When Shirou Emiya left Japan in March, it wasn't in triumph. It was in silence.
The Steel‑Eyed Raven had become too big, too loud, too infamous to move freely. The JSDF's net was tightening, the Association's eyes were on Fuyuki, and every step he took risked dragging Rin and Sakura into the crosshairs. So he vanished — not into hiding, but into the world.
The plan was simple in concept, brutal in execution: disappear from Japan, train until his body and mind were honed to the absolute limit of human potential, and return in time for the Grail War. He'd already pushed himself beyond most magi's physical limits; now he wanted more. Peak human ability — the kind you read about in comics, where a man could fight armies, leap rooftops, and survive wounds that should kill him.
He crossed continents like a shadow. In the mountains of Nepal, he trained with ex‑Gurkha soldiers, learning knife work and mountain warfare. In the deserts of North Africa, he ran live‑fire drills with mercenaries who didn't care about his past, only his performance. In Eastern Europe, he fought in underground arenas where the rules were simple: don't die. Every day was a crucible — endurance runs until his legs gave out, sparring until his arms were lead, meditation until his mind was a blade.
He refined his magecraft alongside the physical. Projection became faster, cleaner. Reinforcement became second nature, flowing into muscle and bone without conscious thought. He learned to layer it subtly, to make his body a weapon without the telltale flare of mana that could give him away. By December, he could run a marathon in armor, fight for hours without slowing, and hit a target at 300 meters with a revolver that kicked like a mule.
And now, with the Grail War two months away, it was time to come home.
The ferry from Busan cut through the winter sea under a slate‑gray sky. Shirou stood on the deck, hood up, the cold wind biting at his face. Japan's coastline was a dark line on the horizon, growing sharper with every minute. He could feel the weight of it — the checkpoints, the patrols, the eyes waiting for him.
He didn't intend to sneak in quietly. Not this time.
The port at Shimonoseki was busy, even in the cold. Cargo cranes swung overhead, workers shouted to each other over the rumble of engines. Shirou stepped off the ferry with the crowd, his altered appearance — hair darker, eyes dulled to brown — letting him pass the first layer of scrutiny.
He made it three blocks before the first patrol spotted him.
"Sir, stop right there!" The voice was sharp, military. Two JSDF soldiers stepped into his path, rifles low but ready.
Shirou turned slowly, meeting their eyes. "Problem?"
"Random ID check," one said. "Hands where we can see them."
He raised his hands, palms out. The soldier stepped forward, scanning his face with a handheld device. The screen beeped, and the soldier's eyes widened.
"Steel‑Eyed—"
Shirou moved.
A twist, a step inside the rifle's arc, a palm strike to the chest that sent the soldier sprawling. The second brought his weapon up, but Shirou's hand was already on the barrel, shoving it aside as he drove a knee into the man's gut. Both went down hard.
Shouts erupted up the street. More soldiers. The net was already closing.
He ducked into an alley, boots splashing through puddles, the sound of pursuit echoing behind him. A drone buzzed overhead, its camera swiveling. He projected a throwing knife without breaking stride, the blade spinning up to clip the drone's rotor. It spiraled into the wall in a shower of sparks.
"Raven! Stop!" a voice barked from the mouth of the alley.
He didn't.
The chase spilled into the open — a wide street lined with shuttered shops. A JSDF truck screeched to a halt ahead, soldiers piling out. They formed a line, rifles leveled.
Shirou slowed, his breath misting in the cold air. The street was silent except for the wind.
"On your knees!" the squad leader shouted. "Hands behind your head!"
He looked at them — really looked — and saw the fear under the discipline. They'd heard the stories. They'd seen the footage. And now the monster from those stories was standing in front of them.
"Not today," Shirou said.
He reinforced his legs and moved.
The first volley of gunfire cracked through the air, but he was already weaving, the rounds sparking off the reinforced plates under his coat. He closed the distance in seconds, slipping inside the rifles' effective range. A projected short sword flashed, knocking barrels aside, the flat of the blade slamming into helmets and armor.
A soldier swung the butt of his rifle at him; Shirou caught it, twisted, and sent the man sprawling. Another tried to tackle him from behind — Shirou dropped his weight, threw the man over his shoulder, and sent him crashing into two more.
The squad leader backed up, fumbling for his sidearm. Shirou's hand shot out, grabbing the man's vest and hauling him close.
"Tell your superiors," Shirou said, his voice low and cold. "I'm back."
He shoved the man away and broke through the line, sprinting down the street as shouts and gunfire erupted behind him.
By the time he reached the edge of the district, the sirens were wailing. Patrol cars blocked the main roads, soldiers moved in coordinated sweeps. He could feel the city tightening around him.
He ducked into a narrow side street, vaulted a fence, and landed in the back lot of an abandoned warehouse. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint smell of oil. He moved to the far wall, crouching in the shadows.
Footsteps approached outside. Voices — low, tense.
"…sighted heading this way." "Orders are to contain until reinforcements arrive." "Contain? You saw what he did to First Squad—"
Shirou closed his eyes, listening. Counting. Six men. Two at the front, two circling left, two right.
He moved before they could.
The first pair went down in a blur — a sweep to take their legs, a strike to the helmet to rattle their brains. The second pair rounded the corner and froze just long enough for him to close the gap, disarm one, and use the rifle's stock to drop the other.
The last two hesitated at the warehouse door. Shirou stepped into the light, the black armor of the Steel‑Eyed Raven unfolding over him in a shimmer of projected plates. The molten gold of his true eyes burned through the dim.
"Boo," he said.
They broke.
By the time the JSDF regrouped, he was gone — melted back into the city's veins, leaving only unconscious soldiers and the echo of his return.
Hours later, in a safehouse on the outskirts of Fuyuki, Shirou sat at a small table, stripping and cleaning one of his revolvers. The city outside was restless — sirens in the distance, the thrum of helicopters overhead. His re‑entry had been loud, deliberate. The message was sent.
Two months until the Grail War. Two months to move through a city that wanted him dead or in chains. Two months to finish what he'd started.
He slid the revolver back into its holster and leaned back, closing his eyes. The training abroad had sharpened him, hardened him, but Japan was different. Here, every step was a risk. Every shadow could hide an enemy.
And yet, as the storm gathered, he felt the old fire in his chest.
The Steel‑Eyed Raven was home.