Orario's Dark Age was an era where even the air tasted like despair. But somehow, even in that abyss, there were always a few people—sometimes even gods—living a daily life that looked completely out of place.
Behind the Astraea Familia residence, in the back alley—
"Emiya, you're going out?" Ryuu Lion was sitting on the roof polishing her wooden sword. The moment she saw Shirou strapping on a bulging pack like he was about to sneak out, her ears practically stood up with alarm.
"Yeah. We're running low on seasonings," Shirou tightened his straps. "And Kaguya said she wants 'extra-spicy mapo tofu.' I'm heading to the black market to see if I can find something like proper chilies."
"That idiot…" Ryuu sighed. "It's too dangerous. The Evils have been getting more active lately. There are disappearances—even Level 3 adventurers—"
"It's fine. I'm fast," Shirou gave her a thumbs-up. "Besides, I've got a feeling today's a lucky day."
A "lucky day" usually meant one thing:
A day the flag comes due.
Emiya Shirou stood there stiff as a board, a bag of newly bought devil chilies hanging from his hand.
On a broken bench directly in front of him sat a woman in a gray dress.
Long ash-colored hair. Heterochromia. A chill so absolute it felt like the temperature dropped twenty degrees just because she existed.
Alfia.The surviving sorceress of Hera's Familia. A Level 7 on paper (and a monster beyond that in reality). A future calamity wearing a human face.
At the moment, the strongest witch in Orario was sitting there with elegant legs crossed, casually reading a book she'd apparently scavenged from somewhere—
—but her gaze was locked on Shirou's bag.
"Grrk…"
A tiny, nearly imperceptible stomach growl echoed across the dead-silent square.
"…." Alfia closed the book with a perfectly blank face. A flicker of embarrassment passed through her mismatched eyes—then vanished under an oppressive layer of "I am the strong, therefore I am correct."
"What a coincidence, brat," she said flatly. "Are you here… to offer tribute?"
"No. I'm here to buy groceries." Shirou reflexively shielded the bag with his arm. "And didn't I cook for you recently? Are you seriously stalking me now?"
"Hmph." Alfia raised one finger.
The air congealed.
Invisible wind blades formed around Shirou—aimed at his throat, limbs, and very specifically the bag.
"Choose," she said. "A: Hand over the food. B: Become food. C: Become a corpse."
"…What do you want to eat?" Shirou surrendered instantly.
This wasn't just a gap in power. It was a chef's instinctive capitulation to someone who was hungry enough to become a disaster.
The abandoned square became a makeshift outdoor kitchen.
Shirou set up a pot with practiced ease and lit a small flame with magecraft. The setting was miserable, but for a man with "household skills at the level of a noble phantasm," anywhere with fire and a pot could become a three-star restaurant.
"All I've got are chilies and a bit of flour, so this is the best I can do," Shirou said as he placed a steaming bowl in front of Alfia.
A red, ominous, hell-scented plate of noodles:
Emiya Special: Ultra-Spicy Tantan Noodles (Dark Age Limited Edition).
"Red…" Alfia frowned.
Her frail, illness-ravaged body wasn't exactly suited for aggressive stimulation. But the aroma—sharp, rich, undeniable—was clawing at taste buds dulled by suffering.
"If you can't handle spice, I can—" Shirou started to pull the bowl back.
"Who said I can't?" Alfia snatched it, took the chopsticks Shirou had whittled on the spot, and with unnerving dignity, lifted a mouthful.
"…."
One second.
Two seconds.
The perpetual iceberg that was Alfia's face flushed an unmistakable, unnatural pink. Fine sweat appeared at her brow. Her pupils widened like she'd just witnessed cosmic truth.
Or the gates of hell.
"Water," she rasped.
"Here." Shirou, fully prepared, handed her a cup of ice-cold milk—chilled via projection magecraft.
Alfia drained it in one go, exhaled sharply, and stared into the bowl with an expression that was pure internal warfare:
"I want it" versus "I may actually die."
"This is an inelegant dish," she pronounced.
Then she took another bite.
Shirou propped his chin on his hand and watched.
Who would've imagined the terror that made all of Orario tremble was, privately, a borderline food-obsessed disaster waiting to happen?
"What are you staring at?" Alfia glared at him while chewing. "I'll gouge your eyes out."
"No," Shirou smiled. "I just think you look more… human like this than when you're playing the untouchable witch."
"Human?" Alfia stopped, then gave a small, self-mocking curl of her lips.
"That died," she said softly. "It turned to ash with Zeus's and Hera's banners."
She set the bowl down—empty, including the broth—and looked at Shirou.
"Brat. Your name is Emiya Shirou, right?"
"Yeah."
"Your 'swords' are messy." Her tone shifted, suddenly that of a strict teacher evaluating a disappointing student. "Your magic circuits are ridiculous in number, but the quality is uneven. You're copying other people's weapons, aren't you? The shape looks similar, but the 'spirit' is off by miles."
Shirou's spine tightened.
One glance, and she'd seen through him.
"The nature of projection is imitation," Shirou admitted calmly. "I can't reach the real thing. So I compensate with quantity and tactics."
"Stupid." Alfia stood and walked up to him, placing a single finger lightly on his forehead.
"If you call it 'infinite,' then stop chasing 'form.'""Chase 'intent.'"
"Intent?"
"The sword that threw you into this era," Alfia said, a sharp gleam flashing in her eyes. "That thing was dangerous, but its intention—its will to cleave space—was pure."
"Your magecraft should be the same."
"Don't obsess over 'how this sword was made.'""Ask instead… 'what was this sword made to cut.'"
"If it exists to protect, inject protection into it.""If it exists to kill, inject a killing curse."
She pulled her hand back and flicked his forehead.
Thud.
She didn't look like she used force—yet Shirou felt like he'd been shot in the skull. His head snapped back, stars exploding behind his eyes.
"Ow!"
"That's the price of the meal," Alfia said with perfect righteousness. "Also, your casting wind-up is too long. Against a real opponent, you won't get to finish your chant."
"Then what do I do?" Shirou asked, rubbing his forehead. He could feel it—this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Guidance from a Level 7 spellcaster who was, in truth, far worse.
Alfia waved a hand.
Gospel—instant.
Boom.
A distant, half-collapsed building turned into dust. No chant. No visible mana gathering. It happened as naturally as breathing.
"That," Alfia said evenly, "is 'Silence.' Synchronize mana with respiration. No words needed. Where intent goes, magic follows."
"Throw away your useless speech.""Or compress it… into your blood."
Shirou stared at the erased building, mind racing.
Compress the chant?
Compress the incantation of a reality marble into breath, into movement, into every swing?
It sounded like a high-level technique bordering on self-destruction.
"Thank you for the lesson… Auntie," Shirou said reflexively.
The air froze.
The temperature dropped like the world itself had flinched.
A vein pulsed on Alfia's forehead.
"What," she asked softly, "did you call me?"
"Uh—Sister!" Shirou corrected at maximum speed. "Big sister!"
"Too late." Alfia lifted her hand. "As punishment, today's 'after-meal exercise' is doubled."
"No—!"
Shirou crawled back to the Astraea Familia residence like a corpse that had remembered it still had errands.
"Mister Emiya?!" Ryuu, sweeping near the entrance, jolted. "What happened to you? Did you run into an Evil faction squad?!"
"No…" Shirou wheezed, waving weakly. "Something worse…"
"…A menopausal tyrannosaurus," he muttered under his breath.
Ryuu tilted her head, not understanding.
"Anyway, you're alive. That's good," Alise said as she rushed out holding a letter, her expression serious. "And the timing's perfect—Emiya, we've got a mission."
"A mission?" Shirou forced himself upright.
"An emergency request from the Guild," Alise said, unfolding the paper. "On the twenty-fourth floor, at a 'food storage' area, there are signs of heavy Evil activity. They're hoarding supplies, probably planning something big."
"The Ganesha Familia is tied down around the eighteenth floor, so the Guild wants us to investigate."
"The twenty-fourth…" Shirou's eyes sharpened.
That place—wasn't that where, in the future, he would run into certain scum and end up dragged into an artificial labyrinth?
So that meant—
"I'm coming too," Shirou said, standing straighter. "I look terrible right now, but… my instincts say there's something we need down there."
"Are you sure?" Kaguya eyed him skeptically. "Your mana feels as weak as a slime."
"Relax." Shirou pulled out a few magic stones—loot he'd gotten on the way back (though most of his haul had been seized by Alfia). He swallowed them.
Yes, literally.
A brutal, inelegant way to refill the tank.
"And besides," Shirou's mouth curved into a grin. "I learned a new 'skill' today."
He'd been beaten half to death, sure.
But he'd also grasped something.
About how "Silence" cast spells—
And about how to fuse the concept of "infinite" into every breath.
"Let's go," Shirou said, looking at Ryuu, then Alise. "We'll tear out the rats' nest."
Alfia stood alone under the darkening sky, holding the bag of devil chilies Shirou had left behind.
"…Idiot," she murmured.
She didn't throw it away.
Instead, she carefully stored it in her pack.
"Meteria…" Alfia touched her stomach lightly.
"If that child ends up growing into someone like this…" she whispered, almost unwilling to admit the thought, "then maybe… it wouldn't be so bad."
Her gaze turned cold as she looked toward the Dungeon.
"Before that future arrives," she said, voice hardening, "I have to purge this world's 'evil.' Even if the price is… becoming the worst evil myself."
"Zard."
A giant of a man stepped from the shadows like a moving mountain.
Zard. The last survivor of Zeus's Familia. The one called Gluttony.
"Are you ready, Alfia?" Zard's voice rumbled. In his hand was a massive butcher's blade—something that felt far too heavy to be real.
Alfia nodded.
"The curtain rises," she said. "The Great Feud begins."
Zard hesitated, then asked, "That red-haired brat… you're not going to kill him? He's a variable."
"No." Alfia turned, her gray skirt lifting in the wind like an omen.
"Let him live."
"Maybe he'll become the whetstone… for the last hero."
"Or," she added—quietly, as if the word tasted unfamiliar—"some kind of hope."
Storm clouds gathered.
The first shot of the Dark Age's final war was about to be fired deep in the twenty-fourth floor.
And Emiya Shirou—carrying the "new cheat" he'd learned from his terrifying "big sister"—was walking straight into the battlefield that would rewrite history.
....
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