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# The Throne's Last Mistake: Caelan and the Servants in the Lands That Should Not Be
## Prologue: Ripples in the Fabric of Reality
The Throne of Heroes existed outside of time, a conceptual archive where humanity's greatest legends were preserved as spiritual entities ready to answer the call when needed. For eons, this system had functioned perfectly, maintaining the delicate balance of human history through careful intervention.
Until today.
Deep within the astral substrate where the Throne maintained its watchful gaze, alarms that had never before sounded began to wail. Primordial defense mechanisms activated as the Counter Force—the collective unconscious will of humanity to survive—detected something unprecedented: a tear in the fabric of reality that defied all classification.
It wasn't a Singularity—those isolated pockets of distorted history were well understood by now.
It wasn't a Lostbelt—those pruned timelines that refused to stay dead were troublesome but manageable.
This was something new: a realm of decay where thrones had shattered and divine laws had been reduced to ash. A place where godhood itself had been hunted to extinction—not by the natural progression of the Age of Man, but by something more primal and terrifying.
And it was growing.
Golden light coalesced as the Counter Force initiated emergency protocols. Seven summoning circles appeared within the ritual chamber, each meticulously designed to call forth a Servant of immense power—heroes with specific resistances to corruption and divine affinity.
"We summon our finest," intoned the will of humanity's collective defense. "To contain and eliminate this existential threat."
But as the summoning reached its zenith, something interfered. A crimson spark—undetectable until that moment—flashed through the ritual matrix. The golden light of the Throne faltered, then stabilized, but the damage was done.
Six circles filled with the familiar blue mist that heralded the arrival of legendary heroes.
But the seventh—the central circle—filled with flame.
Not the golden flames of divinity or the black flames of corruption, but something else entirely: a flame that existed beyond the concept of legend itself. A fire that belonged to no myth, that answered to no throne.
From those flames stepped a man. Not a Servant. Not a Master. Simply a man.
Six feet and four inches of lean, armored power materialized in the center of the ritual chamber. Raven-black hair with streaks of ash-silver framed a face of sharp, handsome features that appeared carved from stone rather than flesh. Cold steel-gray eyes with the faintest hint of red-orange in the irises surveyed the room and the confused Servants with an impassive gaze.
Caelan Ashbrand stood in silence, his modified Maliketh armor—black, fur-lined, edged in gold and layered with scorched runes—absorbing the light around him. The massive Godslayer's Greatsword on his back seemed to drink in the ambient energy of the chamber.
The very air stilled in his presence. Without saying a word, he commanded attention through sheer force of will.
After a long moment of stunned silence, the Counter Force attempted to establish the standard connection, to imprint the mission parameters directly into its summoned agents' minds.
The six Servants received the information without issue.
But when it attempted to connect with Caelan, the transmission simply... dispersed, like water droplets hitting white-hot metal.
The Counter Force trembled. The Throne's records scrambled to identify him and failed. No legend contained him. No myth recorded his deeds.
Because where Caelan came from, those who wrote myths had long since burned.
Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and resonant, yet utterly devoid of emotion:
"You shouldn't have brought me back," he said simply. "And you definitely shouldn't have brought them with me."
The words fell like stones in still water, each carrying a weight that suggested volumes of unspoken meaning.
The summoned Servants exchanged glances, some confused, others suspicious. None of them recognized this strange being who stood among them, neither Servant nor Master, yet somehow both more and less than either.
And in that moment of uncertainty, the tear in reality widened, and all seven of them—six legendary heroes and one god-slayer—were pulled from the ritual chamber into a world that should not exist.
---
## Chapter 1: First Meetings
The transition between worlds was violent and disorienting. Reality itself seemed to buckle and fold, compressing and expanding in nauseating waves before finally settling into a new configuration.
Artoria Alter was the first to regain her bearings, her corrupted nature granting her a certain resilience to chaotic transitions. The King of Knights rose to her feet, her black armor gleaming under an unfamiliar crimson sky. Her pale features hardened into a scowl as she immediately sensed that something was wrong—her connection to the Grail, to the Throne itself, felt tenuous and strained, like a fraying rope ready to snap.
"What is this place?" she demanded, her imperial voice slicing through the stunned silence. Her hand instinctively went to Excalibur Morgan, drawing the corrupted holy sword with a fluid motion. "Show yourself, architect of this treachery!"
A few yards away, Karna, Son of the Sun God, rose with silent dignity. The divine hero's normally impassive face showed the faintest hint of concern as he felt the weight of this strange world pressing down upon his divinity. His golden armor, usually brilliant enough to rival the sun itself, seemed oddly dulled, as if the very concept of divine radiance was being suppressed.
"This is no deception," he observed quietly, his pale eyes scanning the bizarre landscape. "We have been summoned to a realm I do not recognize. And our powers..." He extended his hand, calling upon a fraction of his divine flame. The fire that answered was weak, a pale imitation of his usual might. "Our powers are greatly diminished."
Scathach, the immortal warrior-queen of the Land of Shadows, had already taken up a defensive position, her crimson spear Gáe Bolg at the ready. Her ancient eyes narrowed as she felt the wrongness of this place more keenly than most, her own existence as an entity that had transcended humanity resonating uncomfortably with the world's twisted nature.
"Be wary," she cautioned, her voice tense. "This realm does not follow the rules we know. I sense neither the Root nor the Counter Force here. We are adrift from the anchors that define our existence."
Void Shiki materialized with perfect serenity despite the chaotic transition. Her connection to the Root—the source of all existence—allowed her to perceive the fundamental brokenness of this reality more clearly than the others. Yet even her eyes, capable of seeing the death of all things, widened slightly at the vista before them.
"Interesting," she murmured, more to herself than the others. "This world has sustained damage at the conceptual level. The very foundations of reality have been... rewritten. No, not rewritten—erased and replaced with something else entirely."
Jeanne Alter arrived in a burst of black flame, her banner unfurling behind her as she materialized with a snarl already forming on her lips. The Avenger's body literally smoked with rage as she felt her connection to her own hatred—the very source of her power—wavering in this strange environment.
"What the hell?" she spat, golden eyes blazing with fury. "Where are we, and why do my flames feel like they're being smothered? Who dares interfere with my vengeance?"
Quetzalcoatl, the radiant Aztec goddess of sun and war, was the last of the Servants to fully orient herself. Usually the embodiment of boundless energy and optimism, even her brilliant smile dimmed somewhat as she felt the pressure this world exerted on her divine essence.
"Ay caramba," she muttered, rolling her shoulders as if trying to shrug off an invisible weight. "This place is no bueno for divine spirits. It's like... like it's actively rejecting us."
And then there was Caelan.
Unlike the Servants who had appeared in flashes of spiritual energy, Caelan simply... was. He stood a short distance away, his posture unchanged from the ritual chamber, as if he had been transported without disturbance. His cold steel-gray eyes, with those unsettling red-orange irises, surveyed the landscape not with confusion or alarm, but with grim recognition.
Before them stretched a vista of terrible majesty and utter devastation. Colossal trees—or what had once been trees—rose like skeletal fingers against the crimson sky. They might have been beautiful once, these massive golden structures, but now they leaked a luminescent sap that hissed and smoked where it touched the ground. Mountains in the distance bore massive gouges, as if some titan had clawed at them in desperation. And everywhere, there was ash—not the gray ash of wood, but the golden ash of something far more precious that had been burned.
The air itself tasted wrong—metallic and charged, like the aftermath of an immense magical discharge. And beneath it all was a subtle vibration, a tremor in reality that suggested the laws of physics themselves were under strain.
"Where are we?" Artoria Alter repeated, this time directing her imperious gaze directly at Caelan, seemingly identifying him as the only one with answers.
Caelan turned to face her, his movements economical and precise. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled, each word carefully measured.
"The Lands That Should Not Be," he answered, a heaviness in his tone suggesting the name was not merely descriptive but deeply personal. "My home."
"Your home?" Jeanne Alter scoffed, stalking toward him with predatory intent. "And what exactly are you? You're no Servant—I can tell that much. No Saint Graph. No class container. What are you hiding, stranger?"
Caelan met her challenging gaze without flinching, something dangerous flickering behind his composed exterior—like watching calm waters that concealed unfathomable depths.
"I'm not hiding anything," he replied evenly. "I am Caelan Ashbrand. I walk the lands of fallen divinity. And you..." His eyes swept over the assembled Servants, assessing each in turn with unsettling precision. "You are trespassers in a realm that hungers for exactly what you are."
"You speak in riddles," Karna observed, stepping forward with quiet dignity. "What do you mean by 'fallen divinity'? And why does this world seem to suppress our powers?"
Caelan's expression remained stoic, but for just a moment, something like weariness crossed his features—the exhaustion of one who has explained the same terrible truth too many times.
"This place was never part of human history," he explained, his tone flat and factual. "It existed outside your collective reality. Here, there was no Age of Gods that gently gave way to the Age of Man. Here, divinity ruled absolute... until it didn't."
"Until what happened?" Quetzalcoatl asked, her usual cheerful demeanor subdued by curiosity.
The faint red glow in Caelan's eyes intensified slightly. "Until divinity was hunted to extinction. Systematically. Methodically. By those who had suffered under its rule for too long."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group as they processed this statement. Even Artoria, with her corrupted nature, seemed disturbed by the implication.
Scathach, ever the tactician, broke the silence first. "If I understand correctly, we've been summoned to a world hostile to divine beings. Our powers are suppressed because this realm itself rejects the concept of divinity. Is that accurate?"
Caelan gave her a single, approving nod. "Your perception is sharp, Queen of Shadows. This world doesn't merely reject divinity—it hunts it. And each of you..." His gaze swept over them once more. "Each of you carries divinity in some form. Even those tainted by corruption or shadows."
Jeanne Alter barked out a harsh laugh. "Me? Divine? You've got the wrong Servant, Ashbrand. I'm hatred incarnate, not some holy relic."
"Hatred can be divine too," Caelan replied, unfazed by her aggression. "Especially when it burns as bright as yours. The parasites that remain here don't discriminate between forms of power—they hunger for all of it."
"Parasites?" Void Shiki inquired, her serene voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity.
"When gods die, they don't simply vanish," Caelan explained, his hand unconsciously moving to the hilt of his massive greatsword. "They leave behind... fragments. Echoes. Parasites that remember being divine and desperately seek new hosts to rebuild themselves."
A distant, inhuman howl cut through the air, causing all of them to tense. The sound was wrong on a fundamental level—too many harmonics, too much pain and hunger twisted into a single cry.
"We need to move," Caelan said, suddenly urgent. "That was too close, and sound carries strangely here. Come. I know a place where we can shelter and plan."
"And why should we follow you?" Artoria challenged, though her grip on Excalibur Morgan tightened at the alien howl. "We have no proof of your claims or your intentions."
Caelan met her gaze with cold certainty. "Because in the next ten minutes, this area will be swarming with corrupted faithful—former worshippers transformed by divine parasites into hunting packs. They sense your power already. They're coming. And in your weakened state, you won't survive without me."
Another howl sounded, closer this time, followed by several more responding from different directions.
"I believe him," Karna said simply, his divine instincts still functioning enough to sense the approaching danger.
"As do I," Scathach agreed, her expression grim. "There is no deception in his words—only hard truth."
Quetzalcoatl flashed a determined smile. "Well, I say we stick together! Safety in numbers, yes? Lead on, Señor Ashbrand!"
Jeanne Alter spat on the ground. "Fine. But try anything suspicious, and diminished powers or not, I'll roast you where you stand."
Caelan didn't bother responding to the threat. He simply turned and began walking with purposeful strides toward a ridge in the distance. "Stay close. Step where I step. And whatever you do—don't touch the golden sap. It remembers being holy."
The Servants exchanged uneasy glances before falling into formation behind him. Artoria and Karna took positions near the front, their warrior instincts keeping them vigilant. Scathach and Void Shiki moved to the flanks, while Quetzalcoatl and Jeanne Alter brought up the rear—the goddess watching their backs with careful attention, the Avenger shooting suspicious glares at their mysterious guide.
As they moved through the blighted landscape, the howls grew more numerous but remained at a distance, as if the creatures were tracking them but hesitant to approach directly.
"They fear you," Void Shiki observed, her perceptive gaze fixed on Caelan's back.
"They remember me," he corrected without turning. "Memory is different from fear."
"And what exactly do they remember?" Jeanne Alter pressed, her tone challenging.
Caelan was silent for several steps before answering, his voice so low they almost didn't hear it:
"They remember that I'm the one who helped burn their gods."
---
## Chapter 2: Sanctuary of the Fallen
The journey to Caelan's sanctuary took nearly two hours—two hours of tense silence punctuated only by the occasional distant howl or the hissing of golden sap as it dripped from the skeletal remnants of what Caelan called "Erdtree fragments." The landscape grew increasingly surreal as they walked, reality itself seeming to warp subtly around certain features—gravity pulling sideways near crystalline formations, light bending at impossible angles around what looked like fallen statues of many-armed beings.
Quetzalcoatl, typically irrepressible, attempted several times to engage their stoic guide in conversation.
"So, Caelan—may I call you Caelan?—what's the story with these tree-like structures? They look like they were quite impressive before... whatever happened to them."
"The Erdtree," he replied after a moment, not slowing his pace. "A parasite masquerading as salvation. It fed on death and sold it back as immortality."
"Oh." The goddess blinked, her usual cheerfulness momentarily halted by the blunt response. "And those glowing crystals over there?"
"Remains of scholars who sought knowledge beyond mortality. They found it, in a way."
Quetzalcoatl tried one more approach. "And have you always lived in this cheery paradise, or—"
"No." Caelan stopped suddenly, causing Artoria to nearly collide with his back. He turned halfway, his profile severe against the crimson sky. "I walked the lands when they were still green. When the stars still made sense and divinity was merely arrogant, not corrupt. Before the Greater Will."
Something in his tone silenced even Quetzalcoatl, a heaviness that spoke of personal loss beyond measure.
After that, they continued in silence until they crested a ridge and saw their destination in the valley below: a massive stone structure that might once have been a cathedral or fortress. Its architecture was alien—arches that curved in ways that defied Euclidean geometry, towers that seemed to be perpetually falling yet never collapsed, stained glass windows depicting scenes none of them recognized. Despite its strange design, the structure appeared largely intact amidst the surrounding devastation.
"The Cathedral of Manus Celes," Caelan named it as they descended toward it. "Once a place of worship to a goddess of moonlight. Now..." He gestured vaguely. "A sanctuary of sorts. One of the few structures the parasites avoid."
"Why do they avoid it?" Karna inquired, his tactical mind already analyzing potential threats.
"Because I've killed too many of them here," Caelan replied matter-of-factly. "They're parasites, but they can learn."
As they approached the massive doors—easily twenty feet tall and carved with intricate symbols that seemed to shift when viewed directly—Scathach asked the question that had been on all their minds.
"What exactly are you, Caelan Ashbrand? You're no ordinary human. No ordinary anything, it seems."
Caelan paused before the doors, his hand resting on a panel that glowed faintly at his touch. He didn't immediately answer, instead pressing his palm more firmly against the panel. The massive doors responded with a low, resonant hum before slowly swinging inward.
"I am what this world needed," he finally said as he stepped through the threshold. "When gods ruled through lies and fear, when the very stars were claimed and bent to divine will... this world needed something that could end divinity. I answered."
The interior of the cathedral was vast and echoing, its high ceiling lost in shadows. Moonlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting eerie patterns across the stone floor. The space had clearly been repurposed—portions were set up as living quarters, others as workshops, and a large central area contained what could only be described as an armory of strange and terrible weapons.
"Wait here," Caelan instructed, moving toward a circular platform in the center of the chamber. "The cathedral needs to recognize you, or its defenses will activate."
"Defenses?" Jeanne Alter asked skeptically. "Against what? You said the parasites avoid this place."
"Against divinity," Caelan replied simply. "This was a holy place once. Now it's a tomb for gods. It can tell the difference."
He stepped onto the platform and knelt, placing his palm against a symbol engraved in the stone. The entire floor began to glow with a soft, blue-white light that spread outward in concentric circles, washing over each of the Servants in turn.
As the light touched them, each felt a momentary sensation of being... examined. Not violently, but thoroughly—as if some ancient intelligence was cataloging their very essence, determining their nature and potential threat level.
Only Void Shiki seemed unaffected, the light passing through her as if she weren't entirely there.
"Curious," she murmured, watching the phenomenon with detached interest. "It recognizes me as something outside its parameters."
When the light receded, Caelan rose and turned to face them. "The cathedral accepts you as guests. You can move freely now, but don't touch the altar at the far end. That... would be unwise."
The atmosphere in the cathedral shifted subtly, from tense alertness to a cautious relaxation. For the first time since their arrival, the Servants felt a small measure of security.
Quetzalcoatl wasted no time in exploring, her natural curiosity overcoming her earlier subdued state. "This place is amazing! How long have you been living here?"
"Time moves differently in these lands," Caelan replied, removing his massive greatsword and placing it carefully on a weapon rack. "By your reckoning... perhaps centuries. For me, it's been... longer."
Artoria, who had been silently assessing their surroundings with a ruler's critical eye, finally spoke. "You claim to be a killer of gods. Yet you shelter in their temples and use their artifacts. There seems to be a contradiction."
Caelan turned to her, and for the first time, something like emotion flickered in his cold eyes—a brief flash of what might have been pain, or perhaps very old anger.
"I don't hate what gods were," he said quietly. "Only what they became. This cathedral remembers its original purpose—to shelter those in need. I respect that memory."
The King of Knights held his gaze for a long moment before giving a slight nod, as if conceding the point.
Karna had moved to examine the weapons displayed throughout the chamber—strange implements that defied easy categorization. Some appeared to be conventional arms infused with otherworldly power; others seemed designed to combat specific types of entities.
"These are all god-killing weapons," he observed, his tone carefully neutral despite the implicit threat to beings of divine origin like himself.
"Yes," Caelan acknowledged, moving to join him. "Each designed for a specific type of divinity. Some for gods of flesh, others for gods of concept or stone or flame."
He reached past Karna to lift a curved dagger that seemed to drink in the surrounding light. "This was for a god of shadows who had forgotten that darkness needs light to exist at all." He replaced it carefully before pointing to a massive hammer etched with geometric patterns. "That was for a god of mathematics who tried to solve death through complex equations."
There was no pride in his voice as he identified each weapon, only a tired finality—the tone of an executioner recounting necessary but unpleasant duties.
Scathach, ever practical, had been assessing the cathedral's defensive capabilities. "How secure are we here? How long can we remain?"
"Against conventional threats? Indefinitely," Caelan replied. "Against what's coming? Unknown. Your presence changes the equation. The parasites will be drawn to your divine essences like moths to flame."
Jeanne Alter, who had been sullenly examining her own flames—still noticeably diminished in this realm—looked up sharply. "And what exactly is 'coming,' God-Slayer? You keep hinting at some greater threat."
Caelan was silent for a moment, seemingly weighing how much to reveal. Finally, he gestured for them to gather around a large table near the center of the chamber. As they approached, the surface of the table shimmered and transformed into something like a three-dimensional map of the surrounding lands.
"What you need to understand," he began, his voice taking on a lecturing quality that suggested he had explained this before to others, "is that the divine parasites are merely symptoms of a larger disease. When the gods fell here, when the Greater Will was shattered and the Erdtree burned, something fundamental broke in the fabric of reality itself."
He passed his hand over the map, and certain areas glowed with an ominous red light.
"These are infection points—places where the parasites have built nests around fragments of dead gods. But they're also something worse: they're wounds in reality, places where this world is bleeding into yours."
The Servants exchanged alarmed glances.
"That's why the Counter Force sent us," Void Shiki realized, her normally detached expression showing genuine concern. "Not just to investigate an anomaly, but to prevent a full-scale invasion of our reality."
Caelan nodded grimly. "The parasites seek new hosts—new vectors of divinity to rebuild what they lost. In your world, with its functioning laws of conceptual weight and mythological significance..."
"They would find fertile ground," Karna finished, his expression darkening. "Gods and divine spirits like ourselves are numerous in our world. They would have countless potential hosts."
"Worse than that," Caelan added. "Your world still believes in stories. In legends. In the power of narrative to shape reality. Here, we burned those concepts along with the gods who enforced them. But in your world..."
"The parasites could rewrite the very myths that define us," Artoria concluded, the implications clearly disturbing even her corrupted nature. "They could infect the Throne of Heroes itself."
A heavy silence fell over the group as they confronted the magnitude of the threat. Even Jeanne Alter seemed sobered by the revelation.
"So what's the plan?" Quetzalcoatl finally asked, her voice uncharacteristically serious. "How do we stop these parasite thingies from invading our world?"
Caelan's expression remained stoic, but his next words carried the weight of countless battles and bitter experience:
"We hunt them down. We extinguish every fragment of divinity they've gathered. We close the wounds in reality one by one." His hand moved to the hilt of his greatsword, resting there with familiar ease. "And we do it before they realize what you are and turn you into their new gods."
---
## Chapter 3: Bonds Forged in Strange Fire
Night in the Lands That Should Not Be was nothing like the darkness of a normal world. As the crimson sun sank below the horizon, the sky did not darken to black but instead shifted through impossible colors—deep purples that bled into greens that had no place in any natural spectrum, occasionally punctuated by flashes of what looked like distant lightning but moved too deliberately, too purposefully to be mere atmospheric discharge.
Inside the Cathedral of Manus Celes, Caelan had helped the Servants establish their temporary living quarters, allocating spaces with the efficiency of one long accustomed to prioritizing function over comfort. Despite the tension and uncertainty that hung over the group, they had begun to settle into their roles with the adaptability that marked true heroes.
Karna and Artoria had taken naturally to establishing a watch rotation, their warrior instincts making them acutely aware of the need for vigilance. Scathach assisted them, her ancient knowledge of wardcraft proving useful even in this strange realm as she reinforced the cathedral's existing defenses with runes of her own making.
Void Shiki had found a quiet corner near one of the stained-glass windows, where she sat in meditative stillness, seemingly communing with the broken reality around them. Occasionally, her eyes would open, revealing that unsettling connection to the Root, before closing again as she processed whatever insights she had gained.
Jeanne Alter paced restlessly, her diminished flames flaring with her frustration. Unable to remain still, she had taken to examining the cathedral's structure, testing its defenses, perhaps unconsciously searching for weaknesses—whether to protect against them or exploit them, even she might not have known.
Quetzalcoatl, ever practical despite her exuberant nature, had discovered a store of what appeared to be preserved provisions in a side chamber. She had immediately set about preparing a meal, her actions guided by the deeply ingrained hospitality that was part of her divine nature.
And Caelan... Caelan worked. At a large workbench near the cathedral's central area, he methodically maintained an array of weapons, his movements precise and economical. He checked mechanisms, sharpened edges, and occasionally applied substances from small vials that glowed with disturbing inner light.
The silence was broken when Quetzalcoatl approached him, bearing a plate of what she had managed to prepare from the available stores.
"Dinner is served, Señor God-Slayer!" she announced, setting the plate beside him with a flourish. "I've worked miracles with what you had available, if I do say so myself."
Caelan paused in his work, looking at the offered food with mild surprise, as if the concept of someone preparing a meal for him was utterly foreign.
"Thank you," he said after a moment, the words coming stiffly, as if pulled from some long-disused part of his memory. "But I don't need—"
"Everyone needs to eat," Quetzalcoatl interrupted cheerfully. "Even mysterious, brooding god-slayers with excellent hair."
Behind them, Jeanne Alter snorted. "He probably feeds on the essence of dead gods or something equally melodramatic."
Caelan's eyes flicked toward the Avenger, that faint red-orange glow intensifying momentarily. "I eat. I sleep. I bleed. I'm not the monster here."
The simple statement, delivered without heat or defensiveness, seemed to catch Jeanne Alter off guard. She opened her mouth as if to deliver another barbed comment, then closed it again, turning away with a scowl.
Quetzalcoatl used the moment to press her advantage. "Exactly! So eat. Everyone else is." She gestured to where the other Servants had gathered around a makeshift dining area, each with their own portions.
Even Servants didn't strictly need food for sustenance, but the ritual of sharing a meal served other purposes—establishing normalcy, building camaraderie, maintaining the human aspects of their heroic spirits. In this alien environment, such touchstones of familiarity became even more important.
After a moment's hesitation, Caelan set down his tools and picked up the plate. "Very well."
Quetzalcoatl beamed triumphantly and practically bounced back to the others, Caelan following at a more measured pace.
As he joined them, an awkward silence fell. Despite the immediate threat that had forced them together, the fundamental tension remained: he was a self-proclaimed god-slayer, and they were beings of divine essence. The contradiction couldn't be ignored forever.
Karna, direct as always, was the first to address it. "You said earlier that you answered when this world needed something to end divinity. What did you mean by that?"
All eyes turned to Caelan, who seemed to consider the question carefully before responding.
"I wasn't always this," he said finally, gesturing vaguely to himself. "I was... normal once. Or what passed for normal in a world ruled by capricious gods. A warrior, yes, but nothing special."
He took a small bite of food, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "Then came the Shattering—when the ruling gods turned on each other, tearing the land apart in their war for supremacy. Millions died. The survivors... changed."
"Changed how?" Artoria asked, her regal bearing softened slightly by genuine curiosity.
"Some were blessed, if you want to call it that. Divine gifts that twisted them into loyal servants, or weapons, or living conduits for power they were never meant to channel." Caelan's expression darkened. "Others were simply... broken. Their faith shattered along with their bodies."
"And you?" Scathach prompted when he fell silent.
Caelan's gaze turned inward, seeing something none of them could. "I died. Many times. Each death should have been final. But something in me refused to stay dead. Each time I returned, I brought back... understanding. Insight into how divinity functioned. Where its weaknesses lay."
He held up his hand, and for a brief moment, black flame with a reddish core flickered between his fingers—not the corrupted fire of Jeanne Alter, but something older, more primordial.
"I learned to use the Blackflame—fire that burns gods. I mastered every form of combat that could harm divine flesh. I gathered others who had been broken by the gods' war." His voice grew softer, almost distant. "We became the Godslayers. And one by one, we hunted them down."
"You make it sound so simple," Jeanne Alter commented, though her usual caustic tone was subdued.
"It wasn't," Caelan replied flatly. "It took... a very long time. Many of us didn't survive. Gods don't die easily, and when they do, the death throes can reshape continents."
"And yet you're still here," Karna observed. "After all the gods fell."
Caelan's expression became unreadable. "Someone had to remain. To hunt the parasites. To ensure the gods stayed dead."
An uncomfortable silence followed his words, each Servant contemplating the implications. They were, in many ways, the very embodiment of what he had spent lifetimes destroying—legends given form, divine essence shaped by human belief.
Quetzalcoatl, sensing the growing discomfort, attempted to lighten the mood. "Well, I for one am glad you're on our side now! These parasite things sound nasty."
"I'm not on your side," Caelan corrected her, though without malice. "I'm on the side of this world's continued freedom from divine rule. For now, that aligns with your mission."
"And when it doesn't?" Artoria challenged, her golden eyes narrowing.
Caelan met her gaze steadily. "Then we'll have a different conversation."
The implied threat hung in the air between them, neither backing down until Void Shiki spoke, her serene voice cutting through the tension.
"You misunderstand him," she said, addressing the other Servants rather than Caelan. "He is not our enemy. Nor is he truly our ## Chapter 3: Bonds Forged in Strange Fire (Continued)
"You misunderstand him," Void Shiki said, addressing the other Servants rather than Caelan. "He is not our enemy. Nor is he truly our ally. He is a force of nature that exists to maintain balance. Like the wind that both spreads seeds and topples dead trees."
Caelan's eyes shifted to Void Shiki, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his stoic features. "You see clearly for one whose existence depends on conceptual weight."
"The connection to the Root grants certain perspectives," she replied with a small, enigmatic smile. "Even in this fractured reality."
The tension in the room eased slightly, though wariness remained. Artoria returned to her meal, her regal posture never faltering despite the uncomfortable conversation.
"So," Quetzalcoatl ventured, determined to maintain the fragile peace, "these parasite nests you mentioned. How many are we talking about? And what's our strategy for dealing with them?"
Caelan set down his plate, his food barely touched. He moved to the map table and activated it with a gesture. The three-dimensional projection flickered to life, revealing the surrounding landscape in haunting detail.
"Twelve major nests that I've confirmed," he said, indicating glowing red points on the map. "Each housing a fragment of what was once a significant deity. Countless minor infestations scattered throughout." He zoomed in on one particular nest—a twisted structure that resembled a cathedral merged with a living organism. "We start with this one. The parasite there has built itself around a fragment of a deity once known as the Formless Mother. A blood god."
Jeanne Alter leaned forward, golden eyes gleaming with renewed interest. "Blood god, huh? Sounds like my kind of target."
"Don't underestimate it," Caelan warned. "Blood has power here—it carries memory, intent. This parasite can use your own lifeforce against you if you're careless."
"How do we approach it?" Karna asked, already analyzing the tactical situation.
"We'll rest tonight and move at first light. The parasites are less active when the false stars are visible." Caelan's finger traced a path through the projection. "We'll approach from the eastern ridge. The parasite has corrupted faithful patrolling the perimeter, but they follow predictable patterns."
As he detailed the plan of attack, the Servants gradually clustered around the table, professional interest temporarily overriding their lingering suspicions. Even Artoria offered tactical suggestions, her experience as a military commander proving valuable despite the alien environment.
Only Void Shiki remained apart, watching the interaction with serene detachment. When Caelan finished outlining the strategy, she approached him quietly.
"There's something you haven't told them," she observed in a low voice that didn't carry to the others. "About this world. About yourself."
Caelan's expression remained impassive, but his eyes flickered briefly to the altar at the far end of the cathedral—the one he had warned them not to touch.
"There are truths they're not ready for," he replied equally quietly. "Knowledge that would only endanger them further."
"Secrets have weight in any world," Void Shiki cautioned. "Even one where gods have burned."
Caelan's response was cut short as a tremor suddenly shook the cathedral. Dust drifted down from the high ceiling as the stained glass windows rattled in their frames.
"What was that?" Jeanne Alter demanded, flames instinctively flaring around her hands.
"We're being tested," Caelan replied, already moving toward his greatsword. "The cathedral's defenses detected something."
Another tremor, stronger this time, causing small items to tumble from shelves. The atmosphere in the cathedral changed, becoming charged with anticipation and danger.
"Everyone, defensive positions," Caelan ordered, his voice maintaining its calm despite the urgency of the situation. "Something's trying to break through the outer wards."
He retrieved his massive Godslayer's Greatsword, the weapon humming with barely contained power as he hefted it with practiced ease. The twisted black blade seemed to drink in the surrounding light, the gold-inlaid runes along its surface beginning to glow with an inner fire.
The Servants quickly formed a perimeter, their own weapons ready despite their diminished powers. Artoria's corrupted Excalibur pulsed with dark energy, Karna's divine spear glinted even in the subdued light, Scathach's Gáe Bolg quivered with deadly intent, and Jeanne Alter's banner unfurled as black flames licked along its edges.
Quetzalcoatl cracked her knuckles, her usually cheerful expression replaced by the fierce concentration of a war goddess preparing for battle. Even Void Shiki seemed more present, more focused, her hand resting on the hilt of her knife.
A third tremor, violent enough to crack one of the smaller stained glass windows. Through the breach came a sound—not quite a roar, not quite a scream, but something between the two that seemed to physically writhe through the air.
"What is that?" Quetzalcoatl asked, her voice hushed.
"A Hunter," Caelan replied grimly. "A faithful who consumed too much divine blessing and transformed. They're drawn to concentrations of power—like six divine Servants in one location."
The creature that finally smashed through the cathedral's defenses defied easy description. It had once been humanoid, but now stood nearly fifteen feet tall, its body a grotesque fusion of flesh, crystal, and what appeared to be solidified moonlight. Multiple arms—some ending in talons, others in what looked like broken sword blades—extended from a torso covered in eyes that blinked independently of each other. Its head was a corona of silver fire through which a face occasionally formed, only to dissolve again.
"By the Root," Void Shiki whispered, genuine awe in her voice.
The Hunter paused in the shattered entrance, its many eyes scanning the chamber until they fixed on the assembled Servants. A strange, chittering sound emerged from it—not communication, but something like broken laughter.
"DON'T JUST STAND THERE!" it suddenly shrieked in a voice that echoed with multiple tones, as if many were speaking through one throat. "RUN! HIDE! GIVE US SPORT BEFORE WE FEAST!"
Jeanne Alter's response was immediate and predictable. "How about you burn instead?" she snarled, sending a wave of black flame surging toward the creature.
The fire struck true, engulfing the Hunter—which made no attempt to dodge. For a moment, it seemed the attack had been successful as the creature disappeared within the inferno. Then came that broken laughter again as the flames were absorbed into its crystalline components, which began to glow with internal fire.
"WARM," it crooned. "BUT WE HAVE CONSUMED GREATER FLAMES THAN YOURS, LITTLE EMBER."
Karna moved next, his divine spear flashing with golden light as he launched a precise thrust at what seemed to be a vulnerability in the Hunter's midsection. The creature moved with shocking speed for its size, dodging sideways and lashing out with three of its arms simultaneously.
Karna barely managed to evade, his usual grace hampered by the dampening effect this world had on his divine abilities. One claw-tipped arm grazed his shoulder, tearing through his armor with disturbing ease and drawing a thin line of golden blood.
"DIVINITY," the Hunter hissed, its eyes focusing more intently. "FRESH. UNTAINTED. YOU ARE NOT FROM HERE. YOU ARE SOMETHING... NEW."
"Enough," Caelan's voice cut through the tension, his tone commanding absolute attention. He stepped forward, placing himself between the Hunter and the Servants, his greatsword held in a low guard position.
The creature's many eyes swiveled to him, and its form seemed to shrink slightly—not in fear, but in recognition.
"ASHBRAND," it chittered, the name sounding like a curse. "STILL WALKING. STILL BURNING. THE HOLLOW CROWN CASTS A LONG SHADOW."
"You know the rules," Caelan replied evenly. "This cathedral is sanctuary. Leave now, and you can continue your hunt elsewhere."
"RULES?" The Hunter's crystal components vibrated with what might have been amusement. "RULES DIED WITH GODS, ASHBRAND. ONLY HUNGER REMAINS. AND THESE..." It gestured with multiple limbs toward the Servants. "THESE ARE FEAST. THESE ARE FUTURE."
"Last warning," Caelan said, the red-orange glow in his eyes intensifying as he shifted his stance. His greatsword began to emit a soft hum, black flames with red cores flickering along its edge.
The Hunter's response was to lunge forward with explosive speed, all of its limbs extended in a deadly embrace meant to overwhelm through sheer savagery.
What happened next left even the battle-hardened Servants momentarily stunned.
Caelan moved with impossible grace and precision, as if the laws of physics bent around him rather than constraining him. The massive greatsword, which should have been unwieldy, flowed in his hands like an extension of his will. In a single, fluid motion, he sidestepped the Hunter's charge, pivoted, and brought the blade down in a perfect arc.
The black flame along the edge flared blindingly bright as it connected with the creature's midsection, cutting through crystalline armor and flesh with equal ease. But Caelan didn't stop there—his momentum carried him through a complete rotation, the greatsword tracing a full circle that cleaved through the Hunter a second time from the opposite direction.
The creature's momentum carried its severed parts forward, crashing into the stone floor with a sound like breaking glass. Yet even dismembered, it continued to move, its separated limbs crawling independently, its bisected torso attempting to reconnect.
"It regenerates," Artoria observed sharply. "Like a hydra."
"Yes," Caelan confirmed, already moving into the next phase of his attack. "Unless you extinguish the divine fragment at its core."
He planted his feet firmly, the greatsword suddenly thrust point-down into the stone floor. His hands moved in a complex pattern as he began to cast, but unlike the elaborate incantations most mages required, Caelan worked in utter silence, only the intensity of his focus betraying the power being gathered.
"Ancient Dragon Lightning Strike," he intoned finally, his voice resonating with power.
The air above the cathedral's broken entrance crackled and split as a massive bolt of red-tinged lightning descended, striking the scattered remains of the Hunter with devastating precision. The creature's broken laughter turned to screams as the lightning didn't simply burn but seemed to erase, consuming the divine essence that animated its twisted form.
When the lightning faded, nothing remained of the Hunter but scorch marks on the stone floor and a small, pulsing crystal that glowed with inner moonlight.
Without hesitation, Caelan retrieved his greatsword and approached the crystal. "The fragment," he explained, feeling the Servants' questioning gazes. "Still dangerous."
He raised the blade over the crystal, black flame once again wreathing its edge. "Blackflame," he intoned, bringing the weapon down in a final, decisive strike.
The crystal shattered with a sound like a distant scream, the light within extinguished so completely that it left an absence in the world—a small void that slowly, painfully closed itself.
Silence fell over the cathedral as Caelan straightened, his expression betraying no exertion despite the display of power they had just witnessed. He turned to face the Servants, who were regarding him with newfound wariness—and in some cases, grudging respect.
"That," he said calmly, "was a minor threat. A lone Hunter, weakened by hunger. The parasite nests we'll be facing house much worse."
Quetzalcoatl was the first to recover from her shock, a wide grin spreading across her face. "That was AMAZING! The way you moved, the lightning, the flames—truly spectacular combat!"
Even Jeanne Alter seemed impressed, though she tried to hide it behind her usual sneer. "Not bad, for a human. Though I could have handled it myself if you'd given me a chance to warm up."
"Is that what happened when your flames got eaten?" Artoria asked dryly, earning a glare from the Avenger.
Karna was examining the wound on his shoulder, which had already begun to heal. "The creature was stronger than it should have been, given our comparative power levels. This world truly does diminish divine essence."
"While apparently enhancing whatever it is you are," Scathach added, addressing Caelan with thoughtful consideration. "Your abilities seem unaffected by the constraints that limit us."
"This world doesn't reject me," Caelan replied simply. "I belong to it. You don't."
He moved to inspect the damaged entrance, assessing the breach in the cathedral's defenses. "I need to repair the wards before more are drawn here. That Hunter was likely a scout for a larger pack."
"We'll help," Quetzalcoatl volunteered immediately, bouncing on her toes with renewed energy. "Just tell us what to do!"
Caelan looked at her for a moment, something like puzzlement crossing his usually stoic features. "Why are you so... enthusiastic?"
Quetzalcoatl blinked, as if the question made no sense. "Because we're a team now! And teams support each other, yes? Besides, I've always found positivity works better than doom and gloom."
"We're not a team," Caelan corrected, though with less conviction than before. "We're temporary allies against a common threat."
"Same difference!" Quetzalcoatl declared, slapping him on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a normal human. Caelan didn't even sway. "Now, about those wards?"
After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. "The six of you together contain enough conceptual weight to reinforce the cathedral's natural defenses. If you're willing to contribute some of your essence—safely," he added, seeing alarm flash across several faces, "it would strengthen the boundary."
"And weaken us further?" Jeanne Alter asked suspiciously.
"Minimally," he assured her. "Think of it as investing a small amount of power now to prevent a larger drain later."
The Servants exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them.
"I believe he speaks truly," Karna said finally. "And pragmatically, we need this sanctuary secure before we venture out tomorrow."
One by one, they nodded in agreement—even Jeanne Alter, though with clear reluctance.
"Excellent," Caelan said, and if the Servants didn't know better, they might have thought a hint of relief colored his tone. "We'll begin immediately."
---
## Chapter 4: The Blood Cathedral
Dawn in the Lands That Should Not Be came not with the gentle lightening of the sky, but with a sudden shift in the cosmic tapestry overhead. One moment, the strange false stars gleamed in their impossible configurations; the next, they were gone, replaced by the return of the crimson sun that cast its bloodred light across the blighted landscape.
The Servants had spent the night in various states of rest—some like Artoria and Karna maintaining vigilant watches, others like Quetzalcoatl and Jeanne Alter taking the opportunity to recover some of their diminished strength. Void Shiki seemed barely to sleep at all, instead drifting through the cathedral like a ghost, examining the strange architecture and occasionally pausing to trace symbols on the walls with delicate fingers.
Caelan, too, appeared to require little rest. After they had reinforced the cathedral's wards—a process that had involved each Servant channeling a small portion of their essence into key points around the structure's perimeter—he had returned to his workbench, preparing for the coming expedition with methodical precision.
Now, as they gathered near the cathedral's entrance, the atmosphere was one of tense anticipation. The warding ritual had fostered a tentative sense of camaraderie among them, but the fundamental tension remained: they were divine beings in a world that hunted divinity, led by a man who had made a career of slaying gods.
"The Blood Cathedral is approximately four hours' journey from here," Caelan explained, indicating their route on a physical map he had sketched. Unlike the magical projection from the previous night, this was marked with notations in a script none of them recognized. "We'll travel through the Consecrated Snowfields, which offers some protection—the parasites find it difficult to maintain cohesion in extreme cold."
"Snowfields?" Quetzalcoatl repeated, glancing out at the barren, ash-covered landscape visible through the doorway. "It doesn't look particularly wintry out there."
"The weather here doesn't follow conventional patterns," Caelan replied. "The boundaries between environments are abrupt and often invisible until you cross them. Side effect of reality being rewritten too many times."
He donned the final pieces of his Maliketh armor—a fearsome helm that left only his eyes visible, now glowing more noticeably with that unsettling red-orange light. The full ensemble was both beautiful and terrifying—black, fur-lined plates articulated for maximum mobility while providing substantial protection, edged in gold and covered in scorched runes that seemed to shift subtly when viewed directly.
"Stay close to me," he instructed, his voice slightly muffled but no less commanding through the helm. "Step where I step. The snowfields contain hidden dangers beyond the obvious."
With that, he led them out into the crimson daylight, the Servants falling into a defensive formation around him—not because he needed protection, but because their warrior instincts naturally arranged them to cover all angles of approach.
True to Caelan's words, the transition to the Consecrated Snowfields was jarring and sudden. One moment they were traversing a barren plain of ash and broken stone; the next, they crossed an invisible threshold and found themselves ankle-deep in pristine snow that stretched to the horizon, glittering unnaturally under the red sun.
"Fascinating," Void Shiki murmured, bending to touch the snow. "This was once a holy place. I can feel the echoes of pilgrims who sought blessing through suffering."
"Correct," Caelan acknowledged, his pace never slowing. "The Liturgical Town of Ordina once stood at the center of these fields. Priests would send the faithful out to wander the snow as penance. Many died. Their corpses are still here, beneath the surface."
As if triggered by his words, the snow ahead of them shifted, a skeletal hand breaking through the white surface. Then another. And another.
"Risen faithful," Caelan identified them, drawing his greatsword with smooth efficiency. "Harmless individually. Dangerous in numbers."
"How many are there?" Artoria asked, her corrupted Excalibur already glowing with anticipation.
"Thousands," came the grim reply. "But they're slow. We can outpace them if we don't linger."
He accelerated his stride, leading them on a winding path through the snow as more and more skeletal figures began to emerge in their wake. The undead didn't run or charge; they simply walked with relentless, patient purpose, their empty eye sockets somehow tracking the Servants' movements with unerring accuracy.
"They sense your divinity," Caelan explained as they moved. "In life, they worshipped gods. In death, they hunger for what they once adored."
"Worship through consumption," Karna observed. "A perversion of true faith."
"Is there any other kind in this world?" Jeanne Alter asked sardonically, glancing back at the growing horde of skeletal figures following them.
They had covered perhaps half the distance to their destination when disaster struck. Quetzalcoatl, bringing up the rear of their formation, suddenly vanished with a startled cry—the snow beneath her feet giving way to reveal a hidden crevasse.
Caelan reacted with startling speed, pivoting and sprinting back before any of the other Servants could even process what had happened. Without hesitation, he dove into the crevasse after her, disappearing from view.
"What the—" Jeanne Alter started, only to be cut off by Scathach.
"Stay in formation," the warrior-queen commanded. "The undead are closing in. We need to hold position until they return."
Indeed, the skeletal faithful had accelerated their approach, perhaps sensing the separation of the group. Hundreds of them now converged from all directions, their bony hands reaching, teeth clacking with hungry anticipation.
Artoria took command naturally, her royal authority asserting itself. "Circular defense. Karna, take the north quadrant. Scathach, east. Alter, west. I'll cover the south. Void Shiki, maintain the center and watch for the return of the others."
They moved into position with practiced efficiency, these heroes who had fought countless battles across time and space. Even Jeanne Alter, typically resistant to authority, followed without complaint—the immediate threat overriding her rebellious nature.
The first wave of skeletal faithful reached them moments later, and the battle was joined. Though diminished, the Servants' powers were still formidable. Artoria's corrupted Excalibur cleaved through dozens with each swing, Karna's divine spear pierced through entire lines of the undead, Scathach's rune-enhanced combat skills allowed her to dispatch attackers with brutal efficiency, and Jeanne Alter's flames, while not at full strength, were more than adequate to reduce the dried bones to ash.
Yet for each skeleton they destroyed, three more emerged from the snow. The horde seemed endless, a tide of bony limbs and hungry, eyeless faces.
"We can't maintain this indefinitely," Karna observed calmly, even as he impaled five undead on his spear at once. "Our energy reserves are limited in this realm."
"Caelan had better return quickly with our sunshine goddess," Jeanne Alter growled, her flames beginning to show signs of weakening after sustained use. "Or I'll throw him to these walking calcium deposits myself."
As if summoned by her words, the snow at the center of their defensive circle erupted upward. Caelan emerged in a shower of ice crystals, Quetzalcoatl held securely in his arms. He landed with perfect balance despite the additional weight, setting the goddess on her feet in one fluid motion.
"My hero!" Quetzalcoatl declared with a bright laugh, seemingly unfazed by her ordeal. A thin cut on her forehead suggested it hadn't been an entirely smooth rescue, but her eyes sparkled with excitement rather than fear.
Caelan was already assessing the tactical situation, his greatsword returning to his hand as if summoned. "You've drawn too many," he observed. "We need to clear a path and continue moving."
Without waiting for response, he thrust his sword into the snow and began another silent casting. This time, the air around them grew heavy, charged with potential.
"Rancorcall," he intoned, and the snow at their feet suddenly burned away in a perfect circle, revealing ancient symbols carved into the earth beneath. These flared with ghostly blue fire before erupting into spectral blades that shot outward in all directions, piercing through the skeletal horde like arrows.
Where the blades struck, the undead didn't merely fall—they dissolved, their animating force severed from whatever anchor had maintained it.
"Move. Now." Caelan's command brooked no argument as he retrieved his sword and started forward at a pace just short of a run.
The Servants followed, Quetzalcoatl now positioned more protectively in the center of their formation. The spectral blades had cleared a substantial path, but already new undead were emerging to fill the gaps.
"That was amazing!" Quetzalcoatl exclaimed as they ran, addressing Caelan's back. "The way you dove after me without hesitation—like a hero from a legend!"
"I did what was necessary," came the flat response, though those closest to him might have noticed a slight tensing of his shoulders at the praise.
"What was down there?" Void Shiki asked, gliding alongside them with supernatural grace.
"A hunting trap," Caelan replied. "Set by the faithful in life to capture sacrifices for their gods. In death, they maintain their duties, though the purpose has been forgotten."
"And yet you knew exactly where I'd fallen and how to get me out," Quetzalcoatl pressed, undeterred by his stoicism. "Almost like you'd done it before."
There was a brief pause before Caelan answered, his voice quieter than before. "I have. Many times. I've traversed these lands for... a very long time."
The admission seemed to cost him something, a small crack in the impenetrable facade he presented to the world. Quetzalcoatl's expression softened, genuine warmth replacing her usual exuberance.
"Then I'm doubly grateful," she said simply.
Jeanne Alter made a gagging sound. "If you two are quite finished with the touching moment, we still have an army of skeletons on our tail and a blood god waiting ahead."
"Alter's right," Artoria agreed, though with considerably more diplomacy. "We should focus on reaching our destination."
The remainder of their journey through the Consecrated Snowfields passed in tense silence, broken only by the occasional instruction from Caelan to avoid particular areas or to alter their course around invisible dangers. The pursuing undead gradually fell behind, either unable to match their pace or limited by some unseen boundary.
Finally, the snow gave way to bare stone as abruptly as it had appeared, and they found themselves standing on a ridge overlooking a valley filled with crimson mist. At its center loomed their target: the Blood Cathedral.
The structure defied conventional architecture. It resembled a gothic cathedral that had been constructed by someone who understood the concept but had never actually seen one. The proportions were wrong—towers too tall and thin, arches too acute, windows too organic in their shapes. The entire edifice seemed to pulse subtly, as if breathing, and rivers of what could only be blood flowed down its outer walls, collecting in pools that never overflowed.
"By the Root," Void Shiki whispered, "it's alive."
"Semi-organic," Caelan corrected. "The parasite has merged with the original structure, using it as both shelter and food source. The blood is what remains of the faithful who sought blessing from the Formless Mother."
"I can feel it calling," Karna said suddenly, his expression troubled. "Even at this distance. It... recognizes something in me. In all of us."
The others nodded in grim agreement. Each felt a subtle pull, a whispering invitation that bypassed their ears to speak directly to the divine essence within them.
"That's how it hunts," Caelan explained, his voice hardening. "It finds resonance with your divinity and uses that connection to draw you in. Once inside, it attempts to merge with your Saint Graph, using your conceptual weight to rebuild itself."
"So how do we kill it without getting ourselves infected?" Jeanne Alter demanded.
Caelan reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew six small, crystalline objects that glowed with inner fire. "Blood seals," he said, offering one to each Servant. "Temporary protection. They won't last long—perhaps thirty minutes once we're inside. But they'll prevent direct corruption while they're active."
The Servants accepted the seals with varying degrees of trust. Each crystal was warm to the touch and seemed to pulse in time with the holder's heartbeat.
"Press it against your chest," Caelan instructed. "It will merge with your essence temporarily."
Quetzalcoatl was the first to comply, placing the crystal over her heart without hesitation. The seal glowed brightly before seeming to sink into her body, leaving a faint, rune-like mark visible through her clothing.
"Ooh, tingly!" she exclaimed with a grin. "Like champagne bubbles under the skin!"
One by one, the others followed suit, each experiencing the integration differently. Karna nodded stoically, Artoria's eyes widened slightly in surprise, Scathach analyzed the sensation with professional interest, Jeanne Alter hissed between clenched teeth, and Void Shiki simply smiled enigmatically.
"Now," Caelan said, drawing his greatsword, "we end this parasite before it can spread further. Remember the plan—we target the heart chamber at the center. Avoid the blood pools. Don't listen to voices that call your name. And above all, stay together."
With that final instruction, he led them down the ridge toward the pulsing, organic cathedral that waited hungrily below.
---
## Chapter 5: Baptism in Blood
The entrance to the Blood Cathedral was a massive door of what appeared to be solidified blood, its surface rippling slightly despite its seemingly solid state. Faces occasionally formed in the viscous material—expressions of ecstasy, pain, or religious fervor that lasted only moments before dissolving back into the crimson mass.
Caelan approached without hesitation, placing his palm against the surface. "The parasite knows we're here," he said, his voice calm despite the dire implication. "It's excited. Hungry."
"How do we get inside?" Scathach asked, eyeing the door with tactical assessment.
In answer, Caelan's hand began to glow with black flame. "We announce ourselves properly."
The flame spread rapidly across the blood door, not consuming it but rather causing it to recoil, contracting away from the burning touch until an opening appeared—not a conventional doorway, but a sphincter-like portal that pulsed with unwholesome invitation.
"Charming," Jeanne Alter commented dryly. "Nothing says 'welcome' like entering through a bleeding orifice."
"Focus," Caelan admonished, though there might have been the faintest hint of amusement in his tone. "Once inside, we have thirty minutes before the blood seals fade. Move quickly, stay close, and do not—under any circumstances—touch the liquid blood."
With that warning, he stepped through the opening, his massive greatsword at the ready. The Servants followed, each mentally preparing for combat in their own way.
The interior of the Blood Cathedral was even more disturbing than its exterior suggested. What had once been a place of worship had been transformed into a nightmare of organic architecture. The floor pulsed beneath their feet like a giant heart, each beat sending ripples through the stone. The walls were lined with flowing channels of blood that sometimes defied gravity, streaming upward or sideways in patterns that suggested deliberate circulation rather than random flow.
The ceiling arched high above, not of stone but of something that resembled translucent flesh stretched taut, through which massive, shadowy organs could be seen pulsing and contracting.
Most disturbing of all were the worshippers—or what remained of them. Humanoid figures stood frozen in prayer throughout the cathedral, their bodies partially dissolved into the structure itself. Some were still recognizably human, their faces locked in expressions of rapturous devotion even as their lower bodies merged with the floor. Others had progressed further in their transformation, their forms elongated and twisted, extra limbs or sensory organs budding from torsos that had been flayed open to reveal not human anatomy but complex crystalline structures suffused with blood.
"The faithful," Caelan identified them quietly. "They came seeking communion with their blood god. They found it, in a way."
"They're still alive," Void Shiki observed with disturbing certainty. "I can see the boundaries of their existence. Death has been... redirected within them."
"Yes," Caelan confirmed. "The parasite preserves what it finds useful. These were once the cathedral's priests and most devoted pilgrims. Now they're part of its nervous system."
As if triggered by his words, the nearest transformed faithful turned their heads in unison, empty eye sockets somehow fixing on the intruders. Their mouths opened, but what emerged was not individual speech but a collective voice that seemed to come from the cathedral itself.
"PILGRIMS," the voice crooned, the sound bubbling as if spoken through liquid. "SEEKERS. VESSELS. YOU BRING US SUCH GIFTS."
The voice paused, and the faithful cocked their heads in perfect synchronization, like birds listening for prey.
"DIVINITY," the voice continued, taking on a hungrier tone. "FRESH. UNTAINTED BY OUR WORLD'S DEATH. AND... ASHBRAND."
This last word was spoken with a complex emotion—fear mingled with hatred and, disturbingly, something like reverence.
"HAVE YOU COME TO BURN US AGAIN, GOD-SLAYER? OR DO YOU BRING OFFERINGS TO APPEASE?"
"Neither," Caelan replied, his voice carrying easily through the massive chamber. "I've come to finish what I started. Your time is over, parasite."
A sound like wet laughter bubbled through the cathedral. "NOTHING ENDS," the voice insisted. "WE TRANSFORM. WE ADAPT. WE CONSUME. AND NOW..." The faithful all smiled in unison, revealing mouths full of crystalline teeth. "NOW WE EVOLVE."
Without warning, the nearest transformed faithful lunged forward with impossible speed, their partially merged bodies tearing free from the floor with sounds of ripping flesh. They moved like marionettes controlled by a clumsy puppeteer—all wrong angles and jerking motions, yet terrifyingly fast.
Caelan reacted instantly, his greatsword cleaving through the first attacker with a spray of crystallized blood rather than normal gore. The creature didn't die so much as shatter, fragments of its body dissolving into the pulsing floor.
"They're connected to the cathedral's nervous system," he called to the Servants as more faithful detached themselves and attacked. "Destroying them won't kill the parasite, but it will slow its reactions. Cut through them and keep moving toward the central chamber!"
The battle was joined in earnest as dozens of faithful converged on the intruders. Despite their diminished powers, the Servants proved why they were legendary heroes. Artoria's corru