The destruction caused by the collision of the two attacks was unforgivable to Semiramis.
After all, according to Shiro Amakusa's plan, the Hanging Gardens still played a vital role in the future — and she would never allow them to be destroyed.
But now, she was powerless to stop the clash between those two.
She couldn't even intervene. She herself was trapped in a state of anguish.
The shockwave born from their impact distorted the air; structures that once symbolized her majesty were now crumbling into ruins, hissing under the heat of unleashed magic. Each shattered column, each fractured mosaic felt like a dagger in the heart of her grand design. Amakusa's plan — so intricate, so dependent on precision — was now trembling.
Semiramis felt a rare sting of panic. She hadn't allowed herself to feel that in a long time. She despised losing control — and losing it here, before her enemies, was a humiliation that burned hotter than any wound.
Her cold gaze fell on Astolfo, who had somehow managed to withstand the poisonous mist released by her Noble Phantasm.
She knew that Astolfo's survival was entirely due to the cloak he wore.
That cloak reflected toxins like a living shield. Semiramis, a master of poisons, had crafted dozens herself — and seeing someone stroll unharmed through her lethal fog without so much as a cough was deeply unsettling. It meant her enemies had their own tricks hidden away.
That cloak clearly possessed some sort of resistance to poison.
It was definitely not Astolfo's Noble Phantasm — she distinctly remembered Atalanta wearing the very same cloak when she invaded the Hanging Gardens.
Even Frankenstein had one like it.
In other words, it was an item produced by the enemy — against them.
Semiramis felt her blood run cold. A standardized item distributed among multiple Servants? That meant organization and foresight; it meant her plan had been anticipated, and someone had deliberately worked to counter it.
"Damn it, I didn't think something like this would happen—" Semiramis barely finished the sentence before the door exploded open.
The impact of the blow echoed through the chamber like a war bell. Splinters flew; the air vibrated from the force. She had no time to complete her thought before two familiar figures stepped through the ruined entrance: Frankenstein and Atalanta had finally arrived.
Semiramis showed no surprise at their appearance — she had been tracking Atalanta and Frankenstein for some time.
She had already predicted their possible entry points, mapped their approach. Their arrival was no shock — but Astolfo's resistance, that was another matter entirely.
Without losing her composure, she raised her hand in a sharp, imperious command.
"Destroy them, Bašmu."
Answering his queen's call, Bašmu surged forward.
The dragon-serpent rose like a bolt of fury; its jaws twisted open, the ground trembling beneath its weight. A guttural roar filled the hall as Atalanta leapt aside, narrowly avoiding the creature's venomous strike, while Frankenstein charged forward with measured rage. Astolfo, wielding his lance, danced between them with reckless, dazzling audacity.
---
Meanwhile, the battle between Achilles and Chiron had finally reached its fateful end.
That duel, carrying the weight of centuries, revealed itself not as a soulless clash — but as the final chapter in a bond between master and disciple that had transcended war itself. Achilles' hand, guided by skill and sentiment alike, found its mark.
With a single, decisive blow, Achilles pierced Chiron's spiritual core.
The pupil, who had never once surpassed his master, had finally achieved his ultimate victory.
The world went silent after the strike — the sound of torn flesh and falling blood faded, replaced by an eerie stillness. The wise Archer, long accustomed to teaching, now lay defeated — but not dishonored. There was dignity in that fall.
Achilles' Noble Phantasm finally released them both.
"Thank you, Master," Achilles said softly, his voice trembling as he looked down at Chiron's fallen form.
Chiron, breath ragged and blood staining his lips, lifted his eyes to the face of the student he had loved and shaped.
"I should be the one thanking you… Achilles, you've truly grown strong," Chiron replied, his tone calm — the calm of a man who had long accepted his fate.
"Master, all my strength, all my skill — it's all thanks to you. I am who I am because of your teachings."
"Heh… still too soft," Chiron chuckled weakly. His laugh was faint but full of nostalgia — and pride.
Blood trickled from his mouth as his strength faded. Finally, his body slumped back against the wing of the aircraft, his gaze fixed silently on the dark night sky above.
"Don't call me 'Master' anymore. I'm no longer worthy of that title."
"But—" Achilles began, only for Chiron to cut him off.
"Look… I'm still alive. And as long as I live, I'm your enemy. Finish me."
There was no pride in his tone — only nobility. Even at death's door, he upheld the warrior's code to the very end.
"I can't," Achilles said, unclenching his fist.
It wasn't cowardice; it was reverence. His hesitation spoke more of love than weakness — the bond between teacher and student unbroken even in war.
Achilles exhaled deeply, regaining his usual calm expression — rational, approachable, alive.
"Well then," Chiron said suddenly, pointing to the sky, "it's time for me to fulfill my final duty as a Servant in this Holy Grail War."
He pressed a trembling hand to the wound in his chest. His time was nearly up.
His second life had ended — and now he walked toward his second death.
Yet, even then, he spoke:
"High above us soars Sagittarius. If that constellation is my reflection, then my bow will always be ready to fire. My Noble Phantasm is eternally active."
His words carried a chilling weight. The night sky seemed to stir in response — starlight shimmering ominously.
"I don't even need to speak its True Name," Chiron continued, a faint smile on his face. "Because the arrow has already been released."
A golden streak cut across the heavens, descending with impossible speed.
"!?" Achilles' eyes widened as realization struck him — but it was already too late.
The meteor struck, piercing Achilles' heel.
The pain was searing — molten and metallic. It spread through his body like wildfire, each nerve screaming, each memory rekindling the agony he had once known in life.
"Guaaaaaaaaah!!!" His roar tore through the night.
It was pain — vivid, unbearable, unforgettable.
He had felt it once before. The pain of mortality, of weakness, of the one flaw he could never escape.
"It worked… my Antares hit exactly where I wanted it to…" Chiron murmured, a serene smile softening his dying face.
His voice was weak, but calm — the voice of a man who had achieved what he must.
"In an instant, I've stripped you of your immortality, Rider… Oh, and do thank King Gilgamesh for me if you ever meet him," he added with a faint smirk as life slipped away.
There was humor even in death — a trace of that old teacher's wit.
"Damn it, Archer!!" Achilles shouted in anger.
But then… he stopped.
No matter how much he screamed, it wouldn't change anything.
The light had already vanished from Chiron's eyes. His Noble Phantasm's final strike had drained what little strength he had left.
"How sly of you, Master… You really don't fight fair, do you?" Achilles muttered, watching Chiron's fading form vanish along with the falling aircraft.
There was irony in that end — the teacher who had taught honor through battle used deception to ensure his student's rightful path… and even so, the farewell felt heavy and pure.
Achilles turned toward the distant wave of devastation on the horizon. Summoning his chariot, he soared into the skies once more — toward the Hanging Gardens.
He couldn't stop now.
Even stripped of immortality, his fight in the Holy Grail War was far from over.
The chariot blazed across the night like a comet.
---
(End of Chapter)
"Hmph. If you really want to be useful, then entertain me, try to throw those pathetic power stones at me. Let's see if even your insolence can amuse a king."