Chapter Text
Each breath was a calculated risk, a minor exertion that could ignite the curse woven into his being. It would flare, not as a blunt force, but as a refined, exquisite pain that seemed to set every nerve ending alight with silent, precise agony. This was the Grail’s final lesson, a curse bestowed for his betrayal. Yet, faced with the monstrous alternative he had rejected, Kiritsugu carried the pain not as a regret, but as a burdensome proof. He had chosen this. The daily toll was simply the receipt.
He settled back into the rocking chair, a piece that had come with the old Japanese house he’d acquired from the Fujimura family almost three years prior. Dealing with Raiga had been a rare piece of good fortune. The man was pragmatic. He’d paid fair value for a sizable chunk of the arsenal Kiritsugu had imported for the Fourth Holy Grail War—a collection of firearms, ammunition, and less savory tools of the trade. Even after the spectacle at the Hyatt, an excessive attempt to eliminate Kayneth Archibald and his Lancer, there had been plenty left over. He was glad to be rid of most of it through commerce, not combustion. He’d had his fill of explosions. Using a final stock to sabotage the Ley Lines and cripple the Grail system felt like a fitting, permanent retirement from that particular line of work.
The rest of the gear was just potential trouble—hazardous clutter and a magnet for complications he could no longer afford, not with a son to consider. He’d been selective, of course. The Fujimura group received nothing unique, nothing that bore the fingerprints of his particular and advanced modifications. Such things were a liability. Only three items remained from that life, now secreted in the deepest, most forgotten corners of the manor.
Another sigh escaped him, a controlled exhalation. He turned his head slightly to the left, where a wall mirror caught his reflection in perfect, unforgiving detail. The man staring back was a ghost of a different self. His face was drawn, underscored by the dark, permanent bruises of sleeplessness. His skin held the pallor of something kept from the sun. The profound exhaustion etched into his features belonged to a man decades older, not one merely in his thirties.
The contrast with the person he’d been three years ago was absolute. In his place was a hollowed-out shell who seemed to wear his own mortality like a shroud. The once-severe gaze had softened into something weary and regretfully kind.
The travel alone would explain the deeper strain, he supposed. The trip from Japan to Germany and back, by any route, was a marathon. For a man in his condition, it was a brutalizing ordeal.
It had been his second pilgrimage to the Einzbern forest. The second failure. Their fortress was a fairy-tale citadel of ice and ancient magecraft, guarded by a wilderness engineered to kill. The forest itself was a labyrinth of bounded fields—traps of freezing mist, predatory spirits, and thaumaturgical snares. One however, was different: a centuries-old, benevolent ward that granted safe passage to invited guests.
The first time, he hadn't even found the keyhole, and was left to shiver in the general malevolence of the place. This time, he’d understood the mechanics, which only made the impossibility clearer. At the height of his power, as the Magus Killer, forcing entry would have been a suicide mission requiring sacrifices he was unwilling to make. Now, in this weakened state, it was a pure fantasy. A mathematical zero.
That, he realized, was the true shape of his punishment. Not the pain, but the absolute knowledge. His daughter was behind an unbreakable pane of ice, in a tower he could never storm, likely believing herself abandoned by both her parents. The thought was a cold fist around his heart. His eyes stung, and finally, the tears he’d been holding back began their quiet, solitary track down his cheeks.
The name was a whisper, a raw scrape of sound in the quiet room. "Illya."
He wiped his face with a handkerchief, the linen coming away damp. The last living piece of his wife was alone. Sealed away in that gilded cage, surrounded by creatures of clockwork logic and ancient spite that would sculpt her, test her, warp her for purposes that were both grand and utterly futile. All to chase a phantom. And he had left her there. Failed her, just as he had failed Iri.
And yet, wasn't that the unbroken rhythm of his life? The aftermath. The screams that lingered in the silence. His hands, forever stained, dragging a chain of burning ghosts behind him. They were his only legacy, a chorus of the damned that testified the grim justice of his current suffering.
His bleak reverie shattered as his gaze caught on a simple frame atop a low cabinet. The photograph showed a different man. A Kiritsugu from a year ago, dressed in a casual yukata, with a small, red-haired boy—no older than eight—asleep on his back. The sight pulled a faint, almost reluctant smile to his lips, a tiny breach in the clouds of his thoughts.
No. That wasn’t completely true.
‘Shirou.’
The boy was the sole miracle plucked from the inferno that consumed Shinto at the war’s end. A single spark left in the ash. Kiritsugu had reached him in time, had wrapped him in the fading warmth of a legend—the sheath of the King of Knights, still clinging to a shred of its ancient power. It was the one act of pure preservation in a life defined by destruction.
Months later, once the boy was released from the hospital with the other hollow-eyed orphans of the "gas leak," Kiritsugu had took him in. The years since had spun a bond that was simple and true, a father and his son. It was a quiet, sunlit room in the house of his life.
He ached for Illya to be in that room with them. A real family, untouched by the cold calculus of magecraft. A sanctuary.
‘If only…’
The fatigue, mental and physical, pressed down on him like a weight. He let his eyes close, just for a moment. Rest was not a luxury; it was a necessary recalibration. Tomorrow required movement again. A shorter journey this time, to Misaki. He had an appointment with a specialist in… Anomalous physiology. He couldn’t afford to run out of the concoctions that dampened the fire in his veins to a bearable smolder. While the pilgrimage for his daughter had failed. The maintenance of his crumbling self, however, had to continue.
“AGH!”
Those plans evaporated into the air, shredded by a sudden, sharp cry that echoed from the dojo.
"Shirou?"
Old instincts, buried but not dead, kicked in. Pain was relegated to a distant signal as Kiritsugu pushed himself from the rocking chair with a surge of adrenaline-fueled agility. He moved, stiff-legged and fast, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs and burst into the dojo’s spacious interior, braced for disaster—only to let out a held breath.
His adopted son was sitting cross-legged on the polished floor, perfectly intact. A pair of amber eyes looked up at him, slightly sheepish. Shirou frowned, shaking out his left hand before placing it carefully on a shinai practice sword lying before him.
“Are you all right? What happened?” Kiritsugu asked, suppressing a wince as he lowered himself into a crouch. His joints protested the movement sharply. The cry had been unmistakably one of pain, yet he could see no injury.
The boy looked embarrassed, but incapable of lying to him. “…I was trying to practice my magecraft on this.” He mumbled, nodding toward the bamboo blade.
Kiritsugu sighed with weary understanding and shook his head. One of the first things he’d revealed to Shirou after the adoption was the existence of the hidden world and for nearly two years, the boy had pestered him to learn. He had refused, firmly and consistently, hoping the interest would fade. Instead, he’d learned one hard truth about his son in the process: Shirou had the stubbornness of a granite cliff. ‘No’ was not an answer; it was a temporary obstacle.
The days of asking had turned into weeks, then months, then over a year. Finally, worn down by the relentless, quiet hope in the boy’s eyes, Kiritsugu had relented. Just a little. He’d shown him a basic, mind-numbingly dull exercise: reinforcing a simple wooden post. He’d trusted the sheer monotony and practical uselessness of the task would bore Shirou into surrender.
Clearly, it had not. Though perhaps this moment could still serve as a lesson.
“I warned you.” Kiritsugu gently said, trying to avoid sounding as if he was scolding him. Shirou was just a child who’d made a mistake. “It isn’t easy. You can hurt yourself even when you’re careful. What did you do?”
With any luck, this would be the last time they discussed it. He’d already managed to interest Shirou in kendo, largely thanks to the relentless enthusiasm of Taiga, Raiga’s granddaughter, who had decided Shirou was her new official sparring partner, much to the boy’s despair every time she dragged him to the dojo. And yet, it was a far healthier hobby than dabbling in magecraft.
“I just made my magic circuit… It burned more than usual.”
‘He made… What?’
The words froze Kiritsugu where he crouched as he stared at Shirou, certain he had misheard.
‘Made a circuit?’ That… Wasn’t a thing. To use magecraft, you just needed to activate the circuits you were born to cast a spell. That was all. Their composition and number were fixed from birth. They could not be created.
But the fact Shirou said it hurt sent a cascade of cold dread down Kiritsugu’s spine.
“Shirou.” He asked, his voice now tight with a concern that made the boy blink in confusion. “When you use magecraft… What do you normally do?”
Shirou shifted under his father’s intense gaze. “Well… First I imagine a new circuit. I picture flooding it with magic. Then I feel… Like something’s being shoved into my back. It hurts a little. But sometimes, if I think really hard, it hurts more.”
Kiritsugu wanted to drive his own fist into the wall. ‘How could I be so blind?’ In his single-minded mission to discourage him, he had committed the ultimate oversight: he’d never actually taught the boy how to use his own Magic Circuits. And Shirou, with the terrifying, intuitive creativity of a child, had invented a method. A horrifically dangerous one.
He was using his actual nerves as makeshift conduits, rewiring his own body through force of will and ignorance.
Kiritsugu’s mind raced. He couldn’t use much magecraft in his current state and he lacked the delicate skill for a spiritual analysis to determine the extent of the neural damage. Even if he could, the curse rotting his own circuits might react unpredictably, potentially harming Shirou just through proximity.
He needed an expert. Immediately.
“Listen to me, Shirou.” He said, injecting every ounce of gravity he possessed into his voice. The boy now looked thoroughly mortified. “When you use magecraft, you don’t create circuits. You use the ones you already have. What you’re doing… You’re using your nerves. Turning them into improvised pathways. That is incredibly, permanently dangerous.”
He saw the fear settle in Shirou’s eyes, the understanding dawning that his play-acting with power had real, physical consequences. Kiritsugu’s thoughts clicked into a new, urgent configuration. Tomorrow. Misaki. The Jinan Clinic.
‘Two birds with one stone, then.’
Seeing his son’s bowed head, the weight of shame on his small shoulders, Kiritsugu reached out. He placed a hand on Shirou’s hair, ruffling it gently.
“How about we go for a trip?”
xXx
Travel had once been a constant in his life. The existence of a freelancer was nomadic by principle; staying in one place was a luxury, often a prelude to pursuit or a sign of a mission gone cold. Motion was safety.
Now, he was certain his legs were on the verge of mutiny. The journey—three train stations, a labyrinth of transfers—had been almost as grueling as an international flight. Six hours after leaving Fuyuki, they finally arrived. Misaki was less a city and more a sprawling municipal district, nestled and somewhat isolated by surrounding mountains.
The difference was palpable, in more ways than one. The air itself felt charged, dense. The place was said to be amongst the spiritual epicenters of Japan, a nexus of environmental energy that outpaced even Fuyuki. Yet, it wasn’t the seat of the Mage's Association’s influence in the country—that dubious honor belonged to Tokyo. Misaki however was under the quiet purview of the Aozaki clan, one of Japan’s oldest Western-style lineages, though "old" here was a relative term. From what Kiritsugu knew, they rarely intervened in their territory’s affairs, preferring seclusion and the two most famous members were never around.
Which was a relief. Wherever one of them appeared, complications inevitably followed.
He had been to Misaki several times; it was a city where he maintained a few discreet contacts. He’d thought about showing Shirou around after their business was concluded. But business came first.
It led them to a clinic in one of the district’s more remote quarters. They were met by a middle-aged man with strong features, dressed in simple, comfortable clothes. Without a word, he ushered them inside, sliding the door’s lock shut with a definitive click before turning to Kiritsugu.
“An hour late. And you brought a guest. Some things truly never change, Emiya.” The man grumbled, crossing his arms. Kiritsugu stifled a sigh. Sougen Jinan. A spiritual healer and for the last two years, his sole source for the compounds that managed his condition. He’d also procured from him a few thaumaturgically-treated vials to help Shirou with night terrors in their early months together.
“It’s an emergency.”
Sougen merely rolled his eyes before his gaze shifted to Shirou. The rough edge in his voice softened, just a fraction. “Alright, son. What’s your name?”
“Shirou. Shirou Emiya.” The boy had been initially intimidated by the man’s presence, but the deliberate shift in tone put him slightly more at ease.
“Good. Shirou-kun. Down the hall, to your left, there’s a playroom. Think you could wait there for a bit?” He turned his head, and the look he shot Kiritsugu was pure, unadulterated severity. “Your… Father and I need to have a word.” The statement brooked no argument.
Shirou glanced at Kiritsugu for permission. He nodded. ‘I already knew this was coming.’ And the moment the redhead disappeared down the hallway, Sougen recrossed his arms, his expression settling into that of a judge preparing a verdict.
“Explain.”
And explain, he did.He spoke of finding Shirou in the burning rubble of the Grail War’s end and saving his life with a last, desperate act, of the adoption and the two years that followed. He confessed his stubborn refusals to teach magecraft, his eventual, half-hearted attempt to bore the boy into quitting, and the catastrophic oversight that led to today’s crisis.
Throughout it all, Sougen remained a silent statue of judgment, save for the occasional arched eyebrow or tight nod. Kiritsugu could have sworn he saw the man tense at certain details, especially the reason for Shirou’s presence. And by the time he finished, he braced for the torrent of colorful invective Sougen was known for.
Instead, the healer simply sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Nothing can ever be simple with you involved, Emiya.” His voice was flat with exasperation. “At least this time you had the sense to come immediately. Unlike the last few occasions.” The lack of shouting was unnerving. Sougen was a grudge-holder, but he operated under a rigid, professional code.
“Thank you for seeing him,” Kiritsugu rasped, his throat dry from talking. “How much will it be?”
“Forget it. Your usual fee.” Sougen was already moving toward the hallway.
Kiritsugu stopped cold. “I’m sorry?” The man usually charged him double.
“Don’t confuse things.” Sougen halted, turning halfway. “It’s a one-time exception.” The anger was there, simmering just beneath the surface. “An innocent child shouldn’t have to pay for his father’s stupidity.” The last word was a verbal slap.
“... Thank you.”
“Oh, spare me.” The words were scalpel-sharp. Kiritsugu felt them cut to the core, but now wasn’t the time for self-recrimination. He hurried after Sougen, finding him in a playroom where Shirou had been watching a paused movie.
The healer took a few visible, calming breaths, his professional demeanor sliding back into place. He addressed Shirou with practiced gentleness. “Shirou-kun. Do you know why you’re here?”
“Because…Tthere a problem with my circuits?” Shirou asked, his voice small.
“Not exactly.” Sougen offered a strained, kind smile. “Your father made a small mistake while teaching you. We don’t know how your real circuits stand because you’ve never used them properly. You’re here so I can take a look and see if that mistake caused any harm.” Seeing alarm flash in the boy’s eyes, he raised a placating hand. “Easy, now. It’s probably nothing. Tell me, does anything hurt right now?”
Shirou shook his head.
“Do you feel anything strange? Tingling, numbness?”
Another shake. That left only one option. Sougen straightened up. “Alright, Shirou-kun. I’m going to perform a small spell on you to check more thoroughly. Is that okay?”
At the boy’s perplexed look, he elaborated. “It’ll be quick, but it requires you to be asleep. It will help you doze off, but I need you to be both agreeable and relaxed. Can you do that for me?”
Shirou hesitated, his eyes darting to Kiritsugu, who gave a firm, reassuring nod. The boy finally relented, settling back into his seat and forcing his shoulders to loosen.
“Just for a few minutes.” Sougen assured him, his voice dropping into a soothing rhythm. He placed his palm gently on Shirou’s forehead. “Now, just listen to my voice…”
The incantation was a soft murmur, more a lullaby than a spell. Sougen sent a gentle pulse of magical energy into Shirou. The boy’s eyelids fluttered once, then closed, his body going slack into a deep, instant slumber. A single-line mantra chanted on his mind, effective only on a willing, non-resisting subject. Its utility was almost exclusively medical.
“I never took you for being good with children,” Kiritsugu remarked. He was more accustomed to the gruff, perpetually irritated doctor than this gentle practitioner.
“I’m a father, too.” Sougen let out a short breath. “And I occasionally have to treat the Tohno brats. We both know Makihisa would have my head if I made one of his precious children cry.” The grimace that followed told Kiritsugu to leave that particular topic alone.
He was about to say something else when he noticed Sougen had gone still, peering intently at the sleeping Shirou. The healer’s face was a mask of pure perplexity. Before Kiritsugu could ask, Sougen spoke, his voice tight.
“Emiya.” He cleared his throat, the confusion plain on his features. “How many Magic Circuits did you say the boy had?”
Kiritsugu frowned. During his explanation, he’d mentioned performing a basic detection spell on Shirou shortly after the adoption. It was a crude thing, useful only for confirming the existence and quantity of circuits, not their quality or condition. Hence this visit.
“Twenty-seven. But I couldn’t determine the quality. Why?”
Sougen narrowed his eyes, gesturing at Shirou. “Because what I’m looking at isn’t twenty-seven. It’s thirty. Thirty dormant circuits.”
“…” Kiritsugu stared, dumbfounded. ‘What?’ His own sorceric skills were a ruin, but even he couldn’t misread basic quantity detection by three whole circuits. “Of course they’re dormant. We’ve established he’s never used them.”
“Not dormant as in ‘closed off,’” Sougen corrected, shaking his head slowly. “Dormant as in… Asleep. All thirty are already open. They’ve just been inactive, unused, for a very long time.”
“...How?” The exclamation was ripped from Kiritsugu’s throat. “How is that even possible?” Instead of answers, the mystery was deepening. Sougen was right—nothing was simple where he was involved.
“This requires a more specialized look.” The healer declared as he carefully took Shirou into his arms and carried him from the playroom into a proper examination room down the hall. It was stark and clean, centered around a medical cot where he laid the sleeping boy.
“What are you doing?” Kiritsugu asked, following him in. He watched as Sougen moved with brisk efficiency, gathering an array of small vials and ofuda talismans from various cabinets.
“A deeper resonance scan.” Sougen arranged the items on a side table, then took up a position opposite Kiritsugu on the other side of the cot. He closed his eyes, his focus turning inward.
A magical circle, intricate and glowing with a soft blue light, ignited on the floor beneath the cot. A ghostly duplicate of it lifted into the air above, aligning perfectly with its twin, framing Shirou’s small form between two planes of light.
In the space above his unconscious body, a shimmering mist coalesced, flickering like a screen tuning into a signal. The mist solidified, resolving into an image: a series of faint, luminous lines against a field of darkness. They weren’t perfectly straight; stacked horizontally, each taking a slightly different shape.
Kiritsugu had seen this before—the same basic display from his own crude spell. He remembered counting twenty-seven of those tenuous threads. But now… There were three more, identical in their faint, dormant state.
“Those weren’t there when I checked.” Kiritsugu said, pointing.
Sougen didn’t answer directly. He simply recited the incantation again, layering the spell.
A wave of cobalt light swept through the displayed lines like a scanner. Twenty-seven of them flushed with a coppery-red hue. The three additional lines, however, glowed with a distinct, pale violet.
Both men reacted, but for different reasons.
“Haven’t checked the standard grading charts in a while,” Sougen muttered, squinting. “But if memory serves, that coppery color indicates a solid B-rank quality. Not extraordinary, but very respectable.”
Kiritsugu wasn’t listening. His entire attention was locked on the three violet lines.
“…Impossible.” His knowledge of advanced magecraft theory was limited, but he was an expert in one thing: the destruction of Magic Circuits. Understanding their nature had been key to his work. What he was seeing now defied that understanding.
“They’re circuits, yes.” Sougen continued, misreading his focus. “But they’re nothing like the other twenty-seven. Inferior quality. D-rank, maybe low C at best.”
But he remained caught in the sheer anomaly. Shirou’s original circuits were there, intact and of good quality. Yet it was as if a cluster of his nerves had… Crystallized into something else. Into real, functional Magic Circuits.
That couldn’t happen. Nerves didn’t just become circuits through use, especially not clumsy, self-taught use. It was a biological impossibility.
His eyes narrowed. ‘There’s something else here.’ The violet circuits still followed the same pathways as nerves, but they felt…Od. They didn’t resonate with the coppery twenty-seven. They felt like something grafted on, something different.
“Can you analyze those three specifically?” Kiritsugu’s voice was low, urgent. “Go deeper. I.. Think I know something.”
“I was about to do that anyway.” Sougen grumbled before taking a large breath and layered the spell a third time, focusing his intent.
The ethereal screen flickered. The blue scanner light zeroed in on the three violet circuits, tracing them from origin to terminus. As it did, the violet lines seemed to expand, detaching visually from the cluster of coppery ones. They flowed outward, connecting not to nothing, but to a complex, intricate amalgam of other lines—some the same pale violet, others streaked with faded gold and rusty red.
The image above Shirou’s sleeping form was no longer just a map of circuits. It was a ghostly, incomplete, but unmistakable pattern. A latticework of inherited mystery.
Kiritsugu’s eyes widened. Sougen’s jaw went slack.
The sheer, staggering surprise that froze them was understandable. It was not every day one discovered a Magic Crest woven into a boy. A heavy, stunned silence filled the examination room. Neither man moved to break it, each grappling with the sheer impossibility displayed in the shimmering air above Shirou.
For Kiritsugu, it was an existential tremor. His son was not just a boy with latent potential. He was the heir to a magus lineage. A family with a history, with a Crest—a condensed legacy of research and power—already engraved into his body.
“That… Explains the three extra circuits,” Sougen finally said, his voice thin with shock. He was speaking more to himself, working it out. “Every time he tried to use magecraft, he was instinctively tapping into the circuits of this Crest. But without the knowledge to access them properly, he was forcing the energy through his own nerves. It was like… Grafting the Crest’s pathways directly onto his nervous system. He effectively separated those three circuits from the Crest and integrated them as his own.” He coughed, a dry, disbelieving sound. “Twenty circuits in the Crest itself. I’ve heard rumors of similar phenomena, but to see it… His Elemental Affinity must be something remarkably adaptive to allow such a merger without catastrophic damage. The pain was just… Friction.”
“His… what?” Kiritsugu asked, his mind still reeling.
“Right.Figures you never bothered to check.” Sougen sighed, the professional in him reasserting control over his astonishment. He gestured at the ethereal display. “Let’s see what we’re really dealing with.”
Normally, identifying a magus’s elemental affinity involved certain rituals beyond esoteric guesswork. The spiritual analysis spell Sougen used was far more direct. It would read the alignment of Shirou’s original twenty-seven circuits. The result would manifest as one of the symbols for the Five Great Elements: Fire, Earth, Water, Wind, or the rare Void. Sometimes two appeared, very rarely three. But to possess all five, was a whole different matter; the mark of an Average One.
The method was simple. The answer would be clear and as they watched the display, the complex network of lines glowed, awaiting a signature.
But nothing happened, no symbol materialized.
“What in the world…?” Sougen muttered. He repeated the incantation, layering the command. The spell hummed, scanning again. The result was the same: a profound, empty neutrality.
“What does that mean?” Kiritsugu’s knowledge of elemental theory was practical, not academic. An abnormal affinity meant more complications, more danger. And he had no idea how close he was to the heart of it.
“It means his alignment doesn’t belong to any of the five traditional elements,” Sougen admitted, rubbing his chin. “And it doesn’t feel like one of the two imaginary ones either—Nothingness or Imaginary Numbers. It’s… Well, I’ve never seen a reading like this.”
“Is there any way to identify it?” This was far beyond Kiritsugu’s expertise. He knew his own dual affinities—Fire and Earth—and the crude, practical applications Natalia had derived from them.
Sougen started to shake his head, then paused. A memory surfaced, his expression turning grim. “A few months ago, in Mifune… I treated a young woman for a magus that was friends with her late father… A somber man, but reasonable. Offered to pay for a whole meal and as we spoke, he threw around a topic you are well aware of… Origins.”
Said term made Kiritsugu’s eyes narrow. Yes, he knew that well, far too well. And thirty-seven of his past targets had learned that lesson in their final moments.
“As you know, it is said that an Origin describes the primal ‘direction’ of a soul in contrast to how an element broadens the horizon. However… For some magi, if their Origin is expressed strongly outward… It can override what we believe normal entirely, cases in which…” Sougen hesitated, weighing the implication. “…Where the Origin itself becomes the alignment.”
The pieces clicked into a terrifying picture for Kiritsugu. He’d heard rumors of such things—of individuals who could bypass normal magical limitations simply by acting in accordance with the inherent word of their soul, overcoming a lack of circuits or even talent.
‘Could Shirou be one of them?’
“You think Shirou’s element is his Origin?” The question felt heavy, laden with consequences.
“I think we are beyond guessing.” Sougen pointed a steady finger at the display.
Kiritsugu followed his gaze. There, superimposed over the network of Shirou’s twenty-seven original circuits, a single, stark kanji had resolved itself.
剣
Ken.
Sword.
It wasn’t just a symbol floating in space; its form was echoed in the very shape and flow of the circuits themselves, as if his magical pathways were etched in the image of a blade.
“…Alligned Attribute." The title was a whisper, heavy with implication. The Association’s term for those rare, strange existences whose entire being was aligned under a single, overarching concept. Documented cases were few, and all spoke of unique, often terrifying potential.
His son was one of them.
At this point, Kiritsugu felt a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest, choked by a wave of profound despair. He didn’t know whether to weep or scream.
“And I just found the catalyst.”
His dark eyes refocused on the screen. Behind the lattice of circuits and the Crest, deeper still, a new form had shimmered into view. It was a triangular shape of brilliant blue and gold, etched with an otherworldly, floating script. An elegant, ethereal cartridge, its image settled perfectly over Shirou’s spiritual core, as if it were the sheath for the very ‘sword’ of his being.
Avalon.
“…This is no ordinary artifact,” Sougen breathed, all pretense of gruffness gone. “What in the name of all that’s holy is this, and where did you get it?”
“It’s a Noble Phantasm. A gift from the Einzbern clan.” The answer was mechanical, drained of all energy for secrecy. “It was used to summon the Saber-class Servant in the War… Its power is what saved Shirou’s life.”
“A NOBLE PHANTASM?!” Sougen’s composure shattered. He took an involuntary step back. “And you just put it inside him!?”
Kiritsugu swallowed, the truth now a stone in his throat. But after everything revealed, clinging to this last secret was pointless. “The sheath of King Arthur which wards off wounds.”
“... Wonderful.” Sougen said, the word dripping with sarcastic awe. “I’m no scholar of Western myths, but even I know something wrought by fairies is on par with the divine regalia of our own legends.” He manipulated the spell again, pulling the view back to show the full, horrifyingly complex schematic: Shirou’s circuits, the grafted Crest, the ‘Sword’ alignment, and the glowing, foundational blueprint of Avalon at the very core.
“Twenty-seven circuits. A Magic Crest. An alignment incarnated as a single, irregular concept. And a fairy-forged artifact of legend serving as his spiritual foundation.” Sougen let out a long, low whistle, the sound pure, professional astonishment. “Someone would pay his weight in orichalcum for a specimen like this. Congratulations, Emiya. You didn’t just find an orphan. You practically won the problem-child lottery of the century.”
He glanced over, expecting a reaction—perhaps grim resignation, maybe even a flicker of paternal pride in the monstrous potential. Instead, he found Kiritsugu utterly still. The man’s face was a mask, but his eyes… His eyes held a darkness deeper than any curse, a seriousness that had moved beyond shock into something cold, deliberate, and profoundly grim.
"I will need you to sign a geis contract."
The words cut through the heavy atmosphere like a blade. Sougen’s professional composure fractured completely. He stared at Kiritsugu, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. "What are you plotting, Emiya?" He asked, his voice dangerously low. A cold, uneasy feeling was settling in his gut. This was not the reaction he’d anticipated.
Kiritsugu’s gaze was arctic, the severity of it only accentuated by his gaunt features. "This cannot be known. By anyone. Especially not Shirou."
The healer’s face hardened. "I see. So it never happened. You’ll continue your little charade of keeping him in the dark. And here I thought you’d left your old habits behind." The sarcasm in Sougen’s voice was thick and undisguised. "Have you any idea how monumentally idiotic that plan is?"
"That is not your concern," Kiritsugu shot back, a flicker of venom in his tone. "I'll pay you triple your usual rate. My only concern is Shirou's well-being. Ensuring he has a chance at a normal, happy life."
"A normal life?" Sougen barked a harsh, incredulous laugh, gesturing violently at the shimmering diagnostic display. "Open your eyes, Emiya!" He stabbed a finger toward the complex web of circuits, Crest, and artifact. "Do you honestly think that is still an option? Look at what he is."
"And what do you suggest?" Kiritsugu’s voice rose, a crack in his icy control. "That I throw him straight to the World of Magecraft?!
"He is already deep into it.” Sougen's retort was a whip-crack. His patience, already frayed, had snapped. His expression was one of furious disbelief. "All you'll achieve is leaving him helpless, you imbecile."
That struck a nerve. Kiritsugu’s anger, held in check by exhaustion and shock, finally erupted. "What did you just—?!"
"You heard me perfectly, Emiya.” Sougen growled, cutting him off. "A Noble Phantasm! A damnable relic from the Age of Gods is embedded in his soul! What guarantees do you have that something won't be drawn towards its resonance? The world is full of creatures sensitive to that kind of mystical bait!"
Kiritsugu gritted his teeth. "He'll be—"
"He has a Magic Crest!" Sougen barreled on, heedless of the interruption. "You, more than anyone, should know what that means. He is the heir to some magus, or worse, an entire family. That is a nest of vipers no one wants to stumble into. They could be looking for him right now, and you know how obsessively magi hunt down lost inheritances!"
"You can't know that for sure," Kiritsugu spat back, finally forcing the words out.
"Perhaps I don’t.” Sougen conceded, his voice dropping to a deadly chill. "But this I do know: you live in Fuyuki, Emiya. Use your brain. That is the domain of the Tohsaka. The Church maintains a watchpost there. Since when do rabbits make their burrow in a den of foxes?"
"Then we'll leave," Kiritsugu retorted, the plan forming even as he spoke, desperate and defiant. "We'll go somewhere else. Somewhere with no spiritual land, no magus families within a thousand miles."
"Ah, so you'll run." The fire returned to Sougen's voice. "The best thing you've ever mastered. What an exemplary father you are. I wonder if Shirou will learn to run from his past as skillfully as you do."
"I am not runni—!"
"Alimango." The single word halted Kiritsugu's protest. "Hudson." A second name, and he flinched as if struck. "And now Fuyuki."
The healer stood, refusing to look away. "Over and over. You escape, leaving a burning memory behind to haunt you. You will keep running, neglecting everything in your wake, only now you're dragging another soul with you. You'll take him to the ends of the earth, and I find myself wondering… What will you do when you can run no more?"
The question burrowed under Kiritsugu's skin, transforming his rage into a cold, morbid dread. His instincts screamed a warning.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Let me rephrase the question." Sougen's voice dropped to a sepulchral whisper. "What will you do, Emiya… When you leave him alone?"
Kiritsugu’s heart lurched violently in his chest. A horrible understanding began to dawn. As if reading his mind, the healer’s fierce expression finally softened, replaced by a profound and weary sadness. He sighed, the sound heavy with inevitability.
"I was going to tell you during this session. This… Distracted me." Sougen shook his head, choosing his next words with the care of a surgeon selecting a scalpel, knowing they would cleave the man before him in two. "I amsorry."
The world seemed to tilt. "How bad?" Kiritsugu’s voice was shattered window.
"This curse… it's like nothing I've ever encountered. I called in every favor, consulted every obscure text I could find with the blood samples you gave me. It wasn't enough." For the first time, Sougen looked every one of his years. "This country has a long history with curses. This one operates on a completely different level. Given its origin, I tried reaching out to the House of Wisdom in Iraq, but there was no response so I had to work with what I had. It is… It has rooted itself in the majority of your circuits. The vial I give you can dampen the pain, suppress it for a time. But that is all."
He pulled a nearby chair closer, a silent invitation for Kiritsugu to sit before he fell.
"It is spiritually corrosive. It gnaws away at what it can, and nothing I've tried can halt its progress. Eventually, it will cause catastrophic multi-organ failure. There is no way to reverse it."
"H-How… Long?" Kiritsugu's hands, resting on his knees, had begun to tremble uncontrollably.
"Three years. At the absolute outside." Sougen clenched his own fists until the knuckles were white.
But he was no longer listening. A vast, silent barrier had slammed down between him and the room, between him and the sleeping boy on the cot, between him and the future. He tried to speak, but his throat was sealed by an invisible fist. His eyes stared, unseeing, frozen. His heart didn't break; it simply seemed to shrink with every beat, becoming a small, suffocating stone in his chest.
Ä̴̙̯͇̭̞̱́́͗̂͐̔̉͋͋̽̃͑͝n̴̛̻̪̙͇͔̳͎͇̟̘̭͚̞̥̱̓̂̌̕͜g̷͙̲͉͉̗̭̣͍̳͚͍̲͙̟͑̓́͑͜r̷̳̝͐̓̿̆a̵̡̛̐̈̈̏̔̈́̽̈́̚ ̵̟̳̞̙̙͖̜̀̂̄̌̃͗͠M̵̙̬̹̠͈̗̠͕̀̉̎̇̔͠ā̸̧̰̹̞͉̥͔͕̬̝͕̞̥̻͙̉͛͂̾̑͂͠ḭ̵̢̝̳̰͕͖̘̺͍̻̰̄͂͋̇̋̓͐́͛͋͜͝n̸͓̯̮̤̠̰͛̕͠y̶̨̧̧̨̰̭̲̳̳͍͉̦͎̳͖̪̍̽͛̃͐̔̾͊ͅų̸̹͚̘̰͙̝̥̫̫̟̻̗͔́͋̂̈́̓́͆̌͊̈̚͘͘͠͠ủ̶̡̯͔͚̹̝̼͓͕͇̀̏̊̓̊͋͒̆̒̈̓̚ ̵̡̛̪̹̜̫̫̻͛̈́̓̓́͌̆̌͗̓́͠ͅc̴̺͕̠̎̓̄̊͌̓̓̂͗͆̓̕ű̸̠͓͇̎̚͠ȑ̸̳̫̯̠͙̺̝̝̈́̋̾̀̓͘̚͘s̵̱̯͖̺̲̳̥͎͈͓̯̀͊̊̅̌̊̊͝͠e̶̢̲̠̰̟͈͊͒͛̇͆̈́̈́̄͐̔̐́̄̕s̵͕͉̏̓͗́̿̿͋̅͗̀̈́͋͋̽̑̚̕ ̴̢̧̫̫̙͎͚̮̼̱̖͎̹̌̈́̄̋̈̋̀̇̋̅̌͜y̶̨̜̤͚͖̞͕̠͉̩̠̘̣͖͓̋͗̔́ͅǫ̵̢̡̫̙͈̭͉̟̙͕̳̲͇͐̓̾̋̈́̈̽͆̀͐̄̆͐̐͐͝͝ͅṷ̴̺̯̃͆̓͋͂̀͂̔̌̀̓̾̕͝
The infernal voice, silent for two years, coiled back into the edges of his consciousness. It seeped from the corners of the room, a presence he could not move to escape. He was trapped, utterly vulnerable to its pernicious influence.
À̴͙̣̝̩̗̘̠̫̰̦̭̀̀̈́́͂́̚̚n̶̝͍͚̥̰̤͍̼̈̋͌̓͗̈́̎͜g̴̡̳͉̹̬͉̬͇̬̽̇̇̾̔͘͝ͅr̷̨͍̳̻̱̣̭̖͊͆ä̵̫̼͍́̀̊́̿̓͌̏̊̚ ̶͈̣̈́̆͊̉̂͘͘M̵̧̧͉̳̣̠͉̻̳̞̮͉̠͖̩̭̒́͛̈́̕a̶̧̢̧̖͙̖̯̘̼̗̭̘̯̼͚͊́̂̏̅͛̅́͊̔͆̆͊̂̏͊i̷̧̹̠͓̭̤̗̦̔̀̊̅̍̄̋͑̽͂͆̂̕͠͝n̸̨̨̡͕̤͇̥͕͔̩͖͍̤̆̈́̓͌̀̈̊͑͑y̵̨̛̝̻̗̙̖̬̱̼̘͍͙̳͕̔̀̊͒͑̍̊̔̈́͐͐͋̓͜͜͠ų̷̧͔̹͓͔̣̼̲̮͉̺̄͑̈ụ̸̧̨̧͇͚̩͚̻̞̮̯̲̗͍̾͆͗͗̀̋̉̈́̒̔̊͘͝ͅ ̸̭̝̯̼̎̇͌͐͐̑̍̅̍̍͋͠h̶͕̒͌̌̋̀̓͑͝ȧ̴̧̨̧̛͕͙͉̻̰̰͈̘͍͇͉̺͇̓̍͒̈́͑̓̐̿͑̄̿̕͘͠t̶̡͍͍̮͓̻̳̝̲̙̠̙͆̂̊̀̿͝͝ę̵̨̤̘̭̘̱͓͈́͒̒͝ͅş̸̧̰̳̖̩̘͇͈͕͔͈͖͙̒̄̃͐̃͌̀͑͊̓̄̓̽͑ ̵̧̨͖͔̹̲̘̂̍̇́͌̈̀͆̒͒͌̃̂̕ÿ̷̧̬̎̾̀̀͌̿͐̏̈́̑̑͋̌͘ȍ̴̧͙̯̠̟̼̙̱͓̗͙̮̓̇̐̓̂͒͝ṳ̷̣̍̆
His breathing hitched, becoming shallow, frantic gasps. It felt like inhaling thick smoke laced with hot ash. His throat burnen, but that pain was a welcome distraction from the voice.
A͔̠̙̼̗̞ng͎̘̫̐̊̐͜r̨͖̟̞̈́͊̚a͏͖̮ ̵̽̃Ma̺̥̟̳̱͕̦͛͊̇͒̽͆̋͟ȋn̜̘̪̜̤̺̬y̸̻ṳ̤͖̏͂ͦ̀u͉̘͚͙͇̘̳ ̫̰̃̎teͥͤ͆̾ ̺̯̖a̗̰ͣ͑b̖͔͕̐ͮͫ͢o̺̖̮r̼r̼̙ͪ̀ec̮̳̥̈ͥͧḛ̷̠̲͉̝ͤ̾̈̃̋
"Emiya?"
The single word from Sougen pierced the nightmare like a needle, but it was instantly drowned out. A thousand white-hot pins seemed to drive into Kiritsugu's spine simultaneously as the grotesque, muffled voice returned, boring holes straight through his awareness.
Ą̷̛̞͚͖͔̲̤͇̝̺͖̠͊̓̈́́̌̂́̄̊͊̇̚͜͝͠͝n̸͔̺̻͕̫͍̹͎̄̋͌̏͗̂ͅg̵̙̀̎r̵̳͔̦̠̯̠̞͉̾̇̔̍͊͑̊̓͛̇̐͘͘͝͝a̷͎̯̺͓̬̋̿ͅ ̸̢̫̟̙͎̟̲̱̰̣̘̣̂̄̕͜͜ͅM̴̘̖̩̱̗̘̻͍̘̪̃̎̑͌͐̔͌͊͝͝a̶̛͎͉̞̭̗̙̹̖͗̈́̅̌͐̌̾̂i̶̺͖̮͕̮͍̣̮͖͊̈́̆̒̏̾͌̈́͑̂͛͗̊̕͜ṋ̵̨̢͔̞̪͆̏̿̄͊̾͛̐͂̀͊ÿ̵̡̮̬̹̟͇͎́̅̉̎̔͆̆̈́̿̃̏̒͘̕ų̷̛̠̺̖̜̜͖̟̤̲̤̰̪̂̎̀̎̆̑̈́̉͐͌̚͜͜͝͠ū̶̦̗̜̟̀͐̇͗̈́̏͘͠͠ ̸̦̝̗̭͇̂̚j̷̞̥̀̂͌̀ų̸̮̠̦̖̦̼̦̗̼̲̱̒͑̿̉̾̈́́͗̀̎̕͜͝͠͝͝d̶̢̢̯̝͉̲̣̠̱̰͚̮̖̎̊̉̎́́͂͘͝ġ̸̢̧̖̲̯̳̜͇̏̿̀́̔̈́̏̄͂͠͠ȩ̴̧͓̰̜̪̖̝̺̰̙͒͊͐̈́̔̃͛̔͜͜͜ͅŝ̴̛̲̔͐̎̅̏͗̌͊͑̕͘̚ ̵̼̳̫̹͎͙̌̆y̵̢̱͕͖͙͎̣̺̫̫̼͙̘̻̲͊ȍ̶̟̜̩͔͙̭̝̥̦̱̓͘͠͠u̴̡͚̣͇͗̋̈́̃̊͜͜
"Are you listening to me?"
He tried to scream, to force any sound past his lips. Nothing emerged. An invisible, monstrous claw seemed to clamp around his throat, silencing him completely.
Ā̴̢̍̾̄͋̉͌̓͗͋̐̍̇̂͠ǹ̶̛̻̬̖͌̋ĝ̶̡͉̞̳̗̼͕̮͕͇̠̫͎̼̯́̏̐̋̄̑͂͘̕͝r̸͓̮͖̮̣̪̲̻͇̀̓̂͒̉̕ͅa̸̡̧̛͉͈̺͎̪͖̘͈̦͎̖̞̣̿̍͌̊̀̈́̆̊͒́́͜͜͝ ̶̨̨̡̡̩͈͈̟̭̲̳̳̰̯̥͂͂͘͝M̷͓̃̿͠a̷̤̫̭͈͔͉̘̣͐̈́̓̉̆̅͝͝ï̵̡͎̞̘͎͇̬̬̀͂͛̌̌͗̂̉ͅn̵̻̙͐̌͌͂̑͒̓̀͋̐̀̽̔͛̕ͅy̶̨̛̞̪̪̦̖̗͎̝̖̝͎̫̑͆̎͌͘̕u̸͍͇̞͇͙̺̣̝̲̯̙̣̜͈͋͛̈͊͒̋̀u̶̢̡̺̼͎̯͚̦̦̠͈̩̦̹͚̻̽͂̈̇̓̿̓͛́͊̓̊͑͜͝ ̵̧̨̦̯͕̪̳͓̃̀̋̈̈́̇̑̀͠͝s̷̡̨̭̣̭̲͚̟͖̻̼̘̫̞͌͛̑ę̷̨̧̢̳͈͙̞̰̣̗̰̥͕̘̆̐̆̅̔̄͒̇̒̚͜n̷̗̹̞͚̹̉͜ͅť̶̨̟͕̤̮̗̱́͊̓̉̓̓͆͝e̶̫̥͗ņ̸̢̨̩͉̭̹̤͙͇̭̲̲̳͎̏͂̒̑͛̐͊̕͘͜͠͝c̵̙͔̙̞̖̥͖͚͙̯̰͙͉͇͙̩̓͑̓͂̿̈̓͝ͅë̴̠̪̲͉̞̱̙͔͕̥̣̭͍͎̯̮́́̋̀͆͂͂̃̈̓͒͛̄͋̒͠͠s̸̡͍̪̹̞̺̦̀̀̓̂̊́̂̎̊̌̓̀̎̏̔͝͝ ̴͚̳̈́͝y̵̧̛͒̅̿̈́̐̉̒̑͠ơ̶̈́̋͑̃̈́̿̓̓̓̊̈́͐͂͜͝͠ư̶̢̢̨̭̟͉͔͙̠̲͖̗͖̮̖̖̼̏̑̒̈́̾̎͐́͑̅̀̐̚̚
"Emiya?"
He thrashed against the unseen bonds, a primal struggle for freedom. In response, something seized his limbs—not with mere force, but with chains that felt scaly and rotten. Tiny, hook-like barbs, like fangs or spurs, dug into his flesh, anchoring him in place.
D̵̡̛̞͍͎͛͌į̵̩̩͕̥̜̩͉̈́͌̃́̓̅̄̈̆̐̑̄̕͘e̶͚̊̒̐͊̏̈́̒̚͘̕͝ ̸̻̥͕̭̫͒̈́̉͛̓̎̎̈̿̓̿̍͊̕͠ͅi̵͇͇̖̤̥̰͈̳̺̾̒͗̀̀̈́̾̉͒ͅn̵͇̟̣̪̠͈̖͙̰͍̲̭̼̭͕̥̒̎͗̊́ ̵̧̡̧̧̗̠͓̣̘̖̭̮̗̀̽̚p̶̡̡̧̪̝̞̞̤͈̟̬̮̦̪̋̈̂̅̓̃̓͒̑͐̊̒̕͝͝ä̵̧̢̧̨̦͚͚̼̘̜̳̝͖̰̤̘͙̐̄̈́͒̔́͠͝͝į̵̺̥͎͕͍̰̟͈̞͓̯̪̰̎̒̎͑̓͂̓̏͂̔͌͛̽́ͅn̸͓̙̤͕̫͇͚͙̲̻̪̝̞̘̼̐̏̾͑͌̑͌̈́͂̓̓
He fought harder, a cornered animal. And he felt it—the presence that held him was drawing closer. He couldn't see it. He could no longer clearly hear the words, just the oppressive, resonant wrongness of it. But he could feel it. A horrid aura that vibrated in his heart, making every cell in his body shriek in unison. Every fragment of his consciousness fused into one vast, silent, petrified plea for help that would never come. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the approach, only to snap them open and stare into the deepest, blackest penumbra that had manifested before him.
The abyss stared back.
D̵̢̡̯̖̤̫̖̖̹͈͕͇̘̤̰̞̣̄̉̄͝Î̶̙̒͊̑̕E̵̫͓̞̦̣̬̘̤͍̬͎̿̏̈́̈͗͐͘͝͠͝
"Kiritsugu!"
Sougen’s alarmed shout finally broke through. The healer saw the man hyperventilating, his body rigid. He shook him roughly by the shoulders. Kiritsugu’s eyes were clouded, glazed over, and a thin trickle of blood was seeping from his nose.
"Damn it all!" Sougen cursed, releasing him and sprinting to a tall cabinet. He flung the doors open, hands scrambling through vials and boxes. "Where is it, where is it?!" In the mirrored interior of the cabinet door, he could see Kiritsugu beginning to convulse.
Finally, his fingers closed around a small crystal vial. He snatched it, dashed back, and forced the contents between Kiritsugu’s clenched teeth, muttering a quick, focused prayer under his breath.
Kiritsugu gagged, then coughed violently. The cloudiness cleared from his eyes, replaced by dazed awareness. He sagged in the chair, his body going limp as a long, shuddering sigh escaped him.
"Th-that was…" He tried to croak.
"A particularly aggressive flare…" Sougen finished, his own hand trembling slightly as he placed it on Kiritsugu’s shoulder. "I suspect it’s reacting to your emotional state, but that was… More intense than I’ve seen before." He held up the now-empty vial. "Distilled water infused with essence of Ephedra. I managed to source a few cuttings from northern China." He passed a hand over his face, weariness etched into every line. "I’m no expert in Iranian mythology, but I managed to learn that their sacred plant, the haoma, is associated with that herb. It was the closest thing to a sympathetic remedy I could devise."
"I see..” Kiritsugu rasped, his voice raw. He took the proffered vial and drained the last few drops.
An uncomfortable silence, stretching for several minutes, settled between them. It was a silence filled with the echoes of too many shocks, of futures shattered and horrors confirmed. Both men knew recovery from this day would be a long, difficult road, if it was possible at all.
"I don't understand…” Kiritsugu said suddenly, shattering the quiet and pulling Sougen from his own grim reverie. The healer arched an eyebrow in question.
"I know you, Sougen. Natalia knew you, too." Kiritsugu invoked the name of his mentor, the woman who had been mother, teacher, and handler in one. "You have a doctor's sense of duty. But you're not… Charitable. I didn't see it at first, with everything happening, but it's clear now. Antagonizing me is one thing—we've never been friendly. But with Shirou… You're going too far for a patient you just met, even if he is a child.”
Sougen sighed, a sound of immense weight, and sank into another chair. The fight seemed to have gone out of him, replaced by a deep, old sorrow. "I had a brother.” He began, his voice stripped of its usual gruffness, filled instead with a tired anguish that years had not faded.
"I didn't know that," Kiritsugu said, genuinely surprised.
"Few people do." Sougen's laugh was hollow, devoid of mirth. He fixed his gaze on some distant point in the past. "My family has been immersed in this world since before the Meiji era. We were simple healers at first. A wandering monk we gave shelter to once taught us magecraft, allowing us to practice as spiritual doctors. For a few generations, we served in that capacity, sometimes working for the Four Blessings.
Kiritsugu nodded slowly. He knew of that organization, or what remained of it.
"But my father… He had a natural revulsion for this world.” Sougen continued, his voice growing heavy. "The moment he could, he severed all ties with the family and left to make his own life." His expression darkened, the shadows in the room seeming to deepen around him. "But you can never truly leave it behind.. Not completely. My family didn't hunt demons or their half-blood kin unlike the Four. We were only healers. That made us soft targets. One night, a hybrid… Somehow it tracked my father down. It attacked our home…"
Kiritsugu didn't need the details spelled out. A different, yet horribly similar memory surfaced in his own mind: a peaceful island by day, transformed into a literal hell by night, consumed by flames conjured by the Association’s enforcers and the Church’s executors sent to purge the plague his father had created.
"I'm sorry.” Kiritsugu said, the words feeling hollow but necessary.
Sougen shook his head, the motion dismissing the sympathy. "My extended family took me in without question. I ended up just like them. And I don’t regret it. I've made sure to keep a low profile, to hold favors from the Tohno… It ensures a better future for my daughter." He looked directly at Kiritsugu, his gaze piercing. "I can understand your reasons, Emiya. But I cannot accept them. If it were up to me, no child would ever have to go through what we did. But…"
"The world doesn't work that way.” Kiritsugu finished for him, his voice a dry rasp. Then, a bitter, choked laugh escaped him. It was a sound utterly devoid of humor. "My wife died for nothing. My ward will never wake. My daughter is alone, completely beyond my reach. All I have left is Shirou. And I don't have much time left to be his father… If I can even protect him from… All of this."
They had called him the Magus Killer, as in a singular note, for his brutal, efficient work in hunting and slaughtering dozens of their kind. He had been the night terror of hundreds of practitioners across the World of Magecraft. He had even managed to survive the Fourth Grail War and yet… He sat there now, stripped bare and utterly powerless, more than he had ever allowed himself to be.
"There is still something you can do.” Sougen said finally, breaking the long silence that had followed Kiritsugu's confession. His voice was quiet, but firm. "Teach him how to live."
The response was a twisted, sardonic smile from Kiritsugu. "Live?" he repeated, as if the word were in a foreign language. "After everything I've done? So I should turn him into cannon fodder against the things that lurk in the dark? I should force him to offer up his life, too? To have the only thing he has left stolen from him?!"
A sharp, startled gasp—one that belonged to neither of them—cut through the room.
Both men flinched and turned as one toward the sound. There, in the doorway of the examination room, stood Shirou. He was wide awake, having slipped off the cot. His amber eyes were enormous, staring at them, at Kiritsugu, with a look that was a raw tumult of emotions: fear, confusion, deep-seated anguish, and, cutting through it all, a profound, devastating sense of betrayal.
Kiritsugu didn't know who felt more gut-punched in that moment— his son, or himself. He tried to push himself up from the chair, his hand reaching out. "S-Shirou…" He stammered, the name cracking in his throat.
But the boy didn't listen. He didn't run to him. Instead, Shirou’s body went rigid with alarm. He took two faltering steps backward, his expression solidifying into one of pure, panicked hurt.
Then he turned and fled.
His small feet pounded against the wooden floor of the hallway, a frantic, receding drumbeat. Kiritsugu and Sougen were left frozen, helpless, as the sound of their shattered conversation chased the retreating shape of a boy who had just learned his world was built on lies, and his time within it was running out.