectacles on Sigurd's face. After removing the mask, Sigurd had put on glasses.

"This seems to be some kind of Wisdom of the Gods. That face of yours doesn't match it at all."

Sigurd seemed full of complaints about everything regarding himself. But more importantly—

"Demonic blade—one flash."

He swung his magic sword casually. A crimson blade of energy tore through the air; roaring flames turned into a sea of fire, the snow along its path melting and evaporating in an instant!

"Holy sword—one flash."

Imitating Sigurd's phrasing, Alaric casually swung his own blade. A pitch-black arc flashed through the oncoming sea of flames, extinguishing that fire born of Flame Runes in a heartbeat!

"Rune magecraft?"

Mash murmured in surprise. "Runes are activated by inscribed letters and patterns to shorten chants, but just now—"

"He didn't inscribe anything. This guy's dangerous."

Cu Chulainn, himself a practitioner of rune magecraft, grew grim. "Is this guy really Sigurd?"

"Sigurd… Sigurd…"

Brynhildr could no longer look directly at the man called Sigurd. Staring at the receding fire sea, her mind filled with memories.

Her beloved, the dragon-slayer hero Sigurd, had praised ice and fire as necessary elements of life and the future, but Sigurd would never use Flame Runes.

Fire burns all: swords, life, emotions—sometimes even fate itself.

Therefore, Sigurd would never use Flame Runes.

"You're not him. You absolutely are not him!"

Brynhildr glared, demanding, "Who are you?!"

"No, you're wrong. I am the genuine Sigurd, Brynhildr."

The man calling himself Sigurd said, "Heh heh heh. How pitiful humans are. If you were gods, at least you'd know what my soul's flame truly is!

 How ugly—intolerably so!"

Boom!

Laughing loudly, he brought the magic sword down as if to cleave sky and earth alike!

But before that, an even swifter figure swung an even more ominous holy sword. Dazzling aurora condensed in an instant into an impossibly slender sword-light!

Clang!

A crisp sword-chime drown out all other phenomena.

Without entering a contest of strength, Alaric blocked Sigurd's strike and immediately disengaged.

Brynhildr followed up at once, wielding her divine spear and taking Alaric's place. Empowered by the Primordial Runes, he managed to contend evenly against Sigurd with all restraints lifted.

Napoleon, not joining the melee, used artillery fire to pin down the recovering Thrud; Mash coordinated with Brynhildr to suppress Sigurd.

And all of this—was merely preparation for one man.

Crimson mana surged. Cu Chulainn, set in a special attack stance, had golden light in his eyes. Seeing this, Ophelia sensed disaster. She moved to deploy her Mystic Eyes again, but a pitch-black veil rose, cutting off her view.

Alaric appeared before Ophelia. A casually conjured blindfold sealed her Mystic Eyes. "Like it? I learned Mystic Eye Killer straight from Da Vinci."

"…Brynhildr's runes restored you, didn't they."

Unable to resist, Ophelia murmured.

With Ophelia's attempt at using her Mystic Eyes interrupted, Sigurd lost his best chance to evade the spear.

Cu Chulainn, having finished charging, shouted, "Gáe Bolg!"

Not thrown, but thrust—consuming less mana than the thrown anti-army form.

Gáe Bolg is a technique that reverses the causality of events.

At the moment it is unleashed, the "effect" of "the opponent's heart is pierced" is established first, and the "cause" of "the spear hit because the heart was pierced" follows afterward.

Because the "pierces the opponent's heart" result already exists at release, even killing Cu Chulainn first would not change the outcome, so the spear's path cannot be canceled.

The only ways to avoid it are to get outside Cu's attack range before activation, or to have post-mortem revival.

Lacking exceptional luck, it is effectively a move of "if released, you die."

Sigurd, as a Servant, had only the lowest rank E in Luck. Even with Wisdom of the Gods, while being pinned by Brynhildr and Mash, he couldn't break free!

Thus, the spear pierced his heart!

Before the spear was even thrust, his heart had already been pierced.

The vermilion spear naturally passed through the gap between Brynhildr and Mash, penetrating the heart of the Servant Sigurd—his spiritual core.

The curse placed upon the spear erupted upon piercing the heart; countless vermilion thorns proliferated rapidly until they destroyed all of Sigurd!

"…"

Watching the spear withdraw from his pierced heart and core, blood at the corner of his mouth, Sigurd propped himself up with his sword to avoid falling. Though death was certain, he couldn't hide his elation and laughed wildly. "Hahahaha! Finally, finally—someone has pierced Sigurd's spirit core! Yes! I've been waiting for this moment!

 Damnable Command Seals forbade me from committing suicide! I've been waiting for someone who could kill me! Someone who could hit me! Hahahahahahaha!!!!"

"Something's being released."

Standing beside Ophelia, Alaric watched the laughing Sigurd. His life force was gone; death was inevitable.

But Alaric could sense something that had long lain dormant being freed—like a prisoner walking out of a cage.

"Ophelia, what's sealed inside Sigurd's body?"

Alaric tilted his head slightly, curious. "What monster did you stuff in there?"

"Saber? Saber?"

Ophelia had no mind to answer. She stared in disbelief at the laughing knight. She had never imagined Sigurd would actually be hit by Cu Chulainn.

"He can't lose. My knight, Sigurd—should have been undefeated."

Ophelia muttered, "That's why I lifted the final restraint—"

Chapter 464: A Light That Crosses Lostbelts

"How could this—no, no, that's im—possible—"

Knowing what was to come, Ophelia's expression went vacant. Then, seeing the laughing knight, she did not hesitate. She tore off the Mystic Eye Killer Alaric had placed on her. "Phenomenon—fix aim—! The Saber born alongside Sigurd's core collapse—I refuse to witness its radiance!"

Alaric didn't stop her. He simply watched quietly, deeply interested in the Saber to be born after Sigurd's death.

Her Mystic Eyes flared—yet Ophelia could not glimpse any future possibilities.

"It won't work."

Sigurd, beginning to fade, curled his lip. "Didn't the Valkyrie just show how to crack your Mystic Eyes? Did you forget, Ophelia?

I too am merely a kind of phenomenon—but no matter. I possess soul and will."

"No—no, no—Sir Alaric!"

As if clutching at a final straw, Ophelia cried out Alaric's name in terror, even grabbing his sleeve. "Use your Mystic Eyes—kill him! You must kill him now—the flames are coming!"

With her shout and trembling, Ophelia's almost despairing gaze was reflected in Alaric's eyes.

The girl's eyes were beautiful, flawless gems now occupied by fear—until the flames surged forth.

Alaric lifted his head. Not far away, the Servant Sigurd had completely vanished. Even with Ophelia begging, Alaric couldn't do anything within so short a time.

The thing that illuminates the earth with infinite light, hanging in the sky and burning without end.

Retaining an abnormally massive size, yet hovering in the air, overlooking the entire Scandinavian Lostbelt—a mass of flame.

The mid-heaven sun—the sun itself.

In many mythologies, the sun holds paramount significance, countless divinities tied to it.

And in this Northern Lostbelt, the sun at this moment was blinding, as if responding to the girl's scream.

This was not a star's true form—standing in the air, yet not quite beyond the atmosphere.

It began a twisted quickening. This was no star, no sun of fire.

Rather, it resembled magma flowing slowly from the earth's core—and more terrifying than magma.

At some point, the great sun turned black. Arcs shimmered along its rim. From within, magma fell—and with that false sun as a hollow, a colossal humanoid descended alongside the falling magma.

Yes, a giant.

Yet its majesty was unlike any other giant-kind.

A body surpassing all giants; a heat that tramples all life.

The embodiment of heat: the flames flickering within the false sun were his manifestation.

Beneath the soul and spiritual core of the Pan-Human History Servant Sigurd lurked the true Saber of the Lostbelt—

The key to the twilight of the Norse Age, the god-slayer.

The ruler of Muspelheim, the dominion of flame in this Nordic Lostbelt, and the incarnation of destruction.

The Flame Sword, the Blackened One.

He who will slaughter the gods and burn all things upon the earth.

His true name—Surtr, King of the Fire Giants.

As the sun fell, giants dwelling throughout the Lostbelt raised their heads and roared. 

…

Aboard the submarine Shadow Border—

Detecting the sun's anomaly at once, Holmes sighed. "We were a hair too slow. Even I find myself hating my principle of 'say nothing without conclusive proof.'"

"The flame flickering in the northern mountains of the Lostbelt is fire fallen from Muspelheim, the land of flame, and that massive sun is likely the gods-made embodiment of Muspelheim—namely the end-time giant, Surtr's body."

"But we still have hope, don't we?"

Da Vinci-chan steadied herself and smiled. "Time to contact them. Just a little more and it'll be ready—"

"What are we waiting for? Our lives are on the line!"

Goredolf vaulted into the pilot's seat. "Open comms! Find out where they are!"

—

That was the first commemorable Rayshift experiment—A-Team's assignment to Investigate Singularity F.

On that day, our fates ended.

The world was engulfed by the flames of the Incineration of Humanity.

Flames, flames, flames.

All we could see was fire.

My Mystic Eyes are the Mystic Eye of Prolongation, rank "Gem," a type of future sight that can pin down seen possibilities with pushpins, delaying unfavorable outcomes.

Then what about this?

Trapped in coffins, faced with death drawing near—our chance to escape was… near zero.

Not zero, but far too distant.

Even if I reached out, I couldn't pin it.

I might pin down an enemy's attack or magic, but this—was impossible.

Against Lev Lainur's sabotage and the flames of Incineration, I was powerless.

Swept into the fire—everything ends.

Unavoidable—for anyone, the same outcome.

Perhaps because of that, I didn't complain or lament much—only felt utterly disillusioned with myself, thinking as death approached, if only I'd been more straightforward.

I never once reached out first. If only once, I had taken Wodime's hand—

"Congratulations on your resurrection. I believe you can save the world.

Hello, Kirschtaria Wodime.

We can convey information to you like this, yes? Choosing to use language—how cumbersome."

If my vocal cords still worked, I probably would've gone "ah."

My eyes looked at the neighboring coffin.

At the dazzling light emerging from the darkness—and Wodime facing that light.

Wodime looked like a newborn infant—not in form, but in frailty. His injuries were so severe it seemed one breath might kill him, exhaustion radiating from his whole being.

As if he'd seen the world's end—no, as if he'd fought it.

That near-death state lingering after surpassing a miracle made me believe this absurd notion was reality.

"We now share our situations. history is to be burned; the past will vanish.

But that concerns us not. Unexpected, yes—but insufficient to change the plan.

The sky will close with the invasion, and you humans will meet your end.

Yet in this glorious undertaking, a god still lacks a body.

You will assist me, won't you, Kirschtaria Wodime?

You, the Crypter—fit to be my apostle."

I didn't know what had happened. I simply felt our end.

"He was chosen. We weren't."

Wodime would survive; we would remain abandoned in darkness.

But—

"Alone, I am not enough. I recommend the other six be made collaborators as well."

Wodime's voice rang out. I sensed the light become perplexed—and my mind went blank with shock.

Not only gods—humans too.

Even ants crawling on the ground would know this should not happen.

In this situation, his statement, his proposal—should not have appeared.

"In a white-paper Earth, you will be invincible.

The plan works with you alone. Why seek other competitors?"

"The chance that the other six could surpass me is not zero. If there is any possibility, I cannot ignore it."

Wodime declared, "Give them a chance too. If we are to recompile human history, leaving it to me alone is meaningless."

He wasn't shirking responsibility. He believed in the value of each of us—a steadfast radiance of humanity.

"To regain what is lost, appropriate work must be done.

To resurrect a human, you must pay the price to halt the world for several seconds—like the hell you just endured.

But their bodies lie silent in Imaginary Numbers Space; they cannot pay.

Will you pay for them, Kirschtaria Wodime?

Can you endure several more pains of opposing the world?"

"Of course."

Without a hint of gloom, Wodime said, "If it is something humans can do, I can do it."

In a state where even one breath seemed to invite unconsciousness, with my face shadowed by humiliation and despair, he stood upright and proclaimed to that light.

To me, he was noble.

I witnessed the proudest strength a human can possess.

"Situation change confirmed. The price has now been paid.

To the chosen—an offer. To the abandoned—an option.

If you desire glory, choose revival;

If you desire sloth, choose eternal sleep.

God cares not which you choose."

After the dazzling light, I became one of the Crypter. What we had to do next was to protect the Lostbelts assigned to us. I did not close my eyes; instead, with my Mystic Eyes, I looked upon the world given to me.

To answer Wodime's expectations—to face the fate given to me as he did.

Even if it's a bad road cut off from Human History, there must be some hope within.

So I prayed. So I wished.

My right eye looked to the far distance—toward a world not here—the Norse world destined to be pruned by Human Order.

"You are watching me, aren't you?"

The flaming giant's gaze met mine.

"It cannot be the arrogant All-Father—he's already been burned by me.

 Nor can it be the ferocious wolf—I've already devoured him.

A surviving god, then?

Ah. So a god.

Thinking back, there seemed to be one god left unburned.

So you are the snow goddess?"

"I am—a woman who should have died in a world swept by flames."

"And you—who are you?"

"I am—flame.

Fated to scorch all things in the North—flame.

The angry leavings of the Primordial Giant—"

The North?

I see. I understand.

Perhaps because ancient Norse blood runs in me. Then you must be Surtr.

King of the Fire Giants, the Blackened One.

The end-time giant who once ended the world.

"Interesting woman. Dead in a burned world, yet you dare to look into my flame. Yes, I will end everything.

I'll slaughter those gods who prattle about fate, and burn the earth, humanity, and all things.

Nothing shall remain for tomorrow."

Not quite like the myths.

"Your flames ended the Norse divine age, but then the age of man arrives."

"Fate decreed that—but unnecessary.

Let everything end with me. I will stand alone upon an ended planet and laugh madly.

So I declared—"

"You—failed, didn't you?"

"Yes. I failed. I've struggled in the All-Father's prison for long ages, but in the end I cannot overcome fate. It seems my path ends here.

My dream of burning all things unrealized—my Norse, these flames—will be pruned, along with reality."

"Farewell, human woman who cast her gaze from a world ended by flame.

If, after crossing tens of thousands of miracles and hundreds of millions of coincidences—

You can still see me—then I shall show you my flame sword."

After that, I entered my Lostbelt and performed a Servant summoning.

I should have summoned a Servant tied to my territory—but I summoned the dragon-slayer, Sigurd—

If only it had been just Sigurd.

Alas, everything had been set the moment of that shared gaze.

…

Through that bond of eye contact, Surtr hid his soul within Ophelia's Mystic Eyes. After the summoning, through the ritual, he entered the body of the Servant Sigurd.

He sought to break Odin's prison by suicide. Ophelia, realizing in time, used a single Command Seal as a restraint to forbid Sigurd's suicide.

Until now—

Until Cu Chulainn slew Sigurd.

Until the sun fell upon the earth.

Scripture says: in the beginning, on the seventh day, the Creator rested.

The flame of the Norse Lostbelt arrived on the seventh day—but brought not rest, only the end of all things.

The All-Father Odin's day—Wednesday—ended.

The thunder of the god's hammer—Thursday—ended.

The day of love and fertility—Friday—ended.

The alien land's day of husbandry—Saturday—ended.

Then came the Sun's day.

A false sun—a flame blazing at midheaven—what should hang high descended to the ground.

Its shock sundered the earth, reduced mountains to powder, and boiled every place upon which one might stand.

The Giant King stood proudly.

In Pan-Human History this manifested as the Katla eruption; here it is different. Here, myth is the planet's reality.

That is—Muspelheim, the Land of Flame—the dominion of fire.

The sun hanging over the Lostbelt's sky was not truly a sun. Now, Muspelheim's ruler—Muspelheim itself—fell from the heavens.

Once one of the ancient kings of giants, now manifest as a twisted sun, the one who expands the twilight.

"King of the Fire Giants!"

Mash's heart pounded, yet she stood before Ritsuka Fujimaru. Not far behind, the exhausted Brynhildr had collapsed; Cu Chulainn wove runes to slow her Saint Graph's collapse.

"Distance cannot be confirmed—an optical deception caused by atmospheric scattering—"

Mash warned, "Everyone, beware the heat!"

"Yeah! Mash is right—my gut says that guy is surprisingly close!"

Napoleon laughed. "King of the Fire Giants! Surtr! You don't plan on disappearing, do ya? That would make you our enemy, right?"

"Of course."

With a thought carried by magecraft, sword-aura of flame swept for kilometers, erasing everything in sight and howling toward Chaldea's group!

"True Name—Frozen Citadel—deploy… A city of fantasy that bears many roads, many wishes… Answer the call, fragile city of dreams…!"

Walls burgeoned into a great barrier, isolating the heat beyond!

Almost at the same time—

"One chance. I'll win us one chance. Mash, we must return to the submarine next—I'll use Incarnation to bring down my full power!"

Gazing at the King of Fire Giants, Alaric had no time to admire his power or striking form. He rallied the strength granted by Brynhildr's runes.

The Fire Giant King is an authentic existence. A mere Servant's power cannot affect him—not even assisted by Brynhildr's runes.

Therefore, Alaric must unleash an absolutely overwhelming strike—at least to wound Surtr!

"Miss Fujimaru, do you know the insurance Da Vinci prepared for you?"

Alaric drew a deep breath. His words made Ritsuka blink; she didn't understand why he'd bring that up now.

Wasn't the insurance Alaric's very status as a Servant?

"Not just Servant-ization. We discussed that ages ago."

As if reading her thoughts, Alaric said, "There's a second one. Crude, yes, but it's a special-purpose spell Da Vinci personally developed."

Pitch-black aurora rose and twined behind Alaric, forming a halo. The warped light was as deep as the stars.

Alaric intoned, "Anchor point: Scandinavian Lostbelt—confirmed. Open the Gate."

He released all his mana at once. Not a Noble Phantasm, not a grand ritual—this spell could only locate and guide.

The cost was immense—the lion's share borne by the other side. If not absolutely necessary, Alaric would never use this final resort.

Crack.

In the flowing halo, the world split.

Not spatially, but from an even remoter realm—piercing another stratum—following the roots of the Fantasy Tree to reach this doorway's force.

Crisp cracks sounded as fissures spread through the halo until it shattered completely, revealing pitch darkness within.

A pair of pale golden eyes opened in the dark.

"!!!"

The instant those eyes beheld them, everyone's hair stood on end. Napoleon reflexively hefted his cannon; godly light flickered in Cu Chulainn's gaze; even the collapsed Brynhildr struggled to raise a hand.

As if not moving now meant death would draw near!

This was not the same league—another dimension entirely.

"…"

Fujimaru, standing behind Mash, stared in shock at the halo at Alaric's crown, rising into the high heavens—and at the figure within.

Identical to Alaric—or rather, the true Alaric.

Not a limited copy constrained by a weak Servant Saint Graph, but the knight who had come this far in a human body, with a red dragon's frame.

Power supreme—enough to strike down gods.

"The Holy Lance—weigh anchor."

A voice, ethereal and brief.

A tide of mana roared over the Norse earth—mana that made even gods tremble. Infinite storms blew away millennia of snow and ice; even the flourishing flames were scattered!

Giants bowed; humans gazed up. Even within the Shadow Border, Chaldeans cried out in astonishment.

"Interesting."

The Giant King on the earth looked up to the sky.

The sun had already fallen; nothing should exist above—but another sun now descended.

A brilliance hotter than flame; a world higher than the sky—a strike from the Chinese Lostbelt across vast distance!

A light capable of striking down the entire Norse!