Balin froze for a moment upon hearing the name. Staring at the mecha wreathed in poFwerful magic, he frowned, confusion clear on his face. To be able to pilot such a construct — adorned with designs reminiscent of ancient Britain — was no small feat. If it truly was Aslan, then perhaps it was not impossible.
But wasn't Aslan summoned as a swordsman? He had even left right before Balin's eyes. So who, then, was this Aslan who appeared once again?
Of course, Balin did not linger on the question for long. After all, even King Arthur bore the face of his old friend. Besides, Aslan was allied with his master, and this was the modern era. How could a man of today possibly build such a weapon?
"Aslan?! Is that really you?"
The Supreme Masterpiece lowered its head slightly, its crimson eyes glowing as it gazed upon the knight. Then it gave a gentle nod — and at the same time, slammed its massive shield forward, intercepting a strike from yet another puppet rising from the black mud.
Weapons locked, the mecha aimed directly at the figure standing on the platform. Aslan felt no pity for the young priest. This existence was corruption given form, evil at its core. To him, such a thing deserved only swift annihilation.
"We'll talk about the past later," he said flatly. "For now, we deal with this."
His finger pulled the trigger. The cannon roared, magic surging in a blinding beam toward the priest. Yet black mud gushed from the ground, forming a barrier that swallowed the attack whole. The land convulsed, opening cracks that widened the distance between priest and foe.
The time cup pulsed violently, grotesque like a beating organ. Its rhythm quickened, forcing more mud to spill forth in torrents. The strain twisted its host, its cries echoing through the night like the wail of some accursed beast.
The sound carried raw magical power — enough that half the town could hear it.
Far away, in Einzbern Castle, Kiritsugu had no time even to return the book in his hands to the shelf. The communication line had cut abruptly. Tossing the diary aside, he dashed to his room, snatched Irisviel's Dress of Heaven from its case, and mounted his motorcycle. The engine roared as he sped toward Ryūdō Temple.
First came the ringing of Shinto's bells, then the wailing of engines. The townsfolk of old Fuyuki, already roused by the tremors and collapse of the mountain earlier, poured into the streets. Many feared an earthquake.
Kiritsugu glanced at their frightened faces. Cold-blooded or not, he could not ignore them. His path had always been toward salvation — for the world, for everyone.
Pulling out a loudspeaker, he shouted into it without hesitation:
"Residents of the old city, danger is imminent! Warn your families, warn your neighbors — evacuate across Fuyuki Bridge to the new city at once! Do not stay here!"
He fixed the speaker to his motorcycle, voice echoing through the streets as he called Maiya. With the Tōsaka family withdrawn and Risei Kotomine dead, there was no longer an authority to coordinate evacuation. The mayor was the only option left.
Maiya lacked magical craft, but she was resourceful — resourceful enough to force action if necessary. Threats, pressure, broadcasts — she could handle it. Kiritsugu briefly regretted not teaching her suggestion magecraft.
The thought stirred another regret. Maiya had once been a mother. Sigma, with his extraordinary talent, must have inherited his potential from her. Yet her life had been scarred by war, and her end in the original timeline had been cruel. Kiritsugu could only grit his teeth and drive harder.
No matter the cost, he would save as many as he could.
The needle on the motorcycle's gauge climbed. Still, he cursed his own inadequacy. His father had died too early, leaving him with only fragments of the Emiya family's time manipulation magic. His father had pushed it to heights worthy of sealing designations. Had it been him, he could have woven that magecraft into the motorcycle itself, bending speed beyond mortal limits.
If only…
Back at Ryūdō Temple, the black mud had begun shaping itself into horrors. Puppets fused, warped, and rose like giants. Tentacles lashed outward, snapping toward the gathered heroes.
Merlin's face grew solemn as he watched. He had been summoned by Aslan into this war — and now, it seemed, fate had brought him precisely to this moment. His treasures might not have the sheer destructive force of others, but when faced with corruption like this, they were among the few powers truly suited to resist.
-End Chapter-
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