Under the undead onslaught, Jeanne and Aglaea had to divert attention to protecting Ning Tian, Wu Feng, and other weaker students, slowing their offense.

Zhongli Wu and the others seized the fleeting chance to fight and retreat, trying to slip Xuan Zi’s pursuit and escape the field.

“Chase! Don’t let these evil soul masters get away!”

Xuan Zi roared. The Shrek crowd refused to relent, soul power erupting as they bit down on the Holy Spirit Cult’s main force with killing intent.

Elsewhere, Xiao Wu, locked in battle with Artoria and Cú Chulainn, suddenly paused.

She sensed Huo Yuhao in great danger far away. Her heart clenched.

She looked toward Tang San and Jingliu’s battle. The familiar, warm aura from that direction stirred her, a longing to go—perhaps a family member she had forgotten.

On one side, the kin of her amnesiac past; on the other, her “husband” Huo Yuhao, beset and needing help.

A struggle flickered across Xiao Wu’s stunning face.

At last, she gazed deeply at the distant sky, as if to carve that warmth into her heart, then stamped her foot and steeled herself.

“Yuhao needs me more.”

Pink light surged around her. She tore the space beside her and slipped into the rift, racing toward Huo Yuhao.

“Huff… ha… that crazy rabbit’s finally gone…”

Cú Chulainn could hold out no longer. His magic spear clanged to the ground as his arm gave way.

He staggered back and dropped to one knee. His tight blue battle suit was in tatters, scored with ghastly wounds; blood seeped from countless gashes, staining the ground.

He panted raggedly, each breath pulling at damaged organs, clearly wounded within.

Yet his unruly face showed no defeat—only a pained, feral grin as he looked to Artoria not far away.

“Hey, King of Knights… that was… something. Nearly kicked me back to the Throne, hah… cough!”

The laugh tugged his injuries; he coughed blood-flecked spittle.

Artoria was in slightly better shape but also greatly drained.

She dispelled the silver-white armor, revealing the blue battle dress beneath. Excalibur scattered into golden motes.

Her golden hair was a bit mussed; sweat beaded her smooth brow. Though tired, her emerald eyes held the poise and gravity of a king.

She approached Cú Chulainn. Seeing the wild son of light of Celtic myth, battered yet unbowed, a faint, hard-to-catch respect—and… sigh—flickered in her eyes.

“Lancer.”

Her voice was clear and solemn, less cutting than on the field.

“Your valor is impressive. Were it not for you tying her down, I might not have lasted.”

“Heh… that polite stuff’s not like you, Saber.”

Cú Chulainn grinned, showing canine teeth, tried to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and only smeared more blood.

“Just a good fight. Strong foe, fought to my fill—good enough. As for you—you’re not one to brawl like this, but you went mad with me this time.”

Artoria shook her head slightly, earnest. “As a knight fighting alongside comrades, one must give all.”

She paused, eyeing the black motes drifting from Cú Chulainn as his body turned translucent.

“Seems… your time is up.”

Cú Chulainn glanced at his fading hand. No fear—instead a freer smile.

“Yeah… this vessel was at its limit. Making it this far is a win. Tch, didn’t drink enough of this world’s wine…”

He struggled to stand but lacked strength.

Artoria extended a hand—not to pull him up, but in a warrior’s equal clasp, letting him brace.

“Lancer, your spear and valor—I, Artoria Pendragon, acknowledge them.”

She met his gaze, solemn.

“Hah, with the King’s recognition, this trip ain’t wasted.”

Cú Chulainn laughed. Though his body was unraveling, his eyes burned clearer.

“Then I leave the rest to you, Saber. Don’t you dare lose easy when I’m off, or I’ll mock you.”

“By the honor of the King of Knights, I shall fight to the end.”

Artoria’s reply was firm.

“Good… hah… this Holy Grail War sure is fun…”

His voice grew distant. Most of him was black light now, yet his eyes still burned with defiance. He took one last look at the field and at the king before him.

“Next time, let’s cut loose again… Farewell, King Arthur!”

With that, his remaining form burst into a swarm of lights firefly-like, drifting up and fading away.

Only the scars of his spear remained to mark that the son of light had fought here.

Artoria stood quietly, watching where he vanished. Complexity flickered in her eyes, soon replaced by resolve.

Far from the clamor of the main field, another duel neared its end.

The air here, unlike the wild ferocity of Cú Chulainn’s fight, was still and lethal. Invisible sword intent suffused it, every breath edged with cold sharpness.

Skirk stood straight as a pine, motionless.

Her sword angled toward the ground, its blade dull and lightless, as if swallowing light and sound, radiating a chilling aura.

Her face was indifferent, her gaze a changeless cold pool.

Her opponent—her disciple, Childe Tartaglia—was in a sorry state.

Purple lightning and vapor boiled around him, unstable to the extreme—signs of an overtaxed Vision on the verge of backlash.

His favored dual water blades had shattered. What kept him standing was a flickering thunder lance forged from his last strength.

His splendid Foul Legacy armor was in ruin, his body crisscrossed with fine, bone-deep sword cuts; blood soaked his clothes, bubbling at his lips.

Yet in his blue eyes burned a near-mad, blazing will—and a hint of… contentment?

“Heh… hehehe…”

Tartaglia panted, his laugh hoarse but satisfied.

“As expected… Teacher… still… unreachable…”

Skirk watched him quietly, voice cold and even, neither joying in victory nor mourning a dying disciple.

“Your Foul Legacy is better controlled than last time, yet still you are ruled by its frenzy rather than ruling it. Too many openings.”

“Haha… cough…”

He spat blood, his wild grin widening.

“Because… only like this… does it feel good. At the limit… past the limit… that’s what I seek.”

His eyes slid past Skirk to the distant battles—Jingliu vs. Tang San; Shrek vs. the Holy Spirit Cult. “Shame I couldn’t fight more strong ones. A pity.”

By the side, Bai Xiuxiu—who had watched, barely daring to breathe—had gone pale, her small hands clenched at her chest.

As the princess of the Demon Soul Great White Sharks, she had seen life-and-death combat. But a duel like this, of master and pupil—its sharpness, finality, and will—shook her.

She saw her senior brother’s near self-immolating style, and her master’s precision—no waste, every strike a killing of openings.

It was a foregone instructional battle—and a fight that transformed her spirit.

Skirk seemed to sigh—so soft it might have been the wind.

“The journey ends here.”

She moved.

Her figure flickered like a ghost—not a lunge, but a sliding into seams of space. The next instant she was before Tartaglia.

Her cold longsword thrust with a speed beyond sight, silent.

No flashy light. No savage detonation.

Only ultimate restraint—and ultimate edge.

Tartaglia did not try to block; he could not.

The last light in his eyes was relief—contentment in a full-strength duel with his teacher, and perhaps a trace of regret for foes left unchallenged.

The sword pierced his heart. Killing cold froze his life in an instant.

“Teacher, farewell!”

With his last breath he forced out a whisper. His feral smile stiffened, then faded.

Skirk drew back her sword. Tartaglia swayed and fell forward.

She did not catch him. She only watched calmly as her battle-mad, fervent disciple—who died by battle—fell on the cold ruins.

Black motes scattered on the wind. Childe, Tartaglia, exited.

Skirk’s expression was cool. In their original world, Childe was alive; as teacher, she would hold back, as before—fighting him one-handed for fear of a fatal slip.

But here he was only a memory-body, a summoned Servant. There was no need to pull punches.

Silence fell.

Bai Xiuxiu clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes full of shock.

She had witnessed her master end her senior brother with her own hand—so calm, so… matter-of-fact.

Was this the world of the strong?

Skirk turned, her gaze falling on her new disciple, Bai Xiuxiu. It was still calm, with a trace of something indescribable.

“Did you see clearly, Xiuxiu?”

Her voice remained cool.

“The essence of power is not frenzied venting. Uncontrolled power devours its bearer—his Vision, and the beastly wildness in you.”

She paused, glancing where Tartaglia had faded.

“As for your senior brother, he was a qualified warrior. I merely sent him on in a warrior’s way.”

Bai Xiuxiu drew a deep breath to steady herself.

She looked at her master, then at the place where her senior brother had vanished. She seemed to understand—and also to be more confused.

But she knew her master had taught her a crucial lesson in the most direct, most brutal way.

Skirk narrowed her eyes toward the distant core battlefield, where apocalyptic energies kept erupting.

Tang San vs. Jingliu, the Lord Ravager vs. the Xianzhou General high above, and other auras that even she dreaded… The level there had soared to the incredible.

Her hesitation ended.

At least until Bai Xiuxiu was safe, she would not rashly join those fights.

In her match with Tartaglia, both sides had restrained most of their overflow, keeping the battle tight—thus Bai Xiuxiu remained unharmed.

But the melee to come would have no such tacit accord.

Those combatants could tug the heavens and tear space. Their stray ripples could grind a Titled Douluo to dust.

With Bai Xiuxiu’s current strength, a mere brush with their residual energies would mean certain death.

Even Skirk could not guarantee an unscathed exit from that chaos.

The priority was to withdraw with Xiuxiu from this place of calamity.

Her power had yet to return to its peak. With her extreme adaptability and growth potential, she only needed time to become far stronger.

“Come, Xiuxiu.”

Skirk’s voice was cool. She no longer looked back toward where her disciple fell, but turned away from the core battlefield.

“This storm is not one we should be drawn into now.”

Bai Xiuxiu glanced at her master’s back, then at the distant, world-rending scene. She shivered and hurried to follow.

She knew her master’s decision was right.

Meanwhile, Lu Jingming—rapidly recovering with Black Abyss White Flower and the Dendro Archon’s power—stiffened.

He clearly sensed the Holy Grail, core of this Grail War, swell with a great, murky energy.

“Two more Servants have exited, then…”

He murmured, not regretful—rather, as if this were within expectations.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep