The temple was quiet by nightfall, the mist from the morning burned away by a pale moon. Shirou sat on the engawa, a cup of tea cooling in his hands, listening to the faint creak of the old wood beneath him. Medea was in her workshop, the rhythmic pulse of her bounded field a steady heartbeat in the background.
It should have been peaceful. The Enforcers had left without incident, Saber had retreated into her own thoughts, and for the first time in days there was no immediate threat clawing at the gates.
But the quiet felt… staged.
Down in the city, a black van rolled through narrow streets, headlights dimmed. Inside, six JSDF operatives checked weapons and comms. Their leader, a lean man with a scar across his jaw, spoke in a low voice.
"Objective is recon only. We find the Raven, we track him, we don't engage. Understood?"
No one answered. They all knew the stories — a man in black‑and‑gold armor walking through gunfire, storms answering his call. Half of them didn't believe it. The other half believed too much.
Back at the temple, Medea emerged from her workshop, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're brooding," she said, settling beside him.
"Thinking," he corrected.
"About the Enforcers?"
"About the board," he said. "Pieces are moving faster than they should."
She tilted her head. "And you're worried?"
He smiled faintly. "Not worried. Just… making sure I'm where I need to be when the next piece falls."
Her expression softened. "You've been carrying that weight alone for too long."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it's lighter with you here."
In a dimly lit conference room in London, the Barthomeloi crest gleamed on the wall. Lorelei herself was absent, but her voice carried through a speakerphone.
"He is destabilizing the veil," she said. "Openly using magecraft in front of mundanes, destroying military assets. This cannot continue."
From the other end of the table, Lord El‑Melloi II's voice was calm. "And yet, he has prevented greater disasters. Dracula's rampage would have exposed us far more."
"Pragmatism is not a defense," Lorelei snapped. "Contain him."
There was a pause. "Containment," El‑Melloi said slowly, "is not the same as control."
The line went dead.
The JSDF recon team reached the outskirts of the temple grounds just before midnight. The leader signaled a halt, scanning the treeline. "Thermal sweep," he ordered.
The tech specialist frowned at the readout. "Sir… there's nothing. No heat signatures. Not even animals."
A ripple passed through the air — the same subtle wrongness Shirou had felt that morning. The team froze.
On the engawa, Shirou set his tea aside and stood. "Guests," he murmured.
Medea's lips curved. "Shall I greet them?"
"Not yet," he said. "Let's see how close they're willing to get."
The recon team advanced another twenty meters before the first man collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground. The others spun, weapons raised, but there was no target — only the oppressive weight of a presence pressing down on them.
The leader's comm crackled. "Pull back," he ordered. "Now."
They didn't need telling twice.
From the shadows of the treeline, Shirou watched them retreat. He didn't move to stop them.
Medea joined him, her eyes glinting in the moonlight. "You let them go."
"For now," he said.
The next day, the fragile peace between Servants shattered.
It started in the market district — a clash between Rider and Lancer that spilled into the open. Steel rang against steel, sparks scattering across the cobblestones. Civilians screamed and scattered, phones out, recording.
Shirou arrived with Medea at his side, intercepting a spear thrust meant for a bystander. "Enough," he said, voice carrying over the chaos.
Lancer grinned. "Just keeping sharp."
"You're keeping the Association's eyes on all of us," Shirou shot back, he didn't need any more of that right now.
Rider's gaze was cool. "Better their eyes than their knives."
Shortly after they left, things were peaceful, until they weren't.
The market district was still ringing from the clash between Rider and Lancer when the air changed — a crushing pressure that made the crowd instinctively recoil.
Illyasviel von Einzbern stepped into view, pale hair gleaming, crimson eyes locked on Shirou. Behind her, the ground trembled under the weight of the giant that followed.
Medea's voice was tight. "Heracles. Berserker of the Twelve Labors."
Shirou's mind snapped into overdrive. Too early. In the VN, this fight's a death flag unless—
Illya's voice cut through his thoughts. "You. You took him from me."
"I didn't—" he began.
"Liar!" Her hand snapped up. Mana flared, and Berserker charged.
The axe‑sword came down like a guillotine. In a split second, Shirou invoked his Trace. On. and was granted 100% of his Od, this allowed him to project Kanshou and Bakuya instantaneously and reinforce his body to the max. He caught the blow, but the force still drove him back, boots gouging the stone. Saber was already there, intercepting the follow‑up with a flash of invisible steel. The impact cracked the pavement.
"Stay with me!" Saber barked, pivoting to drive a slash across Berserker's flank. The wound closed almost instantly — but not before a shimmer of light marked the loss of a life.
"One," she muttered.
Berserker roared, swinging wide. Medea's barrier flared, absorbing the blow, but cracks spider‑webbed across it.
Saber darted in low, Excalibur's unseen edge carving across Berserker's knee. The giant staggered, and she followed with a rising slash that took his head clean off in a spray of blood. Another shimmer — a second life gone.
Illya's scream was pure fury. "Kill her!"
Berserker's body reformed mid‑lunge, but Saber was already moving, her blade a blur. She feinted high, then drove the point into his chest, piercing his heart. The third shimmer flared and faded.
"Three," Saber said, eyes locked on her opponent.
The roar of engines drowned out Illya's reply. Ten tanks rolled into the street, turrets swinging toward the melee. Above, fifteen attack aircraft screamed overhead. Fifty soldiers poured in from side streets, rifles raised.
"Contact! Engage all hostiles!" a voice barked over loudspeakers.
The first tank fired. The shell slammed into Berserker's chest, the explosion engulfing him in smoke and flame.
When it cleared, he was still standing.
Berserker leapt into the nearest tank, axe‑sword cleaving through armor like paper. The turret spun away, crashing into a storefront. Soldiers opened fire, bullets sparking harmlessly off his skin. He waded into them, each swing scattering bodies.
An attack jet dove, missiles streaking toward him. He caught one mid‑flight and hurled it back, the detonation shredding another aircraft in a fireball. Medea's eyes widened.
"He's using them as training dummies," she said.
A tank round slammed into the street beside them, the blast hurling Shirou into a wall. Saber intercepted another shell, the impact driving her to one knee, gauntlet smoking. Medea's barrier flickered under a hail of stray fire.
"Fall back!" Shirou shouted.
Saber slashed through a soldier who strayed too close, then blocked another tank shell aimed at Medea. "Go! I'll cover!"
They broke contact, darting through side streets as Berserker tore through the last of the JSDF armor. The air stank of burning fuel and ozone. Overhead, the final aircraft spiraled down in flames.
At the edge of the district, Shirou risked a glance back. Berserker stood amid the wreckage, Illya at his side, her eyes still locked on him even at this distance.