Inside the Emiya Residence, warm yellow light filled the living room.
Emiya Shirou’s hand holding the water cup jolted abruptly, nearly spilling the warm liquid.
He stared blankly at the light screen in the air, his face a picture of shock, his pupils constricting sharply.
His tone was full of incredulous disbelief: “What?
That guy who looked so annoyed with me is also Emiya Shirou?”
His brows furrowed tightly, his face a mask of confusion and bewilderment.
He shifted his gaze back to the introduction on the light screen, his tone carrying a note of urgent puzzlement as he raised his voice slightly, “What does it mean, ‘once dedicated to killing his former self’?”
As the words left his mouth, he seemed to suddenly grasp a crucial point.
His eyes widened sharply, his expression instantly turning grave.
The hand holding the cup unconsciously tightened, his knuckles turning white, and his face took on a tinge of worry.
He murmured in a low voice, “…Could it be that ‘once’ refers to right now?”
Once this thought emerged, his heart tightened.
Panic instantly surged in his eyes, and he couldn’t help but take half a step back, his tone carrying a hint of fearful dread: “Then wouldn’t I be in great danger right now?”
Saber stood quietly to the side, her upright posture relaxing slightly.
Her emerald-green eyes held a clear trace of confusion as her gaze gently shifted between the Heroic Spirit Emiya on the light screen and the Emiya Shirou standing before her.
She was evidently also puzzled as to why her Master would become a Servant in such a form.
Yet, seeing Shirou’s face full of fear and anxiety, the question that reached her lips was ultimately swallowed back.
She took a half-step forward, her voice gentle yet steady, carrying an unquestionable firmness as she softly offered comfort: “Please do not worry, Shirou.
If such a situation were to occur, I will definitely protect you.”
Having said that, she gave a slight nod, her expression solemn yet gentle.
Her palm unconsciously formed a loose grip, as if silently affirming that she would stand with her sword drawn for him at any time.
Hearing this, Emiya Shirou’s tense shoulders and back suddenly relaxed.
The fingers that had been clenched white slowly uncurled, and his anxious heart seemed to settle somewhat.
The panic in his eyes receded for the most part, leaving only a faint trace of lingering fear.
He looked up at Saber standing beside him, her expression resolute.
The tight line of his lips softened slightly, warmth and gratitude welling up in his eyes.
His previously flustered and helpless tone also calmed considerably as he said softly, “Thank you, Saber.”
The garden of the Matou Residence was perpetually soaked in a lingering, damp chill.
The wooden pillars under the eaves were covered in dark brown mold spots, and even the natural light filtering in was rendered gloomy by the gnarled, withered vines in the courtyard.
The tatami mats inside carried a damp, cold sensation.
Matou Sakura knelt formally beside the low table.
Her usually gentle, downcast eyelashes suddenly trembled.
Her eyes, hazy with a light purple hue, abruptly lifted, staring directly at the Heroic Spirit form of Emiya Shirou before her.
Her tone was full of barely concealed astonishment: “Senpai…
actually became a Servant in the future?”
Before her words fully faded, her gaze lightly swept over the not-quite-pure spiritual radiance swirling on the surface of his spirit core.
Her brows slightly furrowed.
The initial surprise gradually solidified into a touch of gravity.
Her fingertips unconsciously tightened on the hem of her clothes resting on her knees.
Her voice also softened, carrying a barely perceptible hesitation: “Cannot be called orthodox…
once dedicated to killing his former self…
is that it?”
That gravity was soon tinged with a faint sorrow.
She lowered her gaze to her hands folded on her lap.
Her long eyelashes cast fragmented shadows beneath her eyes.
Her tone softened into a husky quality: “Senpai…
must have gone through a lot to reach this point, right?” That sigh was as light as wind brushing withered leaves, concealing a heart full of heartache and melancholy.
In the adjacent room, Matou Shinji was irritably kicking a wooden box at his feet, causing the clutter inside to clatter noisily.
His already gloomy complexion instantly flushed crimson upon catching snippets of the conversation outside, contorted with disbelief: “Nani?!
That Emiya guy actually became a Servant?!”
He abruptly clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white from the force, his nails almost digging into his flesh.
An uncontrollable, violent rage churned in his chest.
His tone was full of a resentful, unwilling roar, each word dripping with venom: “Why?
Why does he get to have the powerful strength of a Servant?”
Jealousy coiled around his heart like a poisonous vine.
On one side was a towering fury towards his own incomplete magic circuits, the Matou name he bore yet his body being as useless as trash.
On the other side was a deep-seated resentment towards Emiya Shirou, who always seemed to outshine him, and now had directly ascended above him.
These two emotions intertwined, causing his chest to heave violently as he gasped for heavy breaths.
Suddenly, as if grasping a key point, his twisted expression froze.
A strange glint flashed in his turbid eyes.
His throat unconsciously bobbed as he muttered to himself in a low voice: “Wait!
Only dead people can become Servants, right?”
Once this thought arose, it could no longer be suppressed.
He jerked his head up.
The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly upward, yet a bright glint swiftly swept through his eyes—an irrepressible, surging glee hidden in the shadows.
It lasted only an instant before sinking again, clouded by an indescribable, stagnant murkiness.
That earlier flicker of elation gradually cooled by half.
His heart felt inexplicably hollow, and even the violent aura around him diminished somewhat.
His expression became obscure and inscrutable, his true emotions indiscernible.
Only his voice carried a peculiar, drifting quality: “Does this mean…
Emiya died at that age?!”
That secret delight born from the other’s early demise ultimately couldn’t withstand a strand of inexplicable melancholy.
The two entangled, all of it concealed deep within his eyes.
In the deepest, darkest corner of the mansion, where light could hardly reach, Matou Zouken huddled behind layers upon layers of curse-laden drapes.
His withered, bark-like fingers lightly tapped the armrest.
A rare trace of surprise flickered through those turbid yet still sharp eyes.
His raspy voice carried a note of inquiry: “That brat from the Emiya family actually became a Servant in the future?”
He gave a slight nod, his shriveled lips curling into a meaningful smile.
His tone mixed amazement with calculation: “How marvelous.
To think someone in this era could break free from mortal flesh and become a Heroic Spirit.”
His gaze pierced through the numerous obstacles, as if he could already see that youth in Heroic Spirit form, harboring unfathomable schemes.
It might not seem tempting right nobut who knows what the future holds?
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”