Chapter 1: The Quiet Beginning
I apologize for the grammar, English is not my native language.
He woke suddenly, lying on a strange surface, his mind still fogged with confusion.
"What...? Where am I?" he thought, eyes half‑closed. His bewilderment deepened by the second, especially when he realized his body wouldn't obey him. His arms and legs lay immobilized, no matter how hard he tried to move them.
It was a peculiar situation, for many, terrifying. But not for him. He didn't have time to give in to panic; or rather, he wouldn't allow himself that luxury. The scene before him was a complete mystery. As far as he could tell, he might be bound, trapped by spells, or perhaps gravely injured.
Making an effort to calm his mind, the Counter‑Guardian Emiya began to assess the situation, bit by bit. His senses were dulled; even touch offered only vague clues about the surroundings. His body felt heavy, as if movement required pure willpower, though not completely paralyzed. He felt nothing aside from the brush of fabric on his skin and the unusual softness of the surface beneath him. There was no pain, no itch, no tingling; nothing to suggest any fluid had left his body. Still, he refused to jump to conclusions perhaps, he was simply numb.
Faced with the stasis, he tried something else: remembering what he'd done before being thrust into this strange condition.
It had been just another extermination mission, another of those groups of mages dabbling in forbidden magic, or some similar nonsense. Frustration washed over him. It wasn't the act of killing that wore him out; that burden had followed him so long it had become part of him, something he'd learned to accept. It was the repetition... the endless repetition.
"How many are we at now? A thousand? Ten thousand? How many more of these groups must I wipe out, forever, without variation?"
He found himself missing the apostles who fell to his blade, those beings whose confrontation at least offered some satisfaction: a fight, an exchange, a sense that something deeper was at stake. Mages, on the other hand, were a constant of impersonality and indifference. Arrive, kill, leave.
Sometimes, in a rare fit of curiosity, he introduced himself beforehand, hoping to find something, a spark of resistance, perhaps. But nothing. Only the same eternal disdain, the almost mandatory arrogance mages insisted on displaying in every circumstance. Ugh. The bitter taste of that sameness was something he would never understand.
There was nothing to be done. He was there again, keeping one of his victims at death's door. Not out of morbid pleasure, but because, somewhere in his tired soul, he wanted to delay returning to his own solitude. Inside his inner world there was nothing left to expect, only the swords that now lay on the ground, relics of his victims, like scattered headstones in an endless cemetery. And as always, a new mission appeared, like a new file in an unending stack of tasks, each as empty and repetitive as the last.
"Hmm..."
Scanning the surroundings, he found nothing to grab his immediate interest. So he turned his attention back to the ritual that seemed to be underway.
The room was large and circular, built of old masonry worn by time. There were no windows, and the lack of natural light, together with the chill hanging in the air, suggested it could be a forgotten cellar or perhaps an abandoned bunker. Lighting was scant, sustained by a few candles and precariously hung incandescent bulbs. In every corner, piles of books, scattered notes and complex‑looking diagrams filled the space. Dominating the center was a large magic circle, drawn with dozens of intricate patterns that intertwined in a silent dance of arcane symbols.
"Interesting..."
He'd never been a great mage in life. That was a truth he reminded himself of often. Still, he had to admit: the repeated massacres of all kinds of mages had granted him a broad understanding of the fundamentals of magic, an understanding that would likely make even the most erudite modern practitioners envious.
His eyes traced the circles carved into the floor, lingering on lines and runes with the attention of someone who recognizes an ancient language.
"This looks like a reincarnation ritual..."
It was common among mages on their last legs sick and frail, they sought to prolong existence by being reborn in young, healthy bodies, carrying their consciousness intact.
Yet something in that pattern stood out. There were unusual inscriptions, elements that clashed with the traditional structure of that kind of spell.
"These other patterns... could they be... the Second Magic?"
The Kaleidoscope. One of the so‑called True Magics. Emiya might have knowledge enough to rival ancient mages, even those who lived under the very light of mystery itself, but even for him the Second Magic existed on a level that defied reason.
So how had such power ended up in the hands of a group so plainly mediocre? More unsettling: what was their aim in fusing such a potent magic with a reincarnation ritual?
A trip between universes? Rebirth in an era richer in mana?
Whatever their purpose, it was no longer a problem that concerned him.
With a subtle gesture, he projected mystic codes around the room. The blades flared red, ready to incinerate the place. Over his last victim he conjured a nameless blade, ending the man's pain and with it his mission.
His body began to emit a faint light. It was the summons. The return to the Throne was near. But then, in the instant he dematerialized, the magic circles on the floor flared in response. A resonance, intense and sudden.
And then came the pull.
For a brief second, everything was light and vertigo.
"No way... I've been reincarnated?"
His mind, so used to the weight of battles and decisions, finally stilled. There he was, suspended between infinite possibilities. And the most disturbing thought: perhaps he was now in a completely unknown universe.
He couldn't be sure whether his summoning had been an accident. The presence of the Second Magic made any theory too fragile to hold. He liked to believe, however, that that damned vampire had bigger concerns than toying with his fate.
Still dazed, he began to examine his new condition. He formed a hypothesis, which confirmed itself when a woman approached. She was unusually tall, or rather, he was tiny. Her long, strong arms reached out, cradling him gently and lifting him from the floor.
"Just as I imagined..."
The one who had been a Counter‑Guardian, a tall man with a body honed for combat, now found himself reduced to the fragile body of a baby. Helpless, curled in the arms of his new nurse.
If he could, he would scream. If he could, he would curse his luck.
But there he was. Silent, powerless, reborn.
...
The weeks that followed were the hardest Emiya had faced in many years. As a baby, he was utterly limited in his actions, completely dependent on others for food, for fulfilling his most basic needs, for movement, and, above all, for staying alive. This situation was a constant source of frustration, as if his existence was at the mercy of chance. And, to him, relying on luck had never been a reliable option.
Among all the torments that plagued him, what troubled him the most was the lack of information about his condition and the world he now inhabited. His inner world was still intact, and he could clearly visualize the swords that resided in his mind. However, the absence of his connection to the magic circles and the inability to perceive the mana around him deeply unsettled him. He didn't even know if he had reincarnated in his original body, and, if he had, he hoped that discomfort would fade as he grew older. What disturbed him most, however, was the loss of contact with Alaia.
Even so, he didn't harbor any illusions that he could ever be free. Deep down, he knew that, at the end of this new life, his personal hell would await him, as always. There were moments when he wondered if it would be simpler to simply end this unbearable existence and return to his "normality." However, suicide (at least in the traditional sense) had never been a solution for him.
The world he had been reincarnated into seemed, at first glance, quite ordinary, but that didn't make his issues disappear. The people around him were obviously Japanese by their appearance, language, hairstyles, and clothing. The environment seemed to belong to a modern era, around the 21st century, which he suspected was true given what he could observe. His house, for example, was equipped with various household appliances and electronic devices, though the furniture and architecture followed a more traditional style, something he was already accustomed to.
Another point that piqued his curiosity was his supposed family. From the little he'd overheard, they appeared to be from a wealthy clan, the "Yaoyorozu," a family with a long tradition, apparently involved in business. The structure was classic: a father, a mother, and an older sister, with only a one-year age difference. The house they lived in was large and luxurious, surrounded by servants.
A noticeable change in fortune, something Emiya couldn't help but notice. The father, a businessman, seemed to be constantly busy. The mother, in turn, appeared equally absorbed in her responsibilities, which meant that he and his sister were often cared for by the housemaids.
In these moments of apparent solitude, Emiya tried to absorb as much as possible about the new world he had been reincarnated into. He listened to the conversations around him, absorbing every fragment of information.
"The young master is so cute."
"Do you really think so? Personally, I think he's kind of strange. I've never seen him smile or cry."
"Well, what's strange and what's normal nowadays? He's still very young, and we don't know what his quirksis like. Maybe this apathy is just a phase of his age. Either way, we can't jump to conclusions."
"I know, but Miss Momo, for instance, is pretty normal. And she's only one year older than him."
"Even though they're siblings, that doesn't mean they'll have the same quirk, or that the effect of their quirk will be the same for both. Like you said, they're one year apart. It's not fair to compare them."
"You're right, but from what I know, Mr. and Mrs. Yaoyorozu expect the young master to follow a career as a hero in the future. And, honestly, I can't imagine him taking that path."
"Don't worry. Master Shirou is just a baby. It's too early to make conclusions. Even with that closed expression, I still see a spark in his eyes."
'Shirou, seriously? Why did it have to be that name?' Emiya thought, frustrated.
These conversations, while enlightening, only added more doubts to his mind. Aside from the obvious change in fortune, his family's life seemed quite ordinary, with no sign of any contact with the moonlit world. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that this world had no connection to the mystical at all. However, there were two words that gnawed at him, echoing in his mind frequently: "quirks" and, even more so:
"heroes."
...
As the days dragged on, Emiya began to understand more clearly the world he now found himself in. It wasn't a world of sorcerers, supernatural beings, or spirits, as he had once imagined. However, it could not be called an ordinary world either, at least not within the limitations he attributed to the word "normal."
It was a place of intrinsic complexity, where the rules governing it were both familiar and disconcerting.
The so-called "quirks" that he had heard so much about seemed to reveal themselves as exceptional abilities, somewhat resembling the magic of his own world. However, the way they manifested was quite different. Instead of spells dependent on mana and Od, flowing through intricate magical circuits and invoked through incantations or rituals, quirks seemed to be a kind of innate mutation, a genetic mark that the individual carried from birth.
They weren't abilities that could be learned, but rather something each person was born with, with a spectrum of manifestations so broad and unpredictable that it didn't follow any pattern. It was a direct break from the rigid magical classifications he was familiar with, where everything was ordered by types and elements and obeyed a hierarchy of power.
He didn't seem surprised. In fact, he was already accustomed to encountering strange worlds, where the laws of reality seemed to bend at will, bringing with them an unforeseen and unusual logic. The concept of a world of superhumans didn't seem so distant or unusual to him. Naturally, this left him with more questions, but at the same time, there was a strange sense of clarification, as if many pieces were finally beginning to fall into place.
His theory that this world didn't possess magic, at least not in the way he understood it, seemed to be coming true. Not in the traditional sense, of course, but in something that, to him, seemed more like an adaptation than a denial. This, in some way, explained why he could no longer channel his magic through the old magical circuits. His body, after all, no longer had those circuits. He wasn't in his original body anymore, but rather in a new one, adapted to the peculiarities of this world. And this brought him unease.
He didn't know if, over time, he would develop an "individuality." He only knew it wasn't a guarantee. Only about 20% of the world's population seemed to be exempt from such special abilities, living as ordinary humans.
What he had learned so far was that these quirks had a strong genetic component. Abilities could be passed down or altered across generations, like a heritage, a legacy of power. Curiously, the abilities in his own family seemed to be linked to the creation of objects, a skill that, surprisingly, closely resembled his own projection magic.
The coincidences kept piling up, and he couldn't help but question whether he had truly been thrown into this world randomly. The circumstances were becoming excessively specific for his liking, but for now, he decided to ignore that discomfort.
However, there was something far more important troubling him. Heroes. This world, with the emergence of superhumans, had inevitably become disordered, plunging into chaos where criminals and troublemakers dominated, and civil society was naturally dragged into an era of turmoil. But it was in this disorder that order began to take shape. Various individuals, in an attempt to combat evil, started organizing, and thus the so-called "heroes" were born.
It was curious, but nowadays being a hero seemed more than just a calling. It had become a real profession, and one of the most desired, prestigious, and coveted.
His parents, apparently, expected Emiya to follow this career path. But Emiya didn't exactly know what to think about it. In fact, he harbored a deep aversion to the concept of a hero. Those who sacrificed themselves altruistically, throwing their own lives away in the name of a supposed Justice, an honor he couldn't comprehend. This type of sacrifice seemed empty, pointless, almost pathetic to him.
He had already encountered many "heroes" throughout his life. All fools and naïve, distorted people who convinced themselves they were doing good, trying to help others, but always oblivious to the harm they caused, to the destruction they left behind. Emiya was well aware of this. He knew better than anyone.
And those "heroes," who proclaimed themselves pillars of a morally superior order, were nothing but pieces of a rotten society. He smiled, a cynical, almost disdainful smile, and looked around, feeling the weight of his own worldview. A society that sustained itself on such a distorted concept was surely as corrupted as the very idea of a hero it revered.
He would never follow that path. At least, not willingly.
...
As time passed, Emiya became accustomed to this new world. Now, at four years old, his hair, once red in his previous life, had turned as black as the darkness of the night. His appearance, however, remained unchanged, or at least that was what he remembered, as his childhood memories were becoming more and more vague, almost nonexistent.
He appeared to be an ordinary child, but only to his own eyes. To others, his dark and sarcastic demeanor didn't match the age he had, and acting like a child wasn't something he knew how to do naturally.
The result of this was numerous visits to psychologists and child therapists, a constant search to understand what was "wrong" with him. Though he didn't exactly know how to behave like an ordinary child, he could at least maintain the facade during consultations.
The weight of his family's wealth and prestige also hung on his shoulders from an early age. Since he was very young, he had been assigned a private tutor, who shared daily lessons with his sister. Emiya, however, couldn't help but feel that the tutor's rigid discipline was excessive for a child. But, with the family's status, high expectations were natural.
His sister, Momo, already five years old, was a sweet-natured child, though somewhat clingy. This, however, never bothered him. After all, she was just a child. Despite maintaining a serious and closed-off demeanor, Emiya had a softness few knew about. He was kind, perhaps even too much, and whenever Momo called him, he was by her side, whether to play or just to keep her company.
Unlike him, Momo was a genuine child, with all the imperfections and contradictions of her age. She struggled to complete tasks, but she tried harder than anyone. Shyness and determination were traits Emiya appreciated and valued in her. She had already awakened her peculiarity, a skill called "Creation," which, as the name suggested, allowed her to create any non-living material, as long as she knew the molecular composition of the object. Her body manipulated fat cells to generate these items.
Emiya had already witnessed several other quirks, as the peculiarities were called, and although these abilities followed a certain logical pattern and could be explained rationally, there was something that unsettled him. He asked his sister to create a simple iron bar. Momo complied promptly, and he held it in his hands. The object was solid, and at first glance, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with its composition. Momo seemed fine too, except for a little hunger, as she had mentioned.
"This doesn't make any sense,"
He thought, frustrated. His sister's ability didn't just create matter out of nothing, but also involved an energetic transformation, it seemed as though she fused matter and energy in a way that contradicted any physical logic he knew. It was as if she had done some kind of nuclear fusion, which was impossible to explain within the laws of science he understood.
He had always believed that magic or mana didn't exist in this world. However, perhaps mana did exist here, in abundance, and humans just weren't adapted to perceive it.
Maybe quirks were, in fact an unconscious manifestation of more complex magical circuits, a remnant of forgotten energy. Who knows, in a distant past, mana might have accumulated without being explored, gradually affecting humans and forcing their bodies to adapt to this energy. Perhaps the peculiarities were a biological response, an evolution generated by this abundance of power.
It was just a baseless theory, of course, but it was all Emiya could think of to try to comprehend the absurd laws that governed this world. In the end, he reflected, his own world wasn't free of similar mysteries. Heroic spirits with nobly inexplicable ghosts had always been part of his reality, so perhaps this was what awaited him here: a new kind of logic, one that was yet to be unraveled.
What raised doubt in him was how his own individuality would manifest.
...
As he grew older, just as he had long suspected, his magic circuits never recovered. He could no longer wield magic, nor even sense the flow of mana in the air. In a way, it was deeply frustrating to lose the one thing he had always relied on the most. Yet, in the midst of that loss, something new awakened within him; his individuality.
Though the weight of disappointment lingered, this newly awakened ability felt strangely familiar, almost like a distorted echo of the magic he once commanded. It was similar to his sister's power, this "individuality" allowed him to convert his body's nutrients and calories into energy, and from that energy, manifest physical objects.
The difference, however, was clear: the items he created weren't as stable as hers. They were perfect replicas in composition, durability, and form, but even the slightest damage caused them to disintegrate into dust-like particles. The only upside was that his ability consumed far less energy than his sister's.
His family seemed perfectly content with his peculiarity; after all, it wasn't uncommon for members of the same bloodline to possess similar abilities, each with its own twist.
From the moment his gift was discovered, he was put through endless consultations with specialists, and private tutors were hired to help him refine it. To Emiya, though, it all felt like the typical overreaction of a wealthy family with too many expectations.
He often skipped lessons to experiment on his own. The more he practiced, the more he realized how much this new ability resembled—and differed from—the magic he had left behind. Unlike his sister, he couldn't create complex items like firearms or electronics.
Yet, oddly enough, his power didn't seem limited to mere creation. By converting calories into energy, he could store that energy within himself or infuse it into objects, allowing him to perform detailed analyses that revealed an item's structure, composition, and even its history.
This esoteric skill didn't quite fit the logic of the world he lived in—a world defined by limited and neatly categorized abilities. But to Emiya, the resemblance to his old magic was undeniable. He could no longer ignore the coincidence between the two, and a troubling question began to haunt him: had he reincarnated into a body shaped perfectly for his soul? Or was there something more sinister at play—someone who had placed him here for a reason? The thought disturbed him, yet he chose to set it aside.
As his experiments continued, he discovered that his ability went beyond creation, it allowed him to alter an object's structure, making it stronger or weaker, even changing its form. Like his sister, however, he found himself unable to create or modify living beings. His own body, though, seemed to be an exception. By channeling energy into himself, he could reinforce his bones and muscles, making them both stronger and more flexible.
The sensation reminded him of his old reinforcement and structural analysis magic. Though the efficiency wasn't the same without his magic circuits, the familiarity was undeniable. He could enhance his strength, endurance, speed and even sharpen his senses, especially sight and hearing.
It no longer made sense to question the logic behind his ability. It felt too natural, too much a part of him, as if it had always been there. Pushing the limits of his newfound power, he realized he didn't need intricate technical knowledge to create objects. All he needed was a clear mental image and a basic understanding of their structure.
That thought led him to his Reality Marble. Ever since awakening in this world, he had felt that his inner world remained intact. He could see it vividly within his mind, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring it forth into reality.
Now, focusing his newfound energy, he extended his hands. He visualized a black blade, a short sword patterned in black and white like yin and yang, with crimson hexagonal lines glowing faintly along its edge. He could see every detail, the form, the weight, the structure, even the history behind the weapon. In a single thought, energy condensed in his palm, shaping the blade he envisioned.
Emiya stood alone in the family's vast training dojo. He made sure no one was watching. Examining the sword, he gripped its hilt, feeling its balance and weight. Then, suddenly, he swung. The motion was instinctive, perfectly natural. As he extended his left hand, a second blade materialized, identical to the first but with inverted colors and no hexagonal markings.
The dual movement came as naturally as breathing. Yet something felt different. His current body was weaker, smaller, a reminder of his limited physical condition and the lack of muscle memory his old self once possessed. Even so, his strikes were smooth and precise. When he threw one of the blades, it sliced cleanly through the air; with a flick of his hand, it curved midflight and returned to his grasp.
That was when Emiya realized something remarkable: his ability didn't just reproduce an object's form or material, it recreated its conceptual essence. He could manifest the idea of the weapon itself. The realization fascinated him. If his ability continued to evolve, perhaps one day, he might truly manifest his Reality Marble.
But for now, that wasn't what mattered.
Chapter 2: A System Built on One
I made some corrections, I apologize.
The following days in Emiya's life passed without incident, wrapped in a tranquility he hadn't experienced in a long time. There were no big goals or urgent matters to pursue. All he wanted at that moment was to better understand this new world and, gradually, master the ability that now belonged to him. There were no expectations for the future, no elaborate plans. For him, that existence felt like a break—a brief vacation amid his long, endless task.
He knew he was lucky. The odds had placed him in a wealthy family where nothing was lacking. True, many expectations were placed on his shoulders, but still, he allowed himself to enjoy all the benefits within his reach.
Between studying and training, his refuge was found in an unlikely space: the kitchen. Emiya enjoyed spending his free time there, side by side with the servants, learning recipes, experimenting with flavors, mixing ingredients. His parents, on the other hand, envisioned a different future for him: a career as a hero or, at the very least, the responsibility of taking over the family business. However, he showed little enthusiasm for those possibilities. If he had a choice, he would prefer to dedicate himself to cooking, perhaps even opening a small restaurant. Cooking and performing small tasks always seemed more enjoyable to him than any heroic destiny.
His parents didn't hide their surprise at this inclination. Even so, they were understanding enough to let Emiya cultivate this habit, though they never stopped encouraging him to follow the path they had dreamed for him. Emiya, for his part, didn't openly oppose them. He knew that, as a child, his words wouldn't carry much weight. He simply let himself be carried along.
One afternoon, as he mixed spices on the counter, he heard the familiar voice of his older sister.
"Nii-san, where are you?" called Momo, the eldest, though their relationship often made it seem the opposite.
"I'm here, in the kitchen," Emiya replied, lifting his gaze from the pot.
Momo appeared at the door, watching him with curiosity.
"Are you making dinner today?"
"Yes. Is there something you want to ask?"
The girl hesitated for a moment before speaking.
"Actually... I want you to train with me."
Emiya raised an eyebrow.
"Can't you train with sensei?"
"I don't like him," she pouted. "His explanations are complicated, the exercises are hard... It's much easier when you help me."
He sighed. He had gotten used to training with his sister, whose skills were similar to his. For Momo, Emiya was practically the perfect tutor. Still, he hesitated.
"I can help you later," he said carefully. "But you should cut back on your training. Overdoing it can have the opposite effect."
Momo clenched her fists, frustration written all over her face.
"But if I don't try hard, I'll never be as strong as you."
Emiya leaned slightly in her direction, his voice softer.
"And why do you want to be so strong, Momo?"
Her eyes gleamed with conviction.
"Because I want to become a great heroine by your side. To do that, I need to be even stronger."
The declaration made Emiya stop for a moment. He knew this desire was common among the children in this world, but it bothered him. The idea of becoming a hero repulsed him. He had explained this to his sister many times.
"You know how I feel about this," he murmured, looking away. "I'm not going to be a hero." Momo stared at him seriously.
"But you're stronger than even sensei. And you're the kindest person I know."
He chuckled softly, pinching her nose.
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm not!" she insisted, her cheeks turning pink. "I want to be like you: someone kind and strong who always helps others."
Momo's sincerity disarmed him. Emiya hadn't expected her to hold him in such high regard. He could reject the title of hero, but deep down, he knew Momo had the potential to become just that—a true heroine, in the purest sense of the word.
"Alright," he said with a sigh. "I promise I'll help you later. But you have to promise me that you won't overdo it and that you'll listen to sensei."
"Okay!" she responded enthusiastically.
He smiled, ruffling her hair.
"Now go wash your hands. I'm making a snack for you."
Momo left the kitchen beaming, leaving behind a light, childlike atmosphere. The servants exchanged amused glances at the scene. Emiya returned to his task, his expression serious. He cared for his sister, wanted her to be happy, but couldn't shake the growing worry in his heart.
The harsh truth, Emiya thought, was that society was far from perfect. There was something deeply warped at its core: the hero system valued individual abilities more than character. Performance above all, personal glory above the collective.
"Being the strongest, the fastest, the most remarkable..." he reflected, staring at the ceiling of his room on a quiet night. "This obsession with standing out could destroy an entire generation."
He imagined the pressure on the young people who dreamed of becoming heroes. Children who trained, studied, and prepared their whole lives for this role... only to be surpassed by someone else in the blink of an eye. Worse still, there were those who would never gain any importance, no matter how hard they tried.
"I don't want Momo to fall into that..." he muttered to himself, as if confessing a secret.
But there were even more layers to this problem. After all, society didn't only idolize those born with extraordinary talents; it also rejected those considered inferior. Individuals with traits deemed weak or bizarre were discarded mercilessly. The exclusion was masked under the banner of "diversity" and "acceptance," but the reality screamed the opposite.
What intrigued him the most was the role of the State. In theory, the general population was prohibited from using their abilities freely, while heroes—authorized figures—showcased theirs as tools of social control. Inequality wasn't just on the streets; it was institutionalized, official.
It was a biased view, he knew. But not entirely false.
Another aspect that bothered Emiya was the neglect of individuals with special conditions. During his brief time in this world, he had dedicated himself to studying the origin and categorization of quirks. He discovered that many of them had unique characteristics, some even problematic.
The so-called mutation-type quirks, for instance, altered the physical structure of the users. Society liked to present itself as inclusive, but in practice, most of these mutants were targets of disdain and prejudice.
There were also those whose abilities caused obscure side effects: the physiological need to release energy, constant pain, or even unpredictable mental alterations. Emiya had found references to these cases in specialized books, but no personal accounts. It didn't seem like there was any institution dedicated to providing support for these individuals.
He took a deep breath, unsettled.
"So much hypocrisy..." he muttered bitterly.
At that moment, paranoia began to set in. Emiya knew he was privileged. He was born into a good family and, moreover, his Quirk, "Projection," was relatively powerful and didn't require much from his body. Unlike others, he didn't suffer any side effects.
"If it had been the other way around..." he thought, shuddering. "I don't even want to imagine."
That thought haunted him. Being strong wasn't just a blessing; it was a burden. Especially in a society that seemed to value power above all else.
And then there was him.
The symbol of peace.
Emiya let out a short laugh, full of irony.
"All Might..." he murmured. "What a pretentious name."
Still, he had to admit it: if anyone could carry such a title, it was the man behind the radiant smile. His Quirk remained shrouded in mystery, but it seemed linked to extraordinary physical strength. Comparing him mentally to mythical figures, Emiya even thought: "Maybe he's almost as strong as Hercules... or even more."
Emiya often found himself, almost by habit, imagining how he would defeat All Might if necessary. He knew that, in his current state, a single direct blow—or perhaps even just a scratch—would be enough to finish him off. He no longer had the constitution of a Servant. The details of All Might's speed and endurance were unknown to him, but Emiya doubted the man had the invulnerable skin of a demigod, or the ability to come back from the dead. Still, an A-rank Noble Phantasm, though costly to use, would be enough to defeat the number one hero.
Not that he actually wanted to kill him. It was more of a habit, a mental exercise he applied to almost everyone he knew. Still, All Might was more than just a man.
He was the pillar on which all of Japanese society seemed to rest. The peace and prosperity of the nation were almost entirely tied to his image. This, in itself, was deeply disturbing. No one seemed to consider the possibility of his absence. If he suddenly disappeared, what would become of the world left behind? Yes, there were other powerful heroes, but none who could truly take his place.
Still, there was something about All Might that bothered him. He didn't seem like a bad man—on the contrary, he might be one of the few true heroes in the chaos of that society. His figure radiated confidence, security, and even a palpable sense of hope. The problem was that the entire structure of Japanese society was built exclusively on his shoulders.
This was the thought that troubled Emiya the most: the realization that an entire system had been built on the presence of a single individual, with no real effort to reduce this dangerous dependence.
"What if he disappears tomorrow?" Emiya asked himself, silently. "What will happen to this country?"
There was no answer. No one seemed to even consider this possibility. There were other powerful heroes, yes, but none who could take his place. This bothered Emiya more than anything else: the blind dependence on a single man.
And behind the confident and protective facade, Emiya saw something else. Something few seemed to notice. The perfect smile, the eyes almost always half-closed, the extravagant hair framing the face... all of this hid a shadow.
"That look..." Emiya murmured, staring at an image of All Might in a magazine.
"Behind the mask of hope, there is darkness."
And that, to Emiya, was what disturbed him the most.
To Emiya, this situation was simply unsustainable.
An entire country couldn't base its stability on one man, no matter who he was.
He watched the newspapers, the TV broadcasts, the headlines blaring in big letters: "All Might saves hundreds in villain attack", "The hope of peace", "The unbeatable strength of justice". It was always the same refrain. Always the same smiling face. Always the same idea: "As long as All Might is here, we'll be safe."
"What a joke..." Emiya muttered, flipping through one of those school magazines that glorified the heroes' deeds. "A house of cards held up by just one piece."
With every news story, every public speech, his discomfort grew. It wasn't hatred, nor envy—it was something more complex. He simply couldn't understand how an entire society could be so easily swept up by such a fragile illusion.
"Of course he'll fall," he thought, looking up at the ceiling of his room in silence, lying on his bed.
"Everyone falls. Everyone has limits. The human body, no matter how powerful, isn't eternal. And when that day comes, what will be left?" The answer was obvious: chaos.
The villains, who had already been lurking in the shadows, would gain courage. The small-time criminals, who had only been kept in check by the possibility of facing All Might, would multiply like worms. The desperate population would cry out for another savior, but there would be no one capable.
"The entire society will collapse..." he whispered. "And no one seems to care."
Emiya understood the root of the problem. It was a matter of convenience. The symbol of peace wasn't just one man; it was an emotional shortcut for everyone. As long as All Might kept smiling, they could pretend there was no danger. They didn't need to think about safety measures, creating new leaders, or preparing the next generation of real heroes. It was easier to lean on the shadow of just one.
But Emiya saw beyond that.
And what he saw terrified him.
It was a twisted cycle: a society that placed all its faith in a single pillar was doomed to collapse when that pillar broke. It was inevitable.
"Hero..." he repeated, with disdain. "It's just a label. A convenient farce to mask what it really is: glorified soldiers, pieces of a broken system from the start."
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Old memories surfaced in his mind—memories of other wars, other symbols, other heroes who had also fallen. Nothing was eternal. The only certainty was the end.
And Emiya, perhaps more than anyone else, knew that.
Time passed, silent, yet steady, for Shirou Yaoyorozu, the name he now carried. Six years had gone by since his new life began, and he had finally entered the first grade of elementary school. His parents, confident in the private tutoring he had received, saw no need to enroll him in preschool. Still, a lingering concern remained: how would he handle socializing, considering he had always been a quiet and introverted child?
In truth, his school life didn't start with much fanfare. He didn't become the most popular student, but he also had no trouble fitting in. Children were simple creatures, and Emiya understood their dynamics well. He knew exactly what to say, what to leave out, and how to act to gain empathy without drawing too much attention. As for the tests, they were trivial. The school routine was monotonous, but comfortable in its simplicity.
Until everything changed. The following year, his teachers decided to promote him straight to the third grade, skipping the second entirely. His exams showed a level far above expectations and, although he hadn't noticed it himself, the tests given to him had been gradually increasing in difficulty. He wasn't a prodigy in the traditional sense, but he carried centuries of accumulated knowledge. What was complex for others, to him was mere basic information.
There was even talk of sending him to high school, but Emiya firmly opposed it. Though the idea of shortening his academic journey was tempting, he didn't want to stand out even more. Being surrounded by loud, irritating teenagers was exactly the kind of attention he hoped to avoid.
Momo, however, was thrilled by the news. She would finally be sharing a room with her brother. Her smile stood in stark contrast to Emiya's quiet frustration. He liked having his sister around, but keeping a low profile remained his priority.
The next few years passed relatively peacefully. Emiya focused on keeping his grades up and avoiding unnecessary attention. However, the more he tried to blend into the crowd, the more he stood out, due to his prestigious family, his early academic advancement, and the fact that he was the younger brother of the school's top student. Popularity, though unwanted, became inevitable.
As time went on, attention from the opposite sex became increasingly noticeable. Confessions and longing stares came often, and he turned them all down with the same calculated gentleness. Yet rejection only seemed to fuel his classmates' fascination.
Among the boys, the reaction was the opposite. Their dislike of him grew, fueled by Emiya's obvious maturity, his odd mannerisms, and his reluctance to fit in. His hobbies and interests were so different from theirs that pretending to be a normal kid became his greatest social challenge.
He tried to blend in by joining school clubs and activities. But nearly all of them revolved around heroes, from debates to training exercises. He joined the archery club, hoping it would be a distraction. But even there, nothing excited him. Hitting the target came far too naturally, as easy as breathing. The monotony of perfection bored him.
In his free time, he preferred to focus on physical training, testing the limits of his abilities, and gaining a deeper understanding of his "Projection". He discovered, for example, that although he could materialize Noble Phantasms, they weren't perfectly accurate. Their durability and destructive power never quite reached their original potential, and more complex weapons required a considerable amount of energy. Projecting and charging a Caladbolg, for instance, drained nearly a third of his strength. Still, there was a clear advantage: he was no longer limited to swords. Now, he could project shields, spears, and other objects at little energy cost, and Gaia was no longer around to degrade his creations.
His training was always solitary. Even though his ability was well known, Emiya preferred to keep its nuances hidden, cards up his sleeve that could prove decisive, if ever needed. However, this behavior began to bother Momo.
His sister, once close and affectionate, had started to drift away. Part of it was Emiya's reserved nature, but another part came from Momo's own growth. He understood that. He accepted it. But it still left a hollow feeling. He cared for her, and though he never said it aloud, he truly saw her as his sister. A pang of melancholy would hit him whenever he noticed the growing distance between them.
The second cycle of elementary school brought subtle but significant changes. For Emiya, the routine remained predictable, but a shadow loomed over his daily life: Momo, his older sister, had decided to attend a preparatory school for heroes.
In the world they lived in, being a hero was not just a calling; it was a demanding career, structured by institutions that certified who had the right to carry the title. For Emiya, this seemed increasingly absurd. The idea of measuring someone's worth by their ability to become a hero seemed ridiculous. More and more, the term was losing its original meaning and turning into a glorification of masked soldiers, created to feed social and media pride.
Momo hadn't shared her decision with him right away. When she finally revealed her plan, Emiya was surprisingly disturbed. It wasn't anger, but an unease that stemmed from a growing sense of distance.
"So, you really are going to study at the hero prep school?" he asked, trying to hide his discomfort.
"Yeah," Momo replied, not looking directly at him, as if she still needed to gather courage inside herself. "I knew it would be tough, but this is the path I've chosen. I want to become a true heroine."
Emiya sighed.
"I knew you'd make that decision, Momo. But... you didn't have to keep it quiet. We could've talked about this before."
"I didn't want to interfere with your plans," she said softly. "Besides... I thought you wouldn't care."
He furrowed his brow slightly. The truth was, he did care. He didn't want to interfere with her choice, but feeling excluded was painful. Momo was growing, changing, and he realized that the bond they once shared seemed to be unraveling, pushing them further apart.
"You know I'm not going to try to stop you," Emiya finally said. "But I want you to understand what being a hero really means in this world. It's not all glamour and recognition. It's a life full of pressure, expectations, and risks."
Momo turned her gaze away, but the determined shine in her eyes remained steady.
"I know, Nii-san. But I want to try anyway. I want to push my limits. I want to be useful, protect people... like you."
Emiya swallowed hard. She saw him as an example, someone worthy of admiration. Even though he rejected the hero title, she still looked up to him. The thought that she might see him as a guiding light, despite him not wanting that role, unsettled him.
"Alright," he said finally, sighing. "But I'll promise you one thing: don't overdo it, or you'll hurt yourself. Listen to your teachers and follow their advice."
"I promise, Nii-san!" she replied, giving him a quick smile before walking away.
As his sister moved on to the next chapter of her life, Emiya stood still, reflecting. The society they lived in valued heroes above all else, and each step Momo took toward that ideal reminded him of the structural flaws in everything. He knew he couldn't change the system, but he could keep his sister aware of the harsh truth, a truth often overshadowed by the glitter of capes and headlines.
It was a silent burden he carried, walking through the school hallways, watching the crowd of classmates oblivious to the dilemmas that filled his mind.
Emiya was 13 years old and in his final year of elementary school. The previous years had passed relatively well; with no major highlights or issues, he had managed to stay discreetly off the radar. Still, some constants remained in his life: his parents' efforts to turn him into a hero, Momo's silent determination to follow the path she had chosen, and his firm decision not to give in to external pressures.
After months of insistence, his parents seemed to have finally accepted his reluctance. They no longer pressured him aggressively to become a hero; now, they were more interested in having him take over the family business. This shift brought a subtle relief, but Emiya knew that in the end, his choices would still be under their watchful eyes.
On the other hand, his relationship with Momo hadn't progressed. She remained distant, still sweet as always, but showing no interest in extending their time together or deepening their connection. Emiya understood the distance; it was natural for her to grow, change, and find her own path. But even so, he felt an emptiness. The bond that had once seemed unbreakable was now stretching, creating a silent space between them.
Despite this, there were still moments of interaction, albeit with moderate frequency. Walking together to school, wearing their uniforms, sharing a few meters of the journey before the inevitable separation, they tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy.
"So, you're really not going to UA next year?" Momo asked, breaking the silence, adjusting her backpack.
"No," Emiya replied calmly but directly. "I made that clear a long time ago."
"I thought maybe you'd change your mind... After all, mom doesn't give up easily when she wants something."
"She wasn't persistent enough," he replied, frowning. "Being a hero isn't the only decent career out there, Momo."
She hesitated, her eyes drifting slightly. "It's not that... it just feels like you were born to be a hero, Nii-san."
He gave a faint smile, trying to ease the tension of her comment. "I really don't see it that way. What about you? Are you studying for the entrance exams yet?"
"Yes!" she replied, blushing slightly. "I know there's still time, but it's never too early to prepare, Nii-san. UA is top-tier. I want to be ready. They have the best training and educational structure... it's like being surrounded by excellence."
Emiya gave a subtle smile, watching his sister's genuine enthusiasm. It was nice to see her excited, even though the path she was choosing wasn't something he fully approved of.
"And you, Nii-san?" Momo continued, trying to change the subject. "Has anything interesting happened at your school?"
"Nothing worth noting," Emiya replied, with his usual neutrality. "The exams are easy, since it's the start of the year."
"Right..." Momo murmured, uncomfortable. The approaching separation in their paths created an almost tangible silence between them.
Emiya decided to break the silence. "Strange, isn't it? The last few years have passed in the blink of an eye. Just yesterday, we were carefree kids, and now we're almost in high school. Who knows how much time we have left before we're consumed by responsibilities and worries."
"I know..." Momo replied, confused by her brother's tone.
"It's just that... when I think about it, human life seems so short."
She didn't fully understand, but made an effort to continue the conversation. "Well... what do you plan to do after school?"
"I'm not sure," Emiya admitted. "Maybe study cooking, pursue a career in that field... or take over the family business. I don't want to upset our parents more than I already have."
"That's a shame," Momo whispered softly.
Soon after, before they parted ways, they stopped at a convenience store, as if out of habit. But the scene was unexpected: shelves turned over, products scattered across the floor.
"What happened here?" Momo asked, alarmed.
"Thieves broke in during the night. Took the money and even sent Mr. Sakamoto to the hospital," the clerk answered, irritated.
Momo covered her mouth, shocked. "How awful! And the hero who patrols this area?"
"The hero? That useless guy?" The man almost spat the words. "All he does is walk the streets pretending to be useful. When it's time to act, he disappears."
Emiya stayed silent. The man's resentment was justified. The hero assigned to the area was at the end of his career, demotivated. He was just going through the motions, using the remaining time to secure a small profit before retiring. This was the system that upheld the so-called peace.
Momo was disturbed by the scene. She wasn't used to raw violence or hearing such honest criticism of heroes. Emiya, however, knew that this was just the surface of a much deeper flaw.
As they walked to school, he reflected. There were always gaps: areas and times when heroes weren't around, and criminals knew exactly how to exploit them. To deal with this, someone would need to move beyond the reach of the system.
For a moment, he imagined some idiot with red hair, wearing a ridiculous costume, hiding on some rooftop, waiting for an opportunity to help someone. He smiled bitterly at the thought.
"Only a huge idiot would do something like that..." he murmured.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
"Why the hell am I doing this alone?!"
Chapter 3: A coward, a hypocrite and an apathetic
Nezuki Kobayashi had always been a coward. In truth, he had been that way since childhood. Like any boy his age, he grew up dreaming of becoming a hero. But fate, ever cruel, gave him a Quirk that turned that dream into something close to a joke. He belonged to the mutant type. He wasn't exactly human. He had been born with the head of a mouse, and perhaps that was where his cowardice came from—after all, mice were never known for their bravery.
That condition had stolen more than just his appearance. It shaped his instincts, teaching him to fear the world. He saw everyone as a lurking predator, always ready to pounce. He spent his days withdrawn, hiding in the corners of the classroom, avoiding stares, avoiding voices. He was afraid of being noticed, afraid to exist in the light. His grotesque, abnormal appearance only deepened the isolation. He was the favorite target of his classmates, even those with visible mutations themselves, as if they needed someone even stranger to unload their own hatred on.
Still, somewhere deep in his soul, Nezuki believed he could become a hero. He had hearing and smell far superior to that of a regular human, teeth sharp enough to gnaw through metal, and reflexes keen enough to escape his aggressors. All of it seemed, somehow, like a small sign of hope.
But it wasn't enough.
Nezuki failed the entrance exam to U.A., the most prestigious hero academy in Japan. He didn't give up, though. He tried again and managed to get into a lesser-known school, still focused on training heroes. For the first time in his life, he felt optimistic, excited for the future.
The illusion didn't last.
During a rescue training exercise, his fear paralyzed him. A classmate got hurt, and Nezuki didn't move. He couldn't. Fear bound him like invisible chains. From that day on, he became a pariah among his peers. Not long after, he was expelled from the course. His teachers told him he simply didn't have what it took to be a hero.
The disappointment broke him. He dropped out at sixteen and started working wherever he could—odd jobs, temporary gigs. The job market was not kind to someone without a diploma, especially not to someone with such an unusual appearance. His parents, though initially supportive, grew tired of the constant setbacks. One day, they told him he needed to "go out and live new experiences." And they threw him out.
From that moment on, there was nothing. No future, no prospects. That's when Nezuki decided to use the Quirk that had caused him so much suffering—this time, to survive.
The night stretched over the city like a silent veil, hiding secrets among the artificial lights. Now, at twenty-five, Nezuki walked alongside another man through the poorly lit alleys of a commercial district. They moved in silence, trying to stay discreet.
"This is the spot," the other man murmured. "What's the situation around us?"
He was tall, muscular, with a square jaw and a dark, brooding stare.
"There's one alone in the konbini. Three more drinking about two hundred and fifty meters north," Nezuki replied hesitantly, sniffing the air like a cornered animal.
"Perfect. You know the drill. Keep watch and let me know if anyone comes close."
"Hey... do you think we could be quicker this time?" asked Nezuki, his voice trembling.
The man frowned. "What did you say?"
"It's just that... the hero who patrols this area... he's more active than the last one."
Nezuki shrugged, trying to vanish inside his own jacket. The man beside him was a distant classmate from school. Nezuki only knew his last name. They had never been friends, but at least he didn't bully him as much as the others. Like Nezuki, the man had dropped out early and by seventeen was already part of a gang.
When everything fell apart, Nezuki sought him out. He was accepted into the group thanks to his useful abilities. Now, he took part in small-time robberies—bars, convenience stores—always at hours and in places where heroes rarely showed up.
"Don't worry about that," the man growled as he stepped out of the alley. "Just do your damn job."
Nezuki watched him disappear into the shadows. That man terrified him. He had a calm exterior, but underneath was a sadist. In every robbery, he seemed to need to beat someone up to feel like the job was done.
Nezuki hated it. He hated the cold, the silence, the metallic scent of blood and alcohol soaked into the air. He wanted to be anywhere else. This life wasn't for him.
And at that moment, he made a decision. He was still young. He could still try again. After this job, he would walk away from all of it. He would start over.
But before he could even finish the thought, something hit him.
His instincts screamed louder than they ever had before. Something was wrong. The smell of iron that had seemed fixed in the air was now moving. It was getting closer.
Nezuki tried to shout, tried to warn his partner.
Then everything went black.
Shirou Emiya was a man of contradictions, a being driven by firm convictions and actions that bordered on hypocrisy. He thought and spoke one way, but often acted in contradictory fashion, as if his mind, his heart, and his hands were never truly aligned. Now, living under the name Shirou Yaoyorozu, that contradiction followed him like an inseparable shadow.
He did not despise heroism itself; selflessness and the desire to help others were as inherent to the man as malice and selfishness. Yet even so, he couldn't help but feel uneasy about the idea of a hero. Though admirable, it was also a dangerous ideal that could completely consume a person, leaving them broken and distorted—especially in a world like this one.
This belief came from experience. And yet, when he heard about the wave of robberies sweeping through the commercial districts, he found himself unable to sit idly by. In a short time, he gathered data: patterns, times, possible escape routes, vulnerable zones. He could have shared this information with the police, but no one would listen to a child. And from what he could see, the authorities didn't seem eager to try very hard anyway.
Once again, contradicting his own ideals, Emiya decided to act.
He left home under the cover of night. From the top of a building, he looked over the city stretching out like a board of flickering lights. He converted nutrients into energy and directed it to his eyes, enhancing his vision. He scanned the silent avenues and alleyways, carefully shifting his position when nothing turned up, always mindful to avoid any patrolling heroes.
Everything seemed quiet. Maybe, he thought, he had acted too soon. He was preparing to leave when something caught his attention.
Two men emerged from a hole in the wall of a department store. No alarms rang. They knew exactly what they were doing. Curiously, there wasn't a single police officer or hero nearby.
Emiya sighed. He had wanted to avoid this. It would have been easier to ignore it, to let someone else take care of it. But once again, he had put himself in this position. He emptied his mind.
Projections began to form around him. A dark, heavy cloak wrapped around his body. A cold, white mask, shaped like a skull, covered his face—a nod to the old Hassans of the Order of Assassins. There was no symbolism behind it, only function: concealment and anonymity.
He jumped from the rooftop.
The force of the fall transferred entirely to the man beneath him, who crumpled into the pavement without making a sound. Emiya spun in the air, and before the second assailant could react, he delivered a sweeping kick that slammed the man into the side of the van they had planned to use as a getaway vehicle. The metal bent like paper.
Fast. Clean. The criminals didn't even have time to think, let alone use their Quirks. After confirming that no one was watching, he searched the area and vanished into the shadows.
Simple, he muttered to himself as he ran across the rooftops.
He told himself this had no purpose, that it wouldn't change anything. That he should stop. But Shirou Emiya was a man of contradictions. Deep down, he felt satisfied.
In the weeks that followed, the ghost of the night became a whispered rumor among criminals. Emiya continued to act, interrupting robberies, rescuing civilians, disrupting small gangs. He never sought recognition, nor did he plan to reveal himself. He simply couldn't ignore people in need. And he hated that about himself.
Amid his investigations, he discovered the existence of a fragmented organization—criminals operating without leaders or hierarchy, yet with suspicious efficiency. Dismantling such a diffuse network would be nearly impossible.
He considered eliminating every member he encountered, sending a message through fear, but the risk of exposure was too great. He couldn't allow anyone to learn of his involvement, especially Momo.
He took a deep breath. No use worrying about that now. He focused on his current targets: two men.
One was tall, muscular, and imposing. The other was smaller, with the head of a rodent and tremors that betrayed his panic. Everything matched the descriptions from a series of violent robberies.
Emiya reinforced his body and moved in.
The first blow was precise. The rodent-headed man collapsed unconscious before he even knew what was happening. The second man stepped back, startled, and growled,
"Who the hell are you?"
Emiya stood silent. Silence was his answer. He could have taken the man down from afar, but he wanted information. And though he wouldn't admit it, he craved a real fight.
He stepped forward, and the twin blades Kanshō and Bakuya materialized in his hands. The man grinned, a crooked smile.
"So that's how it is? Fine."
His body began to contort. Rocky protrusions burst from his skin, covering him until he resembled a creature of living stone.
Emiya observed calmly. Great strength and resistance. And the alley was narrow—not ideal terrain. Still, a faint, almost childish glint lit up his eyes. Time to really test these beauties, he murmured.
The giant charged, trying to crush him with both fists. Emiya dodged with the ease of wind and countered beneath the enemy's arm. The black blade pierced the stone shell easily, but not deep enough to reach the real body.
Another brutal strike came, and Emiya rolled back, unharmed. The fight continued.
Emiya's speed clashed with the golem's raw power. Each strike left small cracks in the enemy's armor, but progress was slow. Then the giant slammed the ground. The floor beneath Emiya's feet gave way—just a moment of imbalance, but enough.
The massive fist struck him directly. His blades fractured, and the impact launched him against the wall. The monster laughed, panting, believing he had won. But the laughter faded when he saw the shadow emerge from the dust, unscathed.
"This is bad," Emiya muttered. "At this level, I wouldn't last a second against a Servant."
His opponent stumbled back as Emiya stepped out of the crater, speaking to himself.
"I knew my blades weren't at full strength... but this is worse than I thought."
That brat didn't have a scratch. Worse, he wasn't even looking at him.
"What the hell are you?! the man screamed."
"Again with that question", Emiya replied without turning his head. "Honestly, in a few seconds it won't matter to you at all."
The man trembled. Enraged, he hurled himself at Emiya, ignoring everything, including his unconscious partner. Emiya summoned his blade again, gripping it differently this time. He focused on the enemy—and disappeared.
The giant stopped, confused. Something felt wrong. His body felt off-balance. He looked over and realized his right arm was no longer attached.
Before he could react, an arrow embedded itself in his stone armor. Then came the explosion.
His body was thrown hard to the ground. The once solid rock shell shattered like foam. He felt no pain—no sensation at all. Just stared into the void with disbelieving eyes.
A boot pressed firmly against his chest. Looking up, he saw his executioner. Emiya held a curved piece of dark metal, larger than his own body. The man couldn't tell what it was—his vision was blurred—but he could still see the mask. Even without seeing the eyes behind it, he could imagine the gaze piercing through him.
"I have a few questions, Emiya said, dismissing the bow."
He stood over the broken body, feeling the weight of fatigue. Enhancing reinforcement, maintaining projection, and using even a small Broken Phantasm had taken more out of him than expected.
"First: does your gang have a leader or command structure?"
"No... we operate independently, the man replied with effort."
"And how do you decide your targets and jobs?"
"We talk to each other... share targets, ways to avoid heroes..."
He was being surprisingly cooperative. The easiest one so far. Emiya had expected to torture him a bit before he'd talk. The information matched what he'd extracted from other criminals, but still...
"You all claim to act independently," Emiya said thoughtfully, "but you're far too organized and coordinated for a leaderless group. Some of your comrades mentioned paying a fee to an agent."
He stepped closer.
"This agent... is he the one coordinating you?"
The man said nothing. If someone was orchestrating all of this, it would simplify things. Taking him out wouldn't solve the entire problem, but it would be a start.
"Who is this agent? And how many of you are there, approximately?"
Still no answer.
"Is the agent raising funds for something bigger?"
Emiya pressed again.
The man began to laugh.
"Ha... hahaha! What do you think you're going to do? You think you can stop us? End crime?"
He laughed harder, spitting blood.
"Please... grow up, kid. No matter how many of us you throw in prison—there'll always be someone to take our place".
It was true. Any society would have people forced to the margins. And Quirks made that inevitable. Criminals would always appear, a natural outcome of the system itself.
Emiya knew that. He had no illusions about stopping crime. He just wanted to contain the worst of it, to prevent innocent people from suffering, even if only for a while.
The man had lost it. Emiya stepped on his hand, crushing his fingers. No reaction. As he'd suspected—the blood loss and impact had left him half-conscious.
"I really won't be able to catch all of you," Emiya said, projecting his blade once more. "But if I leave your eviscerated corpse in the street... maybe the others will get the message."
He raised the weapon. Just as he was about to strike, something wrapped around his arm, pulling him back.
"Honestly," said a rough voice, "you're not exactly what I expected."
Emiya turned.
A tall man approached. He wore black, wrapped in bands that moved as if alive, gliding across his shoulders. He had long, dark hair and wore narrow goggles. But the most striking thing was his expression—tired eyes, the look of someone who had seen too much.
"So... who the hell are you?"
Aizawa was an apathetic man. Nothing truly excited him—not work, not leisure, and certainly not socializing. If he could, he'd spend the entire day at home, lying down, dozing off between one thought and the next. He hated moving around, and hated even more having to engage in meaningless conversation. Not that he hated people, he just didn't see the point in getting involved in trivial matters. He was direct, pragmatic, spoke his mind without concern for how others might react.
Despite his unkempt appearance, the wrinkled clothes, messy hair, and that perpetually tired gaze, Aizawa was a responsible man. He carried out his duties with an almost unshakable seriousness. A dedicated teacher, a disciplined hero, he bore a sense of duty few could understand. He seemed cold on the surface, but he was committed to the end.
He held onto his convictions firmly, and though he had his own wounds, he never let them weigh him down. He turned his traumas into fuel, silently and stubbornly striving to become a better person with each passing day.
He could be described as a lone wolf. In his youth, he had been part of an agency, but soon went solo. He was never a famous hero, and the lack of recognition never bothered him. In truth, he preferred it that way. Being a hero wasn't about fame, it was about purpose. And his purpose was to protect the future of the young. That very purpose had, inevitably, led him to the classroom. Aizawa cared about people more than he was willing to admit.
When rumors began circulating about a vigilante acting in the shadows, he didn't pay them much mind. It sounded like just another person trying to draw attention. But the tone of the reports changed. They spoke of a violent, merciless young man, someone who attacked criminals with brutality. That unsettled Aizawa. He had no obligation to get involved, but his experience with vigilantes made it hard to ignore.
Deep down, he understood their motivations—perhaps a little too well. He understood the impulse to act when the authorities remained inert, the urge to take justice into one's own hands. But there had to be limits. There were laws, rules, responsibilities. Aizawa could sympathize with the cause, but not with the blood it left behind.
The so-called "Ghost of the Night" was different from the others. His targets were taken down quickly and violently, and his appearance, a hooded figure in a dark cloak and white mask, only added to his threatening aura. At first, Aizawa assumed he was a sadist, but as he dug deeper, the story began to shift. He found reports of people being saved, small acts of kindness between the assaults.
The evidence was scarce, but it all pointed in one direction. The vigilante was young. His build, the slightly high-pitched voice, the lack of control. No clear signs of a known quirk—only mentions of strength and speed beyond the norm.
Tracking his movements, Aizawa noticed that the vigilante seemed to be targeting a specific gang involved in robberies in the commercial districts. There was a pattern, a logic to the locations and timing of the attacks. He was careful.
Smart, Aizawa recognized. A good-hearted kid, disillusioned with the apathy of the system, trying to fix the world on his own. Aizawa understood that. Maybe he even saw a bit of himself in the boy. But even if he understood the reasons, he knew that path only led to ruin.
He thought like a teacher, more than a hero, as he patrolled the district that night. The boy needed guidance, not punishment. He was reckless, perhaps naive, but he could still be saved.
Then came the sounds, the distant echo of explosions and screams. Aizawa ran, his scarf fluttering in the damp night wind, until the alley opened before him like a wound in the city.
The scene made him pause. A man lay on the ground, his body partially sunken into the asphalt, bleeding silently. Farther ahead, another man, larger, more muscular, was writhing in pain, his arm torn open, blood staining the pavement. Standing over him, like the very shadow of death, was the Ghost.
A slender figure, cloaked in a ragged dark cape, the white mask reflecting the cold light of the streetlamps. In his hand, a black blade, suspended, ready to strike.
In a split second, Aizawa reacted. His capture cloth sliced through the air and coiled around the vigilante's wrist, stopping the blow.
"You weren't exactly what I was expecting," Aizawa muttered, his voice low but firm.
The vigilante turned slowly. Just as described—short, slim, his body hidden beneath the cloak. But the mask was the most striking feature, a pale, expressionless skull staring back at him.
He didn't look surprised, nor afraid. The coldness that radiated from his presence made the air feel heavier.
Aizawa felt a chill, not of fear, but of recognition.
"So... who the hell are you?" Aizawa asked.
Emiya remained silent.
A light rain had begun to fall, dripping onto the cracked asphalt and mixing with the blood of the fallen man. The alley was swallowed in shadows, broken only by the faint glow of a distant streetlight. Aizawa emerged from the darkness with tired eyes, his body relaxed, but tension visible in the way his scarf floated around him. Emiya watched him from behind the mask, motionless, calculating.
"You were going to kill him, weren't you?" Aizawa asked.
"Kill him? Of course not. I was just... correcting his behavior," Emiya replied calmly, almost bored.
"Funny. The whole ground covered in blood, and you talk like it's a moral lesson."
"Depends on the point of view. Sometimes pain teaches faster than justice."
"You talk like someone who thinks they understand what justice is. But what I see is just another kid playing hero, or worse, thinking he's a judge."
"Hero? Me? Please... you guys have monopolized that title for a long time. I just clean up the mess when the 'professionals' aren't around," Emiya said, laughing briefly—a muffled sound behind the mask.
"And how many people did you clean up this week?"
"Fewer than I'd like. More than you'd approve of."
"Do you have a plan, or do you just act whenever you feel entitled to dispense your own justice?"
"A plan? Let's say I'm a symptom, not the disease. If the system worked, I wouldn't even need to exist."
"And that's how you justify almost killing someone in the middle of the street?"
"'Almost' is the key word there. He's still breathing. Believe me, I'd do worse if I really wanted to kill someone."
Aizawa narrowed his eyes, his voice low but sharp.
"You're a kid. And if you keep going down this path, you'll end up dead or worse, killing someone and realizing too late there's no glory in it."
"Dead? Maybe. But at least I won't die pretending the world is a fair place."
"You don't understand anything about justice."
"And you do? You teach kids to risk their lives but condemn those who act without a license. In the end, it's just paperwork, isn't it?"
Silence hung heavy between them. Aizawa's capture cloth shifted subtly, ready. Emiya stepped back, his body relaxed but his eyes sharp.
The rain thickened, drawing silver lines across the concrete. The heavy air carried the scent of iron and ozone—a harbinger of conflict. Aizawa moved first, his bindings spreading out like living serpents, cutting through the air toward Emiya.
Emiya reacted instinctively, trying to project a blade, but nothing happened. The familiar glow of magical energy didn't appear. A chill ran down his spine.
"Damn... my projection... is it blocked?" Emiya thought, frustrated.
Aizawa's red eyes gleamed beneath his soaked hair. His gaze was cold and analytical.
"Welcome to the real world, kid. No gimmicks."
Without hesitation, Aizawa launched his bandages toward Emiya. The cloths cut through space with unnatural movements, serpentine through the air as if possessing a will of their own, attempting to wrap around his arms and legs.
Emiya dodged.
His movements were clean, precise, almost too economical. He twisted his body at the exact moment, leaned only as much as necessary, took a laterally calculated step. The bindings passed him by mere centimeters.
From the outside, Aizawa had a clear advantage: he was bigger, stronger, faster. Each step carried solidity. Each blow held real weight.
But what he lacked in brute force, Emiya compensated for with something far deeper.
Experience.
Not years. Not decades.
Centuries. Millennia. Tens of thousands of battles engraved in his memory—real combat, where mistakes meant death.
Aizawa advanced with direct, precise strikes, solid fists and calculated kicks meant to destabilize. Techniques refined by years of training. Against any other opponent, that would have been enough to end the fight quickly.
Against Emiya, however, it seemed almost insufficient.
He dodged with minimal movement and counterattacked with brutal efficiency. A punch to the flank. A dry kick to the thigh. A short strike to the shoulder. Every attack had purpose. Every impact sought attrition.
"Fast. Trained. This kid knows how to fight," Aizawa thought.
Emiya launched a flurry of offenses. Elbow strikes, knee strikes, low sweeps—there were over a hundred different ways to neutralize each of Aizawa's advances, and he seemed to know them all.
Still, Emiya acknowledged: Aizawa was skilled.
Even under constant pressure, the hero kept his guard firm, protecting vital areas, absorbing what he couldn't avoid, retreating only as necessary. Anyone else would already be unconscious.
But the blows were accumulating.
Aizawa's breathing grew heavier.
And Emiya, carried by his own technical superiority, pressed forward more and more.
It was then that he made his mistake.
For an instant—a single, infinitesimal instant—he forgot a crucial detail.
He was no longer in his old body.
He was no longer the tall, strong, resilient man who endured endless battles. Now he inhabited a child's body—smaller, more fragile, with still immature muscles and lungs that couldn't keep up with his combat memory.
Adrenaline had numbed him.
He hadn't noticed the fatigue.
Until his breathing failed.
His breath caught for half a second.
Half a second was all Aizawa needed.
The hero swung his arms, and as if obeying an invisible command, the bindings shifted pattern. They didn't just advance—they began to move around Emiya, encircling him in impossible spirals.
Emiya's eyes widened.
Ordinary cloth shouldn't move like that.
It was wrong. Unnatural.
By the time he realized the trap, it was too late.
The bindings shot in from all angles simultaneously. He tried to grab them, catch them, tear them—but they slipped through his fingers and coiled with increasing force.
Wrists.
Ankles.
Torso.
In a single coordinated movement, they completely immobilized him and threw him to the wet ground.
Emiya struggled.
He strained his muscles. Twisted his body. Tried to shift his weight.
Nothing.
The fibers didn't give a millimeter. No slack. No deformation.
It was impossible.
Simple cloth bandages shouldn't be this resistant. Shouldn't move like that.
Breathing heavily, Aizawa approached, keeping a safe distance. There was relief in his shoulders, but not carelessness. His red eyes remained alert, analyzing every minimal movement of the trapped boy.
The rain continued to fall.
Emiya looked up, frustrated—not by the technical defeat, but by his own carelessness.
One mistake.
One single moment of forgetfulness.
And that was enough.
Aizawa stopped before him, steady, vigilant.
The battle was over.
"It's over."
"Over? You think you've caught me just because you tied me up?" Emiya said sarcastically, his voice muffled by his mask.
"No. I think I caught you because you're sleepy."
He pulled out a short cloth and delivered a quick strike to Emiya's neck.
The boy's world darkened.
His body relaxed in the bindings, his breathing calming. Aizawa caught him before he hit the ground, observing him for a moment, his face obscured by the mask, his features still youthful.
"A kid... and already ready to kill," Aizawa murmured to himself.
He sighed, adjusting the bindings that now wrapped around the unconscious body. The rain continued to fall, washing away the blood and dust.
As he dragged Emiya out of the alley, Aizawa cast one last glance at the scene of the battle: the cracked asphalt, the marks of the fight, the unconscious man amidst the wreckage.
"The world really is getting worse."