Far away in the secluded suburbs, Einzbern Castle sat blanketed in pure white snow.
The towering spires gleamed with a cold, pale light beneath the overcast sky.
Inside, however, the grand hall offered a stark contrast.
Firewood crackled merrily within the massive hearth, filling the expansive room with a cozy, flickering warmth.
Illya perched comfortably atop Heracles’s massive, boulder-like shoulder.
Her crystal-clear crimson eyes suddenly widened.
Her delicate, doll-like features shifted into an expression of sheer disbelief.
“That child, Shirou, actually became a Servant in the future?” She lowered her gaze.
Her long, pale lashes cast faint shadows across her cheeks.
Her voice dropped to a soft, complex murmur.
“Kiritsugu, you really adopted a remarkable son.” A moment later, she lifted her head.
A fierce, childlike certainty welled up in her eyes.
“But my Berserker is still the strongest!” Beneath her, a terrifying aura of madness began to swirl around the giant.
His colossal frame exuded the crushing pressure of a mountain.
A low, earth-shaking roar tore from his throat—”GRRROOOOAR!”—rattling the heavy window frames.
The resonant shockwave carried the sheer, unadulterated might of a Berserker, offering the most direct, obedient affirmation of his Master’s claim.
Inside the Fuyuki Holy Church, the chapel remained dim and solemn.
Stained glass windows cast mottled, colorful shadows across the cold stone floor, while the heavy scent of incense lingered in the quiet air.
Kotomine Kirei stood motionless beside the altar.
His pitch-black priest’s vestments made his already pale complexion look almost corpse-like.
His long fingers slowly traced the silver cross resting against his chest.
His narrow eyes glinted with a sudden, dark amusement.
He remembered the boy well—the final Master of the Fifth Holy Grail War he had overseen, and more, the adopted son of Emiya Kiritsugu.
The corner of his mouth curled into a slow, twisted smile.
His low, hoarse voice echoed in the empty chapel.
“Hoh.
An Ally of Justice?
How nostalgic, Kiritsugu.” He paused, letting a dark, churning pleasure settle in his gaze.
“To become an agent of Alaya, he must have experienced something quite delightful.” The deep malice hidden within those words perfectly encapsulated his unique, warped tastes.
Meanwhile, in the timeline of the Fourth Holy Grail War, Emiya Kiritsugu stood alone in a barren, unlit room.
The sky outside the window hung oppressively low, heavy with the promise of a torrential downpour.
He kept his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn trench coat, his posture heavy with an inescapable, bone-deep exhaustion.
Before him, the floating light screen clearly displayed the introductory text for Emiya Shirou.
He stared at those glowing lines for a long time, completely motionless.
His brow furrowed slightly.
“An Ally of Justice…?” Looking at the faintly discernible outline of the red-clad Heroic Spirit on the broadcast, an inexplicable tug pulled at his chest—a subtle, quiet connection transcending time itself.
Yet, the Magus Killer ruthlessly crushed the thought before it could take root.
He refused to connect this future Heroic Spirit to his own bloodstained life.
Even though they both bore the name Emiya, a cold indifference settled back into his dark eyes.
The world was vast.
Sharing a surname meant nothing.
Why would the heavens ever associate such a radiant ideal with a murderer like him?
He lowered his gaze, burying that fleeting warmth.
His expression smoothed over, returning to its usual, deadened calm.
The perspective shifted back to the massive light screen suspended in mid-air.
A soft, clear luminescence held the broadcast aloft, rendering every detail with perfect clarity.
[Within the broadcast, Emiya raised a hand.
With a mere gesture, streams of magical energy gathered and dispersed.
A faint blue aura flowed along his fingertips, instantly solidifying into the familiar, contrasting forms of Kanshou and Bakuya.
The twin blades shimmered with a cold, deadly light.
Even as mere projections, their edges carried a terrifying sharpness.] [Mash’s pale purple eyes widened.
The slight furrow between her brows smoothed out as her previous confusion melted away, replaced by a look of dawning comprehension.
Her lips parted slightly.
“I see…
So that is how Mr.
Emiya creates his twin swords.”] [She nodded to herself, her finger lightly tapping her forearm as she recalled their past battles.
“No wonder they always find their way back into his hands, no matter how many times they shatter.”] [Beside her, Fou immediately perked up.
The creature’s fluffy white fur caught the soft glow of the projection.
He nuzzled against Mash’s arm, looked up at the red-clad Archer, and let out two soft, agreeable chimes.
“Fou.
Fou.”] [Raising a small paw, the beast patted Mash’s hand, trilling a rising note of agreement.
“Fou Fou, Fou u.”] [Emiya lowered his gaze to the fading magical circuits glowing in his palm.
The projected swords swayed gently in his grip, their blades clinking together with a crisp chime before dissolving into fine, glittering blue particles that vanished into the air.] [He looked back at the shielder.
“Yes.
Allowing a Counterfeit that does not lose to the genuine article to exist in the world for a short time—that description should be more accurate.”] [His expression grew somewhat distant.
His fingertips traced the residual warmth of the fading mana.
He stared at his empty palm, as if counting the thousands of blades that had coalesced and shattered there over an eternity.
“But no matter how close it gets to the real thing, its structural integrity ultimately falls slightly short.
This is what they call the lightness of fiction failing to bear the weight of reality.”] [“If it cannot perfectly approach the genuine article, my Projection Magecraft cannot be established.” He raised his eyes, his gaze as calm and deep as an ancient well.
“But in the end, it still cannot become the real thing.
It is merely a reflection cast upon the water’s surface.
Scattered by the wind.
Shattered by force.”] [He paused.
A heavy, inexpressible melancholy bled into his quiet voice.
“In the end, it is still a Counterfeit, fundamentally different from the original existence.”] [Fujimaru Ritsuka took a half-step forward.
The young Master tilted their head, clear eyes full of genuine curiosity.
“Are Counterfeits and the real thing really that different?”] [A faint, unexpectedly gentle smile touched the corner of Emiya’s mouth.
The warmth reached his steel-colored eyes, melting away the heavy melancholy from moments before.
He waved a hand dismissively.
“Explaining the exact mechanics would take too much time.
Let us set the theory aside for now.”] [His tone shifted, gaining a razor-sharp certainty as his gaze locked forward.
“But in terms of performance—purely from a numerical standpoint, there is no rule that says a Counterfeit must be inferior to the original.”] [Akarin’s Note: Enjoying the story?