When Artoria calmed down, having failed to win the game "Kill the Primarch," the pair of Servants returned to the table where the Masters were still sitting. This happened about ten minutes later. It could have been longer, but Fulgrim hastened the process. While dodging the Sword of Promised Victory, he employed all his eloquence. It didn't help, though, and he had to bargain. At the moment, the warrior woman, still in a foul mood, made it clear with her mere appearance. Her once-calm face was now frozen in a waxy mask. Those who knew her understood she was in a very bad mood. And that was what the Primarch needed to address. The girl lowered her weapon only when he swore on his name to provide her with tea in any quantities. And now, the man had returned to the kitchen to fulfill the terms of the agreement.
The agreement itself was hardly burdensome, but they had agreed to it anyway. It seemed Artoria had calmed down quickly but continued attacking out of a desire to punish him for his audacity. And when Fulgrim gave her a reason to stop, she took it immediately. "What nonsense, as if it's hard for me to make a couple of cups." He wouldn't have minded treating the warrior woman anyway—her mood when consuming delicacies was quite contagious. When a splendid drink appeared before the warrior woman's eyes, her intimidating calm turned into genuine calm, for it had been feigned. And now, the queen, in keeping with her title, royally indulged in her morning tea. After all, she was a native of misty Albion.
"Have you finished?" Rin said, already tired of waiting for these two to start behaving like wise heroes from legends. "We need to discuss yesterday's events." The words affected Arti, but Fulgrim showed no seriousness, which was typical.
"Right, Teacher Fulgrim, what was that last night?" Shirou, who had no idea about Archer's past, now showed the greatest curiosity. Rin and Artoria already knew who Fulgrim was, if only in broad strokes.
"That's what I was like in life. It turns out this form is available to me if I wish it."
True, right after the transformation, the Primarch sensed that his soul contained not only the plasma gun, but also Firebrand, along with Forgebreaker. The principle of summoning was the same—a single mental impulse. When the Primarch came into rage over such a pathetic end, his spirit refused to accept it and drew forth hidden powers. It happened instinctively, for what filled his soul was part of Fulgrim. However, he felt this wasn't all he could do. He couldn't grasp what was missing, but the man suspected his phantasm worked on the same principle. Rin had already explained that to embody a crystallized legend, one needed to utter its name. That would serve as the activator, but what it was—he didn't know.
"Following the logical chain, what's available to me is what I was connected to in life. Could it be..." Fulgrim felt apprehension. His essence lay not in armor or weapons. Sons of the Emperor were first and foremost warlords. The core of their power and glory was in the legion. And if so... the Primarch's Noble Phantasm would be the Emperor's Children. His sons, the worthiest of men. Once even Horus himself said they embodied the ideal of what a warrior of humanity should be. Meeting his legion again would be joyful, and at the same time undesirable. "I... won't be able to look them in the eyes."
Even if many of them followed their lord into darkness, he himself saw no fault in them. All the burden of betrayal lay solely on the Primarch's shoulders—he had been the careless fool who dragged others down. He deprived them of the chance to walk the path to perfection. This thought struck Fulgrim as amusing, for everyone in the Third Legion considered him the embodiment of the ideal. "I thought myself further along that path than others, but it turned out not to be so." No, true perfection was embodied by those of his sons who did not turn from the light. Those who remained loyal.
Beneath burning skies, bathed in the blood of their brothers, they held the defense for several months. The valor that only a pitiful few among men could achieve, they demonstrated without exception. Plunged into an ocean of hatred and grief, bearing unimaginable pain in their hearts, none of the loyal surrendered. To the very end. Before the Primarch's eyes rose images of the battle on Isstvan III. Though he observed from orbit, somehow the feelings of his sons were transmitted to him. From the memories, the Phoenix wanted to tear out his own throat. But he wouldn't stoop to excuses, claiming his mind was shrouded in darkness then. Betrayal had no excuse, whatever the reasons. The only difference was what the blade of retribution would carry—regret or contempt.
From his reverie, the man was pulled by a gentle hand on his shoulder. Artoria noticed that Fulgrim had withdrawn into himself, and nothing good was there. When the Primarch raised his gaze, he met the girl's eyes. Slightly dimmed purple and emerald, their gazes lingered on each other. In the latter was a silent question, along with sympathy. Saber already understood that Archer's past was overshadowed by something, just like hers. Regret for one's mistakes was something they both knew. So Artoria couldn't just watch the Phoenician engage in self-flagellation. Coming to himself, the man gratefully placed his hand over the one lightly squeezing his shoulder. He nodded silently, thus showing his readiness to continue the conversation.
"The only problem is you, Rin." The girl indignantly widened her eyes at such phrasing. "You lack the energy to sustain my power. How many gems do you have left?" The wizard pressed her palm to her chin, doing calculations.
"Enough for three minutes."
"So, to kill Heracles, I'll have 180 seconds..." The Primarch's mind simulated an imaginary battle. It would be enough for victory, unless the enemy could regenerate unlimited times. "...Considering his legend, he has twelve lives, several of which he's already lost. Though he might be able to restore them, the limit is almost certainly a dozen." As he spoke, Fulgrim continued his calculations. The outcome promised to be favorable.
"Wait, wait..." Rin waved her hands, urging him to let her speak. "Are you going to fight him?"
"What's surprising about that? He cleaved me in two; it must be repaid a hundredfold."
"A... well, then... the others too?"
"Only if there's cause. With Arti here, it's unlikely." Rin deflated a bit at that; her hope was false, though better he kill one than none. "By the way, about her—she needs to replenish her strength reserves; after all, her link with Shirou isn't ideal." The Sword Servant herself answered. After taking a couple sips of tea. With chamomile.
"I've thought about that too, but energy replenishes, albeit slower than it should." Artoria herself had thought her Master's reserve would be inaccessible, but reality went against it.
"Strange. Emiya has only a couple drops of magic; even slowed outflow would be very noticeable to him." To confirm, Rin glanced at the young man. He shook his head no. "What about the wound from Lancer?"
"It's almost healed; by evening I'll be in top form, though wounds from that spear should heal slower." Rin nodded at that; definitely good news.
"Wait, stop." Since when had news of the enemy's good condition become good? When had the Tohsaka heiress started counting Saber and her Master as friends? The answer sat beside the warrior woman. "Ah, right." Fulgrim, this war's Archer, wouldn't agree to fight... Arti. So the only unpleasant and unreliable way to win was to form an alliance. Fortunately, the warrior woman herself couldn't defeat Berserker, certainly not with that Master. No need to talk Shirou into it. After this thought, Rin looked at the young man again. And remembered who she was dealing with. No convincing needed here; it was Shirou.
"By the way, I still don't understand how you survived Lancer's attack; he pierced your heart." Last night had been eventful, so Rin hadn't had time for minor questions.
"One of two..." "What?" The Primarch asked after seeing the reaction to his answer. The Masters' eyes bulged, and even Artoria paused her sipping. "Primarchs are the pinnacle of genetic engineering; our bodies possess numerous additional organs. Back to the topic—how do you plan to supply me with energy?"
"...I don't know..." Rin puffed out her cheeks. It seemed her inability to provide the Servant with everything necessary proved her inadequacy as a Master. "The only way to get extra mana is absorbing human souls." She didn't even bother clarifying if the Primarch would do it.
"Hm, in that case, we should save the reserve." Fulgrim said, placing a new cup of tea before Artoria. Half-jokingly, but he had given his word. "Well, anyway, what will you do until nightfall?"
Today promised to be fairly calm. Rin decided first to move her things from her manor to the Emiya Estate. As she said, since they had now formed an alliance, it was better to live together. And to the question of why at Shirou's, she stated it would be simpler. After all, the young man had a guardian who wouldn't understand a sudden move. With the Tiger of Fuyuki's temperament, the consequences could be disastrous for nerves and ears. And she might even smack the guy upside the head.
The Servants, unburdened by circumstances, simply spent time as they could. Artoria sat in the living room, indulging in her form of meditation. With a cup in hand. And the Primarch, as usual, didn't want to waste time and studied the most valuable treasures. Books. He just decided not to read too fast, lest they run out quickly. Only two hours for what people might read in a week. Merely emphasizing analysis of incoming information. And at one point, the Primarch heard sounds coming from the neighboring building, which looked like a dojo.
"Seems your ward decided to train."
Shirou, at the moment, was practicing strikes. The training sword in his hands ceaselessly cleaved the air, straining his arms and back. The simplest kendo training. His guardian had made the young man hone self-defense skills for some time. Though not long, he had learned something, and now the situation demanded recalling that little he knew. Shirou had already seen how fiercely Servants fought and understood he had no place in their clashes, but even the Masters surpassed him in everything. This... irritated. It enraged. Last night, all he could do was run through the forest, dodging sword-familiars and trying not to die. Without Tohsaka, Illya would have killed him faster than he could comprehend.
"Shirou, what are you doing?" The voice from behind made the young man flinch and break rhythm. Turning, he saw Saber standing in the doorway, illuminated by midday sun rays. And beside her, leaning against the wall, Archer watched. In his eyes, Shirou caught a hint of a smirk; his skills seemed amusing.
"Yeah, decided to train; after all, I wasn't much use." And as soon as Artoria tried to continue, Fulgrim stopped her.
"Do you really want to fight, young Emiya?" As he spoke, the Primarch slowly approached the boy, and his smile became... different. Friendliness faded; his eyes gained a sharp glint. "In a battle where your puny strength will be of little use, no matter how hard you try?"
Fulgrim was already behind the Master's back and eyed Artoria, who wanted to intervene. For the Primarch's words weren't approving—more like mockery. And Shirou himself pondered. He perfectly understood he wouldn't get stronger in a couple days, but even that drop of power from training might suffice to be useful. Helplessness was worse than any pain. He wasn't a match for Servants, but their Masters were people like him, so he could fight back.
"Yes, that's what I decided." The resolve in the young man's gaze was genuine. It came straight from his soul, which yearned for battle.
"And what makes you desire this?"
"The war could bring suffering to innocent people." As he said at the church, he wouldn't let ordinary people suffer. That was the only reason to participate in the war, not some Grail.
"I've heard that, but that's not the real reason. Such altruism isn't something a kid like you can show." Face-to-face with the son of Master of Mankind, Shirou felt the familiar sensation. He wanted to heed his words. Submit to his will; even the thought of lying or withholding seemed the gravest sin. That's why Emiya couldn't answer as usual; instead, he told what he'd never shared with anyone.
"Before my father died, he told me about his dream. A world where no one has to suffer. He spent his life pursuing it but couldn't achieve it. So I promised to continue his ideals. Promised to become a hero bringing justice." Shirou spoke frankly. As frankly as he could. Even Artoria was struck by the ideals her Master bore. But it didn't impress Fulgrim; on the contrary, he laughed, as if hearing the biggest stupidity of his life.
"A world without suffering. How funny. A foolish dream of a foolish man." At first Shirou couldn't comprehend what the Primarch said, but with each second, anger rose in his soul. Anger at the one who dared trample his dreams.
"Don't mock my father!" The young man himself didn't understand how he pointed the shinai at the man.
"Your father was an idiot, like you." This was intolerable. With a furious roar, Shirou lunged at the Primarch, only to be disarmed and thrown against the wall. The impact knocked all air from his lungs, and now the boy strained to rise. But a wooden blade at his throat stopped him. In Archer's hands, it no longer seemed blunt; it gained a dangerous gleam. "You can't rid people of pain, no matter how hard you try. It's an inseparable part of life. Pain is what makes people better. Forces them to overcome their limits."
"Lies! Pain only destroys; suffering can't bring good!" After these words, the sword's hilt was before Shirou's face. The Primarch offered him the weapon.
"Then prove it in battle; you're already great at empty words."
The young man accepted. And now futilely tried to reach the hero of the future. Artoria stood aside, watching with concern. She would have long defended her Master, for Fulgrim's behavior was unacceptable, but..."Let me help him." The barely audible whisper, audible only to Servants' ears, made it clear. The Primarch wanted to set Shirou on the true path, not let him perish on an endless futile road he had doomed himself to.
"No man can prevent all humanity's suffering. It's impossible." Even the first among men couldn't do that, let alone a schoolboy.
"I know! But I won't back down!" Emiya attacked fiercer, and seeing no results, he kept charging at Archer.
"You know you're doing useless things but won't back down? You've got less brains than I thought." With these words, the man's fist shook the young man's chest. For a moment, his heart stopped.
"Suffering isn't given to fear and escape. It makes us who we are, opens our eyes to our essence. Depriving people of pain deprives them of their future!" Grabbing Shirou by the head. "And what makes you think people need your help? You can't imagine the powers hidden in us." The young man's body crashed to the wooden floor; all his senses shut down, leaving only hearing. By it he listened. Listened to the words of one who had seen humanity's potential.
"You've trapped yourself in prejudices; your path leads nowhere but your death, and the world remains the same." Fulgrim knelt before the prone boy and sharply turned his face up. "If you want to help people, help them unlock their potential. Help those whose souls flicker before hardships; keep hearts from growing cold. Teach them to cope with pain themselves. Only then can you realize your dream."
The hand now extended not for attack, but aid. And Shirou, with the son of the Emperor's words ringing like a bell in his head, took it. Standing, the young man felt his body sway. But he couldn't relax. Under the intent gaze of utterly serious Fulgrim, he dared not fall again, lest he show he couldn't even stand straight. Now the man held two swords. He tossed one to the youth, who barely caught it. His vision still doubled.
"All your bravado is worthless if you can't even protect yourself. Into stance!" From the commanding voice of the one whose legions conquered worlds, Shirou would stand even unwillingly.
And the real training began. Within minutes, the young man's arms could barely hold the weapon. But he stubbornly kept blocking strikes deliberately aimed so he could defend. Defense is what a warrior must master first. Preserving life in battle often takes priority over victory. The Primarch's lightning-fast, precise thrusts forced Shirou to move as the opponent wished. Power was applied in perfect proportion, right at the edge of what the "hero of justice" could withstand. Artoria watched it all. And she had to give the Primarch his due; in training, he could outdo her. After all, the queen rarely trained complete novices, usually sparring with seasoned swordsmen.
"You have enough willpower, but skills need work." The man lowered his sword, signaling a break. Even when Emiya understood, his hands didn't release the shinai, though he didn't feel it. Everything past his shoulders felt empty, as if he'd lost limbs. "Restore your strength and watch." After the words, Fulgrim glanced at the girl quietly sitting by the wall. Nodding his head, he invited her to demonstrate proper fighting. She didn't refuse.
Now the young man was by the wall. His mind was in an unfamiliar state. The focus and concentration he couldn't achieve alone showed no sign of fading. Completely forgetting his exhausted body, he directed all attention to the pair of seasoned warriors demonstrating incredible mastery. Of course, they didn't put full power into strikes, or they'd destroy their weapons... or the building. Saber's style lacked grace but was highly effective. Straight thrusts and hard blocks mostly filled it. Fulgrim, conversely, always aimed strikes to leave no room for maneuver. Light, elegant swings stabbed like needles, diverting attention, disrupting breath, and rendering counters less effective. Opposites nonetheless matched each other, neither having touched the other yet.
"What monsters." Shirou feared imagining how many battles and trainings it took to learn that. By the way, on learning—he wasn't just a swordsman; he was a magus too. And his current state suited developing magic skills perfectly. Remembering this, Shirou immediately uttered the words activating his circuits. "Trace On." Mana flowed through his body, burning nerves. As always, magic practice felt like red-hot blades piercing his spine. But today, it caused less discomfort. After his whole body reached its limits, usual agony became tolerable pain.
The shinai in Shirou's hand became the object of one of his two spells. Reinforcement. First, analyze the object. Understand its structure, which he did with the same ease as activating mage mode. Now, direct prana into internal cavities, alter its structure. Eliminate flaws. And again, easier than usual—it seemed beatings cleared the mind. At least today's. Lines of light traced the wooden sword; now it rivaled any normal blade, even modern-made. The young man's mind, however, felt no joy, merely noting success and need to practice for retention. And in the hall's center, the sparring reached climax. The swordsmen struck powerfully, shattering their toys. One splinter nearly lodged in Shirou's skull, missing by ten centimeters. He didn't notice, eyes fixed on those worthy of mastery—not for silly ritual participation.
"You won't win much with such a weapon." Fulgrim said, gathering light particles in his hand.
"Agreed." Artoria replied in kind.
Now both heroes held real instruments of war. Saber's blade was impossible to see, but the Primarch's sword was clear. Superbly crafted guard imitating golden bird wings, and a blade burning with eternal flame. This fire—the flame of Ural forges, which the Lord of the Iron Hands managed to transport without spilling a drop of its power. Without wasting time, the Servants clashed again. Mighty weapons sparked against each other. And Firebrand's flame seemed to burn fiercer. With heightened senses, the young man watched the weapon in the Primarch's hand. And suddenly heard ringing. A hammer's ring.
Before his eyes rose a hazy scene of the weapon's forging. The tool in skilled smith's hands shaped wild metal. And those hands were metal too. They gleamed from furnace light. The power within made one tremble. Its owner, now visible, stood colossal in size. No less than Fulgrim in true form, he tirelessly hammered the anvil. His desire to create a weapon worthy of such as he was felt in every swing. Unknown how long it lasted. Many hours passed before completion, but when it happened, the scene shifted.
Shirou saw Archer, hammer in hand—the one he'd used to smash Berserker into the ground. Its name echoed in his mind. Forgebreaker. And then the blade's name now in the Primarch's hands. Firebrand. Both mighty men acknowledged their creations inferior to the opponent's, then laughed and swapped weapons. From then began long friendship between demigods. Phoenix and The Gorgon. In trance, Shirou whispered these names, audible to both Servants even in battle's heat. The platinum-haired one abruptly halted the clash and peered intently at the young man's face.
"How do you know about The Gorgon?" The Phoenix's voice wasn't hostile but demanded immediate answer. From it, Emiya snapped to and now looked around uncomprehendingly. He didn't understand when he'd returned from Ural forges to his dojo. "Where did you hear that?"
"I... I don't know, I just saw. Saw how Firebrand was forged." The Primarch's eyes widened slightly. He'd never named the weapon aloud.
"You saw... my weapon's past?"
"Y-yeah, don't know how, but yes." He still couldn't think coherently.
"This world's mages grow ever more incomprehensible to me; need to ask Rin how that's possible." The Primarch mused aloud. Then glanced at the youth. "You'd better not look at this blade's history again. It's... not what you should see." With that ended the unusual training, which brought Shirou more results than all previous. And gave him much food for thought. Fulgrim's speech made him start reevaluating his ideals. And what it would lead to—no one knew.
***
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