Archer the Sorcerer Chapter 12

Chapter 12: The Archer Ultimatum

A few blocks away, across the snowy heart of the lockdown zone, the night cracked open with the sound of battle.

The air shimmered with cursed energy—like heatwaves warping vision, but bitter cold, sharp as broken glass.

Flashes of pale blue lit the alleyways, flickering across ruined buildings and abandoned cars. Snow hissed as it melted on contact with curses that bled malevolence into the air.

Above it all, Utahime Iori stood on a fractured rooftop, one hand gripping the edge of a crumbling ledge as the wind swept through her coat and tangled her hair.

Her eyes—piercing, sharp, unyielding—watched from above with the poise of a veteran.

She didn’t flinch at the distant explosions or the shrieks echoing through the ruined streets.

She had seen too many young sorcerers fall. She would not let it happen again.

Below her, the Kyoto students were locked in motion—a dance of death through snow and rubble.

Noritoshi Kamo’s blood arts sliced the air like a conductor’s baton, crimson threads lashing through cursed spirits with brutal grace. His face was calm, focused, as if every movement had already been calculated.

Mai Zenin, crouched behind the broken frame of a collapsed storefront, loaded another bullet into her revolver with an icy expression.

She adjusted her aim without a word, fired once—and a Grade 2 curse collapsed, its mask shattered by a bullet infused with just the right amount of cursed energy.

Kasumi Miwa darted between debris, her katana flashing in the cold light.

A flick of her wrist sent a cursed spirit’s limbs flying, her breath fogging in the air as she ducked under a swipe and spun clean through its midsection.

“They’re holding up,” Utahime murmured to herself. “Better than I thought.”

But even as she watched them, a cold knot began to form in her stomach. Something was off.

She couldn’t shake the feeling. It crept in between moments of silence—between each flickering blast of cursed energy, between each fallen spirit.

Her gaze drifted east.

And then she saw him.

Aoi Todo.

He stood in a crater of shattered stone and frost at the crossroads of a wide intersection. His uniform was long discarded, muscles rippling and glistening with sweat and blood.

Snowflakes caught in his tied hair as he flexed his fingers, staring down a beast nearly twice his size.

The Special-Grade cursed spirit before him was grotesque—its body a hunched, twitching amalgamation of scorched muscle and bone, its face nothing but a vertical mouth filled with human teeth.

It screeched.

Todo grinned.

“Now this,” he shouted, raising a fist, “is what I call a proper warm-up!!”

The two forces collided.

The shockwave cracked the asphalt, split the snow, and sent a spray of cursed debris into the air like confetti at a funeral. Utahime raised a hand to shield her face, eyes narrowing against the backlash.

When the dust cleared, Todo was still standing.

The cursed spirit was hunched and panting, one arm hanging limp, jaw slack with pain.

Todo chuckled, wiping blood from his chin. “What’s the matter?” he taunted. “Scared I’ll take you out before my dinner gets cold?”

Utahime allowed herself a small exhale of relief—but her mind refused to rest.

Something didn’t add up.

She looked across the battlefield again. The streets were littered with broken curses, yes—but it wasn’t overwhelming. Not the way it should’ve been.

The Night Parade was supposed to be a flood.

This was only a storm.

She closed her eyes for a moment, extending her cursed senses through the web of conflict. She listened—not with her ears, but with her energy.

The cursed flow wasn’t uniform. It surged in waves—then faded in places it should’ve been rising.

“…This isn’t everything,” she whispered.

Utahime opened her eyes and turned her head west.

The air was thicker there. Heavier. Like something deeper had sunken its claws into that direction. Not chaotic—but deliberate. As if some unseen force had cast a lure, and half the cursed swarm had taken the bait.

She focused harder. Pushed her senses further.

A distortion—like a current spiraling into one point. Dense, layered form of energy. Interference she didn’t recognize.

“…They’re being drawn somewhere else.”

Her jaw clenched.

And in that instant, a flicker of scarlet light caught her eye.

Far beyond the rooftops, arcing high above the city like a comet through the storm—a burning line of red light.

It hung for half a second in the sky before vanishing behind a building with an explosive hum. Not a flare. Not a binding sigil. And certainly not any cursed technique she recognized.

It was… an arrow.

Conjured from nothing.

Utahime’s breath caught. “That’s not—”

She looked west again, toward the direction where Shirou Gojo had been stationed—at the edge of the battlefield, near the sealed perimeter of the old district. That’s where the distortion had originated. That’s where the horde was drifting toward.

“What exactly are you doing over there, Gojo-kun?” she muttered.

Her hands tightened into fists, the cold air biting her knuckles.

Her heartbeat quickened.

And somehow, all of this chaos…

Was converging on him.

----

The cursed snow swirled around them, dancing like ash in the midnight wind.

In the middle of the cracked street, illuminated by the distant flickers of cursed flares and ghostly moonlight, he stood tall.

His coat billowed behind him, weapons in hand, eyes sharp and unwavering.

Illya clung to his sleeve, her breathing fast, eyes wide with fear. Behind them, the road was littered with grotesque bodies of lower-grade cursed spirits—twisted forms dissolving into black mist. But the battle wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

Across the snow-veiled intersection, a figure loomed.

Its body was massive, hunched forward with unnaturally long arms that dragged clawed fingers across the pavement, carving grooves into the earth.

Fleshy tendrils pulsed along its back, like leeches fused into muscle. The head was a misshapen mockery of humanity, with too many eyes and too wide a grin. It didn’t breathe, but it pulsed—like it drank in the atmosphere itself.

A Special-Grade Cursed Spirit.

And around it, nearly two dozen lesser cursed spirits writhed, twitching with anticipation. Each of them reeked of decay and malice, but their aura paled in comparison to the thing at their center.

He stepped forward.

“Illya,” he said, voice low and controlled.

She looked up at him.

“You need to run. Don’t look back.”

Illya opened her mouth. “But—”

He didn’t let her argue.

“This isn’t a request.”

Something in his voice—something cold, ironclad—froze her.

Her hands balled into fists. Her eyes stung.

“…Will you be okay?”

A beat passed. Then:

“I’ll be fine,” he said, with the faintest curve of a smile. “I’ve faced worse.”

Illya’s breath hitched. The words sounded familiar. Too familiar.

She hesitated, then nodded, turned, and ran—boots crunching over the snow-covered road, coat flaring behind her like wings.

He exhaled, slow.

He raised his hand.

The bow in his grip gleamed faintly, pulsing with his cursed energy.

Behind him, the cursed spirits screeched, sensing blood and weakness in the human girl’s retreating back. The Special-Grade didn’t move. It simply watched.

Then it smiled.

His eyes narrowed.

“Not on my watch.”

With a single motion, he raised his hand high.

Light shimmered.

Three luminous arrows formed between his fingers, each one humming with barely contained energy. He pulled the bowstring—notched them all at once—and released.

The air cracked.

The arrows struck the cursed spirits in a flash, bursting into blossoms of steel and cursed fire. Three spirits disintegrated instantly. Two more screamed as limbs were torn off by the force. Smoke and blood filled the air.

The rest charged.

Archer moved.

He wasn’t just fast—he was impossible. His footsteps didn’t echo; they barely touched the ground. He weaved between monstrous claws and cursed tendrils, arrows forming mid-step, each one launched without hesitation.

One to the heart.

One to the head.

Another to the leg, forcing a beast down before a follow-up shot pierced its core.

He twisted mid-air, dodging a barbed tongue that lashed toward his throat, then countered with a summoned blade—short, curved, and gleaming with ghostly light.

The cursed spirit fell in half.

And then, from the black mist, emerged two gleaming swords.

His favored pair.

The twin blades vibrated in his hands like they remembered this kind of battle. They always did. Their edge thirsted for cursed flesh.

He charged.

The road exploded beneath his feet as he met the horde head-on, slashing, leaping, spinning. Each strike was a perfect blend of art and violence. Illya, now a block away, dared to glance back once—and what she saw stunned her.

He was dancing.

A blur of steel in a storm of monsters.

He cut through them with frightening ease, twin swords carving arcs of death through cursed flesh. No wasted movement. No fear. Only purpose.

But even she noticed something terrifying.

The Special-Grade wasn’t moving.

Not yet.

It simply watched, head cocked slightly, eyes following the girl now sprinting between empty cars and flickering talismans. It wasn’t interested in him.

He noticed too.

As he slid under the talon of a serpent-like spirit and rammed Kanshou through its jaw, his gaze flicked past the crowd—to the massive creature’s gaze.

It was staring at Illya.

His heart sank.

“No.”

He broke formation.

A spirit lunged at his back—he twisted, driving Bakuya backward into its gut, then spun with both blades outward, cutting down two more.

But he didn’t stop to finish the rest.

Instead, he faced the Special-Grade directly.

Its lips peeled back. A hiss. Then it moved.

One second it was hunched, still. The next—it blurred forward.

Faster than it should’ve been. Faster than he expected.

“Damn it—!”

He summoned another arrow mid-step, firing it into its shoulder. It pierced—no hesitation—but the beast barely flinched. The impact slowed it just enough.

It roared—an inhuman scream of frustration.

He turned and ran.

Straight toward Illya.

She turned again, breath caught in her throat—and saw the monster lurch forward again, chains bursting off it in jagged sparks.

And then—behind her—Archer’s voice rang out:

“Faster, Illya!”

She stumbled, then pushed herself harder.

She leapt over a downed motorcycle, slipped between shattered windows, weaving through the ruins of what had once been a crowded street. A talisman on a wall sparked as she passed, reacting to the cursed aura behind her.

Then—

A thud.

The ground cracked behind her.

The Special-Grade had leapt.

And it landed—between her and the barrier.

Her legs locked.

It was right in front of her now. Its grin was too wide. Its body twitched with disgusting eagerness. Each movement sounded like wet bones grinding together.

She froze.

No magecraft. No spells. No help.

Just—

A flash.

The Special-Grade moved like a nightmare given form—unnaturally fast, all bone and tendon and raw intent. Its jagged limbs unfolded like blades, cleaving through the air with a shriek of splitting wind.

Illya’s breath caught in her throat.

It was too close.

Too fast.

Too late—

"ILLYA—GET DOWN!"

The voice cut through the cold.

A blur of silver and black streaked in from the side, interposing itself between her and the monster with a burst of cursed energy that lit the sky like a thunderclap.

She dropped instinctively—knees crashing into the snow-slick asphalt.

Then—

Impact.

A brutal sound—like metal snapping, like wet flesh tearing. The Special-Grade's claw had hit something solid—but not solid enough.

The sound that followed was worse.

A gasp.

Followed by a grunt of pain.

A real sound.

A human sound.

Illya lifted her head.

And froze.

He stood before her, body arched unnaturally—back to the monster, arms spread protectively in front of her. His coat had been torn apart, ribbons of fabric fluttering in the wind like war banners.

But that wasn’t what made her heart stop.

It was the blood.

Bright and red and horrifying, spilling from the long, jagged wound now slashed down his back. His shirt had been split from shoulder to hip, revealing torn muscle and exposed ribs. Flesh peeled in angry lines. Blood ran freely into the snow at their feet, soaking the white crimson.

Time froze.

“No—”

Her voice cracked.

He didn’t move.

Not even a twitch.

The Special-Grade loomed over them, steaming claws dripping with his blood. Its expression twisted in animal confusion—its strike hadn’t killed him?

Illya reached for him. “Archer—!”

He collapsed to one knee.

His twin swords clattered beside him, one hilt striking the pavement and bouncing away uselessly. His bow was gone—dissolved. He gasped for breath, one hand planted into the ground for support, the other clutching his side.

“…I told you to run,” he rasped.

His voice was faint now. Worn. Pained.

Illya’s heart shattered.

This wasn’t a Servant anymore.

This was a man.

Bleeding.

Suffering.

Dying.

“…Why…?” she choked out, crawling toward him. Her hands trembled as they touched his shoulders. She felt the heat of his blood beneath her fingers. “You said you’d be fine.”

The Special-Grade loomed over them, its grotesque grin widening at the sight of Illya weeping over the broken figure of the man who had dared stand against it. Around them, the remaining cursed spirits began to laugh—wet, shrieking, inhuman laughter that echoed through the ruined street like a funeral dirge.

Illya’s fingers dug into Archer’s coat. Her hands were shaking. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps.

“Please,” she whispered, voice thin and cracking. “Please get up… Archer…”

He didn’t move.

Not a twitch.

His body slumped forward slightly, blood still flowing from the long, gaping slash across his back, soaking the front of his white undershirt and pooling in the snow below. The color drained from Illya’s face.

“No. No no no…”

She grabbed his face with both hands, trying to lift it toward her.

“Don’t do this… you promised me…”

Still nothing.

The Special-Grade tilted its head at the sight of the girl’s grief, as if it were curious about the sound of a human heart breaking. Then it made a low, rumbling noise in its throat—

Laughter.

Sick, guttural, and mocking.

The other cursed spirits joined in, cackling from the shadows, slithering out from the debris and alleyways. Dozens now. All drawn by blood and fear. Their forms twitched and spasmed with anticipation—elongated limbs, torn faces, rotting teeth—all dripping with joy at the human child’s despair.

Illya flinched as the sound grew louder, surrounding her like a wall.

She looked up.

They were closing in.

The Special-Grade took one heavy step forward, its claws scraping the asphalt. Its black eyes fixed on her like a predator staring at a wounded animal.

Illya’s mind spiraled.

He’s not moving.

He’s not breathing—

He said he’d be fine.

He lied.

Her hands clenched. Her vision blurred—not from tears now, but from something else.

The laughter grew louder.

And then—

Something broke.

A surge of pressure cracked the air.

The laughter stopped.

All of it.

Even the Special-Grade froze, cocking its head again—but this time in confusion, not amusement.

From Illya’s small frame, a wind began to rise. It wasn’t physical—but it was felt. A wave of cursed energy burst outward like a shockwave, blowing snow and ash away from her in a perfect circle. The ground beneath her cracked.

Her eyes burned with white light, her teeth clenched tight, and her body trembled—not from fear anymore, but from something deeper.

The cursed spirits recoiled instinctively.

A whimpering one at the edge of the group hissed and melted into the shadows.

The Special-Grade stepped back half a pace.

Illya’s hair lifted slightly, caught in the rising current of raw, emotional power. The snow around her no longer touched her. Her small hands, still stained with Archer’s blood, began to glow faintly. Her breathing was heavy, strained.

“You…”

Her voice was quiet—but it carried.

“You all think this is funny!?”

Her eyes slowly turned to the Special-Grade.

“I’m not scared of you…”

The cursed spirit snarled, its grin twisting—but the tension in the air shifted.

For a moment, it felt like she was the one in control.

Then the Special-Grade moved.

Fast.

A blur of motion—a leap straight toward her, claws raised to slash her down before she could do more.

Illya gasped.

There was no time to dodge.

The world went silent—

CLANG.

A burst of cursed steel exploded between her and the creature.

She flinched—

—and then realized the shadow looming over her had returned.

He stood between them.

Blood still stained his back.

But he was standing.

Straight.

Alive.

His arm was outstretched, holding one of his twin blades—Kanshou—catching the Special-Grade’s strike at full force. The impact split the ground around his feet in all directions, cracking the street open like glass beneath a hammer.

His fingers trembled.

But he held.

The Special-Grade hissed in confusion.

Illya looked up, breath caught in her chest.

He was… breathing.

Slow. Labored. But real.

His wound still bled—but slower now. The muscle in his back was beginning to knit together.

His other hand flexed once—then formed a familiar gesture.

He traced the air.

Not with a chant.

But with will alone.

A second blade—Bakuya—appeared in his grip.

“...That’s new,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Illya blinked, confused. “Wh-what…?”

He didn’t look back at her.

He met the eyes of the cursed spirit in front of him.

“I didn’t expect this,” he said aloud. “But… I suppose being on the verge of death unlocks some things.”

The Special-Grade roared and tried to push harder, but he pushed back, sparks flying from the clash.

A smile tugged at the edge of his lips.

“Reverse Cursed Technique… it took me a while to finally get it,” he said, almost in disbelief. “Stupid Satoru.”

He exhaled, and in that breath, Illya could see it—his body mending. Not fully. Not perfectly. But enough.

The massive gash on his back slowly sealed. Torn muscle reformed beneath bruised skin. It didn’t look painless. In fact, he winced as his spine seemed to click back into place with a sickening sound.

But he endured.

Illya stared, wide-eyed.

“You’re… healing yourself?” she whispered.

He finally glanced at her—just a brief look over his shoulder, but enough to show the exhaustion and determination in his expression.

“Not exactly high-efficiency,” he admitted. “But enough to keep me from collapsing again.”

The Special-Grade screamed in frustration and lunged again.

He caught it—twisting, this time, and launching the monster off its feet with a counter-blow. Its massive body flew backward and crashed through a rusted light pole, taking several lesser spirits with it.

HE stepped forward, placing himself completely in front of Illya now.

“I told you to run,” he said again, his voice steadier now.

Illya rose slowly to her feet, her knees still trembling. “You almost died…”

He didn't argue.

Instead, he tilted his head side to side, popping the joints in his neck.

“Then I guess I better make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The cursed spirits had stopped laughing.

Now, they only watched.

Afraid.

The girl they thought was prey had become a beacon of cursed potential—and the man they thought was broken had just stood up from the brink of death.

He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not in top shape,” he muttered. “But I’ve got enough energy left for one last push.”

He turned to Illya one last time.

“Stay behind me,” he said gently.

She nodded, eyes still wide with disbelief.

Then, his gaze turned toward the spirits.

Kanshou and Bakuya hummed in his hands.

The snow fell heavier.

The wind blew.

And Archer—wounded, weary, burning with barely-controlled cursed energy—walked forward.

Toward the end.

--

The battlefield shifted.

Snow spiraled down in hushed, spiraling sheets, but none of it touched the center of the storm. Cursed energy crackled violently in the air—vivid streaks of red and black arcing from Archer’s body as he took a single step forward.

The Special-Grade snarled, baring needle-like teeth, thick steam rising off its contorted limbs. It lunged again, claws outstretched in a wild fury.

He raised both blades—Kanshou and Bakuya—and met the beast’s charge head-on.

Clash.

Sparks burst between steel and claw.

The ground cracked beneath them, pressure rippling in concentric waves through the street. The impact sent snow and broken pavement flying in all directions, a burst of shock that rattled nearby lampposts and shattered windowpanes.

Archer held firm.

Muscles screamed in protest, fresh pain lighting his arms and back. He twisted, sidestepping the second strike with practiced grace, and drove one of the twin blades upward across the creature’s torso.

The Special-Grade shrieked in fury as its skin split open, dark ichor spraying into the air like smoke.

But it wasn’t finished.

It retaliated instantly, spinning with inhuman agility, tail whipping out like a blade. Archer ducked beneath it, barely avoiding the strike, and countered with a precise slash that cut across the creature’s midsection, staggering it.

He pressed forward.

Another strike. A flash of movement. The dance of blades and claws blurred into raw motion—relentless, brutal, each second dragging on with the weight of survival.

He drove Bakuya into its shoulder, then kicked off its chest and flipped backward, landing in a crouch.

He exhaled sharply.

"Still standing," he muttered to himself, wiping the blood from his cheek.

But there was no time to rest.

The remaining cursed spirits had been circling.

Now they struck.

Like a pack of wolves drawn to the scent of weakness, they swarmed all at once.

Dozens of them.

Misshapen limbs. Skeletal frames. Bodies that defied logic and anatomy. Some slithered like worms with human hands; others walked upright with broken faces and rotting mouths.

They leapt.

He moved.

A surge of motion—his blades slashing in tight arcs, cutting down the first wave before they could reach him. Limbs and black blood exploded in the air. Archer sidestepped a screeching spirit’s bite, then rammed his elbow into its twisted skull, shattering it into bone shards.

Another came from the side—he caught it with Kanshou, slicing through its neck in one clean motion.

A third grabbed his leg.

He twisted, drove Bakuya straight into its eye socket, and spun to kick it away.

But they kept coming.

Like a tide.

"Tch..."

Each strike cost energy.

Each breath came harder.

And still—they kept coming.

His vision narrowed. Time slowed.

His mind, oddly, wandered.

---

He remembered Satoru Gojo laughing, backlit by sunlight, sitting upside-down on a couch in the Kyoto dorms like gravity didn’t apply to him.

"You feel it, Shirou," Satoru had said, eyes half-lidded behind his shades. “Reverse Cursed Technique isn’t like breathing. It’s like... unbreathing.”

“…What?”

“You punch yourself internally with cursed energy. But backward. Not like actual punching. More like… an inward backflip through your metaphorical soul.”

“What does that even—?”

“It’s like filling a teacup by emptying a waterfall into it, but in reverse.”

“…You’re doing this on purpose.”

"Obviously." Satoru grinned. “But your body’ll know what I mean when it’s dying.”

At the time, he had scoffed.

Now—bloodied, winded, one eye barely open, muscles seizing with exhaustion—he finally got it.

He wasn’t filling anything.

He was undoing damage through sheer contradiction. A paradox of will and cursed energy. The same energy that destroyed was being turned inward, told to repair, not by instruction, but by overwhelming emotion and survival instinct.

And pain. Definitely pain.

And yet…

He’d felt it truly kick in not when he was dying—

—but when Illya had cried.

That moment. That scream. The panic and rage she released. Her cursed energy had flooded the street like a storm surge, uncontrolled, chaotic—but powerful.

Far too powerful for a normal girl.

His jaw clenched mid-duck as he avoided a swipe from a three-eyed creature with blades for fingers.

That surge hadn’t just shaken the spirits.

It had woken him up.

Something about her energy had resonated with his own, kicked his survival instinct into overdrive. The Reverse Cursed Technique had ignited like a second wind, lighting through his body, knitting muscle and nerve faster than before.

He carved down three more spirits in quick succession, breathing hard.

Focus.

Now wasn’t the time for thoughts.

Now was the time for war.

He ducked, pivoted, and launched one of his blades like a spear—Bakuya flew through the air, piercing the skull of a massive hunchbacked cursed spirit as it tried to flank him.

He sprinted forward, seized the hilt, and yanked it free mid-motion, spinning into a sweeping slash that bisected another monster at the waist.

One of them tried to pin him from behind—he backstepped, reversed grip on Kanshou, and drove it backward into the spirit’s gut.

Black blood splattered across his cheek.

The last of the lesser cursed spirits backed away now.

Wounded. Hissing. Broken.

They saw now—this wasn’t a man overwhelmed.

This was a man carving his way through them.

And then—finally—they fell.

One by one.

Collapsed into twisted heaps of black sludge and bone.

Their cursed energy dissipated into the wind.

And he stood in the center of the massacre, chest heaving, blood trickling down his jaw.

The snow settled around him again.

Stillness returned.

Except—

He looked up.

And saw it.

The Special-Grade was still there.

Watching.

Unmoving.

Unimpressed.

Its yellow eyes burned with malice as it stepped forward again, its massive limbs cracking as it rolled its shoulders.

Now that its fodder had been cleared—it was ready to resume.

The real fight was beginning.

He inhaled deeply and adjusted his grip on his swords.

“…Now then,” he muttered to himself.

“You look like a strong prey.”

---

The snow caught fire.

Or at least—that’s how it looked to Illya.

She stood frozen, her breath fogging in the icy air, eyes wide as saucers, watching the battlefield unfold like some fever dream painted in blood and starlight. Above the shuttered rooftops and abandoned alleys of the locked-down district, the night sky had turned crimson.

Not with flames—but with power.

Blizzards of energy clashed in midair, violent and vivid, bursts of red and violet searing like sunflares against the white snow. Buildings groaned under the pressure. Glass trembled in its frames. And at the center of it all—

He moved like lightning.

A silver-haired silhouette, red coat snapping with every motion, dancing across rooftops and ruin alike.

He didn’t fight like a man. He fought like a force of nature. Each step shook loose snow from rooftops. Each strike parted the air with such force it sounded like thunder cracking against stone.

And his opponent?

A towering, grotesque mass of muscle and shadows—a Special-Grade Cursed Spirit,

It shrieked in hatred, its warped body exuding pressure so thick it dragged the temperature down with it. Its breath was steam. Its claws, like butchered iron beams.

It lunged.

A blur of sinew and hatred, its claws stretched wide, aiming to crush the tiny figure standing before it.

But Archer—

He was already gone.

Illya couldn’t see him. Only the air moved—then a glint of silver appeared above the creature, descending like a falling star.

Twin blades drawn.

SHHHNK—!

The Special-Grade howled as its arms were slashed open—two perfect crescent arcs traced in a blur of red and black. Cursed blood spurted from the wounds, steaming as it hissed against the snow-covered street.

Its limbs spasmed. It stumbled backward, claws flailing wildly—but blindly.

Illya clasped a hand to her lips.

But he didn’t stop. He moved again.

Gone from sight—only the impact tremors gave him away now.

The ground cracked beneath him as he darted forward, blades spinning in brutal grace. One, two, three slashes—flesh gave way like paper. A final sweeping strike raked across the creature’s chest.

Then—a kick.

A full-body spin-kick launched the towering monster across the district like a cannonball, its massive body crashing through a building that crumbled on impact.

BOOM.

Debris shot skyward. Fire escapes twisted. The dust cloud rose like a funeral shroud.

The beast shrieked in a blend of agony and rage as it clawed its way from the rubble, its limbs trailing rebar, its flesh split and gushing dark ichor.

Still—it didn’t fall back.

It charged again, fueled by hatred.

Illya’s eyes widened. “No—!”

But Archer remained calm.

Still. Unmoving.

He waited—

And at the last second, vanished in a flicker of light.

He reappeared behind the monster, blades gleaming red-hot, glowing with Mana. Sparks flickered across their edges as if they were burning from within. His eyes, cold and silver, reflected the beast’s stunned expression in the half-second before—

SHHHNNK—!

Limbs flew. One, then two—its legs cut at the joints. Its scream faltered into a distorted gargle. It dropped like a crumbling tree, collapsing in a heap of twitching, shattered meat.

Illya stood motionless. Her knees nearly buckled.

It should’ve been over.

But he wasn’t done.

With one smooth motion, Archer leapt backward, coat billowing. The twin swords flickered, vanished into golden sparks.

And then—he called forth something else.

Something terrible in its beauty.

His bow.

Black as midnight. Sleek, tall, tense with latent energy. Its limbs curved like the wings of a raven, humming with purpose. And in his other hand—

An arrow.

But not just any arrow.

It glowed, spiraling violently, like a twisted screw piercing reality itself. The cursed air pulled away from it as if fearing the weapon’s presence.

Illya stared, mouth slightly agape.

This arrow—this energy—it was familiar.

She felt she had seen him use this before. Once felt the air react like this. The cursed spirits that had loitered in the distance had long since fled.

Even the night itself held its breath.

He drew back the string.

And the spiraling arrow shone brighter, spinning like a drill forged from the bones of gods.

Not iron. Not steel.

Something forged in will.

A Noble Phantasm.

Illya couldn’t breathe.

He murmured it. A name. A legend. Spoken not in volume, but weight.

“Caladbolg.”

The bowstring sang.

The arrow flew.

It tore through the air, not in a line—but a spiral, carving the sky in an arc of twisted light. The spiraling projectile whistled like a dying comet as it locked onto its ruined target—the heart of the beast as it struggled to rise again.

Illya shielded her eyes.

The moment it struck—

BOOOOOOM—!!!

The earth shattered.

A dome of fire and blinding light erupted into the heavens, swallowing the entire district block in an instant. The explosion was a blossom of destruction, massive and perfect—buildings collapsed, streets folded in, and the very foundations cracked.

Illya screamed, but her voice was lost in the noise.

The sky turned red, the snow melted instantly, and the shockwave slammed into her like a truck, throwing her off her feet.

She hit the ground hard.

Debris and cinders rained down. A cloud of smoke billowed over the landscape.

And then—

Silence.

No roar. No wind. No sound at all.

Only ash.

“That arrow… the same one that took… one of Berserker’s lives,” Illya deduced as she remembered the same spiraling light that struck down her Servant.

The battle that took place in the Fuyuki Graveyard, where Archer sniped Berserker as he was fighting against Saber on the ground.

A beautiful, yet twisted, strike.

Illya slowly rose to her knees, brushing dust from her hair. Her lips trembled. All the color had drained from her face.

She looked up.

Where once there had been a district block, now there was a crater. A smoking, blackened scar in the earth.

The epicenter of the blast was gone—consumed. There were no remains. No limbs. No cursed energy left.

It was over.

And then—

She saw him.

A lone figure standing at the crater’s edge, black coat singed, left sleeve torn, his cheek streaked with dried blood.

Archer.

He stood, slightly hunched, breathing heavy—but alive.

Illya choked on a sob.

He had done it.

He turned—slowly—and looked at her through the smoke and snowfall.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

And then—

He smiled.

Just barely. A faint curve of the lips. Almost imperceptible.

But to Illya?

It was everything.

Her knees gave out, and she sat back in the snow, breath catching in her throat.

A monster had nearly ended her.

And he had stood in its way.

Like he always had.

Like he always would.

Even if she didn’t know what he truly was. Even if she didn’t understand the weight* behind his weapons. The truth behind his origins. The limits of his resolve.

None of that mattered right now.

He was here.

And she was safe.

A tear spilled freely now, cutting a warm track down her frozen cheek.

Not that he could hear it.

But somehow, in the way his gaze softened—he did.

---

The snowfall had slowed, drifting down like ash over the wreckage. Smoke still curled lazily into the air, painting the ruined skyline in shades of gray and black.

He walked at an even pace, his footsteps crunching faintly against the scorched, brittle snow.

Illya followed a step behind, her arms wrapped tight around herself, still trembling from both cold and nerves.

Neither spoke at first. The silence hung heavy, only broken by the occasional crack of collapsing timber somewhere in the ruined district.

Finally, the distant outline of floodlights and barricades appeared—Police and officials stationed just beyond the perimeter.

The world outside was still moving, untouched, oblivious to what had just unfolded inside.

He stopped.

“This is where you leave,” he said firmly, eyes still scanning the distance for any lingering presence of any danger. “Once you step past that line, you’ll be safe.”

Illya frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn’t move forward.

“You promised me answers,” she said softly, voice tight with the weight of everything she had just seen.

“You said you’d explain. Who you are. What those are. Why you—” her breath hitched, her fingers curling into fists— “why you were here tonight.”

He didn’t immediately respond. His gaze remained fixed on the smoke curling above the ruined district, as if searching for something he hadn’t yet destroyed.

“I did promise you,” he admitted finally, his tone quiet but steady. “And I will.”

Her heart skipped. “Then—”

“Tomorrow.”

Her brows furrowed. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes.” He finally turned to face her, the silver in his eyes sharp against the dim glow of the floodlights.

“One o’clock in the afternoon. The park just beyond this block—you’ll know it by the pond near the gate. Go there, and I’ll give you the explanations you want.”

Illya bit her lip, conflicted. “Why not now? Why keep putting it off?!”

“Because I still have work to do here,” Archer replied, his voice not unkind, but immovable. “I’m only escorting you out. Doesn’t mean this whole thing is done.”

His conviction cut through her protests. She wanted to argue, to demand more, but the weight in his words was something she couldn’t quite push against.

Still—her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “And how do I know you won’t just… vanish?” she asked.

“Disappear and leave without a trace, without a word? How do I know you won’t ghost me?”

Archer tilted his head slightly, studying her expression. Then, almost surprisingly, a small huff of amusement escaped him.

“Give me your number,” he said simply, extending his hand.

Illya blinked. “My… number?”

“I’ll call you,” Archer continued, his tone as pragmatic as ever. “That way, you’ll know I’m not running.”

For a second, Illya just stared at him, almost dumbfounded.

The man who had just annihilated a literal monster with a weapon that split the sky now stood there asking for something as mundane as a phone number.

It almost felt surreal.

“…Fine,” she muttered, digging into her coat pocket for her phone. Her fingers brushed against the cracked glass, the screen still faintly dusted with ash. She handed it over.

He took it without hesitation, quickly typing in a number before saving it and handing it back. “I’ll be the one calling you. Don’t ignore it.”

She clutched the phone close to her chest, glaring at him though her eyes were still glossy from the tears earlier. “…You better keep your word.”

He gave her a faint nod. “Tomorrow. One o’clock sharp.”

For a moment longer, they stood there—snow drifting, the night heavy with everything unsaid.

Then he stepped back toward the ruins, his silhouette already beginning to blur with the smoke and shadows.

Illya took a half-step forward, as if to stop him—but then held herself back.

Her grip tightened on her phone.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, she’d have her answers.