Chapter 17: The Betrayal
In the depths of Castle Yggdmillennia, Avicebron worked tirelessly, his fingers weaving through the ether as dozens of golems took shape around him.
His mind was focused, cold, mechanical — until the heavy doors creaked open.
A stranger stepped inside.
Avicebron turned sharply, his body already shifting into a battle stance. This wasn't Darnic. This wasn't any Black Faction master he recognized.
"I am Shirou Kotomine," the man said calmly, stepping into the workshop as if it were his own. "Leader of the Red Faction."
Avicebron's hands twitched, ready to unleash a wave of destruction, but Shirou only smiled.
"I have not come to fight," Shirou continued. "I have come to offer you an invitation. Join the Red Faction. Leave this crumbling house behind."
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then Avicebron spoke, his voice low and mechanical:
"I will consider your offer... if you aid me in completing my Noble Phantasm. I require a certain Homunculus traveling alongside the Ruler."
Shirou didn't hesitate. "Agreed."
And just like that, the betrayal was sealed.
At Avicebron's silent command, the workshop shook.
Every golem he had crafted pivoted at once — and without mercy, they turned upon the Black Faction's handmade Homunculi.
Screams filled the halls.
Blood and stone splattered the walls.
From the courtyard, Sieg watched, wide-eyed and frozen in horror, as his brothers and sisters — the people he had vowed to protect — were slaughtered like cattle.
He tried to move.
Tried to scream.
But nothing came out.
Meanwhile, outside on the battlefield, the clash between Beowulf and Achilles raged on.
Their weapons — one ancient, one divine — shattered against each other, forcing both heroes to abandon their arms and fight with raw fists.
Each blow shook the ground.
Each punch could kill an ordinary man a hundred times over.
It was a brutal, endless struggle of two monsters locked in desperate combat.
Until—
"Ah, what a perfect stage!" cried a theatrical voice.
From the chaos emerged a flamboyant figure: William Shakespeare, laughing as if he had stumbled into a grand performance.
While Beowulf and Achilles continued to trade punches, barely acknowledging him, Shakespeare raised a single worn book high into the air.
"First Folio!" he shouted.
Beowulf suddenly staggered, as if an invisible weight crushed him.
Visions filled his mind — regrets, failures, moments of doubt and sorrow he had long buried beneath his warrior pride.
Achilles, sensing the opening, unleashed a brutal counterattack.
One blow. Two. Three.
With a final thunderous punch, Achilles struck Beowulf's heart, sending the mighty warrior crashing to the ground.
Dead.
Achilles stood over him, breathing heavily, displeased with such a hollow victory — but victory nonetheless.
Elsewhere, the ferocious battle between Karna and Vlad III continued.
Spears of blood rained down from Vlad's endless conjuration, while Karna countered each strike with blinding bursts of solar fire.
Their clash set the very air ablaze.
Arash, recognizing the shift in the atmosphere, disengaged from the battle, leaving Karna alone against Vlad.
Neither hero hesitated.
Karna, bathed in light, invoked his ultimate Noble Phantasm: Vasavi Shakti, the celestial burning spear capable of piercing through all creation.
Vlad roared in response, unleashing the full horror of Kazikli Bey — a bloody forest of death manifesting into reality.
Their two Noble Phantasms collided in a storm of divine fury.
The sky tore apart.
The ground split.
But in the end, it was Karna who stood tall, his lance shining like a second sun.
Vlad, impaled burned and broken, fell with a grimace — defeated, but never humiliated.
Karna, respectful even in triumph, bowed his head.
"Thank you, King Vlad," Karna said. "For a battle worthy of legends."
As the fires of their clash died down, the Red Faction's victory drew ever closer — and the Holy Grail War continued its bloody descent into chaos.