The family dojo was eerily quiet as Shirō stood in the middle, wooden sword in hand, her palms clammy with sweat. Archer, standing across from her, twirled his twin blades lazily, their sharp edges catching the dim light. Despite his casual demeanor, the weight of his presence was suffocating.
"What do you mean we're fighting?!" Shirō demanded, her voice a mix of confusion and rising panic. She tightened her grip on the wooden sword, though it felt pitifully inadequate compared to the deadly steel in Archer's hands.
Archer tilted his head, smirking. "Simple. You're a Saber-class Servant, aren't you? Let's see what you've got."
"But—this is insane! What if I get hurt?"
"Then you'll learn not to hold back," Archer replied coolly, stepping forward. His movements were deliberate, calculated, and even without attacking, he exuded a predatory air. "Besides, I'm holding back. You won't die… probably."
Shirō's heart pounded in her chest as Archer suddenly dashed toward her, faster than her eyes could properly track. The first strike came low, one of his blades aimed at her legs. She barely managed to block it with her wooden sword, the force of the impact sending a painful jolt up her arms.
"Too slow," Archer said, spinning on his heel and bringing the second blade down from above. Shirō stumbled backward, raising her sword in a desperate attempt to parry. The clash of wood against metal echoed through the dojo, her weapon groaning under the strain.
"This isn't fair!" Shirō shouted, jumping back to gain some distance. Her breaths came in short gasps, her arms already trembling. "You're using real swords, and I'm—"
"You think your enemies in the Holy Grail War are going to play fair?" Archer cut her off, lunging forward again. His movements were fluid and relentless, a dance of death that left her scrambling to keep up. Each strike was precise, designed to probe her defenses and exploit her weaknesses.
Shirō swung her wooden sword in a wide arc, aiming to create some breathing room. Archer sidestepped effortlessly, his twin blades a blur as they deflected her clumsy attack. "Come on, Saber," he taunted. "Is this really all you've got? I've seen more fight in an apprentice magus."
Her frustration boiled over. "I'm not used to this!" she yelled, charging at him with everything she had. She swung wildly, her strikes fueled more by desperation than skill. Archer met her head-on, his blades moving like extensions of his body. With a flick of his wrist, he disarmed her, sending the wooden sword clattering to the floor.
Before she could react, he pressed one of his blades to her throat, his smirk widening. "Dead," he said simply.
Shirō froze, her chest heaving. She felt the cold steel against her skin, and for a moment, the reality of her situation sank in. If this had been a real fight, she would have been killed in an instant.
Archer stepped back, lowering his blades. "Pathetic," he said, though his tone was devoid of malice. "You're not fighting like a Saber. You're fighting like a scared girl swinging a stick."
"I 'am' a scared girl swinging a stick!" Shirō snapped, glaring at him. "I told you I'm not cut out for this!"
"Then get cut out for it," Archer shot back. "You're in a war, Saber. If you don't find your strength, you'll die. And not just you—people around you will get hurt because you're too weak to protect them."
Shirō clenched her fists, anger and shame warring within her. She didn't ask for this, didn't want to be a part of this madness. But Archer's words struck a chord. She thought of the dream she'd had—the blood, the corpses, the swords sticking out of the ground. Was that her fate if she didn't learn to fight?
Archer seemed to sense her turmoil. He sheathed his blades, his expression softening slightly. "Listen, Saber. You've got potential, but potential means nothing if you don't use it. This war doesn't care about your excuses. Either you fight, or you die."
Shirō picked up her wooden sword, her hands trembling. "I… I'll try," she said quietly, more to herself than to him.
"Trying isn't good enough," Archer said, turning to leave. "But it's a start. We'll pick this up again tomorrow. And next time, don't hold back."