Bellowing a declaration that stretched the limits of credulity, Gilgamesh launched countless
Noble Phantasms from his Gate of Babylon, which opened behind him.
The archer seemed helpless under the rain of blades, some of which were of high rank. He,
however, brandished his bow with his left hand, and went about sweeping aside the shower of
Noble Phantasms with a speed that defied even a Heroic Spirit’s expectations.
“What?”
“...”
The Heroic Spirit, who had deflected dozens of Noble Phantasms without so much as a
scratch, wordlessly stretched an arm out to Gilgamesh, palm up, and beckoned provocatively
to him with his fingers. When Gilgamesh saw that, his eyes narrowed, and he struggled to keep
fury out of the voice that resounded across the rise.
“...I see you have light fingers. In that case... how about this?”
With a malicious grin, Gilgamesh deployed his Gate of Babylon over a wide area of the rise.
The entrances to his treasury, deployed so as to surround the archer on all sides, began to twist
like a tornado. Then they fired innumerable Noble Phantasms with the force of machine guns,
raising a veritable whirlwind of lights and impacts high above the eminence.
Tens, hundreds, thousands of Noble Phantasms poured down on the man who stood in the
tornado’s center. They were blades or wisdom; suffering or salvation. There were dragon-slaying
long swords; cursed swords that bring ruin; hero-killing spears; formless thunderbolts. The ori-
ginals of every Noble Phantasm that human hands had ever possessed or created were being
hurled out unsparingly. A hellish rain of mankind’s legends, fired from every conceivable angle.
Tine, witnessing that fearsome scene, imagined that not even a single scrap of the archer’s
flesh would survive it. As the whirlwind settled, however, it disclosed a sight that betrayed both
Gilgamesh and Tine’s expectations — the archer, unharmed and brushing dust from the long
cloth that covered his body, and mountains of innumerable Noble Phantasms piled about him.
“Impossible...”
Gilgamesh, in contrast to the wide-eyed Tine, stared wordlessly at his opponent. For a brief
while, silence reigned on the rise. Until it was broken by the archer’s stifled laughter.
“He... hehe... he... heh... ha... ha ha...”
There was obvious derision in the sounds audible from beneath the cloth.
“...What’s so funny?” Gilgamesh asked, expressionless.
The archer responded with a single, clearly-spoken word:
“Weak.”
