Note: This Chapter is Re-Translated on 6 / 15 / 2025
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Chapter 2: You Can't Just Slap Any Poster on the Wall
Shinji Matou considered himself a seasoned otaku—a true connoisseur of all things nerdy.
Before his reincarnation, "Shinji-nii" (as he'd sometimes call himself with irony) wasn't just your average anime and game fan. Sure, he liked novels, games, and all the usual ACG (Anime, Comics, Games) culture. But he also had a respectable depth of knowledge in adjacent hobbies—things like Hollywood films, Japanese tokusatsu dramas, and even niche subcultures that most so-called "hardcore fans" barely scratched the surface of.
Like many unfortunate souls before him, Shinji had died in an accident. And as cliché as it might sound, he was reincarnated into another world due to some mysterious force beyond human understanding.
When he opened his eyes again, it was 1994. He was inside the body of a seven-year-old boy with wild blue hair and a particularly familiar name: Shinji Matou.
That might sound like a dream come true for any self-respecting otaku. But when the man who was supposedly his father called out to him, mentioned a little sister named "Sakura," and told him they were heading back to their ancestral home in a place called Fuyuki City…
Shinji froze.
No. Way.
He had reincarnated into the world of Fate.
Shinji Matou. That name was no coincidence. It belonged to that guy—the arrogant, spiteful, and generally pathetic Master from the Fifth Holy Grail War. The joke of the fandom. The punching bag of the narrative. The guy who, in every single route of Fate, met with some kind of terrible fate.
In fact, among all three storylines—Fate, Unlimited Blade Works, and Heaven's Feel—only UBW gave him a barely tolerable ending. The other two? Death. Brutal, undignified, and honestly… deserved.
So forgive him if he wasn't exactly thrilled about his new life.
"Fighting fate?" he scoffed at the idea. "Do you even know who lives in the Matou basement?"
It wasn't just hard—it was damn near impossible. He was reborn into a cursed bloodline, under a house ruled by an immortal insect that wore a human skin suit. There was no "happy ending" waiting for him here.
So for the first few days after his rebirth, Shinji lived in a constant state of panic. He barely ate, barely slept, and half-expected to get turned into a worm nest every time he walked down a dark hallway.
But surprisingly… nothing happened.
When he finally arrived at the Matou estate and began digging through its legacy and history, Shinji discovered something unexpected.
This wasn't the same Fate universe he remembered.
It had magic, yes. There were magi, the Holy Grail War, even the Clock Tower. All the familiar names and places existed. But the world itself felt… off.
Different.
The magical energy—the "Mystery" of the world—had all but dried up.
It was hard to describe, but it felt like someone had taken the Type-Moon setting and drained the color out of it. The supernatural elements were still around, but faint. Withered. Like echoes of a forgotten past.
Take the Holy Grail War, for instance.
In this world, only two wars had ever been held—and both had been colossal disappointments.
According to what he could find in the Matou archives, the quality of the summoned Servants was so laughably low that even first-year magi could've survived a duel. By the second war, the so-called "heroic spirits" were little better than athletic humans with glorified cosplay outfits and a few parlor tricks.
Eventually, the ritual was abandoned altogether. The Church quietly erased all mention of it, and the other founding families simply moved on.
It wasn't just the Grail War, either. Across the entire world, magic was dying.
The decline was rapid, severe, and seemed to start around the industrial era. Nobody knew why. Theories ranged from spiritual pollution to a fundamental breakdown in reality's laws—but whatever the cause, it had left the modern magus community grasping at straws.
And that shift caused a massive change in mindset.
The romantic dream of reaching the Root? Gone.
The obsession with mystery, lineage, and secrecy? Replaced with cynicism and practicality.
Magus families began fading out of the spotlight. Many of their descendants simply didn't bother inheriting the craft anymore. Who needed arcane rituals and circuit theory when a college degree in engineering could land you a comfortable job?
"Magecraft?" some second-generation heirs would scoff. "I'd rather learn how to fix air conditioners. At least that gets you paid."
In time, even the most hardcore magi began treating thaumaturgy like an old tradition. A curious hobby passed down in dusty books—not a gateway to infinite possibility.
Even the great Clock Tower—once a hub of arcane brilliance—started resembling a faded academic institution clinging to former glory.
Even so, watching centuries of carefully honed thaumaturgy vanish felt worse than a death blow to any proud magus.
Thus sprang up the master‑and‑apprentice system like wildfire across the magecraft world. Institutions such as the Clock Tower—once merely arcane academies—blossomed into bustling teaching halls, eclipsing even their original glory in the classic Type‑Moon timeline. From Tokyo to London, every promising young aspirant sought out a personal mentor, and every veteran magus strove to pass on even a fraction of the lost mysteries.
For Shinji, this seismic shift was nothing short of a boon. No—it was outright miraculous.
Because the dwindling of magic mysteries meant one thing above all: Matou Makiri Zolgen—that ancient eldritch worm in human skin—had finally perished before reaching his 500th year. Records hinted that during the Second Holy Grail War, Zolgen simply couldn't sustain his unnatural life any longer and slipped into death. Some whispered it was suicide, the ultimate despair at seeing the Grail fail to manifest its promised boon.
In any case, Zolgen was gone—vanished into whatever afterlife awaited—and in his stead stood a very human, very doting grandfather: Zouken Matou. He looked like Yoda from Star Wars, all right, but he was just a kindly old magi who adored his grandson.
Suddenly, Shinji's place in the family transformed. He was no longer the expendable cog of the original story; he was the legitimate heir of House Matou.
And though magic had faded, the Matou landholdings were still intact. In the original timeline, they scraped by by leasing out "spiritual conduits" (the ley lines that powered their craft). After the world's magic waned, those conduits died off one after another, until they were nothing but empty dirt.
Grandfather Zouken, now a prominent landowner, simply pivoted to real estate. He parceled out the former ley‑line plots for housing developments, office parks, and shopping centers. Thanks to post‑war Japan's economic miracle, the family coffer swelled beyond anyone's expectation.
Sure, the bubble‑economy crash later shrank their fortune, but the Matou weren't destitute—they rose as local tycoons, complete with company cars and executive suites.
To an otaku‑turned‑reincarnator like Shinji, this was "win‑win‑win."
A loving grandfather who spoiled him rotten
A title and birthright that elevated him from "throwaway NPC" to "prodigal eldest son"
A fortune to fund any hare‑brained dream
And dreams were exactly what he had.
Unlike his canon self—who was magically inept—this Shinji had inherited prodigious talent. His knack for hypnosis, mental suggestion, illusion, and barrier magecraft was so uncanny that the teachers at the Clock Tower whispered of a "child genius."
Admittedly, his power level was still far below the legendary Servants of lore. Yet in this atrophied magic age, even he qualified as a "miracle child."
Grandfather Zouken beamed with pride… though he did grumble about Shinji's relative weakness in familiars, elemental water magecraft, and construct creation.
Shinji shrugged—he was perfectly fine neglecting the Matou family's dusty traditions. To him, all that mattered was one thing:
Making live‑action blockbusters of his favorite anime.
In his past life, he'd always dreamed of seeing those shining ACG worlds rendered with Hollywood‑level effects—without Hollywood's bizarre cultural baggage or ever‑changing "politically correct" rules.
Now, as the newly minted Matou heir, he had the wealth, the social standing, and the magical edge to chase that dream.
And there was one final stroke of luck: in this parallel Type‑Moon timeline, the very first Star Wars movie—the one that revolutionized global cinema—had never existed. Whether because some "mold‑infesting" cosmic force erased it or simply because the story-engineers never thought to film it, this universe lacked even the spark of George Lucas's space opera.
No Star Wars. No derivative sci‑fi boom. No blockbuster industrial complex clogging the studios.
While many classic films still existed in this world—such as the universally acclaimed The Shawshank Redemption, or Jeremy Brett's masterful Sherlock Holmes series (which even earned praise from Fate's own Old Man Waver)—commercial blockbusters were a different story.
Almost all of them were… missing.
The consequences of this were profound. The film industry in this version of Earth was still stuck in its primitive stage—relying solely on box office sales and VHS rentals to survive. There were no soundtrack CDs. No collectible merch. No cinematic universes. No cross-media IP strategies. No multimedia collaborations. None of the sophisticated "media-mix" that modern entertainment industries relied on.
Movies, here, were still seen purely as art. Going to the cinema was like attending a gallery or listening to a symphony—refined, contemplative, artistic.
And Shinji Matou had had enough.
"Art? Art?! How the hell are we supposed to build a cinematic empire with a bunch of art-house snobs running the show?!"
He slammed his fist on the desk and stood tall, eyes blazing. It was in that moment that Shinji made a vow: he would personally transform this backwards industry into the entertainment juggernaut it was always meant to be.
And he wouldn't just rely on his knowledge from a past life as a hardcore otaku. No—this time, he had magecraft.
Shinji had been experimenting for a while and discovered something world-changing: many forms of magecraft were surprisingly compatible with film production.
Illusions and projection spells could create stunning visual effects far beyond practical limitations.
Familiar magecraft could be used to train and command animal actors with surgical precision.
Alchemy and reinforcement spells could fabricate props, costumes, and scenery on the spot.
Explosion-based thaumaturgy could provide realistic, safe pyrotechnics, better than any special effects department.
Enchantment and perception manipulation could enhance lighting, sound, even camera angles in post-production.
What started as a fantasy became a fully fledged, low-cost, high-efficiency hybrid system: magecraft-based cinema production.
And Shinji realized: this wasn't just a gimmick. It had the potential to revolutionize the entire film industry.
In a world where CG artists and explosive experts were expensive and scarce, magecraft was cheap, flexible, and scalable. Even better, the current entertainment scene was technologically stagnant—no visual effect standard had even been set yet.
If Shinji could swoop in and become the first to integrate magecraft into filmmaking, he wouldn't just be a director—he'd be a legend.
But the benefits didn't stop there.
The magecraft world, long trapped in tradition and secrecy, had a recruitment crisis. Fewer and fewer apprentices signed up each year, thanks to the world's declining faith in magic. Most people didn't even know magi existed. The bloodlines thinned. The craft was dying.
Shinji's magical film project, however, could be the perfect cure.
If the public saw the dazzling beauty and surreal wonder of magecraft through cinema, the appeal of magecraft would skyrocket. Young people would come in droves, eager to learn how to wield the mysteries shown on screen. It'd be just like how the kung fu movie boom back on Earth had reinvigorated martial arts schools worldwide.
Magecraft would stop being a fading secret—and start becoming a cultural phenomenon.
Shinji presented his grand vision to his grandfather, Zouken Matou.
To his delight, the old man didn't just approve—he endorsed it wholeheartedly. Zouken practically glowed with pride.
"Go ahead, Shinji. Do whatever you want. We have money, time, and power. If you fail, you're still my heir. If you succeed… then you'll become the hero who saved magecraft. The Matou name will echo through history."
That vote of confidence lit a fire in Shinji's chest.
He doubled down on his studies, achieving remarkable feats in magecraft over the next few years. His natural talent earned him the recommendation to enter the Clock Tower, the magical academy at the heart of the Type-Moon world.
He spent nearly two years there as an auditing student. During that time, he surveyed the global state of magecraft, confirmed that his plan was fully feasible, and even networked with several like-minded innovators.
Then, after confirming everything he needed, he left.
Destination: USC—the University of Southern California, home of one of the best film schools in the world.
There, Shinji split his time between auditing screenwriting and production classes and sneaking off to intern at real Hollywood studios.
Shinji hadn't exactly been a professional filmmaker in his past life—just your average shut-in otaku. Sure, he'd seen tons of great anime and movies, but actually making one? That required a bit more than just fanboy passion.
So, he spent over a year in the U.S., studying both magic and film production. By the time he returned to the Clock Tower, he wasn't there as a student anymore—but as a man on a mission.
His goal? Find partners.
This project was simply too big for the Matou family alone. Even with all their wealth and magical resources, it wasn't enough. Shinji needed a backer with real influence in the mage world.
And so, after much consideration, he reached out to none other than Lord El-Melloi II's household—the Archibalds.
Now, it wasn't like Shinji had any special relationship with Waver or the Archibalds. Far from it. But of all the noble mai families that would actually consider his absurd-sounding "magecraft x movies" plan, the Archibalds were by far the strongest.
All the bigger and older families? Yeah, no. They laughed him out of the room.
To them, this "modern entertainment industry" Shinji spoke of was a clown act at best and sacrilege at worst. These ancient mummies in mage robes still refused to touch a telephone, using familiars for communication and obsessing over bloodline purity like it was the feudal era.
Shinji could only shake his head at their fossilized thinking.
Fortunately, not everyone in the Clock Tower was allergic to progress. Besides the Archibalds, Shinji found a few other modern-minded magi families who were willing to take a gamble.
With their support, and after completing all the necessary groundwork, "Type-Moon Studios" was officially established.
Shinji returned to his hometown of Fuyuki City, the cradle of the Holy Grail Wars, to begin his master plan.
And the first step of this ambitious project?
Produce a full-length movie adaptation of Fate/Stay Night.
Of course, no matter how much planning he did, actually making a movie turned out to be... a whole different battlefield.
Take today, for example.
"...Huh?"
Shinji raised an eyebrow as he picked up a prop poster from the set.
In the script, there was a scene where Shirou Emiya uses this exact poster to weakly block a strike from Lancer. The poster was supposed to tear dramatically as Lancer's spear pierced through it—a simple visual gag.
But when Shinji looked at the actual item in hand...
"Who the hell approved this poster?"
His expression darkened.
The poster itself wasn't a problem—it was just a gym advertisement. A buff, shirtless dude posing in front of some dumb motivational slogan.
But after the spear punctured it during the scene...
The hole ended up right in the crotch area.
It looked... very wrong.
Shinji's eye twitched.
"Someone replace this. I was gonna say use an idol poster, but no—definitely not. That'd make it worse. Just use... I dunno, a ramen shop flyer or something."
Because yeah—having Lancer thrust his spear through a teenage idol's crotch on-screen? That was definitely heading into X-rated territory.
As the staff scurried off to fix the issue, Shinji let out a long sigh and rubbed his temple.
"Seriously… making movies is way more trouble than I thought…"