This Is My Holy Grail War [137]

This wasn’t the first time Saber had been enraged. He had felt a similar fury when Diarmuid’s unyielding chivalry clashed against him. But this time, after Achilles’ taunts, Saber now regarded the Rider of Red as nothing more than fuel for the fire.

Despite his anger, Saber hadn’t lost his rationality. First and foremost, he needed to confirm whether Achilles’ Noble Phantasm, [Diatrekhōn Astēr Lonkhē], truly nullified all other Noble Phantasms. Could [Andréias Amárantos]—Achilles’ nigh-invincible defensive ability—still shield him in this bounded field?

Even though Chiron had shared Achilles’ identity and his infamous weakness, the finer details remained uncertain. Saber couldn’t know for sure whether striking Achilles’ weak spot again would bypass his defenses completely or merely wound him.

There was only one solution: Saber aimed for the heel once more.

The blood from his earlier strike had barely dried. Though Achilles’ magical energy had healed the injury, a faint crimson stain on his Achilles tendon remained—a glaring mark of vulnerability.

Achilles’ warrior instincts warned him of the danger. The mere approach of Saber, cloaked in black mist and malice, set his nerves on edge.

His heightened senses screamed of imminent peril, forcing him to focus every ounce of his will.

In that moment, [Durandal] became three curved arcs of silver light. This wasn’t the power of a Noble Phantasm—it was sheer skill. The strikes resembled the scythe of Thanatos, the god of death.

This was a level of mastery beyond mortal comprehension. Even Chiron, the great teacher of heroes, had never seen such a technique reach the threshold of magical artistry until this Holy Grail War.

The first strike aimed for Achilles’ left leg, the second for his right. The third carved through the air itself, an arc so unpredictable that it seemed to defy logic.

From within the black mist, Saber’s crimson eyes locked onto Achilles with unrelenting killing intent. The aura radiating from him was nothing short of terrifying, akin to the presence of death itself.

There was no escape. No defense. No hope.

The blade found its mark, bringing blood and agony in its wake. Achilles paid the price for his reckless decision to storm the Yggdmillennia stronghold alone, fully aware that his true name had been exposed.

It was a miscalculation—a costly one. Tempted by the challenge of Heracles, he had underestimated his opponents.

The heel that had only just been healed was torn apart once more. Repeated strikes to his fatal flaw left Achilles in unbearable pain, yet he refused to fall.

As Saber watched, he was reminded of Cú Chulainn. The unyielding hero had faced Saber’s relentless assault in much the same way, refusing to retreat even in the face of death. Both were formidable, both troublesome—but this time, Saber was stronger.

Achilles gritted his teeth, his lips parting as though to speak. For a moment, Saber thought he heard the voice of Cú Chulainn in his mind: “Falling here? What kind of hero would that make you?!”

To Saber’s astonishment, Achilles didn’t crumble under the agony. Instead, his face lit up with exhilaration. Though wracked with pain, the legendary warrior smiled—a raw, unrestrained expression of joy.

“Your sword… it’s incredible! Truly incredible! Hahaha!” Achilles laughed through the pain, his words catching Saber off guard. Despite his arrogance, Achilles possessed the sincere heart of a warrior, one who reveled in witnessing a skill that transcended limits.

This reaction baffled Saber. To him, swordsmanship wasn’t an art but a survival skill honed through necessity. The Holy Grail War had pressed him into sharpening his blade daily. He had only ever relaxed once—in the Emiya household, and even then, only briefly.

He’s probably so pleased because he knows he won’t truly die, Saber mused, gripping [Durandal] tightly. Servants, after all, were immortal in a sense, their deaths in this war merely returning them to the Throne of Heroes.

As Achilles stood tall once more, his fierce determination awakened a strange emotion in Saber. Was it envy? He couldn’t say for certain, but the yearning he felt was undeniable.

“Masochist,” Saber muttered, scowling faintly.

“Hah, I don’t think that’s a compliment,” Achilles quipped, hobbling slightly but refusing to yield.

If the legendary [Tsubame Gaeshi] had been executed by Sasaki Kojirō himself, Achilles would have been shredded to pieces. Though Saber had imitated the technique, his mastery remained imperfect.

The third strike could now connect, but it lacked the overwhelming power of the original.

Saber’s solution was simple: what he lacked in strength, he made up for in persistence.

“[Hiken—Tsubame Gaeshi]!” he called again, his movements relentless. Unable to match the sheer destructive force of Kojirō’s strikes, Saber compensated with repetition.

If the first attempt didn’t kill Achilles, then the second would. If not the second, then the third.

“Hiken—!”

“[Tsubame Gaeshi]!”

Again and again, Saber swung. Achilles, the hero of legend, proved as unyielding as an indomitable top, refusing to fall even as the battle raged on.

After what felt like an eternity, Saber’s strength waned, his spirit nearing its limit. Finally, Achilles collapsed into a pool of his own blood, his invulnerability shattered.

Saber lowered [Durandal], his arms trembling. For the first time, he had painstakingly dismantled a hero with A-rank [Battle Continuation]. Achilles’ downfall came only after relentless strikes exploited his weakness.

With Achilles’ death, the [Diatrekhōn Astēr Lonkhē] faded, the radiant battlefield dissolving back into the dim, desolate hall of the Yggdmillennia stronghold.

Saber emerged from the darkness, still cloaked in the remnants of his shadowy form. The black mist had dissipated, replaced by the crimson haze of a battlefield drenched in blood.

Step by step, he moved forward. His ethereal figure seemed to float, leaving droplets of blood in his wake. Each drop fell rhythmically, echoing like a solemn march. Saber’s lower body remained a formless shadow, his footsteps replaced by the chilling sound of dripping blood.

—

This is a fan translation of 这是我的圣杯之战 by 向希望祈祷. All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!