"I shall grant you this…"
Under a sky heavy with iron clouds, the hill of swords stretched endlessly—Shirou Emiya's inner world made manifest. Blades stood like grave markers, each one a testament to battles fought and ideals tested. The air trembled with tension, the scent of metal and ozone hanging thick.
At the peak of their clash, Shirou dove from above, his projected blade screaming through the wind as it cleaved the King of Heroes' arm clean from his body—mere heartbeats before Ea, the Sword of Rupture, could be unleashed. The golden weapon clattered away, its apocalyptic hum silenced. Blood arced in the air, dark against the pallid sky.
He did not pause. In the instant the severed arm fell, Shirou willed another weapon into existence. The steel was still warm from his magecraft when he lunged to finish it—only for Gilgamesh to pivot back, avoiding the killing stroke by a hair's breadth.
The king's crimson gaze narrowed, and his voice carried a rare gravity. "…At this moment, you are strong."
Shirou's blade neared its target—and then the world shattered. A blinding flare of light consumed everything, erasing sky and steel alike. When it faded, they stood once more where their battle had begun: the mountain temple. Or rather, what remained of it—a ruin shattered by the King of Knights' earlier strike in her desperate gambit to end the King of Heroes.
The Realm both Shirou Emiya and Gilgamesh were at moments ago was the manifestation of Shirou's Mentality in a form of a Reality Marble. A Reality Marble is a highly advanced form of magecraft—often hovering near the level of True Magic—that manifests the caster's inner mental landscape into tangible reality. Unlike simpler defensive spells, it doesn't merely overlay effects on the world—it replaces the world itself with the user's internal world. You could say a reality marble is the pinnacle of Bounded Fields.
Since Reality Marbles are considered an anomaly in the world, the counterforce, under the influence of the Will of the Planet, Gaia, would attempt to correct said anomaly, and as Shirou's mana reserves finally bled dry, the inner landscape crumbled. He staggered forward on failing legs, chest heaving.
Shirou forced his gaze upward. His final strike had landed, but not as deeply as he'd hoped. The King of Heroes still stood—wounded, yes, but upright and unbowed. A deep cut marred his chest, fresh blood seeping through the golden fabric, yet his posture remained that of a monarch who refused to kneel.
Gilgamesh's eyes, gleaming like molten gold, settled on him. "Running out of mana… a pathetic end."
A golden ripple bloomed at his side, a sword's tip emerging, poised to strike. "Victory is yours. Die with that satisfaction, faker."
Then the air itself warped. From the bloody stump of the king's missing arm, darkness spilled outward—not a shadow, but a writhing void. It twisted and expanded, its pull dragging dust, rubble, and fractured stone into its depths.
Gilgamesh's brow furrowed. "What?!" His voice sharpened to disdain. "Swallowing me accomplishes nothing."
Shirou's eyes widened. A hole… from the Holy Grail?
Fragments of realization flashed through his mind. Did Saber and Rin succeed in destroying it? Or… is this some remnant clawing to survive? The void swelled like a black star, swallowing what remained of the temple.
Before he could act, golden chains erupted—Enkidu—lashing around his arm with unyielding strength. The links burned against his skin, binding him in place.
"This malformed abomination… does it not know a fellow Servant cannot be made its core?" Gilgamesh's voice was cold, but his actions betrayed his intent—he was using Shirou as an anchor, reeling himself away from the void's pull.
Realization hit like ice water. The king wasn't trying to escape alone. He was dragging Shirou with him as leverage.
"Fool," Gilgamesh snarled, muscles taut as he hauled against the chain. "I have no intention of dying here. Stay where you are, clown—until I climb back to where you stand!"
Shirou planted his feet, straining against the pull of the void, but the chains of heaven were unbreakable in his hands. Slowly, inexorably, he was being dragged toward that devouring darkness.
And then came the choice.
If he did nothing, Gilgamesh would live—free to sacrifice anyone and anything to preserve his existence. Shirou's breath steadied, his mind clearing. He had long since cast aside any instinct for self-preservation—ever since the fire in Fuyuki.
He could remember nothing before the fire. No parents, no home, no name beyond what he would later be given. Only the heat. Only the screams.
The first memory burned into him was standing amid a city reduced to hell—Fuyuki, consumed in a sea of flames. Buildings collapsed in showers of sparks. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh.
He limped through it all, a small, battered boy stumbling forward on legs that barely held him. Survival was the only thought that cut through the haze. Yet the fire stripped him, piece by piece, of everything that made him human.
Fear slowed him—he cast it aside, letting it burn. Pain gnawed at him with every step—the searing of skin, the crackling of scorched nerves—he threw it away into the inferno.
And then came the worst: a voice. A woman's voice, broken and pleading.
A mother, trapped beneath debris, begged him to take her child to safety.
He looked at her. At the small, crying bundle in her arms. And something deep in him hesitated.
So he burned that too. His hesitation, his empathy—he cast them into the fire. He walked on, hollow, until nothing remained but an empty husk moving forward.
His legs finally gave out. He collapsed on the charred ground, the weight of the smoke pressing down, vision narrowing to a black tunnel. The last of his strength seeped away.
And then—light.
Not the orange of flames, but a golden, vibrant radiance. When it faded, a man stood over him, middle-aged, dark eyes brimming with relief and tears.
"You're alive… thank God, you're alive. Thank you… thank you…"
A hand reached down. A hand that would change everything.
In that instant, something stirred in the boy's hollow chest. The thought that if saving someone could make a man that happy… perhaps he could be happy too.
A helping hand in a sea of flames. Dark eyes that lit up with happiness. A wretched life that once more had value. 'Could I be that happy too if I saved someone?' Could it perhaps do the same for him? Shirou clenched and unclenched his hands, slowly breathing in and out. It was then that he would later be adopted by his savior and be raised by him.
The night before his foster father died, the world felt still, as if holding its breath.
"Hey, son… back then my dream was to become a hero. But I learned too late—it has a trial period, and it's impossible once you reach my age."
"You didn't succeed?" Shirou asked, the corners of his mouth turning down when his father gave a small, tired nod. Then he straightened, determination flickering in his eyes. "That's okay, Dad. I'll become a hero in your place. I promise."
He didn't care about the details of Kiritsugu's failure, nor did he feel the need to pry. To Shirou, saving people was the only way to make up for his sins, to find his own happiness—and if that meant fulfilling an old dream of his father's, all the better.
Kiritsugu's lips curved faintly, a breath of laughter escaping. "Heh… I'm sure you will—" His voice broke into silence as his eyes closed, never to open again.
The memory dissolved, replaced by the harsh present—chains coiling around his arm, biting into his skin. Enkidu, the Chains of Heaven, tethering him to Gilgamesh, who was using Shirou as an anchor to pull himself from the void.
"Fool! I haven't the least intention of dying. Stay where you are, clown—at least until I climb back to where you are!" the King of Heroes barked, his tone dripping with arrogance even as the Grail's black maw threatened to consume him.
Shirou gritted his teeth. His feet slid across the broken stone. Every muscle strained against the pull, but Gilgamesh's grip—and the chain's divine binding—held fast.
He knew what would happen if he let this continue. Gilgamesh would escape. Innocents would die, sacrificed for the King of Heroes' whims. And this time, there would be no one to stop him.
Self-preservation had long since died in that fire years ago. What remained was his vow—to save others, no matter the cost.
If he had to trade his life to stop Gilgamesh here, then so be it.
Shirou stopped resisting. Instead, he lunged forward, putting every last shred of his strength into one decisive act—slamming into Gilgamesh with all his weight.
The King of Heroes' eyes widened in shock as the chain, their only anchor to the world, was pulled entirely into the swirling abyss.
"Faker!!!"
Gilgamesh's roar echoed as the void swallowed them both.
The blackness contracted upon itself, shrinking to nothingness. And when it vanished, there was no trace of either man.
Not even a shadow remained.
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Darkness.
Not the absence of light, but a weight, crushing and infinite. The air — if it could be called that — reeked of rot, like centuries-old decay soaked in tar. The ground was nowhere. The sky did not exist.
It was the inside of something — alive and wrong.
From the blackness, shapes writhed: tendrils of shadow that carried whispers too faint to hear, yet heavy enough to stain the soul. They coiled toward him like predators scenting fresh prey.
Angra Mainyu. The shadow of all the world's evils.
Shirou staggered, already feeling the edges of himself fray. The tendrils sank into his skin like smoke into cloth, seeping into his bones. Images surged in his mind — slaughter, betrayal, endless suffering.
He grit his teeth. I've seen this before… I know what you are.
A different weight crashed into him — regal, commanding, cold as forged gold.
Gilgamesh's voice echoed in his head, dripping disdain.
"Pathetic mongrel. Even in death, you shall serve me. Your flesh will be my vessel, and I will walk this world once more."
Shirou dropped to one knee, the dual assault threatening to tear his mind apart — two predators fighting over the same prey.
It was then that he felt it — a faint warmth deep within him.
A soft, golden light pulsed in the darkness, like a star glimpsed through storm clouds.
Avalon.
It had slept in him for years, silent and inert — the scabbard of the Once and Future King. Not meant for him, not forged in his name. And yet, it stirred now, reacting as if offended by the presence of the corruption around him.
The warmth surged outward, forming a thin, shimmering barrier between Shirou and the shadow's touch. It was not enough to save him — but it was enough to give him breath.
Think. There's still a way…
His mind flashed back to the days before the war, before Rin Tohsaka had awakened his magic circuits. Back when he had tried, in desperation, to create them himself — using his own nerves as a medium.
It had nearly crippled him then. If he made a mistake here, it would kill him.
But death was already certain.
Now or never.
Shirou sat cross-legged in the void, forcing his trembling hands to steady. He pictured the human body as a network — nerves, blood vessels, the pathways of life — and began to burn those pathways open with sheer will, forging them into circuits.
The pain was immediate and absolute.
It was as if molten steel were being poured into his veins, searing through muscle, bone, and spirit alike. His breath hitched into ragged gasps, each one feeling like his last.
Time became meaningless. Hours, days, weeks — all blurred into a single, unending moment of agony.
Gilgamesh's voice grew more distant, his insults turning to roars of frustration.
"You dare… consume me?!"
And then… the tide turned.
With each completed node, Shirou felt himself grow heavier, more solid. The chains of possession loosened. The king's essence, once invasive, began to sink into him — not as a parasite, but as fuel.
Gilgamesh's strength, pride, and will were drawn into Shirou's own, woven into the steel of his reforged soul.
Avalon flared brilliantly, and together they pushed back the shadow.
The darkness screamed. The black void cracked, blinding white light pouring through.
When the light swallowed everything, Shirou's consciousness swayed.
The Grail's voice — ancient, impartial — whispered into the fading edges of his mind.
"Your wish… is known."
It reached into the deepest part of him, the place where even he did not dare to look, and found it: the dream of a world where he could save people without the endless chains of war.
And so, it granted him a miracle.
When Shirou opened his eyes, the sky above him was blue.
The pain was gone, his body whole. But the hum of power beneath his skin told him this was no illusion.
Around him stretched a sprawling city crowned by an impossibly tall white tower, its base bustling with life.
He did not know its name yet. He did not know the gods walked its streets.
And thus, Shirou Emiya's second life began — in Orario.