Chapter 1: The Quiet Beginning
I apologize for the grammar, English is not my native language.
He woke suddenly, lying on a strange surface, his mind still fogged with confusion.
"What...? Where am I?" he thought, eyes half‑closed. His bewilderment deepened by the second, especially when he realized his body wouldn't obey him. His arms and legs lay immobilized, no matter how hard he tried to move them.
It was a peculiar situation, for many, terrifying. But not for him. He didn't have time to give in to panic; or rather, he wouldn't allow himself that luxury. The scene before him was a complete mystery. As far as he could tell, he might be bound, trapped by spells, or perhaps gravely injured.
Making an effort to calm his mind, the Counter‑Guardian Emiya began to assess the situation, bit by bit. His senses were dulled; even touch offered only vague clues about the surroundings. His body felt heavy, as if movement required pure willpower, though not completely paralyzed. He felt nothing aside from the brush of fabric on his skin and the unusual softness of the surface beneath him. There was no pain, no itch, no tingling; nothing to suggest any fluid had left his body. Still, he refused to jump to conclusions perhaps, he was simply numb.
Faced with the stasis, he tried something else: remembering what he'd done before being thrust into this strange condition.
It had been just another extermination mission, another of those groups of mages dabbling in forbidden magic, or some similar nonsense. Frustration washed over him. It wasn't the act of killing that wore him out; that burden had followed him so long it had become part of him, something he'd learned to accept. It was the repetition... the endless repetition.
"How many are we at now? A thousand? Ten thousand? How many more of these groups must I wipe out, forever, without variation?"
He found himself missing the apostles who fell to his blade, those beings whose confrontation at least offered some satisfaction: a fight, an exchange, a sense that something deeper was at stake. Mages, on the other hand, were a constant of impersonality and indifference. Arrive, kill, leave.
Sometimes, in a rare fit of curiosity, he introduced himself beforehand, hoping to find something, a spark of resistance, perhaps. But nothing. Only the same eternal disdain, the almost mandatory arrogance mages insisted on displaying in every circumstance. Ugh. The bitter taste of that sameness was something he would never understand.
There was nothing to be done. He was there again, keeping one of his victims at death's door. Not out of morbid pleasure, but because, somewhere in his tired soul, he wanted to delay returning to his own solitude. Inside his inner world there was nothing left to expect, only the swords that now lay on the ground, relics of his victims, like scattered headstones in an endless cemetery. And as always, a new mission appeared, like a new file in an unending stack of tasks, each as empty and repetitive as the last.
"Hmm..."
Scanning the surroundings, he found nothing to grab his immediate interest. So he turned his attention back to the ritual that seemed to be underway.
The room was large and circular, built of old masonry worn by time. There were no windows, and the lack of natural light, together with the chill hanging in the air, suggested it could be a forgotten cellar or perhaps an abandoned bunker. Lighting was scant, sustained by a few candles and precariously hung incandescent bulbs. In every corner, piles of books, scattered notes and complex‑looking diagrams filled the space. Dominating the center was a large magic circle, drawn with dozens of intricate patterns that intertwined in a silent dance of arcane symbols.
"Interesting..."
He'd never been a great mage in life. That was a truth he reminded himself of often. Still, he had to admit: the repeated massacres of all kinds of mages had granted him a broad understanding of the fundamentals of magic, an understanding that would likely make even the most erudite modern practitioners envious.
His eyes traced the circles carved into the floor, lingering on lines and runes with the attention of someone who recognizes an ancient language.
"This looks like a reincarnation ritual..."
It was common among mages on their last legs sick and frail, they sought to prolong existence by being reborn in young, healthy bodies, carrying their consciousness intact.
Yet something in that pattern stood out. There were unusual inscriptions, elements that clashed with the traditional structure of that kind of spell.
"These other patterns... could they be... the Second Magic?"
The Kaleidoscope. One of the so‑called True Magics. Emiya might have knowledge enough to rival ancient mages, even those who lived under the very light of mystery itself, but even for him the Second Magic existed on a level that defied reason.
So how had such power ended up in the hands of a group so plainly mediocre? More unsettling: what was their aim in fusing such a potent magic with a reincarnation ritual?
A trip between universes? Rebirth in an era richer in mana?
Whatever their purpose, it was no longer a problem that concerned him.
With a subtle gesture, he projected mystic codes around the room. The blades flared red, ready to incinerate the place. Over his last victim he conjured a nameless blade, ending the man's pain and with it his mission.
His body began to emit a faint light. It was the summons. The return to the Throne was near. But then, in the instant he dematerialized, the magic circles on the floor flared in response. A resonance, intense and sudden.
And then came the pull.
For a brief second, everything was light and vertigo.
"No way... I've been reincarnated?"
His mind, so used to the weight of battles and decisions, finally stilled. There he was, suspended between infinite possibilities. And the most disturbing thought: perhaps he was now in a completely unknown universe.
He couldn't be sure whether his summoning had been an accident. The presence of the Second Magic made any theory too fragile to hold. He liked to believe, however, that that damned vampire had bigger concerns than toying with his fate.
Still dazed, he began to examine his new condition. He formed a hypothesis, which confirmed itself when a woman approached. She was unusually tall, or rather, he was tiny. Her long, strong arms reached out, cradling him gently and lifting him from the floor.
"Just as I imagined..."
The one who had been a Counter‑Guardian, a tall man with a body honed for combat, now found himself reduced to the fragile body of a baby. Helpless, curled in the arms of his new nurse.
If he could, he would scream. If he could, he would curse his luck.
But there he was. Silent, powerless, reborn.
...
The weeks that followed were the hardest Emiya had faced in many years. As a baby, he was utterly limited in his actions, completely dependent on others for food, for fulfilling his most basic needs, for movement, and, above all, for staying alive. This situation was a constant source of frustration, as if his existence was at the mercy of chance. And, to him, relying on luck had never been a reliable option.
Among all the torments that plagued him, what troubled him the most was the lack of information about his condition and the world he now inhabited. His inner world was still intact, and he could clearly visualize the swords that resided in his mind. However, the absence of his connection to the magic circles and the inability to perceive the mana around him deeply unsettled him. He didn't even know if he had reincarnated in his original body, and, if he had, he hoped that discomfort would fade as he grew older. What disturbed him most, however, was the loss of contact with Alaia.
Even so, he didn't harbor any illusions that he could ever be free. Deep down, he knew that, at the end of this new life, his personal hell would await him, as always. There were moments when he wondered if it would be simpler to simply end this unbearable existence and return to his "normality." However, suicide (at least in the traditional sense) had never been a solution for him.
The world he had been reincarnated into seemed, at first glance, quite ordinary, but that didn't make his issues disappear. The people around him were obviously Japanese by their appearance, language, hairstyles, and clothing. The environment seemed to belong to a modern era, around the 21st century, which he suspected was true given what he could observe. His house, for example, was equipped with various household appliances and electronic devices, though the furniture and architecture followed a more traditional style, something he was already accustomed to.
Another point that piqued his curiosity was his supposed family. From the little he'd overheard, they appeared to be from a wealthy clan, the "Yaoyorozu," a family with a long tradition, apparently involved in business. The structure was classic: a father, a mother, and an older sister, with only a one-year age difference. The house they lived in was large and luxurious, surrounded by servants.
A noticeable change in fortune, something Emiya couldn't help but notice. The father, a businessman, seemed to be constantly busy. The mother, in turn, appeared equally absorbed in her responsibilities, which meant that he and his sister were often cared for by the housemaids.
In these moments of apparent solitude, Emiya tried to absorb as much as possible about the new world he had been reincarnated into. He listened to the conversations around him, absorbing every fragment of information.
"The young master is so cute."
"Do you really think so? Personally, I think he's kind of strange. I've never seen him smile or cry."
"Well, what's strange and what's normal nowadays? He's still very young, and we don't know what his quirksis like. Maybe this apathy is just a phase of his age. Either way, we can't jump to conclusions."
"I know, but Miss Momo, for instance, is pretty normal. And she's only one year older than him."
"Even though they're siblings, that doesn't mean they'll have the same quirk, or that the effect of their quirk will be the same for both. Like you said, they're one year apart. It's not fair to compare them."
"You're right, but from what I know, Mr. and Mrs. Yaoyorozu expect the young master to follow a career as a hero in the future. And, honestly, I can't imagine him taking that path."
"Don't worry. Master Shirou is just a baby. It's too early to make conclusions. Even with that closed expression, I still see a spark in his eyes."
'Shirou, seriously? Why did it have to be that name?' Emiya thought, frustrated.
These conversations, while enlightening, only added more doubts to his mind. Aside from the obvious change in fortune, his family's life seemed quite ordinary, with no sign of any contact with the moonlit world. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that this world had no connection to the mystical at all. However, there were two words that gnawed at him, echoing in his mind frequently: "quirks" and, even more so:
"heroes."
...
As the days dragged on, Emiya began to understand more clearly the world he now found himself in. It wasn't a world of sorcerers, supernatural beings, or spirits, as he had once imagined. However, it could not be called an ordinary world either, at least not within the limitations he attributed to the word "normal."
It was a place of intrinsic complexity, where the rules governing it were both familiar and disconcerting.
The so-called "quirks" that he had heard so much about seemed to reveal themselves as exceptional abilities, somewhat resembling the magic of his own world. However, the way they manifested was quite different. Instead of spells dependent on mana and Od, flowing through intricate magical circuits and invoked through incantations or rituals, quirks seemed to be a kind of innate mutation, a genetic mark that the individual carried from birth.
They weren't abilities that could be learned, but rather something each person was born with, with a spectrum of manifestations so broad and unpredictable that it didn't follow any pattern. It was a direct break from the rigid magical classifications he was familiar with, where everything was ordered by types and elements and obeyed a hierarchy of power.
He didn't seem surprised. In fact, he was already accustomed to encountering strange worlds, where the laws of reality seemed to bend at will, bringing with them an unforeseen and unusual logic. The concept of a world of superhumans didn't seem so distant or unusual to him. Naturally, this left him with more questions, but at the same time, there was a strange sense of clarification, as if many pieces were finally beginning to fall into place.
His theory that this world didn't possess magic, at least not in the way he understood it, seemed to be coming true. Not in the traditional sense, of course, but in something that, to him, seemed more like an adaptation than a denial. This, in some way, explained why he could no longer channel his magic through the old magical circuits. His body, after all, no longer had those circuits. He wasn't in his original body anymore, but rather in a new one, adapted to the peculiarities of this world. And this brought him unease.
He didn't know if, over time, he would develop an "individuality." He only knew it wasn't a guarantee. Only about 20% of the world's population seemed to be exempt from such special abilities, living as ordinary humans.
What he had learned so far was that these quirks had a strong genetic component. Abilities could be passed down or altered across generations, like a heritage, a legacy of power. Curiously, the abilities in his own family seemed to be linked to the creation of objects, a skill that, surprisingly, closely resembled his own projection magic.
The coincidences kept piling up, and he couldn't help but question whether he had truly been thrown into this world randomly. The circumstances were becoming excessively specific for his liking, but for now, he decided to ignore that discomfort.
However, there was something far more important troubling him. Heroes. This world, with the emergence of superhumans, had inevitably become disordered, plunging into chaos where criminals and troublemakers dominated, and civil society was naturally dragged into an era of turmoil. But it was in this disorder that order began to take shape. Various individuals, in an attempt to combat evil, started organizing, and thus the so-called "heroes" were born.
It was curious, but nowadays being a hero seemed more than just a calling. It had become a real profession, and one of the most desired, prestigious, and coveted.
His parents, apparently, expected Emiya to follow this career path. But Emiya didn't exactly know what to think about it. In fact, he harbored a deep aversion to the concept of a hero. Those who sacrificed themselves altruistically, throwing their own lives away in the name of a supposed Justice, an honor he couldn't comprehend. This type of sacrifice seemed empty, pointless, almost pathetic to him.
He had already encountered many "heroes" throughout his life. All fools and naïve, distorted people who convinced themselves they were doing good, trying to help others, but always oblivious to the harm they caused, to the destruction they left behind. Emiya was well aware of this. He knew better than anyone.
And those "heroes," who proclaimed themselves pillars of a morally superior order, were nothing but pieces of a rotten society. He smiled, a cynical, almost disdainful smile, and looked around, feeling the weight of his own worldview. A society that sustained itself on such a distorted concept was surely as corrupted as the very idea of a hero it revered.
He would never follow that path. At least, not willingly.
...
As time passed, Emiya became accustomed to this new world. Now, at four years old, his hair, once red in his previous life, had turned as black as the darkness of the night. His appearance, however, remained unchanged, or at least that was what he remembered, as his childhood memories were becoming more and more vague, almost nonexistent.
He appeared to be an ordinary child, but only to his own eyes. To others, his dark and sarcastic demeanor didn't match the age he had, and acting like a child wasn't something he knew how to do naturally.
The result of this was numerous visits to psychologists and child therapists, a constant search to understand what was "wrong" with him. Though he didn't exactly know how to behave like an ordinary child, he could at least maintain the facade during consultations.
The weight of his family's wealth and prestige also hung on his shoulders from an early age. Since he was very young, he had been assigned a private tutor, who shared daily lessons with his sister. Emiya, however, couldn't help but feel that the tutor's rigid discipline was excessive for a child. But, with the family's status, high expectations were natural.
His sister, Momo, already five years old, was a sweet-natured child, though somewhat clingy. This, however, never bothered him. After all, she was just a child. Despite maintaining a serious and closed-off demeanor, Emiya had a softness few knew about. He was kind, perhaps even too much, and whenever Momo called him, he was by her side, whether to play or just to keep her company.
Unlike him, Momo was a genuine child, with all the imperfections and contradictions of her age. She struggled to complete tasks, but she tried harder than anyone. Shyness and determination were traits Emiya appreciated and valued in her. She had already awakened her peculiarity, a skill called "Creation," which, as the name suggested, allowed her to create any non-living material, as long as she knew the molecular composition of the object. Her body manipulated fat cells to generate these items.
Emiya had already witnessed several other quirks, as the peculiarities were called, and although these abilities followed a certain logical pattern and could be explained rationally, there was something that unsettled him. He asked his sister to create a simple iron bar. Momo complied promptly, and he held it in his hands. The object was solid, and at first glance, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with its composition. Momo seemed fine too, except for a little hunger, as she had mentioned.
"This doesn't make any sense,"
He thought, frustrated. His sister's ability didn't just create matter out of nothing, but also involved an energetic transformation, it seemed as though she fused matter and energy in a way that contradicted any physical logic he knew. It was as if she had done some kind of nuclear fusion, which was impossible to explain within the laws of science he understood.
He had always believed that magic or mana didn't exist in this world. However, perhaps mana did exist here, in abundance, and humans just weren't adapted to perceive it.
Maybe quirks were, in fact an unconscious manifestation of more complex magical circuits, a remnant of forgotten energy. Who knows, in a distant past, mana might have accumulated without being explored, gradually affecting humans and forcing their bodies to adapt to this energy. Perhaps the peculiarities were a biological response, an evolution generated by this abundance of power.
It was just a baseless theory, of course, but it was all Emiya could think of to try to comprehend the absurd laws that governed this world. In the end, he reflected, his own world wasn't free of similar mysteries. Heroic spirits with nobly inexplicable ghosts had always been part of his reality, so perhaps this was what awaited him here: a new kind of logic, one that was yet to be unraveled.
What raised doubt in him was how his own individuality would manifest.
...
As he grew older, just as he had long suspected, his magic circuits never recovered. He could no longer wield magic, nor even sense the flow of mana in the air. In a way, it was deeply frustrating to lose the one thing he had always relied on the most. Yet, in the midst of that loss, something new awakened within him; his individuality.
Though the weight of disappointment lingered, this newly awakened ability felt strangely familiar, almost like a distorted echo of the magic he once commanded. It was similar to his sister's power, this "individuality" allowed him to convert his body's nutrients and calories into energy, and from that energy, manifest physical objects.
The difference, however, was clear: the items he created weren't as stable as hers. They were perfect replicas in composition, durability, and form, but even the slightest damage caused them to disintegrate into dust-like particles. The only upside was that his ability consumed far less energy than his sister's.
His family seemed perfectly content with his peculiarity; after all, it wasn't uncommon for members of the same bloodline to possess similar abilities, each with its own twist.
From the moment his gift was discovered, he was put through endless consultations with specialists, and private tutors were hired to help him refine it. To Emiya, though, it all felt like the typical overreaction of a wealthy family with too many expectations.
He often skipped lessons to experiment on his own. The more he practiced, the more he realized how much this new ability resembled—and differed from—the magic he had left behind. Unlike his sister, he couldn't create complex items like firearms or electronics.
Yet, oddly enough, his power didn't seem limited to mere creation. By converting calories into energy, he could store that energy within himself or infuse it into objects, allowing him to perform detailed analyses that revealed an item's structure, composition, and even its history.
This esoteric skill didn't quite fit the logic of the world he lived in—a world defined by limited and neatly categorized abilities. But to Emiya, the resemblance to his old magic was undeniable. He could no longer ignore the coincidence between the two, and a troubling question began to haunt him: had he reincarnated into a body shaped perfectly for his soul? Or was there something more sinister at play—someone who had placed him here for a reason? The thought disturbed him, yet he chose to set it aside.
As his experiments continued, he discovered that his ability went beyond creation, it allowed him to alter an object's structure, making it stronger or weaker, even changing its form. Like his sister, however, he found himself unable to create or modify living beings. His own body, though, seemed to be an exception. By channeling energy into himself, he could reinforce his bones and muscles, making them both stronger and more flexible.
The sensation reminded him of his old reinforcement and structural analysis magic. Though the efficiency wasn't the same without his magic circuits, the familiarity was undeniable. He could enhance his strength, endurance, speed and even sharpen his senses, especially sight and hearing.
It no longer made sense to question the logic behind his ability. It felt too natural, too much a part of him, as if it had always been there. Pushing the limits of his newfound power, he realized he didn't need intricate technical knowledge to create objects. All he needed was a clear mental image and a basic understanding of their structure.
That thought led him to his Reality Marble. Ever since awakening in this world, he had felt that his inner world remained intact. He could see it vividly within his mind, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring it forth into reality.
Now, focusing his newfound energy, he extended his hands. He visualized a black blade, a short sword patterned in black and white like yin and yang, with crimson hexagonal lines glowing faintly along its edge. He could see every detail, the form, the weight, the structure, even the history behind the weapon. In a single thought, energy condensed in his palm, shaping the blade he envisioned.
Emiya stood alone in the family's vast training dojo. He made sure no one was watching. Examining the sword, he gripped its hilt, feeling its balance and weight. Then, suddenly, he swung. The motion was instinctive, perfectly natural. As he extended his left hand, a second blade materialized, identical to the first but with inverted colors and no hexagonal markings.
The dual movement came as naturally as breathing. Yet something felt different. His current body was weaker, smaller, a reminder of his limited physical condition and the lack of muscle memory his old self once possessed. Even so, his strikes were smooth and precise. When he threw one of the blades, it sliced cleanly through the air; with a flick of his hand, it curved midflight and returned to his grasp.
That was when Emiya realized something remarkable: his ability didn't just reproduce an object's form or material, it recreated its conceptual essence. He could manifest the idea of the weapon itself. The realization fascinated him. If his ability continued to evolve, perhaps one day, he might truly manifest his Reality Marble.
But for now, that wasn't what mattered.