Chapter 5: Journeys PT.2
The train ride to Kuwana City was quiet and almost soothing, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against track reminding Shirou of a heartbeat—steady, dependable, unrelenting. Japan's public transportation system was a marvel of efficiency, and Shirou found comfort in its punctuality. It gave him time to think, to compartmentalize everything that had happened so far. The battle with Daisuke. His first foray into the Moonlit Marketplace. The relics he had secured and the contacts he had made. Each step was progress, but each step also carried the weight of greater expectation.
As the train slowed into the station and the automated voice announced his arrival, Shirou rose from his seat and adjusted the strap of his satchel. Within it, tightly wrapped in amulet cloth and secured further with sutras of his own design, was the femur of Saint Hakushin—a relic of such intensity and purity that even now, veiled as it was, its presence pulsed faintly against his spiritual senses like a quiet drumbeat. He had left behind the laboratory equipment and textbooks from Tokyo, trusting Raiga to coordinate the delivery. A short phone call had been all it took—Raiga might not be a magus, but he understood discretion and loyalty like few others.
He stepped off into Kuwana City, breathing in air that felt different than Tokyo's—cleaner, calmer, touched with the faint scent of river mist and sea salt. This was the Ise Province, where history was thick in the soil and tradition never quite let go of its grip. The city itself was beautiful in a modest way: a weaving of modern streets and shops with shrines, temples, and gardens peeking through at intervals, each one a reminder of its storied past.
He hadn't come to admire that beauty, though. Not today.
His purpose here was precise, as sharp and clear as any blade. Butsugen-in Temple.
The temple that guarded the final resting place of Muramasa Sengo—his ancestor, his predecessor, and, in a way, his greatest shadow. The infamous swordsmith's workshop had once stood nearby. The land still bore the memory of fire and steel, a memory woven into its stones. It was the perfect place for what Shirou needed to do.
If he was to forge the future he envisioned—saving Sakura, forming the alliances he would need, surviving and mastering the Grail War—he would require every advantage possible. And one of his greatest advantages was already within him, lying dormant, waiting for the right spark. His Reality Marble, Unlimited Blade Works.
But to bring it forth fully… he needed to confront its roots. To look upon the grave of the man whose blood and legend ran like iron through his veins.
The walk to the temple carried him out of the city proper, down narrower roads that gradually gave way to quiet footpaths. The sound of passing cars faded, replaced by the chirping of cicadas and the whisper of leaves swaying in the late afternoon breeze. Ahead, the crimson torii gate of Butsugen-in rose against the treeline, its paint faded but dignified.
As he stepped beneath the gate, a subtle change touched the air. The world grew quieter, heavier. The ground beneath his feet seemed to resonate, as though every pebble and grain of sand carried the memory of centuries of prayer. Monks in simple robes moved across the courtyard, their sweeping brushes rasping softly against the stone. They glanced at him but offered no words, only polite nods before returning to their work.
Shirou followed the gravel path deeper into the temple grounds, past weathered stone lanterns and incense burners that still smoldered faintly. The scent of ash and cedar wrapped around him, mingling with the cool mountain air.
And then he saw it.
At the far edge of the grounds, set apart from the main halls and gardens, stood a modest headstone—aged, blackened with time, yet resolute. The carved characters were worn but legible: Sengo Muramasa.
For a moment, Shirou simply stopped. The weight of the place settled into his chest, pressing against him with a mixture of reverence and expectation. He had been here once before in passing, but never like this. Never with purpose burning in his veins.
He took a slow step forward. Then another. Each one seemed louder than it should have been, crunching against gravel that echoed like hammer strikes in the silence.
Finally, he stood before the headstone, the last barrier between his past, his blood, and the future he intended to forge.
The headstone of his ancestor, the infamous swordsmith Sengo Muramasa. The stone was simple, weathered with centuries of rain and wind, yet to Shirou it radiated a gravity far beyond its size. It was not just a marker of death, but a monument to fire, steel, and cursed legacy.
He exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease from his shoulders. "Alright," he muttered under his breath. "Let's begin."
From within his satchel, Shirou withdrew a small bundle of sutra tags. Each one had been painstakingly inscribed in his own hand, ink mixed with gemstone dust and the faintest trace of his own prana. He pressed one against a nearby lantern, another to a stone along the path, and three more around the perimeter of the headstone. As the last sutra was fixed in place, the faint shimmer of a bounded field rippled into existence—basic, efficient, but more than enough to deter wandering monks or curious passersby. To anyone outside, the area would feel oddly uninviting, a space to skirt around without quite knowing why.
Satisfied, Shirou knelt directly before the headstone and settled into the lotus position, gravel crunching softly beneath his legs. The cool air carried the faint scent of moss and incense, grounding him as he reached inward. With a thought, his circuits flared open, prana humming through his body like molten metal through unseen channels.
He extended one hand outward, fingers steady, and projected.
Steel sang into being. Then again. And again.
Five blades shimmered into existence, stabbing point-first into the earth in a star-shaped pattern around him and the headstone. But these were not ordinary projections. They were copies of Muramasa's own works—the swords Shirou had first seen in the museum with Raiga years ago, the ones that had sung to his blood when he traced them. Each blade hummed faintly with that resonance now, steel recognizing steel, blood recognizing blood.
The formation was perfect: five points of a star, Shirou and the gravestone at the center.
He placed his palm flat against the soil directly before him. For a heartbeat, there was only silence—the silence of earth that had held centuries of memory. Then Shirou began to chant. His voice was low, measured, each word carrying the weight of intent:
"Stones that sleep, roots that bind, rivers that remember.
Awaken, and let my soul resound with thine eternal breath.
Resonate, O land—become one with my spirit!"
As the final syllable left his lips, his palm flared with light. The soil beneath his hand glowed faintly, then pulsed outward in ripples of prana. The glow leapt from his palm to each of the five blades in turn, connecting them in lines of raw energy until the star pattern was complete.
The formation shone crimson and silver, the light illuminating the headstone and casting long shadows across the gravel. Shirou's breath hitched for just a moment—this was working. The land was answering. The swords, his blood, and the headstone of his ancestor had become one circuit.
Slowly, Shirou withdrew his hand and folded both into his lap. His breathing steadied. His back straightened. His entire being settled into a meditative stillness as the energy resonated through the circle.
And then, softly, he spoke the name of the spell he had created for this very moment:
"Jibutsu no Kōkon."
The Land's Echo with the Soul.
The effect was immediate. A wave of calm swept through him, vast and encompassing, as though the air itself had grown thick with tranquility. He felt his life force intertwine with the soil, the roots, the stone. His circuits hummed, but not in strain—rather in harmony, as if his body had become a tuning fork for the land around him.
And then, as his breathing slowed, he felt the shift. His consciousness slipped, tilted inward, drawn into darkness.
Not the darkness of fear or void, but of deep resonance—the kind of endless night where souls and steel might meet.
---
As he sank further into the darkness of his own inner being, Shirou couldn't stop his thoughts from circling back to the spell he had just unleashed. Jibutsu no Kōkon—a spell of the spiritual invocation lineage, one of the most dangerous and misunderstood branches of magecraft. Few dared to touch it, fewer still mastered it. It wasn't simply calling on the power of the land. It was using one's own soul as a net, cast wide into a place steeped with meaning, catching echoes of memory, essence, and mystery in its mesh.
And what place could be more perfect than this? Not only was this ground tied to him by legacy and blood—Muramasa's resting place—but his own body carried the proof of that inheritance. This was soil that remembered the weight of hammers, the cry of sparks, the heat of a furnace that never cooled. His invocation wasn't calling upon Muramasa himself, but on the weight of his own spirit, sharpened by the legacy beneath his feet and amplified by the land as a lens.
It was audacious. It was reckless. But it was perfect.
The sensation of falling slowed. Darkness lightened. His mind, stretched thin like a taut bowstring, released and began to reform. Sight returned to him, though it was not sight as one normally knew it. What unfolded around him wasn't the physical world but the landscape of his soul.
Shirou inhaled, then froze.
Unlimited Blade Works.
But not as he remembered it.
In his previous life, when he had seen Archer's Reality Marble upon a glowing screen, it had been a vision of futility: a barren, cracked wasteland under a burning sky, endless swords stretching forever, gears grinding without rest. A graveyard of weapons and ideals.
This was different.
Yes, the ground was still bare, and blades still jutted from the earth, their steel glinting faintly in the dim light. But the horizon was no longer an endless flat line. In the distance loomed impossible shapes, so vast and so alien in their familiarity that his heart nearly stopped.
Anvils.
Each one towered like a mountain range, their obsidian-black surfaces glowing with lines of molten heat, edges worn from the eternal pounding of steel. And they weren't alone. Around them rose hammers the size of redwoods, suspended mid-swing in positions that suggested they had always been, and would always be, descending. From those towering anvils spilled rivers of molten steel, shining red-gold like veins of liquid sunlight, cascading into the barren plains. The rivers wove together, spreading in broad channels, turning the land into a network of glowing arteries. The air shimmered with their heat.
Shirou stared, awestruck.
And then the sound reached him.
The sky above was a vast, churning canvas of storm-gray clouds. There were no gears here, no grinding machinery echoing futility. Instead, there was thunder that was not thunder—the endless, rhythmic ringing of hammer striking steel. Each strike rang like a divine heartbeat. Sparks burst like lightning, scattering across the clouds and falling like golden rain. The atmosphere trembled with every impact, yet it did not frighten him.
It welcomed him.
The heat rolled over his skin, heavy but not suffocating. The ground pulsed with warmth, radiating upward into his bones, suffusing his chest with an energy that was neither hostile nor alien. This was the warmth of a forge, of fire given purpose. It should have been unbearable, overwhelming. Instead, he felt himself relax, his soul loosening as though it had finally come home.
A truth struck him like one of the colossal hammer blows from above.
This was not Archer's Unlimited Blade Works. That wasteland of futility and hollow ideals had no place here. Nor was it the shallow, half-formed projection of the original Shirou, the hesitant reflection of a boy who could not decide what he wanted to be.
No. This was his.
An inner world born not of borrowed ideals but of tempered will. Forged by his hands, shaped by his blood, tempered by every choice and every battle. A soul that did not merely copy swords but understood the essence of forging itself.
The realization was so sharp and so clear that it burned away doubt like fire eating dry kindling. His lips curved upward, his chest shook, and he couldn't stop the laugh that tore its way free.
It wasn't the bitter laugh of cynicism or the manic laugh of desperation. It was the laugh of recognition—of understanding himself completely for the first time.
And as the sparks of heaven lit his soul's sky, Shirou Emiya laughed into his world of anvils, hammers, and molten rivers of steel.
For the first time, he wasn't standing in someone else's shadow.
He was standing in his own Reality Marble.
---
Shirou's laughter rang out across the storm-gray sky of his Reality Marble, echoing against the anvils and rivers of molten steel. The sheer clarity of the realization—that this world was his and his alone—had been too much, and his laughter was as much release as it was triumph.
But then, a dry voice cut through the hammer-strikes of the sky.
"Shall I come back when you're not laughing like a madman? Or is that just never going to happen?"
Shirou froze. His laughter died on his lips, and he whipped around sharply.
Standing behind him, calm as if he had been there all along, was a figure Shirou had never expected to see again: his ancestor, Sengo Muramasa.
He was clad in a pure white kimono, the lines simple and unadorned, his posture straight but relaxed. His eyes were molten-gold mirrors, alive with sharp humor, and his mouth curved in a smirk that was equal parts sarcasm and challenge. He stood there with his arms folded, waiting, as though daring Shirou to be the first to speak.
"...How?" Shirou finally managed, his voice low with disbelief. "I don't understand. How are you here? My spell shouldn't have called you. It couldn't have called you—"
Muramasa chuckled before Shirou could even finish, waving a hand dismissively. "Don't run yourself ragged trying to unravel it, boy. It's nothing you did. This? This was all me."
Shirou blinked, confused. His circuits thrummed with the power of this place, but the words didn't make sense. "I don't understand. How could you do this? How could you even be here?"
Muramasa's smirk widened into a grin. "Quite simple, really. The last time we spoke—when you piggybacked off the Grail system to summon me—I could already sense this place within you. It was half-formed then, still vague and brittle. But it existed. And within it…" His golden eyes glinted. "Within it were pieces of my own work. Blades you had seen. Blades you had traced. Copies or not, they carried my mark. You even used one of them as a catalyst, didn't you?"
Shirou's breath caught. He remembered the ritual—the fragment of Muramasa's sword that had been his catalyst.
"Yes," Muramasa continued, nodding as if reading the thought in Shirou's head. "That was enough. Enough for me to anchor a sliver of myself here. A fragment of spirit tied to those reproductions in your Reality Marble. This world of yours—outside Gaia's sight, outside the reach of Alaya—it became a safe harbor. A place where I could linger without rejection."
Shirou's mind clicked the pieces into place. The copies he had stored in Unlimited Blade Works weren't just inert steel. They were records of history, echoes of mystery—and to Muramasa, they had been fetishes, footholds that allowed him to graft a piece of his existence into this inner world.
"I see…" Shirou muttered, exhaling in realization. But even with the understanding, another question remained. He met Muramasa's gaze directly. "Then why? Why would you do that? And is this—" he gestured out across the endless anvils, the rivers of steel, the storming sky of hammer-strikes—"is this your doing too? Did you shape this forge?"
Muramasa threw back his head and laughed, sharp and full-bodied. "Hah! No, boy. Not in the slightest. This was all you. From the moment you set foot on the path of forging your own fate, this world began to shift. Every time you made a choice that pushed you further down that road, every blade you hammered into being, every ideal you tempered—it all shaped this place. You built this forge."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with approval. "I had nothing to do with it."
The words struck Shirou with both weight and relief. It wasn't Muramasa's shadow he was standing in—it was his own flame.
"And as for why?" Muramasa's grin returned, wolfish and bright. "Call it an old man's curiosity. I wanted to see what my descendant could do. It's far more entertaining to exist here, watching over your progress, than to rot away in the Throne. And every weapon you see, every creation you hammer out, every relic you store… I get to examine it. To study it." His grin widened, and Shirou understood completely.
Muramasa was a smith before he was ever a hero. Of course he would leap at the chance to anchor himself in an inner world that was an endless forge, a museum of blades, and a crucible of creation all at once.
Shirou couldn't help the faint smile that pulled at his lips. "Well then… welcome aboard, honored ancestor." He gave a small bow of respect. "What now?"
Muramasa's expression softened into something almost proud. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raised a hand and pointed across the plains of blades. Far in the distance, one of the titanic anvils pulsed faintly with light, brighter than the rest.
"Follow me," Muramasa said. His voice carried like steel striking steel. "There's something you need to see."
Shirou turned his eyes toward the glowing forge, heat shimmering in the air between them. For the first time since arriving in this place, he felt not just clarity, but anticipation.
And he followed.
---
They walked together across the barren plains of Shirou's inner world.
The ground cracked faintly under each step, glowing in places where rivers of molten steel cut across the barren soil. The air shimmered with the oppressive but strangely welcoming heat of the forge. The distant hammer-strikes from the sky rang out like thunderclaps, each one sending a tremor through the soles of Shirou's feet. Sparks cascaded like falling stars across the storm-gray sky, illuminating the silhouettes of blades buried in the earth.
For nearly twenty minutes, neither spoke. Muramasa walked with his hands folded behind his back, unhurried, his white kimono untouched by the ash and heat. Shirou kept pace at his side, his mind still caught between awe and disbelief at what this world had become.
Finally, their destination came into view: a cave-mouth yawning at the base of one of the colossal anvils. It was like a scar carved into the world's skin, a wound from which poured heat and the glow of raw molten iron.
As they stepped into the threshold, Shirou muttered, "We got here faster than I expected…"
Muramasa chuckled softly, his golden eyes gleaming. "This is your world, boy. Distance, time—they don't mean the same here. We got here precisely when you wished us to."
The words struck Shirou, slowing his steps. Space bending to his perception, time aligning with his will? This world wasn't bound by physical law, but by his own essence. He shook his head, swallowing down the thought. It was too much to process now. He hurried forward to match his ancestor's pace.
The cave was alive with light. Molten steel ran in veins across the stone walls, glowing like fiery arteries. Occasionally, droplets of liquid metal dripped down with a hiss, vanishing into narrow channels carved into the ground. Their footsteps echoed as the tunnel led deeper, the air growing hotter, the hum of the forge intensifying until it vibrated in Shirou's bones.
The narrow passage opened suddenly into a chamber, vast and blinding with radiance.
They stood beneath the colossal anvil itself, the ceiling so high it was swallowed by shadow. The heart of the chamber pulsed with light—the molten rivers converging into a lake of glowing steel that cast flickering reflections across the walls. Heat rolled off the lake in waves, enough to distort the air, and yet Shirou felt no discomfort. His reforged body simply absorbed it, accepted it, as though this inferno was his natural element.
A stone dais stood in the lake's center, the walkway leading them directly toward it.
And there, floating above the dais, was the sight that froze Shirou in place.
It was himself.
His own body, or rather a reflection of it, suspended in midair. Fragments of steel orbited the figure like satellites, each one glinting with impossible sharpness. The floating figure glowed faintly, its features unmistakable—his face, his frame, his essence, but refined, stripped down to truth.
Shirou's voice cracked as he finally found his words. "...What is this?"
Muramasa raised a brow, as if the question was almost disappointing. "Can't you guess?"
Shirou's heart pounded as he studied it, his mind racing. And then the realization struck with the force of a hammer blow.
"The reforging ritual…" he whispered. His breath quickened. "All the alterations I made—every improvement, every addition. I knew Gaia would reject them. I knew I couldn't stand against its authority. So I…" His eyes widened as he stared at the figure. "I hid it. I cast the truth of my body away—into this world. Into Unlimited Blade Works."
He swallowed hard. "This… is my true self. The secret I sealed away."
Muramasa nodded, pride flickering in his molten-gold eyes. "Exactly. You secured the truth of your physical nature within your own Reality Marble, beyond Gaia's gaze. A clever trick. Truthfully, a stroke of brilliance. I'm proud of your ingenuity."
Shirou felt relief swell for only a heartbeat—before Muramasa's grin sharpened.
"But… you didn't anticipate the consequences of such a decision, did you?"
Shirou blinked at him, startled. "Consequences? I… I thought it would work, or it wouldn't. I didn't think there'd be anything beyond that."
Muramasa's laughter echoed through the chamber, rolling off the molten lake like a smith's hammer striking steel. "Ah, the folly of youth! Even genius trips on its own confidence. You've done something no magus would dare attempt—yet you thought it would come without price?"
Shirou scowled faintly. "What do you mean?"
Muramasa stepped closer to the floating double, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze never leaving Shirou. "All actions have consequences. Every choice, no matter how small, leaves ripples. Most people never see them. Most never realize. You, boy—you've taken a step so grand its echoes will reach far beyond you."
Shirou clenched his fists, looking from his ancestor back to the glowing reflection of himself. "…Then what are they? What consequences?"
Muramasa's grin widened again, teeth flashing. "I cannot say for certain. But I can guess."
Shirou swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "What kind of guesses?"
Muramasa's voice lowered, carrying the weight of iron. "By hiding your body from Gaia and Alaya, you severed yourself from their systems. You no longer exist under their gaze. Their laws, their chains… they do not bind you. You stand apart from the human order itself."
The words struck like a hammer blow.
"That severance means you are untethered. You exist outside the world's texture. And that means you are already beginning to accumulate Mystery."
Shirou froze. His circuits hummed with sudden dread. Mystery was no small thing, even among the greatest magus lineages.
Muramasa continued without pause. "Mystery changes things. It transforms. If left unchecked, it may shape you into something akin to a Dead Apostle. Or perhaps something grander—a True Ancestor. For all I know, you could even become a Type. The truth is, boy, you are now walking a path where each step takes you further from what you were."
Shirou's thoughts spiraled, questions chasing each other in frantic circles. He hadn't meant for this. He had wanted only to avoid Gaia's rejection, to survive. He hadn't realized he'd cast himself beyond the human order entirely.
Before his panic could tighten its hold, a firm hand settled on his shoulder.
Muramasa's eyes softened, his molten gaze no longer sharp but warm, almost grandfatherly. "Do not worry so much, boy."
Shirou stared at him in disbelief. "Don't worry? You just told me I might become a Dead Apostle—or worse—and you expect me not to worry?"
Muramasa barked a laugh, shaking his head. "I said it was a possibility, not destiny. What's done is done. You cannot turn back now. All you can do is grow with it, learn from it, live with it. That's the weight of responsibility. You made your choice. Now you bear it. That is the way of the forge—and the way of fate."
The smile that followed was softer, warmer, carrying both pride and reassurance. "And that is what I would expect from one of my own blood."
Shirou held his gaze, then exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders. Slowly, he smiled back, faint but steady. His ancestor was right. The choice had been made. There was no undoing it. All that remained was to live with the consequences—and forge them into something his own.
"You're right," he said at last.
"Of course I'm right," Muramasa replied smugly, the sarcasm returning to his tone. Then he straightened, expression sharpening once more. "Now… it's about time you wake up. You've been kneeling before my headstone for nearly four hours."
Shirou blinked, startled. "Four—?"
Before he could finish, Muramasa jabbed him sharply in the forehead with one finger.
A flash of light swallowed everything.
The molten chamber vanished. The lake of steel and the hovering double dissolved into mist. The clang of hammer-strikes faded to silence.
Shirou opened his eyes to find himself back in the courtyard of Butsugen-in Temple, seated cross-legged before his ancestor's weathered headstone. The cool evening air washed over him, startling after the heat of the forge. The sky above had deepened into twilight, the first stars beginning to prick through the indigo veil. The pale light of the rising moon bathed the temple grounds in silver.
Shirou inhaled deeply, circuits still humming faintly within him. He could still feel it—that forge-world, his Reality Marble, alive and waiting just beneath the surface. He knew, without doubt, that he could summon it now if he wished.
With a faint smile, he dismissed the projections forming the five-point star around him. The bounded field unraveled, fading back into stillness. Rising slowly to his feet, he tilted his head back, eyes tracing the stars and the moon climbing above.
The future was uncertain. Consequences loomed in every shadow.
But whatever awaited him, Shirou Emiya would forge it with his own hands.
---
Shirou let the last traces of the bounded field unravel into the night. The sutra tags he had set down dimmed and crumbled to ash, their faint glow snuffed out like embers caught in the wind. Rising stiffly from the ground, he dusted off his knees and turned, ready to leave the courtyard behind.
But then he stopped.
There, just beyond the reach of his now-faded barrier, sat a man he hadn't noticed before. An elderly monk, cross-legged in lotus atop a weather-worn stone bench, his hands resting lightly on his knees. His robes were resplendent yet aged, layered silk dyed in saffron and pale white, their hems embroidered with faint lotus patterns that shimmered softly in the dim moonlight. His face was a map of creases and lines, weathered by years of prayer and contemplation, yet his posture was perfectly upright, radiating quiet strength.
His eyes were closed in meditation. But the moment Shirou's field faded, the monk's lids slid open, revealing clear, steady eyes that fixed on him with unnerving calm.
Caught off guard, Shirou awkwardly raised a hand. "Uh… hello."
The monk inclined his head faintly, his lips pulling into a small, knowing smile. His voice was deep yet quiet, carrying the weight of authority tempered by age.
"I take it you have finished your business, then… young magus."
The words landed like a hammer blow. Shirou's eyes widened, his chest tightening. "How did you—?"
The monk rose smoothly, his movements fluid for someone his age, as though years of discipline had preserved his strength. Folding his hands together, he bowed respectfully before Shirou.
"Please, allow this one to introduce himself. My name is Asahi. For many years I have served as the head monk here at Butsugen-in. My family has watched over this temple and its shrine for countless generations. It is our duty, and one for which we are particularly well-suited. You might say… we were born to it. Our line has always been attuned—spiritually aware in ways most cannot imagine."
Shirou swallowed, nodding slowly. The implications were clear enough. Faith had power—sometimes as much as magecraft itself. The Church proved as much; its miracles were no mere parlor tricks, but phenomena that shaped the Human Order itself. If the Church could exert such weight through devotion, then it was only natural that Japan's own faiths—Buddhism, Shinto—had their own anchors of mystery. A family line "attuned" to such things… yes, it made sense.
"I see," Shirou said at last, lowering his head in respect. "I hope I haven't offended."
Asahi studied him, tilting his head slightly. His voice carried no anger, only calm matter-of-factness. "Ordinarily, you would have. We do not look kindly on magi trespassing within these grounds for their own purposes. Normally, it would be my duty to notify one of the Five Great Clans of Kyoto, and they would see the intruder expelled swiftly from the city."
Shirou stiffened. His face settled into something serious, ready to accept the weight of such a truth.
But then the monk's smile deepened, faint lines crinkling around his eyes. "Fortunately… this is not one of those times."
Shirou blinked, confusion crossing his face. "Not that I'm ungrateful, but… why not?"
"Because," Asahi said simply, folding his hands within his sleeves, "far be it from me to deny a man the right to sit before his ancestor's grave."
The words struck like lightning.
Shirou's breath caught in his throat. His heart thudded painfully as the weight of those words settled in. No one—no one—knew. He had never told Taiga, never told Raiga, never even spoken the truth aloud to anyone. Not once. And yet this monk had seen through him as easily as reading words etched on a scroll.
His fists clenched before he realized it. His eyes narrowed. "…How?" His voice was tight, low.
Asahi raised one hand in a placating gesture. "There is no need for hostility." His smile remained calm, unbothered. "As I said, my family has always been spiritually attuned. I felt your spell the moment you cast it. Its weight was unmistakable. Naturally, I came to investigate. Imagine my surprise when I find a blood descendant of Sengo Muramasa seated in meditation before his ancestor's headstone." His gaze sharpened, calm but penetrating. "I claim no mastery over magecraft, but to a man such as I, the sight was clear—you were communing with something far deeper than yourself."
Shirou exhaled slowly, loosening his fists. There was no denying the old man's insight. Bowing his head, he spoke softly. "…Then I thank you for your understanding. If that is all, I will take my leave."
He turned to go—but Asahi's voice halted him mid-step.
"You are, of course, within your rights to leave," the monk said smoothly. "But…" He paused, tapping his chin with one wrinkled hand before his eyes glimmered with a secretive smile. "I thought perhaps you might wish to collect your inheritance first."
Shirou froze.
The word felt alien in his ears. Inheritance. Slowly, stiffly, he turned back. His voice came out hoarse. "…What are you talking about?"
Asahi only smiled more deeply, the kind of smile that suggested knowledge carefully guarded through generations. Turning, he began to walk slowly down one of the stone paths leading deeper into the temple's heart, his sandals whispering softly against the flagstones. Over his shoulder, he spoke, voice carrying no doubt that Shirou would obey:
"Follow me."
Shirou stood rooted to the spot, his mind reeling, torn between suspicion and the sharp pull of curiosity. Finally, with one last glance back at the headstone of his ancestor, he clenched his jaw and stepped after the monk.
---
The descent was long, the stone steps creaking beneath their sandals as Asahi led Shirou deeper into the earth. The lanterns mounted along the stairwell flickered weakly, their glow carving long shadows across the walls, while the scent of incense and aged wood clung faintly to the air. Shirou's mind was abuzz, circling back again and again to that single word the monk had spoken—inheritance. What did he mean? What could possibly be left for him here, of all places?
Before he could lose himself completely to speculation, they came upon a small, slanted door of weathered oak set into the base of the temple. Its edges were reinforced with tarnished bronze, the keyhole gleaming faintly in the light. Asahi withdrew a heavy iron key from within his robes, its surface pitted with rust, and with a practiced motion slid it into the lock. The door opened with a groan that echoed down the stone stairwell, and without hesitation the old monk began to descend further, beckoning Shirou silently to follow.
As the shadows thickened and the air grew cooler, Asahi's voice broke the silence, calm and steady, as though he were reciting a tale passed down countless times before.
"As I said earlier, my family has watched over this shrine for many generations. But our lineage goes back further than that. Long before this temple was raised, long before it bore the name of Butsugen-in, my ancestors lived upon this land. They were simple folk then—farmers seeking refuge from endless wars. They believed this region safe. After all, swordsmiths had made their homes here for decades. Even after the great smith Muramasa passed from this world, many of his disciples remained, their forges burning bright."
The monk paused for a moment to steady his footing before continuing.
"Steel was the currency of war, and men of war always had need of blades. So my family prospered. But decades after your ancestor's death, calamities began. Whispers of restless spirits, howling moans, and rumors of demons spread. And all of them centered on a single place: the burnt-out husk of Muramasa's old workshop."
Shirou's eyes narrowed. He could feel something within him stir, deep inside Unlimited Blade Works—a subtle awareness, like his inner world itself was listening. His ancestor's presence was leaning in, paying attention.
"My ancestor of that time," Asahi went on, "was the first of our line to take vows as a monk. When he learned his home was plagued, he left his monastery to return. He found his family afraid, neighbors whispering, none daring to step near the cursed ruins. But he himself went willingly. For ten days and nights, he battled the wraiths that had gathered there—restless souls, the echoes of pain and hatred. His spiritual strength against their bitterness, until at last he struck the decisive blow and scattered them."
They reached a landing, where the stairwell curved downward again, the walls damp and veined with moss. The monk glanced back at Shirou, eyes sharp despite his kindly smile, before turning again and continuing his tale.
"And within those ruins, at the heart of the malice, he found the truth. The forge itself had been stripped away by the disciples, yes, but remnants remained. The cause of the calamity lay not in the walls, nor in the air, but in what had been left behind."
Asahi's voice dropped slightly, his words gaining a reverence as though speaking them aloud might wake something slumbering.
"I do not know how much you know of your ancestor, young man. But let me tell you: he was not the mad, bloodthirsty demon of legend. Muramasa was kind, if stubborn—a man consumed by one purpose only: to forge the ultimate sword. That was his life's pursuit. And though many of his creations fell into darkness, it was not by his hammer that they were cursed. He poured his soul into each work, and in doing so gave them life. But it was men who wielded them who gave them hatred, who taught them malice. To Muramasa, such blades were failures."
Shirou swallowed, the truth ringing inside him. Yes… this was exactly what he had felt when he spoke with his ancestor.
Asahi continued. "And it was one such failure that birthed the calamity. In the final years of his life, a wandering monk brought to him a blade he had once forged for a warlord. A sword he despised making, but created nonetheless in hopes of turning the warlord's gaze away from this land. That warlord went on to commit countless atrocities with it. In time, the sword drank its fill of blood and despair, until it was steeped in malice. When the warlord fell, a priest tried to exorcise the weapon. He failed. And realizing he could not destroy it, he brought it here—to its maker."
The pieces clicked together in Shirou's mind, and for the first time he spoke, his voice hushed. "…My ancestor."
"Yes," Asahi nodded. "Muramasa took the blade into his workshop without hesitation. Disappointed in what it had become, he struck it down himself. He melted it in his forge, hammering away its shape until only raw billet remained. One of his final acts, before death claimed him."
Shirou frowned. "But if he succeeded… then what caused the calamity years later?"
Asahi chuckled softly. "Ah. That is the heart of it. Your ancestor melted the blade, yes—but he did not live to reforge it. The billet of steel remained. And with it, the hammer, the tongs, and a fragment of the anvil upon which he destroyed it. These items still carried the weight of the sword's curse. The malice could not be fully purged, and over time it festered. Mystery, I believe your kind would call it. That growing Mystery drew the wraiths my ancestor fought. And though he pacified them, he could not strip the taint from the relics themselves. So he did the only thing he could: he built this temple upon the workshop's ashes and sealed those objects deep beneath it, to guard them against misuse."
The stairwell ended at last, and Asahi pressed his hand against a heavy wooden door. With a groan, it opened into a chamber below the temple. He flicked a switch on the wall, and pale electric light illuminated the room.
At its center stood a shrine, plain stone but emanating weight like an altar of gods. Upon it lay four objects, untouched by time: an antiquated hammer, its head darkened with soot; a pair of blackened tongs, their grips worn smooth; a billet of raw steel, still gleaming faintly though centuries old; and a fractured piece of an anvil, scarred and weathered, yet somehow pulsing faintly with restrained power.
Asahi stepped aside, gesturing toward them with a solemn bow.
"Here, young descendant of Muramasa," he said softly. "Here lies your inheritance."
Shirou could only stare between the old monk and the shrine. The relics before him radiated a quiet gravity that pressed against his skin, the kind of weight that even those blind to magecraft would instinctively recognize. A billet of steel, a hammer, tongs, and a fractured piece of anvil—on the surface, simple tools. But Shirou knew better. He had studied enough mystery and history to understand what they were. Each of them was priceless, relics steeped in centuries of faith, use, and failure. Even the Western magi—so quick to dismiss all things Eastern—would give an arm or a leg to claim even one of them.
And yet here they were, placed upon a shrine in an underground sanctum, being offered to him freely. All four.
His voice cracked slightly when he finally found the words.
"I… I don't understand. You clearly know what these are. You said your family has guarded them for generations. And now you're just… offering them to me?"
Asahi's eyes softened, his thin lips pulling into a knowing smile. "We have indeed watched over these relics for generations. But they were never ours. They have always belonged to another. We were only guardians, not owners. When my forebear sealed them here, it was with the understanding that they were never meant for us to claim. We have kept them hidden so that they would not be misused. But now, you stand here, a blood descendant of the man who forged and destroyed the cursed blade. They are not ours to withhold. They are yours by right."
Shirou felt his throat tighten. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
"But… aren't these important to the temple? Won't you lose something by giving them away? And what about the malice? You said before it lingered inside them. Won't handing them over unleash that again?"
The old monk chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, young Smith. That shadow is gone. What remains is only Mystery. Generations of my family worked tirelessly to pacify the remnants of that curse. We sought out the bodies of the warlord's victims, buried them properly, and offered them rites to send their souls to peace. Slowly, the hatred dissipated. The relics ceased to fester. Now they are silent. Dangerous in the wrong hands, yes, but no longer cursed." His gaze grew intent, sharp despite its kindness. "And I do not believe I need to worry about such a fate with you."
Shirou's brow furrowed. He shook his head in disbelief. "You don't even know me. Most magi are selfish at best, monsters at worst. For all you know, I could be hiding something. I could be a killer in disguise. And you'd just hand me four relics of power?"
Asahi's smile only widened, warm and calm as flowing water. "You underestimate what I see. When you cast your spell here upon this land, you opened yourself entirely. You bared your soul. Perhaps you did not mean to, but it is what happened. And though I am no magus, my family's line is as I said—spiritually attuned. I felt your soul clearly. A kind heart. A resolve to stand firm. A generosity that echoes louder than any curse. These things are etched into you. I can hand you these relics and sleep peacefully tonight, knowing they will not be misused. Of that, I am certain."
Shirou was left speechless. Again, one of his magecraft experiments had reached further than he anticipated, leaving ripples in places he had not thought possible. He muttered under his breath, "I really need to start watching that."
But when he raised his eyes again, the monk's smile had not faltered. Slowly, Shirou bowed deep, his voice steady. "Thank you. I will treasure them—and use them with the respect they deserve."
Asahi nodded in approval. Stepping forward, he gently bundled the relics one by one. First the billet, then the tongs, then the hammer, and finally the fractured anvil piece. He wrapped them carefully in altar cloth embroidered with lotus blossoms and sutra-script, folding the layers with precision born of ritual. Once the bundle was complete, he slid them into a plain wooden box, old but sturdy.
Pressing his hands together, the monk whispered a mantra under his breath. A sutra tag appeared in his hand, glowing faintly with spiritual light as he affixed it to the box's lid. The characters burned softly, filling the chamber with a serene warmth. Shirou could feel the spiritual energy resonate, locking the relics into a state of safety until he himself broke the seal.
Asahi held the box out with both hands, bowing his head slightly. "Take them, young Smith. They are yours by blood, by fate, and by resolve."
Shirou accepted it reverently, the weight of the wooden box heavier than its size should allow.
Asahi pressed his palms together in gasshō, murmuring softly:
"Namo Buddhaya."
The invocation echoed faintly through the underground chamber. Then, with the same quiet dignity, the monk turned and began to lead Shirou back up the long stairwell, toward the world above.
Shirou followed, the box clutched close to his chest, feeling the gravity of both his ancestor's legacy—and the trust placed in him tonight.
---
Shirou lay on the stiff mattress of the hotel bed, staring at the bland white ceiling above him. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, but his mind was anything but quiet. Today had been a storm, a relentless barrage of revelations, trials, and gifts that left him both exhausted and restless.
His thoughts circled back again and again to what he had seen within Unlimited Blade Works. His reality marble. Not Archer's barren wasteland, nor the endless graveyard of swords he had once seen on a glowing screen in his former life. No—his was different. A world of anvils as mountains, hammers as forests, rivers of molten steel carving through the land. His forge. His soul. It had felt more like home than anywhere else ever had.
And then Muramasa. His ancestor had appeared again, smiling in his white kimono, scolding him and guiding him in equal measure. Shirou clenched his hand into a fist at the memory. Muramasa had been proud of him, yes—but he had also warned him. Severed from Gaia, from Alaya, Shirou no longer stood tethered to the Human Order. Every step he took now placed him further beyond the boundaries of the natural world. Mystery was gathering around him, clinging to his soul. What that meant for his future—he didn't yet know.
His chest tightened at the thought. A Dead Apostle. A True Ancestor. Even… a Type. He had heard the words, but even thinking them felt unreal. The monk had said not to worry, and Muramasa had told him to bear responsibility—but the possibilities lingered like shadows in the corners of his mind.
Shirou rolled onto his side, gaze drifting to the small desk at the corner of the room. Resting there, carefully wrapped in amulet cloth and reinforced with his sutras, was the femur of Saint Hakushin. Even sealed, he could feel it, the quiet radiance of purification radiating faintly through the layers, brushing against his circuits like the warmth of a distant sun. Next to it sat the wooden box bound with a sutra tag that still glowed faintly with spiritual power—the relics of Muramasa. His inheritance.
The hammer. The tongs. The billet. The fractured anvil piece.
He could almost hear them calling to him. Not in words, but in weight. Tools forged in the fires of creation and failure, steeped in Mystery older than any crest, older than even the Clock Tower's reach. The responsibility of carrying them pressed against him almost as much as the futon beneath his back.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face. "A roller coaster doesn't even begin to cover it," he muttered under his breath.
But this was only the beginning. His journey wasn't over. Not by a long shot. He still had to ascend Mount Fuji, to seek what was waiting there. And then, perhaps most importantly, Kyoto awaited him—a meeting that could shape everything. Allies, enemies, the looming Holy Grail War. His steps forward could no longer be tentative.
Turning again, Shirou closed his eyes, forcing his thoughts to still. His heartbeat slowed, his breath evening out. Tomorrow would come soon enough.
For now, he allowed himself a moment of rest.
One step closer.