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:
"I must indeed! Whether it be happiness, misfortune, or the despairing truth, observing everyone's stories until the very end is the mission I have been given!"
As a Servant summoned for the Holy Grail War, these were completely inappropriate lines. He resolutely declared—that he would watch until the end.
Atalanta and Achilles didn't know whether to feel helpless or angry.
"Master, what do you intend to do with this knife...?"
"Isn't it obvious? It's a last resort, of course," Shirou said, taking out something he had prepared from his pocket.
The hilt's cotton rope, wrapped around the handle to increase friction and improve grip, was an indispensable tool.
The lower tie on the scabbard was used to fix the scabbard to the belt for easy carrying.
After wrapping the cotton rope around the hilt and securing the sword to his waist, Shirou nodded in satisfaction.
"With this, the final preparations are complete."
"Are you going to the front lines?"
Semiramis's face changed, and she shook her head repeatedly.
"No, you are the Master. Leave the fighting to us Servants."
"Even though you seem to have accumulated a lot of combat experience, in the end, you're still a human."
"If you encounter an enemy Servant, it's over."
As Achilles and Atalanta said, compared to Servants, Masters who are still within the human realm are too fragile. Even having Noble Phantasms can't change this reality.
Generally, Masters should never rush to the front lines. Servants don't necessarily only target other Servants. If the enemy's Master is a rational thinker, they would typically order their Servant to kill any Master who boldly runs to the front lines. Once the Master dies, the countdown to the Servant's death begins. At the very least, they can no longer fight at full strength.
Moreover, the upcoming battle is undoubtedly a grand showdown. Not only will Servants clash with each other, but all pieces will be mobilized in an unprecedented large-scale war.
In such a situation, it would be unbearable for an ordinary human.
"Don't measure me by the standards of ordinary humans; I'm very strong." Perhaps his youthful appearance and gentle smile were too deceiving, as no one took his words seriously.
Achilles waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing a fly: "Yes, yes, I know you're strong among humans, but leave the fighting to us."
"I'm really strong!"
Facing a Master boasting like a child, Semiramis sighed.
"Master, no matter how confident you are, please remember, you are my Master. Your death is equivalent to mine. So, please do not risk your life."
With the conversation reaching this point, Shirou had no choice but to agree.
"Alright. I won't participate in the battle as long as you can handle it. But if something unexpected happens—"
"With us here, there won't be any surprises!"
Achilles flipped his hair confidently.
"Just sit back and watch our heroic exploits."
"I'll leave it to you then."
Shirou took a long, hard look at the Millennia Fortress, whose outline was becoming discernible, and suppressed his boiling blood.
"It seems the Black Faction has noticed us. I can sense some level of chaos among them."
With her archery skill, "Clairvoyance," Atalanta could somewhat grasp the situation of the fort several kilometers away, shrouded in darkness. Her beastly instincts also allowed her to sense unseen presences.
"In that case, I'll take the opportunity to line up the 'grunts.'"
Semiramis raised her hand high, and a large cauldron, three meters in diameter, appeared suspended in the air before everyone.
"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.