Fate: Hero of Justice Takeover-Chapter 181: [] King of Conquerors End

It was precisely because of this mindset that Touko carelessly forgot to remind Sakatsuki.

In a way, both of them had inadvertently set each other up, ensuring that they would experience the pain of "how much rice must one carry" at some point in the future.

But that's a story for another time.

For now, let's return to the battlefield beneath Mount Enzo, where two top-tier Servants clashed.

***

Could that sword even be called a "sword"?

The weapon's appearance was bizarre. It had a hilt and a guard, and its length was similar to that of a longsword. However, the part that should have been the "blade" was far from the shape of any conventional sword. It consisted of three interconnected cylindrical segments, with the tip twisted into a spiral, blunt edge. The three cylinders rotated slowly, like a grinding mill.

Indeed, this weapon was no longer a "sword." It predated the very concept of a "sword," and thus its form was unlike any sword that existed today. It was an artifact created by the gods before the advent of humanity, a manifestation of the divine craftsmanship that shaped the world at its creation. The three cylindrical segments, resembling a millstone, moved in harmony with the celestial bodies, each carrying the weight and energy equivalent to tectonic shifts. The sheer amount of magical energy it unleashed was beyond calculation.

And it was this divine sword that pierced the Conqueror's robust chest, shattering the core of his manifestation.

In the distance, Waver's eyes widened as he fought back tears, refusing to let them blur his vision. He stared intently at the moment when the legend came to an end.

The sword slowly rotated within the Conqueror's chest. The Sword of Kupriotes was mere inches from the King of Heroes' forehead. Behind the two kings, the Gordius Wheel, its body riddled with countless Noble Phantasms and its divine bulls mangled, gradually dissolved into spirit particles.

"Has your dream ended, Conqueror?"

The golden Servant, feeling a tingling sensation on his scalp, spoke calmly.

"Ah, yes, indeed..."

Iskandar, his body bound, squinted his blood-stained eyes and murmured contentedly.

"This expedition... has also... been immensely satisfying..."

Not only the exhilarating battle to the death, but also the bonds he had formed with his loyal subjects, made the Conqueror feel fortunate to have been summoned.

Though he had been defeated in the end, he had no regrets.

Gilgamesh, seeing the satisfied expression on his face, nodded solemnly.

"You may challenge me as many times as you wish, Conqueror."

Despite being pierced by countless Noble Phantasms, his own Noble Phantasm destroyed, the Conqueror had not stopped until the very end, when he was finally halted by the Chains of Heaven. For such a valiant opponent, the King of Heroes bestowed upon him the greatest reward—his most sincere admiration.

"Until the end of time, this entire world is my garden. And so, I promise you, this garden will never bore you."

"Oh... that sounds... good..."

With this final, lukewarm response, the Rider-class Servant quietly faded away.

In terms of time, it had been an exceedingly brief battle. From the moment Rider charged at Archer to the moment the outcome was decided, only a few seconds had passed.

But Waver hadn't blinked once, etching every moment into his memory. For him, this battle felt as long and heavy as an entire lifetime.

He would never forget this memory, even if he were to lock away his heart. The scenes he had witnessed in those few seconds had become a part of his soul, inseparable from him.

Waver stood motionless, alone at the spot where Rider had left him. Though he knew he needed to move quickly, he felt that if he took even a single step, his legs might give out, and he would collapse to his knees.

But he couldn't kneel now. Absolutely not.

The golden King, his crimson eyes gleaming with a cruel light, slowly approached Waver.

"Boy, are you Rider's Master?"

Waver had thought his throat had frozen in fear, rendering him unable to speak. But when Archer asked about his relationship with "him," his stiff throat momentarily relaxed.

He shook his head and answered in a hoarse voice.

"No, I am—his subject."

"Hmm?"

Archer narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Waver from head to toe. He finally noticed that there was no trace of Command Spells on the boy.

"Is that so? Then, boy, if you are truly a loyal subject, shouldn't you avenge your king?"

To this second question, Waver was able to respond with a calmness that surprised even himself.

"If I challenge you, I will die."

"Of course."

"So I cannot do it. I was ordered to 'live.'"

Waver looked up, his tear-filled eyes filled with determination as he stared at the king-slayer before him.

That's right—he absolutely could not die. He had already engraved the final words of his king deep within his heart.

Though the enemy Servant stood before him, and he had no means to defend himself, the situation seemed utterly hopeless—but he could not give up. He could not trample on that oath in such a manner.

This was perhaps a crueller torment than simply accepting death.

Gilgamesh looked down at the small figure before him. After a moment, he nodded slightly, the ornaments on his body jingling with a sound that seemed almost approving.

"Your loyalty is commendable! Do not waver in your resolve."

The boy was neither a Master nor a traitor. There was no need to kill him. Such was the decision of the King.

Waver watched in silence as the golden Servant, holding the Sword of Rupture, walked past him and ascended the steps. When the cold night wind brushed against his body, the boy realized that he was now alone under the night sky. Only then did he understand that it was all over.

His knees finally began to tremble.

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Until the very moment Archer changed his mind, the killing intent he had exuded had been silently threatening Waver. In fact, if Waver had so much as shifted his gaze, stumbled, or hesitated even slightly in his response, he would have been dead on the spot.

Some might mock him as a coward who begged for his life, but those who did so simply did not understand the merciless nature of the King of Heroes. To stand before the ancient king as a former enemy, to resist the fear and survive, was in itself a battle, a victory.

This was a victory Waver Velvet had won through his solitary struggle.

It was a lowly, insignificant battle, far from heroic or glorious. He had merely survived a desperate situation.

Even so, Waver felt both joy and pride. Only he understood how remarkable it was to achieve such an impossible outcome under those circumstances. This sense of honor existed solely within him, and no matter how insignificant it might seem to others, he would never feel ashamed of it.

He had obeyed his king's command, witnessed everything, and survived.

He wished his king could praise him. With those large hands and that booming voice, he wanted to hear words of praise. This time, he wouldn't hide his feelings. Waver would proudly boast of his achievements to that person.

But—in the stillness of the night, Waver was utterly alone, with no one by his side. Just like eleven days ago, Waver had once again been cast into a cold, indifferent corner of the world.

No one knew that he had fought and won a battle that belonged to him alone. No one praised his victory.

Was this a cruel blow?

The answer was—No.

He had already received plenty of praise. The greatest king in the world had acknowledged him. That person had told Waver that he would be counted among his subjects.

It was merely a matter of the order of events being reversed.

That's all it was. He had already received praise for a distant future. All he had to do was spend the rest of his life achieving feats worthy of that praise.

Yes. With those words from that time, he was no longer alone.

The moment he realized this, Waver's boyhood came to an end.

For the first time, he understood that tears could flow for reasons unrelated to regret or humiliation.

At this moment, Waver Velvet sat on the ground, letting his tears flow freely.

They were the tears of a man.

***

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