Night had descended once more.
In this place, there were no demons who saw humans as mere fodder, no bustling streets filled with life—only that blood-soaked moon hanging silently in the sky.
After battling through the entire day, both sides seemed to reach an unspoken agreement to retreat.
Night was not their chosen time for war.
But Shirou, who belonged to neither side, remained alone on the battlefield.
Beneath his feet lay mountains of corpses, while Shirou himself knelt among them, half-supported by the shattered Nichirin Blade still lodged in one body.
Countless swords protruded from the ground around him, yet Shirou's eyes remained wide open.
His vision was completely dyed crimson with blood.
But he had not died. Shirou still felt the powerful vitality pulsing through his body.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. The broken Nichirin Blade in his hand dispersed into the wind, fading like a phantom.
Why… Why am I still alive?
Staring numbly at the corpses twisted grotesquely around him, Shirou seized a weapon buried deep within his own chest, ripping it out without hesitation.
"Guh—!"
The unbearable agony of tearing flesh forced a ragged scream from Shirou's throat.
He could endure pain during combat, silently bearing wounds inflicted by enemies. But now, when healing himself, holding back his screams would only intensify his suffering needlessly.
Yet, even this searing physical pain couldn't dull the ache deep within his soul.
In the span of a single day, he'd transformed from a Demon Slayer dedicated to protecting humanity into a butcher whose hands were stained with countless lives.
Many of those who died by Shirou's sword had cherished wives, beloved children, close friends. Some surely harbored grand dreams—perhaps even ideals as noble and golden as Shirou's own.
But he had cut them all down, mercilessly ending any chance they might have had at survival.
Looking at the piles of bodies, Shirou tasted bitterness rising in his throat. Blood burst forth from his lips.
For Shirou, fighting these people was like an adult facing children. But if hundreds of armed children charged fearlessly at one adult, even someone as skilled as Shirou would inevitably be overwhelmed.
Moreover, he hadn't consciously employed any Breathing Techniques during the fight—his movements had been purely instinctive.
Breathing Techniques had been created to combat demons, never intended for battles between humans.
But faced with mortal danger, Shirou's body reacted faster than his mind ever could.
After recovering from past injuries, this instinct had grown terrifyingly sharp.
Previously, in the forest, Shirou's instincts allowed him to respond and counter when ambushed. But now, when attacked, his body countered before he could even consciously register the threat.
This was an entirely different level.
And Shirou could sense that something inside him had changed. His wounds no longer simply healed immediately—instead, a golden, lacquer-like substance now oozed forth, covering injuries until they slowly recovered, eventually disappearing.
This differed completely from the instant recovery he'd experienced before.
Yet Shirou lacked the mental capacity to dwell on these changes now.
His thoughts were consumed by turmoil, directed toward the mysterious orb, toward himself—and toward the people he had killed.
This was war. Taking lives in war, no matter how numerous, was considered normal.
Furthermore, Shirou had merely been struggling desperately to survive amid chaotic battle.
He was just an ordinary man caught unintentionally on a battlefield—so why did he bear such overwhelming guilt?
But Shirou refused to rationalize it that way or comfort himself with empty excuses.
All he knew was that he'd killed countless people. His original goal had been to survive for the sake of those who had already died, yet now his hands were stained with more innocent blood.
Dragging his battered body, Shirou staggered across the battlefield.
Silence enveloped the area, broken only by the occasional cawing of crows descending from the sky to feed on corpses. The entire snowfield was blanketed in a thick, nauseating stench of blood, too overpowering to be masked even by falling snow.
The phrase "rivers of blood" no longer felt abstract—it was vividly real here.
Even the ground beneath Shirou's feet had turned sticky and viscous.
Across the entire battlefield, he couldn't find a single intact body.
Guided by the moonlight, Shirou desperately sought an escape. He had to leave this place, fearing he might lose his mind if he stayed any longer.
But reality had other plans.
Despite walking through the entire night, Shirou remained trapped among endless corpses. The scale of this battle was enormous.
No matter which direction he chose, he encountered encampments belonging to either side, each guarded by hundreds of soldiers.
Passing unnoticed through such heavy defenses was impossible.
Shirou was trapped like a cornered beast, surrounded on all sides.
Anywhere not controlled by armies was blocked by towering cliffs that reached skyward. Even using Breathing Techniques, scaling such sheer heights was impossible.
He had witnessed firsthand the catastrophic result of hundreds of thousands of soldiers clashing violently on this frozen plain.
The horrific scenes stretched endlessly before him, bodies scattered grotesquely everywhere.
He discovered some areas where warriors clad in animal hides had been instantly frozen into lifeless statues, and other places where armored soldiers had been sliced cleanly in half—all evidence of powerful generals rampaging through their enemies' ranks.
Shirou made no moral judgments on the commanders who led such massacres. This was war, fundamentally different from the peaceful era he came from.
On a battlefield, mercy toward enemies was cruelty toward oneself—history had shown this repeatedly.
Shirou understood this intellectually, yet he simply couldn't overcome the barrier in his heart.
If he could kill without blinking, would he still be himself?
Could he ever call himself a hero of justice?
Perhaps due to the generals of both sides actively engaging in battle, neither side had paid much attention to Shirou, who appeared suddenly and began slaughtering fighters from both factions indiscriminately.
But he did notice the huge disparity in casualties caused by each army's respective general.
The one wielding ice powers had slaughtered tens of thousands, while the sword-wielding warrior had only killed a few thousand.
With such vast differences in losses, Shirou knew it wouldn't be long before one side collapsed entirely.
When that happens, maybe I can disguise myself in armor and slip away unnoticed.
Shirou had no desire to stain his hands further or join either side's campaign of slaughter.
War itself held no justice, but each side certainly had their own motives and morality.
If, for example, the armored side represented dark intentions—such as beings from hell bent on humanity's destruction—then joining them would make Shirou an accomplice to evil.
If he simply mingled among survivors as a civilian, he would be nothing more than a refugee desperate to survive. But actively aiding one side against another would carry an entirely different moral implication.
Since he didn't know the motivations of either side, Shirou couldn't risk donning either faction's clothing, even at the cost of becoming a target for both armies.
He refused to become someone else's demon—
Even if his life depended on it.