Chapter 1: The Man Who Shouldn't Exist
The rain hammered against the ancient stone lanterns of Ryuudou Temple with relentless fury, each drop carrying the weight of a city's unspoken prayers. Lightning split the midnight sky over Fuyuki, illuminating the sacred grounds in stark, dramatic flashes that made shadows dance like restless spirits. In the temple's most secluded courtyard, where even the monks rarely ventured during daylight hours, a figure knelt motionless beneath the torrential downpour.
Aion Origin had no memory of how he'd arrived at this place. His first conscious moment had been the sensation of cold stone beneath his knees and the taste of rain on his lips—metallic, electric, alive with possibility. In his trembling hand was a piece of paper, soggy and nearly illegible, bearing only his name and an address that meant nothing to him. Everything else was an endless void where memories should have been.
But the absence of memory was nothing compared to the presence of power that thrummed through his veins like liquid fire. Even now, as he knelt in confusion and growing desperation, reality seemed to bend around him. Water drops froze mid-fall in perfect crystalline spheres when his emotions spiked. The cracked stone beneath his knees had somehow repaired itself, smooth and whole as if time itself had reversed. Most unsettling of all was the way his reflection in the temple's rain-filled basin showed not just his face, but glimpses of cosmic void—endless darkness punctuated by swirling galaxies of light.
"What am I?" he whispered to the storm, his voice barely audible above the thunder.
The answer came not in words, but in the sudden, sharp sound of footsteps on wet stone.
Aion's head snapped up, water streaming from his dark hair as a figure emerged from the temple's main hall. Even through the curtain of rain, there was no mistaking the regal bearing, the perfect posture that spoke of noble blood and unwavering conviction. Golden hair gleamed like spun sunlight despite the storm's fury, and eyes the color of winter sky surveyed the courtyard with tactical precision.
The woman—no, the warrior—moved with liquid grace, one hand resting casually on the hilt of an invisible sword. Her armor, revealed in brief lightning flashes, bore the elegant curves of ceremonial plate, yet somehow conveyed the impression of absolute lethality. This was someone who had commanded armies, who had stood against impossible odds and emerged victorious through sheer force of will.
"State your name and purpose for trespassing on sacred ground," she commanded, her voice carrying an authority that seemed to make the very rain hesitate. There was no cruelty in her tone, but neither was there warmth—only the cold certainty of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.
Aion struggled to his feet, acutely aware of how pathetic he must appear—soaked, confused, clutching a piece of paper like a lost child. Yet something in the woman's bearing, in the way she held herself with such perfect discipline, sparked an unexpected response deep in his chest. Not fear, but recognition. This was someone worth respecting, worth protecting, worth following into the depths of hell itself if necessary.
"My name is Aion Origin," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the chaos in his mind. "As for my purpose... I don't know. I woke here with no memories except my name. I apologize for any intrusion."
The warrior's eyes narrowed, studying him with the intensity of someone evaluating a potential threat. "You claim ignorance, yet your presence here is no coincidence. This temple sits at the convergence of multiple ley lines. Only those with significant magical ability would be drawn to such a place unconsciously."
"Magical ability?" Aion's laugh came out bitter and broken. "I don't even know what I am, let alone what I can do. All I know is that sometimes, when I'm not thinking about it, things... happen."
As if summoned by his words, another figure materialized from the shadows near the temple's ancient bell tower. This one moved with an entirely different energy—fluid where the warrior was solid, playful where she was serious, mysterious where she was forthright. His hair was silver-white, his robes the deep blue of midnight sky dotted with stars that seemed to shift and dance in the lantern light.
"Ah, but that's where you're mistaken, young one," the newcomer said, his voice carrying the musical cadence of someone who spoke in riddles for the sheer joy of it. "The fact that you don't understand your power makes it all the more fascinating. Tell me, when these 'things' happen, do they follow the normal rules of magecraft? Do they draw upon existing phenomena and reshape them according to your will?"
Aion frowned, trying to recall the fragmentary moments when reality had seemed to respond to his unconscious desires. "No," he said slowly. "It's more like... like I imagine something that doesn't exist, and then suddenly it does. Not changing what's there, but creating something completely new."
The silver-haired man's eyes lit up with genuine delight, and he clapped his hands together in a gesture that seemed both childlike and ancient. "Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous! Do you realize what you've just described, my dear confused young man? You've described creation ex nihilo—the bringing forth of something from nothing. Such ability hasn't been seen since the Age of Gods!"
"Merlin," the warrior said, and there was a warning note in her voice. "We cannot be certain of his intentions. Power without understanding is dangerous enough, but power of that magnitude..."
"Merlin?" Aion's eyes widened as the implications hit him. "As in, the Merlin? The wizard of Arthurian legend?"
The silver-haired man—Merlin—gave an elaborate bow, his robes billowing dramatically. "Grand Caster, Court Mage to the Once and Future King, Architect of Camelot's greatest victories and most tragic downfalls, at your humble service. And this formidable lady is—"
"Artoria Pendragon," the warrior interrupted, stepping forward into the full light of the temple lanterns. "King Arthur, if you prefer the more familiar title. Saber-class Servant in the Holy Grail War currently consuming this city."
The words hit Aion like physical blows. King Arthur. The legendary monarch stood before him in the flesh, real and solid and impossibly, undeniably present. And if she was here, if Merlin was here, then that meant...
"The Holy Grail War," he repeated numbly. "That's... that's real too?"
Artoria's expression softened slightly, perhaps recognizing the genuine bewilderment in his voice. "Seven Masters, seven Servants, seven legends summoned to fight for the ultimate prize. The Holy Grail—a wish-granting device capable of reshaping reality itself." Her gaze sharpened again. "And you, Aion Origin, have wandered into the middle of a conflict that has already claimed lives and will claim many more before it ends."
Thunder rolled overhead, punctuating her words with ominous finality. Aion felt the weight of destiny settling around his shoulders like a mantle he'd never asked to wear. Yet beneath the fear and confusion, something else was stirring—a fierce protectiveness that demanded action, that refused to stand idle while others suffered.
It was a feeling that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than memory, older than his mysterious awakening. The urge to shield, to fight, to stand between the innocent and those who would harm them. It burned in his chest like a second heartbeat, growing stronger with each passing moment.
"Then I can't just walk away," he said, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. "If people are dying, if this war is tearing the city apart, then I have to help somehow."
Artoria studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "You speak of helping, yet you claim to understand neither your power nor the nature of the conflict. Good intentions are meaningless without the strength and skill to act upon them effectively."
"Then teach me," Aion said simply. "I may not remember my past, but I know what I am now. I'm someone who can't stand by and watch others suffer. If you're fighting to protect this city, then let me fight beside you."
Merlin chuckled softly, the sound somehow managing to convey both approval and amusement. "Such determination! And from someone who didn't even know magic existed five minutes ago. I do believe fate has a sense of humor after all."
"This is not a decision to make lightly," Artoria warned. "The path of a protector is paved with sacrifice and sorrow. You will see horrors that will haunt your dreams. You will make choices that will weigh upon your soul for all eternity. And in the end, you may find that all your efforts were for nothing."
Aion met her gaze unflinchingly. "Then that's a risk I'll have to take. Because the alternative—doing nothing while people die—isn't something I can live with."
Something shifted in Artoria's expression then, a recognition that seemed to go deeper than mere approval. Perhaps she saw something of herself in his words, an echo of the idealistic young king who had once drawn a sword from stone and sworn to protect a kingdom.
"Very well," she said finally. "I will train you. But understand this—I will not coddle you or make allowances for your inexperience. If you wish to stand among legends, you must prove yourself worthy of that honor."
As if to punctuate her words, the storm began to subside, the rain gradually softening from a torrential downpour to a gentle patter. The first hints of dawn touched the eastern horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose that seemed to herald new beginnings.
Merlin stepped forward, producing what appeared to be a simple wooden staff from thin air. "Your education begins immediately, young Aion. If you truly possess the power of creation, then understanding its nature and limitations will be crucial to your survival. But first..." He gestured toward the temple's main hall, where warm light spilled from the windows like a promise of sanctuary. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere dry? I find philosophical discussions much more pleasant when one isn't being steadily soaked to the skin."
Aion followed them toward the temple, his mind still reeling from everything he'd learned. King Arthur and Merlin were real. Magic was real. A war for the ultimate prize was being fought in the shadows of an ordinary city, and somehow, impossibly, he'd been drawn into the heart of it.
But as overwhelming as it all was, there was also something strangely right about walking beside these legends. The void where his memories should have been still ached, but the fierce protectiveness burning in his chest felt like a guiding star, pointing him toward his true purpose.
Whatever had happened to him in that forgotten past, whatever force had stripped away his memories and deposited him at the center of this supernatural conflict, Aion Origin knew one thing with absolute certainty: he would not stand idle while others suffered. He would learn to control the power that flowed through him like liquid lightning. He would train until he could stand beside legends without shame.
And if necessary, he would reshape the very foundations of reality to protect those who couldn't protect themselves.
The Holy Grail War had gained a new player—one whose power might just change everything.