Note: This Chapter is Re-Translated on 6 / 15 / 2025
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Chapter 24: Gilgamesh — A Flash of Gold, the King Has Arrived
"Tch. A bunch of shallow fools, impressed by surface-level spectacle."
Aoko let out a cold snort, unimpressed by the chorus of Saber-praise ringing around her.
"Oh? Then what do you think?"
Alice Kuonji glanced sideways, taking advantage of the slower-paced transition scene to press the question.
Aoko raised a confident thumbs-up. "Obviously—I'd fight her!"
"…You're just another muscle-brained idiot."
Alice sighed. Honestly, what had she done in a past life to deserve a friend like this?
"Hmph, Alice, how could you say that?"
Aoko, as usual, was unfazed by the jab—her skin was thicker than steel plating.
"I'm just curious whether those Servants are really as strong as they look on screen."
She reached for her soda, lifting the straw to her lips, but before she could take a sip, the movie's BGM shifted dramatically.
The screen cut to Shirou, out for a breath of fresh air in the park, where he happened upon a lone girl in white: Illyasviel von Einzbern.
Wanting to emphasize how the balance of power was about to flip, Shinji had directed Illya's scenes from a low angle, and Shirou's from a high angle,
Reversing their natural height difference so that Illya appeared taller, more imposing.
Most viewers had no idea what "cinematic language" was, but as the camera kept flipping between the two, even the most casual watcher could sense that something serious was about to go down.
"That little girl's not planning to fight him herself, is she?"
Someone muttered with skepticism. "Shouldn't she be using her Servant instead? The guy's, like, twice her size."
"…Fool."
Alice whispered back, voice almost too quiet to hear.
"She's a magus."
Magus battles were never about brawn or size.
Even in this era of fading mystery, a skilled magus could still handle a target one-on-one just fine.
Not that it mattered.
Even if her words had been heard, they would've been drowned out by what happened next:
Illya stepped up with a bright smile, greeted Shirou with a few sweet words, and then, her eyes flashed red.
SMACK
"...Oh come on!"
Kiritsugu groaned, burying his face in his hands for what felt like the hundredth time.
His idiot son… was just so embarrassing.
He never learned from his mistakes.
He was too naïve.
The girl says two nice things and he immediately drops his guard.
That's the enemy, damn it!
And that wasn't even the worst of it.
There was the part where he ran at a Servant with just a rolled-up poster.
The time he was told to retreat and instead ran toward the battle.
And of course, when he was explicitly warned to use a Command Spell in an emergency, only to remember it after being chucked out a window.
Sure, it was just a movie. But Kiritsugu had done his assessment, and he was certain that If this were real, Shirou would've acted the exact same way.
"…I guess I really need to sit him down for a proper education."
Kiritsugu let out a long, weary sigh.
Maybe it was time to drag the boy along on a few jobs—let him see what the real world was like.
"But isn't that part of Shirou's charm~?"
Irisviel tilted her head, voice sweet and dreamy.
"He's so pure… and easy to tease."
"…He's not a pet, dear," Kiritsugu muttered under his breath.
"But there is something I don't get."
"Hm? What is it?"
"When Illya dragged Shirou all the way to that mountain hideout…"
Irisviel squinted in confusion.
"If she pulled him by the arms, his legs should've been dragging on the ground, right? But his pant legs weren't even scuffed. How does that work?"
"...Beats me."
Kiritsugu had to admit—he was no longer sure if he was qualified to keep up with his wife's line of thought.
Ordinary viewers didn't notice the issue Irisviel pointed out. Compared to such trivial details, what captured their attention was the unfolding main plot.
As the story progressed, the audience learned of Illyasviel's true background—that she was the daughter of Shirou's adoptive father—and her complicated emotions toward him.
"At first I thought she spared the protagonist just because of some lazy scriptwriting," one viewer whispered, "but it turns out there's this whole backstory..."
Many others found themselves sympathizing with Illyasviel. She wasn't a born killer or monster. She was a victim of her environment—shaped by a twisted upbringing into what she became.
That angelic white dress, that innocent smile... they were just a mask.
Beneath the surface was something else entirely.
A girl who, the moment someone crossed her, could transform from angel to demon.
In several close-up shots, Illyasviel's eyes gleamed with an unnatural obsession—something unhinged. Something far too intense for a girl her age.
To most in the theater, this "villain" was far more complex and tragic than the last one—Shinji Matou.
Illyasviel's portrayal left a lasting impression, evoking not only fear, but also pity.
"But... doesn't that mean all this tragedy started with dad?"
Unaware that his next vacation had already been unofficially canceled, Shirou leaned over to whisper to Shinji.
"Nope."
Shinji shrugged with a sly smirk. "Tokiomi-ojisan's a much better scapegoat."
"...Huh?"
Shirou blinked, thrown off by the strange response. He glanced around cautiously, then lowered his voice.
"Shinji... do you hate the Tohsaka family or something?"
"Not at all."
Shinji wagged his finger, grinning like the devil himself.
"But come on—pinning everything on Tokiomi is the politically correct choice in the Nasuverse, isn't it?"
"Wait, since when did your studio have rules like that?"
Shirou looked more lost than ever. After all, he didn't know anything about either the Nasuverse or Type-Moon Film Studios.
The audience didn't care who was to blame for Illyasviel's trauma.
After nearly an hour of slow, heavy dialogue and emotional build-up, what they truly wanted was action.
And now, finally—it has arrived.
The revived King of Knights, Saber, clashing with the legendary Greek hero Heracles—
A battle of titans was about to begin!
"SU-GOI——!!"
The theater exploded in cheers and gasps once more.
Sakura had long lost count of how many times the audience had erupted like this, but she never got tired of it.
Because those cheers weren't just for the characters.
They were for the creators.
For the film itself.
Her cheeks flushed a faint pink, a smile blooming on her lips.
"Onii-sama… you really did it."
There was a quiet pride in her voice.
A pride that belonged to someone who believed in one person, and one person only.
She had always believed in her brother.
But even so—seeing it play out in front of her own eyes like this, the emotion was overwhelming.
"…But still."
That joy suddenly twisted into something darker.
Her smile faded, her brows furrowed.
"Why is my screen time so short?"
"…Feels kinda cold in here. Did they crank the AC or something?"
Sitting just a few seats away, Shinji involuntarily shivered.
—Meanwhile, at the Tokyo premiere—
"That Matou kid's really something."
Aoko praised the director casually, eyes locked on the screen.
"Compared to other directors, this guy sure loves his explosions… but damn if they aren't beautiful."
To her, watching those fiery spectacles was a treat in itself.
Because of her affinity with destructive magic, Aoko had always loved things that went boom.
Shinji, with all his flashy, over-the-top shots, had unintentionally catered perfectly to her taste.
Just a moment ago, the scene where Rin Tohsaka hurled a gem at Heracles, the way it exploded into a burst of crystalline frost, like a tidal wave crashing in frozen bloom, It was an explosion, but not of fire or smoke.
It was ice as the dynamite.
Pure spectacle.
Sparks flying from weapon clashes.
The brilliant circuit-like glow of Shirou's magic circuits flaring to life.
Blinding flashes every time a spell was cast.
The gales of wind ripping through the forest from every shockwave.
All of it hit the audience like a sensory bombardment.
From a seasoned filmmaker's perspective, Shinji honestly thought he might've overdone it.
Maybe it was a bit too much flash. A little restraint might've helped polish the final product.
But for the average moviegoer—people who didn't even know what "visual effects" meant—this film was pure adrenaline.
A feast custom-tailored for newcomers, built to wow and dazzle.
They cheered. They clapped.
They didn't care that popcorn had spilled everywhere, or that their sodas were tipping over.
They were completely absorbed by the movie.
It was Fate/Stay Night that had bewitched them so.
Only Fate/Stay Night could make them feel this level of hype.
And the movie did not let them down.
The plot was tense and seamless, the Servant battles fierce enough to leave one breathless.
There was no dragging, no filler, the whole story felt like a supercar speeding down the highway, engine roaring with every twist and turn.
What could be more thrilling than that?
"This movie is going to disrupt the entire industry—it's a tidal wave waiting to crash down on the film market!"
Takanashi Natsu, a veteran entertainment journalist, couldn't contain his excitement.
Even before the credits rolled, he was scribbling notes furiously in his notepad.
He'd never seen anything like it—A movie that completely sucked the audience in.
And not because of some actress flaunting skin, but because of something critics often scoffed at: action.
"This film is unorthodox. Strange, even," he wrote.
"Its insane pacing, its bombastic visuals—Every frame is like the director teasing the audience's rawest nerves with the flashiest, boldest, loudest brush strokes imaginable."
Sure, Fate/Stay Night wasn't perfect.
If he really wanted to nitpick, Takanashi could easily point out some narrative inconsistencies.
But the pace—so breathless it left no room for boredom—the vivid imagery and setpieces made such flaws feel trivial, practically invisible.
"Maybe this is the kind of 'realism' the film world has always been chasing," He paused his writing and adjusted his glasses, quietly pondering.
"All right, let's see how you wrap this up."
A wry smile tugged at his lips.
"Just don't blow all your budget in the first half and fumble the ending."
But Fate/Stay Night didn't disappoint.
Because that was when Gilgamesh made his entrance.
Golden armor.
An arrogant, disdainful glare.
And a sky filled with Noble Phantasms.
"Worm. Your sins are unforgivable!"
With that arrogant declaration, the King raised his arm, and like divine judgment, a rain of treasures fell from the heavens.
The entire screen was suddenly filled with legendary weapons—each one a story, a myth, a god's artifact.
Gilgamesh, the radiant, resplendent king of the Fate franchise, had arrived in the most dazzling, unforgettable fashion imaginable.