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Shirou moved again towards Twilight Manor via a detour, sneaking from the back of the building to avoid drawing anyone's attention. His steps were light yet hurried, blending with the shadows of the fence and bushes he knew by heart. Orario's night was still alive—too alive—and he had no intention of being part of that commotion.
Once he reached the back garden, the dim garden lights welcomed him with a yellowish glow. Leaves swayed gently, brushed by the night wind, srrrk... srrrk... But behind that superficial tranquility, Shirou could still hear the uproar from the front of Twilight Manor—the voices of his comrades discussing the divine light that pierced the sky some time ago.
"Still bustling, huh..." he murmured.
He let out a wide yawn, his jaw cracking slowly. Fatigue was truly chasing from behind, pressing on his eyelids, which felt heavy. Shirou shook his head slightly, deciding he didn't want to get involved in the slightest. Without stopping, he skirted the side of the building, his steps slowing as he stopped right below his second-floor room.
One breath.
Jump.
His body shot up lightly, his fingers grabbing the windowsill he had intentionally left open since evening. Tap. He slipped in smoothly, landing almost soundlessly inside the room.
The room welcomed him with soothing silence. A simple bed, a small table, a wooden wardrobe—everything was in its place. The room door was still locked from the inside, a sign that no one had entered out of curiosity. That made his chest feel a little more relieved.
"Thank goodness..." he whispered.
He neatly took off his shoes, and Shirou staggered to the bed, dropping himself onto the mattress. Fffth. The mattress springs creaked softly as they bore his weight. The fatigue he had been holding back now assaulted him mercilessly—his muscles relaxed, his mind blurred.
His brown gaze stared at the ceiling for a moment. Shadows of golden light, a god's laughter, and Ryuu's face flashed faintly... then faded.
His eyelids closed.
His breathing slowed, steady, and within seconds, Shirou sank completely into the embrace of dreams.
His dream began with a scene all too familiar.
A vast field stretched without bounds, the ground filled with swords planted slanted in every direction. Some were rusted, some gleamed, some were broken in half—all stood still like tombstones. The sky above was a reddish gray, clouds swirling slowly as if that world breathed with its own rhythm. A dry wind blew, fuuuu..., carrying the echo of metal softly clashing.
"Unlimited Blade Works..." Shirou whispered soundlessly.
This was a dream he often experienced. Too ordinary. Too close to him that he was no longer startled. He stood in the middle of that sword field, feeling a strange sensation—not as a spectator, but as part of that world. The swords seemed to recognize him, vibrating faintly as he stepped.
But the deeper he sank into sleep, the further the dream shifted. The sky's color faded, the sound of the wind weakened, and the sword field cracked like glass. Krrrk—The world crumbled slowly, replaced by a completely different scene.
Now he stood in a giant industrial facility. Steel structures towered, large pipes crossed overhead, and white steam billowed from machine crevices with a constant hiss. Industrial light reflected coldly on the metal floor. The air felt heavy, full of pressure, as if one small mistake could trigger great destruction.
"A Nuclear Plant?" Shirou thought vaguely.
He didn't know how he knew, but the conviction appeared just like that. This wasn't just a building—this was the heart of energy, a place where immense power was held by calculation and sacrifice. A low thrum sounded from the distance, doom... doom..., like the pulse of a giant.
In the middle of the main room, something caught his attention.
A red-haired man stood upright, his back facing Shirou. He wore a long, slightly worn military jacket, its ends fluttering slowly in the hot airflow. His posture was calm, yet held a deep weariness—the weariness of someone who had walked too far and too long.
Before him floated a bright blue orb, pulsing gently like a star forced to stay in one spot. Rings of light rotated around the orb, intersecting in intricate patterns impossible to fully comprehend. Each rotation emitted a faint echo, vmmm... vmmm..., like the sound of the world holding its breath.
Shirou's chest felt tight.
"I... remember this," he murmured.
Pieces of memory not his own began to merge. Not memories of his own life, but remnants embedded deep within him—Archer's memories. This scene. This place. This moment.
The red-haired man took a half-step forward. His shoulder tensed slightly. His hand rose, as if to grasp the blue orb, but stopped just before touching it.
"So... this is the end," the man's voice sounded low, flat, yet laden with resolve. "There is no way back."
Shirou wanted to speak. Wanted to scream a warning. But his body couldn't move, his voice locked in the throat of the dream.
The man smiled faintly—a bitter smile full of irony. "Becoming a hero of justice..." he continued slowly. "It's a high price, isn't it?"
The blue orb shone brighter, its rings rotating faster. Shirou felt immense pressure, as if something invisible was seizing and binding that man's soul. He knew what was happening. He knew to whom that vow was directed.
"Alaya..." Shirou whispered in his heart. Counter Force—the collective will of humanity.
The red-haired man closed his eyes. "If this is to save as many people as possible... then take it."
Blue light exploded softly, swallowing that figure in a cruel, cold radiance. Shirou felt a violent tremor in his chest, a strange yet familiar sense of loss—as if he was witnessing himself surrender a future he never got to have.
"Archer..." his breath choked.
The dream froze at that second—the moment the vow was sworn, the moment the soul was given. Shirou stood still, standing between past and future, realizing one thing with painful clarity.
He was witnessing the birth of a regret.
At that time, at the second, the vow was sworn—Archer truly believed his decision was the most reasonable. A neat solution. Win-win situation, so he called it in his heart. The world was saved, disaster prevented, and the price paid was only himself. What was one life compared to millions? The question even felt foolish to debate then.
He stood on the brink of destruction, realizing that an uncontrolled nuclear fission reaction would annihilate everything—the city, people, and hope. No time. No other realistic choice. So he offered his soul to Alaya as payment to stop the nuclear meltdown, sealing a contract that transcended death. After this mortal body ended, he would rise as a Counter Guardian. Humanity's last guardian. So the promise was wrapped in his mind.
"I will stop it," he thought then. "And after that... the world will be fine."
Death came simply and cruelly. A rope coiled around his neck, a silent gallows standing under the gray sky. Yet Archer's face was adorned with a faint smile. A satisfied smile—the smile of someone convinced they had done the right thing. Krek... The sound of creaking wood. The world faded.
Then he awoke again.
Not in heaven. Not in hell as humans depicted. He awoke as something else—an existence summoned, used, and tossed back into emptiness. Being a Counter Guardian turned out far from the heroic image he had dreamed.
Alaya did not need a hero.
Alaya did not need justice.
What it needed was a cleaner.
Every time humanity's collective will was threatened, he was summoned. No explanation, no moral context, just coordinates and vague commands. And each time, he had to soil his hands.
He killed people infected with a deadly disease—not one, not two, but thousands. They cried, pleaded, denied their fate. "I can still be saved!" "Please... I have a family!" Yet his sword still swung. Slash. Blood spilled. The disease stopped—along with their lives.
Another time, he fired his noble phantasm at a territory hostile to humanity. Flames soared to the sky, explosions shook the ground. BOOOOM! The city was destroyed, buildings collapsed, screams mixed with dust and smoke. The main target annihilated—and with it, children, the elderly, those who didn't even know why they had to die.
Collateral damage.
A cold term. Too cold for life to evaporate in an instant.
He continued to be summoned. Continued to kill. Continued to destroy. World after world. Era after era. All in the name of preserving humanity's survival. Each task eroded something within him, yet he still moved. Because that was his contract. Because that was his existence now.
But the longer it went, the clearer one thing became to him.
This was not the dream he pursued.
The hero of justice he imagined was not someone who chose who deserved to live and who had to die. Not someone who coldly sacrificed the few for the many. A hero of justice, in his naive idealism, was someone who would keep trying—even if impossible—to save everyone.
"Why...?" he murmured repeatedly in the emptiness between summons. "Why does it have to be like this...?"
But Alaya never answered. It only summoned again when needed.
Eon after eon passed. Time lost meaning. What remained was regret that settled, growing heavier, denser. A bitter awareness that the contract he signed with a smile was not salvation, but endless punishment.
And at the bottom of that regret, one wish began to grow slowly but stubbornly.
If only...
If only there had been another path back then.
Clap... clap... clap...
The sound of clapping echoed softly yet clearly, slapping the silence of the dreamscape filled with endless blades. Shirou jolted. His body tensed instantly, instinct screaming louder than his consciousness. He turned quickly towards the back, his hand reflexively moving as if to draw a sword.
"What—?!" his breath caught.
There stood a figure who should have been impossible to be here.
Rudra.
The god looked relaxed, almost too relaxed for someone who had just been "killed." His back slightly hunched forward, his palms still clapping slowly, his expression filled with a faint, mocking smile. The divine aura that usually pressed on his chest now felt more subdued, yet that was precisely what made it more disturbing—like a knife hidden behind silk.
"Interesting," Rudra said lightly, his eyes sweeping over the expanse of swords around them. "So this is what fills your head when you sleep. A rather... intriguing show."
Shirou retreated half a step. His heart pounded loudly. A god... inside my dream? He thought in horror. "Why are you here?" he asked sharply, his voice trying to remain steady though his throat dried. "This is my territory."
Rudra chuckled softly. "Still wary, huh? Good. But have you truly forgotten?" He raised one finger, pointing straight at Shirou's chest. "You spilled my blood. My ichor. And a god's blood is not just a fluid—it is a bond."
Shirou's face instantly paled. A chill crept from his nape down his spine. His memory raced back: a black dagger stabbing, golden blood flowing, the hot touch of divinity felt to the bone. Ichor... "So... that's why?" he murmured almost inaudibly.
Seeing that expression, Rudra looked even more amused. His smile widened. "Ah, don't tense up like that," he said while waving a hand dismissively. "I won't drop by too often. It's not pleasant to disturb you too early either."
He took one step closer. Tap. The sound echoed strangely in the dream world. "Besides," he continued casually, his golden eyes gleaming, "we have plenty of time later."
Shirou swallowed. "What do you mean...?"
Rudra smiled broadly. A calm smile. A smile is cruel because of its calmness. "After you die," he said softly, as if whispering an inevitable secret.
That sense of threat exploded in Shirou's chest like a spark in a dry field. Without giving more time to think, his will merged with the dream world.
Klang—!
Dozens of swords planted in the iron ground vibrated simultaneously. The blades floated, spun in the air, then shot together—whoosh!—towards Rudra from every direction, carrying naked, desperate killing intent.
But Rudra didn't even change his expression.
From his body emanated a divine aura—calm, vast, and oppressive. Bwaaaam. That invisible wave spread, and instantly Shirou's swords were repelled like toys, clashing with each other, falling to the ground with noisy metallic clangs.
Klang! Klatter!
Shirou gritted his teeth, already preparing to move the next sword. His shoulders tensed, his breathing heavy. If one wave isn't enough, then—
"Ah, how crude," Rudra sighed, as if doused with cold water. "We could have had a civil conversation. But you always reach for the blade first, don't you?"
Shirou fell silent.
His hand slowly lowered. Not because of surrender—but because he realized. It was futile. That aura alone was enough to answer about the chasm of power between them.
"What do you want?" Shirou finally asked, his voice low and tense. His eyes didn't leave Rudra, ready to react at any moment. "You didn't come just to watch my dream, did you?"
Rudra smiled faintly, then sat in mid-air, cross-legged as if the dream world was his own living room. "Correct. I'm curious." He tilted his head, looking at Shirou with genuine interest that felt all the more terrifying. "About the dream earlier."
"The dream...?" Shirou frowned.
"The one you just saw," Rudra continued. "The man who made the vow. The regret. The world cleansed with blood." His smile widened a little. "Was that you?"
The question fell like a hammer.
Shirou was silent for a long time. In his chest, something pulsed—not anger, not fear, but an old burden all too familiar. He averted his gaze briefly, looking at the endless swords around them.
"What difference does it make if it's me... or not?" he answered slowly at last.
Rudra narrowed his eyes, his gaze tracing Shirou from head to toe, as if weighing a fragile item. His lips curved slightly, not in mockery, but in conviction. "Impossible," he said casually. "That's not you." He chuckled softly. "You're too naive. Too trusting that the world can still be saved without sacrificing anything."
Shirou was silent. His tongue felt numb, his chest pressed by something invisible. He wanted to deny, to shout that he knew the bitterness of that path—but words refused to come out. Because deep in his heart, he himself wasn't entirely sure where the line was between him and Archer's shadow.
"Hahaha..." Rudra laughed lowly, then looked up as if speaking to the iron sky above. "Alaya truly is cruel." His tone sounded admiring. "Taking someone with a pure dream, then squeezing them bit by bit... until only empty obligation and eternal regret remain." He turned back to Shirou, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "I look forward to my turn. Breaking you slowly, seeing when your idealism cracks."
Krak.
Shirou's teeth ground hard. His hands clenched, veins bulging. His anger flared. "You won't be able to," he said firmly, the voice coming out heavy yet resolute. "I won't let myself end up like that."
Rudra laughed again, softer, deeper. "We'll see," he whispered.
Rudra smiled faintly, his demeanor too calm for the threat he uttered. "I won't repeat Alaya's method," he said, his voice echoing softly in the expanse of endless swords. "It crushes the soul slowly, gnawing at hope until only obedience remains." He raised one finger, as if giving a light lecture. "My method is different. Much simpler."
He stepped closer. Each footstep made a metallic clang resonate—clang... clang...—as if the world itself held its breath. "I'll do it directly," he continued. "Your body. Real pain. I want to hear you scream, not lament in silence."
Shirou let out a short snort. His shoulders tensed, yet his gaze didn't waver in the slightest. "Nonsense," he replied flatly. "The bluster of a defeated god." In his chest, his heart beat hard—thump, thump, thump—but he gave no room for fear. If I retreat here, everything is meaningless, he thought.
"Hm." Rudra tilted his head, looking as if genuinely considering that answer. A small smile returned. "Well then," he said lightly, "consider this... a preview."
Suddenly, light radiated from Rudra's body. Not a crude flash, but a divine glow spreading outward like a sun born too close. Whooom! The air vibrated, the swords around trembled and rang simultaneously. Shirou reflexively raised a hand to cover his eyes; the glare pierced his eyelids, burning his sight.
The world changed.
The sword field vanished, replaced by another scene, alien and oppressive, as if reality was forcibly folded. Shirou felt the footing beneath his feet shift; his breath caught. Behind that light, Rudra's voice sounded faint yet clear, full of satisfaction.
"This is just the beginning," he said. "Remember the sensation well."
Shirou found himself standing frozen in the midst of a raging storm without mercy. The sky above swirled darkly, black clouds collided, while the wind roared like beasts unleashed from cages. Whoooaaar! It sounds swallowed everything, pressing on the eardrums to the point of pain. The ground beneath his feet trembled, hard to tell if he still stood or was merely dragged by the chaos.
From the whirlwind, Rudra's voice sounded clear, full of satisfaction. "Allow me to introduce," he said casually, as if showcasing a work of art. "Rudra Vayu. The punishing wind for sinners." His figure looked vague in the distance, his hair and robes flapping wildly. "And you, Shirou Emiya, are the greatest sinner—a human who dared to injure a god."
The wind suddenly grew more violent. Not just a gust; it felt like thousands of thin blades hitting from every direction. Shrrrk—! Shirou jolted, his body pushed back. The skin on his arms was scratched, then his thigh, then his cheek. "Gh—!" his groan was stifled. Every breath felt like inhaling knives.
Before he could adjust, rain began to fall—the drops heavy, gleaming strangely. When they touched his skin, a stinging sensation shot through. Ssssss—! The liquid bit, like acid, worsened small wounds into blazing pain. "Khh...!" Shirou staggered, his knees almost giving way. Blisters appeared, reddened, then burst, and blood began to flow following the cruel rainwater's course.
He gritted his teeth, trying to stand upright. This is a dream... just a dream, he reminded himself, though the pain felt too real to ignore. Every second felt like squeezing his consciousness, forcing his body to scream for surrender.
Amid the storm, Rudra's laughter echoed. "Hahaha!" The tone was light, almost cheerful. "Look at you," he mocked. "This is the pride you stole from me." He stepped closer, his shadow enlarging behind the curtain of wind and rain. "Enjoy this preview, little hero. I have many more ways to make you regret."
Shirou raised his face, streaked with blood and rain, eyes shining stubbornly. Behind groans and panting breath, his determination still held on.
Instinctive impulse made Shirou try to resist. Amid the storm tearing his body, he forced his consciousness to focus, trying to ignite the magic circuits that usually responded like breathing reflexes. Come on... move... He gritted his teeth, blood mixed with rain dripped from his chin, and inside his chest, he felt heat—the early sign of prana about to flow.
"Ohhh—no, no," Rudra's voice sounded light, almost bored. He raised a hand and slowly twirled his index finger, like a teacher reprimanding a naughty student. "That's forbidden."
That small gesture was enough to change everything.
A moment later, the divine wind roared even more madly. WOOOOSH—! Air pressure skyrocketed, layer upon layer, pounding Shirou from all directions. The ground vanished from under his feet. His body was forcibly lifted, twisted, then dragged into the rapidly spinning vortex.
"Guh—!" His breath choked. He spun uncontrollably, the world blurring: sky, ground, light, darkness—all mixed. His body was flung left, right, repeatedly, like a piece of meat thrown into a giant grinder. Grrrk—crack! He heard a sound not from the storm—the sound of his own bones colliding, joints screaming under impossible force.
He didn't even have time to utter a single syllable. The magecraft he was about to use shattered before it formed. That wind wasn't just tearing flesh and skin; it felt like stabbing deeper, piercing his very existence. Shirou felt something invisible being torn—his magic circuits, the prana channels embedded in his soul, cut apart like fragile threads. Each "tear" there triggered an explosion of pain incomparable to any physical wound.
"Aa—aaah—!" His voice was torn apart by the storm. The pain was absolute. Not just agony, but total denial of his very being. As if every part of his body, mind, and soul was simultaneously screaming at him to break apart. He felt uprooted, squeezed, crushed, as if the very concept of "Shirou Emiya" was being stripped away layer by layer.
This wasn't suffering that could be endured with willpower. This was pain that made time lose meaning. One second felt like eternity. His consciousness began to crack, fading at the edge of an abyss of darkness, but even there the pain showed no mercy.
"AKHHHH—!!!"
The scream burst—and the world collapsed.
Shirou jolted awake with his body arched forward.
Hah—hah—hah! He gasped for breath, his chest rising and falling wildly. Sweat drenched his entire body, the sheets soaked through. His heart pounded hard as if trying to break through his ribs. His hands trembled violently, still feeling phantom pain—remnants of the divine storm that seemed not yet fully gone.
He stared blankly ahead, eyes wide open, while the echo of Rudra's laughter still felt lingering at the back of his mind.