Fate's Choice: Livestream at the Start Summoning Billions of Ravens

Just then.

The black vortex in the distance suddenly stopped spinning.

The roar of the beast that had echoed throughout the world suddenly vanished.

Joan of Arc turned her head slightly to the side.

In the center of that devastated battlefield, Dracula's enormous body had completely vanished.

Only scattered red dots remained, like a sorrowful rain of blood, falling in droves.

In that rain of blood.

Arjuna floats above the black Ganges.

The terrifying hole in his chest healed completely in the time it took to breathe after the foreign magic was removed.

His black armor was tattered and his long black hair was somewhat disheveled.

But he is still a god.

Moreover, it is an even more terrifying god who has just devoured the "King of Vampires," incorporating that extreme bestiality and madness into his body as well.

Arjuna slowly turned his head.

Those pure white, heart-stopping eyes swept coldly over Joan of Arc and the man in her arms, even from hundreds of meters away.

There was no intent to kill.

There was no pity either.

It's like looking at two stones on the side of the road.

He has achieved his goal.

"Evil" has been purified.

Nourishes—

A soft sound came from the air.

A dazzling white light descended from the sky, instantly enveloping Joan of Arc and Raju in her arms.

The next second, the two figures vanished into thin air.

outside world.

Tokyo.

On the surface of that huge black sphere, the third live broadcast screen froze on a close-up of Arjuna's expressionless face.

The entire world fell into a deathly silence that lasted for three seconds.

Then, a line of cold, golden characters slowly appeared on the light screen, announcing the end of this brutal battle:

[Berserker Arjuna wins the third match]

........

Mumbai, the land of white elephants.

As the victors, this place should have been a scene of wild celebration.

But in reality, there were only sporadic firecrackers on the streets, and most people stood there with their phones in hand, their faces pale.

Was that really their god?

The being that devoured his opponent, turned the earth into a black swamp, and exuded an aura more terrifying than that of a demon, was it really the legendary, radiant and perfect Arjuna?

But this doesn't stop extreme nationalists on the internet from going into a frenzy.

"We won! Did you see that? This is the power of Bharata!"

"What vampire king? He's nothing but an ant before divine punishment!"

"Long live Arjuna! We will purify all those who mock us!"

They frantically spammed victory emojis, trying to use their voices to mask the primal fear deep within them of "Black Arjuna."

In their mouths, that disgusting act of devouring was glorified as "the divine judgment of God".

Bucharest, Romania.

It was a gloomy afternoon, with heavy clouds pressing down on Victory Square.

The hundreds of thousands of people gathered here to watch the live broadcast were like statues whose souls had been instantly ripped out.

The huge outdoor screen was blacked out, but no one had left.

Just a minute ago, they were still cheering for that figure who had transformed into a demon and was swimming against the current.

One minute later, it was all over.

The man who promised to protect this land forever, the king who would tear the gods apart even after turning into a monster, just like that... is gone?

"No...this isn't real..."

A girl in a high school uniform had her support flag slip from her hand and fall to the ground. Her lips trembled, and tears welled up in her eyes without warning.

That cry was like toppling the first domino.

The sorrow, resentment, and despair that had been suppressed throughout the entire battle finally burst forth at this moment.

"Waaaaah—"

"Your Highness! Please come back!!"

In the square, some people knelt on the ground, some covered their faces and wept, and many more stared blankly at the dark screen, as if it represented their shattered future.

No one blamed him for losing.

Everyone witnessed that final scene—for victory, the proud king even transformed himself into an ugly bat, charging into the river destined for death until the very last moment.

He kept his promise.

He bled to his last drop.

……

Prime Minister's Office, Cabinet Meeting Room.

Deathly silence.

Around the long conference table, more than a dozen of Romania's most powerful figures were slumped in their chairs.

Lost.

It was not just a defeat in the Holy Grail War, but also the collapse of the nation's spiritual pillar.

In this era of divine resurgence, having lost its sole extraordinary protector, a small country like Romania is destined to become a victim of great power rivalry.

Auguste Ionescu, sitting in the first seat, seemed to have aged ten years in an instant.

He still sat upright, but his usually sharp eyes were now bloodshot.

He wanted to say something to boost morale, such as "We still have an army" or "We still have a future."

But when he opened his mouth, it felt like his throat was stuffed with cotton, and he couldn't make a sound.

Saying anything is futile.

The god he personally invited back was also personally sent away before his very eyes.

"Knock knock knock".

A rapid and untimely knock on the door broke the silence.

The secretary pushed open the door and entered, but her face was not sad; instead, it was one of shock and panic as if she had seen a ghost.

"Your Excellency the Prime Minister!"

August raised his eyelids, his voice hoarse as if it had been sanded on sandpaper: "If it's a public demonstration, let the police leave and let them cry their hearts out."

"No, it's not a protest!"

The secretary held up the red secure satellite phone, his voice trembling: "It's...it's the Vatican! An urgent diplomatic dispatch from the Holy See! They specifically request that you answer it personally!"

Vatican City?

August frowned, a strange premonition rising in his heart.

He grabbed the phone and pressed the answer button.

"I am August."

On the other end of the phone came an old but dignified voice, with the distinctive echo of the Vatican.

"Prime Minister Ionescu, I am the Pope."

"The Lord takes the evil of this world as a warning and has mercy on the lost sheep."

Without any preamble, the Pope got straight to the point: "His Excellency the Arbiter asked me to convey to your country—your Master—that she has been returned."

August's pupils instantly contracted to pinpoints.

He suddenly stood up from the chair, the movement so forceful that it overturned the mahogany high-backed chair behind him.

"Who?! Who did you say?!"

"Radu Petrescu." The voice on the other end of the phone paused, then gave a series of coordinates. "Since he did not directly participate in the battle at the last moment and was protected by Ruler, he has now left the mirror space. His current location is the rooftop helipad of Bucharest Central Hospital."

Snapped!

The phone slipped from August's hand and slammed heavily onto the table.

All eyes in the conference room were on the Prime Minister.

August took a deep breath, his chest heaving violently.

"Get the car ready! We're going to the Central Hospital!!"

"Seal off that block! Level one alert! Not a single fly is allowed in, except for my medical team!!!"