Transplantation Experiment
"Doraemon, let's start."
Hearing Shirou's steady voice, Doraemon's round face tightened with determination. He pulled out the [Time Cloth] with his stubby paws and wrapped Shirou in it.
Outwardly, nothing seemed to change. But within, Shirou could clearly feel his magic circuits come alive—the moment frozen at exactly 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon, right after he first opened them. Even the [Famed Sword Denkomaru], once shattered by Musashi, was restored to its pristine state.
The instant his circuits were reset, Shirou felt a deep resonance—a close link with Musashi's solidified circuits. Her will flowed into him, calm and steady, completely free from the frenzy of her Berserker summoning.
Void. Nothingness. A sword with no edge, a path with no road, a mind without thought. That was the [Emptiness] she had attained—a realm Buddhist texts described as infinitely close to enlightenment.
Magus seeking the Root, swordsmen pursuing Emptiness, monks chasing Nirvana—different names, one truth: transcending the human world.
Magus who reach the Root vanish from reality, whether absorbed into it or exalted into divinity, no one knows. The Buddha, upon awakening, transcended to the Buddhaland, the "Three Thousand Great Thousand Worlds." Emptiness was not quite the Root, nor full enlightenment, but it skirted dangerously close.
Beyond Emptiness lay [Nothingness]—self-erasure, indistinguishable from returning to the Root itself. None had walked that far. Perhaps only King Solomon, with his first Noble Phantasm—"The time of parting has come, so abandon the world"—had glimpsed it.
And past that, [Infinity]. To enter Infinity was to drown one's human identity entirely in the concept itself.
"Draw your sword."
Shirou swallowed an [Efficiency Pill] and opened his circuits. Magic surged through him, tracing luminous blue lines across his body. Through the connection, he called out:
"Musashi—can you hear me?"
Her voice answered in his mind, warm and clear. "Yes. The contract link is restored. My spirit core is being replenished."
"Good."
Without another word, Shirou cut the connection and lifted the restored Denkomaru.
The [Time Cloth] bug gave him the chance to transplant circuits, but he needed a vessel. He wasn't a true magus, had no workshop, no proper tools. What he had was a sword.
A blade born from his Origin. A fitting container.
Denkomaru would temporarily house his circuits, absorbing their power and transforming. Of course, it would also be corroded—becoming part weapon, part magic crest. For Shirou, that was ideal. Two birds, one stone. And if he failed, it was just a prop. No loss.
Behind him, Doraemon held his breath, watching his young Master intone the ritual.
"This body is a sword."
"Manifest. Abandon. Guide. Conceal. Erode."
"One, two, three… twenty-seven in total."
"Resonance begins."
"Transfer. Engrave."
Blue circuitry lit up across Shirou's skin like a glowing circuit board. With each incantation, the lines flowed into Denkomaru's blade, etching themselves as green threads thinner than hair. Golden light bled from the steel as the sword was reborn under the pressure of magic and Origin.
The ritual wasn't just procedure. It was both spellcraft and self-hypnosis, anchoring the impossible into reality.
Sparks cracked in the air. Blue lightning carved scars into the floor as if sliced by invisible blades.
Doraemon trembled, too frightened to move, but too loyal to flee. If something goes wrong… I'll use the Time Cloth right away.
In less than three minutes, it was done. Shirou had transplanted nearly all his circuits into the sword. Two failed, five were lost, leaving twenty complete ones housed within the blade.
"…First step complete."
He exhaled sharply, staring at the transformed Denkomaru. No longer just a weapon, it now bore magical properties akin to a family's crest, a true Mystic Code.
Shirou Muramasa, blacksmith of projection, had performed his first blood-forging ritual. Ancient smiths once tempered blades with their own lives; he had carved his very circuits into steel. It was, in its own way, a blood sacrifice.
No wonder so many legends spoke of cursed blades like [Gan Jiang and Mo Ye].
The price hit him immediately. Circuitless, he staggered in weakness.
"Doraemon… let's continue."
"Shirou! Don't push yourself!" Doraemon's ears drooped in worry as he saw his Master's pale face.
But Shirou only smiled faintly. "It's because you're here that I can push myself."
The cat flushed red—if a robot cat could—and nodded vigorously. "I'll definitely help you!"
The cloth fell once more, rewinding Shirou's body to the afternoon before. Circuits restored, Denkomaru in hand, he tried again.
This time the transplant went smoothly. No leaks, no failures—only two imperfect engravings, discarded without regret.
Were any magus to see him, they would surely cry out in fury at the sheer waste. Circuits were precious. Finite. Sacred.
But Shirou had Doraemon. With the [Time Cloth], he had infinite retries. Infinite squanderings. Infinite chances to reach perfection.