Tải xuống ứng dụng
90.62% Fate/Disturbance / Chapter 58: Demon God

Chương 58: Demon God

"I dedicate this to my fallen comrades. Few times have I felt sorrow so deep, few times have I seen bravery and sacrifice so admirable."

Richard raised his hands, guarding against burst after burst of sharp wind that would have reduced even servants to a gory mess as an ode to the dead rang throughout the increasingly desolate and despairing battlefield.

"Boohoohoo, woe is me. This is worse than that time we were discussing how you got drugged and ra-" Aston was forced to shut up and grab his spear with both hands, blocking Richard's sword before it could cut into his flesh.

Every time the English King tried to assault the Archer, Aston would interfere. The Lancer couldn't overwhelm him in terms of parameters other than speed but he was enough of a nuisance that Richard was forced away. Now this in itself was impressive, and one would think Richard an indomitable foe that was in a stalemate with not one but two Heroic Spirits that could be considered the cream of the crop, but it was not so.

Aston's Agility parameter outranked King Richard's by such a wide margin that the former was slaughtering an unending army of Crusaders while at the same time protecting Tristan.

Each passing moment brought with it fresh corpses that piled onto those that already covered the ground. Being parts of a noble phantasm, the Crusaders eventually started dissipating into thin air but the freshly slaughtered ones replaced them before long.

Richard the Lionhearted grit his teeth in frustration and pulled his blade to the side. In a burst of magical energy, the sword kicked up sand and dust forming a wall of smoke before Richard swung it in an arc, releasing a wave of crimson destructive energy that outright removed everything it came into contact with, vaporising all in it's path.

Aston lodged his spear into the sand and clasped it with both hands, "How original, this seems like Excalibur but walmart... What is walmart?" He tilted his head in confusion as lightning ran from his figure to his lance, coating it in blue.

"You are using magical energy, a primitive method of attack. Brute strength can overwhelm it."

Retrieving the weapon, Aston aimed it at the crux of the incoming wave of destruction before throwing it with enough strength that it broke the sound barrier, splitting apart the ground under it as lightning trailed behind it.

The spear parted the wave, blowing through it unimpeded before lodging itself through the arm of a Richard that failed to see it coming, "And here I believed you were a veteran of war, why would you assume... Wait, you couldn't see it." Aston glanced at Tristan, "Wasn't he meant to be the visually impaired one?"

The English King grunted and stared at Aston with hollow eyes, "..."

"I apologise if it's rude but, you aren't the real King Richard, are y-..."

"Hold on, Sir Aston and Tristan! I have come to your aid!!"

Aston was cut off by a loud, almost obnoxiously reassuring voice that both he and Tristan couldn't fail to recognise if they tried. The speaker's identity was confirmed when a searing pillar of flames descended from the empty sky above, melting sand and vaporising the field of corpses Aston had built up over the course of their engagement with the crusaders.

Richard the Lionheart simply brushed off the attack, swinging his sword to meet the heat with an energy wave of his own that dissipated Gawain's attack.

"Hoh? Surprising. It is not often that I meet a foe that can brush off Excalibur Galatine with such ease." Gawain was almost uncharacteristically serious, tightly gripping his noble phantasm even as heat reminiscent of the Sun itself rolled off the bright blade. He was perhaps the best among his peers at assessing a threat, mostly because any that could shrug off his noble phantasm might as well have been shrugging off the heat of a star.

"Did you get bigger?" Aston asked with narrowed eyes, taking in the bulkier form of the Knight of the Sun Gawain, "Did you partake in illicit substances for quick gains?"

Gawain only pointed at the sky, "It is noon, the Sun is at it's highest."

That explained everything.

Excalibur Galatine was a sister sword to the Sword of Promised Victory wielded by their King, crafted by the Fairies, and the representation of the very Sun above their heads. The higher it was, the stronger Gawain would get.

It was insane then that Richard had deflected an attack from him with such ease.

Also because the sword had a pseudo Sun in it's hilt.

The three knights didn't get to converse further as Richard seemed to realise the threat posed by them. He rushed at them, momentarily escaping the sight of two and was only stopped from lopping off Tristan's head because Aston reacted in time and threw his spear at the man, stopping him in his tracks for but an instant. That instant however, was enough for Aston to grab onto his much smaller body, holding him in place.

Richard smashed his elbow into the Knight of Atrocity's guts, drawing a surprised grunt when the blow cracked the knight's armour, "Grr... Come on, attack him. Deploy your noble phantasms, your King permitted it." They were to destroy their enemy with all they had.

"But... what about you, Sir Aston?!" Gawain shouted at him, clenching his sword. He'd recognised that to beat Richard, they would need to sacrifice two, no, three of their own to annihilate the enemy servant. That was not a good outcome in any way.

Tristan seemed to understand something that he didn't and raised Failnaught, "Then this will be quick..." The air swirled around him as the ambient magical energy coalesced at a singular point. He dragged his fingers across the bow's numerous strings, rapidly firing invisible arrows that assaulted the struggling but immobile Richard, "Singing of pain, playing laments. Failnaught."

The Archer pulled back all the strings at once and for the first time in their conflict, his arrow became visible, coated with potent magical energy that increased it's size and the threat it posed for those unlucky enough to be hit by it.

The air around him swirled and danced at his bow.

Sensing the danger, Richard struggled further and Aston smirked under his helmet, "I doubt you can follow it's trajectory once it's released, however..." Just as Tristan released his hold on Failnaught and shot, Richard felt the hands holding him in place disappear,

"I can."

Aston vanished completely, appearing a ways off as Richard hurriedly threw together a reaction, and he somewhat managed it, tilting his body just enough that the arrow, originally aimed at his heart, met his gut, shredding flesh and blowing a massive hole through his abdomen.

"Gawain, how did you even live as long as you did?" Aston asked dubiously, they were all from warring times. He believed even a foot soldier would have been able to recognise his intentions considering he was famed for his agility. This current vessel of his couldn't handle his noble phantasm without instantly falling apart so all he was left with was speed several hundred times that of sound.

"I..."

The two knights were stopped by Tristan who held his hand up alarmed, his eyes wide open, "There is something else, something far more sinister than the foe we just faced."

Even with the blazing Sun overhead and complete lack of any body that could cast a shadow, they pooled up near Richard the Lionheart all the same, taking a far darker texture that rose to the height of a man before taking on a humanoid shape. It broiled and hardened, all before any of the knights near it could even process what was happening.

It appeared so inhuman and vile that even they who had warred all their life were left momentarily stumped.

"RejOIce, LancER..." What addressed them was a disembodied churning noise that was barely understandable, "WE, Andras, bear gOOd news..." It regarded the damaged but still alive Richard, "This one HAS become obsooolete."

"Our KING has in...stead, recogniSED your pOTential."

Was this one of those Demon Gods the Lion King was talking about?

The being materialised completely, and though it's eyes were masked by a crown of gold, even Aston felt the sheer disgust it brought, "Do not resist in futility. You shall... assist in our noble goal."

It subsumed Richard the Lionheart before he could even struggle and raised a hand to Aston as an ornate golden cup manifested near it.

Reality shifted and distorted at his command, freezing the Lancer.

-

Anyone connecting the dots from this chapter regarding Alter and how he's coming to be?

-

Check out Fate/Fisted.

Did anyone here do it? How's it look?

-

You can find upto 7 chapters ahead at patre0n.com/bleap


Chương 59: Intermission 3

(A/N: Trust me, this one's more important than all others combined in a way. Some of you might like it, some might hate it. It's an antithesis of one of this work's themes.)

Remnants of Another Time

-

Once called a witch, abandoned by her own flesh and blood, her role as rightful Queen ripped from her, and cast out from her own home. The current Queen and Empress of the British Isles stood at the bottom of the steps lead up to two ornate thrones, her pale hands locked together as she awaited the one who would enter through the massive gates near a hundred metres away with a giddy excitement that appeared as dull emotionlessness to the few retainers waiting to attend to her every need and whim at a moment's notice.

The soles of her black shoes dug into the red carpet that extended from the doors to the thrones, and the ends of her black and blue dress seemed to come alive, lightly caressing the ground below her. Her pale hair fell freely to her knees and a crown of black rested atop her head, a thin veil draping from it to hide her beauty from the world.

And then the moment came,

The gates were pushed open and a chill air descended on the well-lit throne room.

The servants near her stopped breathing, as if doing so without permission would spell their end, their eyes lost focus, and they fell to their knees, wishing that they in no way offended her Emperor.

That was good, they knew their place.

What came through the doors moments later, with heavy footsteps that seemed to make the Earth tremble and shake under them, was a man, nay, being, that prompted primal fear in all beholders.

Shrouded in her darkness, horned and with blazing eyes that refused to have anyone look upon them.

To all others, he was the King of Tyrants.

A man so feared and reviled that none dared raise their eyes to look upon his visage, most ran, others knelt. His people did not love him, but they did not hate him.

He was the Godlike Emperor of the British Isles, of Britannia and of the Fae that lived beyond.

A self-sufficient land where all wrong was punished the moment it was done, at times, before it was done. Whose people lived in peace so long as they were obedient, who did not have to work or toil or fear for their lives.

Their manpower was golems, both agriculturally and in war time.

The people's demands were met, they could live in peace without working so long as they didn't threaten the sanctity of their fellow man.

If they did, well there was a reason her Emperor was called a Tyrant.

It had been argued that what he did, to replace farmers and carpenters and people of those natures, even soldiers with golems was a dream. Her Emperor had done it, blessed by Mother Earth herself and she, who was like a God herself, with authority over much, born from Earth itself, what was an impossibility was brought into reality.

Then, there had been those who opposed it, calling it inhuman.

He had killed them all.

And they deserved it.

To others, he was a symbol of fear, a tyrant of no humanity, who deprived man of the chance to prosper by his own hand.

Why?

She did not know.

He gave them all they wanted, used his own power to ensure that none would lack anything.

To her, he was the most beautiful thing to exist.

Her greatest treasure.

Her Emperor.

Her Beloved.

All hers.

The one thing the world itself couldn't deprive her of.

Her mind wandered back to a time where she had wandered a land that was supposed to be hers, stripped away from her, in complete delirium. Plotting the downfall of those who had wronged her.

And then came across a young boy who had lost his everything to foreign invaders, ready to give up all for the power he so sorely lacked.

There, the craven witch had found pity, for a thing she could see herself in.

She had bathed him in the primaeval curse that roiled under the land itself, birthed by itself, available only to it's rightful heir, her.

It moulded him, shaped him, improved him and then submitted to him.

It was a strange thing, an impossibility.

But it had happened.

There the witch gained a true companion who sought nothing of her.

And when that companion had fought for her honour, professing her compassion and kindness.

The witch found a place to be.

The witch found a place that was hers and only hers.

Something that she could never be deprived of by anyone.

And to that young man, she promised her everything and he did so in return, to the one who had been by his side in a world that sought to remove him.

To he who gave her a place to be and asked for nothing, belonged everything of hers.

To he who gave her a role that was only hers, she gave everything of hers in return.

To he whose compassion extended to a craven and vile thing like her, she gave her soul and heart.

And she would do so all again.

Nothing else mattered.

Why would she care for a people that had tossed her aside?

For a land that abandoned her?

For a family that sought to sell her away to be rid of her?

For those that tossed her aside?

She didn't care for them, she didn't want something like that.

She had everything she wanted in him.

He had given her the worth she desired.

He who offered his being to a witch that had deprived him of his humanity, and made him a monster.

Was her role and duty, her place to be.

So the witch gave up her hate and loathing, content with what she had gained in return.

A far cry from what she would have become if not for that one fateful encounter.

Thus, Morgan le Fay, Empress and Witch Queen, opened her arms and embraced a Tyrant, a beautiful smile on her lips as her happiness became evident even through a dull countenance. She didn't care for the thorns and horns upon his form that pricked her skin and drew blood, even as the 'tyrant' trembled in her hold, carefully wrapping his arms around her, afraid of hurting her.

"Welcome home, beloved." Her voice was soft, cold to all others but warm to his ears.

She did not need to ask to know that he had returned a victor from his conquest.

"I...I... thank you."

His was a thankless feat, but it did not matter.

She would treat him well enough to make it not matter.

In her eyes, he was the same man who had drawn his blade against a force of thousands, for her.

The same boy who almost naively believed her beautiful and compassionate to the point where she had become those things, for him.

-

...Feedback?


Load failed, please RETRY

Tình trạng nguồn điện hàng tuần

Đặt mua hàng loạt

Mục lục

Cài đặt hiển thị

Nền

Phông

Kích thước

Việc quản lý bình luận chương

Viết đánh giá Trạng thái đọc: C58
Không đăng được. Vui lòng thử lại
  • Chất lượng bài viết
  • Tính ổn định của các bản cập nhật
  • Phát triển câu chuyện
  • Thiết kế nhân vật
  • Bối cảnh thế giới

Tổng điểm 0.0

Đánh giá được đăng thành công! Đọc thêm đánh giá
Bình chọn với Đá sức mạnh
Rank 200+ Bảng xếp hạng PS
Stone 2 Power Stone
Báo cáo nội dung không phù hợp
lỗi Mẹo

Báo cáo hành động bất lương

Chú thích đoạn văn

Đăng nhập

tip bình luận đoạn văn

Tính năng bình luận đoạn văn hiện đã có trên Web! Di chuyển chuột qua bất kỳ đoạn nào và nhấp vào biểu tượng để thêm nhận xét của bạn.

Ngoài ra, bạn luôn có thể tắt / bật nó trong Cài đặt.

ĐÃ NHẬN ĐƯỢC