Life, as the old adage often goes, is a series of ups and downs. But for Shirou Emiya, fate seemed to favour only the extremes. His world did not begin with lullabies or the warmth of a mother's arms. No — it began in flames, in the flickering hellfire of a burning city, the cries of the dying silenced by smoke and collapsing beams.
He alone survived.
A small boy, broken and scorched, rescued from the charred remnants of a city by a mysterious man — a magus cloaked in secrets and ideals. Kiritsugu Emiya, a man who dreamed of salvation but lived in contradiction, took the boy in and raised him with one single doctrine: become a hero of justice. It was a creed as noble as it was damning.
Years passed. The boy grew — learned spells inked in blood and theory, fought illusions with steel and resolve. But as all stories go, peace is a fragile illusion, and Shirou was cast into the Holy Grail War, a violent dance of ancient spirits and modern masters.
It was in this crucible of chaos that he met her — Saber, proud and solemn, a warrior queen from another time. He fought by her side, faced death countless times, and stood with trembling hands before truths that could unmake a person.
He had always believed in saving everyone.
But the world does not bend for ideals.
Not when faced with the trembling, haunted smile of Sakura Matou, whose life had been a slow, silent torment. Not when choosing to save her meant condemning others. And not when even his future self — Archer, bitter and disillusioned — stood as a grim testament to what blind idealism could birth.
He had to choose: Sakura or the world.
And, for once, Shirou Emiya chose love.
And the world did not end.
Instead, it shifted. It softened.
The Grail War concluded. The dust settled, and for the first time, Shirou found himself not alone, but surrounded by warmth he never imagined he deserved.
Saber, who was supposed to fade with the war's end, now remained — anchored to the world through Rin's ingenuity and affection. Rin Tohsaka, brilliant and prideful, whose heart beat a rhythm only Shirou seemed to understand. And Sakura, soft-spoken and fiercely loyal, whose love for him was as deep as the darkness she had endured.
Three women. Three bonds forged in fire, sorrow, and hope. Shirou never thought he was worthy of love — not when he couldn't even love himself. But these women… they didn't ask him to be perfect. They didn't worship his ideals. They loved him — broken, confused, and kind-hearted as he was.
And so they made a family — unconventional, yes, but full of laughter and quiet joy. And Shirou trained harder than ever, desperate to carve a new path — one that would never end in Archer's lonely despair.
But fate, ever fickle, had different plans.
It happened one night, just after Shirou had stopped a ring of drug traffickers. His name was beginning to carry weight in his city — whispered with admiration and caution. He was eighteen, on the cusp of becoming the man he had always hoped to be.
And then the summoning happened.
One moment he stood beneath the stars, the next — magic, cold and inescapable, wrapped around him like chains of light.
When he opened his eyes, the world was wrong.
He lay on an altar of smooth obsidian, bare as the day he was born, surrounded by robed figures dressed in pristine white. Their language was alien, lilting and sharp, and the air was thick with enchantment. His head spun, his limbs ached, but his instincts flared. Danger. Alarm. Mistrust.
One figure stepped forward, holding what looked like a crown — delicate and ornate, yet exuding a terrible presence. Shirou's vision cleared just enough to see the man's hand reaching toward him.
He did not hesitate.
With the force of someone who had survived fires, wars, and his own ideals, Shirou lashed out — his foot catching the robed figure in the chest and sending him sprawling across the chamber floor.
There was a gasp. A silence.
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The altar was cold beneath his back, etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly beneath the skin. Shirou's breath came in steady bursts, fogging slightly in the crisp air of the marble chamber. He had no time to question, no time to hesitate.
He moved.
With practiced ease, Shirou braced his arms against the edge of the altar and vaulted clean over the robed figures, landing soundlessly behind them. His circuits flared to life, like glowing veins beneath his skin. Trace, on.
In twin flashes of light, Kanshou and Byakuya — the paired blades of yin and yang, curved and sleek — appeared in his hands.
The murmurs around him intensified, the foreign syllables harsh and breathy like a hymn recited backward. Their hands gestured wildly, and the glint of a silver ring held aloft made Shirou's eyes narrow.
A control device, he guessed. A tether of compulsion. So that was their plan.
The room was as unnatural as a dream: sterile white walls, seamless and smooth, without windows or doors. Only the altar, centered like a throne to sacrifice, broke the monotony — its base woven with the glowing lattice of an unfamiliar magic circle.
The people surrounding him — they felt wrong. Not in presence, but in doctrine. They radiated power, but their garments and chanting reminded Shirou of something unnervingly close to priests. Their expressions were pale masks of disbelief and alarm.
They had not expected resistance.
Good.
Without a word, Shirou bolted through the confusion. The blades in his hands sang faintly as he ran, his eyes locked on a newly exposed corridor — a hallway, dimly lit, stretching into the unknown.
But he didn't get far before the next obstacle presented itself.
Armoured figures. Knights.
Steel-clad, with glowing visors and heavy blades. They advanced as one — organized, prepared. Shirou's heart pounded, but not with fear. With resolve. This wasn't just an illegal summoning — this was another world. The design of the armor, the air, even the smell — all wrong for his own reality.
"Where am I?" he whispered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
But questions would come later. For now, there was only battle.
With swift, precise slashes, he struck the knights across their helmets, the ring of steel on steel echoing through the corridor. One fell, then another. He didn't kill them — he didn't need to. Disabling them was enough.
He grabbed the least injured of the four, a knight about his size, slung him over his shoulder, and dashed onward.
Answers. I need answers.
The white hallways branched and turned like a maze. Doors opened to more rooms — some barren, some filled with crates, scrolls, and arcane tools. Along the way, more priests and guards tried to intercept him, but Shirou moved with relentless purpose. When the knight became too heavy a burden, he tossed him aside and instead grabbed a younger priest — a man robed in pale blue, whose face was still flushed from unconsciousness.
He needed a mouth that could speak.
He ran until he found a small door tucked between two pillars. The room beyond smelled of dust and parchment — a storage room lined with bookshelves and odd magical relics. It was dark, quiet. Safe, for now.
He shut the door quietly, then locked it with a nearby rod jammed through the handle.
Kneeling beside the priest, Shirou tapped his cheek once, twice, then pressed the flat of Kanshou against his throat — not to harm, but to warn.
The man stirred, eyes fluttering open in confusion before widening with panic.
The moment the priest stirred, his body shivered — perhaps from the cold marble floor, or perhaps from the gleam of steel brushing dangerously close to his neck. His mouth opened in a panic, ready to cry out—
Shirou silenced him immediately, hand clamped over the man's mouth, dagger pressing firmly to the jugular.
"Tell me where I am," he demanded, his voice low, calm, and chilling.
But the man only stared in confusion, blinking rapidly.
Shirou frowned.
He didn't understand him.
Tch. Of course. He'd assumed too much.
But this wasn't a dead end. He'd trained. He'd prepared.
In the year following the Holy Grail War, Shirou had been shaped by those who cared — Illya and Rin. They refused to let his body remain as it was — fragile, limited, fated to burn out before achieving anything lasting. They had rebuilt him, little by little, enhancing his magical circuits, expanding his mana pool, and teaching him the fundamentals of survival as a modern hero.
He still wasn't a genius, and never would be. But he worked harder than anyone.
One of the first tools Rin had insisted on — a translation spell. Heroes didn't always get summoned where people spoke Japanese. Shirou had scoffed at the time, but now…
He activated it. A faint glow shimmered across his eyes.
Now, when he asked again, "Where am I?" the answer came in shivering clarity.
"You are in the Ark Continent," the man said, his voice filled with misplaced pride, "beneath the authority of the Temple of White Sacrament, in the capital of the Holy Empire. Desist with this futile resistance, Outsider, or the White Lord shall strike you down for your blasphemy!"
There was no fear in his words. No trembling. Just the kind of certainty that came from a lifetime under tyranny disguised as faith.
Shirou stared into his eyes.
So… it's true.
He hadn't just been summoned to another place. It was another world.
"How do I go back?"
The priest grinned, the way zealots do when they've convinced themselves that cruelty is kindness.
"There is no going back," he sneered. "You are now property of the White Lord. Like all the rest of your kind. Submit."
The words chilled Shirou more than any winter ever could.
"Others?" His grip on the dagger tightened. "You summoned others. What did you do to them?"
"Oh, they are fulfilling their roles," the priest said with a smile that should have belonged on a butcher. "The White Lord grants purpose. They now serve — some in labor, some in rituals, some in... more refined studies."
The implication struck like a hammer.
They've enslaved them. No... worse.
They're using them for experiments.
People who never asked to be brought here.
"Cut the bullshit." Shirou's patience snapped. With a flash of motion, he drew the dagger across the man's cheek — a shallow cut, precise. Blood beaded, and the priest screamed—
—but Shirou muffled it again, cold eyes staring into his soul.
"Try that again, and the next cut goes through your heart. Understood?"
The man nodded, face pale now, his confidence shaken.
And then came the ugly truth — everything Shirou feared.
They had summoned hundreds already. This was just one lab among many, overseen directly by the Temple of White Sacrament. The others — his people — were nothing more than raw material for their twisted pursuit of knowledge and control.
The worst part?
They had no plans to send anyone back.
"You are nothing," the priest spat in one final act of defiance, "and if you do not surrender soon, the Mage Squads will tear you apart. The Holy Knights will break you. And should they fail, the Apostle will come. And then—there will be no mercy."
Shirou looked into the priest's eyes one final time.
There was no remorse there.
Only fanaticism.
With no hesitation, Shirou stabbed him through the heart.
He let the body slump gently to the floor, his expression unreadable.
This wasn't justice. But it was necessary.
He turned away, Kanshou and Byakuya vanishing into sparks. He stood in silence for a moment, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched.
"Save the others, or escape?"
His past self might have rushed headfirst into a martyr's death, screaming about ideals.
But this Shirou — the Shirou shaped by Illya's care, by Rin's determination, by his own will to live — knew better.
He could not help anyone if he died.
But he could not leave them either.
He would find the captives. He would assess. And if he could… he would save them.
Not because it was the heroic thing to do.
But because no one else would.
And his loved ones were waiting for him. That was the difference.
He would not die here.