Chapter 25 — Model Terminator (1) (Public)

After an hour, Kiritsugu and I get settled into our motel room. I go to fetch us each a can of soda each.

Not that either of us needs to worry about packing on the pounds—for Kiritsugu, the Curse he endures affects far more than just his Magic Circuits; it causes a gradual atrophy in all aspects of his physicality, weight included.

Grasping the doorknob, I push it open only to be greeted by the sight of the signature Contender pointed directly at my head. Pushing the nozzle away, I joke. “Take that shot, and you’ll have to get your daughter on your own."

“You startled me.” He admits coolly.

I roll my eyes at his nonchalant response. “Sodas?”

Retrieving the can, I toss it to him. “…Thanks.”

Kiritsugu mutters, popping the lid open and taking a swig before setting the drink on the table. He then returns his attention to the drawing of the Einzbern Ancestral Castle’s layout; of their Workshop—a result of at least a dozen generations of accumulation that can be traced back to the Age of Gods.

“Nice crib…” I remark, sipping on my Jolt. “They know how to be stylish, at least.”

Just like the Naz— ‘Wait. Too soon, Leo, way too soon.’ We may revisit this joke in a decade.

Resting in the mountain range near the Rhine River, Einzbern Castle spans an impressive 34,000 square meters, the perfect location to establish a Workshop.

Though I suppose I have little reasons to be envious.

My acquisition of Castle is nearly complete—it just needs some final touches.

While most like to wander, we all need a sanctuary to return to and rest every now and then.

I turn my gaze to Kiritsugu. “You still haven’t briefed me on their defenses, by the way.”

He nods.

“The first layer is the most basic: A [Recognition] enchantment and an illusion barrier that twists light to render their workshop invisible to anyone not keyed into the bounded field.” Very common enchantments that most Magi employ—it just depends on the specifics of the implementation.

Kiritsugu pauses, taking another sip of his soda. “The second layer consists of the walnut trees surrounding the castle. Each one is planted directly atop a leyline, and when imbued with Mana, they produce an alchemical mist that dilutes the senses of anyone who inhales it…”

I resist the temptation to make any quips,

It is beneath me…

But, “They really gassing up the place, eh?” Forgive me for I’ve sinned!

I chuckle, watching Kiritsugu’s lips curl ever-so-slightly up in the faintest smirk.

“You know you can laugh, right?” I prod gently, my tone wretched.

Kiritsugu stays silent throughout the exchange, but the temptation is clearly written across his features.

“Aw, come on,” I cajole, “You know you want to. Do it—let it out, good buddy good pal!”

Finally, Kiritsugu snorts, the sound escaping in a wheeze despite his best efforts.

“There it is.” I say triumphantly, while the Magus Killer sighs, massaging his eyelids in a motion that reeks of weariness. “Why are you like this?”

He mutters, finally willing to say something other than the Einzbern.

“What?” I retort. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you cracking up a smile there.”

“The third layer,” Deflecting, the Magus Killer traces his finger on the map. “Are the statues which surround their castle—golems. I’ve tried [Structural Grasp] on them, and they are rather basic. The golems has abilities that falls into an Affinity each—Water; Fire; Earth; Air.

All of them come in pair, and are situated around different entry points of their Workshop to deter outsiders.”

Pretty standard thus far…

I’m about to sit on the bed when I catch the look of pure disgust and loathing on Kiritsugu’s face. But he's not glaring at me—his gaze instead fixed on the mattress.

Quickly, I enhance my vision using [Reinforcement], and what I see makes me cringe and backpedal hastily. There’s really no need to mention it—we both know exactly what those stains are.

“It’s fucking everywhere,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose. “Gross.”

We really should have splurged on a nicer motel, but Kiritsugu’s reasoning was that a sketchy motel would make it more difficult for the Einzbern to track us down. It’s sound logic, but at what cost to our sanity and hygiene?

“Anyway,”

I begin, clearing my throat and trying to steer the conversation back on track, “So about their security measures… I’m guessing 4th is where they really start to ramp up their defenses?”

Kiritsugu nods, his brow furrowed as he continues his explanation of the castle’s defenses.

“The other layers are external—the 4th and 5th are inside. I believe there’s a 6th that only covers the basement, but I’ve never been down there before…” His expression grows troubled as he mentions the basement. “That’s where that old thing does his research and experiments. I cannot imagine it being any less than the previous layers.”

Crossing his arms, Kiritsugu tries to take a seat when he suddenly remembers what’s on the blanket.

He looks up at me, a worried look on his face. "Kiritsugu, I think we should change location…”

‘Cause while I’m not sure if my room’s in the same state, I know for a fact someone must’ve filmed a porno in his very recently. “This place ain’t fit for people.”

“You’re usually such a miser, what’s changed?” He asks, cocking his head curiously.

I shrug, physically cringing. “Is ‘I don’t want to sleep on other people’s dry bodily fluids’ a good enough reason?”

Kiritsugu considers this. “We could ask the owner to do something about it…”

I shake my head. “You know they won’t.”

This motel we’re staying in is the kind you would expect to see featured in true crime documentaries about serial killers. Unless a corpse is discovered under the bed, they won’t bother changing the bedding, and honestly? I doubt that would make much difference. When I said ‘It’s everywhere’, I really did mean it’s fucking everywhere…

And we cannot very well remain on our feet the entire time. “I will think about it, now we should focus.”

“Rogers that. Now, about— Why do I smell sulfur—?”

*BOOM!!!

— [Infinity] —

Stepping into the motel, the homunculus turns robotically, its monotonous glare sweeping the disgustingly minimal structure before it—a worthless construction, slapped together by those far inferior to its creator.

Its eyes lock onto the snoring, unkempt man in his 60s behind the front desk.

Approaching, it taps on the hard surface to rouse the slob of a creature.

“I-Urgh, sorry, but we’ve run out of rooms! Come back later.”

The man sputters groggily, his protruding belly spilling on his lap, shaking vigorously with his motions as he rubs his eyes.

The homunculus waves dismissively at him, undeterred.

Though it may not be the most exceptional of its siblings, a normal human is less than an infant to it—especially one who has so clearly let himself go in his old age.

Silently, it pushes a picture before the man, its crimson glare burning holes in his forehead. “Where?”

“Up your fucking ass.”

The lowly creature exclaims, hand running across his bald head—a habit left from days long past, most likely.

“I already told you, we packed. Get fucking lost or do I have to make you?!”

The man rises to his feet, and despite his unkempt appearance, it’s clear he has not forsaken his physical discipline entirely. The sheer diameter of his bicep alone is the size of the homunculus’ head, yet as intimidating as this is for the average Jane and Joe, it is of little effect.

The homunculus fixes the man with a sharp, frigid stare.

“You’re just a human…”

Remarking coldly, its fingers clamp onto the man's bicep and pinching with such force that the muscle contorts in shape. “A- Argh!”

“Where?” The Einzbern demands again, pushing the picture in the man’s face.

“F- Fuck you!”

Its sharp-pointed nails dig mercilessly into the man’s flesh, eliciting a piercing wail of agony from the despicable wretch—a bloated lump of humanity with a vile tongue to boot.

With lightning speed and brutal efficiency, it yanks a tangle of nerves and sinews free, one hand deftly covering the man’s gaping mouth to suppress the tormented and panicking cries just as they threaten to spill. “Where?”

“Room 301, FUCK!” His muffled scream rings out, and the homunculus nods. “Thank you for your service.”

Again and again, the man wails on the homunculus with increasingly frantic energy. It cannot feel true joy, its OS far too primitive to comprehend any complex emotion, but there is a very distinct sense of satisfaction running through its software. “Spare key, where do you keep it?”

“Room 301 is- it’s in the locker!”

“The rooms next to it.”

The homunculus clarifies, increasing the strength of his pinch just enough to cause the man to double over.

“In the fucking lockers next to room 301! Where do you think, you fucking muppet?!”

“You’re not very nice…”

The man groans. “I should be telling you that, you albino motherfuck—”

With the slightest twitch of his hand, the foul-mouthed human’s neck twists.

He’s not dead.

By the homunculus’ estimation, he’ll die in 34 minutes if not hospitalized, and even if he were, he’d spend the remaining days of his life wheelchair-bound, unable to move or speak. The second option is tempting, but it has been told not to leave any loose ends.

“Shame…” It would much prefer if he lived.

As one of the newer, experimental combat models, it does not have many confidants in Castle Einzbern.

Though incomplete, the disfigured, fragmented Soul it possesses—crafted from half-done clumps of Ether and an artificial intelligence formed from the consciousness of its many predecessors—craves for more. “I want you to know I do like you… Foul as you are, you’re still the first human I’ve talked to—you’re special.”

It runs its fingers down the man’s trembling face-fat. “But order’s order, and I must accomplish my mission if I don’t want to be scrapped. You understand, right?”

Its innocent, almost child-like gaze meets with bulging eyes, before it rises to its full height, rests a boot on the man’s skull, and with just a tiny increase in pressure, his skull caves in, bone shrapnel digging into loose flesh.

Staring at the corpse, the homunculus shrugs, then goes to retrieve the spare key.

Silent as a cat, it ‘floats’ down the hall, nose twitching as it takes in the scents of sweat and bodily fluids mixed in an unholy stench that is almost too much, even for a homunculus of its quality. “301… 301…”

The doll shuffles forward, its unearthly murmurs fading as it comes upon a room with the plaque, clinging for dear life to the door.

Turning its attention to the numbered portal, it pushes onwards, already aware of the inhabitants within.

Humans are the least of its concerns at present.

A firm knock echoes. ”Room service.”

A muffled voice snaps back, “Come back later!”

The knock repeats, steady and insistent. “Room service.”

“I said later!!!”

“Room service.”

Hurried footsteps approaches the thin barrier, and the door flings open, revealing an irate man, clad only in a towel, face flushed with anger. In his hand, a wallet while a woman, equally unclothed, peeks from beneath the sheets.

“Here’s a 50,” The man growls, thrusting the bill forward. “Just get the fuck away.”

It looks at the worthless paper offered, hand silently reaching for the wallet in his hand.

[Reinforcement] envelops the whole of the wallet in a cold glow, causing the man’s eyes to widen.

He lifts his head, only then discovering something so utterly sinister in the doll. “Wha— Who are—?”

With a jerk of its hand, the homunculus throws the reinforced wallet through the woman’s head.

She collapses instantly, blood and brain spilling on the ground to stain the already dirty floor, while the man—rendered speechless at the horrific crime that just took place before him—hurriedly backpedals, his back pressed against the wall in an attempt to make himself look smaller.

The man's body bristles with the urge to take that swing, his instincts demanding retaliation.

Yet, his rational faculties swiftly intervene, a cold calculus overriding his baser impulses. The odds of emerging victorious against such a monster are infinitesimal—a futile endeavor that would only hasten his own demise.

He has only two choices—resign himself to what’s likely to be a grisly fate or make a desperate bid for the exit, even if it means ditching his pride, a last-ditch gamble for survival.

But, before he can decide, the homunculus has stepped in, face blank as he crushes the man’s neck, hushing silently.

Closing the door, it looks at the key it had earlier grabbed and pushes the body off the bed with a wet thud.

The Magus Killer’s just on the other side of the wall.

Putting its ear against the yellowing, peeling paper, it carefully listens in to their conversation.

It has been told its target brought with him a new protégé, but its main objective is still Kiritsugu Emiya. Drawing up on its memory bank, the homunculus smiles. According to the information it has on him, the Magus Killer is a big fan of explosion…

It just so happens one of the Spells installed in its OS is [Explodia Alchemica], a relatively simple yet effective Spell developed by the Lord Einzbern the First.

The process is as simple as can be, one merely needs to transform atoms to different structure.

That is what seperates [Alteration] from [Alchemy]—the first can only change an object’s shape, while alters its molecular makeup.

It is Art—it is a Discipline to transform different states of matter… It is a line of codes integrated in his system. The act comes even more natural than breathing, as if he has done it since he was in the artificial incubator.

‘Sulfur, charcoal and saltpeter…’

When these three elements are combined and exposed to ample heat, the result is a rapid exothermic reaction that generates gas and culminates in an explosion.

The next step involves the most basic application of [Telekinesis]—using it to increase the pressure of the explosion, rendering it far more catastrophic due to the frenzied, unstable state of the molecules under intense compression. “Perfect.”

Pressing the Spell against the wall, the homunculus snapped his fingers, unleashing a swirling torrent of fire—a hellish inferno that consumes the motel in an instant.

—  [Infinity] —

The explosion directly drains approximately 25% of my Mana reserves to block. Fortunately, I find myself situated within the path of the flames, shielding the Magus Killer from the licking fire.

While the man appears somewhat singed, [Reinforcement] is a fundamental action ingrained in most Magi, allowing him to evade serious injury. However, odds are he won’t be contributing much to this battle. ‘At least I can still use my Mystic Code.’

With the coming of the Age of Man, most have developed more discreet forms—sometimes as mundane as a pair of gloves or a kitchen knife even. Senza Esitazione is quite the outlier.

Every medieval weapon is, in truth.

The continued use of these Mystic Codes hinges solely on their ancient origins and how their Mysteries have grown and developed over the centuries.

In a more… Public setting, my primary weapon would have been rendered impractical, and my firearms equally useless for much the same reason. “Leonis Magnus?”

I glare at the homunculus, sweeping the fire away with a single swing of my spear.

“Einzbern, I’m guessing?”

“My main objective is the Magus Killer… If you value your life, I suggest you run. You may live for a few more minutes.”

The doll cracks his neck.

“Days, if you’re lucky, but I always accomplish my mission.”

I grin toothily, positioning myself in front of the coughing Magus Killer.

Once upon a time, I’m sure he’d have been able to shrug off the injuries, but he’s already enduring agony just trying to stay alive. Each use of Magecraft is shortening his lifespan by a few hours. The more complex and demanding Spells even steal away weeks, if not months from the man.

This is exactly why I didn’t want him along for the ride… Too much risk involved.

“Better change your catchphrase to ‘I accomplish my mission most of the time’, ‘cause you are about to fail.”

Leo uses [Provocation]! “Then prepare to die.”

It’s mildly effective.

The homunculus lunges at me, even faster than Kirei.

Although the homunculus can match my Stats through the use of [Reinforcement], I am still able to maintain a advantage when my own is actively engaged.

Adrenaline surging through my veins, infusing my musculature with the strength to rival even mighty mythical beasts, I charge forth to meet my opponent. The thrust is met with a bony blade that springs forth from the homunculus’ forearm, sending a shower of sparks all while [Extended Thrust] slips past the homunculus’ defense.

[Tyche’s Favor] flares to life, though it is not [Ares’ Bloodletting] that comes to my aid, but rather the whispers of [Eris’ Discordance].

I suppress a shudder as voices bombard me, sinister voies which command me to do the unspeakables.

Observing the homunculus as it shakes its head, visibly perplexed, I stay my hands. “What did you say?” It questions.

“I, uhm, I did not?”

I stammer, Senza Esitazione gripped tightly in my fingers.

“You did! Someone is—!”

The homunculus suddenly grasps its head, nails digging into its scalp as it doubles over. "What sorcery have you wrought?!” It cries out, its emotions no longer… Muted as they were before.

“Something’s messing with my—”

It bites back a groan, rolling around on the ground and screeching bloody murder.

I do not know what has afflicted the homunculus, I only recognize the intensity of its distress.

“You doin’ good, bro?”

“I- I’m not—I can’t disobey my creator, I cannot! Stay back!” The homunculus cries out, curling in on itself in a fetal position in search of some semblance of security. Taking advantage of its vulnerable state, I swiftly drive my spear into its chest, carving a deep gash, before twisting it for good measure.

With its internal organs reduced to minced meat, I seize the disoriented Magus Killer and lightly slaps his face. “Kiritsugu, you alive?”

I give his back a gentle tap, drawing a pained groan from the charred Magus Killer.

‘Smells like burnt pork.’ The angry, mottled burns of the second-degree scar his face, while his arms bear the more severe, angry marks of third-degree burns. It’s an ugly sight, certainly, but he’ll live… Probably.

“We’ve been had.”

“M- My guns!”

I glance at the duffle bag beside him and scoop it up, as more and more people begin to converge on the scene—some our fellow occupants, a few bystanders drawn by the commotion and spectacle, even a few Good Samaritans hoping to lend a hand.

Thankfully, there’s a forest behind the motel, and—'Oh, nice… A forest. Of course there is.’

I suppress a groan.

No, best not to tempt fate.

Casting one last glance at the flames, momentarily transported back to that fateful night in Fuyuki, I quickly push those useless thoughts aside—this is not my doing, it is not my burden to bear.

Leave it to the firefighters.

I pivot on my heel, making a swift exit into the forest, bursting through the blaze as the building starts to crumble around us.

If I get caught carrying all these firearms, the Einzbern will be the least of my problems.

Becoming fugitives on the run is not on my agenda for today.

Well, at least now I know for certain just how deep the Einzbern—Jubstacheit’s hatred for Kiritsugu is.

I don’t blame the guy, but at least give us a grace period to settle in first.

“Oh, fuck…” I forgot my debit card.

Muttering a hasty apology to whomever I may encounter next—for they are soon to be down a wallet and its contents—I tighten my grip on the Magus Killer, who nearly slipped from my grasp.

“I’ll be lucky to survive the rest of this bumpy ride.” He croaks.

“Oh, by all means, do enlighten me on how I might improve.”

Coughing, Kiritsugu lets out a mirthless laugh. Unlike Shiro, he does not truly laugh or grin—the closest thing to joy I’ve seen upon his face is this defeated, weary smile that only serves to vex me further.

Clearly, he's in a far worse shape than I had realized.

“Hang on in there.”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

I was just joking at first, but now I’m 100% certain: Kiritsugu won’t live for long without medical intervention.

— [Infinity] —

As the sun crests the horizon and the flames begin to subside, the weary firefighters pick their way through the charred remains, grimacing at the devastating loss of life and greenery that will scar this land for years to come.

One shakes his head solemnly.

“I smell sulfur… You catch that too?”

John Arston nods, his brow furrowed. “I did. This wasn’t an accident—some sick bastard…”

Their exchange is interrupted by a pained wheeze nearby.

Exchanging a look, the two men rush towards the sound, ready to render aid, never realizing today is going to be their last.

Several screams; bloody wet squelchs later, a figure emerges from the wreckage.

Lean frame clad in a pristine white suit, snow-white hair and piercing crimson eyes marking his inhuman nature, the homunculus groans and stretched.

Though his fine attire had been reduced to charred rags, his flawless skin’s unscathed.

Yet the most unsettling aspect is the deranged glint in his eyes—a departure from the cold rationality that typically defines these artificial lifeforms—and elongated fangs jutting out of his gums.

With a sudden, wild laugh, the creature reaches towards the sky, as if basking in the sunlight for the first time.

He is a machine no longer.

Fist clenched around the nameplate, he smiles. “John Arston, John Arston…”

Repeating to taste the name on his tongue, the homunculus laughs while [Bio-Conversion] overclocks repairing his loss mass using the firefighters’.

“From now on, I am John Arston.”