It was strange—eerily so. By common sense, Heroic Spirits manifested through the faith of the world, and that faith always lent them a certain radiance. Be it golden or even blackened, each bore a brilliance of their own.
Yet the Heroic Spirit standing before them… had none.
His blackened armor radiated no aura of honor, no majesty of legend—only a foreboding, almost suffocating darkness. In that sense, he was closer to Assassin than a knight.
"Could he be… an evil spirit?" murmured Gilder softly, his instincts screaming danger.
"Who the hell is this guy?" Diarmuid asked, frowning as he scrutinized the silent figure. He had never encountered a presence like this one before.
"Heh… I know him," Arthur said with a nostalgic smile, immediately drawing the attention of everyone present.
"This guy doesn't seem like a Caster. Judging by the sheer hostility in his aura… he's a Berserker."
As the term left Arthur's mouth, a chill ran through the group.
Berserkers were beings consumed by rage. Their minds—lost to madness. In exchange, they gained raw power.
"Oh? Little Master, take a look at his stats," Iskandar said, arms crossed.
Waver quickly activated his Master Clairvoyance, but his face darkened. "I can't… I can't see anything."
"What? Isn't that supposed to be basic? You're a Master—how can you not read a Heroic Spirit's stats?" Diarmuid asked, startled.
"I don't know! It's like… it's veiled. Blocked by something I can't explain."
The black-armored Berserker stood still, magic thrumming through him like a low growl. A shroud of mystery clung to his presence.
Another dangerous variable had entered the battlefield.
Artoria's expression tightened as she studied the figure. "He's not ordinary. This presence… it's suffocating."
"Oh? You still don't recognize him?" Arthur chuckled cryptically.
Artoria glanced at him in confusion. Could Arthur know who this was?
She didn't waste time speculating. There were too many enemies already—Diarmuid, the Archer who wished to kill them, the chaotic Berserker, and the uncooperative Rider. One misstep in this tense stand-off, and they'd be annihilated.
Tension crackled in the air.
But the Berserker Knight of the Lake moved.
He raised his head, turning his emotionless gaze toward Gilgamesh.
A surge of magic exploded from him.
Gilgamesh's eyes narrowed. Arthur looking at him was one thing—they were both kings. But for this mutt in armor to glare at him?
"Impudence."
With a snap of his fingers, Gate of Babylon shifted targets, now aimed at the Berserker.
"Turn to ash, mongrel," Gilgamesh snarled.
In an instant, golden portals opened and unleashed a barrage of Noble Phantasms—swords, axes, lances—all roaring through the sky like missiles.
Gilgamesh didn't treasure wealth—he threw it.
Each artifact was priceless, powerful, ancient—and deadly.
The ground shattered under the bombardment, shockwaves flattening everything nearby. It was the same level of destruction that had obliterated Hassan of the Cursed Arm. But this time…
A figure remained standing.
From within the cloud of smoke and shattered ground… the Berserker emerged. And in his hand—
A sword. One of Gilgamesh's own.
Yet it had changed. Once golden, now it gleamed a deep, ominous black.
The other treasures? Swatted aside—mid-air.
Only a few Servants saw what had truly happened. The moment the first weapon approached, Berserker caught it, and with a single sweep, deflected all the rest.
"What... what kind of martial skill is that?!" Diarmuid's voice trembled.
"Even if he's a Berserker… this kind of swordsmanship is absurd…" murmured Iskandar.
A knight never dies unarmed!
Gasps echoed across the battlefield.
The dark knight's brutal precision defied the madness typical of Berserkers. He wasn't just a berserker—he was a warrior.
"You dare touch my collection with your filthy hands?!" Gilgamesh roared. "You'll pay for this!"
The King of Heroes unleashed a true storm—sixteen more Noble Phantasms, all charged with immense magical energy. Swords, spears, halberds, hooks and chains surged from the Gate.
Even Waver found himself slack-jawed. "He really is a tyrant… Over twenty Noble Phantasms? This is unreal."
Gilgamesh didn't understand restraint.
"I want to see just how much you can take!"
Golden lights lit up the night like a meteor shower.
Each treasure was like a bomb—roaring, crashing, exploding around the lone knight.
Yet the Lake Knight didn't retreat.
Instead, he advanced.
His fighting instinct—Knight Does Not Die with Empty Hands—reached its peak.
The more weapons hurled at him, the more weapons he wielded.
He caught, deflected, replaced, and swung.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
One after another, the divine weapons were countered, scattered across the battlefield.
And when the dust settled, only the ground beneath the dark knight remained unscathed.
The Berserker slowly raised his arm, and with unflinching strength, hurled the captured treasure straight back.
Gilgamesh dodged easily, but the blade struck the lamppost behind him, exploding into light.
"Hah! Do you think I'd share the world with vermin like you?!"
Gilgamesh was furious.
A blinding light engulfed the night. This time, thirty-two portals opened.
Arthur's expression darkened.
"…He's serious."
"Why hasn't Tohsaka Tokiomi recalled him?" asked Artoria.
Arthur sighed. "Because Tokiomi knows Gilgamesh is strong, and he trusts his arrogance. But this... this is too reckless."
Arthur glanced at the Berserker—at Lancelot.
Arthur silently mourned for the one who had to face that storm.
"…Sorry, Lancelot."
Then—
"Hahaha, this is fun. Mind if I join in?"
A woman's voice broke through the chaos.
A beautiful woman darted across the battlefield, placing herself in front of the Mad Knight.
"Oh? If you're defeated, what does that make me? Completely useless?"
Lancelot… was here.
And the battlefield had only just begun to ignite.
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