Archive of Our Own

[Le Grondement de la Haine – Roar, O’ Rage of Mine]

Her rage burns like an unstoppable blaze, tearing through everything willfully, turning all that she holds dear into ashes.

[Frieren Scharfrichter – Execution of the Far-Away One]

His rage is ice cold, freezing everything over with terror and malice, the feeling of dread washing over all that he ever held dear in his blurry, fading memories.

At that time, it was clear that she was the only one around capable of understanding him, and he was the only one there capable of knowing what she went through. Well, it wasn’t as if they were a pair of star-crossed lovers, unable to reach each other like a romance drama. Definitely not. That’s plain gross. And no, they weren’t the only Avengers that existed either.

“He’s not an angry mango, he’s a sad noodle. I can’t believe he’s my senior, he’s so.... weak...” – Jeanne d’Arc Alter, shaking her head in disappointment.

“Hmm? Ah, the King of the Cavern? True to his name, you’d think that he’s holed up in his cavern of delusions or something. Guy’s gotta have some loose screws! I like that!” – Angra Mainyu, grinning gleefully in delight.

You'd have two more arriving in the future. Extra Classes were few in numbers in the first place, making them rare occurrences. For a person to fall from grace, turning their backs on the world, embracing the inherent darkness lingering in their hearts and devoting themselves to their rampant hatred forever was no easy dedication. That shit hurts , for desire burns within, causing the urge to soothe this constant throbbing pain from an ancient blade lodged deep within their flesh, never to see the light of day.

Wasn't this what they wanted?

Currently, Jalter was sitting on the curb of the dirty, deserted street. As usual, there was nothing much to see here, just cluttered litter and rubbish strewn about, oh, everywhere. Hooligans injected with mystical spinal fluids would prowl around as underlings of the affluent, gathering in gangs like delinquents. Sounds like an average night in this abnormal Shinjuku with the city bustling with night activities. How could it not? It was night all the time here, with fluorescent and neon lights that were too bright for her tastes lighting up establishments everywhere. It basically screamed light pollution. Being alone in this particular street however, meant that there was nothing for her to do. No hooligans to beat up, no Coloraturas to destroy, no… It’s empty, okay?

Which prompts the question, why stay here when there’s so many other places that are leagues better?

Alright, for starters, this probably wasn’t the brightest of ideas. Admittedly, it is pretty dumb on her part, but in her defence, she can make some pretty sick fire that burns brightly! Therefore, the phrase “not the brightest tool in the shed” is overturned. Hah! Okay, that’s pretty dumb of her too. She stops propping her head on her hands that were resting on her knees, opting to curl up instead with a sigh. Perhaps she was getting a little bit loony here, talking to herself and all. She’s so bored out of her mind right now, waiting and waiting, for a signal to soon come but at the same time, dreading it so much she feels sick on the inside as if her innards were twisting up.

Considering she’d see the lifeless form of a gigantic wolf lying on the hole-ridden road if she stared straight ahead. His rider was a few metres away, limp as well.

Lobo, the King of Currumpaw, was once a great grey wolf who ran freely in the vast plains. Now, sporting a flaming bluish coat with tendrils of black, menacing aura coating the tips, he was a hulking beast nearly 3 metres in length. Riding atop the monstrous beast’s back was the Headless Hessian of Sleepy Hollow, a German mercenary with lost purpose in an ended war. Together, they were known as the “Rider of Shinjuku”. Initially, that is. Everyone had the impression that the Rider was the one in charge. A wolf as a Heroic Spirit? Nonsense! In the first place, they weren’t Heroic Spirits.

Another Phantom Spirit merged with them recently at the Wolf King’s own behest. A scientist that had the power over invisibility. The Shinjuku Lit Evil Party (Ritsuka insisted on that stupid lame name, and Moriarty whole-heartedly supported his newfound adopted daughter) hardly suppressed this machine of hatred that could disappear on and off by will successfully. Tsk. Clicking her tongue, she regrets not stopping Ritsuka over that silly name. The Chaldea staff just looked away and said nothing, but she’s sure they were secretly bawling their eyes out, laughing at how funny it was. No comments from the other servants. Raising her head, she looks at the slumped wolf on the ground. She hopes that they were properly evacuated. It wouldn’t be unlike Ritsuka to come running back towards her, saying something like “As expected, I can’t leave you here alone like this!” or something. Good thing that idiot was with Moriarty. That shady old geezer should know better than to let her run back into the jaws of danger when they narrowly escape. Playing with a few strands of her short, white hair, she supposes that even he could be reliable at times.

The best thing is, if he steps out of line, then the pesky detective would reel him back in. Hahaha, really, what a duo. In her time, the stories of the brilliant detective Sherlock Holmes and his greatest rival professor James Moriarty didn’t exist. This was like a first-class VIP seat right here. She runs her hand through the soft, tousled locks, wondering if she should try combing it. It got messy from the earlier fight where they whacked the duo in front of her with brute force. VIPs gotta care about their image at all times, alright? Seniors have to look the part in front of their juniors!

While the beast was out of commission, the team started bickering about who should be the sacrifice when Moriarty and Holmes reached the conclusion simultaneously. Someone had to take one for the team as the rest escaped. Naturally, she volunteered and for her bravery, she was rewarded with the incredulous looks from everyone. She didn’t say anything weird, right? Even the Ice Bitch Queen… King? King Arthur. Artoria Alter. Saber class. Argh, Salter. That damned woman has too many iterations of her anyways, including a Saberface of Japan that literally has no connections to the mythical King Arthur in the West. Weird chick. Pouting, she guessed that their reactions were more than normal, though.

“Pity? Disgusting. I couldn’t care to do anything as wholesome as that. I’m just here to give it a goal, you see. I’m here to direct his rage.” 

The Heroic Spirits nodded their heads in understanding, except Ritsuka, who took a little bit more convincing to let go of Jalter because she was so afraid of losing her. They had to pry humanity’s last Master off the Avenger’s torso, and it was only possible because she was all huffy and haughty like “Harh? Me, die? What a joke. Why would I throw my life away like that for no good reason at all? Bitch please, you underestimate me.” The young Master was really something, to be honest. Servants are an expendable resource, summoned here and there at the beck and call of a Magus. The stupider, righteous ones would sell themselves to the World to become part of the Counterforce. Idiots, all of them. So as to say, her abnormal existence itself, being a mix between the likes of “kind-of-like-a-legitimate Heroic Spirit” and “kind-of-not-like-a-legitimate Heroic Spirit” could be excused from the list, bypassing the statement. Outsiders see best, after all.

She runs her hand through her hair one last time before sighing again, this time getting up from the curb. The Wolf King was stirring. They had better promptly fucked off far enough, she hopes, or she’ll actually get mad this time. There’s no need for extra guests, for it is a dance between two Avengers. People who didn’t know a thing shouldn’t interfere. No hard feelings. Ah, she grins wickedly. What an ugly thing. It’s like looking at the mirror and seeing your hideous reflection or something. Not like her reflection wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, she totally slayed it, looking great every time of the day. At least she hoped she was. A little self-confidence won’t kill, alright?

It’s true, though, that one of them sees themselves in the other. Or does it go both ways? Interestingly enough, as much as the Dragon Witch refused to admit, her nickname of “Mad Dog” from the Ice Bitch Queen perfectly matched the looming giant. Honestly, it looks cool as fuck, with the aesthetics of a Dark Souls boss. Just, not so much when you’re up against it, closely. Altered by rage, fuelled by anger, he was a monstrosity that oozed resentment from his aura alone, with the unliving strung along for a ride. The word “beast” no longer cuts it the longer Chaldea interacted with them. “Avenger of Shinjuku”. That’s more like it. The wolf was the main entity, not the Hessian. It runs as fleeting as the wind, 300km/h, seeking to destroy everything and anything associated with humanity.

“Run, run, run. Run as fast as you can, so nobody can take anything away from you.” 

Lobo stands quietly, examining his surroundings. Upon realising that his prey had escaped, he huffs out a low, aggressive growl, exhaling cyan flames from his mouth. This woke the Hessian up. Poised, the wolf was ready to take off when Jalter decided it’s time to shine bright like a diamond. Not her, but the dingy street. “Oh no, you don’t!” stabbing her flagpole into the ground, the entire street lit ablaze, engulfed in raging dragon fire. Pointing her sword at them after such a bombastic opening move, she challenges them, her head tilted slightly upwards to the right, asserting dominance. She smirked. This is her playground now. Man, did she love this strategy. It always made her entrance look grander and fearsome, and she relished in that powerful feeling it gave her.

“Fight, fight, fight. Fight to the best you can, so nobody can ever oppose you again.”

Leaping forward with a mighty roar that resounded through the street in acceptance of her proposal, the wolf makes a wide sweep with his right paw while the mercenary readied his scythes. Like clockwork, he follows the wolf’s lead as per usual. They’ve done this many a times, this line of business. Anticipating the leap, Jalter creates a wall of fire in front of her to deter him. Shit, he’s still pretty fast. Cursing as she jumped back to gain distance, she ponders. Did they really knock him out of commission moments ago? He is a pretty ferocious fellow; she’d give him that. This is so restrictive... Can’t be too close now, or he’ll bite. Can’t be too far now, or she can’t hit him. Can’t be too slow now, or he’ll catch up. Ugh, what a pain. He wasn't going to stay here obediently for as long as possible either. Her motive is obvious as fuck and with her life on the line without a pay, this is the worst possible situation. This sucks ass.

“Watch your feet,” Holmes said, but she hasn’t decided if she wanted to be close up or far away or, oh, who is she kidding, the wolf’s gonna come to her anyways.

He stomps through the fiery red flames unfazed, his own blue ones contrasting deeply. Annoyed, he growls again, shrugging off her flaming barrage of counterattacks from the distance, unconcerned about his own burns. She wasn’t even sure if his fur was singed, or if it was just the ends of his black fur. Snarling viciously, he moves in for another chance to rip her head out. He doesn’t want to deal with Heroic Spirits. There was someone else, something else more important he was chasing, and this person standing in front of him was not it.

“Kill, kill kill. Kill as much as you like, so nobody can find solace just like you.”

Fangs and claws out, ready to dig into her flesh, he grazes her arms. Having read his movements, The Hessian opens his scythes wide, intending to close in from the sides. Grip on the lower half of the pole for a longer reach, the Dragon Witch bashes the flag inscribed with her insignia into the right side of the Wolf King’s head, slapping his head to the side and dazing him for a moment. It’s a wonder he hasn’t gotten a concussion by now with everyone’s attempts at putting him down. Raising her sword, she lines up 6 black stakes as a defensive measure against the incoming scythes. Phantasmal metal clangs against each other, scraping loudly and eerily, goosebumps forming underneath her armour as she pulls back. Shaking his head, Lobo blinks a few times. He doesn’t see stars, but his half-lidded hate-filled eyes does bore into her soul. She never realised that they had the same eye colour. Huh. They shared more things in common than she thought. Her reflection was clear in his eyes, golden pools of liquid melting from his inner fire. Like looking into a mirror and seeing yourself on a bad day indeed. A feeling of vulnerability paralyses her entire being, locking her into place, muscles tense and frozen.

She’s momentarily reminded of the past, of Orleans, of her encounter with the Ice Bitch Queen (albeit in Santa form this time) and her search for a cause as a proper Heroic Spirit. She cheated her way through the system anyways, a granted wish from the Grail to the fallen Gilles de Rais. For some ungodly reason, Ritsuka also always happened to be there. Why is she cosying up to a woman like her? What does she get out of it? If it’s games she wants to play, then oh boy, she’s sure the Ruler was willing to go along with a game of let’s-be-friends for realsies. Wait, hold on, somehow that feels like she’s admitting defeat to the other her. Hmmmph, fine, whatever. She doesn’t need friends, not in the slightest as an Avenger, but the idea of having Ritsuka fawn all over her instead did stroke her ego.

Alas, as these split-second moments pass in fights, Lobo doesn’t give her much time to wander after he recovers, prompted by the digging of the Hessian’s boots. Brought out of her reverie, her mouth set into a tight, grim line, she kicks off the asphalt in a small burst of flames. Hell yeah!!! A+ ranked mana!!!! She charges in at a sharp angle, aiming for the mercenary with the intention to separate the duo. The Phantom Wolf doesn’t give her this luxury. Looking up, eyes tracking her every movement, he jumps as well to meet her midair while his rider dematerialised his scythes in favour of grabbing onto the wolf’s fur. She snickers. “Maybe you’d like to consider investing in a saddle?” she taunts mockingly, catching his claws with her flagpole, letting it glance off. Smart move. They boasted superior strength and agility. She knows she can’t outright fight the abomination of 3 Phantom Spirits head-on. Her strength may be ranked A, but theirs was A+. Furthermore, no thanks to her rank E luck, her rank C endurance poses another problem in the form of “she won’t last the fight compared to them”. She scowls, displeased at the 2v1 match up, even though she was the one who put herself in this situation. People in the… Does she really have to use that name… You know what, never mind, Ritsuka and Friends probably didn’t see it her way.

“Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

It certainly is going to be tough to get out of this situation alive… which makes it all the more thrilling . You see, living life on the edge when you’ve got nothing to lose probably wasn’t Jeanne d’Arc’s original intention, but contrary to popular belief (since she is a Saint), her #1 strategy at dealing with things was, as in life, “get ‘em”.

And if fail, “get ‘em”.

“I was hoping you’d prove to be a good match!” she laughs shrilly, faking confidence, faking her way through everything like how she smoked her way into the Throne of Heroes. As a fake. Yep. Okay, maybe she does have a lot of steam to let off this time. But hey, a good beating should suffice, right? Right???

Howls echoed throughout the block as they clash in the middle again. She stretched her hand out, gathering mana at her fingertips. A burst of fire darts out, making him stumble as he jerks away reflexively. Flicking her sword, she calls upon her stakes again, surrounding him. Without a chance to escape, they pierce right into his flesh, bursting into flames upon contact for an extra added measure. Although she failed to pierce his lungs as she hoped to because of his thick hide, she did manage to stab into his front legs. His legs buckled, causing him to flop into the ground, landing ungracefully with a crash. Small debris and dust were sent flying upwards before smashing back onto the road’s uneven surface. The ground gave way to his massive weight, and the fact that it was already in bad condition from the previous fight didn’t help it hold him any better. Unable to get up immediately from the ground, he snaps wildly in distress. The mercenary, forced to take a more active role than the felled beast, jumps off the animal just as he flopped, seizing the opportunity to land a hit in while she was blinded by the temporary smokescreen.

Stumbling backwards, she winces in pain and resists the urge to drop her weapon to clutch her injured arm. Pissed off, she throws her flag across the short distance between them. Fire trailed like an explosive rocket, jetting off. It rams into the Hessian several times like a chakram. The flag ricochets off of him and bounces back into her hands. There, her famous “Boomerang Flag Throw”. This hammering pounding was most effective for crowd control against a throng of bloodthirsty monsters but, eh. If it works, it works. Except when it doesn’t. Looking fairly undisturbed after all that? Yikes. Swiping with his right scythe, he knocks the stunned girl pathetically to the side, causing a few nasty bruises and scratches along the way as she crashes. Her armour clangs noisily against the pavement. Oof.

Wasting no time, she scoffs. “Oh man, I’m not done yet either!” One hand tight on her sword while still lying on the ground, she snaps her fingers sharply. Upon her command, flames sprouted from the Hessian’s feet, strengthening the dying pockets of fire that still coated the street. She musters the strength to get up while he was distracted. The flame bothered him as much as it bothered Lobo, meaning that he wasn’t too concerned about it, but he was visibly affected by the look of his careful steps. She lights up her sword, dragon fire running up and down the blade, and runs up to him, parting the flaming floor as she pleases. Sweet move, she thinks, propelling herself forward with said fire. He brings down his scythes against her sword, all fired up and ready to rock a horizontal swing, throwing his motion off. Sweet move indeed, as her focus shifts abruptly from the Hessian to Lobo entering the fray from the corner of her eye.

“shIT!” was all she could spit out before he chomps down on her torso, breaking her armour and lifting her up. He shakes her around like a ragdoll before tossing her into the side of the building. She smashed into the concrete with all the air in her lungs deciding to simultaneously burn up into a crisp, dry and raspy as if it was on fire the entire time. Coughing out blood, she tentatively wipes her mouth, her black metal gauntlet not doing a good job at it. Ugh… This is bad. Laughing weakly, she supposes it was her fault she didn’t follow up her banging start. What did she do instead? Reflect. Yes, she started reflecting, and took such a long fucking time that even she got sick and tired of it.

She’s fucked anyways.

The Wolf King felt no immediate need to pursue Jalter. He’s sure she won’t be recovering from that too soon. The Hessian rubs his chest, feeling up the gash from the tip of the battle standard and shrugs it off. There’s no pain for the dead walking amongst the living. He mounts him again, and they take their time to walk towards the crash site, taking a momentary breather.

She’s an idiot for thinking she’s anything but a fake, so desperately wanting to hold onto something “genuine”, finding a legitimate reason to become Ritsuka’s–no, Master’s Servant. So lost in her own pursuit that she lost sight of everything else…

Opening her eyes, blazing with her own hatred, renewed with vigour for her hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate for the world, hate for the original Jeanne d’Arc, hate for God, but most importantly, hate for herself. Her body shakes, with pain, with the intensity of Lobo’s howls. They nourish her. There's no way she could still feel so bloody sorry for herself after hearing him out.

Kill, hate, rinse, repeat.

Really, what are Avengers for?

“RAAAAAARGH!!!!!!” Jalter screams, and doesn’t stop, her soul forever crying out for vengeance, for revenge, for the blood of men flow the thickest as a river coursing through the earth. She won’t stop. She can’t stop. Not now, and never in the future, but at this hour, at this moment, she sprints across the road, dashing in with her life flashing before her very eyes. She holds her flagpole like a lance, thrusting at Lobo with great speed and brutal force from her specially modified weaker variant of Mana Burst. It’s a borrowed skill with a slight drop in rank, but its versatility is still pretty nifty. She got the idea by analysing the Ice Bitch Queen’s fighting style and she’s gotta admit, it's great. Whether it’s movement, disengaging for attacking, it’s fuel for her fire until the gas runs out. That’s good enough for now.

He bellows as a response to her resonating screech, darting out of the way to his right but the energised Avenger manages to strike him on his left hind leg, cutting through fur, flesh and muscle. He staggers, and she laughs in exhilaration. “Ahahaha!” She then sets the tip of her flag on fire, erupting with the power of a cannonball, charring the wound but careful enough not to cauterise it. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere!” He howls in pain, and she feels it rattling through her bones as she twists the pole. Berating on their lives, she tells him, “I can read you like a book! Wanna know why?” The Hessian bends over and runs his scythe down the wolf’s injured side in an attempt to pry her off his mount. She lets go of her flag, hopping backwards to avoid his strike. Unperturbed, she answers herself. “ Because you’re me!”

She can’t offer him anything as fancy as salvation, but she can send him to his grave earlier.

“You hate everything with a passion! You spend every day with an unquenchable fire burning inside of you! You keep killing, and killing, but it never goes away!” A vile feeling creeps up her throat as she pours her heart out. Ugh, she wants to throw up saying this. Tears forming in the corner of her eyes, she chokes it out. “Not even if you kill the ones behind it all!” 

Now with a huge thorn in his side, the wolf whimpers a little. His leg hurts like crazy, reducing his mobility even further. He lunges forward to set distance between them in a futile effort as she slashes with her sword, sending a huge tidal wave of dragon fire over while yelling, from the depths of her heart. About the cruel reality. About the dawning that occurred only after there’s nothing left. “So you have no choice but to burn everything down! Cause that might just make this awful feeling go away!” She screams the pain away in the form of another fiery slash slicing through the hissing air, sending more smoke into the cloudy night sky. “But, spoiler alert: it won’t! Not for the rest of your goddamn life!” Goodness, why didn’t she just do this in the first place?

Briefly wondering if he should take it out or leave it there, the Hessian ultimately decides to reveal his true form to make up for the wolf’s reduced agility. Several big dark blue claws stretched out from his back, extending from under his tattered cape. She frowns, disgusted. The convoluted, fleshy looking bits certainly has more reach compared to his nasty scythes… which he just gave to the dog… Yep, Lobo, who happened to be very angry, was now biting onto the handle of one. He wasn’t interested in her story. So why are her words resonating so deeply within him? He slashes at her, brandishing his new toy. Feet firmly planted, she tanks the hit by blocking it with her sword, cracking the ground beneath her slightly.

Ah, well, ascended or not, she had to hold her ground nevertheless. No backing out of this now, not when she’s this far and ready to pound some sense into him. Wiping the stray tears in her eyes, she suddenly pulls back from the deadlock, letting him heave forward as she steps to the side. She catapults herself towards Lobo, hands reaching out for her flag. Blood sprays in an arc as she kicks him, plucking it unceremoniously out of the wolf. The mercenary scoops her up with his claws and sends her flying in retaliation. The injured wolf yelps in immense pain from the sudden, not-so-gentle removal and barrelled at her in a fury like a juggernaut. Jalter, having learnt her lesson in flying, lands on her feet as her boots dig into the tarmac. “You won’t be rid of it till the day you die! You and I are both beings of pure hate,” she states, as a matter of fact, raising her flag in defence.

He bites down on the shaft, and before he can realise it’s a trap to keep him in place, she pulled his head down to her together with the pole, bashing her head against the enraged wolf. Eyes locking in with the beast with unrivalled wrath she declares, “we’re killing machines, forever moving faster and faster, taking life after life until we finally bite the dust ourselves.” Gritting her teeth, she materialises her stakes to match the Hessian’s scrambling cuts. Unlike his scythes, those grotesque claws clamping down at her from his perch, he’s faster, and he catches her. She recalls the stray, weak fires dissipating around and surrounds herself in it as the eye of the vortex, desperately trying to blast his assaults away with kinetic force. He was no pushover, not at his most powerful, where his claws sink into her shoulders and back, scratching through fabric. 

Still, she doesn’t relent, not now, not ever, and while panting for breath, she heaves. If he’s at his most powerful, then so can she, too. Two can play the ascension game. Emerging from the vortex, forcibly ascended through sheer grit and willpower, her gas levels diminishing. She’s running on fumes soon, with or without the forced ascension. This was something she decided to do. This was something she set out to do. And she’d better finish up the job nicely, or she wouldn’t hear the end of it. Snarking at the wolf, she laughs mockingly. “And you don’t have any friends or allies here. Or your beloved wife.” Upon the mention of the word “wife”, Lobo’s eyes grew wide in recognition. She gives him a wry smirk. “So I’ll put you out of your misery, Wolf King.” She’d got to end it quickly from here on now with that provocation stinging strong.

Gathering her last oomph, she shouts, to the heavens, to the Wolf King, and to herself. “Because those fleeting dreams we see right as we die are all we Avengers have to live for!” With a final yell, she concentrates all her mana into this one attack.

“EAT SHIT AND DIE!”

An explosion rings out, and through all that fire and smoke coming through, the silhouette of the Wolf King emerges, in all its bloody glory, snapping down one final time on the Dragon Witch.

“Ow… Ugh, you survived that, huh?” A stalemate. She was in his clutches, and he was in her flames. “Shit… This… This wound’s definitely fatal. You just had to get me through my heart, didn’t you, you fucking bastard.” Lobo grunts gruffly in response. Jalter stops smirking. “Not even a smile, huh. It’s all just hate with you. At least learn how to enjoy your revenge, you dumb mutt!”

Maybe because both of them were still at each other’s throats. Maybe because she didn’t feel threatened by his mere proximity, with his cyan flames coating him, clouding his eyes. With the courage of probably the entirety of the Throne’s greatest heroes, she smacks him on the head as if she was teaching him a lesson as any good senior would.

He stiffens quietly. Picking her jovial mood back up, she jests at him in her pleasure. “...Oh, right. I guess you can’t even enjoy that anymore, can you?”

That definitely got to him, she muses, as he flares up and bites down harder. “Ngh…” Her lack of armour around her torso provided no comfort. It was broken anyways, the first time he got a solid hit on her. A conceptual armour made up of her pure, undiluted mana in the form of the swirling flames enveloping her was supposed to compensate, but it wouldn’t provide much protection now, would it? She’d most likely toast both his mouth and herself like a mashumallow. Besides, she does feel the heat of it too, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to combine that with the crushing pressure she was experiencing right now. She grimaces, clearly on the deserving end for that witty remark. Heh. Worth it. No kidding, she’s taking the brunt of the impact full force in this attack as his teeth punctured her skin and into her flesh. It's be greatly appreciated if he could stop biting her, though.

Easing up, the nonchalantly dying girl sheds one last light for the night. “Oh, and one more thing… I’m afraid I’m gonna make sure you stay here a little longer.” That attack wasn’t her everything. It was a feint. She got too hyped up and emotional, that’s all. Oof, she can’t keep doing this. There’s no more gas, no more fuel, no more juice. Well, she still has herself. Hence, she decided, the next one shall be her everything with such wondrous timing for activation as the conditions were met. Her anger settles from a frenzying disaster to a calm, bonfire and–

[ ––– If God is certain to exist,

Then surely I will receive divine punishment. ––– ]

“THIS IS A HOWL OF A SOUL FILLED WITH HATRED!” 

The grand opening of the gates of Hell could be aptly described by this moment. Potent floodgates open, transforming the entire region’s hellscape. Hot, dragon fire courses through her veins, igniting her body in a flash. Empowered, a firestorm lashes out, running rampant. This is no longer her playground. This is her realm , a torrent of flames roaring with intensity surges from her feet, lighting her domain in a dazzling shine. Licking away at everything in its reach, hungrily grasping for more, more, more, incinerating everything in its zealous wake. Shockwaves rocked the earth, sending tremors, rupturing the ground. Infernos gush out speedily, through the fissures in the ground, like a tsunami crashing into the coastline with fervour, only content enough for the moment when it finds its victims. Spontaneous balls of fire shoot out from her chest like a detonated bomb at hapless targets. Several black stakes rise up amidst the vehement rampage, impaling the Wolf King from the ground like fireworks shooting up into the sky and exploding. 

He lets go of her, dropping her unceremoniously to the ground with a loud thud wordlessly.

Tiredly grinning, she makes impact with the floor for the thousandth time today. She doesn’t even bother getting up this time, the melty tarmac sticking to her unpleasantly. “Y’know,” she drawls, “here’s a fun fact about this fire: it’s coming straight outta my body. Straight from mine into yours.” Whatever ounce of energy left within her is leaving her as quick as Casters charging their Noble Phantasm with High-Speed Incantation. Every fibre of her being was being consumed in flames, burning and burning, perhaps in all eternity. She can’t tell if she’s actually aflame in the backlash of her unrestrained Noble Phantasm, or if it was just a figment of her imagination. Haha, even if she was left ragged, she supposed she was indeed best fitted as a tactical nuke.

Gasping for air in this impenetrable veil of smoke is impossible. Alternatively, she can leisurely asphyxiate to death. She picks the third choice, harrumphing in Lobo’s face, “...and I bet even a dumb brute like you won’t be able to shrug it off!” Her ecstatic face falls for a moment as she coughs. She’s sure the smog’s running in her systems by now. “Oh, I’m sure it won’t be enough to kill you…” Lobo collapses onto the ground, taking the Hessian with him. She regains her grin without missing a beat in her next sentence. “But it’ll damn sure slow you down for awhile!”

Man, she’s sure gotta be good at angering the Wolf King, for he reached out and bit her strongly for the umpteenth time now.

“Gaaah.” The idea of some shut-eye is pleasant. Her vision is pitch black, body succumbing to grievous wounds. The street is scorched, hot and black, thick smoke rising up into the dull night sky, blanketing everything under with ash and soot. Her thoughts are no longer coherent, mental state deteriorating rapidly. She can’t move a single muscle, and it’s difficult to breathe. Her lungs sting. It’s probably burnt inside out. Ugh. Forget about moving, she opened her own passage to the pits of Hell already. What difference would it make? Huuuurgh. Maybe she outdid herself this time. It hurts. It hurts all over. It's itchy, too. Her throat. It's itching on the inside. It doesn't matter. There's no energy left to scratch it. Water... Yeah, she’s thirsty. So, so thirsty. Ack. She’d totally fucking kill for a drop of water. She doubts she can.

“I’m just a fake… a counterfeit. All I really know is that painful memories are just that– painful.”

What… was it like, to be burned alive...?

The first thing people think about is the rising heat, the flesh being roasted, the pain and suffering of a slow death. Having burns seared so deep they run through your nerves, numbing your senses. Excruciating pain shocks the body into a daze. By counting your lucky stars, you’d wish to be dead instead of alive. The second thing people think about is the possibility of suffocating first. Coughing and panicking. Being bound to the ungodly stake, held on by burning ropes. Thick plumes of smoke covering your sight, carbon filling your lungs, pumping through your body in your blood. The revolting smell of what’s burning. Eventually, everything plummets into cold, vast, darkness. It’s a complete blackout.

She doesn’t think she really got just how much it would hurt to be burned alive. After all, she’s just living a borrowed life from that stupid holy maiden. If it hurt this much, how could she not say so? How could she still devote herself to God? How is it that she still has unwavering faith in humans Compared to her, Jalter feels that she’s the sane one.

To be fair, she herself never thought she’d even lift a finger to help one out, much less risk her life . To her, the world is all but fair, its ugliness apparent. The inhabitants themselves seek to destroy each other in their own vices. It is only with the counteractive progression from symbols of humanity; people like the Maid of Orleans to lead the way, people like that idiot who didn’t even have the courtesy to ask her for a dance, to be the torch lighting up the path of salvation, paving the way for all. Stopping the Incineration of Humanity is a great feat. The entire world may not have heard of it, but the important ones– Chaldea has. Others don’t need to. Ah… she’s rambling now, isn’t she? It really is getting harder to breathe. She can’t hear anything, she can’t see anything, and she can’t feel anything.

She barely makes out the red blots in front of her. And she waits, because that’s all she can do now, for her impending doom, for the rain’s pitter-patter to extinguish her blaze. It will soon burn up in smoke like an ephemeral dream, a popped bubble, leaving naught but scant, extinguished embers, hot to the touch, like a hearth.

Now, what did the detective say again...?

========================================================================

Blood drips. From his mouth, from his legs, from his entire being. His bluish fur coat is stained red, as red as the fires that scarred him. He lets out a long breath he doesn’t remember holding. Cyan flames cloud his vision, his anger cold and stale. A cumbersome foe hindered him too long. His prey is long gone by now. Her smell is gone. The ironic scent fills his nostrils in its place. It makes him feel good. Like the first time he ate a human.

Chomp. Munch. Dead. They’re all dead, like his pack, like his mate, from a long time ago. He doesn’t remember how long. He can’t remember in the first place. Distant, fuzzy memories are fading. It’s a miracle how much he retained. Or does it? Is it all just a dream? A delusion? He should just focus on what’s important, what’s left, what’s right in front of him- Poison, he remembers, and suffocation. It wasn’t enough. His brethren, oh, his kin, with their poor heads blown off by those long sticks in a sickening boom, like the dark, stormy skies thundering at the behest of God. Those sticks must have been woven with something to be that strong, to have that kinda explosive force. His fangs and claws were of no match, much less for those without. Magic? Witchcraft? Druidism? They're all mystics far beyond his grasp.

He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand them as a beast. The intellect of humans far surpasses basic primal instincts.

The fires have burnt out by now. It wouldn’t matter if the Servant died or lived. She won’t be bothering him soon enough. She’s as dead as he is, a heart stone-cold, set out for retribution. He feels numb, weak, from the attack that assaulted his senses from all around, the raging storm that raked through his fur and skin and those stakes that penetrated through his body. It failed the first time. Yet it did the second time. It must have been different. The sensation of blistering heat torching him was supposed to be familiar. In spite of that, her dragon fire cooking him through. His body cools down, growing cold with passing time, and with the last vestiges of strength coming back, he hunts.

“We run at full speed all the time in order to satiate our revenge. We keep going faster and faster. Half-assed hatred won’t cut it. Half-assed revenge is a waste.”

The Wolf King doesn’t like the idea of someone riding him at first, but without a head, the Hessian doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t communicate at all, not through writing, not through hand gestures. He doesn’t get in the way. All he does is kill people automatically while the wolf runs. And that’s okay. The Hessian was up before he is, noticeably less injured, sitting cross-legged on the ruined floor. Without a head, he lacks the ability to express his opinion and views nor a face to attach sentiment to, which doesn’t help Lobo discern anything. As usual, he’s just following him, waiting for his commands mutely. 

Lobo decides he can live with that.

The Hessian strolls up to him when he stands, climbing onto his back. Unbeknownst to him, the mercenary was debating whether to pat him while he was unconscious. He’s so injured, it’s amazing how he wasn’t gutted. But for the headless? He himself was afflicted by the curse of undeath. He acknowledges his death. But he also doesn't stop wandering around, walking amongst the living, searching. Treading amongst the borders of the living and unliving desensitised him. Pain is nothing to him; he doesn't feel it, walking forward without fail. 

Wisely, he respects the wolf’s personal space, fastening himself for a swift ride. Lobo stretches, and with a howl, ploughs through the streets of Shinjuku. 

He’s killed so many people. He thought he would kill as many of them as they did of his kind. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Males, females, small ones, big ones, fat ones, thin ones… Everyone. It’s okay to kill all of them! Every time he killed someone, every time he took revenge, it felt so absurdly good. Yes… It made him feel like a King , at the top of the world, racing through the city like nobody’s business. They feared him. They cowered at the slightest sound resembling a faraway howl. And they should, for they did this to him. It’s merely payback to him. Revenge was best served cold but now, years after the people who wronged him died, he can’t find it sweet. At one point, he was sure that things would go back to the way they were after this sketchy incident the professor cooked up. After massacring everyone. He was sure he’d someday, one day, return to those fields he ran freely in, together with his pack. He misses it. He yearns it. Yet… Oh… He stops in his tracks, coming to an abrupt halt. It’s another human. He flares up, cyan flames concealing him, turning him invisible. He has to kill… No matter how much blood he spills, how many lives he churns through, it will never satisfy him. It’s never enough. Ignorance is a bliss, and the reason why he will never be content is because he is constantly bleeding. Mana. It's feeding time, to replenish, to heal from his loss. The other Avenger one-upped him. Her Noble Phantasm held him in place too well. He needs more. He wants more. More, more, more, because he wants… Ah?

What was it he wanted again?

“ Now, when we take revenge on someone who REALLY deserves it…”

For when the Wolf King Lobo and the Headless Hessian arrives onto the highway, the general consensus is run . Everyone kicks into high gear at the severity of the situation. He runs down the road so fast one would think the track’s length wasn’t long enough for him to cover. Bursting through with eagerness, having picked up the scent of his prey so near, so nearly within reach, he nimbly avoids Chaldea’s expertly camouflaged Kaburagi’s extra-large Demonic Beast traps Moriarty set up by jumping over it with top speed like it was nothing. Demonic Beast? Bah! Does the conjoined Phantom Spirits look like mere Demonic Beasts to you? Ritsuka would like to beg to differ after seeing a variety in Uruk, but the fiend right in front of her does have a category of its own, unprecedented. Da Vinci notes his impressive reaction time, down to the microsecond level. The trap’s spell was perfect; he couldn’t have noticed it right until the last moment. He didn’t even break his stride, tirelessly pursuing, escaping, fighting, all for that strong scent of a human he was following. Holmes is impressed. He caught up to them like a whirlwind, even with Jalter holding him back. Salter zipped down the lane in her motorbike, baiting him on. Secretly, they were all wondering about what happened back there. With the wolf here, was Jalter still... 

Ritsuka slaps her cheeks together, clearing her mind. She may be unable to speak now with the wind pressure pulling her face back at high speeds (Salter was her lifebuoy in this oceanic mess), but she believes Jalter made it through with those wounds on the Mad Dog.

“ That’s the point when we realise we can never stop. That our bloodthirsty heart will never be satiated, even though it should have been… The cracks start to show, and all we want is more.” 

He stopped. They’ve got him. They’ve got him on the third trap. Out of all the traps they deployed, only the one that catches his heart worked. Cavall II, the white, cute and fluffy dog, barks at the Wolf King, seemingly too naive for the world, too innocent to understand his warped state. Moriarty’s bombardment, Holmes’s insight (and baritsu), Salter’s raw power, Da Vinci’s analysis and Ritsuka’s command was an overkill for the weary, outwitted duo. The moment he hesitated when he saw the white figure, the trap’s second layer activated, and the Demonic Beast trap clenched down on his right leg, rendering it useless. His fight with Jalter took a huge chunk out of his stamina, and the aching wounds from her Noble Phantasm are surfacing. The Mana he consumed off random pickings on the street was refreshing but the quality and quantity didn't match up to his capacity.

Their invisibility was the reason why they even survived against the onslaught for so long, always managing to evade attacks at the last second. Lobo ignored the Beast trap, making it a weapon of his own creatively, adapting to the situation. The chain on its end was used as a flail, smashing into Salter’s stomach. She doubles over immediately, keeling. Holmes covers in for her with his baritsu while Moriarty keeps the Hessian busy with gunfire from his Coffin of Mysteries (Ritsuka doesn’t know how the dandy gentlemen of around fifty years could carry it around). The Master, seeing how this can’t keep on going, decides it’s time to land the most decisive strike. The more desperate and perilous the situation Lobo was in, without a clear escape route, the more equally dire the situation the Shinjuku Lit Evil Party was in. She could not afford to have Lobo using his Noble Phantasm. They were lucky Moriarty swooped down from the rooftops at the last minute, opening fire at the road in front of the duo, preventing the wolf from being able to kick off into a sprint in activation of his Execution. The air turns frigid as the surrounding temperature plummets suddenly, the Wolf King’s eyes glimmering in the dark, body enshrouded in cyan flames. The methodical killing of any one of them would significantly cripple their team. Wild wolves are quite intelligent, and he is sensible enough not to force his Noble Phantasm through, not when he was interrupted this quickly the first time round. He does question why the dandily dressed professor is helping them out, but he deems it unimportant. What he has to consider now is if he wants to continue fighting or flee, clearly outmatched. Ritsuka orders Salter when the latter feels well enough from the stomach strike. She’ll end him mercilessly. She’ll make sure he can’t hurt anyone, not even himself anymore. And she’ll help him go home. Salter agrees with her judgement.

By unleashing her Noble Phantasm. “If you can’t see, then you just gotta go for the entire area!” Her black sword shines darkly, with floating particles rising from the ground and into the air, forming a darkened stream of light like an aurora. Such is the twisted nature of the inverted Holy Sword. With a beam reminiscent of Vortigern’s draconic breath, Salter swung her sword chanting, “Swallow the light!”

[ ––– Excalibur Morgan.

The Sword of Promised Victory. ––– ]

A vortex of maleficent energy shoots up like a tornado after cutting both the wolf and rider, chaotic energies surging in circles, clashing with each other in a weird harmony before dissipating into thin air. It carries the hopes and dreams of every fallen warrior, the promise of victory set over the dawning horizon, for each brand new day contained an unfought battle. The spoils of war, of successful raids, of conquest sings, hymns of the Planet's unfinished tales. Darkness soon consumes the space, devouring its sanctity to prevent it from being tainted. 

The Hessian basks in the dimming light. Shards of his broken dream were gently lifted up by Excalibur, caressing it warmly. He too, has shattered hopes. Redemption is not a choice. In his astonishment, he finds himself attracted to the altered, luminescent beam that disappeared, marvelling in its mysteries.

He takes a long, good look at the whimpering wolf, and slides down.

Weary and wounded, Lobo attempts to stand, to fight, to flee, to do something, unwilling to stay still even when cornered. In life, he never backed down, not until he saw what happened to his mate, where the overpoweringly crushing realisation hit him hard. His mate was gone. Gone like the wind, so fast, so wispy, never to be returned, unable to run to him, nor by his side. That day, his heart was ripped out of his chest, still beating and alive, even if it was still intact and pulsating in reality. That one historic day, the demoralised wolf laid down for the last time, refusing to eat or drink, dying by his own terms, of heartbreak.

With majority dead, and no one to take up the mantle of King, this wolf pack in America would no longer cause local hunters any headaches. Currumpaw’s wolves were subsequently wiped off the face of the earth, only to be preserved in history with mere words.

Salter steps in, Sacred Sword in hand to mercilessly bring his final hour forward, to end his tyrannical reign as King. At the last moment, the mercenary’s scythe stops her advance. She presses on, determined to end his vengeance, telling him to stay out of this. Ritsuka feels the same determination steadying her being, her legs shaking from the adrenaline and fear from the battle. They faced the pitif– Dying, she corrects herself. Dying wolf. He was a far cry from pitiful in her eyes, and she refused to use that word on him even if people like Papa Moriarty thought otherwise.

Her physical strength may be average, but her excessive Mana made up for it. Salter uses her Mana Burst, wrapping herself in her own magical energy and then releasing it to overwhelm the Hessian. He fumbles backwards, breaking the deadlock. She readies her sword, on for a second round, when he throws away his weapons, off to the side. He has no use for them anymore. There's no need to pick them up.

It clangs onto the ground, metal ringing out like a clear bell, reverberating through the night. Dissolving back into prana, one would think it was an illusion.

Fighting against the Sacred Sword was an honour, one he that he left buried deep in the soil of America, together with his blasted head. The Avenger of Shinjuku was not afraid to turn tail at every available chance when disadvantaged in a fight. They’re good, way too good at avoiding a bad dice throw and bidding time until lottery strikes. The second chance of dead men is a tightrope walk as transient ghosts wander the ends of the planet. What exactly, is the difference between the living and the dead?

“Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts if honour matters. The silence is your answer. Honour means nothing to a corpse.”

She tenses up, fearing for any external coy play, worried if it was a distraction for it worked . In seconds, her eyes dart from the weapon in his hand, to the ground, and back to him. He doesn’t do anything, wasting these crucial seconds and advantage away. Demanding his motive, Salter stomps her boot to jolt herself out of her small panic, proceeding with caution. What tricks did they have left? Da Vinci is certain from the data readings that they can’t run away like this. Numbers don’t lie. The Wolf King’s leg was ensnared and their magical energy was depleting like a drying riverbed. Victory is all but assured. Except anything unexpected could happen. Luck is a fickle thing, always swaying, never settling on a side. Maybe something wasn’t in Chaldea’s analysis, perhaps Da Vinci missed something (not like the genius would), or was Holmes/Moriarty’s plan awry? 

None. There may be no honour, not in this battlefield, but the dead has risen to give an answer. He speaks through his actions. Dullahan simply spreads his hands in a last-ditch effort to protect Lobo. The path of a Heroic Spirit is likened to a second chance at life. The difference between the living is dead is a fine, thin line waiting to be discovered by one cloaked in death, a soul lost and yearning.

“ Forever and ever… Into eternity…”

Crunch.

Lobo bites off his own, clipped leg and makes a break for it.

He’s much slower this time, like Merlin's High-Speed Incantation cast time compared to Medea’s. The Magus of Flowers detests biting his tongue, which often happens when he panics. There's a reason why he doesn't have it as an active skill. The Shinjuku Lit Evil Party can certainly catch up to him without a kick, especially with Salter and her motorbike. Damn, she should be a Rider, Ritsuka jokes, and so Salter tries, but Holmes stops her even before she gets to her bike. “What do you think you are doing?!” she questions, brows furrowed. To which he answers, “let him go. We have our victory. Both the Hessian and Lobo are as good as dead now. Let them spend their last moments as they see fit.” He places a gloved hand on her shoulder to placate her worries. “I understand your wish to see the deed through to the end, but it’s alright.” Ritsuka grabs Salter’s arm, eyes pleading. Salter sighs, dematerialising Excalibur. Honestly. She spoils her Master too much. But the look of joy on her face as she brightens up considerably, giving her Servant a tight hug as thanks, the Alter supposes it’s okay this time, stroking the younger girl’s head affectionately. Moriarty pouts at the side, seeing his daughter getting stolen by an auntie.

Holmes smiles warmly at the scene before him. He says aloud, seemingly to no one in particular, but everyone knows who he was addressing. “He has finally regained his freedom. Your role is complete.”

The Hessian doesn’t reply. He stands there, arms back to his side, quiet as ever, but there’s a feeling of content and satisfaction everyone could feel radiating off him. He doesn’t need words to convey his feelings. As he heaves an imaginary sigh of relief, likely conveying his happiness about Lobo finally attaining his freedom, his body starts sparkling before disappearing in a pretty, golden shower.

“You kill them good and dead. Don’t just defeat them.”

The Wolf King can no longer go back home, to the plains of Currumpaw, in America. It is not because he is too far away from home, in this small, distorted ward of Japan. It is because he is too hell-bent on revenge. He doesn't remember where, he doesn’t remember the way, and all he can do is reminisce about having a home. There is nothing more Chaldea can do for him, as Holmes had stated. Ritsuka clenches her fists, frustrated. It didn’t feel enough. There should have been more, something, anything, but she acknowledges Jalter’s advice and leaves it as that. He had the Hessian with him. His resentment may have been overshadowed by Lobo’s, but it was apparent that he cared for him to a degree. He wasn’t utterly gone. Unclenching her fists, she settles for the night with her slip-shod, whacky “family” after a whole day (or was it night in this eternal darkness?) of exhaustive events. Bringing the Avenger of Shinjuku down left them spent. That’s 3 Servants down. Soon, she’d fix this singularity after meeting the Boss in the Barrel Tower. Pleased for the time being, they make way back to the underground burger roost of Salter’s.

She hasn’t given up hope on him. Just he wait, she’s gonna come for him after she gets out of this hellhole, and he’d better prepare himself.

Lobo lumbers his way clumsily through Shinjuku miserably, the stench blotting out the scents of familiarity. The comforts of his home. He dreams about lazing around in the golden grass with naught a single concern in the world, beyond the wilderness. The nostalgic feel of soil. The wind tickling his ears, brushing through the fur gently. The sight of his beloved warming his heart. Yet all he feels is the rock-hard pavements, the cold, whipping winds while speeding through the city and the emptiness he feels while aimlessly wandering right now. 

Something precious is leaving him, and for once, he can’t tell what is.

With his leg chewed off, he is unable to run. A part of him is surprised he isn’t as devastated about losing a limb. He’s been hurt all over, screwing up his sense of pain. It leaves him senseless and drained. The steel horse should be catching up to him in mere moments now, but he doesn’t hear the revving of the engine. He can’t hear the low, drum-like thrumming at all, only the soft wind ghosting him in this vacant highway. Relaxing his overdriven senses, he pushes aside his worries. He’s still alive. There’s still a chance. He can recover, even with that stump for a leg, and he can still howl with vengeance, inflicting terror upon the citizens. Forcing a retreat was a strategic solution just like every other time. They can make a comeback. They can– Is it him, or… He feels lighter, realising the Hessian is not with him.

Briefly, he wonders if his rider was the reason why he hasn’t been hunted down.

It’s ridiculous. Sure, they’re always together. Summoned together. Merged together. Their bond was… unique, if there was one. They kept communication to a minimum. Lobo never opened up. To him, the Hessian was a tool at his disposal to kill and satisfy his hatred, for fun, laughter and joy. He abhors humans, but he isn’t stupid. If they work for him, it’s fine. If they aren’t a nuisance, it’s fine. The one thing he will never allow is attachments. You could say that mercenary was just a hired hand resurrected back into service. 

Answering his previous question was the image of the Hessian’s small back. His shoulders sagged, carrying an unseen weight. If they’d interacted decently, perhaps he’d have known what it was. 

Vaulting off the highway, he slams into another abandoned street to throw off himself off the steel horse's radar. Oh yeah… He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts. Where was he going? Everything feels muddled and hazy. This drunk-like stupor is a new sensation, at least in this Avenger form. Is it the feeling of loss? Loss… That’s right, he lost the fight, didn’t he. Grn… His eyes are so bleary he doesn’t know where he is. His senses are so unfocused he doesn’t know where he wants to go.

No, he does.

He wants to go home. But he doesn’t know how. He can’t see it anywhere, its scent long forgotten. He tastes it on the tip of his tongue, unable to put a ring to it. Where in the world was it that he lived? He knows certain facts, like the differences between here and there. The texture of the ground. The scent of earth and soil beneath his favourite grass after a fresh coat of rain in the morning. The starry night sky, filled full with countless glittery stars, shining brightly as they illuminate the plains dutifully every night. The poor contender overhead doesn’t compare. There wasn’t even any refreshing wind that blows here. The city was plain awful in taste. Grimy, with trash collecting everywhere and it stank badly. Its pungency was especially strong for someone with a sense of smell as sensitive as his. The people were no better. They either shut themselves in their houses or were out vandalising the place. Probably why this street is abandoned. What a low way of life. The image of the bustling nightlife only served to worsen its less than reputable image. It’s detestable, and he’s never liked it.

An overwhelming urge washes over him at the thought of leaving this place. “I want to go home. I want to go home! I want to go home…!”

Jumping onto a roof in one kick, he relishes in the wind that harshly blew around him. He is hot and burning with desire. He takes a deep, collected breath as he overlooks the city trying to locate his most important thing. With eyes that are finally sad, gaze staring into the beyond, ah… He finally gets it…

This filthy city is his home. It is the only one he has now.

He was summoned by his own will. He wasn’t coerced into this, slotted into the Avenger class, sealing his fate as a machine of malice and hatred, spiralling out of control until he withers away. Rather, he made it count by slaughtering people left and right, devoting his entire being in his wrath. This is his territory, where his howls rip into the silent night, breaking the peace, frightening all inhabitants. All by choice.

How foolish, he was searching for something he threw away long ago all these time.

Gazing up sorrowfully into the inky black sky, devoid of stars, strength leaves him as all things did. Letting loose one last mournful howl, channelling all his misery and longing, he wishes to the Grail whole-heartedly. He loses his balance and tumbles over the edge, mimicking his descent into madness. Is it a white canine figure he sees? Is it a bark he hears? He closes his eyes, and with an air of finality, the blaze in his heart dies out, producing embers. Left scattered in the wind, they lay in wait to be reignited by someone in the distant future. For now, he breathes his last and disappears into golden, bittersweet, flaky specks, fading into nothingness. There was no rain to bring tranquillity.

“ Killing them is like freeing a bird that’s fallen to the ground, and will never fly again.”

========================================================================

Ritsuka believes in the “Too Many Soft Toys Theory”. That is to say, she puts all her soft toys on her bed, loving them all dearly and equally, unwilling to let any toy feel unloved or neglected compared to the rest. Yes, she believes her soft toys have feelings. Just like Servants, she made sure everyone she liked was loved equally, though she slips sometimes. Nobunaga receives a quick peck on the cheek. Papa Moriarty’s hugs last longer. Hijikata never runs out of takuan. Gawain and Bedivere’s hair are often messed up from head pats. Artoria (Lancer) often gets random bouts of love confessions. Jeanne’s hair is brushed neatly daily. Waver gets a break here and there. Mashu’s hands are always held at every available chance.

She knows many interesting facts about each Servant because of this. Who could have ever imagined that the Hessian likes tea parties? He often makes tea for her while she rests, and with each cup he makes, he gets better. Sometimes the guests are Nursery Rhyme and her friends playing together like carefree kids. Sometimes it’s Nobu and Hijikata barging in to complain about Okita’s absence. The “Failure to Summon Any Okita Counter” is already at 7, by the way. And rarely, it’s Jalter sitting together with them.

Presently, Ritsuka finds comfort in lying on Lobo’s side as he nestles himself cosily on the ground. He puffs out a small pocket of cyan flames and flicks his tail forward so that she can hug it. She gleefully strokes it, appreciative of his gesture. They’re back in Shinjuku to farm for some Mystic Spinal Fluid. Basically, it’s the drugs that empower the humans here, usually the local hoodlum, the mafia or those hornets. The gunfire from the latter always scares her, and he knows, faithfully shielding her without fail as she closes her eyes on reflex. Artoria makes quick work of them with her Noble Phantasm, blasting the area into smithereens like a satellite cannon. Mashu’s upset that she can no longer accompany Ritsuka along for her rayshifts physically. What can a shield protect if it cannot be lifted up? Waver assures her that the behind-the-scenes statistical analytics are just as important as muscle work out in the Singularities. She straightens herself up, watching over them diligently through Chaldea’s monitors, promising their safety and return. Oh, what will Chaldea do without cute, adorable Mashu?

After a few rounds around Shinjuku Station, Ritsuka requests for a short break. They’ve been at it for a while now and she’s deeeeeeaaaaaad tired.. She stopped questioning why both Papa Moriarty and Hijikata needs 72 vials each. Weird things happen in Chaldea frequently enough until the abnormal is normal. Nobu (Berserker) needs juuuuuust a few less compared to the two monsters, but a bill is a bill and Ritsuka has to pick it up. She hasn’t even accounted for the QP needed. At this rate, she's convinced that Servants who need Void Dust like Waver secretly smoke it. It's gotta be Void Cocaine, she argues, otherwise what do Servants even need tons of dust for? In fact, the more she contemplates, the more puzzled she is. Where do they even keep these piles of materials? Do they eat it? Is it… tasty? How do they use it? She’s interrogated a few Servants already (it’s fine, Mashu made sure nothing whacky happened) but their mumbles weren’t helpful in the slightest. Something about “ummm”s,  “hmmm”s, “uhhhhh”s and the occasional “mmmmm”s. Stressful research.

She leans back onto her Cushion that is Alive, adjusting her position. Dang, it’s so comfy, she can feel her spirit being healed. The other Avenger on the team trudges towards her Master, throwing her fluffy mantle at her.

“Bwahh–?” Ritsuka sputters, her vision suddenly going into a total eclipse. 

“You want that, right?” Jalter sighs, bending over to ruffle the mess of orange hair peeking out from the black cloth lined with matted purple on its tattered edges. 

“Ahhhh, you know me so well! That’s right! If the fluffiness of Lobo is multiplied by the fluffiness of your cape, maximum fluffiness can be achieved!” Her grin shines as bright as Gawain’s Nightlessness gift. “Do you wanna sit down and test it out?”

“No, I’m good,” she smiles tenderly, retracting her hand. 

Ritsuka puckers her lower lip out in disappointment. “Heeeeeeeeeeeh,” she whines.

The Hessian walks up to her at this moment, offering a warm cup of tea from a thermo flask. The rest of the team was already enjoying it at some tables outside of a closed cafe shop (they requested for the tables nicely). Apparently, Jalter was here to ask if she wanted to continue lazing on the wolf or join them. Raikou had packed a few sandwiches for them prior to their departure, which Mordred (Rider) was gorging out on. Artoria chides her to save some for the rest, but slips her portion into the hungry girl’s plate anyway. Moriarty just laughed heartily, talking about his other daughter, Fran. Waver was just really stoked to have a relaxing break in between farming sessions like this.

Nodding, Ritsuka reluctantly leaves the fluffiness of Lobo behind, but she does drape herself in Jalter’s. The Hessian leads her back, leaving the Dragon Witch and the Wolf King behind.

He cracks open an eye to look at the Master walking away. Then both, to look up at her. They make eye contact. It’s not their first, second or third, and it surely wasn’t the last. This time, they’re not on the opposing side, no indeed, they’re on the same side. Both were picked up by the same person, the idiot who’d be the torch lighting up the path of salvation, the idiot who loves humanity enough to pave the way, the idiot who loved them as they are. Ah, they both thought, reaching the same conclusion the moment she uttered those words. It’s an inevitable curse forever imprinted in their Saint Graphs. Neither of them mentions it, but both know they wouldn’t even think about removing it.

They’ll never let any harm come to her. She’ll never end up like them, not if they could help it. And they couldn’t help it, not from that fateful day, where everything was set in stone like dying embers finding their way back to the hearth. Mother nature knows best, and she brought them together with their fates entwined through chance meeting. 

For her, it was in the Summoning Room, where the circle lit up, and Jalter steps forward with a contract, questioning Ritsuka’s gawking look.

For him, it was in the Summoning Room, where the circle lit up, and Lobo steps forward with a low, guttural growl expressing his displeasure at being called forth by Ritsuka.

The area suddenly bursts into a shower of rain, soaking everything within the vicinity. Break’s over. They hurriedly pack up whatever meagre supplies they brought for this uneventful trip. Artoria suppresses her chuckles as Mordred and Ritsuka panics, hastily covering up the food. Waver’s tears mixes in with the dripping rain. The Hessian helps while Moriarty calls the Avengers over. She breaks eye contact first, turning around to join the others. She’s not particularly bothered by the rain. Lobo grunts, and playfully nudges her with his snout when he rises, trotting his way closer to the group before the lovable idiot they hold dear can come dragging them. “Hey!” Jalter shrieks at the jab, breaking into a jog to catch up.

This is their new home now, in Chaldea, as Heroic Spirits.

========================================================================

[ ––– Mutual understanding and the likes are impossible.

What we have here is a beast that scatters hatred. ––– ]

How ironic it is, as the fire grows weak and the rain falls, two unlikely Avengers find meaning together in the dingy streets of Shinjuku.

Running through the pelting rain, they clearly remember Ritsuka’s first words.

“You came home…!” 

========================================================================

The fire burns,

and the rain falls.

Ashes remain,

and dust settles.

You see,

once the shower is over,

you’ll find,

the rain washing away

the very fabrics of reality.

Today is such a beautiful day,

I wonder if you can see?