The morning after the missile strike, Fuyuki was a city in shock.
The Matou district was gone. Not damaged, not partially collapsed—gone. A crater sat where the mansion had stood for generations, its edges still smoking from the heat of the blast. The surrounding neighborhood was a ruin of shattered glass, scorched walls, and twisted metal. The fire department was still fighting blazes in the outer ring of the blast zone, and the air was thick with the acrid tang of burning insulation and fuel.
On every major Japanese network, the same footage played on a loop: aerial shots of the devastation, shaky phone videos of the shockwave hitting from kilometers away, and, most damning of all, grainy security footage from Yufuin Camp. The figure on the roof was barely more than a silhouette, but the black armor, the cape, and the molten gold eyes were unmistakable to anyone who had heard the whispers. The Steel‑Eyed Raven had just committed the most brazen act of domestic terrorism in modern Japanese history.
The government moved fast. By mid‑morning, the Ministry of Defense had declared a state of emergency in Fuyuki and the surrounding prefectures. The National Police Agency and the Public Security Intelligence Agency were mobilized alongside the JSDF. Checkpoints sprang up on every major road, and facial recognition systems were updated with every known image of the Raven. The order was simple: if he was sighted in that armor, lethal force was authorized without warning. If captured alive, he was to be transferred immediately to a black‑site facility under the Ministry's Special Containment Division. There would be no trial, no public hearing—only interrogation until they had wrung every secret from him.
In the underworld, the reaction was immediate and visceral. The Raven had always been a shadowy figure, a whispered name in the alleys and backrooms, but now he was a national headline. Some gangs swore to kill him for the heat he'd brought down; others wanted to hire him, seeing his power as a weapon to be aimed. But all agreed on one thing: being seen with him now was a death sentence.
Kotomine POV
At Kotomine's church, the priest sat in the dim light of the nave, hands folded, listening to the radio broadcast. The announcer's voice was grave, describing the "unauthorized launch of a Type 88 Surface‑to‑Ship Missile from Yufuin Camp" and the "catastrophic collateral damage." Sakura sat quietly on a pew nearby, still pale but free of the crest worms. She glanced at Kotomine.
"You knew this would happen," she said softly.
Kotomine's smile was thin. "I knew something would happen. I did not expect him to be so… theatrical."
Her hands clenched in her lap. "They're calling him a terrorist."
"They're not wrong," Kotomine replied, his tone almost amused. "But terrorism is a matter of perspective. To some, he's a savior. To others, a monster. To me…" He trailed off, savoring the memory of Zouken's last moments. "To me, he's an artist." Kotomine heard the phone ring, and picked it up.
Tohsaka POV
Rin slammed her phone down hard enough to rattle the table. The news feed still played in the background, showing the crater from another angle. Even worse, her phone was being blown up by calls from the Magus Association, her title as Second Owner coming into question. For a moment, she breathed, then picked up the phone and called someone else.
"Idiot," she muttered. "Absolute idiot."
The phone answered, Kotomine's suave voice came from the other end. "You sound worried."
"I am worried," she snapped. "Do you have any idea what kind of heat he's drawn? The JSDF, the NPA, the PSIA—they're all going to be hunting him. And if they connect him to Shirou Emiya…"
Kotomine smirked. "Then your classmate's life expectancy drops to zero."
Rin paced, her mind racing. "He's made himself the most wanted man in Japan. And for what? To make a point? To save Sakura? He's just painted a target on his back so big you could see it from orbit."
Taiga POV
Taiga Fujimura sat frozen in front of the TV, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. The news anchor's voice droned on about "the Steel‑Eyed Raven's unprecedented attack." She didn't want to believe it. The boy she'd practically raised couldn't be that… thing on the screen. But the way he moved, the way he carried himself—it was too familiar.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Shirou: Don't worry about me. Stay safe. Don't talk to anyone about me.
She stared at it for a long moment, then deleted it.
Neutral POV
By afternoon, the streets of Fuyuki were crawling with uniformed officers and plainclothes agents. Roadblocks choked the main arteries, and helicopters circled overhead. The checkpoints weren't just for show—every car was stopped, every driver's face scanned. The Steel‑Eyed Raven's image was plastered on walls, bus stops, and convenience store windows. The caption beneath it read: WANTED FOR TERRORISM. EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
Shirou, in civilian clothes, moved through the back alleys. He kept his head down, but the tension in the air was palpable. Two uniformed officers walked past, their conversation low.
"…said he caught bullets with his bare hands." "Yeah, and my uncle swears his buddy saw him vanish into thin air." "Doesn't matter. Orders are clear—if we see him, we shoot."
Shirou slipped into the shadows, jaw tight. This is what it's come to. One sighting, and I'm dead.
That night, word leaked that the Raven might be moving contraband through the docks. It was false, but the JSDF took no chances. A squad of special forces lay in wait among the shipping containers.
Shirou arrived to meet a contact—only to feel the prickle of killing intent. He dove aside as suppressed gunfire shredded the crate where he'd been standing.
Rolling to his feet, he projected the sword of Sakamoto Ryoma and his custom revolver, the weapons humming with reinforcement. Shadows moved between the containers—disciplined, professional.
A flashbang went off, white light searing his vision. He moved on instinct, cutting down one soldier's rifle, disarming another with a twist and a kick. Bullets sparked off steel as he wove through them, his movements a blur.
He didn't kill them. He couldn't afford the escalation. But when he vanished into the night, leaving a trail of unconscious operatives, the message was clear: the Raven was still out there, and he was untouchable.
While Japan reeled, the rest of the world took notice. In Washington, intelligence agencies flagged the Raven as a potential "rogue magus" with access to advanced weaponry. In Moscow and Beijing, quiet inquiries were made in the underworld—could he be recruited, or would he need to be eliminated? In London, the Mage's Association debated whether to classify him as a Sealing Designate. His blatant use of magecraft in a public, catastrophic act had drawn too much attention.
For Shirou, the Steel‑Eyed Raven was now both shield and target. In the armor, he was feared, untouchable. Out of it, he was just a young man in Fuyuki—but one wrong move, one slip, and the mask would be pulled away.
Every time he stepped into the persona, the risk grew. Every public sighting tightened the noose. And yet… the work wasn't done. Zouken was gone, but the Grail War loomed.
Rin found him on a rooftop overlooking the city. He didn't turn as she approached.
"You've made yourself a ghost," she said. "Half the country's looking for you."
"I'm still here," he replied.
"For now. But you can't keep this up forever. One day, someone's going to catch you in that armor, and then—"
"Then I'll deal with it." He finally looked at her, eyes hard. "I didn't do this for glory. I did it because it had to be done."
She held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed. "Just… try not to bring the whole country down on your head before the War even starts."
He didn't answer. Below them, Fuyuki's lights flickered in the night, and somewhere in the city, the legend of the Steel‑Eyed Raven grew—darker, sharper, and far more dangerous than before.