Shirou's eyes fluttered open to the sight of an unfamiliar wooden ceiling. The texture of the timber above him was rough and worn, its dark knots twisting like scars. He blinked slowly, his mind sluggish, as if surfacing from a deep, heavy sleep.
The moment he tried to sit up, a sharp wave of pain tore through his body. He gritted his teeth, breath hissing between them, and instinctively looked down. His torso and arms were wrapped in layers of coarse, off-white bandages—some fresh, some stained a dull brown. Even shifting slightly made the wrappings pull against the raw skin beneath.
Drawing a slow breath, Shirou let his gaze drift around the room. It was modest—walls and floor of plain, aged wood, a small table by the bedside, and a single window spilling soft daylight into the space. Beyond the glass, he could see life in motion: green fields where children played, farmers stooping among rows of crops, villagers walking along a dirt road.
The air outside was clean, carrying the scent of earth and fresh grass. But what truly caught his attention were the clothes the people wore—simple tunics, leather belts, heavy boots—nothing even remotely familiar to modern Japanese styles.
And the faces.
Their features and skin tones were entirely unlike the people of Fuyuki. None of them looked remotely Japanese. For that matter, they didn't resemble any ethnicity he could easily place from his own world.
Shirou's brow furrowed. The conclusion came reluctantly, but inevitably.
Wherever the Grail had thrown him, it wasn't just far from home—it might not even be anywhere on Japan's soil.
He turned his attention inward, toward the thing that had defined his survival as much as his ideals: his magic circuits. A magus's lifeline, invisible and intimate, activated by a mental trigger unique to them.
For him, the image had always been a gun's hammer falling—a sharp, decisive click.
Shirou closed his eyes, exhaled, and pictured it. The hammer fell, the chamber spun—heat began to build in his body like embers fanned into life. His lips parted, the incantation slipping into the air almost reflexively:
"Trace… on."
In an instant, the familiar rush surged through him—his magic circuits coming alive. But what followed made his eyes snap open.
"Wait… thirty-nine?"
That couldn't be right.
He checked again. Then again. Each time the count remained the same. An additional 9 circuits, bringing him to 39 in total. Nearly matching only Rin's main circuits alone.
That was impossible.
Shirou's mind worked quickly despite the lingering ache in his body. He could feel it—these weren't just random additions to his system. They were perfectly integrated, clean, efficient.
Probing deeper, he began to understand. These new circuits weren't simply grafted onto him; they were built from him.
From his nerves.
He'd done it—something most magi would call suicidal. Seven spinal segments, four major nerve trunks, and one cranial nerve line had been reshaped into makeshift magic circuits. Even though the process should have scarred or crippled him, what he felt now wasn't damage—it was refinement.
They weren't crude emergency circuits anymore. They were… high quality. Higher than they had any right to be.
That alone was unsettling.
"Even if I succeeded, this makes no sense…" he muttered under his breath.
Only one way to test.
Shirou sat up as far as his injuries allowed, bracing through the pain, and called prana into shape. His voice came out calm and steady, almost ritualistic.
"Trace… on."
The od within him shifted, compressed, converted into prana, and began to flow into the familiar patterns of projection. A shape began to form in his mind's eye—an ordinary blade, nothing elaborate, something well within his capabilities.
His eyes widened even before the steel fully materialized in his hand.
It wasn't just that the projection succeeded—it was how it happened.
Normally, Gaia—the will of the planet—would reject such a phenomenon outright. The Counter Force, would try to erase anything that didn't belong, forcing him to push through resistance just to keep the construct stable. And even then, the projection would begin to decay the moment it took form, breaking down to correct the "error" in reality.
But here… nothing fought him.
The blade solidified without resistance, without decay, without that ever-present pressure clawing at the edges of his existence. The process had been smooth—unnervingly smooth. The weapon sat in his palm as if it had always been there, its weight real, its edge keen. By his estimation, it would last a week—maybe two—without any reinforcement. That was dangerously close to true magic.
He frowned, examining the sword more closely. It wasn't anything remarkable. Just a soldier's blade. But when he tried to recall where he'd seen it before, nothing came.
That was impossible. Projection was nothing without the memory of the original. He could only recreate what he had seen—what he had understood.
And yet here it was.
Closing his eyes, Shirou traced it. The origin flashed before him like a ripple in water—ancient Mesopotamia. The Kingdom of Uruk. A nameless foot soldier's weapon, forged under the reign of none other than the King of Heroes himself.
Gilgamesh.
He'd fought the King before—survived barrages from the Gate of Babylon, each weapon that missed him quietly adding to his own internal armory. But this blade wasn't one of them. Gil had never thrown it.
So how—
A golden shimmer stirred in his mind's eye.
Shirou froze.
There, standing impossibly amidst the endless hill of swords that was his Reality Marble, was something new—a door. A gate of blinding gold, framed with intricate designs that spoke of arrogance, wealth, and unshakable dominion.
The words came to him without effort, as though spoken by another voice layered over his own.
"Gate of Babylon… Treasury of the King."
The golden door didn't belong here.
It stood defiant amidst the barren hill of blades, as though carved out of a dream too arrogant to fade.
In his Reality Marble, every sword was part of him—an extension of his will, his history, his sins. They stood in silence under the endless copper-red sky, their edges catching the eternal wind. But this… this was something foreign. An intruder.
The gate shimmered with an opulence that mocked the simplicity of his world. Its surface was polished so perfectly that the surrounding swords were reflected in distorted grandeur, as though they themselves had been remade into treasures worthy of a king's gaze.
It was not merely a door.
It was a proclamation.
Shirou stepped closer, every instinct warning him to tread carefully. As his fingers brushed the surface, the golden metal was warm—alive, somehow—and the air around him thickened, heavy with the scent of incense and the faint echo of harp strings.
The moment he willed it open, reality… shifted.
The hill of swords vanished.
In its place stretched an endless throne room, but no mortal architecture could claim it. Here, gravity was a courtesy, not a rule. Weapons floated in the air like constellations—swords, spears, axes, halberds, each perfectly preserved, each gleaming with the kind of craftsmanship that could make kings weep.
Treasures of every age and land drifted like fragments of a dream: golden chariots inlaid with jewels, armor that shimmered with divine light, scrolls and tablets humming with forgotten incantations. Every item radiated significance. Even the smallest dagger here was steeped in legend.
It was beautiful. And suffocating.
This was no mere collection. This was the distilled essence of ownership itself—the arrogance of claiming all creation as one's birthright.
Shirou knew the feeling. He'd faced it before, staring down the King of Heroes with nothing but his own forged ideals as a shield.
And yet now… this treasury was inside him.
A chill ran through him. This wasn't just access to blueprints stolen through observation. This was the Gate of Babylon itself—woven into his Reality Marble like a golden parasite.
Cautiously, he reached for a blade—a longsword of elven make, its silver runes faintly pulsing. His hand passed through it like smoke.
He understood immediately.
He couldn't summon the gate into the world, nor draw these weapons as Gilgamesh once had. But the knowledge of them—their histories, their designs—was his. He could forge them, one by one, if he so chose.
And with his new circuits, and the absence of Gaia, the forging would be easy.
He exhaled slowly, the revelation settling in his mind like a weight. For all its grandeur, this place was not his. It was a loan, an inheritance, or perhaps… a temptation.
Before he could dwell further, the vision wavered. The throne room dimmed, treasures fading into motes of gold. In a blink, the hill of swords returned, the golden gate standing silently behind him.
Shirou retracted his circuits, letting the prana flow disperse. His breathing steadied.
Too many revelations at once. Too many questions without answers.
The creak of footsteps pulled him back to the present.
A shadow fell across the doorway, and then the wooden frame groaned as it opened.
The door swung open with a low, complaining creak, letting in a spill of warm daylight and the scent of grass after rain.
A man filled the doorway—no, occupied it, the way an oak dominates a clearing. He was broad-shouldered and built like the kind of labor that didn't take days off: thick arms corded with muscle, hands like rough-hewn blocks, and a chest that looked more suited to swinging an axe than walking through a doorway without taking part of the frame with him.
His face was weathered, the kind of weathering that came not from age alone but from years spent staring into wind and sun without flinching. Brown hair streaked faintly with gray was tied back in a simple knot, and his beard was trimmed close but not neat—practical, not vain. His clothes were coarse wool and leather, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and pine resin.
And when he spoke, the room filled with the rolling burr of a Highland accent, thick and warm like peat whisky.
"Ah, yer finally awake, lad."
He stepped inside, his boots thudding against the wooden floor.
"You've been out five days by my count. Name's Henry Ol Brian. Me an' the missus found you floatin' by the river, pale as a ghost and bleedin' like the devil'd had his go at ya. Hauled you in before the crows decided you were dinner."
Shirou blinked, processing both the words and the heavy accent. His body still ached with every small shift, but gratitude came easy.
"I… owe you my life. I can't thank you and your family enough for taking me in."
Henry's thick brows rose, then settled into an easy grin as he waved the thanks away.
"Bah, think nothin' of it. You were breathin', weren't ya? Can't just leave a lad to the river's mercy. Ain't the way of things. 'Sides, the kids were curious—wanted to know if you were some warrior outta the old tales."
Shirou allowed a faint smile at that, though it faded quickly when Henry's tone shifted.
"Must've been some beast you crossed. A right nasty one to leave marks like that."
Shirou tilted his head, caution already prickling in his thoughts.
"…Beast?"
Henry's gaze sharpened slightly, though the friendliness never left his voice.
"Aye. Monster. Though we don't get many round this part o' the vale, now an' again some deep-flored brute'll not from the dungeon. Always puts the village on edge when that happens. Never know what's crawlin' about the hills, so we send word to the Guild when there's sign of it. Investigation first, then a subjugation party if they find the thing."
Shirou's brow furrowed at the unfamiliar terms.
"…Dungeon? Guild? Deep floors?"
Henry gave him a curious look, as though measuring just how far away this young man's home might be.
"Ah… guess you ain't from 'round here, then."
No, Shirou thought, suppressing the bitter humor of the understatement. Realizing he might be way far from home than anyone can think of.