The Oldest of Kings

He was a male Heroic Spirit of unrivaled splendor, clad in golden armor etched with intricate patterns at every detail. His hair stood upright like burning flames, a fierce gold, and his eyes blazed scarlet, churning as if with torrents of blood. The aura he emanated was overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

He stood aloft atop a lamp post ten meters above the ground, his posture imperious, gazing down with a slight tilt of his head. The expression on his face was both amused and disdainful. His tone—like the King of Conquerors—carried obvious pride and an absolute confidence bordering on arrogance, but unlike the King’s open, bold, and hearty manner, this newcomer’s pride was tinged with something less palatable.

At the very least, both Saber and Lancer showed visible displeasure upon hearing his words.

But the red-haired Rider, directly provoked, merely raised his eyebrows with no hint of tension and scratched his chin in confusion.

“Even so, I, Iskandar, am the famed King of Conquerors,” he replied, his voice innocent yet meaningful.

His matter-of-fact response, ignoring the golden Spirit’s previous words, clearly enraged the latter.

“Ridiculous! The only hero worthy of the title ‘King’ under heaven is myself. The rest are nothing but mongrels!”

His tone grew cold, and he completely disregarded the presence of Saber and Lancer, declaring with a contempt that bordered on insult rather than simple narcissism.

Yet Rider, engaged in this exchange, did not even frown.

The burly man stood patiently, looking up at the golden figure who refused to lower his chin even a fraction.

“If that’s so, why not tell us your name?” he suggested with apparent sincerity.

“If you truly deserve to be called ‘King,’ surely you wouldn’t fear revealing your true name?”

“You ask my name?” The golden Heroic Spirit’s anger was so intense it almost made him laugh.

His crimson eyes burned with unrestrained fury, and he leaned forward, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

“Mongrel, you dare ask for my name?!”

He stomped lightly, and the lamp’s glass shattered under the strain. With a breath, murderous intent swept forth—

“You enjoy the honor of an audience with the King, yet claim ignorance of my name?”

With an angry hiss, a strange, flame-like aura rose behind him.

Within a swirling golden vortex, resembling a portal between this world and another dimension, countless dazzling weapons hovered—swords, blades, spears—all radiating the unique power and brilliance of Noble Phantasms.

This astonishing spectacle was not a dream but the true, liberated power of his Noble Phantasm, unleashed in his rage.

“If there are still ignorant fools like you in the world, I have nothing more to say,” he declared.

The golden vortex behind him shifted, aiming directly at the now grim-faced red-haired giant.

***

Kurama reached out to rub Mokona’s ears.

Ever since the Hero King revealed his Noble Phantasm, the little creature’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Kurama, Kurama!” Mokona’s voice brimmed with enthusiasm, and his eager gaze was almost palpable.

Kurama had seen Mokona like this before, but usually the white fluff’s longing was reserved for delicious sweets—not for the Hero King’s private treasury of Noble Phantasms.

Knowing all too well how vast the treasury was, Kurama was not surprised at Mokona’s reaction.

But—

“That’s not something you should covet so freely,” Kurama said, lightly poking the creature’s cheek with a smile.

“In the end, Noble Phantasms are just weapons or items unique to Heroic Spirits, appearing and being unleashed only during the Holy Grail War. No one knows if their powers would remain in the hands of ordinary people, or even if they could exist without the Heroic Spirit’s magical energy.”

Ultimately, the uncertainty surrounding Noble Phantasms made them unsuitable as Kurama’s collection targets, and certainly not something Mokona should fixate on.

Mokona understood the implication.

Though a little disappointed, he drooped his head and murmured softly, “Mokona understands.”

His pitiful look made the fox spirit feel both heartache and a touch of frustration.

Growing ever less principled in front of Mokona, Kurama tilted his head, then gently stroked the soft fur on the creature’s belly.

“Maybe it’s not impossible after all? Should we ask Miss Yuuko?”

Mokona shook his head this time. “No need, Mokona doesn’t want it for himself.”

So in the end, the little white fluff was thinking of Kurama.

He only wanted the Hero King’s treasures so he could trade them for more demon power for Kurama.

Understanding instantly, Kurama leaned in with a smile and kissed him.

“Is it because last time I used my accumulated treasures to pay the Count and got less demon power in return, so you’re worried about me?”

Mokona nodded, his cheeks red.

“Mm… Otherwise, Kurama would already have half of his original strength back. Then, no matter what world we go to next, you wouldn’t have to worry too much.”

And if another accident happened during a journey through space-time—like last time—Kurama would be better able to protect himself.

The fox spirit hadn’t fully guessed this, but he could see Mokona’s worry. He said nothing more, only gently stroked the creature’s soft fur, quietly offering comfort and companionship.

Gradually, Mokona relaxed completely in his hands, and Kurama sighed in relief. Looking back at the scene, he saw that the warehouse street, once divided by four opposing sides, was now swept by a torrent of magical energy rising from below. At its center, a shadow, emanating an ominous aura, slowly revealed itself—

“Berserker.”

Kurama’s whisper overlapped with the girl Heroic Spirit’s exclamation. In the battlefield below, the handsome lancer blinked, then glanced teasingly at the nearby red-haired giant.

“Hey, King of Conquerors, are you planning to invite this guy too?”

Though his tone was relaxed, his stance remained vigilant.

Rider, teased, scratched his cheek in resignation, his expression growing serious as his hand dropped.

“Invite him? Hardly…”

Faced with a presence more akin to a vengeful spirit than a Heroic Spirit, even the King of Conquerors doubted any hope of normal negotiation.

“Tell me, boy,” his gaze fixed on the newly arrived black Heroic Spirit, but he questioned his little master, “Can you gauge his strength?”

The ominous black shadow covering Berserker made him seem utterly lost to reason.

This Berserker filled everyone with unease.

Asked by Rider, Waver shook his head anxiously. “…No, I can’t tell at all!”

Kurama understood. Waver spoke the truth.

As an unwitting Master chosen by the Grail, Kurama knew that Masters could see the parameters of other Servants summoned by their rivals.

These values allowed one to adjust strategies, exploiting strengths against weaknesses—this was the true purpose of the Masters’ ability.

But Berserker was different.

Kurama could not see any parameters for him.

“Perhaps it’s due to the black armor covering his entire body?” the fox spirit guessed.

But the reason mattered little now.

For upon appearing, Berserker stared unflinchingly up at the golden Archer atop the lamp post, clearly provoking the ancient King.

“Who gave you permission to look upon me, mongrel?!”

The golden Heroic Spirit narrowed his eyes, flashing with sharp fury.

“If you dare, then…”

The golden vortex behind him shifted toward Berserker, who stood clad in black. In a blink, Noble Phantasms rained down like a storm—

“At least, entertain me with your miserable death, mad dog.”

Countless Noble Phantasms flew at Berserker, their destructive power tearing up the street and sending dust billowing.

But when the dust settled, Berserker stood unharmed, gripping one of Archer’s Noble Phantasms and using it to deflect others.

This only fueled the ancient King’s rage.

The battle grew ever fiercer.

Noble Phantasms poured down like an endless flood, but Berserker deflected or seized them all.

The tide began to shift against Archer, who should have held the advantage.

Everyone knew that if this continued, Archer would surely suffer. Yet the King’s pride forbade him from stopping.

Especially when Berserker, after repelling all attacks, destroyed the lamp post, forcing Archer to descend to the ground—

“Mad dog! You dare force the King, who should be gazed upon from the heavens, to stand with you on earth?!”

The golden vortex, once partially opened, now expanded as if to swallow the sky—a sign of complete Noble Phantasm release.

Yet whatever level of fury and power Archer could unleash tonight would not be revealed.

A command spell’s forced “advice” compelled the ancient King to withdraw his Noble Phantasms, however reluctantly.

“…Consider yourself lucky, mad dog.” Glancing toward the distant Tohsaka estate, Archer’s face still bore traces of anger, but his tone chilled.

He surveyed the surroundings with disdain, about to speak—

“Looks like I barely made it to the feast,” came a deep, clear voice.

At the focus of every Servant’s sudden gaze, a figure in dark green attire and light armor, his black hair shining, gradually materialized from spirit form, appearing before them.

“…Lancer?!”

Even the Hero King showed rare astonishment.

The late-arriving black-haired Heroic Spirit was puzzled by their reactions, but when his gaze pierced the crowd and fell upon a stiff, bewildered figure not far away—

He too was stunned.

For he saw a face more familiar than any other.

His own.