Inside the Twilight Manor kitchen, the mood was heavy—like a Round Table war council on the eve of a final battle.
Shirou Emiya had just finished an all-night logistics shift. Now he stood there making himself a cup of instant "emergency" coffee, trying to revive the soul that had been wrung dry by deep-fried shrimp.
At this intensity of labor, he deeply, truly understood the suffering of a hardcore grinder.
"Morning, Emiya."
A cool, crisp voice shattered his half-delirious daydream.
Ais Wallenstein stood in the kitchen doorway.
She wore light training clothes, the signature Despair Sword at her waist—and in her hands were two wooden swords.
Her stare locked onto Shirou with a kind of obsessive focus that sent a chill down the spine.
That gaze said, plainly:
"You owe me training. Pay with your life."
"…Ais?" Shirou blinked. "Now?"
"You promised."
Ais raised the wooden sword.
"Special training."
"Now."
Her answer allowed zero negotiation.
"Only mornings belong to… training."
Seeing how serious she was—earnest, and somehow adorably airheaded at the same time—Shirou couldn't help laughing.
His body was protesting, but he knew it: this was the best help he could get.
Ais's swordsmanship was the most valuable textbook in this world.
"Alright, Ais-sensei."
Shirou took a wooden sword and loosened his wrist.
"Please teach me."
Twilight Manor, Backyard Training Ground
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A storm of impacts popped like firecrackers.
Shirou was driven back step by step under Ais's pressure. Every footfall felt like it was landing on the edge of life and death.
He was like crude iron being hammered in a furnace—painful, but rapidly shedding impurities.
"Too slow! Your movements are too big! Too many openings!"
Ais's scolding cut deeper than her sword wind.
Shirou coughed and smiled bitterly.
"Yeah… in pure swordplay, the gap between us is still enormous."
"Ais's sword is a flawless work of art."
"Art…?"
Ais lowered her sword. No displeasure—just confusion.
Swordsmanship didn't need adjectives, in her mind.
"My sword is for killing monsters. Not for beauty."
"Your defense is solid."
"But your sword…"
"…hesitates too much."
"Hesitation…"
Shirou fell silent. He understood what she meant.
His blade always wavered between killing and protecting.
"Again."
Ais's voice turned solemn.
She didn't launch another hurricane of chained strikes.
Instead, she stepped back three paces, gripped the sword with both hands, and adopted an extremely simple thrust stance.
It was—
the opening posture of a miniature Wind King Barrier (Lil Rafaga).
No magic.
Yet the sheer presence alone made Shirou feel lethal danger.
"This is your strongest sword."
Ais spoke calmly.
"Come, Emiya."
"Tell me. How do you respond to this strike?"
Shirou didn't answer.
He closed his eyes.
Mind's Eye (True) flared fully open—magic circuits burning at maximum.
In his mind, that golden thrust was broken down into countless data points:
Speed: Extreme. A burst of Level 6 base speed.
Power: Enough to pierce Level 3 heavy armor.
Trajectory: Perfect straight line. No drift. No gaps.
Conclusion: If he tries to match it head-on—Level 2 loses, guaranteed.
"You're not looking at the sword," Archer's mocking whisper echoed inside his head.
"You're looking at the result."
"If you can't change the result, then change the process."
"Your strength isn't the sword."
"It's concepts."
Shirou snapped his eyes open.
A hard, steady light flashed in his pupils.
"Trace—On!"
He didn't project Kanshou.
Instead, he projected something almost invisible—
a needle of pure mana.
A ridiculous concept.
The required precision exceeded even Noble Phantasm projection.
And he didn't fire it at Ais's body.
He fired it at her right arm—three inches below the elbow, into the muscle group that mattered most for output.
BOOM—!
Ais's thrust erupted with terrifying wind pressure.
But at the exact instant she pushed into full output—
Hiss.
The mana needle pierced the critical point cleanly.
Not a lethal wound.
A momentary disruption of muscular coordination.
Shirou inserted a tiny delay—only one millisecond—between "explosion" and "transmission" in her muscle output.
"Aah—!"
Ais gasped.
Her body executed a Level 6 full-power command, but the faint numbness at the elbow threw the output off-balance.
The storm skewed.
The "certain hit" thrust screamed past Shirou's shoulder, and the wooden sword slammed deep into the rock wall behind him.
And Shirou's wooden blade was already at Ais's right waist—
the blind angle most suited for restraint and control.
Total silence.
Ais stood still, drew her arm back, stared at her torn sleeve—
then down at the wooden sword pressing her side.
She had lost.
Not to strength.
But to a millisecond of prediction and an inch of analysis.
"You… won."
Ais spoke slowly, the shock in her voice unmistakable.
"This isn't power…"
"This is…"
"Analysis."
Shirou let the mana needle disperse.
His tone stayed calm—but his heart was hammering.
That single move had demanded almost every ounce of his precision.
Despite having "Sword" as an origin, Shirou wasn't truly gifted in swordsmanship or hand-to-hand—
certainly not compared to the heroes on the Throne.
But precisely because he wasn't a hero—
he was far better at using magecraft and assassination logic to fight.
More than "skill," it was—
experience.
"You have no openings."
Shirou looked at Ais seriously.
"But your body is biological. If it's biological, it has limits."
"Even if I were Level 5, I still couldn't take your thrust head-on."
"So I can only interfere—at the moment the command is executed—by disrupting your 'circuit.'"
"That's a mage's fight."
Ais fell silent.
Her golden eyes no longer held simple admiration.
They held something like reverent fear—
a trembling awe.
Shirou Emiya didn't have Level 6 power.
But he had eyes that could see the future—
and a mind that could change the rules.
Observer Commentary From Upstairs
"This… how is that possible?"
Tiona's voice trembled.
"Ais-sama lost? To 'technique'?"
"No."
Finn set down his coffee.
His thumb was steady as stone—but his eyes were burning.
"It's ideology."
"Ais seeks the absolute sword—perfect killing power."
"Emiya seeks the possibility of victory."
Riveria sighed.
"That precision isn't human."
"Compressing mana to interfere with neural signals…"
"Even Hephaistos would be shocked."
"He isn't a swordsman."
"He's a walking war machine."
"Finn," Riveria concluded, "you should give him a higher title."
"He isn't 'Senji Muramasa.'"
"He should be called…"
'The Calculator.'
Finn shook his head slightly.
"No."
"Everything he does is for protection."
"His core is kindness."
"But his methods are ruthless."
"That contradiction…"
"…is what makes him shine."
Ais's Request
"From now on…"
Ais stepped in front of Shirou, eyes steady.
"Teach me…"
"…your 'seeing.'"
"With pleasure, Ais-sensei."
Shirou smiled and nodded.
Watching the two walk back toward the kitchen side by side, the onlookers upstairs made the kind of delighted, auntie-like laughter that only comes from witnessing peak romance tropes.
"This isn't special training—this is the classic 'high-IQ male lead conquers high-ATK female lead with brains' scene!"
Tiona wept tears of emotion.
"No," Tione deadpanned.
"This is 'strategy bullying raw stats.' Typical player flex."
Dusk, Orario
After the morning's "training" and "feeding," Shirou received an urgent mission from Finn.
In the war room, Finn stood before a giant map, expression colder than usual.
"Emiya. Perfect timing."
He tapped a Guild document on the table.
"This is a Guild-mandated Special Commission targeting Orario's Pleasure Quarter."
The Pleasure Quarter—
a district where desire, money, and crime braided together into one glittering pit.
"The target is a high-class establishment called Amethyst House."
"The Guild suspects it's a funding source for a Dark Faction."
Finn's gaze pinned Shirou.
"Emiya, this mission requires you as the only infiltrator."
"Why me?" Shirou asked.
"Because of your profile," Riveria explained.
"You're a Level 2 newcomer."
"You have the name 'Senji Muramasa,' but few know your true combat style."
"You have no fixed supporter, and operating alone draws less attention."
"And most importantly…"
Finn lowered his voice.
"We're extracting Haruhime."
"A fox person being held captive."
"Her unique ability has drawn the Dark Faction's interest."
"And it could cause catastrophic chaos."
He slid detailed intel across the table, eyes heavy.
"Our information suggests her ability is related to…"
'Level boosting.'
"If the Dark Faction uses her to mass-produce high-level adventurers…"
"Orario's balance collapses."
"So Haruhime is currently classified as an S-rank danger objective."
"The Guild demands secrecy."
"If necessary, 'hard measures' are authorized."
"Hard measures…"
Shirou's eyes hardened.
A rare fox person.
Imprisoned by criminals.
A power that could break the city.
This was practically a tailor-made "punish evil, uphold justice" script.
"I understand."
Shirou stood.
"I accept."
"But we change the plan."
"What change?" Finn asked.
"The infiltrator isn't a 'chef.'"
"And not a 'rich merchant.'"
Shirou's smile sharpened into the edge he only showed when facing evil.
"I'm a high noble's private guard."
"An agent investigating the disappearance of a family member."
"Only that identity lets me carry weapons—"
"and perform limited 'corrections' without triggering mass panic."
"I swear, in the name of Senji Muramasa…"
"I won't alert anyone."
"With my sword, I will correct everyone who tries to lay hands on her."
"And the Pleasure Quarter…"
His eyes flashed cold.
"It's time those rats hiding in the shadows learn what justice's iron fist looks like."
Finn stared at him, thumb twitching—then gave a small nod.
He understood immediately:
Infiltration wasn't Shirou's best field.
But small-scale, surgical strikes were exactly his killing specialty.
"Approved," Finn said.
"Bete will cover the perimeter."
"Your comms channel stays open the whole time."
"Go, Emiya."
"We're waiting for good news."
That Night — Lights Rise
Orario's Pleasure Quarter looked nothing like Babel by day.
Lewd music, intoxicating perfume, the smell of money—
a gigantic stage of indulgence, performing sin under glittering lights.
Shirou wore a gorgeous black tailcoat.
At his collar sat a noble crest only high-ranking aristocrats dared to wear—
a projected fake.
No sword at his hip.
But Otherworld Kanshou had already been projected into a sleeve-crossbow form, hidden at his wrist.
"…Seriously."
"Why do I have to wear this?"
Shirou muttered in a corner.
The fit was perfect.
The vibe was not.
"No choice—mission parameters."
Finn's voice crackled through the miniature comm device, impatient.
"Stop complaining."
"Remember your role: cold, efficient, and not interested in women."
(Mainly to avoid trouble.)
"The Amethyst House floor plan has been transmitted to your 'Mind's Eye.'"
"Good luck."
"Roger. Stealth mode on."
Shirou drew a breath and dropped his presence with Presence Concealment (Pseudo).
His gaze fixed on the brightly lit building ahead—
Amethyst House.
From outside it looked lavish.
But to Shirou's Mind's Eye (True), beneath the glamour were layered guards, traps, and…
despairing souls.
That contrast was practically a dark fantasy cliché.
"It's time."
Shirou straightened his collar—
and stepped into that maze of light and shadow.
In the Shadows of Amethyst House
A blonde figure stepped out of the darkness.
Simple adventurer clothes.
A small mask covering her nose.
Ais Wallenstein.
She stared at Shirou's departing back, clutching a wrapped bundle—
inside: the cheese-fried potato balls Shirou had made her.
Her eyes were full of worry—and guilt.
"Emiya…"
"He went… to the most dangerous place."
She hadn't forgotten:
this morning, she had "corrected" him with training.
His body should still be fatigued.
And where he was going wasn't a dungeon.
It was a darker hell:
human hearts.
Ais didn't hesitate.
She tucked away the snacks, and her figure slipped like a ghost into the Pleasure Quarter's darkness.
She didn't tell anyone.
This wasn't a Familia mission.
It was her decision.
"I…"
"…will protect him."
Not an order.
A vow.
The purest oath the Sword Princess Ais Wallenstein could make—
to the "hero" she had chosen to acknowledge.
....
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