Chapter 7: Berserker of Black
The morning sun barely pierced through the mist-shrouded canopy when Riya stirred from uneasy sleep.
The cold earth beneath him offered no comfort, and his body—once agile and sharp—now felt like it had been forged from lead.
Every joint ached.
His legs trembled the moment he pushed himself upright, as if gravity itself had grown more cruel overnight.
The aftereffects of Jeanne d'Arc's "connection" were catching up with him.
He clenched his jaw, steadying himself against the ache.
No way in hell was he going to let Muramasa see him falter.
The swordsmith sat a short distance away, rhythmically sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
Sparks flew in soft bursts, matching the calm intensity on the old warrior's face.
He spared Riya a glance, brief and unreadable, before returning to his task.
They exchanged no words.
A soft flutter disturbed the morning quiet.
Something drifted down through the trees and landed at Riya's feet—a folded parchment sealed with ancient, golden wax.
Riya bent down and picked it up.
The mana residue around it was familiar.
The old man who had helped summon Muramasa—his presence lingered faintly in the seal.
Breaking it open, Riya read the short, sharp message inside:
"The Red Master Commander requests your presence. The Church. Noon."
No greeting.
No choice.
Just a summons.
Riya sighed. "Awesome."
Later.
Light filtered through stained-glass windows in multicolored rays, casting fractured hues across the stone floor.
The atmosphere was solemn, yet beneath the serenity pulsed a quiet, tangible menace.
Shirou Kotomine stood before the altar, a serene smile touching his lips.
His cassock was pristine, his presence calm—too calm.
A mask that fit almost too perfectly.
Beside him, veiled in shifting shadows, was something far less subtle.
A suffocating spiritual pressure exuded from the corner of the chapel—a monstrous aura, thick and primal.
Riya's eyes narrowed.
"Welcome," Shirou said, his voice smooth, almost priest-like in tone.
"I'm glad you came."
"My name is Shirou Kotomine"
"And this is Tezcatlipoca, my Servant."
The name struck like a gong in Riya's memory—an Aztec god, chaos incarnate, draped in myth and blood.
Shirou gestured slightly. "Let's speak as allies, Riya."
"The Red Faction would benefit from your strength."
"I propose an alliance."
"Share intelligence."
"Coordinate attacks."
"Fight as one."
He spoke of order, salvation, and unity—grand ideals wrapped in honeyed words.
But Riya had seen enough leaders to recognize when the rot lay just beneath the skin.
He stared at Shirou, unblinking. "I'll fight my battles on my own," he said coldly.
"I don't work well with others."
Shirou's smile didn't waver, but his eyes thinned ever so slightly.
Without waiting for dismissal, Riya turned on his heel and walked out, the door creaking shut behind him.
Later.
The fire crackled softly as Riya crouched beside it, adjusting the wood.
Muramasa remained alert, his back against a tree, blade within reach.
Then the wind shifted.
Muramasa's head snapped up.
A presence moved through the forest—feral, primal, and unrestrained.
Leaves rustled violently as something massive emerged from the trees.
The Berserker of Black strode into the firelight with a grin that split his face from ear to ear.
Muscles bulged beneath his cloak, and his killing intent rolled off him like a storm tide.
With a roar, he charged.
Muramasa leapt to meet him, steel flashing, their first clash sending a shockwave through the clearing.
Sparks flew.
Trees splintered.
Blades danced—but brute strength began to dominate finesse.
Beowulf fought like a force of nature, his attacks wild but devastating.
Muramasa's skill kept pace—barely—but it was clear the old smith wouldn't hold forever.
Riya cursed under his breath.
He reached inward.
Golden light burst around him as he activated his power—Jeanne d'Arc's energy surging through his body like a storm.
For ten minutes, he would channel her strength, her power.
Clarity struck like lightning.
"Beowulf," he murmured, eyes glowing with True Name Discernment.
"King of the Geats. Slayer of monsters."
Now armed with that knowledge, he sprang into motion.
"Muramasa! Aim for his left side—his swing opens wide after each second blow!"
The old swordsman didn't question.
He adjusted, blades meeting muscle with new purpose.
Together, they pressed Beowulf back.
Strike after strike.
Precision over power.
The Berserker snarled.
Blood flew.
The earth trembled.
But just as victory loomed—
A Command Seal flared in the distance.
Magic wrapped around Beowulf, yanking him backward with brutal force.
He vanished into the night, a guttural roar of frustration echoing behind him.
Silence returned.
The clearing was scorched, trees reduced to stumps, and the scent of ozone lingered.
Riya let the borrowed power fade.
He collapsed to one knee, breathing hard.
Elsewhere.
Deep underground, in a cavern filled with flickering candlelight, the bodies of the Red Masters lay sprawled across the stone floor—unconscious, silent.
Shirou Kotomine stood above them, arms bared to the flickering light, countless Command Seals glowing faintly along his skin like arcane tattoos.
His face was calm.
Peaceful.
In the far reaches of the chamber, shadows shifted—Servants unseen, identities still hidden.
Plans set into motion.
Truths left unspoken.
The Holy Grail War had begun in earnest.
And Riya's path was only growing darker.