"Why are you here—no... how are you even here?" Shirou asked, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and tension.
He didn't understand it.
A Heroic Spirit wasn't supposed to just stand around like it was a Wednesday afternoon. They weren't idle existences. They required mana—either drawn from a Master or granted by the Grail itself—to remain in the world. Without one or the other, they faded. Simple as that.
"Who knows? Maybe it was my luck."
Shirou's brow twitched.
Cú Chulainn and luck were two things that should never appear in the same sentence.
Ever.
The blue spearman stood with that same carefree air as always, resting his cursed spear over his shoulder.
"I died helping that girl of yours."
"…Tohsaka?" Shirou's voice came out low, uncertain.
"Yeah, that ponytail girl. Kinda fiery, talks like she owns the room. She's your girlfriend, right?"
"I wouldn't say that," Shirou exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders as Kanshou and Bakuya flickered in his hands. Slowly, they began to fade. "But... thank you. I worry too much about that girl."
Lancer gave a soft chuckle, tapping his spear against his shoulder. "Tch. Figures. You types always dance around the good parts. Should've seen her, though. Gutsy to the end. Reminded me a bit of Scáthach, the way she barked orders."
Shirou allowed a brief smile. Bittersweet. "Yeah... that sounds like her."
--
The scene shifts.
Now beneath the glow of a quiet streetlamp, Shirou stands alone in front of a vending machine. The soft hum of its internal cooling fans buzzes faintly in the night air. He slips in a few coins, presses a button. With a mechanical clunk, two cans of coffee drop into the tray below.
He crouches slightly, collects them, and turns.
Lancer is standing a few steps away, leaning against a pole, his crimson spear resting lazily on his shoulder.
"Here," Shirou says, stretching out his arm to hand over one of the cans.
Lancer raises an eyebrow. "You do remember I'm a Servant, right?"
"Yeah, and Saber could still eat," Shirou replies, shrugging slightly. "So drink up. It won't kill you."
Lancer stares at the can for a moment, then lets out a short snort of amusement. "Heh. Fair enough." He takes it, popping the tab with one smooth motion.
The sharp hiss of carbonation escaping punctuates the silence between them.
"For your earlier question… no, I don't know how I got here," Lancer said, leaning against the vending machine. "The only thing I remember after my death… is just ending up here."
"That doesn't make sense," Shirou muttered.
And it didn't.
Servants aren't supposed to drift.After death, they return to the Throne of Heroes—the repository of all heroes ever recorded. Saints, tyrants, gods, beasts, even the embodiments of abstract concepts…Each name, each soul, preserved beyond time.
A place where even death was catalogued.
For Lancer to just appear, without being summoned, without a grail—Without a Master?
"Hey, kid. I noticed you've had a bit of an upgrade," Lancer said, casually tapping the rim of his coffee can before taking a sip.
That caught Shirou Emiya off guard.
Now that Lancer mentioned it, he had felt… different.
Tracing even a C-rank Noble Phantasm felt smoother. Natural. Like his circuits flowed without the usual resistance—no static, no drag.
"You know," Shirou replied, flexing his fingers slightly as if trying to feel the magecraft beneath his skin, "I was just starting to notice that too. Probably because of this body—"
"I don't think it's that simple, kid."
"...Huh? What do you mean by that?"
Lancer smirked, but there was something thoughtful in his eyes. It wasn't mockery—more like a warning.
"Magic Circuits don't come from the body," he said, voice low and certain. "They come from the soul."
Despite being a Servant bound to the Lancer class, Cú Chulainn's knowledge of magecraft ran deep. Deep enough to say things most second-rate magi wouldn't even understand.
Magic Circuits—those mystical pathways that let a magus channel prana—weren't born from flesh and blood. What spread through the human body like nerves was merely the shadow, the physical extension of something deeper. Their true source lay in the soul itself.
The Circuits had core components, the true vessels of power, and bypass routes that linked them to the brain. That's what let magecraft function as thought and will.
But Magic Circuits do not evolve.They do not grow.And once damaged—they cannot be repaired.
Because they are not organs.They are the scars of a soul forced to interface with the supernatural.
"Organic function is needed to operate them, sure," Lancer said, finishing his drink. "But don't mistake that for origin. You got a boost, alright—but if that came from your body, then someone or something's rewritten your soul."
ancer took another sip from the can, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"And that's not something any normal magus could pull off," he said, his voice rough with certainty. "Not even in the Age of Gods would that be child's play. To alter the very soul… you'd need to step into divine territory."
He gestured with the can, lazily but deliberately, like the spear that once tore through countless enemies.
"You'd have to be on that level—way above anything a modern mage could touch."
The can clicked softly as he lowered it.
Then, his eyes locked on Shirou's.
"Be careful, kid."
His tone wasn't mocking. It wasn't friendly either. It was the voice of a warrior who had seen one too many lives unravel under the weight of mysteries they were never meant to carry.
"This new life of yours, whatever world this is... it might not be as simple as you think. You don't get power like that without someone—or something—wanting a return on the investment."
The wind blew faintly through the housing block, quiet and empty. The light from the vending machine flickered slightly
"Well… at least for now, I'm still alive."
—Tsk.
The can hissed open, a faint puff of steam curling in the summer air. Shirou raised it slightly in his hand, arm outstretched in an improvised toast.
"Cheers."
Lancer stared at him for a moment, as if weighing something behind his eyes—then smirked.
"Heh… You're a weird kid."
Their cans clinked softly together. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
Then their conversation continue.
Their conversation drifted on, the quiet night air carrying the low hum of vending machines and distant cicadas.
"You know," Shirou said, his voice thoughtful as he leaned against the wall, "it's still strange to me—how the supernatural just exists so openly here. Like it's nothing out of the ordinary."
Lancer snorted into his can of coffee. "Oh, you mean like that guy i out ran... What was his name again...? Ah—Tin Man!"
Shirou blinked. "You mean Ingenium?"
"Right, right. Weird name, that one," Lancer waved lazily. "Half of them wear glorified tights and act like it's the height of justice. I mean, borderline indecent outfits, flashy names, crowds cheering like it's a festival—"
He took another sip and let out a half-laugh. "Makes you wonder what counts as moral standards in this world. If this is heroism, I think the definition got lost somewhere between the spandex and the posing."
Shirou gave a small chuckle, glancing down at his own plain clothes. "Yeah... the heroes here sure have style, if nothing else."
"Hope my sister doesn't end up like that," Shirou muttered, almost to himself, taking another sip from the can. The night was still, the warmth of the vending machine coffee doing little against the creeping chill in his chest.
He glanced sideways. "Now that I think about it... where are you staying, Lancer?"
"Nowhere."
Shirou blinked. "Wait—seriously?"
Lancer gave a lazy shrug, leaning back against the vending machine. "Did I mention I'm a Servant? We don't need to eat or sleep like you do. Shelter's more of a luxury than a need."
"Yeah, I get that," Shirou said slowly, "but wouldn't it be better to at least have a place? Somewhere to rest?"
Lancer snorted. "Kid, I don't have money. I don't have ID. I've got nothing but this spear and a dead man's grin. And with all these heroes running around like it's a fashion show, I doubt I'd even land a job flipping burgers."
He smirked, but there was a tiredness behind it.
"...That sucks," Shirou said plainly.
"Yeah, well. It's the afterlife. No one said it'd be easy."
"Well," Shirou said as he finished his coffee. "Want to live with me?"
Lancer raised an eyebrow, lowering his half-empty can with a faint hiss of carbonation.
"…You serious?" he asked, not mocking—just surprised. The streetlight overhead flickered, casting a long shadow behind the spearman.
Shirou nodded, casually tossing the empty can into a nearby bin. "You don't have anywhere to stay. I have a house. You saved my friend's life once. Call it even."
Lancer looked at him for a moment. His gaze wasn't skeptical—it was searching.
"Don't you have a parent or something?"
"It's the same house where you tried to kill me. My other adoptive parent lives… somewhere else. And my sister will be living with her biological parents after she goes to high school."
"You don't have anywhere to stay. I have a house. You saved my friend's life once. Call it even."
Lancer looked at him for a moment. His gaze wasn't skeptical—it was searching.
"…Tch. You really are the same idiot kid." He gave a short laugh, more exhale than chuckle. "Don't blame me when you wake up and find your pantry empty."
"I'll make enough," Shirou said plainly. "I cook better than I fight anyway."
Lancer took a final sip, crushed the can effortlessly in one hand, and tossed it with a perfect arc into the bin. "Guess I'll take you up on it. Beats haunting alleys like some second-rate ghost."
They began walking again—Shirou with quiet steps, Lancer with a loose, confident stride.
"…You sure about this, kid?" Lancer asked after a moment, eyes fixed ahead.
"No," Shirou answered. "But I've had worse houseguests."
"Heh. You're a strange one, Emiya Shirou."
"So I've been told."