For kings of noble birth and exalted rank, what matters most?
What matters most to those of noble blood and kingly pride?
Face.
And what enrages them more than simply losing face?
Being humiliated in front of someone they care about.
It was obvious—Gilgamesh was currently facing exactly that.
The garden of the Einzbern estate, once lively with laughter and wine, was now tightly surrounded by a group of figures in black robes and white masks.
"Whoa, did the cast of Detective Conan just wander into the wrong set?" Dracula quipped with his usual drawl.
Jeanne glanced furtively at Gilgamesh's face—which now looked like a lump of raw pig liver—and subtly tugged at Dracula's sleeve.
It turned out the Assassin class wasn't just the single one who'd been eliminated at the Tohsaka mansion. In truth, there were multiple Assassins participating in this Holy Grail War—far more than was normal. Each of them was clad in the same black garb and featureless mask, but their physiques varied wildly: some were towering giants, others lean and skeletal, some as small as children, and some even bore the silhouette of a woman.
"…This is your doing, isn't it, Archer?" Saber snapped, her voice thick with fury. She was still seething after having been thoroughly roasted by Dracula earlier.
Gilgamesh could feel a fire—**a hot, irrational fire—**burning inside her. And worst of all, she knew Enkidu was watching.
If so many Assassins had been mobilized, then this couldn't be the work of Kirei Kotomine alone. It had to be the will of his mentor, Tokiomi Tohsaka.
Out of courtesy for Tokiomi's deference, Gilgamesh had acknowledged him as her Master. But Tokiomi's current actions… only deepened her growing contempt.
The banquet may have been initiated by the King of Conquerors, but it was Gilgamesh who had provided the wine. And to unleash assassins in the middle of her feast?
What on earth was Tokiomi trying to achieve?
This wasn't just betrayal—it was a direct slap in the face of the King of Heroes.
And the worst part? Enkidu was sitting right beside her, watching it all unfold.
To do this in front of her… It was unforgivable.
"…Hmph. Who knows. This king has no interest in understanding the minds of mongrels."
She tried to keep her tone lofty, detached—but couldn't help letting the word "mongrel" slip, clearly referring to both the robed Servants and her increasingly infuriating Master.
"Gil, swearing isn't very kingly," Enkidu said gently.
The Assassins inched closer.
"What the hell is going on?! One Assassin after another… aren't Servants supposed to be unique per class?!" Waver exclaimed in a panic.
[Please remain calm, Master. I am still within you. No need to worry—Assassins, however many they may be, are nothing I cannot handle.]
[Oh… right.]
Reassured by the divine tactician in his heart, Waver slowly regained his composure.
"…Huh?"
But the Assassins were thrown off. By now, they expected this young Master to be terrified, maybe even screaming. Yet here he was—calm and composed. What was going on?
Was he so scared that his brain had short-circuited?
They pushed forward, cloaked in killing intent.
Tap. Tap.
Waver, observing them now, thought they looked kind of… dumb.
His late wife had always been honest to a fault, so now he couldn't help but give the Assassins a look of genuine pity—as if watching a group of idiots flail around.
The Assassins were instantly furious. This brat—how dare he give us that look?!
They moved to strike—
But before they could act, a loud voice rang out:
"HEY! YOU LOT!"
Clang!
Startled, one of the masked attackers dropped his blade with a loud clatter.
Everyone turned toward the voice.
It was the King of Conquerors. He stood there casually, expression mild, as though greeting a few late guests.
"Now, now. Can you lot tone down that ghostly aura of yours? You're scaring my friend."
Gilgamesh narrowed her eyes. "What, do you intend to invite them to the table, Conqueror?"
"Of course," Iskandar said calmly. "A king's speech should reach the ears of all. Whether foe or friend, all are welcome to listen."
He dipped a ladle into the wine urn, then extended it toward the Assassins.
"Come now, don't be shy. If you'd like to drink with us, help yourselves to a cup. This wine… is no different from your blood."
The Assassins hesitated, weighing their pride. To accept this peace offering now would be tantamount to defeat.
So one of them answered by flinging a throwing knife—splitting the ladle clean in two.
Wine spilled down Iskandar's robes, dripping like blood.
"Hehehehehe…"
The Assassins cackled, thinking they had reclaimed control of the scene.
Dracula, sighing, pulled Nero, Jeanne, and Mordred behind him. Then he slipped on his headphones and started playing a game.
"Don't say I didn't warn you guys."
Iskandar's voice was still calm, but the atmosphere had changed.
"I said this wine is the same as your blood… did I not?"
Before he could finish the sentence—
A windstorm roared into existence.
The air turned hot and dry—a searing gust like no forest or garden should produce.
It was a desert wind, howling across the battlefield.
And with it, came sand.
Blistering sand that stung the skin, blowing in with the heat of a distant sun.
"Saber, Goldie, Nero, Dracula—here's the final toast of this banquet:"
"Does a king stand alone?"
At the center of the scorching storm, the King of Conquerors raised his voice.
His crimson cape flared behind him—he had donned his full regalia once more.
Gilgamesh let out a sudden laugh. There was no need to ask—she simply clasped her fingers tightly around the hand of the person beside her.
Saber did not hesitate either. To waver in her beliefs would be to deny every day she had lived as a king.
"A king… is, naturally, solitary."
But Nero, who had been sitting behind Dracula, suddenly popped her head out and retorted:
"An emperor must stand with their people, and rejoice with their people!"
Then, all four kings turned to look at Dracula.
"..."
Dracula said nothing, eyes still on his handheld game console, fingers tapping away.
"Hey, at least say something!" Rider scratched his face in embarrassment. "You're making this really awkward!"
Jeanne nudged Dracula in the side.
"Huh? What?" Dracula pulled off his headphones, looking confused.
"…Forget it. Never mind I asked."
Rider turned away with a sigh, then burst into laughter. As if responding to his laughter, the surrounding whirlwind roared even fiercer.
"Today, I'll show you all what a true king is!"
An unfamiliar heat pervaded the atmosphere—and then, the world changed.
The crowd found themselves transported to a land of golden sand.
"A… Reality Marble?!"
A scorching sun blazed overhead, beneath a sky of flawless blue. The desert stretched endlessly to the sand-blurred horizon. There were no trees. No walls. No shelter.
"This can't be real… He actually manifested a landscape from his heart? But he's not even a mage!" Waver gasped in disbelief.
"Hey, aren't you his Master?" Dracula deadpanned.
"Yeah, what're you surprised for?" Nero chimed in.
Waver shrank back at their words. But the man standing at the heart of the desert answered calmly:
"Of course I'm not a mage. Do you think I could have done this alone?"
He smiled proudly.
"This land was once traversed by my army. The warriors who fought and feasted alongside me have etched it into their hearts."
Around him, mirage-like shadows began to form—then solidified.
"This world can be reborn… because we all remember it."
Before the stunned crowd, Rider—Iskandar—was now surrounded by soldiers. Though they differed in race and gear, each one bore the rugged strength and pride of a warrior.
"Behold—my unmatched army!"
Standing tall before his troops, he raised both arms and declared:
"Even though their bodies perished, their souls remain as Heroic Spirits. They are the loyal comrades of legend, who answer my call across the sands of time."
"They are my greatest treasure! They are the path of kings I follow! Iskandar's ultimate Noble Phantasm—
'Ionioi Hetairoi: Army of the King'!!"
An EX-ranked anti-army Noble Phantasm. The continuous summoning of independent Servants.
As the awe-inspiring sight unfolded, Dracula finally removed his headphones, gazing at the scene with a look of admiration.
"…Whoa. Rider Musou."