Floor 37—the White Palace.
Or maybe it deserved a new name now:
"Ruins of the White Palace."
After that golden beam that pierced through the strata faded away, the entire floor felt like someone had hit a mute button.
Monster roars vanished.
Rockfalls stopped.
Even the mana in the air—once turbulent, bristling with the Dungeon's malice—was forcibly suppressed by the lingering authority of that holy sword.
The atmosphere was so quiet it felt like an elementary classroom right after a merciless homeroom teacher's scolding—silent enough to hear a pin drop.
"Th… this… what even was that…?"
Tiona Hiryute, the Amazon who usually feared nothing—who could laugh while charging a dragon—stood frozen at the edge of a crater over fifty meters wide.
Her jaw looked one step from dislocating. Her eyes had gone blank, like she'd just glimpsed something from a cosmic horror mythos.
"This is… Level 3 magic?" Tione swallowed hard and stared at her curved blade, suddenly convinced it belonged in a fruit basket instead of a battlefield. "That was a fortress-class Noble Phantasm! No—world-class at this point! Even Lady Riveria's highest-tier spells can't do that kind of physical destruction!"
"No."
Riveria Ljos Alf lowered her staff with pale hands. She stared at the smoking trench, at the rock at the bottom that had partially vitrified under unimaginable heat.
As Orario's greatest mage, as an elf who had studied magic for decades, she understood better than anyone what that strike meant.
"That wasn't merely magic," Riveria said, her voice trembling—not from fatigue, but from awe of something she could not classify. "That was… a miracle. Radiance that exceeded the limits of Mind and interfered directly with… rules."
She looked down at the scorched battlefield.
"That child… what exactly is hidden inside him? Is his soul connected to some higher-order 'Seat'…?"
At the crater's center, Ais Wallenstein knelt on the stone, holding the boy in her arms as though he might shatter if she breathed wrong.
"Emiya… Emiya…"
Her voice cracked—an unguarded fragility she never showed.
She wanted to touch his face, but she was afraid she'd break him.
Shirou's right hand had been skinned away completely, exposing dark red muscle and stark white bone. Fine cracks ran over his body like fractures in porcelain.
"Don't… don't die…"
Ais clutched his intact left hand, tears spilling from golden eyes and pattering onto his scorched cheek.
"If you wake up… I'll give you anything…"
"Potato croquettes… lap pillow… even… even…"
"Cough… cough…"
A tiny voice—thin as a mosquito—rose from the wreckage of his chest.
To Ais, it sounded like heaven.
"Really…?" Shirou rasped. "Even… that?"
Ais froze.
She lowered her head—and met those dim, amber eyes. Even half-dead, this man still had enough spirit left to joke.
"…Idiot."
She laughed through tears.
For a split second, instinct told her to punch him—because he deserved it.
But her fist stopped in midair and softened into a trembling, careful stroke.
"Thank goodness…" Ais buried her face against his chest—deliberately avoiding the worst wounds—her shoulders shaking. "Thank goodness… you're still here…"
Around them, Loki Familia members arrived and—one by one—wore the same auntie-like smile.
Even Tiona, usually a menace in human form, stood quietly at the side, unwilling to ruin a painting that belonged in a museum.
Except for one stubborn werewolf.
"Tch. I knew this disaster wouldn't die." Bete Loga clicked his tongue, turning his head away as if he couldn't care less.
But the expensive Elixir he'd been gripping so tightly finally loosened in his fist, and he quietly stuffed it back into his pocket.
"Wasted my feelings. I'm going to clear the trash. Don't let some passing goblin finish this idiot off."
Two Hours Later — Floor 39, the Great Tree Labyrinth, Safe Zone
It shared a name with Floor 19, but this was the deep-layer safe zone.
The trees were taller. The bark harder than iron. Luminous moss provided steady light.
Loki Familia's expedition established a temporary forward camp.
Wards deployed.
A fire lit.
The scent of herbs and food rose into the air.
And inside the largest tent—
"AHHH—OW OW OW! GENTLER! RIVERIA-MOM! GENTLER! THAT'S A NERVE!"
Shirou's scream was so dramatic the guards outside shivered.
"Shut up," Riveria snapped, a throbbing vein visible on her forehead as she worked needle and bandage like a nurse commander. "Where was this fear when you decided to solo a special-floor boss like you were starring in a heroic epic?"
"That was adrenaline!" Shirou protested, nearly crying. "Now the drugs are wearing off—of course it hurts!"
Pseudo-Avalon had kept him alive, but the "self-destruction" of sealing and releasing power had inflicted catastrophic stress.
This wasn't merely physical trauma.
It was overdrafting his Magic Circuits until they burned.
Right now, aside from his mouth, he had no functioning parts worth bragging about.
"You truly were reckless," Riveria sighed, her hands slowing. There was something like tenderness in her eyes—something she would never admit. "That scale of output… if your thaumaturgical resilience weren't absurd, you'd be a dried corpse. Even elves don't gamble their life force like that."
"Heh… couldn't help it," Shirou said, giving a stupid grin. "If I didn't go all-in… I'd have died. And that thing was targeting me anyway."
"Hmph. Do that again and I'll hand you to Loki for 'special training.' Or I'll tie you to a chair and make you cook for the whole expedition for a month."
Riveria finished the bandages and tied a neat bow with vicious satisfaction.
"All right. You rest."
"For the next few days, you don't move. Not even a finger. Any bodily needs—aside from breathing—someone else handles."
"…Huh?" Shirou went pale. "Then how do I eat? And… uh… that?"
Riveria smiled meaningfully and glanced at the tent entrance.
"I think someone is already desperate to take over this 'problem.'"
"Wha—?!"
The flap lifted.
Ais stepped in holding a steaming bowl of porridge.
She'd changed into clean clothes. Her golden hair was loosely tied back.
For a terrifying moment, she looked almost… domestic.
Behind her hovered Haruhime, desperate to enter but intimidated by Ais's aura, and Tiona, wearing the face of someone attending a live comedy.
"Emiya," Ais said simply. "Eat."
She knelt beside him—and as naturally as breathing, she lifted his head and placed it onto her thighs.
Skill Activated: Lap Pillow (Lv. MAX).
"W-Wait, Ais?!" Shirou's skull sank into something soft and warm, his nose filled with the scent unique to a girl who had been afraid to touch him earlier.
It felt wonderful.
It was also insanely intimate.
And there were people outside.
Ais scooped porridge, blew on it, and held it at his lips.
"Riveria said you're not allowed to move. Open."
"I can feed my—"
"Ah."
Her golden eyes contained two messages:
If you refuse, I will hold this spoon forever.
If you refuse, I might cry.
Shirou surrendered.
"…Ah."
He tasted the porridge.
Warm, lightly salted, and somehow—ridiculously—sweet.
A sweetness not from ingredients.
From intent.
"Good?" Ais asked, hopeful.
"…Good," Shirou said.
From the tent entrance, Tiona whispered like a scandal columnist.
"Hehe. This is the first time Ais has ever taken care of someone, you know. She used to treat her own injuries like background noise. You're special~"
"Sh-Shut up," Ais muttered, her cheeks coloring faintly—yet she didn't deny it.
She kept feeding him carefully, like she was afraid he'd vanish if she blinked.
In the corner, Haruhime bit a handkerchief so hard her fox ears drooped and her tail dragged on the ground.
"Wah… that spot… was supposed to be mine… lap pillow… I learned it first… I came first…"
Somewhere in the universe, a tragic violin played for the defeated heroine.
Emergency Meeting — The Expedition's Next Move
After dinner, Finn Deimne convened an urgent strategy meeting.
Shirou, as the top wounded and top contributor, attended—on a stretcher.
Not because he wanted to.
Because Ais refused to let him out of her control and had the stretcher carried in.
"According to scouts," Finn said, pointing to the map, "the route toward Floor 50 is better than expected. After the anomaly on Floor 37 was eliminated, monster refresh rates nearby seem to have dropped. That's an opportunity."
"But Captain," Gareth frowned, glancing at the bandaged disaster on the stretcher. "With Emiya's current condition… can he continue? His right hand—"
All eyes turned to Shirou.
He looked like someone who had just rolled out of an ICU.
"I'm fine," Shirou said, trying to sit up.
Ais pushed him down with one hand.
He continued speaking while pinned.
"I can't fire that 'light cannon' again. But standard projection and support? I can manage."
"And… I have a bad feeling."
"A feeling?" Finn's brow rose.
"That Executioner… wasn't natural," Shirou said quietly. "It was made by something. And when it died, the mana it released… it felt like it was sending a signal deeper."
"Like… a call."
"A call to comrades?" Riveria mused. "Or…"
"A call to its master," Shirou answered.
"Floor 59… something is waiting down there. And it's smarter—more dangerous—than we've been assuming."
"…The corrupted spirit," Ais whispered, gripping the edge of Shirou's blanket without realizing it.
Her shadow. Her target. Her nightmare.
"Then we don't retreat," Finn said. His thumb—so often trembling with premonition—had gone still. His voice hardened into command.
"The enemy has drawn its blade. Loki Familia will answer."
"Transmit the order."
"Rest one day. The morning after tomorrow, we break camp."
"Objective: Floor 50."
"We strike before that 'master' finishes preparing—and we tear down its nest."
"YES!" the expedition roared back.
Night — The Quiet Before the Deeper Dark
Late.
Campfires dimmed.
Only patrol footsteps remained.
Shirou lay in the tent, unable to sleep—not from pain, but because—
"Ais…?" he said helplessly, looking at the girl sitting beside him like a goalkeeper guarding a goal. "Aren't you going to sleep? You train tomorrow."
"I'm not sleepy," Ais said, hugging her knees. "I'll watch you."
"Why? I'm not going anywhere. I can barely roll over."
"You will," Ais said seriously.
Her eyes held fear.
"You'll have nightmares. You'll hurt. You'll… disappear."
"Like on Floor 37."
In that moment, Shirou saw it clearly—her trauma.
She was terrified that if she closed her eyes, he would vanish like foam.
Because to Ais, loss was the oldest companion she hated most.
Shirou's chest softened.
He reached out with his intact left hand and gently took hers.
"I'm here," he said.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"If I ever have to go… I'll take you with me."
"That's a promise."
"…Really?"
"Really," Shirou said. "I swear—by Senji Muramasa… no. By Emiya Shirou."
Ais stared into his amber eyes, seeing her own reflection—clear and warm.
No deception.
Only sincerity.
"…Okay."
Finally, her expression eased.
She leaned against the bed, still holding his hand, and closed her eyes.
"Good night, Emiya."
"Good night, Ais."
Shirou watched her breathing settle.
Watched her lashes tremble under the faint magic-stone lamplight.
And in that stillness, he thought:
This quiet was worth more than any "great feat."
Even here—in the Dungeon's depths—if this warmth existed, then this was a kind of heaven.
If this was the reward heroes earned…
Then maybe breaking a few more bones really would be worth it.
Outside the tent, on watch duty, Bete caught the tail end of that promise—I'll take you with me.
He clicked his tongue, annoyed, and kicked an innocent pebble into the darkness.
"Tch. Disgustingly sweet."
He pulled his collar tight against the cold night wind and moved to the tent's windward side, crossing his arms like a gatekeeper.
"Make her cry…"
"I'll kill you."
Moonlight spilled through the trees of Floor 39.
Perhaps this was the last calm night before the final trial.
Because beyond this silence—
Floor 59 waited in the dark, baring its fangs.
....
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