Shirou woke slowly, consciousness returning to him in layers rather than all at once, as though he were surfacing from deep water. For several seconds he simply lay there, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling of the hotel room, the faint morning light filtering through the curtains and casting soft lines across the walls. The dream lingered—no, not a dream, not entirely—its impressions still vivid in his mind. The heat of the forge, the weight of Muramasa's gaze, the words that had been spoken there… they clung to him with a clarity that ordinary dreams never possessed. He could almost still hear the crackle of coals, almost still feel the oppressive density of that place, and beneath it all, the quiet, dangerous excitement that had taken root in his chest at the thought of what they had discussed.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face as he pushed himself upright, the remnants of sleep finally giving way to full awareness. "A sword that severs fate…" he muttered under his breath, the words feeling heavier now than they had in the dream. It wasn't just an idea anymore. It was a goal. A future point that had been set, distant but undeniable. And like everything else in his life, it wasn't something he could afford to approach recklessly. Not if he wanted to survive it.
Shaking his head lightly, he forced himself to set that aside—for now. There were more immediate concerns to deal with.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching slightly as he moved toward the bathroom. The cool water of the shower helped clear the last remnants of sleep from his mind, and by the time he stepped out and dressed, his thoughts had already begun to settle into a more structured rhythm. Practical. Ordered. Focused.
By the time he finished, the conversation with Muramasa had already been compartmentalized—filed away not as something to dwell on, but as something to prepare for.
Tonight came first.
He made his way downstairs, the quiet luxury of the Continental Kyoto branch greeting him once more as he entered the dining area. The soft murmur of conversation, the clink of porcelain, the faint scent of tea and fresh food—everything was calm, refined, controlled. A stark contrast to the chaos he had dealt with just days prior. Shirou took a seat by one of the windows, accepting a simple breakfast without much thought, his attention already turning inward as he began to go over what he would need.
Muramasa's advice had not been unnecessary. If anything, it had simply confirmed what Shirou had already been considering. Kyoto was… different. Even compared to other spiritually active locations in Japan, there was a density here—a weight of history and belief layered over centuries. Shrines, temples, ley lines intersecting and weaving beneath the city like an unseen network… it made the entire area feel more alive in a way that was difficult to put into words.
It was the perfect place to attempt something like this.
And that meant there was no more room for hesitation.
As he ate, his mind worked through the requirements one by one, refining the process, eliminating inefficiencies, accounting for risks.
First and foremost—a location.
He would need somewhere secluded. Far enough from the flow of ordinary people to avoid interference, but still firmly within the spiritual boundaries of Kyoto itself. The ritual depended on drawing from that ambient weight, from the accumulated belief and mystery that saturated the city. Too far out, and he would lose that advantage. Too close, and he risked attracting attention—from both mundane authorities and less mundane observers.
A forested area on the outskirts, perhaps. One of the lesser-used shrine grounds, or an abandoned stretch of land tied loosely to an older spiritual site. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere forgotten enough to work.
He made a mental note to begin scouting immediately after breakfast.
Second—preparation.
He would need to stabilize himself for the ritual. Not just physically, but spiritually. The process of projecting Avalon, even in a limited capacity, wasn't something he could afford to approach carelessly. The strain alone would be significant, and while his reforged body handled prana flow better than it once had, it still had limits.
Nothing too complex was required. In fact, simpler was better in this case.
Elderberry for grounding and purification. Thyme for clarity and stability. Lavender to ease the strain on the mind and spirit. A basic infusion—nothing elaborate, nothing that would interfere with his own internal systems. Just enough to take the edge off the process and ensure his focus didn't waver at a critical moment.
He nodded slightly to himself as he finished his meal. Those would be easy enough to acquire. Kyoto had no shortage of traditional shops that catered to herbal medicine and spiritual practices. He would just need to be selective about where he sourced them from.
And finally…
He paused.
Avalon.
Even thinking about it carried a certain weight.
The sheath of the King of Knights. A conceptual artifact tied to the idea of an ideal land, of absolute protection, of a place removed from the decay of the world. It wasn't just a powerful object—it was fundamental in a way most modern magecraft could barely comprehend.
And tonight, he would be projecting it.
Not fully—not in its entirety—but even a partial manifestation carried risks.
The moment he brought Avalon into play, even in a contained ritual like this, the potential for detection increased exponentially. Anything that sensitive to Mystery—anything attuned to distortions in the world—would notice something like that if he wasn't careful.
Which meant his bounded field would need to be perfect.
Layered concealment. Perception filters. Interference fields to distort prana signatures. Anchors to stabilize the area and prevent leakage. Redundancies in case something failed. He would need to treat the entire process as if he were operating in hostile territory.
Because, in a sense, he was.
By the time he stood from the table, his plan had already begun to solidify into something actionable.
As he stepped out of the hotel and into the streets of Kyoto, the city greeted him with its usual blend of old and new. Traditional buildings stood alongside modern structures, people in business suits walked past those in kimono, and beneath it all, Shirou could feel it—the subtle hum of the ley lines, the quiet weight of centuries of belief pressing against the edges of his perception.
He adjusted his jacket slightly, exhaling through his nose as he looked out over the city.
"…Yeah," he muttered softly.
There was no backing out now.
He had a location to find.
Materials to gather.
Preparations to complete.
And a ritual to perform before the night was over.
Shirou sighed, rolling his shoulders once as he started down the street, his pace steady, his mind already moving ahead to the next step.
He had quite a bit of work to do before tonight.
He had better get started.
---
That evening found Shirou standing alone in a small, secluded clearing tucked behind the famous Kifune Shrine, the quiet rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of flowing water the only sounds breaking the stillness of the mountain air. The shrine itself, known for its deep ties to water divination and ancient spiritual practices, lay just far enough beyond the trees to remain out of sight, yet close enough that its influence permeated the land. Shirou could feel it clearly now that he had attuned himself—the subtle but constant current of spiritual energy flowing through the area like an underground stream, ancient and steady. It was exactly the kind of place he needed.
The clearing itself was modest in size, ringed by old trees whose roots twisted through the earth like veins. The ground was uneven, softened by layers of fallen leaves and moss, and faint traces of natural growth had begun to reclaim the space. It was not a place meant for human use, which made it perfect. Unnoticed. Unclaimed. Quiet.
But now it had been transformed.
Shirou stood at the edge of his work, surveying it one final time.
Hours had passed since he had first arrived, and he had not wasted a single moment. The bounded fields alone had taken the bulk of that time, each one layered carefully over the next with deliberate precision. He could not afford even the smallest flaw tonight.
The first field was a concealment layer, designed to erase the clearing from perception entirely. Not just visually, but spiritually—any wandering presence, human or otherwise, would instinctively avoid this area, their attention slipping past it as though it did not exist.
The second was far more specific.
It was built solely to contain Avalon.
Even in its projected, incomplete state, Avalon was not something that could simply be allowed to exist openly. Its very nature was too absolute, too pure. If even a fraction of its presence leaked beyond the boundaries of the ritual, it would be noticed. By things Shirou had no intention of drawing the attention of. This field was tight, dense, reinforced with multiple anchors—designed not to hide him, but to suffocate the conceptual presence of the sheath itself.
The third field was one of accumulation.
It pulled at the ambient mana of the surrounding area, not aggressively, but persistently, drawing it inward toward the clearing in a slow, steady flow. The spiritual density of Kyoto did the rest, feeding the field naturally, allowing Shirou to create a reservoir of energy that would sustain the ritual without forcing him to rely entirely on his own reserves.
And finally, the fourth.
The most delicate.
A metaphysical isolation field.
It did not block the world—it shifted the clearing slightly out of alignment with it. Not enough to fully separate it, not enough to trigger any corrective force from the world, but just enough to dampen external influence. A subtle misalignment that would prevent interference from outside forces, whether intentional or incidental.
Satisfied, Shirou let out a slow breath.
Everything was in place.
Now… the ritual.
The formalcraft circle at the center of the clearing stood in stark contrast to the complexity of the fields surrounding it. At first glance, it looked almost primitive—something closer to folk practice than proper magecraft. And yet, that simplicity was intentional.
A rough circle of stones formed the outer boundary, each one placed by hand, spaced with care rather than precision. Around it, an outer ring of mushrooms had been arranged, their pale caps forming a natural, organic perimeter. Between the stones and the mushrooms, Shirou had scattered flower petals—soft bursts of color against the earth, filling the space with a faint, almost sweet fragrance that mingled with the scent of damp soil.
At three points along the circle, forming an uneven, obtuse triangle, rested shallow bowls filled with a mixture of milk and honey. Offerings. Not to any specific entity—but to the concept itself. To the idea of nature, of spirits, of the unseen.
It was, in truth, only a formalcraft circle in the strictest sense.
But that was exactly what it needed to be.
As the moon rose higher in the sky, its pale light filtering down through the canopy above, Shirou stepped into the circle.
There was no hesitation.
He removed his clothing methodically, setting it aside beyond the edge of the stones. There was no modesty in this—no need for it. This was not a human ritual. It was something older, something more primal, something that required him to stand as he was, without barrier or obstruction.
From his belongings, he retrieved one of the prepared containers.
Carefully, he opened it.
The false fairy glade within shimmered softly, a sphere of contained light and color, faint motes drifting within its surface like fireflies trapped in glass. Even now, it pulsed gently with contained life, stable, waiting.
Shirou stepped into the center of the circle and lowered himself to the ground, lying flat against the earth. The coolness of the soil contrasted sharply with the warmth of his skin, grounding him immediately. He adjusted his position carefully, aligning himself not symmetrically, but intentionally off-center—his body forming a natural imbalance that mirrored the asymmetry of the triangle formed by the bowls.
Once settled, he placed the sphere upon his chest.
Directly above his heart.
For a moment, he simply lay there, staring up at the night sky visible through the gaps in the canopy. The moon hung high above, its light steady and cold, casting the clearing in a soft silver glow.
Then—
He opened his circuits.
Prana surged through him instantly, his body responding as it had been trained to, channels opening, pathways igniting. The familiar strain followed, but it was controlled, measured.
"Trace… on."
The words left his lips quietly, almost reverently.
And with them—
Avalon.
Not the full sheath. Not its true form. But a reflection—a partial projection, drawn from memory, from concept, from the deeply embedded existence within him.
Golden light bloomed from his chest.
It spread outward slowly at first, then with increasing intensity, spilling into the circle, filling the space between stones and petals, washing over the mushrooms and the bowls of milk and honey. The golden radiance mingled with the silver light of the moon, the two interweaving until the entire clearing seemed suspended between day and night, between warmth and cold.
Motes of light began to form—gold and silver drifting together, rising and falling like slow-moving embers.
The false fairy glade responded.
Its surface rippled, colors shifting rapidly as the contained spirits within stirred, drawn to the projection of Avalon, to the echo of an ideal land.
Then—
It began to sink.
Slowly, steadily, the sphere pressed against his chest, the light intensifying as it merged with the golden glow already emanating from him. Shirou's breath hitched slightly as he felt it—felt the boundary between the external and internal begin to blur.
The glade was not simply being placed upon him.
It was being integrated.
Drawn inward.
Into him.
The light deepened.
The circle reacted.
And the ritual… truly began.
The moment the false fairy glade began to sink into his chest, the ritual crossed an invisible threshold—one that separated preparation from consequence. What Shirou had constructed until now had been careful, measured, controlled. What followed was not.
It was difficult to describe the process in simple terms, even for Shirou himself as he lay there at the center of the circle, his mind straining to track every moving piece of thaumaturgy as it unfolded within and around him. On the surface, the ritual was deceptively simple—no grand incantations, no overwhelming surge of external energy, no violent upheaval of the surrounding environment. Instead, it was quiet. Subtle. Almost gentle.
But beneath that simplicity lay something far more intricate.
At its core, the ritual drew upon Avalon—not merely as a powerful artifact, but as a conceptual bridge. More specifically, it reached into the connections Avalon held: to the fairy lands, to the domain of phantasmal beings long removed from the modern world, and most importantly… to Artoria Pendragon herself.
Avalon had existed with her for years, nestled alongside the draconic nature that defined her existence. It had observed, in its own way. It had learned. It had recorded the structure of her being—the shape of her dragon core, the flow of prana through a body that was never truly human to begin with.
And now—
That knowledge was being used.
Shirou felt it immediately.
Not as a clear understanding, but as a translation—a pattern imposed upon his own existence. The ritual reached into Avalon's memory of Artoria's dragon core, not to replicate it directly, but to use it as a template. A structural reference point.
Then it adapted it.
To him.
His breath shuddered as the false fairy glade, now half-phased between material and conceptual existence, was pulled inward by that same connection. The golden light of Avalon did not force it—it guided it, shaping its descent, ensuring it did not shatter or disperse as it crossed the boundary into his body.
And at the center of it all—
His heart.
The point of convergence.
The point of transformation.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been impossible.
The first problem was simple: true fairies no longer existed in the modern world. Not in any meaningful sense. The Age of Gods had receded, and with it, the beings that once defined that era. What remained were fragments—nature spirits, echoes, incomplete existences that could not sustain themselves without assistance.
But Shirou had already circumvented that.
Through Avalon.
Without it, he would never have been able to gather and stabilize those nature spirits, let alone shape them into something resembling a functional glade. The sheath's connection to the fairy lands, even in its incomplete projection, had been enough to anchor them, to give them a semblance of identity.
The second problem was far more fundamental.
Humans and fairies were incompatible at the most basic level.
They operated on entirely different principles. Humans were bound by the rules of the world, by causality, by structure. Fairies… were not. They were closer to elementals—extensions of the world itself, governed by alien logic and instinct rather than reason.
Even Artoria had only survived her dragon core because of Merlin's intervention.
Shirou had no Merlin.
But he did not need one.
Because he was no longer entirely human.
His existence had already been severed from the human order. He was something other now—something that did not fit neatly within the world's established systems. That separation, dangerous as it was, granted him a unique advantage.
It made this… possible.
The third problem was the most delicate of all.
Fusion.
How did one take something inherently incompatible and force it to integrate without destroying both sides in the process?
The answer lay, once again, in Avalon.
Avalon was not merely a sheath. It was the embodiment of a concept—the ideal land, the unreachable utopia. It existed simultaneously as a physical object and a gateway, a connection point to a domain beyond the reach of the modern world.
Even in its incomplete, projected form, it retained that fundamental property.
And so Shirou used it.
As a bridge.
As the golden light intensified, the false fairy glade was drawn fully into his body, guided along the pathways Avalon created, funneled directly into his heart. There was no resistance. No rejection. The transition was… smooth.
Too smooth.
Because Shirou had not intended to stop there.
The glade he had chosen had not been random.
Even as the ritual progressed, as the transformation began to take hold, another layer of complexity revealed itself. Embedded within the glade—woven into its structure before the ritual had even begun—was knowledge. Not raw information, but something far more refined.
The accumulated understanding of the Emiya family's magic crest.
More specifically—
Their research into innate bounded fields.
The moment that knowledge activated, the ritual shifted.
What had been a simple transformation became something more.
Fairies did not possess magic circuits.
They possessed patterns.
And so, while the structure being formed within Shirou's chest had been based on Artoria's dragon core, it could not truly be called a "core" in the same sense.
It was something else.
Something closer to a false fairy pattern.
A structure that existed not as a network of circuits, but as a self-contained, self-sustaining system—a bounded field that did not exist externally, but internally. One that defined its own rules.
Shirou's body arched slightly against the ground as the process intensified.
The benefits were immediate, even if they were buried beneath the pain.
His prana shifted—refined, condensed, carrying a different quality than before. Not greater in quantity, but… sharper. More potent. More alive.
And beneath that—
He could feel it.
The subtle pull of Mystery, increasing.
Accelerating.
That was the passive effect.
The baseline.
But the true power of the pattern lay elsewhere.
When fully activated, the false fairy pattern would overlay his existence entirely, creating an innate bounded field that temporarily altered his nature—shifting him from what he was into something closer to a true fairy.
The implications of that were… staggering.
His prana would surge. His presence would sharpen. His abilities would be amplified far beyond their current limits.
But the cost—
Shirou clenched his teeth as the thought flickered through his mind.
The backlash might be severe.
Even with his separation from the human order, even with Avalon's protection, such a transformation would not go unnoticed. The world might not be able to fully reject him anymore, but that did not mean it would ignore him entirely.
Gaia would notice.
Perhaps not immediately.
Perhaps not clearly.
But enough.
And that was a risk he was not willing to take lightly.
Not yet.
Which was why the isolation field surrounding the clearing was the most critical of all. It ensured that, for now, this transformation remained unseen. Unrecorded.
Safe.
The passive effects would be enough.
For now.
All of this—every calculation, every consideration—was what Shirou forced himself to focus on as the ritual reached its peak.
Because the alternative—
Was pain.
It started as a dull pressure.
Then it sharpened.
Then—
It became unbearable.
A cold, alien wrongness spread through his body, crawling beneath his skin, burrowing into his bones. It felt as though something inside him was being reshaped, restructured at a fundamental level.
And then—
The swords came.
Not physically.
But the sensation was unmistakable.
Blades pressing outward from within, countless edges scraping against muscle, bone, and nerve as something deep inside him responded to the process.
The Emiya family's research into innate bounded fields had its origins in something forbidden.
Reality Marbles.
And the connection between fairies, daemons, and those internal worlds—the way they imposed their own logic onto reality—resonated with Shirou's own.
Unlimited Blade Works stirred.
Not externally.
But within.
For a brief, terrifying moment, Shirou could feel it—his inner world aligning, synchronizing with the pattern being formed, its countless blades pressing against the boundaries of his physical existence.
It wasn't dangerous.
Not truly.
But it was—
Painful.
Excruciatingly so.
His breath hitched, his body trembling as he endured it, refusing to break, refusing to lose control of the process.
And then—
It stopped.
The golden light dimmed.
The silver glow of the moon returned.
The motes of light faded, drifting away into nothingness.
Silence fell over the clearing once more.
Slowly, carefully—
Shirou stood.
Shirou knew something was wrong—no, not wrong—different the instant he drew breath.
It wasn't subtle. It wasn't something that required careful introspection or deliberate analysis. It struck him all at once, a totality of change that left no room for doubt or misinterpretation. The world around him had not shifted. The trees still stood where they had, the moon still hung above the clearing, the air still carried the same faint scent of earth and petals from the remnants of the ritual.
But him—
He had changed.
The false pattern—no… the fairy pattern—was active.
He could feel it the same way one felt their own heartbeat, an ever-present rhythm that did not pulse through veins or circulate like prana through circuits, but instead existed as a constant truth layered over his being. It did not flow. It did not move. It simply was, a self-sustaining system that defined him at a level deeper than thought or sensation, something closer to identity than function.
The innate bounded field had deployed.
And it had rewritten him.
Shirou exhaled slowly, and the breath that left his lips shimmered faintly in the air, not quite mist, not quite light—something in between, tinged with a soft silver hue that lingered for a moment longer than it should have before dissipating. For several seconds, he did nothing but stand there in the center of the clearing, letting his senses adjust, letting this new state settle over him.
Everything felt…
Sharper.
Not overwhelming—at least, not immediately—but undeniably expanded. It was as though the world had unfolded another layer that had always been there, hidden just beneath perception, and now he could see it, feel it, understand it without needing to reach for it.
"I…"
His voice faltered, not from pain, not from strain, but from the sheer unfamiliarity of it. Even his own voice sounded… different. Clearer. Resonant in a way that carried more than just sound, as though it interacted with the space around him rather than merely passing through it.
He needed to see.
The thought had barely formed—
Before reality responded.
A sword appeared before him.
There was no transition. No buildup. No sensation of prana gathering or circuits activating. There was no mental blueprint unfolding in his mind, no incantation forming on his tongue. There was no conscious effort at all.
It simply manifested.
Hovering in the air before him, perfectly balanced, its blade polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the pale silver light of the moon and the faint golden remnants of the ritual still lingering in the clearing. It was flawless. Complete. As though it had always been there, waiting to be noticed.
Shirou blinked.
He hadn't called it.
He was certain of that.
There had been no intent, no command—nothing.
And yet—
"…Right," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly as he reached out instinctively, steadying himself more than anything else. "That's… something to unpack later."
The sword lingered for a moment longer, hovering in perfect stillness, before dissolving just as effortlessly as it had appeared, fading from existence as his attention shifted away from it. Dismissed, not by will, but by a lack of focus.
As though it had never been anything more than a passing thought.
Then—
His attention turned inward.
He looked at himself.