Chapter 84: Sword of Separation

As Gilgamesh’s command echoed, the ripples emanating from the King’s Treasury began to twist and writhe. Countless precious treasures, unleashed in rapid succession like the hail of a machine gun, formed a thread so fine it was impossible to trace, relentlessly assailing Roland at the center.

Gilgamesh spared no expense in releasing the original forms of myriad noble phantasms. Regardless of what curses his foe invoked, or how fiercely he resisted, Gilgamesh was determined to see his opponent's secret laid bare.

Saber, witnessing this breathtaking spectacle, was shaken. This was firepower enough to annihilate all that existed—hard to imagine any life surviving within it. The only optimal solution was to unleash the true power of the holy sword in her hand and break free at the first opportunity.

Yet Roland stood firm, refusing to retreat. With an arrogant gaze that looked down upon all, he faced Gilgamesh and issued a terrifying, manic laugh.

“Fool! Witness it for yourself! The true power of Killer Queen lies in its dominion over the entire world!”

“Killer Queen!”

The golden rain of treasures fell like stars from the heavens, but in the instant after Roland’s declaration, they vanished as if nothing more than a mirage.

Gilgamesh sensed the magical energy within him, which had flowed out with the activation of his treasures, suddenly restored. This time, the energy expended for a serious attack was far greater than for mere amusement, yet now it was inexplicably replenished.

This was not support from his master—it was as though he had never spent it at all.

Extreme fury, exceeded its limits, was replaced by icy calm. Seeing Roland still completely unharmed, Gilgamesh dared not linger in shock; there was no time to even collect the astonishment from his face.

Abruptly, he swung his hand, causing new golden ripples to unfold nearby. Like one who could not wait, Gilgamesh thrust his hand in first, grasping something he had once coveted but later abandoned.

From the moment he deployed his barrier to the attack, less than five seconds had passed.

For Gilgamesh, this was ordinarily a long time—enough to butcher any mongrel who dared defy him. But now, standing in the position of the condemned, he realized just how short that interval truly was.

“Five seconds... far too brief!”

After so long in the mortal realm, it felt as if fate had reunited him with a dear friend, a chance to resume battles and promises of old. Before finishing his duel with Enkidu, he absolutely could not die here.

Desperately, Gilgamesh seized the peculiar herb, paying no heed to his dignity, and with a savage, beast-like gesture, swiftly shoved it into his mouth.

At times like this, Gilgamesh proved himself reliable, for in the next instant his body was hurled like a rag doll by a tremendous impact. There was no visible trace of attack, no discernible target, yet he felt the bitter fruit of his own actions acutely.

His ornate, exquisite armor was battered and pitted in the first second, cracks spreading quickly until it disintegrated into scattered scrap. For the remainder of the onslaught, Gilgamesh could only rely on his own flesh to withstand the blows. Each strike ripped through his flesh, pierced his bones, and in less than half a second his spiritual core was already damaged. But the herb he had consumed had dissolved into a warm current within him, forming the firmest of shields.

As long as he avoided a fatal wound in the first instant, the King of Heroes still had room for recovery. The immortality herb he had once sought with such hardship, though lost, truly existed in his treasury. This elixir granted him temporary immortality, allowing him to endure repeated mortal wounds.

Yet the pain remained; his flesh and bones were shattered and then forcibly restored, his organs churned into a mess and then regrown. In the span of a few seconds, Gilgamesh died dozens of times.

At last, as the herb’s immortality began to wane and his wounds healed ever more slowly, the assault ceased.

Gilgamesh, now naked from the waist up, was covered in blood, his skin and muscle torn and ragged. His golden hair, soaked in his own blood, no longer stood tall like flames but hung limp and lifeless.

Despite the setback, Gilgamesh’s expression grew increasingly composed. He looked at Roland in surprise, his gaze earnest and intent.

The arrogance he so often wore had been quietly set aside. For the first time, the King of Heroes—who scorned all—revealed confusion, even fear.

His wisdom, capable of divining the secrets of every star in the heavens, could not comprehend the unknown before him. Staring into Roland’s inscrutable eyes, Gilgamesh felt his entire body trembling.

“Who would have thought, in this incarnation, I would encounter such a remarkable discovery? Though I suspected as much after confirming that rule was real, seeing it for myself is still unfathomable.”

Gilgamesh wiped a liquid—uncertain whether sweat or blood—from his brow, gritted his teeth, and slowly stood.

In his eyes, Roland’s form was no longer that of a mere human, but a noble and beautiful dragon: unfathomable rules, an invincible soul, and nothing visible but innate nobility.

Even with the most discerning gaze, the soul before him possessed a beauty that could captivate the heart.

“A mere ritual devised by fools to torment themselves, and yet it can attract the noble gods from other worlds?”

Faced with such a being, any carelessness was forbidden; against such an opponent, no mercy could be shown.

He was a fool before, blinded by arrogance, and now utterly without hope for victory.

“Rather than attracted, I would say I was swept into it,”

Roland sighed, a hint of melancholy in his voice. “Perhaps, after all, this is fate.”

“Is that so? Even knowing the outcome, I, as king, shall never submit without a fight. So, forgive my arrogance.”

Gilgamesh stood, drew forth a golden key, and unfurled a red barrier like branching twigs, which coalesced in his hand into a sword of peculiar design.

It possessed a hilt and a guard, yet differed greatly from traditional longswords. Its blade consisted of three tightly connected cylindrical segments, forming a spiral that slowly rotated.

This was the supreme treasure spoken of in legend, the harbinger of beginnings, the sword that opens worlds. To wield it was to grasp power itself.

Gilgamesh bestowed upon it the name of the Sword of Rupture, yet its noble essence remained unchanged.

Only when facing an opponent worthy of reverence, or when inflamed by extreme rage, would Gilgamesh draw the Sword of Rupture.

But today, his reason was neither of these.

Today, he drew his sword for a challenge—a challenge to see whether this divine artifact could stand against the rules of another world!

As magical energy flowed in, the sword began to rotate, patterns unfurling along its blade; in the blink of an eye, a dark crimson storm tightly wrapped around it.

“EA, sing your song at the top of your voice!”

Today’s progress: 8,000/16,000. The remaining eight thousand will be posted after five o’clock. I swear I’ll write until I explode!

(End of this chapter)