Shirou slowly opened his eyes in his futon, staring for a moment at the ceiling of his room. Sunlight filtered through the window, slightly pricking his still-sleep-heavy eyes.
He sat up calmly and got out of the futon, instinctively raising a hand to his temples, wincing from a mild headache. Like every morning, his mind was empty, erased of all the night's dreams. Sometimes a few fragments lingered in memory, but they quickly faded, leaving behind an almost reassuring emptiness.
Since the accident three years ago—an event of which he no longer retained any memory—Shirou only vaguely remembered certain nightmares. And strangely, it didn't bother him. He had no desire to recall what had happened that day. Deep down, he knew that recovering his memories would change him forever.
Yet sometimes he would dream, or have nightmares, about what he had lost that day… fragments of a life he had definitively lost, yet whose void still resonated within him. These visions left a weight in his chest, a painful reminder of what had been torn away from him.
Whenever he approached the place where he had once lived, a diffuse unease would overwhelm him. Memories of his parents surfaced, accompanied by a nearly unbearable weight. It was as if something buried deep within his mind was desperately trying to resurface… but never succeeding.
For this reason, Shirou had convinced himself that it was better for those memories to remain buried. Reliving them would be too painful. So he preferred to wake up into emptiness, freed from those fragments of anguish that nightmares brought, and focus on the day ahead: a simple, concrete world, where he could still maintain a semblance of control over his life.
For the past two weeks, the house had been almost entirely Shirou's. His father had gone on a business trip abroad, and aside from regular visits from Taiga, he was alone in the familiar silence of the home. This calm, instead of oppressing him, paradoxically brought him a sense of peace—a moment to breathe before the rest of the world resumed its course.
He got out of his futon and, as usual, carefully tidied his room, lining up books and personal belongings with an almost ritual precision. Once everything was in order, he headed to the bathroom for his morning wash. The cold water on his face was a refreshing shock, washing away the last traces of sleep.
When his eyes lifted to the mirror, Shirou took a moment to observe the changes that had shaped his appearance since his discharge from the hospital three years earlier. His hair, once red, was now a brilliant white. The doctors had explained that after intense trauma, it wasn't uncommon for hair to temporarily lose its color. Three years later, his hair still hadn't returned to its original shade, but he had learned to live with it.
His silhouette had changed as well. He had become leaner, more muscular, and had gained a few centimeters in height. Yet his exercises remained simple, almost basic—he guessed that his natural growth played a large part. At first, he had struggled to get used to it, but over time, he had adapted to this new appearance. According to Taiga, this change gave him a certain charm, a bit like those delinquents with bleached hair. Shirou didn't know how to react to that comment, but honestly, it didn't matter much: no one seemed to care.
After washing up, he prepared for the day. It was the weekend, and he had promised old Taiga that he would help repair her vintage motorcycle. Shirou headed to the kitchen to make breakfast, aware that Taiga would arrive as usual that morning. As he busied himself with the cooking, his thoughts drifted to the magecraft training scheduled for that evening, and a slight unease settled in his chest.
Honestly, he didn't like these sessions. Every training was painful, exhausting, almost torturous. But the idea of becoming some kind of "superhero" outweighed all the difficulties. To achieve this goal, he needed a special ability, a unique power to protect what he held dear. Every hero had one, right? He was ready to endure the pain to obtain what he desired. Deep down, that suffering didn't really matter. Perhaps it was a punishment for him: he had never had the natural talent of a mage, and he had to pay the price to master magecraft.
...
That evening, after a full day, Shirou went to the Emiya residence's warehouse. It was the only place where he could train safely. Kiritsugu had strictly forbidden him from using magecraft anywhere else—one of the few rules he had imposed, on the condition that Shirou truly wanted to learn this art.
Shirou had spent two long years pestering Kiritsugu, pleading and arguing, until his father finally relented. The exact reason for this change remained a mystery to him, but it didn't matter: he would finally be able to follow a regular training regimen.
Although his father was away on a trip, Shirou continued his training with an almost obsessive discipline. He had been training under Kiritsugu's guidance for nearly a year, but his progress remained minimal. He showed no particular talent for magecraft, and each session seemed more grueling than the last.
Not coming from a mage lineage, Shirou lacked the magical circuits required for traditional practice. To compensate for this, he had to use his nerves as a substitute. A risky, painful method, but it was his only access to magic.
However, this technique had two major flaws. First, the pain. Every incantation inflicted acute agony, as if a burning metal rod pierced through his spine. Each spell could endanger his life, yet he persisted. Second, the success rate. Despite his concentration and effort, he could only cast a spell correctly once in ten tries. Learning was not only a physical torment but also a constant source of frustration.
For Shirou, however, no pain was too great, no failure too heavy. Every movement, every attempt brought him closer to his goal: mastering a power that would allow him to become the hero he dreamed of being. And that evening, once again, in the silence of the warehouse, he prepared to face the pain, determined never to retreat.
He had been fully aware of the risks from the start. His father had warned him: to become a mage meant walking hand in hand with death, at every moment. Yet despite these warnings, Shirou remained stubborn. Nothing seemed capable of shaking his determination to follow this path, even if it was paved with suffering and danger.
Taking a deep breath, he completed his mental preparation. The preparatory stage—essential for minimizing risks—required absolute concentration. Every movement had to be precise, every breath measured.
When he felt ready, Shirou positioned himself to begin his training. His hands gripped a metal pipe he had chosen for the exercise, intended to be reinforced by his spell. The cold of the metal beneath his fingers reminded him of the rigor of the art he was about to practice.
But before he could even begin the process, something broke the silence. A voice—unexpected—suddenly echoed in his mind, catching him completely off guard. His heart leapt, a shiver running down his spine. It was not an external sound, but a direct intrusion into his consciousness, emerging like a warning—or an invitation…
[Interface initialization…]
The voice echoed in his mind, monotone, emotionless, almost mechanical.
[Full analysis of host's post-body-enhancement condition in progress…]
After a brief silence, the impassive tone resumed:
[The host is about to engage in a dangerous and risky procedure. To prevent any incident, the safety system has been activated to prevent inappropriate use of Magecraft.]
Shirou froze, a strange knot tightening in his stomach. A chilling thought struck him: he must be going insane. Hearing a voice inside his head was not normal… it couldn't be.
As he struggled to convince himself he was losing his mind, the mechanical voice returned, sharp and precise, cutting through his thoughts:
[After analysis, it has been decided to awaken the host's magical circuits so he can begin learning magecraft properly.]
Before he could even process the words, a shock of unimaginable intensity surged through his body. Shirou froze, unable to move, as a searing pain burned through his nerves and muscles. A suffocating heat burst from within, spreading like an invisible fire, consuming every fiber of his being.
The pain was unbearable, far more intense than anything he had ever endured during training. His muscles screamed, his nerves felt like they were melting under the assault of magical energy. He gasped, breathless, his heart pounding wildly, unable to focus on anything but this living torture.
Finally, Shirou's body gave way. He collapsed, unconscious, his face pressed against the cold stones of the warehouse floor. The voice, however, remained cold and silent, relentless, as if patiently waiting for the experiment to end… or for something new to begin.