Darkness. Endless, all-consuming darkness.
This was deep beneath Floor 37—the White Palace—a sealed cavity buried under collapsed stone.
Oxygen level: critically low.
Mana density: lethal.
Survival probability: theoretically zero.
"...Cough—"
A faint cough shattered the silence.
A hand, scorched and webbed with cracks, pushed weakly at the boulders pinning it down.
Emiya Shirou woke up.
Or rather—pain forced him awake.
"It hurts... Feels like Berserker swung a stone pillar like a bat and hit a home run with me..."
He tried to move—then realized the entire left side of his body had gone numb.
He lowered his gaze.
His left arm's skin was completely carbonized, exposing dark red muscle fibers beneath. He could even see several bones that looked... metallic, like tempered steel.
Magic Circuits — Conceptual Flesh Replacement: in progress...
"Yeah... I know..." Shirou let out a crooked laugh, propping himself up with his intact right hand and forcing himself upright.
After overusing Unlimited Blade Works, and then pulling that suicidal "assimilation" defense, his body was steadily undergoing swordification—his flesh becoming closer and closer to the concept of a blade.
If he lost control again, he might truly become nothing more than a sword buried in stone—waiting for someone, someday, to draw him out for the next Holy Grail War.
"But…"
Shirou lifted his head.
Ahead, in the hollow carved out by the blast, the shattered white rubble that should have remained dead stillness was writhing violently.
"Gurgle... gurgle..."
The white rock reassembled. The broken greatsword fused back together.
The Executioner, whose core magic stone should have been destroyed, was forcibly reconstructing—fed by the Dungeon's malice, driven by an obsession that refused to let the "foreign object" survive.
It was smaller now—about three meters tall—but the pressure it exuded was even more concentrated, purer, heavier. Its hollow face locked onto Shirou like a verdict.
"So stubborn," Shirou said, leaning against the rock wall behind him.
No route. No retreat.
"Me too."
He drew a breath. His lungs burned like they were filled with fire. His mana reserves had long since run dry—past the point of depletion and into the territory of soul-burn.
But his gaze remained clear—like a mirror that refused to crack.
"Trace."
No extra motion. No showy effects.
A plain, unremarkable object appeared in his right hand.
A sheath.
Pseudo-Avalon.
He pressed it against his chest.
"Synchronization... Mana conversion... Life force extraction."
If he had no mana left—
Then he would burn his life.
If his body was collapsing—
Then he would stitch it back together with a concept.
Humm.
Golden light bloomed in the darkness.
It wasn't the true Avalon—no absolute defense, no inviolable sanctuary—but the idea of healing contained within it forced Shirou's disintegrating body to hold together, binding the fractured flesh and failing circuits like a desperate patch.
"Knockoff or not," he murmured, "it's enough for an emergency."
The sheath dissolved into motes. Shirou straightened.
His left arm was still charred, but sensation had returned. His internal mana was thin—barely a spark—yet it flickered like a wildfire about to detonate.
"Come on," he said to the Executioner, the corner of his mouth lifting into something almost arrogant. "Round two."
"This time... I end you for good."
Round Two — True Solo
The battle reignited.
No Lili supplying support.
No Ais arriving to save him.
A real one-on-one.
BOOM!
The Executioner struck first.
Its reduced frame made it faster—violent, instantaneous. The white mineral greatsword flashed overhead like teleportation itself, cleaving down with a glow that promised to decompose all matter.
"Too slow!"
Shirou didn't dodge.
After the prior deathmatch, his Mind's Eye (True) had fully adapted to the Executioner's rhythm.
"Trace!"
Black-and-white twin blades—Kanshou and Bakuya—appeared in his hands.
Not a block—
A deflection.
The greatsword slid along the flat of his blades and slammed into the ground, corroding a crater into the stone. Using the friction and recoil, Shirou twisted like a spinning top and cut into the Executioner's guard.
"Crane Wing—twofold!"
Twin blades crossed.
Two deep slashes carved into the Executioner's chest. No blood—only white powder spraying out like ash.
"ROAR—!"
It didn't care about damage. Its hollow face opened wide as that terrifying decomposition breath condensed again—
"No."
Shirou released the blades and slammed his left palm onto its jaw.
"Projection—Shield!"
A miniature Rho Aias—only one layer—unfolded inside the Executioner's mouth.
BOOM!
The decomposition breath detonated inside its own throat.
The shield couldn't fully stop it, but that "plug the barrel" tactic blew half its face apart.
"Now!"
Shirou retreated, forcing distance.
He understood it clearly:
Ordinary Noble Phantasms wouldn't kill this thing. Even Broken Phantasm would only buy time against regeneration that obscene.
He needed a true finishing blow.
A strike that could sever will, deny immortality, and overwhelm the Dungeon's rejection head-on.
He closed his eyes and searched the infinite armory in his mind.
Not EMIYA's stock.
Not weapons he'd seen in this world.
Something older, deeper—etched into the origin of Emiya Shirou himself.
A holy sword he had never held with his own hands… yet knew through the legend of a golden king.
Another sword of the King of Knights.
Not the blue light of the star.
But gold—salvation given form.
"I am the bone of my sword."
As he began the chant, it was no longer simple circuit rotation.
He felt his soul ignite.
He was mortgaging the future.
Burning his life to construct a miracle that existed only in myth.
"Steel is my body."
"Fire is my blood."
The Executioner recovered. It sensed the threat, the terror of something that could end it.
It went berserk.
Its white rock armor fractured into countless spikes, firing outward like a storm of razor rain.
"Unaware of loss."
"Nor aware of gain."
Shirou did not move.
Air warped around him. Golden particles danced like drifting embers.
Every spike that touched that golden field shattered, repelled and pulverized.
It was—
The embryonic form of Anti-Purge Defense.
The Executioner felt fear.
For the first time since its birth, it understood the meaning of fear.
It stopped holding back.
It converted mass into energy and poured everything into its greatsword, extending it into a ten-meter execution blade radiating annihilating white light.
One strike to erase the human—
and erase this space with him.
"Withstood pain to create many weapons."
Shirou's eyes snapped open.
His pupils had turned entirely gold, reflecting the shadow of a single blade.
A sword bound by thirteen restraints.
A holy sword that existed to save the planet itself.
"Trace—Excalibur."
But shape alone wasn't enough.
This wasn't a tool you copied by appearance.
To wield it, even as a projection, he had to loosen its locks.
Seal Thirteen—Decision Start.
Shirou's voice deepened, becoming solemn and vast—as if his existence briefly overlapped with a distant king.
"—This battle is one for survival. (Bedivere.)"
Approved. The first restraint broke; gold intensified.
"—This battle is one against a mighty foe. (Kay.)"
Approved. Against a Level 6-class aberration, the condition was met.
"—This battle is not one that betrays humanity. (Gareth.)"
Approved. He fought to live. He fought to protect.
"—This battle is one to pursue truth. (Agravain.)"
Approved.
The Executioner's blade descended—world-ending white light less than a meter from Shirou's head.
But the radiance in Shirou's hands had already surpassed the sun.
"—This battle is one to save the world. (Arthur.)"
Approved.
It wasn't the salvation of all humanity.
But to Emiya Shirou—
living, returning to the people waiting for him—
that was his world.
Five seals released.
Not even half.
Yet for an Anti-Star Noble Phantasm, it was enough.
"EXCALIBUR—"
"The Sword of Promised Victory—!"
He raised the golden sword with both hands and swung downward into the falling execution blade.
Star's Breath
—BOOM—
No sound.
Sound itself was swallowed by light.
A golden pillar erupted and pierced upward.
It cleaved the Executioner's ten-meter sword.
It split the ultra-hard body.
It severed the core magic stone.
And it cut through the ceiling, carving through hundreds of meters of rock above Floor 37.
It was pure radiance—light that dispersed all darkness and severed all malice—
the breath of the star itself.
The Executioner's final scream dissolved into nothing.
Its body melted like snow in sunlight.
Under the holy sword that existed to save the world, the Dungeon's will—its malice, its rejection—was forced to retreat.
When the light faded—
The hall had gained a bottomless trench, and a vast open shaft leading upward.
Shirou stood at the edge.
The holy sword was gone.
His right hand—
the skin had vanished completely.
Red muscle and white bone were exposed.
His magic circuits, unable to bear the load of star-born radiance, were burned out.
"…Won."
He stared at the "sky" he had carved—really the rock ceiling of the upper floor—and smiled in exhausted relief.
"This time…"
"…that was truly the limit…"
His vision went black. His body tipped backward like a kite whose string had been cut.
Ais Arrives
"EMIYA!!!"
A golden figure leapt down through the hole he had blasted open—
Ais Wallenstein.
She charged as if nothing else in the world mattered, catching him before he hit the ground.
"Why… why do you always do this?!" Her voice trembled, near tears.
She looked down at the boy in her arms—blood-soaked, his right hand nearly ruined—and her chest tightened until breathing hurt.
She had seen that beam from the neighboring area.
That holy, warm light—
it felt like the presence of a true hero.
"Ais…" Shirou forced his eyes open, meeting the face he knew best. "Sorry…"
"…I worried you again…"
"Idiot." She held him tighter. "As long as you're alive…"
"…that's enough."
"…Yeah," Shirou whispered. "I'm back."
His eyes closed again.
This time—
he could finally rest.
At the Top of Babel
At the top floor of Babel, Freya watched the golden light fade in the crystal orb.
Crack.
Her wineglass shattered in her grip.
Red wine spilled down her pale fingers like blood.
But her expression—
was a joy so intense it bordered on madness.
"What… was that?!"
"That radiance… that brilliance even gods must avoid!"
Her hands trembled.
Love in her eyes turned into something scorching and ruinous.
"It's not only Senji Muramasa…"
"There's something even greater hidden in that soul."
"Emiya Shirou… Emiya Shirou…"
She repeated the name again and again, as if chanting a sacred spell.
"You're mine."
"You will be mine—absolutely."
"To claim you…"
"Even if I have to ignite the Great Struggle…"
"Even if I have to destroy Orario…"
"I won't hesitate."
In that moment, the Goddess of Beauty's obsession ignited into a karmic inferno capable of burning the world.
And the true disaster—
might have only just begun.
....
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