[h2]Sigurd, outside Tohsaka Manor[/h2]

His body felt so crushingly [i]weak[/i].

For a man that had been born an oddity even for his time—someone for whom might was as second nature as breathing—the experience was no less than absolutely alien, and the pained widening of his eyes upon assessing his own status made such a fact as obvious as it could be. However, even though his movements were so dreadfully sluggish now, he came to his feet upon trembling legs, perhaps thankful that his kick had managed to stun his opponent for the necessary instants required to stand his ground.

Even if his current state still lied beyond the realm of ordinary humans, comparing him to what he had been before would be like comparing a house cat to a grown lion—nay, the difference could simply not be illustrated in such a metaphor. He was a shade, a phantom of what he had once been, and if one were to judge this state he found himself in—there was simply no two ways around it, he was indeed ‘the weakest’.

But nonetheless, Sigurd was Sigurd. Broken, shattered beyond recognition and torn down into the dirt, but his will was still that of the dragon-slayer that had carved his way into song and legend with his own two hands. And so, even if the act was futile, even if it was worthless, he was the sort to die standing and swinging away. That was his truth, simple as it could be. He reached down to grasp the handle of his sword—gods, had Gram always been this ridiculously heavy?—and proceeded to pull it up towards himself, leaning on it like a makeshift cane.

“. . .I don’t think I’ll be able to give you a good fight in this state,” He confessed without preamble or hesitation. The man had matched him moments prior, so the thought of engaging against him here and now and hope for victory was fantasy at best. “That hammer of yours really does a number on things, I see.”

Even if Saber was on the way, he doubted he would be able to hold out long enough for it to matter—at least now. So what else could he do but make small chat before he once again charged to his death? Perhaps it was a boon in its own way—at least, even if he should die like this, he would do so in battle rather than betrayed and ambushed in his own room. But even if he had made peace with the idea of dying, that did not mean he wished to, nor did it mean that a hunger for victory did not lurk into his heart still.

And then, he heard it.

[Quote][b]Erase him.[/b][/quote]

Magical energy suffused him, a veritable torrent reaching through the link into his self, to be used as one should wish. While a Command Seal would normally be used to order a Servant and part of the energy turned into a compulsion for them to follow the order, the fact that Sigurd was in agreement meant he had all that power at his own disposal.

But what of it?

A cup does not grow in size when filled with water, a battery’s maximum does not change even if it remains plugged in. If it had happened earlier—before the hammer had done its mark on him—he would have been able to express his full power, since the problem had been that his Master simply did not possess enough to fill that cup, but now? Now it was just going to waste, for his current state [i]was[/i] his apex, and all the magical energy in the world would not change that. Perhaps it would have been a waste of such a thing. . .were it not for Sigurd possessing the perfect outlet.

Yes, such a command should have been worthless, but it just so happened to also be exactly what he needed.

“You showed me yours,” The smile on his face was decidedly worrying, crimson eyes sharp. “Guess turnabout is fair play.”

Gram was a simple thing.

It was not a sword that boasted of curses to challenge karma, it was not a physical embodiment of any of Sigurd’s deeds, it did not have any sort of conceptual ability to bring his opponents low as the enemy’s hammer did. It was simply a weapon that carried the attribute of ‘amplification’. Magical energy could be forced into it and Gram would convert and amplify it in order to unleash an ‘Anti-Army’-class attack. Yet, simplicity did not mean that it lacked effectiveness.

While attempting to use it before he had been brought low would have consumed a high amount of his own prana and attempting to wield it [i]after[/i] the fact was suicidal, however, this changed things. The ‘perfect outlet’ he had said—and he meant it. The magical energy of the Command was funneled into it without a second thought, and the vile crimson runes lit up, prana running throughout them with such force that one would think it impossible. More, more and more, he fed the greedy sword for this last dance. He might not have been able to do much by himself, he might have been the weakest.

But [i]he was still a Servant with a Noble Phantasm.[/i]

And at this distance, with this timing. . .

“I said earlier that it really wanted to kill you now. Well, survive it if you can, I suppose,” The nonchalance of his speech stood fully at odds with the situation. “You said that hammer showed ‘the difference between myself and God’ when it did this, right? Alright then, Mister Gavel,” His smile stretched into a lupine grin. “Let me show you how much I care about your god.”

His arm tensed, rearing back.

[center][i]Blade of Glory, Blade of Ruin.[/i]
“[b][i]Gram![/i][/b]”[/center]

And with that declaration, he swung, releasing the True Name and letting the sword's fury loose upon the world, the crackling runes reaching their apex and power being unleashed.

It was not an elegant slash of gold. It was not searing twilight condensed in a proper shape, or even savage power turned into a swing.

Merely a [i]torrent[/i] of crimson spawned from Gram, relentless, merciless and [i]deadly[/i]. Light that promised no less than absolute destruction, powered by a grudge to swallow the world whole. Simple, raw energy with only the purpose of complete, utter annihilation of those in its path. It was fortunate, then, that there were so few people around here and that the place was relatively isolated—one shuddered to think what would have happened if he ever unleashed this in the center of Miyama or Shinto, or if he was just a touch less careful with aiming.

Let him witness then, if this man of God had any other miracle up his sleeve. Let him bear witness to how he dealt with this, diminished as it was, for he still faced the full wrath of the strongest demonic sword.

Let him witness, and if he possessed nothing, let him die.