SwordSwoSword Chapter 2

Chapter 2

There was a time when he couldn’t walk.

A strange notion, given that the soul inside the tiny body had crossed battlefields, outrun demons, even flung himself through time.

But in this world… he was born again.

And so, one day, on creaky tatami floors of an old house that smelled like sandalwood and laundry detergent, the boy with silver-white hair took his first real step.

Then promptly faceplanted into a futon.

“Oopsie daisy!” Seiko Ayase cooed, a rare baby voice escaping her gruff mouth as she scooped the infant up. “Aww, look at ya. Heroic Spirit or not, ya still got a squishy head!”

He was still less than two years old at the time, merely blinked at her with solemn, unreadable eyes—eyes far too calm for a child.

Seiko sighed and bounced him on her hip. “You’re really somethin’, y’know that? All the other babies I’ve raised—well, mostly cats, but still—none of ‘em looked like they were silently judging my cooking.”

“Buh,” he said.

She blinked. “Was that… a laugh? A scoff? Are you seriously judging my curry already?”

“Duh.”

“Oh, don’t you start with the sass now.”

By the time he was three, Shirou could speak almost fluently, though he often paused mid-sentence as if translating from a language no one else could hear.

“The line around the garden… is cracked,” he said one day, pointing to the northern edge of their property.

Seiko nearly spit out her tea. “You can see that?”

“Only the edges. It’s frayed.”

“…Kid, what the hell are you?”

He only gave a small shrug and said, “Hungry.”

She shook her head.

Years passed. He grew from toddler to child. At first, it was just the two of them living together.

He had thought that Seiko was still a young woman who was still single and had her life ahead of her…

Oh, how wrong he was.

Seiko Ayase was already had not only a child but also a grandchild… and considering he was adopted by Seiko, that would mean he had already a niece.

‘Shouldn’t really judge someone by their looks… but she’s probably the youngest-looking grandmother I have ever met, in this life and in the previous.”

And then came Momo, the granddaugter—now living with them, as her parents were no longer in this world—grew more outgoing, more opinionated, and far more embarrassed by her home life.

Especially this part:

“I don’t wanna! Every day… my friends make fun of me for it!” little Momo barked, clutching her small backpack.

“What are you talking about?! If you release your Chi… no illness or accident will befall you!” her grandmother argued. “Nothing evil can come near you!”

As he heard this conversation going back and forth, he did not really feel like joining it.

“First, focus your energy below your belly…” Seiko told her what she needed to do, and little Momo reluctantly followed suit. “Then visualize your Chi beaming out of the crown of your head.”

When Momo arrived at school while doing the ritual her grandmother had told her to do, he looked many of her friends ridiculing her.

“Ha ha! Look! She’s doing it again!” some boy sneered.

“What a weirdo! You tryin’ to communicate with aliens or somethin’?!” another did the same.

“Haha Momo is calling aliens!”

The other kids laughed. “Bet you’re cursed! You gonna put a hex on me with your chopsticks?”

It was hard for her to hear as one of the ones that were making fun of her was a boy that she was actually fond of.

He really did not know what to do, as he could only look Momo ran off and went back to the house.

“I hate you, grandma! You phony spirit medium!!!!”

He was pretty sure that Seiko was actually hurt by Momo’s comments.

“That kid… I guess it really makes her embarrassed huh? Even though it would protect her, isn’t that right, Shirou?”

“I don’t really know. Why didn’t you tell me to do the same thing?” he asked.

“I knew for some reason you already didn’t need to. Spiritual Energy flows within you naturally. For an uncle, you should know how to comfort your niece, ya know?”

He didn’t answer Seiko’s comments on the matter. So, he went out instead.

Momo, red-faced and close to tears, stomped off from the group—right into the side yard where she thought no one would find her.

Except…

“…Are you okay?” came a voice, calm and quiet.

Momo sniffed, turning to find him—maybe five or six by now—sitting cross-legged under the tree beside the sandbox, a small juice box in hand.

“No!” she lied.

He tilted his head slightly. “Okay.”

“…Okay? That’s it?” she muttered, wiping her eyes.

“I mean, if you were I’d say those kids were idiots,” he said simply. “But you already know that.”

She frowned at him. “Then why don’t you go tell them?”

He blinked. “…I figured you’d want to handle it yourself.”

“…Hmph.” Momo flopped beside him on the grass, folding her arms. “You’re annoying.”

“I get that a lot,” he muttered.

They sat in silence.

She eyed his drink. “What’s that?”

“Calpico. Want a sip?”

“…You’re as bad as grandma, Unc!”

He really was bad at comforting children.

All in all, it truly felt like a mundane and ordinary life for him. But of course, sometimes there were moments where he needed to answer questions.

The countryside air was still that morning—no curses, no alien invaders, no haunted tunnels, just the quiet shuffle of sandals and the faint squeak of a sliding door opening.

In front of the Ayase residence, an old kettle hissed faintly on the stove while the wind chimes tinkled under the wooden eaves. Sunlight poured lazily through the front garden, bathing the bonsai and lucky cat statues in gold.

“—Oi, Shirou! I told you, don't overheat the bath again, you’ll boil your own butt off!”

A small voice replied, calm and composed:

“I adjusted the temperature to precisely 41.3 degrees. That’s optimal for muscle recovery.”

“Oh-ho-hooo?” came the gravelly reply, followed by the slow, deliberate footsteps of a certain grandmother stomping toward the voice. “Are you saying my joints don’t deserve recovery, boy? Huh?!”

The screen door slid open with a sharp rattle, revealing a boy maybe five years old—white hair already growing in despite his young age, standing on a little wooden stool to stir miso soup in the kitchen.

His eyes were too sharp. His hands moved like he’d done this a thousand times before. He turned toward her, utterly unbothered.

“I’d never insult your joints, Seiko-san. I just thought the miso would go well with the seasonal greens if it was ready by the time Momo gets back.”

Seiko paused, arms crossed.

“…You’re five.”

“Yes.”

“You’re way too composed.”

“Also yes.”

She sighed, rubbing her temple. “What kind of preschooler knows how to adjust a boiler and julienne daikon? You gonna start balancing our tax ledgers next?”

He only gave a tiny shrug and returned to stirring. The smell of dashi stock wafted around the room, comforting and precise.

“…Alright, sit down.”

“Hm?”

“C’mon, come sit. Right here. Mama needs a talk with ya.”

He blinked and gently lowered the ladle. He hopped down from the stool and sat cross-legged in front of her like a little monk.

Seiko crouched in front of him, leveling a firm but kind gaze his way. Her voice dropped a little.

“…Many spirits, including the ones who guard this town, said a lot of things to me,”

His gaze flickered.

“They said that the boy living under my roof ain’t quite… right. That his soul’s too old. That his spirit’s been… wound up like thread, cut and spliced and threaded again.”

“…I see,” he said softly, his gaze falling to the tatami floor.

There was a silence between them, filled only by the soft tick of the wall clock.

“You got somethin’ to tell me, don’tcha?” Seiko asked, now gently.

“…It’s not something I want to burden anyone with,” he finally said. “There are regrets that aren’t meant to be spoken. Things I’ve done that I thought I could leave behind.”

His words were far too heavy for someone that looked barely past kindergarten.

Seiko scratched her cheek.

“…Kid.”

He blinked.

“I’m a Spirit Medium, remember? I’ve had tea with cursed dolls, arm-wrestled demons, and once played shogi with a tanuki who cheated. You think I’m gonna faint ‘cause my adopted son’s got the soul of an old war hero or something?”

He stared at her.

“Besides—” she grinned, leaning back and picking her nose. “—you do chores. You cook better than me. And you scrub the toilet with actual care. Hell, if you turned out to be a dinosaur in disguise, I’d still keep you around.”

“…Seriously?”

“Seriously. But—” she leaned in and flicked his forehead gently, “if you don’t tell me anything, I’m gonna assume you were a heartbreaker in a past life, and that’s just embarrassing.”

‘Her hunches are frighteningly always right…’

He snorted, rubbing his forehead. It was the first time Seiko saw him smile—really smile—like a child and not a man buried in guilt.

She smirked.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“A normal kid face. You oughta wear it more.”

“I’ll try,” he said, looking to the side.

“Good. Now get off your butt and help me banish this haunted futon I found in the attic. It keeps trying to grope me at night.”

“…I’m sorry, what?”

“Y’heard me, boy. Haunted futon. It’s got grabbiness. C’mon, bring salt and two garlic heads!

“I’m… not sure garlic actually works on cursed bedding.”

“Who raised you to question Mama’s methods?! Let’s go!”

In the night, he sat alone in the kitchen, quietly folding laundry that Seiko had abandoned to go snore on the couch.

He paused for a moment, holding one of Momo’s little shirts.

A soul forged in fire. A blade that had cut down fate itself. A man who once stood at the ends of ideals, now folding children’s clothes.

He looked to the sliding door that led to the backyard. The barrier was strong tonight. The spirits were calm.

He exhaled softly.

“…Maybe this life won’t be so bad after all.”

--

It was a day like any other at Kamikura High.

Clouds rolled lazily across the afternoon sky, sunbeams casting fractured light across the open schoolyard where the boys' physical education class had just begun. Birds chirped distantly. Sneakers squeaked. Gym uniforms fluttered in the breeze.

“Alright, boys! Time for dodgeball!” A loud whistle split the air, causing the class to fall silent for a moment.

“Split up! Five-on-five! No mercy! Let's go!”

Then the teacher barked, “Let’s see if any of you got balls today.”

A ripple of excitement ran through the students. Not because dodgeball was anything special. But because he was playing.

Shirou Emiya.

There were rumors.

That he never ran to school—he walked and still arrived first. That his grip strength bent iron during club practice. That he once leapt from the school rooftop to retrieve a soccer ball. That he made a delinquent cry simply by looking at him the wrong way.

He didn’t talk much. He didn’t joke around. Didn’t hang out in groups. But he didn’t need to.

He was the ghost that haunted every male ego in school—a looming specter of talent, composure, and quiet menace.

And now, he stood at the chalked line of the court, eyes half-lidded in disinterest, one foot slightly forward, body relaxed.

The other team didn’t share his calm.

In fact, they were nervously eyeing each other—until one of them gave a scoffing laugh.

“Don’t sweat it, he’s just quiet. He ain’t even looking at us.”

That came from him—the tallest, loudest, smuggest among them. His nose still crooked from a past fight. His lip still bruised from some scuffle. His laugh loud, mocking. The guy who, just two days ago, had bragged about dumping his girlfriend by telling her she “wasn’t worth it as she ain’t willing to give it”

He had been watching how he broke up with his girlfriend, and Emiya knew whom he had been seeing.

And now, he was about to learn.

The gymnasium buzzed with the usual noise of P.E. class, but there was an electric tension in the air today, something different. Every student in the bleachers seemed to sense it as they leaned forward, eyes tracking the court with a mixture of excitement and awe.

The whistle blew.

Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

The game began with the familiar clatter of feet on gymnasium floors, the swift exchange of balls, and the eager shouts of teenagers trying to prove something. But everyone knew that today’s match wasn’t just a regular game.

A single dodgeball rolled into the center of the court.

No one moved—except him.

He didn't sprint. He simply stepped forward. Smooth. Measured. Controlled. His hand closed around the ball with the casualness of a man picking up a tea cup.

Then—like a slingshot loosed—

CRACK.

The first ball flew like a shot from a cannon.

One opponent out.

Hit square in the chest. Air knocked out of his lungs. Gone.

He had already moved again.

A sidestep. A twist of the torso. A lean just enough to dodge a retaliatory throw. His body language read like poetry—elegant, but efficient. Deadly. Inevitable.

THWACK.

Second opponent down.

This one was trying to run. Mistake. The ball arced mid-air, curving unnaturally like it was guided.

Down to three.

The third tried to counter by lobbing a highball. He didn’t even blink. He caught it with one hand—no effort—then whipped it sidearm.

WHUMP.

Gone.

Whispers echoed around the gymnasium. “He’s not even breathing heavy.” “Is he human?” “He caught that with one hand! One freakin’ hand!”

The game slowed.

In one corner of the court stood Shirou Emiya, the most enigmatic figure at school. Silent, reserved, and never one to boast, most students only knew him as the pale, quiet boy with the piercing, almost calculating eyes.

He wasn’t just athletic—he was something else entirely. The rumors surrounding him ranged from being a prodigy in nearly every sport to whispers of strange, inhuman feats of strength.

Across from him stood The Ex—Momo Ayase’s former boyfriend. The boy had tried to manipulate her, push her around, and with a cocky grin, he had been the first to challenge Shirou.

His classmates watched him, their eyes gleaming with smug confidence, as if they had already decided the outcome.

The whistle blew again. The game was on. “Go, go, go!” the ex yelled, throwing his first ball with all his might. It was aimed straight for Emiya’s chest—arrogant, predictable.

He didn’t even flinch. With a fluid, near imperceptible movement, his body shifted sideways, dodging the ball as though it was moving in slow motion.

The dodgeball passed him with mere inches to spare, the air humming with the pressure of its speed. The boy had already missed.

He wasn’t one to waste time. The moment he avoided the ball, he leapt into action. His footwork was flawless, each step calculated and precise. He didn’t run, he glided—like a predator closing in on its prey.

TWACKKKKK

His arm swung in a perfect arc, the dodgeball hitting the ground with a resounding crack. One of the boys on the other team went down instantly, sent sprawling to the floor, his hands fumbling for a moment before he realized the match was already over for him.

"Out!" shouted the gym teacher, but the game continued. Another ball was thrown at him, this time by a lankier opponent. The ball zipped through the air, aiming for his shoulder.

Too slow.

Without so much as a glance, he sidestepped it, a single graceful move that left the ball to harmlessly strike the wall behind him.

The onlookers were beginning to murmur, their voices rising. "How is he so fast?" "Did you see how effortlessly he moved?" Even some of the boys on his team, who had been used to Shirou’s athleticism, stared in disbelief.

The ex-boyfriend was starting to get visibly frustrated. He shouted to his team, “Come on! Don’t just stand there! Get him!” He threw his ball again—this time with a low, vicious spin aimed directly for Emiya’s legs.

TWHACKKK

But before the ball could even make contact, his reflexes kicked in. His leg shot out, and with a smooth, practiced motion, he booted the ball straight back in one swift motion—an effortless counterattack.

The ball collided with the boy’s chest with such force that the air seemed to whip around it, and he collapsed, gasping for breath, unable to recover. He was out.

The entire gym was now silent, the energy in the room palpable. Students were staring at him, wide-eyed, as Shirou advanced, his demeanor unchanging, his gaze cold and focused.

One by one, opponents fell. Each time he evaded a ball, it was like seeing a choreographed dance—perfectly calculated, without a single wasted motion. His movements were smooth, too fluid to be natural for a typical high school student. His athleticism wasn’t just skill—it was otherworldly.

By the time only two opponents remained, the entire court had fallen into stunned silence.

Emiya didn’t even move.

The boy who started all the mocking. The one who still held a dodgeball, his hand shaking slightly now.

The jerk sneered—but there was fear behind it. “You’re not so tough…”

He stepped forward. Calm. Barely looking at him. But that gaze—it was like looking down the barrel of a sniper rifle.

“Come on, pretty boy. I know you’re just trying to look cool in front of the girls.”

The ex-boyfriend, now visibly sweating and increasingly agitated, threw his final ball. This time, he put everything into it—a full wind-up, a powerful release.

He threw his ball.

Swoosh.

The ball rocketed toward him like a speeding bullet, but he was already two steps ahead. In one smooth motion, he dropped to the floor in a roll, the ball missing by a hair’s breadth.

Miss.

He tilted his head to the side at the last moment.

The smirk dropped from the boy’s face.

He realized—Shirou Emiya never needed to try until now.

He had been playing casually. Out of patience. Or boredom. Or mercy.

Now, though?

Now he raised the ball. He held it in both hands. And then, without a word, he stepped into his stance.

His foot dug into the court. His arm reared back. His gaze narrowed.

BOOM.

The dodgeball screamed through the air like thunder.

CRACK!

A perfect impact—straight to the boy’s smug face. The sound of teeth shattering under the force of the ball was unmistakable.

The ex’s face went slack in shock as the ball slammed into him, and he crumpled to the ground, clutching his jaw. Blood started to trickle from his mouth.

The P.E teacher was the first to break the silence, his face a mask of disbelief. The force of it knocked him off his feet. Spit, blood, and at least two teeth flew out in slow motion.
He landed flat on his back, twitching.

The gym was silent. A thick, stunned silence. “Dude… he… he just knocked out his teeth…” a student whispered in awe.

Then, silence broke into uproar.

“OH MY GOD—!!”

“THAT WAS BRUTAL!!”

“Bro’s nose just exploded!!”

“Yo! Get the nurse! Or a dentist!!”

“Did that ball just bend time?!”

“Did you see that?! His entire jaw is gone!” another voice muttered. “That wasn’t even a regular throw… that was like a weapon!”

He stood tall, his eyes calm and indifferent as he wiped a speck of dust from his shoulder. There was no celebration, no gloating. Just the same stoic, almost detached expression as always.

He glanced at the fallen ex-boyfriend, his expression unchanged. “You’re out. It’s over.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned to walk off the court, his long strides purposeful. His teammates stood frozen, unsure whether to be impressed or terrified. Some of them exchanged glances as he walked past them, whispering nervously.

“Man, that guy’s on another level…” one muttered. “He… he destroyed that guy…”

As Shirou exited the court, he didn’t even glance back. He had already tuned out the stares, the murmurs, and the excitement. There was nothing left for him here.

But just before he disappeared into the locker room, he paused—turning his head slightly as his gaze met the ex-boyfriend’s.

The boy was still on the floor, holding his jaw and groaning, unable to process the events that had unfolded in mere minutes.

His voice was calm and cold as he spoke.

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before kicking people around.”

Then he walked away, leaving the gym full of students in stunned silence, with only the ex-boyfriend’s muffled groans echoing in the background.

The school bell rang, cutting through the humid air of early afternoon. The hallway buzzed with the low hum of returning students. Class 2-B’s sliding door rattled open as Shirou Emiya stepped in.

Still wearing his freshly changed uniform shirt—dry and uncreased—he walked past the rows of desks like a ghost.

No limp, no bruises, no sign he had just dismantled half of Class 2-C in a dodgeball match so one-sided, it looked scripted. He moved with the same quiet efficiency that he always did, not sparing a glance for anyone. His seat—window-side, second from the back—was waiting like always.

The moment he sat down and quietly opened his notebook, the chatter began.

“Did you see that dodgeball match?! He broke that guy’s jaw!”

“No way, he did not! It was just his teeth… I think. I hope…”

“Shirou Emiya’s seriously scary… He didn’t even sweat. It’s like he knew where every ball was going before it got thrown.”

“Isn’t he in, like… getting wanted by every advanced P.E. club? Track, kendo, judo, swimming?”

“And top three in the last mock exams. He’s not even in a cram school.”

“Isn’t he an orphan as well?! I heard somewhere he was adopted because he was left in the dumpster or something..”

“He’s an orphan?!”

“He’s hot though.”

A few seats to his right, a group of girls were huddled together whispering.

Among them sat Aira Shiratori, the top idol of their grade.

Light pink hair that curled just perfectly at the ends, glossed lips, piercing contacts. Every time she laughed or sighed dramatically, heads turned—boys hoping for eye contact, girls analyzing her for clues on what was “in.”

Aira sat up straighter in her seat and twirled her pen. Her voice wasn’t quiet, but it wasn’t loud enough to be obvious either. Just the right volume for those nearby to hear.

“I heard he used to be a delinquent before coming here,” one of the girls said airily, tapping her chin. “You know… one of those ‘fight-an-entire-gang-alone’ types.”

“No way,” one of the girls whispered back.

“Oh yeah. Total bad boy energy, just hidden behind that good boy face.”

She leaned forward a little and rested her cheek on her hand, stealing a glance across the room.

Emiya hadn’t moved. His gaze was fixed on the chalkboard. The teacher wasn’t even in yet, but he was already jotting down notes like the lesson had begun. His posture, perfectly straight. His expression, unreadable.

“Why’s he always so serious?” another girl murmured. “He never talks. Never even looks up when people call him.”

“I asked him for his LINE once,” another one chimed in with a dramatic pout, “and he just… nodded. Nodded. Like, didn’t even say yes or no.”

“He didn’t add you?” Aira raised an eyebrow.

“Nope! I cried for an hour!”

Aira let out a soft hm, smiling vaguely. “Mysterious types are all the rage right now. Especially if they’re quiet, brooding, and violent when it counts. Just like an anime protagonist.”

The girls giggled.

But even amid the murmurs, he didn’t react. He turned a page in his notebook, underlining something with his mechanical pencil. If he had heard any of it, he gave no indication.

To him, it was just noise.

Everything around him—school, gossip, admiration, rumors—it was all a background hum. The real world was quieter. Sharper. Cleaner. And it didn’t involve popularity or whispers about who was hottest or who was toughest.

He only raised his head when the sliding door clicked open again, and the homeroom teacher shuffled in, muttering under his breath about “how nobody cares about calculus anymore.”

“Settle down!” the teacher barked.

The class jolted to attention. Whispering dropped, chairs shuffled, and bags were zipped.

Except for him.

His pencil kept moving, already halfway through the day’s lesson before the first word was even spoken.

Aira stared at him for a moment longer. Her smile faded slightly.

There was something… different about him. Not just mysterious, not just cool.

He wasn’t trying to be impressive. He wasn’t pretending. He wasn’t playing the part.

He really was something else.

She tapped her pen on her desk once, absentmindedly, before looking away.

The class went on. Equations on the board, lectures about sine and cosine, the soft buzz of the lights overhead.

But everyone still stole glances at Shirou Emiya.

He didn’t look up once.

When school was done, he went home. Not talking with anyone whatsoever.

The soft clack of the gate echoed behind him as Shirou Emiya stepped back into the home he shared with Seiko and Momo.

The sky had already begun its descent into evening, painted in burnt orange and soft violet, and the scent of nearby takoyaki stands drifted faintly from the street..

Emiya passed beneath it with no issue, his footsteps measured and quiet. He slid open the genkan door and toed off his shoes, stepping into the soft wooden floor of their modest but strangely spiritual house.

“Back,” he muttered with his usual succinctness.

From the back room, a cheery but lazy voice called out, “Welcome hooome!”

He turned the corner to find Seiko Ayase, dressed in a flamboyant purple robe with swirling patterns, a heavy golden necklace, and a frightening mask that made her look like she was either about to perform an exorcism or crash a New Year’s festival.

“You’re dressed like that again?” he asked flatly.

“Hey, don’t sass me, mister!” she laughed, patting her hair up into a bouffant with one hand while balancing a lacquered bento box in the other. “Santa Dodoria has a reputation to uphold on TV, you know. Can’t let the audience see any of these bewitching beauty!”

Emiya raised a brow, but moved past her toward the kitchen. “Momo’s not back yet?”

“Hm?” Seiko paused as she put on her geta sandals by the door. “Oh, I think she said something about meeting that boyfriend of hers. Date night, maybe?”

Emiya, already reaching for the electric kettle, froze just slightly.

“She broke up with him. This morning.”

“Ehh?! Really? Hah!” Seiko let out a booming laugh. “Guess that boy didn’t live up to her Ken Takakura standards. Good riddance, I say!”

She shuffled toward the front door in her clacking geta, pausing only to grab her oversized tote bag filled with charms, incense, and questionable crystal balls.

“Where are you going?” Shirou asked.

“I told you. Live recording tonight. They want Santa Dodoria in Studio 9. It pays well! I’ll be back by breakfast.”

“You’re leaving me to deal with Momo if she comes back late?” he asked, voice still neutral, but his brow slightly furrowed.

“Aw, don’t scowl at me, kid. You’re the responsible one here,” she winked, then paused with her hand on the door. “You know she’ll be fine. That girl’s got a mean left hook!”

Seiko’s grin faded briefly. For a moment, the usual sparkle of cheer in her eyes dimmed. She looked at him carefully, reading more from his silence than from anything he said.

“Worried about her, huh?”

He didn’t answer. He just turned his head slightly, as if checking the time on the wall clock that hadn’t worked since winter.

“Well,” Seiko muttered while opening the door, the light from the outside lamp outlining her figure. “She’s stubborn. But strong. Not the kind of girl you need to chain to a temple or hide in a cave.”

Then she glanced back with a smirk. “Besides, if she ran into trouble, I know you’d be the one who’d fix it.”

He didn’t respond.

“I’ll be back in the morning. Don’t let any weird spirits in.”

The door slid shut behind her, clack, and the house returned to silence.

Time passed.

The kettle clicked off with a soft ping. Emiya poured hot water into his cup and stirred the instant miso without looking at it. Outside, cicadas buzzed low in the dark, and the lamp by the porch flickered once, then steadied.

He sat at the low dining table, sipping slowly, one hand on his cup, the other resting flat against the table’s edge.

The seat across from him was empty. Her usual schoolbag wasn’t by the doorway. Her slippers were still tucked beneath the umbrella stand.

He didn’t touch his food.

The wall clock kept ticking. Unseen. Useless.

Shirou Emiya stared quietly at the cup in his hand, saying nothing.

The sky darkened. No voices. No laughter. No bickering. Just the rustle of wind outside the walls of a house that now felt too quiet.

Momo Ayase hadn’t come home.

And despite all logic telling him she was probably fine, somewhere,—something in his gut whispered otherwise.

The miso went cold in his hand.

His eyes, dark and calm, shifted toward the window.

Still no sign.

“…Idiot,” he muttered softly.

He truly hoped that she wasn’t in any kind of mess, or worse, her life being endangered.

---

His hopes were truly all for naught. Even worse, his worries turned out to be more than true.

The worst did happen

The scorched remains of the grass still steamed in the morning air.

The sky was slowly brightening, blue devouring the black night above the shattered roof of the Ayase property.

Broken tiles, cracked concrete, and splintered wood littered the yard like confetti after an interdimensional parade.

The Flatwoods Monster, a mangled, oily heap of shredded metal and cooked alien meat, twitched once and then collapsed fully—what was left of its warped mechanical limbs fused with the stone lantern it landed on.

He stood over it, shirt torn at the sleeve, knuckles smeared with black ichor. The air around him still shimmered faintly with leftover heat. His breathing was calm, composed, not even winded. His piercing eyes, however, had shifted to something far more dangerous than the monster.

He turned to Momo Ayase, who stood in the yard with a nerdy-looking boy with glasses, both of them bruised, scraped, and suspiciously quiet.

Momo adjusted the her damaged clothes that hung off her shoulders. Okarun, wearing her old gym pants and a deeply traumatized expression, tried not to make eye contact.

He then cracked his neck once and finally spoke.

“So. What the hell have you been up to?”

His voice wasn’t angry.

It was worse.

It was like silent rage.

Momo immediately raised her hands defensively. “Okay, look—before you say anything, let me just—THERE WERE ALIENS, OKAY?!”

Okarun nodded frantically. “And ghosts!”

“I got abducted!”

“I got cursed!”

“My clothes got disintegrated!”

“My—MY DIGNITY GOT RIPPED OFF!!”

There was a long silence as he stared at both of them. His brow twitched faintly. He blinked once.

“…You’re telling me you skipped curfew, didn’t text home, got possessed, abducted, cursed, and almost murdered—”

“And don’t forget my phone was vaporized,” Momo added, holding up her bare wrist like she meant to gesture to a watch that wasn’t there.

“—vaporized,” he deadpanned, “because you two made a bet about whether aliens or ghosts were real?”

“Yes!” Momo answered proudly, as if that somehow justified everything.

“Technically, it was about the legitimacy of UAPs versus spirit phenomena,” Okarun corrected.

“Shut up,” both Emiya and Momo said in unison.

He sighed and turned to walk a few steps away, running a hand down his face like he was trying to scrub off the entire conversation. A few remaining embers near the edge of the destroyed yard hissed under his foot.

He finally turned back, expression unreadable.

“You two,” he said flatly, “are grounded.”

“WHAA—” Momo immediately started.

“For how long?” Okarun whimpered.

“Until one of you grows a brain,” Shirou snapped.

Momo folded her arms, still wearing his torn uniform blazer and one of Okarun’s mismatched shoes. “You’re not even my dad! And even if you’re my uncle, you’re my age!”

“No. But I’m the most responsible one here. I unclog the drain when you flood it doing laundry wrong. I made sure you had a freaking umbrella during rainstorms. So yeah, if no one else is going to say it, I will.”

He pointed a finger at the remains of the torii gate, still smoldering from the battle.

“This house was protected by a goddamn spiritual barrier. You ripped it down to sneak in your alien-summoning boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“I—I’m not her boyfriend!”

Silence.

“AAARGH!!”

Momo yanked the nearest broken roof tile and hurled it across the lawn in frustration, accidentally hitting the monster’s corpse with a dull thud. It twitched again, releasing one final gassy exhale.

Everyone gagged.

“Okay,” he muttered, nose wrinkling, “enough talking. Go clean yourselves up. You stink like alien breath and ghost sweat.”

“But I literally saved Okarun from going full granny mode—”

“Shower.”

“And I ripped off the Flatwoods Monster’s thumb!”

“Shower.”

“I don’t even have a dick anymore!!” Okarun blurted desperately.

“…What,” he said, stopping cold.

“Nope!” Momo shouted, pushing Okarun toward the house. “We are not unpacking that!

He exhaled deeply. His eyes lingered on the crater where the monster had fallen, then toward the faint scorch mark that traced the edge of every corner.

His gaze sharpened.

He’d been quiet for too long. Pretending he could live a normal life.

Now he realized: the peace he'd been granted—the life Seiko and Momo gave him—was coming under fire from forces beyond even this world.

He clenched his fists.

Suddenly, a low rumble of an engine echoed through the narrow residential street. A taxi stopped at the front of the house, and then someone exited from it.

Seiko Ayase had arrived and saw the front of her house.

Correction: what was left of her house.

The front yard was a crater.

There was black soot on the windows. One of the balcony rails looked like it had been melted with acid. A scorch mark trailed from the mailbox to a nearby telephone pole. Even her sacred salt ring was displaced.

“…What in the ghost-ridden fuck happened here,” Seiko said calmly, eyes hidden behind her massive shades.

She hadn’t even taken off her helmet yet.

The taxi then took off, her heels clicking against the broken pavement, and marched past a dazed crow that was flapping near the broken laundry rack.

She saw Shirou, standing with his back to her, arms crossed, gaze directed at something out in the yard.

“Oi, Freeloader,” she said flatly. “You hosting fireworks parties now?”

“This is hard to explain but—“

“AYASE-SAN!!”

Their talking got interrupted as they heard it.

And that’s when they saw them—Momo and Okarun, collapsed together just past the crater.

Momo had fallen unconscious, slumped against the stone lantern. Her hair was matted with sweat. Her lips were pale, chest rising slowly. Okarun knelt beside her, gripping her shoulders and shaking gently.

“Ayase-san? C’mon! Wake up!” Okarun begged, his voice cracking.

Seiko’s humor dropped instantly. She bolted forward, ripping off the helmet and tossing her wig aside as she kneeled next to them. “What the hell happened here?!”

Okarun turned toward them. “We were attacked. Something broke through. She exhausted her powers fighting it with me!”

Seiko’s hands glowed faintly as she placed her palm over Momo’s forehead. “What powers?”

Okarun said, panicked. “She kept my curse suppressed… too long. I told her she needed rest, but she kept going... because of me.”

Suddenly—

ZRRRRRRMMMMPH—

A violent ripple surged from Okarun’s body. His arms jerked outward, his fingers twisted unnaturally, and his teeth clenched.

“No—no no no—NOT NOW—”

SSSHHHHRRKK!

A burst of spectral light erupted from Okarun’s back. The Turbo Granny curse tore loose—vaporous, skeletal, and grinning wide. It latched onto his shoulders like a parasite, eyes burning green with wild energy.

He instantly moved, summoning a shining red projection—a jagged short blade—into his hand. He stepped between the curse and Seiko without hesitation.

Okarun’s eyes were wide with fear.

“I-I can’t control it… she’s unconscious… I CAN’T—!!”

His body contorted. His arms warped with that sickly, cursed musculature—veins bulging, teeth lengthening. His voice was layered with Turbo Granny’s inhuman cackling.

“WRAHFHHHHHHH!”

Shirou narrowed his eyes. “Seiko. Move.”

But Seiko stood her ground, fingers dancing into intricate mudras.

“No,” she muttered. “I’ll murder every scumbag that tries to seduce my granddaughter. Even if they’re human.”

Out of nowhere, she had a baseball bat ready in her arm—

CLAP!

---

The world came back to her in layers.

First, the sound. The faint hum of an old TV. Something retro. Familiar theme music.

Then, the smell. Rice cooking. Soy sauce and miso wafting through the air like a soft hand coaxing her to consciousness. Sizzling garlic. Grated daikon.

And then, pain. A dull throb against her temples, her whole body feeling like it had been through a cosmic washing machine. Her eyelids fluttered open. The ceiling above her was wooden, familiar, slightly cracked — her room.

“Ughhh…”

Momo Ayase groaned, dragging a hand across her face as she tried to sit up. Her limbs protested, her back aching from... what? A battle? A possession? A freakin’ alien encounter?

It all came rushing back like a film reel:

Turbo Granny. The psychic backlash. Okarun’s curse going out of control. Her body being pushed past its limit to hold him down. And then—

She gasped.

Okarun.

Momo kicked the covers off and stood up too fast, her knees wobbling dangerously. Her forehead was damp, her throat dry.

“Okarun?!” she called, stumbling into the hallway. “Where the hell—?”

Her bare feet padded down the wooden floorboards, each step making her head pound. The house was strangely calm. She could hear something playing on the TV downstairs, along with the clatter of kitchen utensils.

She nearly fell as she turned the corner into the living room—

Momo stared in disbelief. “Wait, you’re back?!”

“Keep it down. I’m watching Bakatono right now.”

“I’ve got something more important than that to talk about!!”

There, laying cross-legged on the mat in front of the TV, was Seiko, wearing her unique house clothing and munching on sweet senbei crackers like nothing ever happened”

“Did you go to a haunted spot?” Seiko questioned, chewing lazily and not looking away from the TV.

Momo instantly became serious. “I did… well, not me, but a friend.”

“What for?” Seiko nodded toward her with a cracker.

“What for? Well we were talking… and one thing just led to another.” After this, it was Momo’s time to question.

“Speaking of, did you see a boy around? If I don’t stay near him, there’ll be real trouble!”

“KEHKEHKEH! Bakatono is a national treasure I swear!” Seiko didn’t answer her granddaughter and only reacted to the TV program she was watching.

“HEY!! Are you listening to me?!” Momo shouted, cheeks flushed red with annoyance. “W-Wait—never mind! Where’s Okarun?!”

Seiko didn’t blink. “If you’re talking about that evil spirit, I killed it dead.”

Momo’s stomach dropped. “Hah?!?! What did this evil spirit look like?! Was it wearing glasses—?!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I thought you didn’t believe in spirits and stuff. Plus…”

This time, Seiko took the time to look at her face.

“…I’m a phony spirit medium, remember?”

Momo got triggered with that line of questioning.

“How long are you gonna hold that against me, you old hag?! He may be in real trouble here! Now give me a straight answer!” She adamantly said to her grandmother.

“Oh, please. Don’t believe that kinda stuff. There’s no such thing as evil spirits, and I’m a fraud,” Her grandmother only rebutted her further.

In an instant, Momo did something that shocked Seiko.

She went down on her knees and apologized sincerely.

“I’m so sorry, I was wrong. Please tell me… what happened to the evil spirit.”

From the kitchen, a voice interrupted.

“Just go to the main shrine and see.”

She turned sharply.

There stood Shirou Emiya, sleeves rolled up, wearing an apron as he stirred a pot of stew over the gas stove. His white hair was slicked back, faint steam rising as he tasted the broth with a spoon.

“You’re up,” he said without turning. “Good. You need to eat something. You used too much energy.”

“Wha—Unc? What the hell are you doing?” she asked, still flustered.

“Same thing I always do, in the kitchen,” he replied, eyes focused on the food. “The house exploded. Figured someone should make dinner.”

Momo marched toward the exit. “Never mind dinner! You dirty old man and dirty old hag! I need to find Okarun! If something’s happened to him, I’ll never forgive you two!”

As Momo hurriedly went for the exit in order to go to the main shrine outside the house, they were only two people left inside.

“I was just about to tell her about that boy of hers and where he is…” Seiko calmly said toward the kitchen.

“I think you like the fact that you could torture Momo even further, Sorry to burst your fun,” he said calmly, placing the lid on the pot. “I’m gonna give that kid dinner as well, wanna come?

“Heck yeah, I wanna see her new boyfriend again!” Seiko stood up lazily and started to stretch her limbs.

“And talk about what should we do now?”

This time, Seiko was no longer moving lazily and started to stand up straight.

“You want to go to that tunnel in an instant, don’t you?” Seiko asked the guy who was just done cooking.

“It’ll be far more efficient for me to go there and deal with Turbo Granny… and the others.”

“I told you, you couldn’t just blow the place into pieces. You almost made that weird dagger that can erase any kind of curse as well.” Seiko elaborated further.

Indeed, he could just trace Rule Breaker and let it all end, including the nerdy kid’s curse.

“Why not? The curse almost put harm on Momo and even himself,” he tried to argue.

“Do you want that kid to be curse-free but missing his sausage and meatballs forever?!”

“At least, he’ll be alive.”

“Just try to imagine—ugh!! I feel tingly imagining it and I’m a woman.”

He had all the power to make the curse went away, but with the nature of Takakura’s private parts that were taken… the worst case scenario was that it wouldn’t return if he had gone and did what he wanted to do.

“Besides, I feel like this is a great opportunity to finally get rid of that pesky problem with Turbo Granny. Like a three birds, one stone kinda moment,” Seiko calmly said to him, alluding she had a plan or some sort.

“What do you have in mind?” he asked, raising his eyebrow in the process.

“Let’s go see those lovebirds and talk with them as well. They are certainly a big part in this,” Seiko then moved toward the exit while finishing her small talk with him.

In his mind, he felt that he could just solve everything with a fiery destruction from conjuring a Noble Phantasm or two, or perhaps a quick and efficient way by just killing the evil spirits were possible.

But considering the state of this new world, where everything still didn’t make sense after hearing the story of, aliens? appearing as well.

Emiya would like to see what they got in store…

And there would always be him and his Magecraft as a last resort.