Chapter 67: The Creation Of The Garden
The battlefield was quiet.
Ash and wind brushed over the crumbling stone, where just moments ago a fierce clash of wills and blades had unfolded.
Leo stood tall, still in posture but weary in eyes.
Across from him, Riya stood silent, surrounded by the flicker of dying magic and the cold whisper of judgment.
"…Gawain has lost," Leo admitted at last, the words soft, steady, and filled with clarity.
"Your resolve… it reached further than mine."
Riya didn't answer at first.
His breathing was low.
His aura, though calm, still radiated the residual red-dark mist from the rage that had exploded within him during the duel.
Leo unclenched his fist, revealing his Command Seals.
With a simple motion, he reached forward, offering them to Riya.
"I surrender Gawain."
"Use him well in the final battle," Leo said, forcing a noble smile.
"I wish you luck."
"You'll need it"
Riya raised his hand, accepting the transfer.
The seals burned into his skin once more, fresh and full of command.
Behind Leo, Gawain stepped forward and bent the knee, his head bowed.
"I am yours now, Master Riya," he said without hesitation, his voice filled with calm acceptance.
"I offer you my sword and my life."
Riya looked at him blankly.
And then he looked again at Leo.
Leo stood tall, hands at his sides, his gaze fixed calmly on Riya.
There was no fear in his eyes—only the weight of acceptance, and the unshakable composure of a man who had chosen his end.
Riya said nothing. Instead, he drew a slow breath and closed his eyes.
A cold pulse rippled through the air.
His heartbeat steady, as a deep surge of mana stirred within him.
From beneath his skin, a strange shimmer of mist coiled outward—like blood evaporating in reverse.
A shift in the atmosphere followed—a slow, coiling wave of murderous intent that tasted like perfume and blood.
The aura of another… older, voluptuous, and cruelly serene—wrapped around him like a silk veil dipped in venom.
It was unmistakable.
Jack.
His hands moved without ceremony.
In one blur of motion, the twin knives of the Ripper—curved, unnatural, born of the backstreets—appeared in his grip.
The blades slid free with barely a whisper of steel, like breath escaping a dying lung.
Before Gawain could even raise his head, Riya was behind Leo.
Two flashes of silver.
The knives danced.
Swift.
Merciless.
Clean.
There was no hesitation.
No cruelty.
Just the finality of execution—done not in rage or malice, but as a silent promise fulfilled.
Leo staggered.
A quiet breath left him, like a sigh.
His body crumpled forward, eyes still open—peaceful, even grateful.
And then he dissolved, vanishing into a shower of radiant golden particles that lit the room like stardust.
Gawain turned sharply, but there was no anger in his expression—only silence.
Then the sound of hissing air echoed behind them as the familiar cylindrical capsule descended from above.
Its gates opened with a mechanical sigh, ready to ferry them to the final floor.
Richard stepped forward, followed by Cú and Gawain.
Their expressions were wary but composed.
They walked toward the capsule, only to halt when they realized Riya hadn't moved.
Richard turned. "What's wrong?"
Riya raised his head slowly.
"We are not going."
"Not yet."
Cú's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"I used too much mana during the fight," Riya said simply.
"I need to rest."
"Besides… I have something special in mind."
His voice was distant.
Cold, but not cruel.
Just... detached.
The others exchanged confused glances but nodded.
They rested that night near the broken ruins of the battlefield.
Riya lay down beneath a pillar, silent as the stars turned slowly overhead.
Sleep took him not like a gentle wave, but like slipping beneath velvet—warm, perfumed, and heavy with power.
His breath slowed. Mana pulsed faintly through his veins.
And then he was elsewhere.
The air was thick with incense and desire.
Riya knelt in the center of an ancient throne room, more temple than court, more altar than palace.
Vines choked marble pillars, and the sound of softly dripping water echoed like a heartbeat beneath the perfume-laced silence.
Golden light filtered in through cracked domes, reflecting off rose-strewn fountains that glimmered like wine.
At the end of the room, upon her throne of black gold, Semiramis waited.
She sat with casual majesty, legs crossed, a chalice of dark wine in one hand and a smile in her eyes.
Her black robe barely clung to her form—sheer silks drifting over full curves, neckline plunged deep to reveal her pale, thick heaving chest.
Her hair spilled across the throne like a velvet river.
"You took long enough," she purred, lowering the cup without looking away.
Riya blinked, breath catching in his throat.
"How… how am I here again?" he asked, voice quiet but not uncertain.
A faint smirk pulled at her lips. "You and I are more deeply connected than most would dare dream."
"But I've already connected with you," Riya said.
"This isn't like before."
"I'm in the middle of completing Hakuno's mission."
Semiramis leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief and understanding.
"Yes… I know."
"I also know that special thing you had in mind."
"You planned to use that pirate's cheap trick of a fleet."
"Useful, no doubt—but I would prefer if you were to make something far more worthy of your hands."
"You mean…" Riya's eyes widened.
"Your Gardens?"
Semiramis nodded. "I want you to construct my Noble Phantasm."
Riya hesitated. "That's impossible."
"It takes three days."
"And I can only channel a Servant's power for ten minutes at most."
He stood, facing her now, jaw set.
"Not to mention, it requires specific materials—soil, stone, minerals, wood, plants, and water—all gathered from the ruins near Baghdad."
"Your home."
"It's not just a matter of will or mana."
"It needs a foundation."
"The costs alone could buy a small country."
Semiramis sultry answered him.
"Normally… yes," she said softly, lifting a single finger and trailing it across her chest.
"But you are no longer bound by those restrictions."
"Not with me inside you."
"Not with the bond we share."
She cupped her breast gently.
"The materials no longer matter."
"You carry me within you."
"And that is enough."
"But… what about the three days?" he asked, voice hushed, hope and disbelief warring in his chest.
She tilted her head, then smiled—a slow, indulgent, dangerous smile—and lifted her wine glass.
"Ah… I have something in mind for that."
She patted her lap with the air of a sovereign granting a favor.
"Come," she said.
"Sit."
Riya's feet moved before his mind caught up.
The throne was massive, and Semiramis was… larger than him, both in presence and frame.
When he settled onto her lap, it felt almost shameful—like a prince kneeling at the feet of a dark empress—but she pulled him in gently, wrapping her arms around his waist.
"You're adorable when you hesitate," she murmured.
Then, without warning, she raised the wine glass to her lips, drank deeply—and kissed him.
Hard.
Her mouth descended on his with venomous grace, tongue pushing deep past his lips.
Riya gasped into her, but her hand cradled the back of his head and held him still.
The wine passed into his mouth, forced down his throat in warm gulps.
It was thick with magic—bitter, ancient, and heady with perfume.
He drank.
He had no choice.
By the time she pulled back, a thin line of glistening saliva still connected their lips, trembling with each breath they shared.
Semiramis smiled again and returned to her glass, sipping with casual amusement.
"What… what did you do?" Riya asked, wiping his mouth.
She looked at him sideways, all wicked elegance.
"I'm taking control of your body, of course."
His eyes widened.
"In the real world," she continued.
"Right now."
"Your body is mine… just for a little while."
"Just enough to build my Noble Phantasm the way it deserves to be built."
Riya's lips parted, but nothing came out.
"Don't worry," she added, tilting her glass lazily, "by the time you wake in the real world… it'll already be done."
Riya stared at her, stunned—half-drunk on her kiss, half-shocked by the weight of her words.
"How did you even manage that?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Semiramis leaned back into her throne, pleased with his curiosity.
She swirled the last sip of wine in her glass and let the fragrance dance between them.
"The moment we both drank from that cup," she said with dangerous softness, "we became one."
She set the glass aside with a click.
"In body… in soul… in everything there is."
Her eyes gleamed, ancient and knowing.
"Riya Riot is Semiramis."
"And Semiramis is Riya Riot."
He blinked slowly. "A spell?"
"A temporary one," she admitted with a playful shrug, "but clearly a favorite of mine."
"I used it all the time on my late husband before I poisoned him to death." She smiled fondly, as if recalling a fond summer memory.
Riya let out a small exhale through his nose.
He'd known her for quite a while now.
A beautiful, venomous empress who delighted in power and play—of course she'd merge souls with a lover if it pleased her.
So while he was surprised she could do it, he wasn't surprised that she chose to.
Still… "Even if we're one now, it doesn't change the fact that I was drained of mana."
"And I still can't use your power for more than ten minutes."
Semiramis chuckled—a low, rich sound that vibrated through her chest.
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong."
She shifted slightly on the throne, drawing his eyes as she pulled the front of her robe loose with lazy elegance.
Her skin was flushed, her breasts full and heavy, now gently leaking with slow, glistening trails of milk.
"Because as long as we remain one," she said, cupping herself with both hands, "you can use my power for as long as you want."
Riya's eyes flicked up to meet hers, and she grinned at his restraint—barely.
"And as for your little mana problem…" She leaned forward, breasts now gently swaying, the soft scent of her mana-laced milk wrapping around him like incense.
"This wine was more than just a spell."
"It also had another interesting effect."
A single drop of milk slid from her nipple and down the curve of her breast.
"My body is now overflowing with mana."
"It's all right here, darling."
"As long as you're drinking… you'll have all you need."
She raised a hand and brushed his cheek tenderly.
"So drink."
"And then together as one we will build my Gardens and Make the sky tremble."
Her breast was bared before him, full and pale, tipped with dusky pink.
He obeyed without hesitation, mouth closing around her, drinking deeply.
Her milk was warm and thick—liquid mana, poison, and perfume.
It coated his throat and sank into his core like a lover's vow.
"So good... My sweet sweet darling." she sighed, stroking his hair.
The taste was intoxicating—power wrapped in pleasure, magic laced with heat.
Each swallow fed not just his circuits, but his will.
Riya's lips didn't waver.
He latched deeper, drawing her warmth in steady rhythm, his breath slow, steady, reverent.
Her fingers curled through his hair, the tips grazing his scalp with a possessive kind of tenderness.
"Mmm," Semiramis purred low in her throat, her other hand trailing down his back, nails lightly scratching as if marking what was hers.
"Yes...just like that."
"You always knew how to make me feel so~ good."
The air around them thickened with incense and power, the scent of crushed roses, sacred oils, and something darker—venom kissed with honey.
Her legs then shifted, parting just enough to draw him in closer.
His weight settled between her thighs, and she guided him slowly, inch by inch, without breaking their shared rhythm.
Their bodies aligned—sudden, fierce, yet deeply intentional—a collision of desire and purpose that sent a shudder through the throne room, as if the very fabric of the dreamscape recognized the sacred union taking place.
Her back arched as a soft sound escaped her lips, and her breath hitched, not from surprise, but from satisfaction.
He didn't stop drinking—never once.
His lips never strayed, even as his hips pressed flush against hers, even as the throne beneath them seemed to pulse with new life.
Semiramis exhaled slowly, her voice a sultry whisper.
"There… now we're truly one, my darling."
She tilted her head, eyes half-lidded with heat and pleasure, watching him with that sly, knowing look only she could wear.
Her hand on the back of his neck urged him to keep drinking, faster now, deeper.
Every swallow sparked another ripple of mana between them, echoing like a divine heartbeat across the mindscape.
Outside, in the real world, his well their body moved in silence.
Stone lifted.
Vines weaved.
Magic circuits blazed with purpose, channeling the endless stream of mana he fed upon in dreams.
Above the battlefield, a monstrous palace began to bloom in the sky—The Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
A fortress in reverse.
A floating wonder wrought from sorcery and obsession.
Inside the dream, her legs wrapped around him, holding him to her with a possessive grace.
Her hips moved with his, guiding the rhythm, as he continued to drink, to build, to surrender and rise all at once.
Their breaths mingled, shallow and gasping.
Her moans, velvet and decadent, filled the space between the throne's gilded pillars.
"You were made for this," she whispered against his ear.
"You were made for me."
Riya didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
Everything he was—body, mind, magic—was flowing into the creation.
The Garden was nearly complete.
And he and her were about to finish.
Their bodies moved in rhythm—driven by hunger, cloaked in fire, each motion steeped in seductive heat and raw, unspoken desire—a ritual of love ane lust made divine.
Her nails traced lines along his spine, not to scratch, but to claim.
She guided him deeper into her, wrapping her legs around his waist, not just in pleasure—but in sovereignty.
She was his empress.
And he was hers.
Riya drank without pause, her mana pouring into him in warm, endless streams, drawn from the full swell of her body.
Her milk coated his tongue, flooded his veins, and fed his circuits.
Every drop was pure purpose, and Semiramis held his head gently, rhythmically, urging him on.
Their breaths tangled.
Their hearts raced as one.
The throne room trembled.
Their bodies moved in unison, guided by more than instinct—by destiny, by magic, by the intoxicating pull of shared purpose.
Her legs wrapped tightly around him, pulling him closer, deeper, until no space remained between them.
Their skin slick with heat, breathless and flushed, they trembled on the edge of something vast.
Semiramis arched against him, her voice a sultry whisper spilling into his ear, "Let go, darling… pour yourself into me."
The throne room swayed like the sea, the air thick with the scent of perfume and desire.
Every movement between them was molten—slow, sinful, sacred.
Her fingers raked through his hair as she rocked beneath him, hips moving with a grace that was both practiced and primal.
And when it hit—when the spell sealed, and their bond reached its crescendo—Semiramis threw her head back in a cry not of pain but of exquisite triumph.
Her laughter rang out like a bell forged in wicked joy, low and triumphant.
"Yes… yes! That's it, my darling."
"My precious little poison."
Riya gasped, his arms tightening around her, their forms pressed impossibly close as mana, magic, and something ancient burst between them.
A final, intimate offering—his power, his devotion, his very soul—flowed into her.
She shuddered and clutched him closer, her smile dark and victorious.
"You gave me everything," she breathed, voice dripping satisfaction.
"Now watch what I build with it."
Riya's body stood alone at what looked like an elevated platform.
His arms outstretched, his fingers trembling like a marionette dancing on divine strings.
But his eyes—half-lidded, glowing faintly violet—were not his own.
Semiramis guided every breath, every movement.
The air around him shimmered, saturated with ancient mana as the beginnings of the Hanging Gardens twisted into form.
He—she—tilted their head toward the heavens, lips curling into a dark smile.
"Mmm… what a delicious vessel you are, my love," Semiramis purred, her voice emerging through Riya's parted lips in a whisper only the wind could hear.
Her hand, delicate and feminine even through his form, slid teasingly down the slope of his waist.
"To move with your body… to feel your heartbeat race while I shape the sky… it's intoxicating."
Stone spiraled up from the earth like vines obeying a silent command.
Golden platforms unfurled above like blooming petals.
Exotic trees and fragrant gardens spilled out over floating balconies, stitched together by runes glowing hot with mana.
"My little puppet," she whispered again, caressing Riya's cheek—her cheek—with reverence and mischief.
"You've given me everything I need."
As the final pieces began to lock into place, she raised one of Riya's hands skyward, fingers poised like a queen conducting the final notes of an aria.
And she spoke:
"Behold the celestial fortress that no human can lay a finger on."
"My garden of vanity..."
"The Hanging Gardens of Babylon."
"Grovel, crawl, scuttle about like ants..."
"Heh heh… hahahaha!"
The completed Noble Phantasm rose with a thunderous hum, layers of architectural brilliance stacked impossibly high, wreathed in light and power.
A divine palace in midair—floating, breathing, alive.
She let out a sigh, a sound of satisfaction and farewell all at once.
"Well then," she cooed, gazing fondly down at Riya's hands, "I suppose I should return this lovely little body to its rightful owner."
She licked her lips. "Though I'll admit, I'm tempted to keep it a bit longer."
She spun Riya's body lightly, chuckling with delight, and gave his backside a firm, playful slap.
"Goodbye, my darling," she whispered.
"Or should I say… goodbye to me?"
With a flicker of violet light and a pulse of heat, Riya's body staggered slightly—breath hitching as if waking from a deep dream.
His hands dropped to his sides.
His eyes returned to their usual sharp clarity.
But behind them… lingered a memory.
The echo of perfume.
The press of lips.
The taste of wine and milk.
And above it all—the Garden now floating at his command, a testament to the union only he and Semiramis could forge.
He looked out over the vast sprawl of Semiramis' creation.
Floating balconies shimmered with mystic wards.
Fountains gushed with fragrant waters.
The sky itself seemed to bend around the structure, unable to ignore its presence.
"...Thank you," he murmured softly, the words almost stolen by the wind.
It wasn't just gratitude for the power.
It was something deeper.
Semiramis had offered him more than a Noble Phantasm—she had given him her essence, her throne and a place to vent the emotions concerning Rin.
His hand briefly touched his body, as if still feeling her all over him.
"I'll use it well," he promised.
But there was more to do.
The plan wasn't over.
Riya turned sharply toward the far ledge, eyes focused.
He reached inside himself—and called forth the next spirit.
Francis Drake.
The Saint Graph within him responded immediately.
The scent of gunpowder and salt air.
The Saint Graph of a pirate surged to the surface, wild and unrestrained.
He extended his hand—and the air pulsed around him with summoning light.
Sparks of golden mana spiraled up his arm, gathering at his fingertips like coiled lightning.
Riya smirked, his voice rising with the crack of conjured thunder.
"Men, it's time!"
"The king of the storm, a swarm of ghosts..."
"The Wild Hunt's about to begin!"
The sky tore open.
Winds howled.
Sigils spiraled across the heavens like constellations in revolt.
And from the shimmering tear in reality emerged the Golden Hind, her masts proud, her sails filled with impossible wind.
Behind her, a ghost fleet followed—dozens of spectral ships forged from mana and memory, black sails raised in salute to their pirate queen and now to thier new king.
The Golden Hind dipped once, as if bowing to its creator, before taking her place beside the floating citadel of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
A ship of war.
A castle of poison.
Steel and silk.
Flame and shadow.
Two Noble Phantasms, now floating above the seventh Floor of the Moon Cell—his.
Riya stepped to the edge of the Garden's outer balcony.
The artificial sky reflected in his eyes—now half-lidded, sharp, resolved.
He had made all the preparations he could.
The fleets were ready.
The path to the final floor loomed above.
Footsteps echoed across the stone of the Hanging Gardens' upper platform.
Richard, Cú Chulainn, and Gawain approached—each with a different expression carved across their face as they gazed in awe at the spectacle above and below.
Riya turned to them slowly.
"Where… did you all come from?"
Richard chuckled, arms crossed.
"We've been watching you for quite a while now."
Cú shrugged.
"Long enough to know we definitely weren't dreaming."
Gawain nodded solemnly.
"You were… impressive."
Riya blinked. "How long was I asleep?"
Cú stretched his arms behind his head with a smirk.
"Three whole days."
Riya blinked. "Wait… three days?"
"Yup," Cú said, grinning.
"The moment you dropped, she took over like she owned the place."
"Had your body moving smooth as silk—building, chanting, commanding."
"Looked like some goddess-queen puppeteering her favorite doll."
"Honestly? Little terrifying."
Richard crossed his arms, utterly stunned.
"I don't know whether to call it genius or witchcraft… maybe both."
"But this? This is something on a scale I have never seen."
Below them, the Golden Hind shimmered in the moonlight, hovering above.
Her ghost fleet was arranged in elegant formation, each vessel manned by phantoms—Drake's crew, summoned from the edge of legend itself.
Gawain stepped forward, his voice composed but sincere.
"You were not the Master I once served."
"But now… I see your resolve."
"I do not know the source of your strength, but I acknowledge it."
"I will follow you."
Riya gave a half-smile.
"Glad to have you."
His eyes swept across his three Servants, each one legendary in their own right.
Then came Riya's the orders:
"Richard."
"Cú."
"Gawain."
"You'll take the Golden Hind and lead the fleet."
Richard saluted with a flourish, grinning wide.
"Captain of the skies, is it?"
"I like the sound of that."
Cú cracked his knuckles.
"A final brawl and a whole damn navy behind me?"
"Heh, you sure know how to spoil a guy."
Gawain simply bowed.
"Consider your will done."
Riya turned, stepping back into the gilded interior of the Hanging Gardens, the throne chamber breathing with violet light and poisonous grandeur.
The moment he touched the armrest's jewel, the entire Garden shimmered—ready to move.
Above the ghost fleet, the Golden Hind surged forward, its sails catching wind that did not exist, dragging the spectral navy with it.
Lights danced in the sky as the ships arranged in formation, each manned by phantoms chanting in unison, a chorus of war and conquest.
Behind them, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon lifted—slow, majestic, divine.
An airborne palace, its floating petals wide like a blossom opening to devour the sky.
Riya seated himself on the obsidian throne.
One hand rested on the glowing jewel embedded in the armrest.
His eyes glinted.
And as both the Garden and the Fleet advanced toward the final floor, toward Twice and the battle to end it all—
Riya whispered, not to anyone, but to himself:
"Let's finish this."