It was the start of 2003, and the date hit me harder than I expected. Every time I looked at the calendar, I could almost hear the ticking clock toward the next Grail War. Twenty‑three months. Less than two years to sharpen myself into something that could survive — and win. I'd been training relentlessly, building my magecraft, testing myself in real fights, stacking up money and resources. On paper, I was ahead of schedule.
But the truth was, I was tired. And lonely.
I had all these achievements, all this power, but no one I could share it with without risking the delicate balance of canon. I knew how fanfic MCs usually played it — dive in, change everything, damn the consequences. But this wasn't a story to me. This was my life. I wasn't going to throw away my knowledge and advantages just to indulge myself.
Still, I didn't want to end up like Shirou — pushing everyone away in pursuit of an ideal until there was nothing left but the ideal itself. That was the path to becoming the Counter Guardian. I'd already decided I was breaking that cycle.
So I made a schedule. Four days a week for training — magecraft drills, combat practice, archery in every possible scenario: running, sliding, leaping, long‑range, point‑blank. The other three days were for people. One day for Sakura, one for Rin, one for either Issei or Fuji‑nee. No excuses.
Day with Sakura
Today was Sakura's day. I wanted it to be fun, something just for her. I'd bought two tickets to a rerun marathon of the Dragon Ball Z movies. I'd learned in past conversations that she liked Dragon Ball, and her favorite character was Vegeta — a man who'd escaped his tormentor and carved out his own place in the world. I understood why she'd admire that.
The only hurdle was convincing her to skip school. She was a model student, but she could afford to miss a day.
After breakfast, with Fuji‑nee heading out the door, I turned to Sakura. "Sakura, you want to skip school and watch a movie with me?"
Her eyes lit up for a second before she schooled her expression. "I'd love to watch a movie with you, senpai, but… I want to do it without skipping class. And my brother would get mad."
I frowned. "You don't have to worry about your brother. He and I are… friends. He'll listen to me."
She shook her head. "Even still, senpai, I can't just—"
"It's a Dragon Ball movie," I cut in.
She froze mid‑sentence. "…You should have led with that first, senpai. Although… what will I wear?"
I smiled. "Don't worry. I've got some clothes in Fuji‑nee's room about your size."
"Okay, senpai. When you get them, bring them to me. I'll be in the bathroom." She gave me a small, almost teasing smile before walking off.
It caught me off guard. I didn't have those kinds of intentions toward her, but maybe she did toward me. That was a conversation I'd need to have sooner rather than later.
I traced a simple outfit — black long‑sleeve, blue jeans — and knocked on the bathroom door. She cracked it open just enough to take the clothes. "Thanks," she said softly.
Ten minutes later, she emerged. The outfit fit her well. "You look nice, Sakura," I said.
She blushed. "Thank you, senpai. You look great yourself."
I was in a blue sweater over my chest armor, combat pants altered to look like normal wear. I handed her a traced jacket, put on my own, and we stepped outside to the waiting taxi.
The first twenty minutes of the ride were light conversation — until she shifted in her seat and looked at me seriously.
"Senpai… I don't know if you've noticed, but you've changed. Not in a bad way. But before… it was like you had this impossible weight on your shoulders. Around the time the Steel‑Eyed Raven appeared, you'd come to school tired. On the outside, you looked fine, but when I looked in your eyes… they were empty. Your smiles were fake."
She looked down. "I wanted to help you. The way you helped me. But I was too scared. Too scared to change what we had. Too scared of what you'd say."
I stayed quiet, letting her speak.
"Then one day, the emptiness was gone. You started smiling again — real smiles. Your eyes had fire again. And I felt… guilty."
Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry, senpai. I'm sorry I didn't help you. That you had to help yourself. I should have done something, anything! But I'm a coward." Tears welled up. "You didn't have to be kind to me, but you were. And that made me feel even guiltier."
The taxi driver glanced at us in the mirror, his expression hard to read. I was stunned. She'd noticed everything — my arrival in this world, the self‑hypnosis, the shift when I integrated Shirou's memories. She'd seen through it all.
And I'd added to her burdens without realizing it.
"Sakura, please look up," I said. She shook her head. "Please," I repeated. She met my eyes, and I forced a smile even as self‑loathing twisted in my gut.
"Thank you," I said. "You noticed when no one else did. That means more to me than you think. And… I'm glad you didn't say anything back then. I wasn't in the right headspace. I probably would have ignored you and hurt you."
Tears blurred my vision. "You're not useless. You're not a coward. You're strong. Stronger than me. Stronger than anyone around you, for feeling what you've felt and still moving forward."
Her tears slowed. She leaned into me, and I wrapped my arms around her. We stayed like that, both of us crying, until the driver gave me a discreet thumbs‑up.
"I promise," I whispered, "I will never hurt you again. I won't let anyone hurt you again. As long as I live, your life will be one of happiness."
The smile she gave me in that moment burned itself into my memory. It sharpened my resolve. Zouken Matou's days were numbered.
By the time we pulled up to the theater, the mood had lightened. We joked about our favorite DBZ fights. The driver refused payment, saying, "That talk… it made me want to fix things with my own family." That hit me harder than I expected. For all my vigilante work, that might have been the most heroic thing I'd done.
Inside, I bought popcorn and drinks. We settled in for the fifteen‑hour marathon, trading quiet commentary during the films. She laughed when I explained "aura farming" and compared the Steel‑Eyed Raven to Piccolo. "At least the Raven wins," I shot back, and she laughed harder.
Somewhere in those hours, a wall we hadn't known was there crumbled. We weren't just senpai and kouhai anymore. We were friends.
When it was over, we took a taxi back to my place. I offered her the guest room — no way was I sending her back to that house. As I lay in bed that night, I realized I'd remembered something important about myself: I could still connect. Still care. And maybe, just maybe, that would be the thing that kept me from becoming the man I was trying so hard not to be.