Meanwhile, far away in the suburbs at Einzbern Castle, its body was covered in pure white snow.
The castle’s spires gleamed with a cold, pale light under the sky.
Inside the castle, the halls were warm and bright, with firewood crackling in the fireplace, filling the air with cozy warmth.
Illya sat steadily on Heracles’s broad shoulder.
Her pair of crystal-clear red eyes suddenly widened, and her delicate, doll-like face was full of astonishment.
Her tone carried a note of disbelief: “That child, Shirou, actually became a Servant in the future?”
She lowered her gaze slightly, her long lashes casting faint shadows under her eyes.
Her voice became extremely soft, reduced to a low murmur, the words laced with complex emotions: “Kiritsugu, you really adopted a remarkable son.”
A moment later, she raised her eyes again, a childlike certainty and assertiveness welling up in their depths as she spoke up clearly: “But my Berserker is the strongest!”
As her words fell, a faint aura of madness began to swirl around Heracles beneath her.
His massive frame exuded a mountain-like pressure.
Then, a low, powerful roar—”GRRROOOOAR!”—echoed through the hall, causing the window frames to tremble slightly.
The deep, resonant sound wave was filled with the sheer might and obedience of a Berserker, the most direct affirmation of the young girl’s words.
Inside the Holy Church’s chapel, the light was dim and solemn.
Stained glass cast mottled shadows onto the cold stone floor, and the air carried the faint scent of incense.
Kirei Kotomine stood beside the altar, his black priest’s robes making his complexion appear even paler.
His fingers traced the cross on his chest, his narrow eyes slightly narrowed as a glint of understanding and interest flashed in their depths.
He naturally remembered this youth—the final Master determined in the Fifth Holy Grail War he had witnessed not long ago, and moreover, the son of that man, Emiya Kiritsugu.
He slowly curled the corner of his mouth into a meaningful smile, his voice low and hoarse, tinged with a sense of amusement: “Hoh~ A partner of justice?
How nostalgic, Kiritsugu.”
He paused, a hidden pleasure churning in his eyes, his tone carrying a detached, worldly-wise insight and satisfaction: “To become an agent of Alaya, he must have experienced something quite delightful.” The profound meaning hidden in those words contained his own unique, twisted taste.
And in the timeline of the Fourth War, Emiya Kiritsugu stood alone in an empty room.
The sky outside the window was oppressively gloomy, as if it could drip water at any moment.
His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his trench coat, an inescapable weariness and loneliness clinging to him.
Before him, lines of introduction about Emiya Shirou were clearly displayed on the floating light screen.
His gaze remained fixed on those lines for a long time, unmoving.
His brow slightly furrowed, a thoughtful expression spreading across his features as he murmured the words from the light screen in a low voice: “A partner of justice…?”
As he looked at the faintly discernible outline of the heroic spirit on the screen, an inexplicable, indescribable sense of connection inexplicably arose in his heart—a subtle pull transcending time.
Yet, he never pursued the thought further, never connected this heroic spirit sharing his surname with his own future life.
Even though they both bore the name Emiya, a faint trace of indifference flickered in his eyes.
The world was vast; sharing a surname was a common occurrence.
Why would it necessarily be someone connected to him?
He lowered his gaze, concealing that fleeting, unusual feeling.
His expression soon returned to its usual calm and detachment.
Let us slowly shift our gaze to that light screen suspended in mid-air.
A soft yet clear luminescence steadily held the image aloft, every detail spread out with perfect clarity.
[Within the light screen, with a mere gesture from Emiya, streams of light gathered and dispersed.
A faint blue magical aura flowed along his fingertips, instantly solidifying into the familiar form of twin swords.
The blades shimmered with a clear, cold light.
Even though they were mere projections, they radiated an undeniable sharpness.]
[Mash’s pale purple eyes widened.
Her slightly furrowed brows gradually smoothed out.
The previously puzzled expression completely faded, replaced by a look of dawning comprehension.
She subconsciously parted her lips slightly and murmured softly, her tone full of understanding: ‘I see…
So that’s how Mr.
Emiya’s twin swords are made.’]
[She gave a slight nod, her finger unconsciously tapping her forearm lightly, as if recalling past battle scenes.
She added, her tone gaining a clarity born of realization, ‘No wonder no matter how many times they’re destroyed, they always find their way back into his hands.’]
[Beside her, Fou immediately perked up.
His fluffy white fur took on a soft, downy sheen under the light screen’s glow.
He nuzzled against Mash’s clothes, then looked up towards the screen and let out two consecutive calls, the trailing notes soft and gentle, carrying a hint of agreeable obedience: ‘Fou~ Fou.’]
[As the last sound faded, he raised a paw and patted Mash’s hand twice, his tone rising slightly as if corroborating the statement: ‘Fou Fou, Fou u.’]
[Emiya lowered his gaze to the faint magical light flowing in his palm.
The projected twin swords swayed gently in his hand, their blades clinking together with a crisp sound before dissolving into fine particles of light and vanishing into the air.]
[He looked up at Mash, his tone calm yet carrying a precise explanation: ‘Yes, allowing an imitation that doesn’t lose to the genuine article to exist in the world for a short time—that description should be more accurate.’]
[His expression grew somewhat more subdued.
His fingertips traced the residual warmth of magic in his palm.
His words gained a self-deprecating clarity as his gaze fell on his empty palm, as if contemplating the countless projections that had coalesced and dissipated there: ‘But no matter how close it gets to the real thing, its strength ultimately falls slightly short.
This is what they call ‘the lightness of fiction cannot bear the weight of reality.”]
[‘If it cannot approach the genuine article, my Projection Magecraft cannot be established,’ he slowly raised his eyes, his gaze as calm as a deep pool, his tone carrying a sober awareness of the nature of his own magecraft.
‘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, his voice growing even softer, the words hiding a hint of inexpressible melancholy: ‘In the end, it is still an imitation, fundamentally different from the original existence.’]
[Fujimaru Ritsuka took a small half-step forward, a look of curiosity on their face, their clear eyes full of inquiry as they asked: ‘Are imitations and the real thing different?’]
[Hearing this, a faint yet gentle smile appeared at the corner of Emiya’s mouth, spreading to his eyes and softening some of the earlier melancholy.
He waved a hand dismissively, his tone becoming slightly more lighthearted as he replied: ‘Explaining that would take time.
Let’s set it aside for now.’]
[He paused briefly, then changed the subject, his tone gaining a note of certainty, his gaze sharpening somewhat: ‘But in terms of performance—purely from a numerical standpoint, there is no inherent necessity for imitations to be inferior to the genuine article.’]
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!”