"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.
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 trace remained.
---
Absolute darkness.
It wasn't just the absence of light. It was something else—something alive.
Shirou floated in it, his body weightless, yet the sensation was nothing like freedom. It was more like sinking into tar, a suffocating mire that clung to his skin and bones. Every breath felt forced, every movement swallowed whole by the endless black.
He tried to focus. To understand.
A magus has their own way of sensing mana, of interpreting the unseen world. For Shirou, it had always been through smell—like a strange kind of synesthesia. He could smell the flow of the world, the quiet currents of energy around him.
But here, in this place… nothing made sense.
The air carried no clean rhythm, no natural trace. Instead, what reached him was alien. Wrong. Alive. The stench was sickly sweet, like blood left to rot under the sun, yet heavier—something primal that scraped at the edge of sanity.
Then, the darkness stirred.
From the void, shapes began to writhe. Tendrils of black shadow twisted out of the gloom, whispering words too faint to hear, yet heavy enough to weigh down his soul. They slithered toward him with the patience of hunters, scenting prey.
Shirou's eyes widened. He knew this presence.
Angra Mainyu.
All the World's Evil.
His body recoiled instinctively, but there was nowhere to run. The shadows reached him, slipping into his skin like smoke, seeping into his bones. A flood of visions tore through his mind: cities burning, families slaughtered, betrayal, despair without end.
His teeth clenched.
But then, another presence struck him—different, heavier.
A pressure that carried the weight of gold and arrogance. Regal. Commanding. Cold.
A voice echoed in his skull, smooth yet cruel.
"Pathetic mongrel. Even in death, you serve me. Your flesh will be my vessel, and through you, I will walk this world once more."
Gilgamesh.
The King of Heroes.
Two forces—one born of all the world's curses, the other of the king who holds all the earth's treasures—both pressing down on him, both clawing for his body and soul.
Shirou's circuits screamed as he tried to fire them up, to fight back. Sparks of energy flickered along his nerves as he forced them to respond. His body trembled under the strain, but the resistance barely slowed the invasion.
'I can't stop this… Not like this.'
Gilgamesh's voice thundered like a hammer.
"You cannot resist. You are nothing but kindling. Burn and be consumed."
The tendrils dug deeper. His limbs grew heavy, his vision blurred. Both forces were devouring him, and with every second, his body was becoming less his own.
Shirou knew it—knew that he was losing ground.
Still, his teeth ground together in defiance. He wasn't going to bow. Not to the curse that reveled in despair. Not to the tyrant who claimed all things as his.
Even if this was the end, he would resist until the last spark of himself was gone.
But then—
A warmth stirred deep within him.
The warmth began faint—just a flicker against the crushing dark.
At first, Shirou thought it was his imagination. A trick of the mind before breaking completely. But no… it was real.
It pulsed from somewhere deep inside him, quiet and steady, like the beat of a second heart. A golden glow spread outward, faint as candlelight at first, but growing stronger with each pulse.
The tendrils hissed as they touched it, recoiling as if scalded.
The warmth thickened into radiance, wrapping around Shirou's essence, sheltering him. Every wound on his body, every tear in his soul, began to knit itself back together under that light.
Shirou's eyes widened. What… is this?
It wasn't his magecraft. It wasn't his stubborn will. This was something else entirely.
What he didn't know was that it had been inside him since the Great Fuyuki Fire, placed there by Kiritsugu in a desperate attempt to save his life.
Avalon.
The Everdistant Utopia.
Not just a scabbard. Not just a relic. But a miracle.
Forged by fairies, meant for a king, the sheath of Excalibur was more than protection. It was a sanctuary. It healed what was broken, halted decay, and preserved life against certain death. When its true name was called, it would even wrap its bearer in a dimension unreachable by blade, curse, or time itself.
And though it had long lain dormant, silent within Shirou's body, something about this corrupted realm had roused it. It stirred awake, offended by the intrusion of filth, and flared to life.
The warmth surged. The glow thickened into a barrier, thin but unyielding, pushing back the corruption of Angra Mainyu and dulling the bite of Gilgamesh's will.
Shirou gasped as the crushing weight on his chest eased, if only slightly. For the first time since falling into the Grail's void, he could breathe.
But it wasn't enough.
The tendrils didn't stop. The golden pressure didn't ease. Gilgamesh's voice rumbled like distant thunder, amused and enraged at once.
"Do you think such a thing will save you? You will break. All you have done is delay it."
And Angra Mainyu's shadows pressed harder, boiling against the barrier, whispering despair into every crack it could find.
Avalon shielded him. It healed him. But it could not win the fight for him.
Shirou understood. This won't last. If I don't do something—if I don't act now—it's over.
His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, his heart hammering like a war drum.
Think. There has to be a way… some chance, even if it kills me.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to dig deep into memory. Not of battles, not of victory—but of failure. Of the time before Rin awakened his circuits, when he had tried to create them on his own.
Back then, he had taken his nerves and burned them open into makeshift circuits. A reckless gamble that had nearly crippled him.
If he tried it again now, it would kill him for sure.
But what death is more preferrable? After all…
To be a Magus is to walk with Death
"Now or never," he muttered through clenched teeth.
Shirou forced himself to sit upright in the void, Avalon's glow clinging to him like a fragile shield. His breathing came heavy, ragged, but steady enough to focus.
'My body is already half broken. My circuits aren't enough. If I want to resist, if I want to live… I have to make more.'
The thought itself was insane. Every magus knew it was suicide to force new circuits into a body that wasn't made for them. But every magus also knew what Shirou had never cared to accept: he wasn't normal. He had walked through fire once already.
And now, he had no other choice.
He closed his eyes, picturing his body as a map. A network of nerves, vessels, pathways. The architecture of life itself. Then he willed them to burn, to reshape, to become conduits of power.
The reaction was immediate.
It felt like molten iron had been poured into his veins. White-hot agony shot through his spine, up his skull, down his limbs. His body twisted, convulsed. His jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would shatter.
"Ghhhhh—!" His cry echoed in the dark, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Each new circuit he forced open came with pain so sharp it felt like dying, over and over again. But he endured. He had to.
The shadows shrieked as they sensed weakness, pressing harder against Avalon's barrier. Gilgamesh's voice roared like a storm in his head.
"Mongrel! You think you can defy me with such filth? Your body will collapse before it bends to your will!"
Shirou ground his teeth, sweat—or maybe blood—running down his face.
'Shut up. I don't need perfection. I just need enough.'
The first circuit sparked alive. Then a second. A third. Each one crude, rough, barely stable. But they worked.
Avalon's light pulsed stronger with each circuit he created, feeding on the purer mana flowing through him. The warmth thickened, pushing back against the corruption little by little.
The pain didn't stop. Time itself seemed to blur. Minutes, hours, days—it didn't matter anymore. Every second was a battlefield where his body, mind, and soul were torn apart and stitched back together.
But even through the agony, he felt it.
The balance shifting.
Gilgamesh's voice, once cold and commanding, grew strained.
"You dare… consume me?!"
The tendrils of Angra Mainyu thrashed, writhing violently against the barrier, their whispers turning into screams.
Shirou opened his eyes, pupils burning with light. His voice, hoarse but unyielding, broke through the chaos.
"I won't… hand it over. Not to you. Not to anyone."
The battle inside him didn't end just because the circuits opened. If anything, it only grew fiercer.
Every time Shirou pulled in mana, Angra Mainyu's corruption tried to twist it. Every time the shadows seeped into his body, Avalon burned them away. And every time he pushed himself past the pain, Gilgamesh's presence pressed harder, as though the King of Heroes would rather be destroyed than bend to anyone else.
'It hurts. It hurts so much I can't even tell where my body ends anymore… But I can't stop here. If I stop, I'll lose everything.'
The new circuits were far from perfect. Some flickered, unstable, like cracked pipes leaking power. Others barely functioned, sputtering before Avalon's radiance stabilized them again. But even so—there were more of them. Enough to change the flow of the fight.
He forced them to draw in the surrounding energy, even from the poisoned mud that made up this void. Avalon caught every drop, cleansing it, converting it, and sending it back into Shirou's veins as strength.
The darkness hissed, writhing louder than before.
Whispers slammed into his skull—murder, hatred, despair. Memories that weren't his flooded through him: blades sinking into flesh, screams echoing into silence, betrayals that cut deeper than steel. The malice of countless lifetimes, compressed into black tendrils, tried to root itself into his soul.
Shirou staggered under the weight. For a moment, his knees buckled, the barrier flickering.
But he clenched his fists and pushed back.
'So what if I've seen hell before? I walked through hell once. I'll do it again. If all you have to show me is hatred, then I'll reject it, even if it kills me!'
The warmth inside him flared. Avalon's glow swelled into a radiant pulse, spreading cracks of light across the void. The shadows shrieked as they burned away, recoiling like beasts before a torch.
Gilgamesh roared in fury, his voice echoing like metal striking metal.
"Miserable fool! Do you think you can wield my power? You are nothing without me!"
Shirou's teeth clenched. His voice was low, but steady.
"I don't need to wield your power. I'll make it mine."
His circuits sparked brighter, threads of gold weaving through the unstable lines of blue within him. Something new was forming—not just Shirou's, not just Gilgamesh's, but something forged in the middle of their struggle.
The void trembled.
The void convulsed around him, no longer a still sea of tar but a storm. Tendrils whipped through the dark, lashing against the golden barrier that Avalon projected. Each strike sent cracks racing through the shield, only for the light to mend them again.
But it was eating away at Shirou's strength.
Every pulse of Avalon demanded mana. Every repair to the circuits left his body trembling. His breaths were ragged, his chest tight as if an iron band had wrapped around his lungs.
Gilgamesh's voice cut through the storm like a blade.
"You delay the inevitable. The mongrel's body breaks, the mongrel's soul crumbles. Nothing you do will change that."
The shadows surged, forcing themselves into Shirou's flesh, into his blood. Memories exploded behind his eyes: men turned to ash in firestorms, children crushed beneath stone, women screaming as blades pierced their backs. It was endless, unrelenting, a tide of suffering that threatened to drown him whole.
His knees hit the ground. His fingers dug into the black sludge, and even that tried to climb up his arms like living chains.
'Stop…Ignore the pain…continue…'
The warmth inside him pulsed again, faint but steady, like a heartbeat not his own. Avalon's light washed the visions away one by one, but each one burned Shirou from the inside as if he'd paid for it with his own soul.
Then another weight slammed into him—Gilgamesh pressing harder, his essence like molten gold forced into iron veins.
"Pathetic. Even your resistance is borrowed. You would be nothing without the scraps of kings and gods. Submit, and I will make your death meaningful!"
Shirou bared his teeth, forcing his head up against the crushing pressure.
"I'd rather die… than hand myself over to you."
His circuits screamed as he pushed them further. Pain roared through him like wildfire, tearing along every nerve, but he didn't stop. He dragged in more of the poisoned mana, trusting Avalon to purify it before it killed him.
The golden scabbard's glow pulsed brighter, weaving threads of light into his makeshift circuits. Slowly, painfully, they stabilized. Not perfectly—some still sputtered, some still cracked—but they held.
And for the first time, Shirou felt the scales tilt.
The tendrils of Angra Mainyu recoiled from the expanding light. Gilgamesh's voice faltered, breaking from contempt to fury.
"You dare… to defy ME?!"
Shirou forced himself to stand again, legs shaking, vision swimming. His fists clenched, the words tearing from his throat in a whisper that sounded more like a vow.
---
Hours? Days? Months? Years? Unknown time has passed.
Shirou could barely hold onto consciousness. The battle felt endless—each moment a tide pushing and pulling at his soul. Yet with every clash, with every breath, something changed. The crushing weight on his chest lifted little by little, like chains loosening one link at a time.
Angra Mainyu's shadow still coursed through him, burrowing deep, trying to devour whatever made him him. But Avalon answered without fail. The golden warmth moved through his body in steady waves, purifying the curse bit by bit. Where the shadow tried to bite, the light burned it clean. Where poison pooled, the scabbard washed it away.
He pulled mana because he had to survive; his makeshift circuits took in everything they could, even the corrupted sludge that filled this place. And every time it entered him, Avalon seized it—scrubbed it—returned it as clean strength, then pushed the waste back out of his body in a slow, constant rhythm. Draw in, cleanse, expel. Over and over. A tireless system built on sheer will and a miracle he never asked for.
Then, without warning, the feeling of the world shifted.
The stench he could never name—wrong, alive, hostile—faded. In its place was something warm and familiar. The scent that reached him was clean, like steel in sunlight after rain. It reminded him of the quiet in his shed, of the stillness before a fight. It didn't press on him. It accepted him.
'…It feels warm.'
He didn't know why. He didn't see what had changed. But the danger that had gnawed at him since falling into the abyss was gone. The air was no longer heavy. The dark no longer crowded his lungs.
What Shirou couldn't see from inside his battered body was the simple truth: his constant intake of corrupted mana, and Avalon's relentless purification, had been cleaning the Grail itself. Every pulse of light through his circuits flushed more taint away. Every breath pressed back the stain that had lingered since the Third War. The realm that had belonged to the World's Evil was finally losing its master.
The blackness softened. The pressure lifted. Gentle light began to bloom where there had been none.
Exhaustion hit him like a hammer. He had nothing left to give.
'Is it…over…'
He let go. His eyes closed. The last thing he felt was Avalon's steady warmth holding him together as he drifted into sleep, floating in a realm that no longer wished to eat him alive.
Silence followed.
Shirou slept, his body held by a dim, golden glow. The fight inside him had ended for now. But the Greater Grail was not done.
The Grail was a tool—complex, powerful, and single-minded. Built to grant a wish to the winner. Corruption had twisted that function for generations, turning wishes into disasters. But with the stain burned away, its core purpose returned.
It identified the victor: Shirou Emiya.
He was unconscious, so the Grail followed its next rule. When a victor could not speak, it would reach into the soul and search for the truest desire.
It read him like a map.
It saw a boy who survived fire. A promise borrowed from a man who carried too many sins. A dream that refused to die even when it broke him. The wish was simple to say and impossible to grant:
A world where no one cries. A world where people don't die meaningless deaths. A world a hero can save.
The Grail weighed it. Measured it. Compared it to what could be done.
One world could not be rewritten. Not all life, not all death. Not without tearing reality apart. Even with the Grail restored, this wish exceeded its reach.
But the Grail did not stop at "no." It searched for the closest path. The most optimal approach with the power it had stored—power from every Holy Grail War before, the essence of many Servants sacrificed and never spent. Generations of "sacrifices" had filled it to the brim.
With that reservoir, it could not save his world.
But it could change his place in the story.
The conclusion was clear: move the victor to a world where his ideal had a chance—not guaranteed, but possible. A world that called for heroes openly. A world where saving lives wasn't a hidden miracle, but a daily choice.
The Grail locked onto that solution.
Send him.
To send him, the Grail needed its oldest function. The reason it was made large, complex, and tied to leylines. The reason three families had poured generations into its creation.
Open the path to the Root.
The Root—the swirl where all truth lives and all things return. The well of answers. The origin beyond origin. The Root is the ultimate ambition of magi in the moonlit world for reaching it would bestow them with obtaining True Magic.
And so The Greater Grail aligned its channels as it access one of the 5 confirmed true magics to perform a miracle.
The air—not air, but the space of this realm—changed pitch, like a string drawn tight.
A confirmed True Magic answered.
Second Magic: Operation of Parallel Worlds.
or also known as Kaleidoscope.
The space around Shirou bent. The gentle light fractured into colors—soft at first, then brighter and brighter, until the darkness became a field of shifting mirrors… like a kaleidoscope. Each pane held a different scene, a different possibility, a different world. The pattern turned, and with each turn the colors deepened, linking to paths no human could walk alone.
Particles rose from Shirou's skin like fireflies, lifting piece by piece, harmless and weightless. His body became a silhouette of light, and that silhouette became motes, and those motes spun into the pattern the Grail had chosen.
The realm stilled.
The colors faded.
Where Shirou had floated, there was nothing now.
The Grail's work was done. After generations—after failures, corruption, and blood—it had finally granted a wish in the way it was meant to: not by breaking a world, but by opening a door.
And in the quiet that followed, the purified chamber of the Grail stood empty at last.
---
The sun slowly rose over the horizon, painting the calm waters of Lolog Lake with a warm, golden light. Gentle waves tapped against the boat, a steady rhythm as a group of fishermen set out for their morning work.
As they cast their nets and readied their lines, the youngest among them, a boy with eyes as sharp as an eagle's, suddenly froze. His gaze caught a dark shape drifting on the water.
"Over there!" he shouted, pointing with urgency.
The others followed his sightline. "Is that… a person?" one murmured, worry in his tone.
Without delay, they rowed toward the figure. The shape grew clearer—it was a boy, lying still on the water. His clothes clung to him, soaked through, and his pale face showed no sign of life.
"Quick, pull him in!" one fisherman called, his voice firm with both fear and resolve.
They moved with steady precision, bringing the boy aboard. The eldest, strong as a bear, lifted him with ease and laid him gently on the deck.
"He's breathing, but weak," said a fisherman with wolf-like ears, hearing the faint rise and fall of his chest. A quiet relief spread through them, though it carried with it a heavy urgency.
"He won't make it if we try to take him to Melen so we need to take him to a clinic in a nearby village town"
And with that they quickly sailed to the nearest port and brought the boy to the nearest town that could provide medical attention to the boy.
And from then on, Shirou Emiya, the young boy who held a borrowed dream from a tragic man, is reborn to a world and age where gods and mortals live together and heroes are needed in these times.