Shinji Matou At Your Service

Chapter 453: The Red-Black Showdown · Red Side’s Deployment

Chapter 453: The Red-Black Showdown · Red Side’s Deployment

There was a sword, a Japanese tachi.

The blade was three shaku and three sun long, and one sun and a half wide.

The edge was sharp as frost and snow, and the blade pattern resembled clouds. Even with the scabbard in place, one could still feel a chilling aura emanating from it.

Even from the perspective of Servants who were masters of weapons from all ages and lands, this sword was undoubtedly a top-grade piece, a lethal weapon born solely for combat.

It was more than sufficient for battles between Servants.

However, surprisingly, the one holding this sword was not a Servant, but a Master.

A priest named Shirou held the sword in his right hand, while his left hand's index and middle fingers trailed along the blade from bottom to top.

Whether it was accidental or a deliberate test, the sharp edge sliced his fingers, and red blood quickly flowed out, running along the blood groove of the blade, adding a touch of sinister color to the precious sword.

Shirou's face showed no reaction to the cut on his fingers as if he didn't care about the injury at all. He casually twirled the sword, and when he held it before his eyes again, the blade shone as brightly as before, reflecting the youth's brown skin and white hair like a mirror.

After taking a final glance at the two-character inscription at the end of the blade, slightly dazzling from the reflected light, the youth in his ever-unchanging monk's robe sheathed the tachi and offered a sincere smile.

"Thank you, Caster, for creating such a fine sword."

"No, no, my power is insignificant. It's because that sword was originally a rare masterpiece. Otherwise, it would never have reached the level of a C-rank Noble Phantasm."

Whether Shakespeare was genuinely humble or speaking in jest, the term "C-rank Noble Phantasm" still surprised the Servants, including Assassin Semiramis.

"—Huh?"

"What's the meaning of this? Can you create Noble Phantasms?"

"Your inherent skill... should be 'Enchant (Ent)', right? Is that its power?"

"Exactly."

In response to Semiramis's question, Shakespeare puffed out his chest proudly and confirmed.

Strictly speaking, this skill of Red Caster—Shakespeare—could not be called magic. Simple enhancement magic could not elevate an item to the level of a Noble Phantasm.

However, he did not cast magic on the sword. He merely "wrote" about the sword's sharpness and its bloodthirsty nature while looking at the one Shirou handed him.

Words and language can distort reality—this is the power of writer-type Servants, and Shakespeare, being the greatest playwright in human history, could turn the impossible into the possible.

Conceptual Armament—there exists a type of armament that doesn't rely on physical force but instead utilizes the concept inherent in the item to exert its effect. With the soul-infused writing by Shakespeare, even a small roadside stone could be endowed with a lethal concept.

Of course, this ability has its limits. Depending on the level of the depicted subject, he could create Noble Phantasms ranging from the lowest E-rank to the highest C-rank.

"...May I ask a question? Why don't you use this ability for combat?"

The usually silent Karna asked, and his question was indeed reasonable. If he could turn mere swords into Noble Phantasms, he could just use them in battle.

"I do not write my own story, for I only have the talent to weave the tales of others. I have no desire to write about myself. Moreover, I wish to witness the conclusion of the Holy Grail War with my own eyes."

Shakespeare answered resolutely.

Karna understood his meaning and frowned, saying:

"So, you're afraid of trouble?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Hmm—Karna nodded to show he understood.

"Then there's no helping it. Your goal is to write stories about others, not yourself. Whether the outcome is destruction or tragedy, you must write until the end. Therefore, surviving until the last moment is your objective, right? Fighting on the front lines is naturally impossible."

In response to these cold words, Shakespeare laughed joyfully:

"Grunts?"

Achilles looked at Semiramis in confusion, and she responded with a bewitching smile.

"A war with only generals and no soldiers doesn't look right. Even if it's just a bunch of homunculi or golems, gathered together, they can still be bothersome. I'll select some dragon tooth warriors. Three thousand should suffice, right?"

Dragon tooth warriors, created from dragon teeth, were disposable grunts. But even so, the number three thousand was unusually high.

"The more, the better, of course... But Assassin, isn't that impossible?"

"Generally, yes, it's impossible. But as long as I'm in these Hanging Gardens, nothing is impossible for me."

Semiramis answered Achilles' doubt with a confident smile. Under her control, the cauldron moved beyond the garden's boundary and quickly circled back.

In an instant, slightly yellowed bone fragments inside the cauldron rained down on the ground. Upon landing, the bone fragments grew like plants, eventually forming skeletal soldiers with heads resembling lizards.

"...They seem quite fragile."

Atalanta observed from below and muttered.

"Ah, you're right. They are indeed very fragile, extremely so. But there are many of them. Against Servants, they stand no chance, but they should suffice against homunculi. And if the enemy's Caster is as weak as ours, they might even take him down."

"Hahaha, that's quite a harsh statement. But I doubt any other Caster in the world is as literary as me!" (Hans Christian Andersen, Alexandre Dumas, and other literary giants nod in agreement.)

Shakespeare retorted nonchalantly. Semiramis decided to say nothing more.

"Looks like the Black Faction is finally making a move."

In the darkness ahead, where only Atalanta could see, the Yggdmillennia clan and their Servants seemed to have finally taken action.

This was completely different from the small-scale skirmishes up until now. There was a battlefield, soldiers, weapons, and generals. There was territory to be contested, and most importantly, a "king" to be defeated.

"So, who will take the lead?" Shirou asked.

Atalanta, Achilles, and Karna exchanged glances. Shakespeare, who had no intention of participating, maintained an indifferent attitude.

Karna silently shook his head, as if to say, "You go first."

Next, Achilles and Atalanta locked eyes, both seemingly eager to be the first to charge into battle.

Semiramis shrugged helplessly, while Shakespeare suggested he would compose a laudatory poem for the brave warrior who led the charge, further stoking the fire.

"...Please, resolve this peacefully," Shirou requested.

Though they didn't exactly follow Shirou's plea, the two agreed on a compromise.

"I'll take the lead," Achilles decided. Atalanta summoned her bow, her weapon, and raised it high into the sky.

"But I'll launch the first strike. I intend to unleash my Noble Phantasm."

"Understood, it's settled then."

"Our first joint operation, is it? How about a love poem to commemorate it?" Shakespeare suggested.

Achilles responded with a delighted expression:

"Oh, please do."

However, Atalanta frowned in displeasure:

"No, I'd rather not."

Thus, Shakespeare decided to merge their opinions and compose a sorrowful poem about a heartbroken man.

"Ah—"

And so, with Shakespeare's recitation, the decisive battle began.