Warm, inviting light bathed the Emiya living room, offering a stark contrast to the chilling revelation hanging in the air.
Emiya Shirou sat frozen at the low table.
The teacup in his hand gave a violent jerk, warm liquid sloshing over the rim and scalding his knuckles.
He barely noticed.
He simply stared blankly at the glowing light screen suspended in the middle of the room, his pupils constricting into tight pinpricks.
His voice cracked, heavy with disbelief.
“Wait, what?
That guy who looked like he wanted to murder me…
is me?” His brows knitted together, twisting his features into a mask of utter bewilderment.
He dragged his gaze back to the glowing text floating beneath the imposing, red-clad figure on the screen.
He read the introduction again, his voice rising in pitch as panic began to bleed into his confusion.
“What does it mean, ‘once dedicated to killing his former self’?” The moment the words left his mouth, the gears in his head finally clicked into place.
His eyes widened sharply.
The hand gripping the teacup tightened until his knuckles turned a bloodless white, the ceramic groaning under the pressure.
A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck.
He swallowed hard, murmuring into the quiet room, “…Could it be that ‘once’ refers to right now?” The sheer absurdity of the thought did nothing to stop his heart from hammering against his ribs.
He pushed himself up and instinctively took a half-step back from the broadcast, his breath hitching.
“Then wouldn’t I be in massive danger right now?
From myself?” Saber stood quietly near the doorway, her usually rigid, upright posture softening just a fraction.
Her emerald eyes carried a rare trace of confusion as she looked between the towering, cynical Heroic Spirit Emiya on the screen and the panicked, teenage Emiya Shirou standing right in front of her.
She was entirely at a loss as to how her earnest, stubborn Master could ever twist into a Servant of that nature.
Yet, seeing the genuine dread washing over Shirou’s face, she swallowed her questions.
Taking a measured half-step forward, she closed the distance between them.
Her voice was gentle, yet it carried the immovable weight of a king’s oath.
“Please do not worry, Shirou.
If such a situation were to occur, I will definitely protect you.” She gave a firm, solemn nod.
Her fingers curled loosely at her side, resting right where the invisible hilt of her sword would be—a silent, absolute promise that she would draw her blade against anyone who threatened him, even if that threat was his own future self.
Hearing the absolute certainty in her voice, the rigid tension locked in Shirou’s shoulders finally broke.
He exhaled a long, shaky breath.
The fingers clamped around his teacup slowly uncurled, and the frantic drumming of his heart began to settle.
The sheer panic in his eyes receded, leaving behind only the dull ache of a lingering headache.
He looked up at Saber.
Her expression was resolute, an unbreakable shield standing between him and the world.
The tight, anxious line of his mouth softened into a small, grateful smile.
“Thank you, Saber,” he said softly, the frantic edge entirely gone from his voice.
Far away from the warmth of the Emiya household, the garden of the Matou Residence was suffocating under a perpetual, damp chill.
Dark brown mold crept up the wooden pillars beneath the eaves, and the meager sunlight that managed to pierce the gloom was immediately strangled by the gnarled, withered vines choking the courtyard.
Inside, the tatami mats radiated a cold, clammy sensation that seeped right into the bone.
Matou Sakura knelt formally beside a low table, her posture picture-perfect.
Her usually downcast eyelashes fluttered wildly.
Her hazy, light purple eyes stared unblinking at the broadcast, locked onto the Heroic Spirit form of the boy she knew so well.
Her lips parted, letting out a breath of pure, unadulterated shock.
“Senpai…
actually became a Servant in the future?” Before the echo of her own words faded, her gaze drifted to the technical details scrolling past the red-clad archer.
She noticed the murky, impure spiritual radiance swirling around the surface of his spirit core.
Her delicate brows drew together.
The initial wave of surprise rapidly cooled into a heavy, sinking gravity.
Her fingertips curled inward, gripping the fabric of her skirt until the cotton wrinkled.
Her voice dropped to a fragile whisper.
“It cannot be called orthodox…
once dedicated to killing his former self…
is that it?” That gravity quickly gave way to a deep, suffocating sorrow.
She lowered her head, staring blankly at her folded hands.
Her long eyelashes cast fragmented, trembling shadows across her pale cheeks.
“Senpai…” she murmured, her voice turning thick and husky.
“You must have gone through so much to reach this point, right?” It was a sigh as fragile as a dying leaf in the wind, burying a heart heavy with an agonizing, helpless ache.
In the adjacent room, the atmosphere was considerably less mournful.
Matou Shinji viciously kicked a wooden storage box across the floor, sending a chaotic clatter of junk spilling across the tatami.
His already sallow complexion flushed a mottled, ugly crimson as he caught snippets of the broadcast echoing from the hallway.
“What?!” Shinji screeched, his face contorting into a mask of pure disbelief.
“That Emiya guy actually became a Servant?!” He threw his weight forward, clenching his fists so hard his untrimmed nails dug painful half-moons into his palms.
A violent, acidic rage boiled up from the pit of his stomach, burning his throat.
“Why?” he hissed, pacing the room like a caged animal.
“Why does he get to have the overwhelming strength of a Servant?” Jealousy wrapped around his lungs like a thorny vine, squeezing until he could barely breathe.
It was a suffocating duality—a towering, hateful fury directed at his own rotting, incomplete magic circuits and the useless body that disgraced the Matou name, running parallel to a deep-seated, venomous resentment toward Emiya Shirou.
Shirou, who always seemed to effortlessly outshine him, and who had now apparently ascended to a realm Shinji could never even dream of touching.
His chest heaved violently as he gasped for air, practically choking on his own spite.
Then, he froze.
His twisted, furious expression locked into place.
A strange, manic glint sparked in his murky eyes.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, muttering into the empty room, “Wait.
Only dead people can become Servants, right?” The moment the realization hit, it spread like wildfire.
He jerked his head up toward the ceiling.
The corner of his mouth twitched, fighting a losing battle against a vicious, surging glee that flooded his shadowed features.
But the manic high lasted only a fraction of a second before it crashed.
The elation rapidly cooled, leaving behind a strange, hollow void in the center of his chest.
The violent, destructive aura radiating off him fizzled out, replaced by a stagnant, uncomfortable murkiness.
His expression shifted into something obscure and entirely unreadable.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet, drifting aimlessly through the cold room.
“Does this mean…
Emiya died at that age?!” The twisted, secret delight born from the confirmation of his rival’s early demise simply couldn’t overpower the sudden, inexplicable wave of melancholy that washed over him.
The two conflicting emotions tangled together into an ugly knot, buried deep behind his eyes.
Far below, in the deepest, most suffocating bowels of the mansion where natural light had never once touched, Matou Zouken sat hunched in the dark.
He remained perfectly still behind layers of heavy, curse-woven drapes, the only movement coming from his withered, bark-like fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against his wooden cane.
A rare, genuine spark of surprise cut through the cloudy depths of his ancient eyes.
“That brat from the Emiya family actually became a Servant in the future?” his raspy voice echoed, sounding like dry leaves grinding against stone.
He stopped tapping.
A slow, deliberate nod followed as his shriveled lips peeled back into a grotesque, knowing smile.
“How marvelous,” Zouken whispered, his tone dripping with a chilling mix of amazement and cold calculation.
“To think someone in this modern, decaying era could actually break free from mortal flesh and ascend to the Throne of Heroes.” His gaze seemed to pierce straight through the stone ceiling, as if he could already see the red-clad youth standing on the battlefield, harboring unfathomable, dangerous schemes of his own.
[Akarin’s Note: Enjoying the story?