The smell of burning fuel still clung to him.
Even after the temple's gates had closed behind them, after Medea's wards had sealed the world out, the echoes of Berserker's roar and the thunder of collapsing armor haunted the air. The JSDF's intervention had been a disaster — for them, for the city, for the fragile balance of the War. And for Shirou, it had been a reminder.
A reminder that the Steel‑Eyed Raven was no longer enough.
He sat alone in the shed, the dim light pooling around him, Kanshou and Bakuya laid across his knees. His hands were steady, but his mind was a storm.
The Raven was a weapon. A shadow. A myth whispered in fear. That worked when fear was the goal, but fear doesn't inspire. Fear doesn't unite, and after some retrospect, I've realized just how much of a punisher copy I am. All those deaths, and for what, crime still reigns, and I just lose even more of who I was, that kid who just wanted to be a hero like Superman and Captain America. I can't just be a shadow anymore.
He thought of the civilians in the market district, scattering like leaves as Servants clashed. Of Saber's voice, sharp with warning. Of Medea's hand gripping his arm, pulling him back from a blow that could have ended him.
If I'm going to change this war — if I'm going to change this world — they need to see something else. Not a ghost in black and gold. A knight. A hero, heh, I can't believe it took me two years into this world and now I want to be a hero during a grail war. HAHAHAHAHA!!
The decision had been forming for weeks, maybe months, just always on the back of his mind as everything started to spiral out of control. The recent battle hit the final nail in the coffin for the Steel-Eyed Raven, and his journey on an even worse path of heroism. If he kept going as the raven, he would have become a mix between Kiritsugu and EMIYA Alter, and with his even stronger starting point, he would have become a force of nature.
The armor lay before him now, each piece a mix of metalwork and alteration refined over sleepless nights. Gone was the Raven's angular, predatory silhouette. In its place: a design that blended the elegance of chivalry with the brutal efficiency of modern combat.
The cuirass was deep crimson, the color of fresh-forged steel still glowing from the forge, layered over a flexible underweave of reinforced aramid fibers. It was light enough to move in, heavy enough to turn a blade. The pauldrons curved outward, etched with faint, almost imperceptible runes — wards against curses and hexes, each one drawn from Medea's own hand.
The gauntlets were articulated steel over the same crimson weave, fingertips capped with hardened plates that could catch and deflect a sword edge. The greaves matched, their inner lining padded to absorb shock from falls or impacts.
A half‑cloak of dark red hung from his right shoulder, clasped with a silver pin in the shape of a sword's crossguard. It wasn't just for show — the fabric was layered with a thin mesh of mithril threads, resistant to fire and capable of dispersing magical projectiles.
The helm was the most striking change: a full‑face visor of polished crimson steel, the eye slits narrow but wide enough for full peripheral vision. Behind the visor, a thin layer of enchanted glass filtered blinding light and resisted scrying attempts. The best part is that with the magical nature of the armor, it allowed Shirou to more easily reinforce it to withstand stronger blows.
Strengths:
Resistant to bladed weapons and small‑caliber gunfire.
Wards against low‑ to mid‑tier curses.
Mithril‑thread cloak disperses heat and magical energy.
Lightweight enough for full mobility.
Visor enchantments protect against flash, glare, and magical sight.
Weaknesses:
Vulnerable to high‑tier Noble Phantasms.
Limited protection against concussive force.
Enchantments require periodic recharging.
He ran a hand over the cuirass, feeling the faint hum of the wards. This wasn't just armor. It was a statement.
The Raven was mine. My creation. My shield. But it was also a wall between me and the people I swore to protect. They saw a weapon, not a man, and maybe that was safer. But safety doesn't win wars, safety doesn't change the ending.
I've seen the endings. I've lived with them. I know where this path leads if I don't change it. So I'll give them something else to believe in. A knight in crimson, standing in the open, blade in hand. They don't need to know it's me. They just need to see him.
The first time he stepped into the courtyard in the new armor, Saber's eyes narrowed. She didn't comment, but the way she adjusted her grip on her invisible blade told him she approved.
They began slowly — testing footwork, gauging reach. Saber's strikes were precise, economical, each one a lesson in efficiency. Shirou matched her as best he could, the weight of the armor unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
"You've improved," she said after the first bout, her breathing steady. "Your guard is tighter. Your counters… less reckless."
"Less doesn't mean not," he replied, circling her.
She smiled faintly. "True."
Over the next week, the war suspiciously quiet, the sessions grew longer, faster. Saber pressed him harder, forcing him to adapt. He learned to read the subtle shifts in her stance, the way her shoulders telegraphed a thrust, the faint tightening of her grip before a feint.
One afternoon, after an hour of relentless exchanges, she stepped back, lowering her blade.
"You're not just imitating different styles anymore, copying what others have done, good." she said. "You're fighting with your own technique now, and have taken your first step into proper swordsmanship."
He nodded, sweat dripping into his eyes. "I had a good teacher."
Medea watched the sparring from the engawa, her expression unreadable. That night, as he removed the armor, she stepped behind him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
"You move differently in it," she murmured. "More… certain."
"It's not just the armor," he said.
Her fingers traced the line of his collarbone. "No. It's you."
He turned, catching her hand. "You've been part of that."
She smiled, leaning in until her forehead rested against his. "Then let me be part of what comes next."
The kiss was slow, deliberate — It was like fireworks had erupted in Shirou's head and his heart beat with love. She tasted like honey and he spent the rest of the night tasting more.
It happened during a sparring match two days later. Saber's blade locked with his, and for a moment, their eyes met. Something passed between them — a flicker of memory not his own.
A golden field. A sword in a stone. A hand, small but steady, closing around the hilt.
The vision was gone in an instant, but the shape of the sword remained in his mind. Not Excalibur. Caliburn.
That night, in the shed, he closed his eyes and reached for it. The projection came easily, the blade forming in his hands with a soft hum of power. It was lighter than Kanshou or Bakuya, perfectly balanced, the gold of its guard warm against his skin.
When he showed it to Saber the next day, her eyes widened.
"I thought it was lost," she said softly.
"Maybe it was," he replied. "But now it's here."
The Crimson Knight's debut came sooner than expected. A rogue magus had taken hostages in a downtown office building, demanding a relic from the Association. The police were outmatched and clueless, the Association was too slow.
Shirou moved through the night like a shadow, the crimson armor catching the glow of streetlights. Caliburn hung at his side, the mithril‑thread cloak whispering against his legs.
Inside, the magus barely had time to register his presence before the fight was over. The hostages saw only a knight in crimson, moving with impossible speed, his blade flashing once, twice, and the threat was gone.
By the time the police breached the building, he was gone.
The next morning, the news was full of it. Grainy cell phone footage, eyewitness accounts. No one knew who he was. They called him the Crimson Knight.
At the temple, Medea handed him a cup of tea, her eyes dancing. "They're already telling stories."
Saber stood nearby, arms crossed. "Just make sure the stories are worth telling."
Shirou looked out over the city, the weight of Caliburn at his side.
"They will be."