Late at night, nestled in her futon, Shirō's dreams twisted into something strange and haunting.
She stood there, clad in that familiar blue dress, her body encased in silver armour. But a sword was buried deep in her chest, the pain so vivid it felt real. Blood pooled at her feet, staining the ground, and all around her lay the lifeless bodies of those she instinctively knew were her comrades. Their faces were blurred, yet the grief in her heart was sharp and undeniable.
The scene shifted.
Now, she was in a vast desert, the golden sands stretching endlessly under a bright sun. Scattered across the earth were countless swords, their blades glinting as if freshly forged. It was a graveyard of steel, beautiful yet desolate.
I am the bone of my sword.
A voice echoed, deep and resonant, shaking the very air around her.
Iron is my blood, and steel is my body.
Her heart raced. Who was speaking? The voice seemed familiar, yet distant. She turned, searching for the source, her feet moving before her mind could process.
I have created over a thousand blades.
She caught sight of a figure standing atop a weathered stone in the distance. She ran toward them, her breath coming in short gasps, desperate to reach whoever it was.
Unknown to death. Unknown to life.
The words thundered around her, sending shivers down her spine. Just as she stretched out her hand toward the figure, the world seemed to crack and dissolve around her.
The shrill sound of her alarm clock tore her from the dream, leaving her staring at the ceiling, her chest heaving as if she'd truly been running. The vividness of it all lingered, like the ghost of a memory she couldn't quite grasp,