How had it come to this?
Shirou Emiya had only wanted to go for a walk.
The weather had actually been nice, too. It was a good kind of cold. The sort that bit at his cheeks and made every breath feel sharp and clean. The wind had been strong enough to tug at his clothes and slip through his hair, but he had not minded.
If anything, it had helped. The chill dulled the edges of his thoughts. It made the noise in his head quieter. It gave him something simple to focus on besides the dream.
That damned dream.
So he had gone walking.
Sure, it had been late. Really late, if he was being honest. But it was not like that was some absurd thing for him to do. He had done this before. Plenty of times. The neighborhood was safe. More than safe, really.
It was one of those quiet residential areas where people forgot to lock their gates and old ladies left freshly baked pies outside without worrying they would disappear. Safe enough that even a child could walk home at night and never feel fear for a moment.
That thought usually brought him peace.
A town should be like that. It should be quiet and ordinary. Safe enough that people could live without needing to think about danger every second. That was how it should be.
That had been the point of the walk. To bring himself some peace that night.
But unfortunately, despite the fact that he had only wanted to clear his head…
"Hhhng... hnha... Fuck...!"
Now the only thing Shirou could hear was his own heartbeat trying to punch its way out through his ribs and the harsh, desperate drag of his breathing as he sprinted through the dark.
Every exhale fogged white in the freezing air. The same cold wind that had felt so calming earlier now tore into his lungs like a fistful of knives. Each breath stung. Each breath felt too small. Each breath came with the sick certainty that the next one might be the one he did not get to finish.
More importantly, why in the name of everything holy was he being chased by a Servant of the Lancer class?
"Mage boy, could you stop dodging and squirming? This is turning into an even bigger pain in the ass than that Archer." The words came from that casual, annoying voice from behind him, close enough to make the hair on the back of Shirou's neck stand up
Even half out of his mind with fear and running, Shirou could not help noticing the spear from the glimpses he saw.
That thing was gorgeous. It was insane that his brain had room for that thought while he was actively being hunted, but there it was anyway.
The weapon was long and lean, the shaft dark red and deadly simple in a way that made it feel more lethal, not less. The blade split out into vicious crimson barbs near the head, like a thorn grown from blood and hammered into shape.
Shirou shut his eyes for half a second and ran harder without looking back.
"Are you kidding!? Don't be stupid! I don't wanna die!"
That would just be a waste.
Fuji-nee would be devastated. She would probably scream, cry, then somehow blame him for making her cry. Sakura would smile sadly and retreat into herself again.
And that was before even getting into the fact that Shirou himself had plans.
Big ones. Stupid ones, maybe, depending on who you asked.
But still. He had no intention of dying here in some dark alley because a blue-haired Servant had decided tonight was a good night for murder.
He cut around a sharp corner between two low concrete walls and threw himself sideways just as something crimson flashed past his head.
There was a scream of air and a spark against brick as the spear missed him by less than an inch and drove into the wall hard enough to crack it.
Shirou stumbled on the landing, boots skidding on damp pavement, but managed to catch himself on one hand before he fully ate dirt.
'Too close–!'
If he was being honest, he already knew the truth.
The only reason he had made it this far, all the way from Homurahara Academy to this close to home, was because Lancer was not taking him seriously.
At all.
That was the only explanation.
There was no world in which Shirou Emiya, apprentice magus with decent reinforcement, solid projection, and a terminal tendency to get involved in things above his pay grade, could actually survive a serious fight with a Servant.
Not alone. Not even with everything Kiritsugu had forced into his skull before he died. Structure analysis. Reinforcement. Projection. Field analysis. Breathing under pressure. How to move. How to think. How to keep going when your body had already voted no.
Useful skills, all of them.
None were even close to "fight a Heroic Spirit in single combat" useful.
Only a Servant could save him now. Or maybe the grace of the gods themselves.
Which was why—
"Hnhaaag...!"
—Shirou hurled himself out of the way of another killing thrust. His shoulder smashed against a wall. Pain shot down his arm. He nearly pitched forward face first, caught himself at the last second, then twisted on instinct.
"Trace On!"
His Magic Circuits flared open.
Pain lanced through him immediately. It was thankful not like the old agony from his childhood, or the convulsive nightmare that had once ripped him apart from the inside, but the familiar ugly ache of forcing power through himself too fast, too hard, while exhausted and half beaten to death.
The world responded anyway.
And at the tips of his fingers, a short blade formed. He grabbed it, ignoring the ache at the back of his skull and the tremor in his hand, then swung behind himself with every ounce of timing he had.
CLANG! SHATTER!
The projected blade exploded the moment it met the crimson spear. Fragments of blue-white light burst apart and vanished into the dark.
Which was exactly what he had known would happen. Just like the last seven times.
At this point, "block" was giving himself too much credit. What he had been doing for the past several minutes was more like throwing brittle pieces of steel into Lancer's attacks and praying they changed the angle enough that he did not get pierced through something vital.
It was shitty, desperate, and humiliating. But it was also the only reason he was still alive.
Of course, it still left him wide open to a Servant.
Lancer stepped in with casual ease and drove a kick straight into Shirou's midsection.
There was no finesse to it. He just kicked him.
The impact folded Shirou around the blow and launched him across the alley. He hit the opposite wall, bounced, then crashed to the ground hard enough that his teeth slammed together.
Something came up his throat.
He coughed violently onto the pavement. Whether it was blood or bile, he didn't know. Honestly, he could not tell anymore.
"Guh...!"
But it did not matter. He dragged himself back to his feet anyway.
Every muscle in his body screamed. His ribs hurt. His side hurt. His hands were bleeding. There were cuts and bruises all over him from near misses, glancing blows, shattered projections, and one very pointed Heroic Spirit treating him like a mildly entertaining workout.
His run home had not been clean, and it sure as hell had not been easy. Despite Lancer's obvious apathy, there was only so much Shirou could do as just a Hͣuⷫmͭan
"I have to admit, out of all the few Magi I've seen in this age, I think you might be the most respectable, kid." Lancer said, sounding almost bored as he raised one hand and watched Shirou stumble upright again.
Shirou spat red onto the ground and glared at him.
Lancer sighed as if this were all a tiresome conversation after a long day at work.
"At least you can survive a few hits on your own. I'm sure Archer's Master would already be dead by now, what with her reliance on petty tricks. Her and the rest of the magi of this era."
His hand slid up through his short blue hair as a humorless smile tugged at his mouth.
"I gotta say though, my own Master is a real piece of work. He's on a whole other level."
Shirou did not know whether to be relieved or deeply offended that Lancer considered him so beneath notice that he felt comfortable bitching about the current era and his boss instead of just finishing the job.
He decided not to question it. Questioning this night had not done much for him so far.
He just ran.
Home was down the street now.
If he could reach the house, he could activate the Bounded Field Kiritsugu had left behind. Shirou could not make one like that himself. Not even close. He could maintain it, patch it, keep it fed, and trigger it manually when needed, but the actual construction had been his father's work.
Even now, he was grateful for that foresight.
Without it, he would have died the moment Lancer spotted him at school, he would have never left its borders and would have been left bleeding out in a hall.
And who would clean up his corpse then?
Lancer seemed to notice the Bounded Field's presence too as they got closer. Something shifted in his gaze just slightly. It was obviously a veteran's eye catching on another man's preparation.
"So that's your game, huh, mage boy? Figures."
Shirou did not get to answer.
Lancer moved.
One second he was several meters away. The next, he was there, spear already cutting forward in a blur of murderous red.
But this time Shirou had bought himself a head start.
Five seconds. That was all he had, and it would have to be enough.
His circuits screamed again.
"Trace On!"
A halberd dropped into his hands.
It had been one of the first weapons other than a Katana Kiritsugu had ever walked him through projecting properly, back when Shirou's control had been even worse and his headaches twice as bad.
Kiritsugu had sourced the original himself just for that lesson, muttering something about proper weight distribution and giving the kid at least one decent answer to a spear.
Shirou brought it up with both hands and barely caught Lancer's strike.
The impact blasted through his shoulders and nearly tore the weapon out of his grip, but it held for that single crucial instant. Sparks spat between halberd and spear. Shirou's boots skidded backward over the pavement.
Lancer's brows rose.
"Oh?"
That was all the opening Shirou needed.
He let the force carry him, then twisted and dropped down. He baited the follow-up instead of resisting it, turning his body sideways just as Lancer adjusted and thrust.
The spear punched past him and buried itself into the wooden frame and outer wall of the house with a savage crunch.
'Now!'
Shirou hit the ground, rolled through the gap the spear had made, and slammed both hands down against the familiar ward-lines hidden beneath the threshold.
Mana answered, and the Bounded Field roared awake just as Lancer tried pulling his spear out and running him through.
Light raced outward in a pulse along the old lines Kiritsugu had laid into the property years ago. The air shuddered. Pressure slammed outward from the house in a hard, invisible wall.
Lancer was pushed back enough that the spear tore free with a splintering sound instead of punching right through Shirou's spine, and enough that the Servant landed outside the boundary with boots scraping against the earth.
For one precious second, there was space between them.
Shirou sucked in a breath that felt like broken glass.
The field shimmered around the property, it was obvious and immediately nowhere near strong enough to hold a Servant for long to any half competent Mage.
Lancer clicked his tongue.
This time there was actual annoyance in it.
"You think this shitty field is keeping me out for more than a few seconds, kid?"
"Nope." Shirou rasped, body already moving. "I think it'll keep you out for less."
He did not need thirty minutes. He did not even need five.
He needed half a minute at most.
CRRACK—!
Behind him, Lancer's spear began immediately tearing into the field. Each strike peeled open pieces of it like someone ripping rotten cloth. The sound made Shirou's heart pound even harder, matching the savage rhythm of the impacts as he ran across the yard.
The shed.
Just get to the damn shed.
His boots pounded over the earth. His breath came ragged and hot in the freezing air. The pulse of the Bounded Field breaking apart behind him felt like someone hammering directly against the inside of his skull.
He grabbed the shed door and yanked it open so hard it slammed into the wall.
Inside, the old space greeted him with cold air, rust, tools, junk, and the half-uncovered magical circle he had exposed earlier that evening while wallowing in his own melodramatic thoughts.
He almost laughed.
'You've got to be kidding me.'
He had only uncovered it because the dream had put him in a mood and because he had felt like cleaning, or maybe because the old floor pattern had been calling at him.
Maybe it was Fate.
Or maybe just a deeply cursed blend of good and rotten luck.
Either way, it looked like tonight's melancholy was about to save his ass.
"Tch... D-Damnit!"
He staggered toward the circle, vision swimming.
He needed blood, fast. And his eyes quickly landed on the nearest thing with a point, a rusty dagger he had been meaning to restore.
It would have to be good enough.
He snatched it up, shoved it against his own palm, and slashed. Pain flashed hot and immediate as blood welled, then spilled over his hand and pattered across the lines of the circle.
The moment it touched, the old markings flared. Dull grooves lit up with mingled Mana and his own Od, pale at first, then brighter, the whole shed filling with rising magical pressure.
Behind him, the Bounded Field gave out with a sound like glass exploding underwater.
Shirou gritted his teeth and started the chant, voice shaking with effort.
"Steel to bone, fire to blood.
Sheath of the king, sleep within me no longer."
His blood kept dripping, splashing over the circle.
"Let the scar be the foundation, let the circle be sealed.
Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill."
The air in the shed thickened as he heard footsteps approaching quickly.
They were somehow quiet and horrifyingly loud at the same time, a predator's approach carrying enough weight that Shirou could feel it in his teeth.
He kept chanting. If he stopped, he died anyway.
He had to summon a Saber
That was the plan. The only plan he had left. He had to summon the same class of Servant Kiritsugu had summoned in the last war. The King of Knights, Artoria Pendragon.
It should work. Avalon was still inside him. Kiritsugu had said it was possible, said the connection should still matter, and said if Shirou was ever forced into this Wͪaͤᶫrᶫ then Saber would be his best chance to live through it.
So fine. He would cling to that chance with both bleeding hands.
"What was broken, answer. What was buried, take form.
Let your body serve under me; and my fate be your sword."
The circle brightened just as the shed door exploded inward. Lancer entered like a flash of blue and red steel.
He saw the ritual immediately, and his expression sharpened for the first time all night into something actually serious.
"Oh, you little...!"
The spear lashed forward, straight for Shirou's heart.
Shirou did not stop.
"If you hear the call of the Holy Grail and wish for its power...!"
The crimson point came closer.
It was too close. There was no time left. He had no room or backup plan.
But Shirou Emiya refused to die here.
Not before he completed his Dream. Before he had even truly started. And especially not before proving that all the pain, all the training, all the stubborn stupid hope Kiritsugu had left inside him meant something.
He would become a Herͪoⷱ ⷬoͦfͨ ͬJͥuͭsͤtice.
Even if he had to drag that future here with his bare hands.
"COME FORTH, SABER!"
The world detonated.
Mana flooded the shed like a bomb going off in reverse. Light burst up from the circle in a violent pillar. The air howled. Tools rattled. Scrap metal jumped. Shirou threw an arm over his face a second too late as a force like a shockwave tore through the room.
Lancer's spear, already moments from piercing Shirou's chest, was knocked violently aside.
A figure had appeared between them in full steel armor, wielding a blade marked in crimson, crackling red lightning along its edge as it intercepted the thrust.
Shirou got blasted backward by the force of the clash and slammed into the floor hard enough to see stars. He rolled, coughed, and dragged himself up onto one elbow, then onto his backside, staring through wide eyes at the exchange happening in front of him.
"...Can it be!? The seventh Servant..!?"
Lancer recovered fast and snapped his deflected spear back into line, driving forward again.
The newly summoned Servant answered with a greatsword swing so heavy and brutally direct it made the whole shed shudder.
Sparks flew twice as the weapons collided and a deep, vicious clang rang out through the cramped space.
Lancer hesitated. It was only for an instant, but it was there.
The armored Servant's blow had enough weight behind it to force even him back a step.
"Kuh!"
He must have realized immediately that fighting in the shed, against a freshly summoned Saber-class Servant with that kind of power and that kind of close-range advantage, was an idiot's game. He launched himself backward with bestial speed, retreating out the ruined doorway in a blue blur.
The summoned Servant did not pursue immediately.
Instead, they kept their guard up toward the opening and turned slightly, just enough to look back at Shirou.
And Shirou forgot, very briefly, that his lungs hurt, that his palm was bleeding, that Lancer was still outside and trying to kill him.
The armor was incredible.
It was not elegant in the refined, knightly way he had expected from the stories of the King of Knights. This was far heavier. Full plate built for violence more than pageantry, it had layered silver-steel with black underlayers at the joints and sharp red accents worked into the design like fresh wounds in metal. The helmet even had two blackened horns jutting out the sides.
The pauldrons were broad and aggressive, shaped almost like fangs. The gauntlets looked capable of crushing stone. The greatsword in their hand was just as brutal, thick and broad and built for overpowering blows rather than graceful dueling.
The whole silhouette screamed force.
A moment later, a gust of wind hissed through the lower joints of the helmet, before it then the helmet moved.
Metal segments shifted with a sharp mechanical grace, disassembling and retracting piece by piece until the face beneath was revealed.
Shirou's thoughts blanked. Because the face under all that savage armor was shockingly beautiful.
It was a girl. No, a young woman.
Blonde hair framed a face too striking to fit neatly into anything as simple as pretty. Her features were sharp, proud, alive with restless intensity. Her eyes shone like jewels in the low light, vivid and bright and ferociously awake. And on that face was a wild, excited grin.
The wind was strong tonight.
The clouds drifted.
For one brief moment, the moon came free and silver light spilled through the broken wall and ruined doorway, washing over steel and gold and making the whole scene look unreal.
Shirou just stared.
Not because he was confused, though God knew he was. Not because he had narrowly avoided being skewered through the chest again, though that also seemed noteworthy. Not even because he was exhausted enough that his arms felt made of wet sand.
None of that seemed to matter.
He was at a loss for words because the girl in front of him was overwhelmingly beautiful.
She stared back at him, excitement practically radiating off her.
"I ask of you—are you my Master?"
Her was voice bright and bold and full of impossible life
The two of them stared at each other for a beat.
For Shirou, though, how could he put this.
The figure in front of him felt so special that the terror of the last several minutes blurred around the edges. He forgot the spear that had almost taken his heart. He forgot the Servant outside. He forgot the bruises, the blood, the cold, and the aches.
It felt like time had stopped, but only inside the shed.
Only around them.
The fear of death fell away, and all that remained in Shirou Emiya's vision was the armored girl.
She grimaced.
"Ughh... No, that sounds just like something Father would say..."
She shook her head hard, like she was physically throwing off the line she had just delivered, then turned fully toward him.
With a sharp, proud motion, she planted the tip of her greatsword into the ground, locked her shoulders back, and puffed out her chest with the absolute confidence of someone who expected the world to rearrange itself around her.
"Servant, Saber!" She declared. "My name is Mordred Pendragon—son of King Arthur Pendragon, King of Knights! I came in response to your summons, Master! What are your orders?!"
Shirou stared.
'Okay…' He thought numbly. 'That answered a lot and somehow almost nothing.'
Artoria had been the expectation.
Avalon, the sheath of the king, rested inside him. Kiritsugu had believed that connection would answer with the same king again.
Instead…
Instead he got this.
A Saber-class Servant, yes. A Pendragon, yes.
He had gotten a girl in brutal armor with a greatsword, red lightning, a feral grin, and enough sheer presence to make the whole shed feel smaller around her.
Any questions beyond that would have to wait.
Because Lancer was still outside.
And judging by the murderous pressure gathering beyond the doorway, he was currently looking at Shirou's heart and thinking unkind thoughts about it.
Shirou exhaled through his nose and began pushing himself up.
His legs hated it. His ribs hated it. His whole body hated it. But he got to his feet anyway, swaying only slightly, and met Mordred's eyes head on. His cut palm still dripped. He dug his fingers into the wound harder to keep the sting sharp and himself focused.
"My name is Shirou Emiya." He said, voice rough but steady enough. "Saber, can you beat that Lancer?"
Mordred's grin changed, and turned positively feral as he giggled delightedly.
"Oh, you and I are gonna get along just fine, Master~!"
The answer came out of him naturally, almost before he had processed it himself.
"Just call me Shirou."