Five days had passed since the fight with Rin in the mansion. The echoes of that clash still lingered in Shirou's mind — the sharp crack of Gandr shots, the sting of burns, the cold fury in her eyes. He hadn't set foot in school since. Taiga hadn't questioned it; a subtle hypnotic suggestion had seen to that. Sakura, too, had been kept at arm's length. He couldn't risk her seeing the state he'd been in.
Most of those days had been spent lying on the magic circle in the shed, Avalon's faint hum resonating through his body. The air in there was cool and still, the faint scent of old wood and dust mixing with the metallic tang of mana. The burns on his arm had been bad — deep, angry things — but Avalon's power was growing stronger as the time for Artoria's summoning drew near. Four days, and the skin was whole again, smooth and unscarred. It was as if Rin's fire had never touched him.
But the time lying there wasn't just for healing. He'd been thinking. Turning over the question of Sakura in his mind, weighing the risks and the cost. The conclusion was the same every time: whatever the origin of his memories, whatever the tangled mess of feelings they carried, he cared for her in his own right now. Enough to want her free. Enough to want Heaven's Feel erased from possibility.
When he finally rose from the circle, it was with purpose. The cool of the floor gave way to the weight of his boots as he crossed to where his gear waited. Piece by piece, he donned the Steel‑Eyed Raven's guise — but with changes. The long coat was gone, replaced by a biker jacket reinforced with Kevlar, UHMWPE, ceramic plates, AR500 steel, carbon nanotubes, leather, and graphene. Molten‑gold lines traced down the sleeves and across the matching pants, the black so deep it seemed to swallow the light. His greaves and shoes were graphene‑reinforced leather, light enough to move in, strong enough to stop a blade.
On the workbench, his revolvers gleamed under the shed's single bulb. Custom‑made, chambered for the monstrous .950 JDJ, their design echoed Emiya Alter's — minus the blades. He broke them down, cleaned and oiled each part, reassembled them with practiced ease. UBW thrummed at the edge of his awareness, ready to answer the trigger's call.
He was preparing for a meeting he'd wanted to avoid. The man waiting for him was a viper in priest's robes — a man who, in another timeline, would serve an alien god and be discarded for his trouble. But in this one, he was the only path forward.
He waited until he heard Sakura's footsteps outside the shed. When she slid the door open, concern on her face, he moved. A quick strike, a catch before she could fall, and she was unconscious in his arms. He didn't let himself dwell on it. He just ran.
The church loomed against the dying light, its silhouette stark against the orange‑and‑purple sky. He scanned the street, senses straining for the telltale wrongness of Gilgamesh's presence or the subtle signs of a tail. Nothing. He dropped silently in front of the entrance, the last rays of the sun glinting off the gold lines of his armor, and stepped inside.
The air was cool and faintly musty, the scent of old wood and candle wax. Kotomine sat in a pew, posture relaxed, as if he'd been expecting him. When he turned, the smile on his face was all teeth.
"Well, well, well. Fuyuki's resident vigilante, the Steel‑Eyed Raven. What business brings you to a humble priest such as I?"
Shirou's reply was sharp. "Don't bullshit yourself, Kotomine. There's nothing humble about you. You're just a sad wreck who can only feel anything when others are in pain."
Kotomine's smile thinned. "Now, now. That's no way to speak to someone you've come to for help. Help, I assume, for Sakura Matou? Ah… what a pitiful figure she is."
Shirou's jaw tightened. "Unfortunately, you're the only one I can count on. I tried reasoning with Tohsaka, but she was too stubborn to even consider it."
Kotomine's eyes gleamed. "So you're the reason Rin's been hounding me. She's called me several times to complain about the mess you left in her house. The despair on her face when she realized how much it would cost to repair it in secret… exquisite."
Shirou allowed himself a thin smirk. "Consider that an advance payment for treating Sakura's… affliction."
A low chuckle. "Unfortunately for you, Raven, you'll have to do more than that to earn my help."
"You thrive on the pain of others," Shirou said, stepping closer, voice low. "How would you like to be the direct cause of Zouken Matou's suffering? To watch the arrogance fall from his face, replaced by despair, when he realizes the escape he hoped for in Sakura is gone."
The effect was immediate. Kotomine's eyes half‑closed, his breath catching. It was like watching a predator scent blood. His fingers twitched against the pew, and for a moment, the mask slipped — hunger, pure and unfiltered, in his gaze. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, savoring the image.
Shirou's lip curled in disgust. This is the man I'm trusting? But the pragmatic part of him shoved the thought aside. Results mattered more than the filth he had to wade through to get them.
Kotomine's voice was almost languid when he spoke again. "Hand her over."
Shirou hesitated only a moment before passing Sakura to him. She was limp, breathing slow and even. One last time, he told himself. Then she's free.
He didn't watch what Kotomine did. He stood in the nave, eyes on the stained glass, listening to the faint creak of floorboards and the low murmur of the priest's voice. Time stretched. His hands itched for his revolvers, for the clean simplicity of violence.
An hour later, Kotomine returned, Sakura in his arms. She looked… lighter, somehow. Her skin was pale but unmarked, her breathing steady.
"I healed her," Kotomine said, almost casually. "Removed the crest worms from her body. Though I had to sacrifice most of my Command Spells to do so."
Shirou took her back, cradling her carefully. "Command Spells? The way you say it, they sound important."
A chuckle. "Don't worry. Compared to the look on Zouken Matou's face when he learns of this, they're nothing." He straightened, the mask of the priest settling back into place. "Now… let's discuss the rest of our arrangement."
Shirou met his gaze, the weight of Sakura in his arms a reminder of why he was here. Whatever came next, whatever filth he had to wade through, he'd made his choice. And he wouldn't turn back.
The next day
Shirou woke before dawn, the air in his room still and heavy. He dressed in silence, each piece of his gear sliding into place with the ease of ritual. The black-and-gold armor felt like a second skin now, the weight of it grounding him for what was to come. Today wasn't about patrols or petty criminals. Today was about ending the Matou blight in one decisive strike.
The streets of the shopping district were just beginning to stir when he hailed a taxi. "Yufuin Camp," he told the driver, voice flat. The man glanced at him in the mirror, curiosity flickering, but said nothing. A kilometre from the base, Shirou paid the fare and leaned forward, his eyes locking with the driver's. A subtle pulse of Od, a few murmured words, and the man's expression went slack. He would remember nothing of the trip.
The rest of the approach was on foot. The morning mist clung to the ground, muffling his steps as he slipped through the perimeter. Each soldier he passed received the same treatment — a brush of magecraft to erase his presence from their minds. It was a drain, but a manageable one. He'd need his reserves for what came next.
The missile silo loomed ahead, a squat, ugly structure of steel and concrete. Inside, the control console blinked with status lights. Shirou placed his hands on it, closing his eyes. Structural grasping flooded his mind with schematics, procedures, safety protocols. It was too much, a torrent of unfamiliar data, but he sifted through it, isolating what he needed. Targeting. Launch sequence. Manual overrides.
His fingers moved over the controls, inputting coordinates, adjusting for trajectory and thrust. The Matou mansion's location burned in his mind's eye. The first warning klaxon blared as the silo's systems came alive.
Shouts echoed down the corridor. Boots pounded against metal grating. The first squad through the door barely had time to register him before he was among them, a blur of reinforced muscle and steel. Elbows, knees, the flat of a blade — each strike precise, dropping them unconscious in seconds. He could hear more coming. Time was short.
The final targeting adjustments locked in with a satisfying click. He slammed the launch key home. Somewhere deep below, machinery roared to life. The floor trembled as the missile rose from its cradle.
The next wave of soldiers burst in, rifles leveled. "Who are you?!" one barked.
Shirou didn't look up from the monitor. "You know who I am. You know what I do."
Confusion rippled through them until one voice, high with disbelief, cut through: "That's the Steel‑Eyed Raven!" The name spread like fire, and with it, fear. He could see it in their eyes — the recognition of the boogeyman whispered about in barracks and back alleys alike.
He let the fear grow, then fed it. His bloodlust rolled out like a physical force, pressing down on them. A few of the younger ones crumpled where they stood, unconscious before they hit the floor. The veterans held their ground, but their knuckles whitened on their triggers.
On the monitor, the missile's icon streaked toward its target. A shot rang out. Shirou's hand snapped up, catching the bullet between reinforced fingers. He let it crumble to dust, the grains scattering in the aura that now filled the room. No one else moved.
The impact came as a distant flash, then the feed went white. The shockwave's telemetry told the story: a hundred‑meter kill radius, secondary fires blooming outward, infrastructure collapsing. In the heart of it, the Matou mansion ceased to exist. Shinji's death was quick — quicker than he deserved — but final. The worm pit was gone. And somewhere in the wreckage, Zouken still clung to life… just long enough for Kotomine to savor his despair.
Shirou turned from the console. The soldiers flinched back, then found their nerve and opened fire. He walked through it, each step measured. Bullets curved away, missed entirely, or sparked harmlessly off his armor. The sheer audacity of it — of refusing to even acknowledge their attack — broke their aim.
At the base's main entrance, a wall of troops waited. Shirou slipped into the shadows, circling to higher ground. From the roof, he could see them shifting uneasily, scanning for a threat they couldn't find. Ten minutes since the alarm, and still no sign of him.
A shout from a watchtower: movement on the roof. Heads snapped up, rifles tracked to his silhouette. The wind picked up, tugging at the black cape draped over his shoulders. Clouds boiled overhead, darkening unnaturally fast. The first crack of thunder rolled across the base.
Somewhere in the back of their minds, the soldiers heard music — faint at first, then building, metal strings and pounding drums. It wasn't real, not in any physical sense, but the aura pouring off him made it feel like the world itself was scoring his entrance. Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating molten‑gold eyes, ash‑grey hair, and skin shadowed by the storm.
"Open fire!" the COs barked, but the order died in their throats as the figure vanished. In the next instant, he was among them, moving with impossible speed. A twist, a strike, and the officers were disarmed and in his grasp, held effortlessly off the ground.
The soldiers froze. Any shot risked hitting their own commanders. Shirou didn't speak. He didn't need to. He walked forward, carrying the COs like they weighed nothing, the storm raging overhead. The line at the gate parted without a word. No one dared to stop him as he crossed from military ground to civilian streets.
Rain slicked the pavement, each drop hissing where it struck the heat of his armor. The music in their minds reached a crescendo as he disappeared into the downpour, the storm swallowing him whole.
He didn't look back. The mission was done. The Matou stronghold was ash, Sakura's chains broken. Kotomine would have his moment with Zouken, and Shirou… Shirou would have to live with the choices he'd made to get here.
Somewhere deep down, he knew this day would echo far beyond Fuyuki. That the image of the Steel‑Eyed Raven walking unscathed through a storm, the military powerless to stop him, would spread. That it would change things — for him, for the city, maybe for the world.
But for now, he let the rain wash the powder smoke from his skin and the heat from his blood, and he walked on.