Side Story 1
The summoning circle flared with a blinding light, the air thick with the scent of ozone and the hum of prana. When the glow faded, Shirou stood tall, eyes closed, his voice steady and formal.
"I have come to answer your summons, Master."
He opened his eyes — and froze. Standing before him was a man he knew better than anyone, yet had never expected to see here: Kiritsugu Emiya. Beside him, a woman with silver hair and crimson eyes — Irisviel, he realized. For a moment, the weight of two lives pressed against each other in his mind, threatening to crack his composure.
Kiritsugu's brow furrowed. "So this is King Arthur," he said with a sigh, rubbing his temple. "You look… a lot different than the history books."
Shirou knew what he saw: white hair, steel‑grey eyes, red and black armor, and a frame that stood a head taller than most men. Nothing like the golden‑haired knight of legend.
He took a breath, forcing his voice calm. "The legends have a track record of misidentifying figures. Mordred and Gareth, for example — both women, though history paints them otherwise."
That drew a flicker of surprise from both Kiritsugu and Irisviel. The neat, reliable history they'd studied suddenly seemed less certain.
Kiritsugu's eyes narrowed, recalculating. If Servants could be so different from their myths, then recognizing an enemy on sight might be a dangerous assumption. He pushed the thought aside for now. "Tell me about your abilities."
Shirou described his magecraft — "duplication" magic, he called it — and its ability to create physical copies that could remain indefinitely if they weren't inherently magical. He kept the word "projection" to himself.
Kiritsugu pulled a pistol from his coat and handed it over. "Show me."
Shirou took it, closed his eyes briefly, and in a shimmer of steel, twenty identical pistols floated in the air around him. He plucked one from the array, aimed at a distant wall, and fired. The sharp crack echoed through the room. Fully loaded.
Irisviel's smile was bright, her voice warm. "It seems you and Kiritsugu will work well together."
Kiritsugu's eyes gleamed with something like satisfaction. "Dismiss them."
When Shirou did, Kiritsugu led him to the armory. The smell of oil and metal filled the air. One by one, he presented weapons — rifles, shotguns, sidearms — and watched as Shirou duplicated each, complete with ammunition. The efficiency was almost unnerving.
Finally, Kiritsugu outlined his plan: Irisviel would pose as Shirou's Master, while he hunted enemy Masters from the shadows.
Shirou agreed without hesitation. That made Kiritsugu pause. "Why so willing? Every story I've read about the Knights of the Round paints them as chivalrous to a fault. Men and women who'd balk at my methods. Why aren't you protesting?"
Shirou met his gaze. "Chivalry doesn't win wars. On the battlefield, survival and victory are all that matter. Chivalry is for after the fighting's done. Before I was a king, I was a soldier. And there's no place for chivalry in the mud."
Kiritsugu studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "I see." Some of his preconceptions about knights cracked and fell away. He found himself respecting this pragmatic Saber.
Two days later, after Kiritsugu's departure, Shirou and Irisviel boarded a flight to Japan. The hours passed in quiet conversation. Irisviel's curiosity was boundless, and Shirou found himself… enjoying her company. She reminded him of Sakura in small ways — the way she tilted her head when listening, the warmth in her smile.
When they arrived at the Emiya manor, nostalgia tugged at him. He hid it well. They settled in, then went to the shed. Irisviel knelt to draw a summoning array in chalk — the same one that would call Artoria a decade later.
Then she looked up at him. "Would you take me somewhere? You don't have to."
The request stirred something in him. "Of course."
He drove her to the ocean. The moonlight painted the waves silver, the air cool and salt‑tinged. Irisviel stood at the water's edge, eyes wide, and Shirou found himself smiling despite the weight on his mind.
The serenity shattered when he felt it — a surge of magical energy, distant but distinct. A Servant. He and Irisviel exchanged a glance.
"Diarmuid," Shirou said, a note of anticipation in his voice. "I've wanted to test myself against him."
At the docks, the Lancer waited, twin spears in hand. Shirou's pulse quickened. Before Diarmuid could speak, Shirou projected Caliburn, mana flaring around him. In a burst of speed, he was there, blade aimed for the heart.
Steel met steel as Diarmuid twisted, the thrust biting into his shoulder instead. His Master's magic sealed the wound instantly, but Shirou was already pressing, each slash and stab a calculated probe. Diarmuid countered with fluid precision, his spears a blur. Shirou traced them mid‑fight, feeling their balance, their reach, their rhythm — and adjusted.
He avoided the spear tips, forcing Diarmuid to work harder for every exchange. The Lancer's eyes narrowed. He shifted tactics, invoking Mind's Eye (True) and Knight's Strategy.
Shirou matched him, his own Mind's Eye reading the flow of battle. The clash became a storm — sparks flying, the dock groaning under their feet. Shirou's chest burned; his Mana Burst was fading. If it died completely, so would his chances.
He saw the path then — risky, but viable. He let his guard slip just enough, taking shallow cuts, letting his armor bear the rest. His breathing grew ragged, his stance looser. Diarmuid's confidence swelled.
Now.
Shirou lunged, tracing a dagger even as Gae Dearg punched into his gut. Pain flared white‑hot, but he rode it, twisting to nick Diarmuid's arm. The connection to his Master snapped.
Diarmuid staggered, confusion flashing across his face. Then blood filled his mouth. He tried to purge the "curse" with mana — and screamed as the damage worsened. Shirou's second dagger severed and bound his mana pathways in a crude, lethal knot.
The Lancer convulsed, muscles spasming, organs failing one by one. Shirou watched, expression unreadable, then projected Gae Buidhe and drove it into Diarmuid's skull.
The body stilled. The dock was silent but for the lap of the waves.
Shirou exhaled slowly, the adrenaline ebbing. One threat down. Many more to go. And somewhere deep inside, a flicker of satisfaction — not at the kill, but at the proof that his path, however ruthless, was working.
Side Story 2
Case File 1: Recording started
Random Mook POV:
"I… I don't even know where to start," I muttered, my voice catching in my throat. "Even now, I get nightmares from that night. I close my eyes and I see it — my friends dropping one by one, like someone was cutting the strings on a bunch of puppets. It wasn't a fight. It was… slaughter. Precise. Cold."
The cop across from me leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his expression unreadable. "After everything this guy's done, I wouldn't be surprised by anything you tell me. So go on. Start from the beginning."
I rubbed my face with both hands, trying to steady my breathing. "Alright. It was two nights ago. We were holed up in a warehouse down by the docks, waiting on a shipment from the Chinese. Drugs. Big haul. We were killing time with a poker game, just talking trash, laughing. Then we heard it — a knock on the door."
The cop tilted his head. "Why'd that surprise you?"
"Because all our guys were inside. Every last one. And the Chinese weren't due for another hour. No reason for anyone to be knocking." I swallowed. "We ignored it at first. Figured maybe it was the wind, or some dockworker who got lost. Then the knock came again. Louder. Harder. Like whoever it was wanted in bad."
I could feel my pulse picking up just remembering it. "One of my boys — Jace — got up and went to check. He opened the door and…" My voice faltered. The image was too sharp in my mind: the way Jace's body jerked, the wet sound, the spray of red on the wall.
The cop didn't push. He just waited.
"One second he was there," I said finally, "and the next there was a hole the size of a damn grapefruit in his chest. He didn't even scream. Just… dropped."
I took a shaky breath. "We snapped out of it fast. Drew our knives, spread out, eyes on the door. We were expecting more gunfire from that direction. But we were looking the wrong way."
I could still hear it — the groan of metal, the crash as part of the roof gave way. "The ceiling came down in a shower of dust and debris. And then the gunfire started. Not wild, not panicked — controlled. Measured. Two more of my friends went down before we even turned around."
The cop's pen scratched across his notepad. "And then?"
"And then… all I could see was this blur. Black coat, moving too fast to track. He was on us before we could even aim. Every shot hit center mass. Every single one. My friends were dropping all around me, each with the same perfect hole in their chest. It didn't look real. It didn't look human."
I realized my hands were trembling. "Ten of us. Ten. And I didn't even see his face until I was the only one left."
The cop leaned forward. "You're telling me one guy took out ten armed men, and you couldn't touch him?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but the memory hit me like a punch to the gut. The smell of gunpowder. The sound of bodies hitting the floor. The way my legs had locked up, useless. My throat tightened.
The cop must've seen it in my face. He reached into his desk, pulled out a canteen, and slid it across to me. "Have a drink. Take the edge off. Then keep going."
The whiskey burned on the way down, but it steadied me. I handed it back with a muttered "thanks."
"When he finally stopped," I said, "he was standing right in front of me. Fair skin. White hair, slicked back. But it was his eyes… steel‑grey. Cold. Empty. Like what he'd just done meant nothing. Like I wasn't even a person to him."
I looked down at my hands. "I dropped my knife. Got down on one knee. Couldn't look at him. I just… hoped he'd let me live."
The cop's voice was calm. "Any other details? Clothes, weapons?"
"Yeah. Black trench coat. Straight black pants. Armored shoes. Some kind of armored shirt under the coat. And in each hand, a revolver — long barrel, heavy caliber. Looked like they could punch through an engine block."
I let out a long breath. "That's all I've got. He knocked me out. When I woke up, I was here."
The cop closed his notebook. "You've been cooperative. Normally, you'd be looking at charges for trafficking. But this? This helps us understand the Steel‑Eyed Raven's capabilities. We'll make sure you walk out of here."
I gave him a wary look. "And the streets?"
"We'll rough you up a bit first. Make it look like you didn't talk."
I nodded. Better a few bruises than a bullet in the back from someone who thought I'd snitched.
Case File 1: Recording ended
Outside
The night air was cool against my face as an officer walked me toward the street. My ribs ached from the "roughing up," but I was breathing, and that was more than I'd expected when I woke up this morning.
"Hey," the cop escorting me called. I turned — and froze.
He was smirking, lifting his cap to reveal white, slicked‑back hair. Steel‑grey eyes locked on mine. The same eyes from the warehouse.
My mouth went dry. "You—"
The Raven chuckled, low and amused. "You've just been given a second chance. More than I can say for the others. Don't waste it."
Before I could move, the police uniform shimmered and shifted, melting away into the black trench coat, the armored undershirt, the boots. The streetlight above us flickered, casting his face in alternating shadow and light.
And then… he was gone. No sound. No movement. Just gone.
I stood there, heart pounding, trying to convince myself I hadn't imagined it. Then I turned and bolted back toward the station, desperate to get inside.
Up on the roof, unseen, the Raven watched me run. A sniper rifle rested against his shoulder, the scope still trained on my back. He smiled faintly, setting the weapon aside.
"Heh," he murmured to himself. "This might be more entertaining than I thought."