His voice echoing slightly in the hollow silence of the street. "Min-jun, I need you to understand the implications of what you just did. Thaumaturgy usually follows the path of least resistance or brute-forces a new path through massive energy expenditure. You didn't do either. You didn't break the wall; you convinced the space around the wall that it wasn't there. That's... that borders on the Second Magic. Or perhaps a localized manipulation of Imaginary Numbers space?"
Min-jun adjusted the strap of his pack, wincing as the movement pulled at the scabbing lacerations on his back. He felt lightheaded, his extremities tingling with the numbness of adrenaline withdrawal. "Doctor," he rasped, "I'm an engineer, not a Magus. I don't know the theory. I just know the mechanics. If you spin something fast enough, with the right ratio... it has to go somewhere. The logic of the rotation supersedes the logic of the space."
"The logic of rotation..." Romani muttered, sounding like he was scribbling furious notes. "It's... it's practically a divine mystery manifested as a physical law."
"Whatever it is," Cú Chulainn interrupted, leaning on his staff and eyeing the darkening horizon, "it's effective. But the kid is running on fumes. Look at him. He's pale as a sheet and shaking like a leaf."
Ritsuka looked at Min-jun, concern furrowing his brow. "Maybe we should rest again? Just for a few minutes?"
Min-jun shook his head. The movement made the world tilt dangerously. "No. The longer we stop, the more time the enemy has to reinforce. We breached Medusa's defense. That leaves a gap in their perimeter. We have to push through before..."
*Before he realizes we're coming,* he finished silently.
"Before who realizes?" Mash asked, picking up on the hesitation.
Min-jun swallowed hard. His throat felt like it was coated in sandpaper. "The Guardian. The one who watches the approach. If this Singularity follows the logic of the Holy Grail War... the Archer class is next."
The name hung in his mind, heavy and leaden. *Emiya.*
They began to move again, leaving the site of the battle behind. The route to the bridge that led to the Miyama district—and eventually the temple—wound through the charred remains of a residential district. The silence here was different. It wasn't empty; it was waiting.
As they walked, Min-jun's mind began to spiral, much like the energy he commanded. He knew the lore. He knew who was waiting for them. Shadow Archer. Corrupted, perhaps, but retaining all the tactical genius and cynical pragmatism of the Counter Guardian.
*He's the worst possible match-up for us,* Min-jun analyzed, his eyes scanning the rooftops with paranoid intensity. *Medusa was dangerous because of her speed, but she was aggressive. She came to us. Archer won't. He'll sit four kilometers away on a skyscraper and put a Caladbolg II through Ritsuka's skull before we even hear the sound of the bowstring.*
And what did they have? A Shielder who didn't know her True Name. A Caster restricted by a temporary contract and a weak Master. And a maintenance technician with a magic fingernail who was currently bleeding into his uniform.
*Rho Aias,* Min-jun thought, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. *The Seven Rings of the Law. The ultimate shield against projectiles. Tusk Act 1 is a physical projectile. Act 2 is a spatial curve, but it still travels. If Archer deploys Rho Aias, can Tusk penetrate it? Can the infinite rotation break the concept of an unbreakable shield?*
He lagged a few steps behind. The sound of his own breathing was loud in his ears—a ragged, wet wheeze. The grey world of Fuyuki seemed to stretch and warp. The shadows of the ruined buildings grew long, twisting into shapes that looked like weeping faces or grasping hands.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The ash in the air seemed to hang suspended, frozen in time.
And then, the sound faded.
The wind stopped. The distant hum of the burning city vanished. Ritsuka, Mash, and Cú Chulainn continued walking ahead, but they made no sound. Their boots struck the asphalt silently. They seemed to be moving in slow motion, drifting away from him like ships in a fog.
A sudden, intense warmth pressed against Min-jun's back.
It wasn't the heat of fire or the oppressive humidity of the Singularity. It was a dry, arid warmth. The heat of a desert sun baked into ancient stones. The smell of ozone and blood vanished, replaced instantly by the scent of dry earth, olives, and something sweet and resinous—myrrh.
Min-jun stopped. He couldn't move his legs. He felt paralyzed, not by fear, but by a colossal, silent weight that had settled over the world.
He sensed someone standing directly behind him.
The presence was overwhelming. It felt ancient, vast, and sorrowful, yet radiated a terrifying kind of comfort. It was the feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing the wind would catch you.
*Don't turn around,* a voice in his head whispered. It wasn't his voice. *You cannot look upon the Saint.*
But the image pushed itself into his mind regardless—not through his eyes, but projected directly into his consciousness, like a memory he hadn't lived.
He "saw" a figure standing just over his right shoulder. A man draped in heavy, travel-stained robes of rough burlap, the hood pulled low. Strands of long, dark hair spilled from beneath the cowl, stirring in a wind that Min-jun couldn't feel. The figure held a wooden staff, worn smooth by a journey that had crossed continents.
It was the specific details that stopped Min-jun's heart. The crown of woven thorns resting lightly on the hood. The sense of a journey that had started in the east and ended in the west.
*Is that...?*
"The path is not straight, Kim Min-jun," a voice spoke.
It didn't enter through his ears. It vibrated in the marrow of his bones. It was a voice of absolute, calm authority. A voice that could command storms to cease and dead men to rise.
"You look at the destination—the bridge, the temple, the peace you crave—and you despair because the line is blocked."
Min-jun tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't open. *The Archer... the Shield... I can't break through.*
"The shortest path was a detour," the voice continued, gentle and enigmatic. "It was the detour that was our shortest path."
A hand settled on Min-jun's right shoulder.
The touch burned. It seared through his uniform, through his skin, branding the bone beneath. But it wasn't pain. It was power. It was the rotational energy of the universe being grounded into a single human frame.
Min-jun couldn't see the hand with his eyes, but his mind's eye screamed the detail at him: The palm resting on his shoulder was scarred. A distinct, circular puncture mark, old and white, right through the center of the hand. Stigmata.
"Do not fear the steel," the voice resonated, the presence leaning closer, the scent of olives overpowering the ash. "Do not fear the distance. The Spin does not conquer space; it unites it. Believe in the Rotation. Believe in the Lesson."
The figure behind him shifted. Min-jun felt the phantom sensation of the figure pointing forward, past Ritsuka, past the ruins, towards the impossible distance.
"Walk," the voice commanded. "Walk, and leave a trail. For that is what it means to pray."
The weight of the hand on his shoulder increased, pushing him down, compressing him, and then—
**SNAP.**
The warmth vanished. The smell of myrrh was replaced instantly by the acrid stench of burning rubber. The silence shattered as the ambient noise of Fuyuki rushed back in like a breaking dam.
Min-jun stumbled forward, gasping for air as if he'd been held underwater. He nearly collapsed, his knees buckling, but he caught himself on a jagged piece of rebar sticking out of the concrete.
"Whoa, easy!" Ritsuka's voice. The boy had turned around, looking alarmed. "Mr. Min-jun? You spaced out there. You almost walked into a crater."
Min-jun stood trembling, his chest heaving. He clutched his right shoulder. It was throbbing—not with pain, but with a lingering, ghostly heat. The spot where the hand had been felt... marked.
He slowly turned his head, looking behind him.
The street was empty. Just grey ash swirling in the wind. But for a split second, the dust seemed to form the silhouette of a hooded man walking away, fading into the gloom.
"Did you...?" Min-jun croaked, his voice shaking.
"Did we what?" Cú Chulainn asked, eyeing him critically. "You stopped moving. Your mana spiked again. Weird frequency. Felt... holy? But ancient. Like something dug up from the dirt."
Min-jun stared at his right hand. The Tusk energy was dormant, but the "feel" of it had changed. It felt heavier. More solemn.
*The shortest path was a detour.*
The phrase echoed in his mind. It was a quote. A specific quote from *Steel Ball Run*. Gyro Zeppeli had said it. But... the figure. The scars. The crown.
That wasn't Gyro.
Min-jun looked up at the darkened sky of the Singularity. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature crawled up his spine.
*Tusk comes from the Holy Corpse,* he thought, the realization settling in his gut like a stone. *In that universe... the Corpse is implied to be Him. The Saint.*
*Did I just get a pep talk from... Jesus?*
He let out a shaky, hysterical breath. He was a Korean man, raised secularly, thrust into a magical apocalypse, wielding a power from a manga, and he had just been visited by the Messiah of the Spin.
"I think..." Min-jun straightened up, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. The fear of Archer was still there, but the paralyzing dread was gone. Replaced by a strange, bewildered awe. "I think I'm losing my mind. Or finding it."
"Well, keep it found," Cú Chulainn grunted, turning back to the road. "We've got a bridge to cross."
Min-jun nodded. He fell back into step, but his gait was different now. He didn't drag his feet. He walked with the careful, deliberate rhythm of a man following a path he couldn't see, but knew was there.
*Believe in the Rotation.*
"Right," Min-jun whispered to the empty air. "Let's take the detour."
"Right," Min-jun whispered to the empty air, the sensation of the phantom hand still burning on his shoulder. "Let's take the detour."
They moved out, leaving the shelter of the residential ruins. The Fuyuki Bridge loomed ahead, a massive skeletal arch stretching across the black, sludge-choked river. It was the only direct path to the Miyama district and the temple beyond. It was a chokepoint. A kill zone.
The wind on the bridge was stronger, howling through the suspension cables like a discordant choir. The air tasted of salt and iron.
"Shield up, Mash," Cú Chulainn ordered, his voice devoid of its usual playfulness. He kept his body low, moving in a crouch behind the debris of scattered cars. "If my nose is right, we're already in his sights. He's just waiting for us to step into the sweet spot."
Ritsuka stayed glued to Mash's back. Min-jun trailed slightly behind, his eyes scanning the rooftops of the distant district across the water. It was too far. Even with enhanced vision, the buildings were just jagged silhouettes against the burning sky.
*Range: 4 kilometers minimum,* Min-jun calculated, his stomach tightening. *Elevation advantage: Enemy. Cover: Minimal.*
They made it to the first support pylon. Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
Then, the air shrieked.
There was no sound of a bow firing. Just the sound of arrival. A streak of red light tore the atmosphere apart, slamming into Mash's shield with the force of a falling meteor.
**CLANG!**
The impact was deafening. Mash cried out, her boots skidding backward, carving deep furrows into the asphalt. The shockwave blew the windows out of the nearby cars and sent Ritsuka tumbling.
"Contact!" Cú Chulainn roared, slamming his staff down. A wall of runic fire erupted in front of them, boiling the air to disrupt the line of sight. "He's firing Broken Phantasms! That wasn't an arrow, that was a sword rigged to explode!"
"I... I can hold it!" Mash gasped, gritting her teeth, her arms trembling under the residual force.
Another shriek. Another impact. This one hit the runic wall, shattering Cú's barrier like glass before ricocheting off the bridge deck, blowing a ten-foot hole in the steel plating.
"He's not aiming to kill yet," Cú snarled, grabbing Ritsuka and hauling him behind the pylon. "He's pinning us. Making us dance."
Min-jun huddled behind the wheel of a wrecked truck. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. The nightmare scenario. They were rats in a barrel, and the cat was four kilometers away with a high-caliber rifle.
He looked at his right hand. The golden energy of Tusk Act 2 flickered, a nervous flame.
*I have to shoot back,* Min-jun thought desperately. *I have to disrupt him. If I can just arc a shot... find a path...*
He leaned out, just an inch. He visualized the trajectory. A Golden Spiral that would curve around the bridge, dip low over the water, and corkscrew up into the high-rise district. He needed to thread the needle. He needed to hit a target he couldn't see, through wind he couldn't predict, against a Servant who could see him perfectly.
He raised his finger. The *Chumimi~* sound whined, high and strained.
*Can I do it?* The doubt was ice in his veins. *If I miss, I waste the energy. If I waste the energy, Cú loses his contract support. If Cú weakens, Mash gets overwhelmed. We die.*
He saw the image in his mind: The golden nail flying true, only to shatter against the iridescent petals of *Rho Aias*. The ultimate shield against projectiles. Archer would have it. He would use it.
*My nail is a physical object. It has travel time. He'll see it coming. He'll block it. It's useless.*
Min-jun's hand shook. The golden light wavered, the spiral losing its perfect ratio. The hesitation was a poison. He was trying to force a square peg into a round hole because he was terrified of the alternative.
*Shoot? Don't shoot? If I just aim higher...*
The world seemed to slow again. The roar of the wind faded into a dull drone.
And then, the scent of olives returned.
It was faint this time, barely a whisper against the smell of the burning river, but the Presence was undeniable. It stood right beside him, invisible, yet heavier than the bridge itself.
*"If your heart is wavering, Kim Min-jun..."*
The voice was sad, stern, and infinite.
*"...then do not shoot."*
Min-jun froze. The golden light on his finger dimmed.
*"A path born of hesitation will never reach,"* the voice continued, echoing in the hollow space of his soul. *"The Spin is not a gamble. It is a certainty. You are looking for a path to the enemy, but you have forgotten the Lesson."*
*The Lesson?* Min-jun thought, panic rising. *What Lesson? I need to kill him!*
*"To go forward,"* the voice whispered, fading now, *"you must first return to zero. You must enter the hole."*
Min-jun blinked, the reality of the battlefield rushing back. *Enter the hole.*
He looked at his hand. He looked at the infinite spiral he was trying to project outward.
In Jojo Arc 7—Johnny Joestar had faced a similar wall. He couldn't reach the enemy. He couldn't break the barrier. So he didn't shoot the enemy.
He shot himself.
The realization hit Min-jun with the force of a physical blow. The blood drained from his face, leaving him cold and strangely calm.
Act 3. *Through the Hole.*
The Golden Spin wasn't just about projectiles. It was about space. If he shot himself with a Golden Spin imbued with the intent to transport, he wouldn't die. His body would be sucked into the infinite rotation of the hole, compressed into a singularity, and he could move *through* space. He could travel along the ground, up walls, through debris. He could become invisible, invulnerable, a ghost moving through the wormhole.
It was the Detour. The longest way around—destroying his own body to move it—was the shortest way to the enemy.
But it required absolute conviction. He had to shoot himself in the head with a drill that could shatter diamond. He had to trust that the Spin would transport him, not kill him.
*Do I trust it?*
He looked at Ritsuka, huddled and terrified. He looked at Mash, her arms shaking as she braced for another impact. He looked at Cú, snarling in frustration.
He was the foundation. The foundation bears the weight.
Min-jun took a breath. It was shaky, but deep. The wavering in his heart stopped. The math aligned. The Golden Rectangle appeared in his mind, overlaying his own skull.
"Mr. Min-jun?" Ritsuka called out, seeing Min-jun step away from the truck, into the open, but not facing the enemy. "What are you doing?! Get back in cover!"
Min-jun didn't answer. He raised his right hand.
The energy shifted. The golden light darkened, turning a deep, rich pink, streaked with stars. The sound changed from a whine to a heavy, rhythmic thrum. *CHU-MI-MI-IIIIII.*
He didn't aim at the bridge. He didn't aim at the distant buildings.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his hand inward. He pressed the tip of his glowing index finger against his own right temple.
Ritsuka's eyes went wide, horror dawning. "Min-jun?! NO!"
Mash turned, her face pale. "Senpai, stop him! His spiritual pattern is inverting!"
Cú Chulainn whipped around. "Kid! Don't you dare—"
"I'm taking the shortcut," Min-jun whispered.
He pulled the trigger of his will.
**DOJYAAAA~~N!**
'If only I had D4C instead but...maybe that person knew Tusk was one of my favorite stands'
The sound wasn't a gunshot. It was the wet, tearing sound of reality being unzipped.
The golden drill fired point-blank into Min-jun's skull.
Ritsuka screamed.
There was no blood. There was no brain matter. Instead, where the bullet struck, Min-jun's head... folded.
It spiraled inward, like a piece of paper being twisted into a funnel. The flesh, the bone, the glasses—everything twisted with terrifying speed into a small, dark hole that hovered in the air where his head had been.
The rest of his body followed. His neck, his shoulders, his torso—they didn't fall limp. They were sucked upward and inward, spiraling violently like water down a drain. His limbs distorted, stretching and thinning as they were pulled into the infinite rotation of the wormhole he had carved into his own existence.
In less than a second, Kim Min-jun was gone.
His clothes dropped to the asphalt, empty.
But on the ground, amidst the heap of the Chaldea uniform, a single, small black hole remained. It hovered inches above the concrete, swirling with dark energy and golden stars.
Then, the hole moved.
It zipped across the surface of the bridge, faster than a running man, ignoring friction, ignoring gravity. It slid under the debris, traced a line along the steel railing, and vanished into the shadows, moving relentlessly toward the enemy.
Ritsuka stared at the pile of empty clothes, his mouth open in a silent scream, his mind unable to process the horrific, impossible thing he had just witnessed.
"He..." Ritsuka whispered, his voice cracking. "He just... he shot himself..."
Cú Chulainn stared at the trail the hole had left, a slow, feral grin spreading across his face despite the shock.
"Crazy bastard," the Hound muttered, tightening his grip on his staff. "He actually did it. He became a bullet!!!."