Is it Wrong for a Sword to Remain Sheathed Against Injustice?

Is it Wrong for a Sword to Remain 

Sheathed Against Injustice?

Story Starts

-=&&=-

Chapter 0

Prologue -

One Hundred and Sixty-Nine

And Will These Hands Ever Hold Anything

"Live well, Emiya Shirou."

She stood before him in the pale light of dawn—Ryougi Shiki, draped in her long pale-pink kimono that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly quality in the half-light. The fabric moved with a stillness that defied the morning breeze, as though even the wind hesitated to touch her.

Though she wore Shiki's form, this was not the woman he'd summoned through Mash's shield. The presence before him possessed an almost overwhelming intensity that made the air itself feel heavier, denser, as though reality bent slightly around her existence. This was Alaya wearing Shiki's form as a mask, and the difference was palpable in every measured breath, every deliberate blink.

Those features—calm and eternal, yet fundamentally inhuman in their perfection—gazed at him with something that might have been fondness. Or perhaps merely the detached curiosity of a primordial force that had watched him die one hundred and sixty-nine times, each death catalogued and observed with the patience of eternity itself, each failure noted without judgement or mercy.

Shirou wouldn't need to question whether the will of humanity knew his true motivation—why he refused to give up, why he continued to throw himself against impossible odds time and time again. He already knew the answer.

Behind her, gathered on the hill overlooking a world they'd saved together, stood everyone who had come for this final farewell. This last gathering, after the curtain fell. After Human Order was restored and pulled back from the brink of extinction, after every Singularity was corrected, after every impossibility was made possible through sheer bloody-minded refusal to accept defeat.

They did not speak in turn, yet their farewells washed over him all the same. Gentle smiles that warmed something in his chest he'd thought long frozen. Words of encouragement spoken with genuine care, hands clasping his shoulder in wordless support. Tears shed without shame from those who'd never learnt to hide their hearts. Curt nods of acknowledgement from warriors too proud or too awkward for softer gestures. Heartfelt wishes for happiness he wasn't sure he deserved, wasn't certain he could ever claim. Insufferable demands to 'have fun!' delivered with knowing grins that promised mischief even across the boundaries of worlds.

And finally—impossibly—an affectionate "mongrel" that somehow carried more warmth than any flowery farewell could have managed.

He'd never get used to the female version of the most insufferable hero he'd ever met. Though he had to admit, his two younger selves had been considerably easier to work with—less abrasive in their pride, more willing to listen before dismissing him as unworthy of their attention.

The thought brought a ghost of a smile to his lips, there and gone before anyone could notice.

Then came the gift of understanding—knowledge of this new reality pressed gently into his mind like water filling an empty vessel. Not forced, not invasive, but offered. Information about a world called Orario, about gods who walked amongst mortals, about a Dungeon that stretched into the earth's heart. About Falna and familias, about levels and magic that worked nothing like the thaumaturgy he knew.

'A second chance.'

After success, he wasn't sent to another mission like almost all of his alternate selves, those countless versions who'd eventually succumb to the will of humanity and become little more than Counter Guardian janitors, cleaning up mankind's mistakes across eternity. Instead, after everything, Alaya had given him this—a fresh start, a blank slate, a tabula rasa.

And with that understanding, the contract was complete. She had shown him glimpses of their lives—a timeline where they'd never known him, never fought beside him, never bled for him. Rin and Sakura, sisters as they should have been, bickering over breakfast instead of being separated by cruelty and darkness. Illya, with her family whole, laughing in Kiritsugu and Irisviel's arms. Arturia, finally at peace, her long war ended not by his hand but by her own acceptance.

They were happy. Safe. Whole.

They didn't remember him at all; that was part of the toll, and he'd do it every time.

It was enough. It had to be enough.

"I know you don't believe you can live for yourself," Alaya said, and there was something almost gentle in her voice now—a tenderness that seemed at odds with her nature as humanity's collective will. As though something in those countless observations of his deaths had taught her more than mere tactical assessment. "You've spent so long as a sword that you've forgotten swords can be sheathed."

A pause, weighted with meaning. With all the loops she'd witnessed, all the times she'd watched him choose others over himself.

"That they should be sheathed."

She reached out. Her hand came to rest against his cheek, and for a moment—just a single, crystallised moment that felt like it might last forever—the primordial will of humanity touched him with something approaching maternal care. Her palm was cool and soft against his skin. Like moonlight given form. Like the touch of something that existed beyond the normal boundaries of the world, reaching across an impossible distance to offer comfort.

She pressed her palm to his back, and something burned there—not painfully, but with the weight of divine acknowledgement. A Falna. Level 2. Unlocked.

A fresh start written on his soul.

"Learn," she said, and her eyes—Shiki's eyes, yet not, vast and ancient where Shiki's were merely empty—held his with an intensity that pierced through every defence he'd ever built. "That's all I ask. Learn to rest. Learn what it means to simply exist, rather than constantly becoming."

Then the light consumed her. Consumed them all.

It started as a glow beneath her feet, spreading outward in ripples of luminescence that caught each figure standing on that hill. The light rose from the ground in a pillar of radiance that split the dawn sky—a beacon visible from every corner of the city sprawling below, announcing to all of Orario that something divine had just occurred.

Shirou felt the others go with her, felt the last warmth of their presence vanish into the heavens, returning to wherever beings like them truly belonged when their work was finally done. The pillar held for a moment longer, brilliant and terrible and beautiful, before it too faded.

And then he was—

"…"

Shirou opened his eyes to darkness. He'd made sure of that by purchasing thick blackout curtains to maximise his already pitifully limited sleep, every hour of rest precious in a way it had never been before.

Not that he ever truly felt tired. He always naturally woke after about three to four hours—even back when he was experiencing that harrowing temporal loop, his body had maintained the same rhythm. Some things, it seemed, not even one hundred and sixty-nine deaths could change. He'd never really been much of a sleeper anyway.

"Who was the last to use the bath?!!!" A muffled voice pierced through the thick curtains, sharp with indignation, and then countless unintelligible mutterings followed in its wake—too garbled to make out individual words but clear enough in their frustration.

Shirou didn't need to use reinforcement to enhance his hearing. This was almost the same argument he'd heard like clockwork from his neighbours ever since he'd moved in about two and a half months ago, their domestic disputes as reliable as the sunrise itself. He'd long since stopped feeling guilty about accidentally eavesdropping.

"—lice! How dare you use up all the hot water again!" A different voice this time, still muffled by distance and walls, rang out with exasperation. "How many times do I have to tell you to replace the magic stones on the heater when they've diminished in brightness! It's not complicated!"

"—m… —rry, K—uya!" The apologetic response was barely audible, words eaten by walls and distance.

The black-haired one was lecturing the redhead again, then. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before that.

Shaking his head at their familiar antics, finding something oddly comforting in the mundane nature of their squabble, Shirou sat up and tugged the curtains aside to let in the silvery moonlight.

'The moon is bright tonight,' he noted absently, watching its pale glow flood his small room and paint everything in shades of silver and shadow.

The sudden movement of the curtains drew the immediate attention of a black-haired, Far Eastern woman standing by the window across the way. Back in Japan, she'd easily be classified as a yamato nadeshiko—the perfect traditional beauty, all grace and refined features.

The other woman was a redhead, not in any way inferior to the black-haired woman she was squabbling with. Taller, perhaps, with a more athletic build, but equally striking in her own way.

The redhead suddenly looked sheepish, caught in her moment of thoughtlessness, whilst the black-haired lady bowed slightly in apology, her movements graceful even in contrition. Both had frozen mid-argument the moment they'd realised they had an audience.

Shirou just gave them a curt nod as he turned his back to them, moving towards his dresser.

Their argument restarted almost immediately, voices rising again as he approached his dresser with measured steps. As though a curtain—literal or otherwise—was all the privacy needed to resume their squabble in earnest.

Shirou's racing heart gradually calmed down as he caught sight of the calendar hanging on the wall, its days methodically marked. Picking up the fountain pen he'd fashioned himself—constructed just a week in after getting thoroughly sick of using quills, those primitive writing implements that seemed designed to frustrate—he crossed out the new day which would be arriving in about an hour's time.

He didn't really know why he continued this ritual whenever he woke from dreams of the past, this compulsive need to mark time's passage.

After all, he'd spent three years with Chaldea and hadn't experienced another temporal loop since he'd made that deal with Alaya. Well, except for that one incident during a summer Singularity, but that hardly counted—everyone had been stuck in that one, not just him. Four months in Orario now, and still the loops hadn't returned.

Yet still, every time consciousness returned, his first instinct was to check. To confirm. To mark another day survived without repeating.

So Shirou stepped out of his room to start his day at eleven in the evening.

-=&&=-

And with the final push down, he was done kneading the dough. Normally, when making udon, he'd place the dough inside a large rubbish bag—unused, of course—and let his full body weight press down on the mixture, working it until the texture became perfectly smooth and elastic.

The step was particularly essential, Shirou knew from experience. Proper kneading promoted better hydration of the flour, allowing the water to penetrate every grain and develop those crucial gluten strands that gave udon its characteristic chewiness. But in this world, they hadn't yet discovered plastic, which meant he'd had to get creative with his methods.

However, the fact that there was an elevator in the Tower of Babel made Shirou's eyes twitch every single time he thought about it. The sheer inconsistency of it all grated against his modern sensibilities. Elevators, yes. Lifts that could carry dozens of adventurers up and down Babel's massive structure. But not plastic bags.

A lot of the gods or goddesses would only impart 'divine' knowledge when it benefited them personally, it seemed, rather than thinking about what might actually help the people living here.

'Selfish bastards,' he thought, though without much heat. He'd long since grown accustomed to the capricious nature of divine beings. You couldn't serve alongside Servants for three years without developing a certain tolerance for godly whims.

At least they had somewhat modern bathroom facilities, otherwise he'd join all of the other EMIYAs in cursing out Alaya's name in vain. There were limits to what he could tolerate, and chamber pots definitely crossed that line.

He pulled out a long bamboo cane, almost double his height, running his hand along its smooth surface. He'd use this as a lever, wedging one end against his wooden table whilst he rode the bamboo like a seesaw, using his body weight to knead the dough properly. It wasn't quite the same as the rubbish bag method, but it would have to do.

With the dough set aside to rest, he turned to the ingredients he'd prepared earlier. A golden ripple opened in the air before him—his gate—and he began methodically loading the rich broths, the carefully prepared dashi stock, the golden-fried croquettes, watching each item shimmer and disappear into the dimensional space beyond.

The Gate of Avalon. Inspired by Gilgamesh's Gate of Babylon—or more accurately, Gilgamesh-ko's version. Not the child version of the King of Heroes, but the female iteration of what could only be described as an ego given physical form and let loose upon the world.

The creation was apparently a collaboration between Gilgamesh-ko and Lady Avalon, and if the explanations he'd half-listened to were correct, Arturia Avalon and Aesc Tonelica had also been involved somehow. The details still made his head spin whenever he tried to puzzle through them all.

One of the skills he possessed now was the Gate of Avalon, which functioned essentially the same as the Gate of Babylon, just with a different name. The key difference was that this particular gate was intrinsically tied to the sheath—Avalon—that still resided within his body, merged with his very being.

It was something that had only left his physical form during the early iterations of his temporal loops, those times when he'd returned it to Arturia with solemn ceremony and bittersweet farewells. But inevitably, once he died, destroyed the Grail, or rejected its corrupt wish entirely, he would return to several months before the start of the Holy Grail War with his body completely restored to its exact status on that particular day.

Which meant, without fail, that the sheath was still lodged within him, as permanent as his own bones.

This time around, however, things were different. Lady Vivian herself had granted him partial ownership of the sheath, formally acknowledging his connection to it after all those loops where it had been a passenger in his soul. A privilege that came with considerable benefits.

It gave him access to some minor healing capabilities that had saved his skin more than once, along with all of the other perks the legendary artefact entailed. More practically for his current purposes, it now functioned as a bottomless receptacle for absolutely anything he wanted to place inside.

Which proved remarkably useful for a travelling noodle chef.

As he finished, methodically loading everything needed and various other ingredients into his gate, watching them shimmer and disappear into that golden ripple of space, he kept the newly kneaded doughs separate. Those went into his specially constructed yatai—essentially a food cart that he'd designed and built himself to meet his exacting standards.

The crucial thing about his gate, the detail that made it truly invaluable, was that it completely froze time for anything placed within its dimensional space. This meant that if he didn't allow the dough adequate time to rest properly before placing it inside, it would never develop the gluten structure necessary for achieving that wonderfully chewy, satisfying texture that proper udon noodles were supposed to have.

It was a lesson he'd learnt the hard way during his first attempts at using the storage system. He still remembered the batch of udon that had come out with the consistency of rubber bands.

This time-freezing property was actually the best thing he'd discovered about the gate since acquiring it, because initially he'd found himself pondering exactly how to use such an ability. After all, he could already trace virtually any weapon he wanted or needed through his Unlimited Blade Works, so what use was an extra storage dimension?

But it had proven itself invaluable as time passed and he'd discovered all its practical applications, particularly for preserving food at the perfect state. Broth that stayed piping hot. Fried goods that remained crispy. Ice that never melted.

Though he can't really place anything alive within it, or rather anything alive turns out dead once you remove it from the gate, he, of course, has not tested it on people. However, he tried peeking in—he could already imagine Rin calling him an idiot for trying that, but the gate didn't allow him entrance.

On top of all that, it had honestly never occurred to him to check whether anything had already been inside the gate when it was first given to him. The thought simply hadn't crossed his mind amidst everything else demanding his attention—the farewells, the knowledge transfer, the sheer overwhelming reality of being dropped into an entirely new world.

After his first day diving into the Dungeon, he'd managed to secure lodging at an inn and pub called the Hostess of Fertility, an establishment that had immediately set off warning bells in his mind.

Shirou had been extremely wary of the name from the very first moment he'd heard it. He'd been suddenly accosted by an admittedly quite cute grey-haired girl dressed in a green maid uniform that seemed designed to be both practical and eye-catching. When she'd enthusiastically invited him to stay at the Hostess of Fertility with that bright, innocent smile of hers, his mind had immediately jumped to unfortunate conclusions. He'd genuinely thought that she might be a 'working' girl in the less savoury sense of the term—especially with a pub bearing a name like that. Really, who could have blamed him for leaping to such assumptions? The name was practically asking to be misinterpreted.

In the end, that was his first place of residence in Orario. The owner, Mamma Mia, was quite the character. He'd assumed that the place was a Familia-owned restaurant, especially after he'd caught the hint of divinity from both Syr and the owner—something carrying notes of sweetness and spice, mixed with undertones that reminded him of death and war.

But he didn't really pry. He'd expect the same treatment, after all. In the month and a half he'd spent staying at the place, he'd managed to foster quite an amicable friendship with the pub owner and waitress. He'd often visit the two, exchanging pleasantries, sometimes swapping meals and even recipes.

He'd later saved up enough from his Dungeon drops to commission a food cart, registering with the Guild an additional business licence on top of his adventurer credentials.

It was only after a month and a half that he'd thought to check the inventory of his gate. And to his surprise, he'd found a number of treasures and a note telling him that he'd probably spend half a year before discovering this, and that he should use these to get a head start in living comfortably, as he apparently deserved it.

Which led him to purchase the place he was staying in now.

Shirou shielded his face as he stepped into the midnight air, a strong gust of cool wind accosting him the moment he opened the door.

He'd already done his sets of exercise in between prepping the food he'd sell for the day, so his body was pretty warm at this point as he unlocked the door of his home.

From his periphery, he could spy someone from the neighbouring building looking at him from their darkened room. But when he turned his head to look directly, the figure was no longer there. The only thing he could make out was the subtle motion of the curtain now covering the window of that particular room.

Not his problem. He shrugged and pulled on his food cart, locking the door behind him.

-=&&=-

The streets of Orario were empty. Not the comfortable emptiness of a city at rest, the kind that spoke of peaceful slumber and dreams untroubled by fear, but the held-breath emptiness of a city under siege. The silence was oppressive, heavy with unspoken dread.

Shops stood shuttered with barred windows, their usual cheerful displays hidden behind crossed iron bars that cast prison-like shadows across the cobblestones. Doors had been reinforced with thick bands of iron, the fresh bolts and hasty carpentry work speaking to recent urgency—and recent fear.

The occasional flicker of a magicstone lamp escaped through a shutter here and there, betraying the presence of those who couldn't sleep for fear of what the darkness might bring. What monsters—human or otherwise—might come crawling through their windows when the city's guardians looked the other way.

Shirou pulled his cart through the silence, and the city pushed back against him with an almost physical weight.

The cart was heavy. Deliberately so, though not because of the supplies piled within. He'd added iron weights to the frame weeks ago, turning the daily transport route into resistance training. A way to keep moving, keep building strength, keep doing something productive with his hands and body when his mind threatened to spiral into places he didn't want to revisit.

His muscles burned with each step—a Level 2's muscles, technically, though he'd been accumulating excelia for four months without a single status update. The energy gathered and pooled within him like water behind a dam, waiting for release that he simply refused to grant. He wasn't really in a rush to find himself beholden to another higher being.

It was stupid, he knew. Rose told him so at least twice a week, her exasperation bleeding through her usual professional demeanour. Any god or goddess in Orario could adopt his unlocked status with a simple touch, update his abilities with a drop of their divine blood, give him immediate access to the strength he'd earned through sweat and monster blood in the Dungeon's depths.

The power was there, waiting. He just had to reach out and take it.

He just really couldn't be bothered. Couldn't bring himself to care enough to seek it out. He was happy as he was—or at least, that's what he told himself in the early morning hours when the lie felt most convincing.

Rose had stopped asking why after the second month. Small mercies, those. He suspected she'd simply given up on understanding him, which was probably for the best.

How could he explain that the idea of being beholden to another higher being just felt... tiring?

Because that's what he was. He wasn't tired in the sense that he'd rather just stay at home and lounge about, but tired in the way someone felt when they'd finally found themselves without burdens after a lifetime's worth of carrying them.

Hell, even with his hundred-plus-year stint in that temporal loop, he hadn't even experienced any of the stages of life he'd classify as the young adult years, the adult years, the elderly years. Quite frankly, Lady Avalon couldn't have put it more nicely during that farewell. He was in arrested development. For over a hundred years, all he'd done was fight for his life. And now? Now all he wanted was to coast by.

Shirou shook his head, deliberately cutting off that train of thought before it could gather momentum. He looked around the mostly empty streets of Orario, though he could hear the faint noise of activity from the entertainment district in the distance. People had told him it was far noisier back during the Zeus and Hera Familia reign, before the fall. Before the Dark Ages began.

His cart's wheels rattled over cobblestones, the rhythm almost meditative in its consistency. He was grateful for the relatively smooth motion—the fact that he'd finally had some spare valis to commission Goibniu Familia to build a forge in his home meant he'd been able to craft proper leaf springs for the cart's wheels. The mechanism made the trek over the uneven terrain much easier than it had been, sparing his shoulders the worst of the jolting.

Small improvements. Manageable projects. These were the things he could still accomplish without destroying everything around him.

He deliberately ignored the dark stains between the stones. He knew blood when he saw it, even old blood, even blood that someone had tried desperately to scrub away with water and lye. The stains had soaked too deep into the porous stone to ever truly disappear.

Evilus had been busy lately, their attacks growing bolder and more frequent. The whole city felt like a wound that wouldn't close, festering despite everyone's best efforts to stanch the bleeding.

An early morning patrol crossed his path—four members of Ganesha Familia in matching ceremonial armour, their elephant-masked insignia catching the faint moonlight that managed to pierce the narrow gap between buildings. The leader, a broad-shouldered man whose posture spoke of too many sleepless nights, nodded at him in acknowledgement.

Shirou nodded back, the gesture automatic, expected.

They knew him by now. The food vendor who kept impossible hours, who was always pushing his cart through the streets when sensible people were asleep. The odd young man who seemed immune to the curfew warnings that kept everyone else indoors.

Thankfully, he didn't advertise his status as a godless adventurer, and he was grateful for Rose's professional discretion in that regard. The less attention he drew to his unusual circumstances, the better.

Precisely as he intended, anonymity was its own kind of armour.

The patrol moved on, their boots echoing against the stone before fading into the distance. Shirou kept pulling, one foot in front of the other, the familiar burn in his shoulders almost comforting in its consistency.

Two streets later, he passed the aftermath of something he desperately wished he hadn't seen. A building with its entire front wall collapsed inward, the support beams jutting out like broken ribs from a shattered chest. Scorch marks radiated from a central point in the wreckage, spreading outward in a pattern that spoke of concentrated magical assault.

The acrid smell of magical discharge still lingered heavy in the air despite what must have been hours—perhaps even half a day—since the attack had occurred. The scent burned his nostrils, familiar from a hundred different battlefields and sickening in its implications.

No bodies remained. Someone had already collected them, carted them off to whatever mass grave or funeral pyre the Guild had designated for victims of Evilus. But the small details remained, the fragments too insignificant for the cleanup crews to bother with.

A child's shoe, half-buried in rubble, its bright red colour now dulled with ash and dust. A merchant's scale, the brass melted and warped into an abstract sculpture of violence. The shattered remnants of someone's entire life, scattered across the cobblestones like discarded props from a poorly-written play about suffering. About meaningless death.

His hands tightened on the cart's handles. His feet slowed without his permission, weight shifting as though his body wanted to stop, to kneel, to do something.

He forced himself to keep moving.

The only thing he could do was move on, keep trudging forward as though he hadn't seen anything worth stopping for. There were already groups dedicated to keeping the peace within Orario—entire familias whose divine purpose was protection and justice. It was no longer up to him to step up and play hero. That wasn't his role here.

The excuse felt hollow even as he formed it in his mind. It always did, every single time he passed these places, these monuments to his deliberate inaction.

The hero's instinct—that sick, broken thing Kiritsugu had planted in him so many years ago—screamed at him to do something. The compulsion that even one hundred and sixty-nine deaths and his eventual disillusionment of the ideal, with the help of his counterpart, had failed to completely kill. To trace his blades. To hunt down the perpetrators. To throw himself into the fight because that's what heroes did.

That's what he'd always done.

But he'd tried that already, hadn't he? In Fuyuki, fighting a war that had been rigged from the start. In Chaldea, throwing himself against the incineration of human history itself. He'd thrown himself at every injustice he could find, fought every battle placed before him, and the world had methodically ground him to dust for his presumption.

"Learn to rest," Alaya had said, in that moment between lives, between worlds. "You've earned it. More than earned it."

And despite the nagging feeling—that gnawing pull towards justice that would never truly leave him—he'd simply allowed himself to drift. To float along like a leaf on the wind, going wherever the current took him.

Or at least that was the plan, hopefully.

-=&&=-

The Guild Headquarters loomed at the end of Adventurers Way, its grand facade somehow still immaculate despite the chaos consuming the rest of the city. The polished marble columns gleamed under the enchanted street lamps, their surfaces unmarred by the soot and grime that coated nearly every other building in this district.

Shirou guided his cart around to the service entrance—a smaller door that led to a storage area reserved for licensed vendors with standing arrangements. The wooden wheels clicked rhythmically against the cobblestones. The cool metal of the handle felt familiar beneath his palm as he pushed it open.

He'd paid for the privilege, the weight of those valis still remembered in his coin purse. It was worth every single coin—though to be honest, he could have just used his gate, but the fewer questions about that particular ability, the better. The hinges whispered softly as the door swung inward, releasing a breath of stale air that carried the dry scent of stored grain and preserved meats.

With his stubborn—Rose's thoughts, not his—refusal to join a familia, he preferred to keep a low profile, to remain beneath notice. The fact that he was already Level 2 would attract the attention of most gods or goddesses—divine beings were always hungry for capable followers, always watching. Given that fifty per cent or more of the adventurers in Orario languished at Level 1, he didn't need another reason for a higher being to notice him.

And having what would basically function as quite the significant storage system would probably start wars between familias if anyone discovered its existence. The very thought sent a chill down his spine, the kind that had nothing to do with the pre-dawn air seeping through the corridor.

Logistics proved quite essential when undertaking Dungeon raids, and having the Gate of Avalon at their disposal would be an invaluable boon to any familia that could claim his allegiance.

Shirou smiled as he approached the night attendant—a tired-looking human man named Garrett—who glanced up from his desk as Shirou wheeled in, the cart's passage stirring up faint traces of flour dust that caught in the lamplight.

The scratch of Garrett's fountain pen—something he'd gifted to a lot of the Guild staff as thanks—against parchment paused mid-stroke. He'd told them that if the nibs wore out, they'd need to order replacements from him. He'd also been selling some items he'd made in his forge lately.

"Emiya. Right on time." Garrett's voice carried the roughness of too many late shifts, accompanied by the faint smell of cheap coffee that clung to his uniform.

"Storage bay three?" Shirou asked, already knowing the answer but following the familiar ritual of their exchange.

"Same as always." Garrett made a note in his ledger, the sound of ink on paper crisp in the quiet room. "Heading down again?"

"Same as always." The words felt comfortable in his mouth, worn smooth by repetition.

The attendant shook his head, something between admiration and pity flickering across his weathered features. "You know, most solo adventurers don't dive before dawn. And most vendors don't dive at all." He set down his pen with a thud against the wooden surface.

"Most adventurers aren't trying to avoid the morning crowd. Plus, the morning crowd is precisely where I make the majority of my sales." Shirou adjusted his grip on the cart's handle, feeling the wood grain press into his calluses.

It wasn't even a lie, though the truth went deeper than those simple words. The Dungeon entrance in the small hours of the morning stood nearly empty—serious adventurers finishing overnight expeditions trudging out with heavy steps, night-shift Guild staff making their rounds with muffled footfalls, and almost no one else. The silence itself felt thick, tangible. Perfect for someone who simply wanted to cut loose without the constant fear of prying eyes watching his every move.

Perfect for someone who desperately wanted to stay invisible, to avoid notice.

Garrett snorted, the sound echoing softly in the storage area. "Your advisor's going to have words with you again. Rose was complaining about you yesterday—something about submitting a report concerning suspicious activity around the twenty-seventh floor?" He leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest. "You do realise that you're Level 2, don't you? You've no business lingering around the area where Amphisbaena spawns. Solowise that's Level 3 territory at minimum."

Shirou merely shrugged, the gesture accompanied by the faint rustle of his clothing. "There were people in hooded cloaks, digging and burying something. I simply flagged it as suspicious and filed a report."

"Uh-huh. Lucky timing then," Garrett offered, though scepticism coloured his tone and creased the corners of his eyes.

"Unlucky timing," Shirou corrected, meeting the man's gaze steadily.

"Right." Garrett stamped his ledger with more force than necessary, the sound sharp and final in the enclosed space. "Storage bay three's open. Try not to die down there, Emiya. You're one of the few vendors who doesn't attempt to bribe me for a better position outside the Dungeon entrance." There was genuine warmth beneath the gruff words, the kind that came from months of these pre-dawn encounters.

Shirou allowed himself a small nod—as close to gratitude as he typically expressed—and guided the cart into the storage area, its wheels leaving faint tracks in the dust that perpetually accumulated despite regular cleaning.

The bay proved small, clean, and secured by a sturdy lock. The air here smelt of old wood and dried herbs. With a mental command, several blades materialised and fell point-first onto the floor, their edges biting into the stone with barely audible chimes. A seven-pointed star encased within a circle flashed for a second, pulsing with dim azure light, before quickly disappearing.

The bounded field was probably unnecessary, but it had become second nature at this point—just the standard aversion wards, designed to prevent anyone from snooping. Not that there was anything to discover with the cart empty of anything truly valuable. At least it represented one of the few applications of thaumaturgy outside of his usual repertoire that he could employ.

He settled the cart into its designated space, the wood settling with a satisfied creak. He checked the currently resting dough, pressing his fingers gently against the cloth covering to test its give, then verified that the fabric around the dough remained damp to the touch, slightly cool against his skin.

He then mimed pulling out his adventurer's gear, but in reality he was simply retrieving his equipment from his gate, the familiar cool sensation of reaching through dimensions ghosting across his consciousness.

Light armour, designed for mobility—some vambraces that caught the lamplight with a dull gleam, shin guards that felt reassuringly solid against his legs, and just a simple chest plate that distributed its weight evenly across his shoulders. A pair of mundane knives settled at his belt, visible and unremarkable, their leather-wrapped handles worn smooth by use.

He'd also pulled out his duster coat, the fabric whispering as it settled across his shoulders—clearly inspired by Counter Guardian Emiya's usual attire, but this version was black instead of that striking red. The coat had been a Valentine's gift arranged by all of the Arturias in Chaldea after they'd accidentally consumed all of the chocolates they'd made for him during their taste-testing. The memory brought the ghost of a smile to his lips—their sheepish expressions when they'd realised what they'd done.

He traced several pairs of Kanshou and Bakuya, feeling the familiar weight of the married swords settle into existence, along with a few Black Keys that materialised with their characteristic gleam. He placed them carefully in his gate, each weapon finding its proper position in that void space.

He'd been stockpiling quite a lot of them, just in case the need arose. One hundred and nine traced Noble Phantasms now, accumulated over four months of diving and quietly tracing a small batch before he dives, like right now, along with a smattering of bladed mystic codes.

He honestly could have done more, but again, he couldn't be bothered—maybe he'll do some more between downtime.

He closed the storage bay, the lock clicking shut with a satisfying sound of tumblers falling into place. He set the mechanism, tested it once with a gentle tug, then waved at Garrett as he passed the desk again.

"Don't do anything stupid down there," Garrett called after him, not looking up from his ledger.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Shirou replied, and walked towards the Dungeon entrance, his footsteps echoing softly in the pre-dawn quiet.

The great tower of Babel rose before him, its white walls catching the first hints of false dawn—not true sunlight, but rather the ambient glow of the city's magical infrastructure responding to the approaching morning.

He checked his equipment once more, his hands moving through the familiar routine. Knives secure, their weight balanced perfectly at his hips. Armour fitted properly, nothing chafing or restricting his movement. Mind clear—or as clear as it ever managed to be these days.

'About three hours,' he told himself, estimating the time until dawn proper. 'Maybe just linger around floors fifteen through seventeen, engage in some minotaur hunting.'

Shirou then projected—not traced—a blade, deliberately making it imperfect as he applied structural analysis to verify the flaws. The small knife materialised with intentional weaknesses in its conceptual structure. This was something he'd developed to track approximately how much time he spent in the Dungeon. He'd already tested the method extensively, and given the rate of decay of the construct, he could determine roughly how many hours had passed by examining the deterioration.

But then something quick flashed in his periphery, a blur of movement that triggered an immediate response. Instinctively, he threw the blade he'd just projected, his arm moving before conscious thought could catch up. The imperfect knife flew true despite its flaws, disintegrating into cascading motes of light from the sheer force with which he'd released the weapon.

A dying squawk immediately followed, the sound wet and abruptly cut off.

Shirou projected another blade for timekeeping—this one settling into his grip with familiar weight—and looked towards the end of the hallway of the first floor, where his hastily thrown weapon had found its mark. His gaze was fixed on a glittering ovoid object.

Then he grinned, genuine pleasure warming his chest. 'Looks like my luck is finally turning for once.'

-=&&=-

The soft, cold air of the morning trickled in from the just-opened double doors of the Guild Headquarters, along with the ambient noise of people bustling about as they started their day—well, the predawn morning.

A large yawn interrupted Rose's morning routine. She grabbed a relevant stack of paperwork and tapped it against the table's surface to align the pages together.

Another yawn escaped her as Rose looked up to Sophie, who was slumped over her counter.

"Rose! I can't take this anymore. We're so short-staffed these days," the silver-haired elf complained.

The staffing crisis had started with the rise of Evilus right after the banishment of the previously top two familias—the Zeus and Hera Familias.

Rose never really understood the reasoning behind the banishment or how the Guild had washed its hands of the two familias, but that was a year before she'd joined the Guild staff.

Unfortunately, with the rise of Evilus, the flow of magic stones had slowed to barely a trickle, which had led to severe budget cuts within the Guild. Some of the junior staff were even genuinely nervous about their job security, something that Royman Mardeel had been loudly and incessantly complaining about to anyone who would listen. Rose had overheard him just yesterday, his voice carrying through the corridors as he bemoaned the decreased revenue and the impossible expectations placed upon their department.

"At least you've still got a job," Rose said, not bothering to hide the bone-deep exhaustion that coloured her own voice. She could feel it settling into her shoulders, a weight that never quite lifted anymore. "Better than what happened to Meredith."

Sophie's pointed ears drooped visibly, the delicate tips tilting downward in a way that betrayed her distress. The poor girl had been let go three weeks prior, and her desk remained conspicuously empty—a stark reminder that none of them were truly irreplaceable, no matter how hard they worked or how many extra hours they logged.

"Do you think it'll get worse?" Sophie's voice was barely above a whisper now, tinged with genuine fear.

Rose didn't answer immediately. The question hung between them, heavy and uncomfortable. She sorted through the stack with practised efficiency, separating incident reports from standard adventurer filings with movements that had become almost automatic after years of repetition. The former pile grew distressingly tall, each sheet representing another attack, another injury, another life disrupted or ended. It was getting harder to ignore the pattern, harder to pretend things would simply sort themselves out.

"Depends on whether anyone steps up," she finally said, her tone carefully neutral.

The Ganesha and Astraea Familias had been trying, bless them, and both the Loki and Freya Familias had also recently increased their responsibilities in maintaining order throughout Orario. Rose processed their paperwork often enough—always meticulous, always professional, filed with military precision. But even the top familias' children couldn't be everywhere at once, couldn't prevent every attack or save every victim. The city was simply too large, too chaotic, and Evilus was growing bolder by the day.

"I heard the Rudra Familia lost another member last night," Sophie whispered, leaning closer across her counter, her silver hair falling forward. "Found him in the sewers. They'd—"

"I read the report."

Rose had. The details had been unpleasant enough without Sophie's theatrical retelling, graphic in ways that still made her stomach turn when she thought about them. She'd filed it alongside seventeen other casualty notices from the past fortnight alone, each one a grim tally mark in an ever-growing ledger of violence.

"But did you hear the rumours about their familia?" Sophie leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping even lower.

Rose stiffened slightly. There had been quiet rumours circulating about Rudra being part of Evilus as well, whispers in corridors and knowing glances exchanged between staff members, but the Guild didn't have enough concrete proof to act on such serious allegations. More importantly, they'd want to avoid any unnecessary War Games or conflicts because a capricious god or goddess got offended by baseless accusations—not in these trying times, not when the city was already teetering on the edge of chaos.

A pair of young adventurers stumbled through the Guild doors, their faces ashen beneath poorly bandaged wounds. Rose ignored that familiar tightening in her chest—the one she'd trained herself to ignore—as she recognised one of them. Level 2, Miach Familia. Decent lad, usually competent according to his previous Guild adviser, the recently sacked Meredith. She'd read his file just last week whilst reviewing Meredith's caseload for discrepancies.

"We need—" One of them started, but both swayed dangerously, catching themselves against the counter with trembling hands. Rose watched their knuckles turn white as they gripped the polished wood. "Need to report..."

Sophie was already moving with practised efficiency, grabbing two stools from beneath her own counter. Rose reached for a standardised incident form—the stack never seemed to diminish, no matter how many she filed away—and retrieved the fountain pen she always kept clipped to her breast pocket. A gift from her most frustrating advisee. She pushed the thought aside with the same determination she applied to everything else these days.

"Start from the beginning," she said, keeping her tone clipped but not unkind. She'd learnt that balance over the years—firm enough to keep traumatised adventurers focused, gentle enough not to add to their distress. "Dungeon or surface?"

"Dungeon. Sixteenth floor." The boy—Thomas, she remembered now, the name surfacing from the dozens she'd filed away in her mental catalogue—pressed trembling fingers against his bandage. His voice barely held steady, each word seeming to cost him tremendous effort. Rose could see the way his entire hand shook, noticed the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the terror still fresh and raw in his eyes like an open wound. "We started our dive early, heading for the mid-levels before the morning rush. Then we were ambushed. People wearing black."

The words sent an icy chill cascading down Rose's spine, settling like lead in her stomach. A tinge of frustration coloured her mood as the realisation struck—they'd descended when there were close to no other adventurers delving in the Dungeon this early. The thought immediately reminded her of that frustratingly reckless individual who insisted on similar dangerous habits.

She'd seen too many reports like this lately—adventurers caught off guard in isolated circumstances, moments when Evilus could operate without fear of intervention or witnesses. The pattern was becoming sickeningly clear. Her pen hovered over the form as she processed the implications, her mind already racing through similar incidents from the past fortnight. Three other ambushes. Same pattern. Same timing. Someone was learning, adapting, becoming more efficient at their cruelty.

Rose's pen stilled completely mid-stroke, the nib leaving a small blot of ink on the pristine form.

"How many in your party?" She kept her voice level, professional, even as her pulse quickened with a dread she refused to acknowledge. "And do you regularly delve down this early?"

Their affirming nods confirmed what she'd already suspected, and Rose felt her jaw tighten imperceptibly. Going down at dawn placed them amongst the earliest groups, often the only souls in those particular depths at that hour. This wasn't merely coincidental. Someone had lain in wait for them specifically, had studied their patterns, had chosen the perfect moment to strike. The premeditation of it made her skin crawl.

"Five when we went down." Thomas's voice cracked completely, breaking on the final word. "Only we made it back."

Three names for the casualty list. Rose kept writing, her penmanship remaining precise and controlled despite the familiar churning sensation in her gut, the one that never quite went away no matter how many reports she filed. This was the fourth ambush this week alone.

"I'll need detailed descriptions of the attackers." Rose's pen was already poised, ready to document whatever fragments they could provide. "Anything you can remember. Height, build, weapons, magic—"

"They wore masks. All of them." Thomas's hands clenched into white-knuckled fists against his thighs. Rose watched the muscles in his jaw work as he struggled with the memory. "One of them laughed whilst..."

He couldn't finish. The words simply stopped, choked off by whatever horror he was reliving behind his eyes. Rose recognised that thousand-medr stare; she'd seen it on too many faces lately.

The other survivor, who introduced himself as Frederik through gritted teeth, took over the narrative. His voice carried an edge of barely suppressed rage, something Rose ignored as she had learnt to identify as a coping mechanism. "W-we were just at one of the passageways finishing off a pack of hellhounds when suddenly one part of the passageway caved in after a loud explosion."

Rose's pen moved steadily across the form, capturing every detail. Explosives in the Dungeon. Coordinated attacks. Multiple assailants working in concert.

"Then that hooded leader showed themselves..." Frederik continued, his voice growing stronger with anger. "A pair of them were blocking off the passageway from where we came, cutting off our retreat. That left two more passageways open... but—"

Thomas interjected, finding his voice again though it trembled with the effort of speaking. Frederik's face flushed with fury, his earlier shock giving way to raw emotion as he continued.

"Then two more masked individuals came running in from the two remaining passageways, herding a large pack of hellhounds and minotaurs towards us. We only managed to escape by running through one of the passageways they'd emerged from and leaping through a hole—thankfully landing just a floor below. We circled back and rushed here as fast as we could."

Rose completed the form with practised efficiency, her hand moving almost automatically through questions she'd asked dozens of times before. She confirmed details twice, making Thomas and Frederik repeat crucial information to ensure accuracy whilst Sophie called for the Guild staff member assigned to the Miach Familia and someone from the infirmary.

"Thomas! Frederik!" a voice suddenly shouted from the double doors of the Guild, raw with desperation and relief.

A female bulls stood at the entrance. She was wearing a typical adventurer's outfit, though it was torn and shredded in multiple places, hanging off her frame in tatters. She had numerous gashes around her body, fresh blood still seeping through hastily applied field dressings. Rose's gaze immediately catalogued the injuries—one of the woman's ears was clearly bitten off, leaving a ragged, bleeding wound on the side of her head. She clutched an axe as if it were her lifeline, her knuckles bone-white around the handle.

As her two comrades rushed towards her, the bulls woman's remaining strength seemed to simply evaporate. She slumped down on the floor, her legs giving way completely beneath her. The three survivors collapsed into each other, clutching desperately as tears streamed down their faces. The two men were apologising profusely for leaving her behind, their voices breaking with guilt and relief.

"H-how about Renna and Naaza?" one of them managed to choke out between sobs.

The question hung in the air like a death knell. Rose felt something twist in her chest—something she immediately suppressed. The bulls woman's expression told them everything they needed to know even before she shook her head.

"Rose?"

She glanced up from the form, grateful for the distraction from the raw grief playing out before her. Sophie had returned, accompanied by Mira—the Guild staff member who'd taken over Meredith's duties—and one of the staff members from the Guild's infirmary, already carrying medical supplies. Rose handed the incident report to Mira, her movements controlled and professional. She steeled her expression into neutrality, nodding at Mira as her colleague took over the situation with quiet competence.

Rose turned to Sophie. The elf's expression was drawn, her usual composure cracked around the edges in a way that suggested the news she carried was particularly grim.

"The morning shift reports are in." Sophie's voice was carefully measured, but Rose could hear the strain beneath it. "Another building collapsed in the northwest quarter. Blaze rocks, they think. The residents..."

Rose felt her stomach drop, though her expression remained unchanged. "How many?"

"Fourteen confirmed. Likely more still under the rubble."

Rose reached for a fresh incident form, the paper rough beneath her fingers, the familiar texture somehow grounding. Somewhere in the stack of already-processed items, a family would be waiting for news that would never come. A child might be wondering why their parent hadn't returned home. An adventurer might be planning their evening dive, completely unaware that their favourite tavern had been reduced to nothing but ash and bone and memories.

"File it," Rose said quietly, her voice steady despite the weight settling ever heavier on her shoulders. "Then fetch the next pile."

The work never stopped. Neither did Evilus.

Neither, she supposed with grim determination, could they.

Rose raised an eyebrow at her fellow Guild staff member, allowing a hint of normalcy to creep back into her tone. Sometimes the mundane was the only anchor they had.

"Do you not have any work at this moment?" Rose asked the usually judgemental elf. Sophie was typical of her race in many ways—maintaining that subtle air of superiority that led to her only accepting elves as her advisees. Though despite this quirk, Rose had struck up quite an amicable relationship with the woman over the years. They sometimes grabbed dinner together, sharing complaints about difficult adventurers over wine and attempting to pretend, for a few hours at least, that the world wasn't crumbling around them.

Sophie, now back to her previous mood with remarkable swiftness, had her head resting on her elbows, slumped across her counter in a picture of dramatic exhaustion. Her dainty hand waved Rose's question away dismissively, as if the very concept of work was an insult to her current state of being.

Rose turned back to her own paperwork, sorting through another seemingly endless stack of renewal applications. The mechanical motion brought a strange comfort—something predictable and controllable in a world that had grown increasingly chaotic and unpredictable. There was a rhythm to it, a pattern her hands knew by heart. Process, review, stamp, file. Process, review, stamp, file.

Desensitisation. That was the term one of the members of the Guild's infirmary had used last week during their brief lunch, studying Rose with concerned eyes over her sandwich. "You're all desensitising yourselves to cope," she'd said. "It's natural, but be careful. Sometimes you can't come back from that."

Rose had filed the warning away with all the others she'd received over the years.

But what choice did they have, really?

Breaking down after every casualty report accomplished nothing productive. Weeping over collapsed buildings wouldn't rebuild them or bring the dead back to life. Letting the horror truly seep in, allowing herself to fully comprehend the magnitude of suffering passing through these doors daily, would only leave her useless and paralysed whilst Evilus continued their rampage completely unchecked.

Rose had watched newer staff crumble under the relentless weight of it all. Meredith had lasted six months before the nightmares started invading her waking hours. She'd begun drinking heavily, missing shifts with increasing frequency, making errors in paperwork that could've cost adventurers their lives. The Guild couldn't afford that kind of liability, not when every mistake could mean someone dying in the Dungeon.

Better to feel nothing than to feel too much.

The survivors from Miach Familia still clustered near the entrance, their reunion bittersweet and painful to witness. Rose heard fragments of their conversation drifting across the hall—raw grief for the lost, desperate relief for the living, guilt that they'd survived when others hadn't. Mira spoke to them in low, soothing tones whilst the infirmary staff tended their wounds with gentle efficiency.

An outsider might find it grotesque how quickly Guild employees returned to routine. How Sophie could complain about the workload mere minutes after processing death certificates. How Rose could file incident reports with the same dispassionate efficiency she applied to standard registration forms. To someone who didn't understand, they might seem callous, cold, inhuman.

But outsiders didn't understand. Couldn't possibly understand.

The alternative was complete collapse. The Guild held Orario together through sheer bureaucratic momentum—processing permits, managing familia relations, coordinating Dungeon access, documenting every tragedy with meticulous care. If they faltered, if they allowed themselves to truly absorb the magnitude of suffering passing through these doors daily, the entire structure would crumble. And then where would the city be?

Besides, even without Evilus's reign of terror, death was almost always the inevitable conclusion to an adventurer's life. The Dungeon claimed them eventually, one way or another. That was simply the reality they all lived with.

Rose signed off on three renewal applications in quick succession. Her handwriting remained steady and controlled, unchanged from four hours prior when she'd documented the northwest quarter casualties.

Fourteen confirmed dead. Likely more buried beneath the rubble. At least with the Miach Familia, three had managed to survive the ambush.

The thought existed in her mind without emotional attachment, a fact to be noted and filed away in the appropriate mental compartment. She'd long since stopped trying to imagine their faces, their stories, their final moments. That way lies madness, and she needed to remain functional.

"I have no advisees scheduled this morning," Sophie answered, pandiculating with exaggerated drama before leaning forward and peering nosily at the top paper in Rose's stack. "And the last one who levelled up was months ago."

Sophie then grinned with sudden mischief, her grey eyes sparkling with the kind of teasing that had become their usual morning routine. "Oh, you have your usual date scheduled for every other morning?"

Her eyebrows waggled suggestively at Rose, who felt an unwelcome warmth creeping up her neck. "I wouldn't mind making an exception to my elf-only advisees policy if I get to spend time with your—"

"NAAZA!"

The chorused voices of the surviving Miach Familia members echoed throughout the still relatively quiet Guild hall, shattering whatever Sophie had been about to say. The three were standing but suddenly lost all energy, slumping back towards their seats as if their strings had been cut.

Rose's head snapped towards the entrance, her heart suddenly beating faster for reasons that had nothing to do with professional concern.

At the centre of the Guild's entrance, the lamplight highlighted his tall frame as the morning sun had not yet risen above the city's eastern walls. There stood her frustratingly godless advisee—Shirou Emiya.

He had a large cloth-wrapped bundle strapped to his back like a makeshift backpack, the fabric stained with what looked like blood and Dungeon grime. Cradled carefully in his left arm, her own arms wrapped around his neck for support, was a chienthrope whose shocked face wouldn't stop staring at her fellow redhead, an expression of disbelief and overwhelming relief.

Shirou squatted down slowly until the still-stunned chienthrope's feet touched the Guild's polished floor, the contact seeming to bring her out of her dazed stupor. Within his right hand was a black single-bladed short sword—something that looked quite high quality from where Rose stood, its dark surface catching the lamplight as he placed it carefully on the floor beside them. He gently guided the chienthrope to a standing position with his now-free hand, ruffling her hair affectionately for a moment as he murmured some words that Rose couldn't quite pick up even with her sensitive ears. The soft rumble of his voice carried concern and comfort in equal measure, though the specific words remained frustratingly out of reach. He gave the girl a gentle push towards her waiting comrades, and within moments the four were crying and huddling together in a tangle of relieved embraces and tears.

Rose watched as he stood up, his movements still fluid despite what must have been an exhausting morning. He reached for the bundle strapped behind him, his expression growing more solemn as he addressed the reunited group with words she still couldn't quite make out over the sound of their sobbing. He laid the bundle carefully in front of them with a reverence that made Rose's chest tightened with understanding even before Frederik knelt down.

The human's hands trembled as he pulled back the stained cloth, revealing the pale, peaceful face of whom Rose could only assume was the last member of their party. The one who hadn't been as fortunate as Naaza. The one who wouldn't be coming home.

Frederik collapsed forward onto the chest of the body, his wail of grief echoing loudly through the Guild hall and causing several early-morning adventurers to turn and stare. His surviving familia members immediately placed their hands on his shaking shoulders, their own tears flowing freely as they all mourned together, their small circle of shared loss excluding the rest of the world.

Rose could see Shirou say one last thing to them—perhaps an apology, perhaps a farewell, perhaps simply an acknowledgement of their pain—before he straightened up and turned away, giving them the privacy their grief deserved.

Gold met gold as their eyes locked across the Guild hall. Something warm and complicated twisted in Rose's chest at the sight of him, at the exhaustion evident in the set of his shoulders and the dried blood on his clothing. Shirou nodded at her, a small gesture of acknowledgement, as he tilted his head slightly towards the private booths. Rose found herself nodding in return, swallowing past the unexpected tightness in her throat as she let him know without words that it was fine to go ahead and wait for her there, just like usual.

Rose could see the chienthrope's gaze follow Shirou as he walked away, her left hand instinctively grasping her right arm where fresh blood seeped between her fingers. The bite mark looked nasty—deep and ragged—but it was bleeding profusely in that way that meant it wasn't immediately life-threatening. Something that could easily be healed with a potion, Rose thought distantly, her professional assessment kicking in. Better than being dead, at least. Better than the fate that had befallen their familia member, the one they now wept over.

The girl was fortunate, even if she probably didn't feel that way right now.

-=&&=-

End