I Don’t Want to Be a Heroic Spirit

By the power of Tapisserie Éternelle, this story is granted two bonus chapters—rejoice in this reward!

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The white-haired priest, Amakusa Shirou Tokisada, was feeling rather exasperated.

Though he had successfully taken control of all the Red Faction Masters except for the Saber's Master, one Servant was entirely beyond his command. That individual had charged headlong toward the Black Faction's stronghold.

As the rebel who had raised his blade against oppression, Spartacus was instinctively drawn to those he perceived as oppressors. His nature compelled him to seek them out and swing his hammer of rebellion.

Thus, Vlad III became his target. Even though the two of them weren't even in the same city, Spartacus was drawn to Vlad like a moth to a flame, rushing forward in defiance of all obstacles. No one could stop him.

Deemed too uncontrollable, Spartacus had already been written off as a pawn by Amakusa. Yet, that didn't mean Amakusa planned to do nothing.

He dispatched the Red Faction's Rider, Achilles, and Archer, Atalanta, both renowned for their speed. Not only could they scout the situation, but they could also retreat from the battlefield if necessary.

Atalanta, a wild-looking archer with long green hair, beast-like ears, and a tail, stood on a tree branch, her fingers absently stroking an arrow as her agitation grew.

"This blatant display of divinity... it's practically a provocation," she muttered.

As a devotee of the goddess Artemis, Atalanta was no stranger to the presence of divinity. The figure standing atop the Black Faction's castle radiated a brilliance akin to the sun, impossible to ignore. It made her fingers itch to fire an arrow and bring that shining figure down.

"Don't do anything rash, big sis," Achilles warned.

"I never thought I'd see the day when you were the voice of reason," Atalanta retorted, shooting him a sharp glare. "Normally, you'd be the first one charging at an interesting opponent. What's the matter? Did you fall out of bed and hit your head?"

"Haha! It's not easy for me, either," Achilles said, resting his spear on his shoulder with a grin. "Normally, I'd rush straight at a worthy opponent like that. My patience is wearing thin!"

"But even I know better than to steal someone else's fight. Do that, and you'll find their spear pointed at you instead of the enemy."

"You're exaggerating," Atalanta replied, frowning slightly. "According to legend, Lancer is supposed to be calm and wise. You're projecting your battle-crazed tendencies onto him."

"You don't get it, big sis," Achilles said with an infuriatingly smug smile. "You're a true hero, no doubt, but you're not a proper warrior. You wouldn't understand how we think."

"I never claimed to be a warrior. I'm a hunter," Atalanta said coolly. "I'm skilled at crossing mountains and taking down prey. No matter where my target runs, my arrows will find them, guided by Apollo and Artemis themselves."

Their banter ceased as Spartacus finally reached the Black Faction's Servants.

The first to meet Spartacus was Astolfo, likely chosen by the Black Faction to test his abilities. As one of Charlemagne's Twelve Paladins, Astolfo was undoubtedly the weakest of the group.

Both Astolfo and Spartacus were erratic in their own ways—one acting on whims, the other immune to reason. In a strange way, they were alike.

As expected, Astolfo impulsively decided to introduce himself in a dramatic manner, only for Spartacus to ignore him completely, laughing as he swung his weapon. Astolfo had no choice but to flee in a panic.

From her vantage point, Artoria observed the scene for a while before losing interest.

Though she had spent an amicable day with some of the Black Faction's members, she remained acutely aware of her role. As long as no one attacked her directly, she had no intention of interfering in the battle below.

It's time to leave.

Like a silver moon swallowed by clouds, Artoria's divine radiance faded.

---

Those sensitive to the presence of divinity noticed immediately—Ruler had departed.

Achilles clicked his tongue in disappointment and shifted the spear on his shoulder.

"Guess it's time for me to find my opponent before I go stir-crazy," he said.

In an instant, Achilles vanished, a gale whipping up in his wake. His voice echoed in the wind.

"Big sis, cover for me!"

Atalanta rolled her eyes. She knew Achilles wasn't serious. His idea of "cover" was probably smashing through every enemy on his own, as he had done countless times before. Still, she drew her bowstring taut.

If Achilles had his target, then she would find her own prey.

"Ruler has already left, hasn't she?" Vlad III remarked as he rode a magnificent steed.

The horse wasn't flesh and blood but a mechanical construct crafted by Avicebron. Vlad was not the kind of ruler to command from the rear; he was a king who led his soldiers from the front lines.

To his allies, his imposing figure was a banner of victory. To his enemies, his spear was a harbinger of death.

No ordinary steed could match Vlad's dignity as a Servant, so Avicebron had crafted the automaton specifically for him.

Although Vlad felt some regret at Artoria's departure, it didn't deter him. Even knowing her true identity, he hadn't given up on recruiting her to his side.

To Vlad, the "divine King Arthur" held far more value than "the Ruler of the Holy Grail War."

But he was not one to lament. Nor would he plead for her to stay.

"Then, it's time for us to begin," he declared.

Before him, Spartacus was pinned down by numerous stakes impaling his body, unable to move or break free.

Darnic intended to turn the mindless Berserker into a pawn for his faction. He enlisted Avicebron's help to reverse the contract binding Spartacus.

Meanwhile, Darnic had also spotted Achilles charging toward them with undeniable bravado. Unconcerned with stealth, Achilles made his presence impossible to ignore.

In response, Darnic dispatched Siegfried and Frankenstein to intercept him.