Chapter 387: Lord Impaler

Suddenly, there was complete silence.

The sounds ceased, leaving only the wind's howl dominating the surroundings. However, the presence of Berserker, unable to hide his aura, was unmistakably declared even before he manifested.

He was there. With this certainty in mind, Astolfo took a step forward.

"Come, O Tyrant! The time has come for your arrogance to crumble and the dignity of the strong to be scattered!"

With trees being felled in his path, the Red Berserker emerged.

"...Whoa."

Upon seeing him, Astolfo immediately wanted to leave the area.

It wasn't the giant that was frightening. Astolfo had previously battled a giant named Galigant with dozens of arms and paraded him around triumphantly.

A tough opponent wasn't scary either. Facing a raging monster was similarly trivial. However, if this tough giant was smiling—it was a bit, no, extremely unsettling.

Yes, a smile was terrifying. Smiling while intruding into enemy lines meant either immense confidence or insanity to the point of disregarding all consequences.

Standing over two meters tall and wielding a short sword, the force of his earlier blow suggested that his fists possessed considerable destructive power.

Additionally, his indefatigable demeanor was extraordinary. Even if one could wound him, it seemed impossible to completely kill him.

Indeed, although Astolfo couldn't harm him in the slightest, he was expected to take the lead and understood the necessity of doing so.

"This is what I was summoned for. Well, I have no choice but to go for it!"

Astolfo flashed an invincible smile that rivaled the Red Berserker's and brandished the golden lance in his hand.

"Listen to my voice, those afar! Come near, those close by! I am Astolfo, one of Charlemagne's Twelve Paladins! Here I stand, ready to fight with honor!"

Shouting out the long-awaited introduction he had been yearning to declare, Astolfo revealed his true name without hesitation. Fortunately, the Red Berserker lacked the strategic thinking to exploit his opponent's true name.

"Ha ha ha ha ha. Excellent, such arrogance is splendid. Come, trample me!"

Laughing, Berserker rushed towards Astolfo. His movements were surprisingly nimble, his bear-like body charging forward like a wild boar.

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!"

Accompanied by his laughter, he swung down from above—a strike that could likely crush Astolfo's small frame. Astolfo dodged elegantly.

"Huh?"

He had indeed dodged. But unfortunately, there are blows in this world that are meaningless to dodge. Berserker's strike left claw marks on the ground and the shockwave alone sent Astolfo flying.

"Ouch, ouch... what a heavy hit."

With a pained expression, his side bruised from the impact, he still stood up. There was no fear in his eyes. If touched, he would be sent flying; he couldn't counter with strength, and his skills were entirely useless.

Even so, he was still a Heroic Spirit. Moreover, as one of Charlemagne's Twelve Paladins, Astolfo was both a foolhardy warrior, often called "mad with reason dissipated," and an adventurer who had traversed the world, establishing numerous legends.

And among those adventures, he had acquired various magical artifacts—a horn, a book, a phantom steed (Hippogriff), and a golden lance that shone with brilliance.

"Then, here I go... Argalia! Show him your power!"

Astolfo charged forward. Even without a steed, his speed was as swift as lightning. However, to the emotionally numb Red Berserker, this attack likely brought joy rather than fear.

The fiercer and more desperate the attack, the more satisfying the counterstrike would be. Even if his abdomen was about to be pierced, this Berserker would surely retaliate.

Thus, the confident Berserker swung his sword again. His super-compressed abdominal muscles were so sturdy that even steel paled in comparison.

"Trap of Argalia: (Down with a Touch)!"

However, the lance Astolfo wielded wasn't designed to kill. Of course, being a lance, it could inflict wounds and even death if it pierced the heart.

But it was just an ordinary lance—lacking any magical enhancements, unable to pierce through everything, and devoid of any guaranteed heart-seeking causality.

Nevertheless, this lance was deadly on the battlefield.

Suddenly, Berserker felt as if he was falling. The firm ground he was standing on vanished, making him momentarily forget to swing his sword. Even so, his smile didn't fade, and he showed no surprise. Yet, overturning this unreasonable situation was impossible.

The Noble Phantasm "Trap of Argalia," absurdly named as it was, lived up to its literal effect. According to legend, the lance favored by Prince Argalia of Cathay could make anything it touched fall. For heavily armored knights, falling in battle meant certain death. Even if not, the prestige gained from using this lance in jousting tournaments was evident.

When used on a Servant, this lance would manifest its legend by forcibly turning everything below the knees into spirit form. Regardless of where it touched the body—even if it hit armor woven with magical energy—the lance would sever the magical supply to the lower legs, making it impossible to reconstruct the physical form for a while.

Even so, this alone couldn't stop the Red Berserker. As long as he had his upper body, he would crawl to defeat his enemy.

"Losing my legs won't stop me!"

"Yes, indeed. So now, I'll stop you next. Alright, go!"

At Astolfo's command, the long-waiting golems pounced.

The golems, each weighing over a ton, pressed down on him to immobilize one of his arms. But the Red Berserker swatted them away like a child, smashing the upper body of one with a single punch. Yet, even with their heads shattered, the golems continued to function until their mechanisms completely failed—that was their strength.

Like ants capturing prey, they methodically and solemnly enveloped the Red Berserker. But he was neither a helpless small animal nor a caterpillar. No matter how much the ants bit, the giant wouldn't stop.

The Red Berserker did not stop. Even with his legs turned into spirit form, he continued his valiant advance towards the fortress.

"Hahahahaha, this is wonderful, this is marvelous. Enemy troops are gathering, and I am covered in wounds. Ah, this—this is what makes the victory cry worth shouting!"

His body was entirely covered by golems. Twice, Berserker tried to push himself up. Despite wearing armor made of rock, bronze, and steel, he continued to advance.

Advance, advance, advance. The Red Berserker was a fool, but not a lost soul.

Using his nose, skin, ears, eyes, and tongue, he understood—just ahead, the tyrant was waiting.

...

"Yes, it's splendid. Caster, don't be modest. Your golems did a great job. It's just that this Berserker is an anomaly."

"...!"

The Red Berserker accelerated his advance. Tearing through the layers of golems, he finally laid eyes on his target.

"It's you—"

"Indeed. Red Berserker, if it is the ruler you seek, then I am the one standing at the pinnacle."

"Oh oh, oh oh... OOOOOOOOOOOH!"

The Red Berserker leaped with joy, stretching out his arm. Just a little more, and his hand would reach the tyrant's head. Always, without exception, after such trials, there awaited boundless glory and joy. The Berserker's logic was flawless and complete. No one could find a flaw in it.

However, the Berserker forgot something crucial. Awaiting at the end of such trials was a miserable death and a cruel end.

The Berserker surged forward. Staring at him with icy eyes was the Black Berserker—Vlad III. The hero who reigned supreme in Romania, brutally slaughtering all his enemies. The name he was fearfully called by his foes was—

"Kazikli Bey: (Bloodstained King Demon)!"

As Vlad III declared this, the ground nearby surged upward.

"Tyrant, I will crush you... pulverize you!"

Berserker, undeterred by the weight of the golems, swung his sword. Unexpectedly, sharp stakes pierced his arm. Even if they didn't hurt, they forcibly halted his movement.

"I have spent my life battling rebels like you. I have slain them all, impaling their bodies and leaving them to rot. But—"

Stakes, several meters long, impaled both the golems and the Berserker. Vlad III only performed the rough operation of "avoiding the spirit core." He ensured Berserker wouldn't die but saw no need to torture his spirit.

Death would be a mercy, and if he survived, a worse hell awaited the Berserker.

With his legs turned into spirit form, his body covered by countless golems, and everything but his heart and brain impaled, the Berserker still moved. To defeat the imminent tyrant. This was beyond hatred and obsession.

Indeed. What Vlad III sought to confirm, even at the cost of half his golems, was his conviction. Was he merely a foolish savage content with rebelling against power, or did he, even in madness, hold an unyielding line deep within his heart?

The Grand Duke sighed in satisfaction.

"Facing you like this, I finally understand. Your rebellion is the manifestation of a proud soul. You will never stand idly by while the strong trample the weak; you fight to turn the strong into the weak."

Not "for" the weak. Such a pretense was beyond the Berserker's reach. He was single-mindedly—

"Do you dream of a world of equality? You are no dreamer, but a fantasist. For the first time, I wish to show respect to a rebel like you. But, regrettably for you—"

With a snap of Vlad III's fingers, Avicebron stepped forward.

"Let me convert your rebellion. Red Berserker, from now on, you will serve us."

"..."

The Berserker's smile vanished. With a look of utter despair and rage, the Red Berserker faced the Black Berserker. What he declared was "subjugation." To the Berserker, this was a humiliation and despair worse than death.

"Then—"

With a cold demeanor, Avicebron issued a command to the golems restraining Berserker. Instantly, they transformed into a fluid state, tightly binding Berserker along with the stakes. Even the rebellious hero Spartacus couldn't escape this stone prison.

After that, Vlad III lost interest in Berserker. Since he was now under his command, the one who bared their fangs was no longer from the Black faction but the Red faction. To him, this was sufficient.

Facing the returning Vlad III, Astolfo shouted loudly:

"Well then. It seems my part here is done, so I'll take my leave!"

With that, Astolfo hurriedly spirit-form shifted back to the fortress. Naturally, he intended to take advantage of the situation. For a short time, this wasn't a scenario where a mere homunculus would be given much thought. It was the perfect opportunity.

PS: Trap of Argalia: Down with a Touch!, Rank D

This golden lance originally belonged to the knight Argalia of Cathay. Although it had low killing power, it could force the opponent's legs below the knees to become spirit-form or cause them to fall. No matter where it touched the body (even if it contacted armor woven with magical energy), the lance would forcibly cut off the magical supply to the lower legs, making physical reconstruction impossible for a short time.

As a result, Argalia defeated all knights of his level in jousting tournaments, including Astolfo. One knight, after falling from his horse, did not surrender but chose to draw his sword. Argalia was forced to fight with his sword and ultimately lost, fleeing afterward. Argalia had overly trusted in the power of his lance, to the point that he promised to hand over his sister Angelica (the beauty who later drove Roland mad) to the victor.

Recognizing her brother's unfavorable situation, Angelica disappeared. During the ensuing chaos of the duel, Astolfo, whose own lance had broken, noticed Argalia's lance and, thinking "Ah, there's a lance here," stole—borrowed it without permission.