Reborn in Type-Moon: Starting by Adopting Sakura - Chapter 54

Dawn spread soft pink light across the eastern sky.

Since arriving in Fuyuki, Diarmuid had been making himself known, walking the city openly with both swords strapped to his back. He wanted a fight, and he wasn't hiding it.

But so far, nothing. No other Servants had taken the bait.

Not really a shock, though. Close-combat Servants like Rider, Lancer, and Saber couldn't sense much beyond a few blocks. Running into another one this early would be pure luck. And the others—even if they'd picked up on his presence—were smart enough to stay in the shadows.

Day turned to night, and Diarmuid was starting to think this would be another wasted patrol.

Then, like a lightning bolt to his skull, another Servant's presence slammed into his awareness.

The feeling was mutual. Whoever it was had spotted him at the exact same moment.

Less than 200 meters separated them through the maze of city blocks. Diarmuid's hand went to Moralltach, the enchanted steel singing as it cleared its sheath. He launched himself forward, boots pounding against cracked asphalt as he closed the gap between buildings.

But his quarry had other plans, already moving fast through Fuyuki's narrow streets and back alleys.

That other Servant was Archer, who'd been making his own rounds through the city, cataloging what he called "threats to the world's survival." If he'd stayed in spirit form, he would've been invisible to detection. But a takoyaki stand had caught his eye—the owner's technique with the octopus balls was genuinely impressive—and he'd materialized to get a better look.

Big mistake.

Ten minutes of chase, and Diarmuid was still right behind him. This guy was fast—probably another Lancer, given that speed. But the feeling was mutual. Archer couldn't lose his pursuer without pulling out some serious tricks.

"Persistent bastard," Archer muttered, taking a sharp turn toward the city limits.

He hit an empty stretch of woodland and dropped from his last jump, red energy exploding from his body like blood in water. The massive bow took shape in his grip, and a spiral sword materialized as his arrow—twisted metal that looked like it could punch through a mountain.

The air itself seemed to panic. Weeds bent away from him, loose stones skittered across the dirt, and even the trash scattered like it was trying to escape.

Caladbolg!

…

Boom—

The distant explosion jarred Irisviel awake. She sat up in bed, white nightgown twisted around her legs, silver hair tangled across her face.

She padded barefoot to the balcony doors and pushed them open.

Artoria was already out there, her blue cloak snapping in the cold night air.

"What was that?" Irisviel brushed the hair from her eyes.

The King of Knights stared toward the forest, where a faint red glow still pulsed against the treeline. "Two Servants are fighting."

Irisviel gripped the stone railing, the rough surface biting into her palms.

"So it's started." She watched smoke rise in the distance. "The Holy Grail War."

Artoria kept her eyes on the distant flames. "I was planning to wait for the right opening, but if they're going to fight this close to our base..." She shook her head. "I can't just sit here and watch."

It was like two armies deciding to have their war in someone else's backyard. Any ruler worth the title would have something to say about that.

"Iri, you're coming with me."

A sharp whinny cut through the night air. Dust swirled as the silver warhorse materialized, its armor plates gleaming under the moonlight. The animal pawed the ground, eager for battle.

She swung herself into the saddle, her own armor materializing around her in flashes of blue light. She reached down and held out her gauntleted hand, silver hair whipping in the wind.

…

"Master, there's combat between Servants happening in the Einzbern forest."

Serenity's voice crackled through the phone, clipped and urgent. Yuu felt his stomach drop.

He stared at the empty street ahead, engine idling. Someone was actually hitting their stronghold right out of the gate? It was either brilliant or suicidal—probably both.

"Got it. Stay on the Matou family and don't let them slip away." He ended the call and yanked the steering wheel hard right.

The car lurched as he accelerated, tires squealing against asphalt. Night Veil wrapped around him like a second skin, and Nothingness settled over his magical circuits, dampening everything until he felt almost human again. Just another late-night driver with somewhere urgent to be. The trade-off always left him half-blind to the supernatural world, but it beat getting noticed by whatever was tearing through the forest.

At least the Einzbern territory wasn't far. The roads were mostly empty—just scattered headlights and the occasional truck rumbling past. He pressed the accelerator to the floor, watching the speedometer climb. The sedan's engine whined in protest, but it held. His hands gripped the wheel tighter as the city lights faded behind him.

…

Buzz—

A piercing hum split the air like a death knell.

Facing the projected Noble Phantasm streaking toward him, Diarmuid twisted midair in a way that seemed to mock the laws of gravity. The spiraled arrow grazed his back and erupted behind him, unleashing a storm of magical energy that painted the night in violent colors.

But against a Saber with A+ Magic Resistance, the blast of residual force might as well have been a gentle breeze. Instead, the shockwave became his ally, hurling him downward toward his target with the inevitability of a falling executioner's blade.

Like a hawk that had spotted wounded prey, he brought down his sword Moralltach, the weapon's edge tracing a crescent arc that promised only one outcome—death.

Archer's eyes went wide. That single moment of vulnerability after unleashing Caladbolg—his opponent had seized it like a predator recognizing the perfect moment to strike.

He pushed off the ground and tried to retreat, but the sword tip was already there, hovering at his chest like a steel promise of mortality.

A desperate leap backward, his body moving before his mind could fully process the danger—

For a moment, he thought he'd cheated death—

But then something else came for him. Another strike, sharper and faster, slicing in from an angle his eyes couldn't track.

He couldn't see the blade, but every instinct he'd carved into his bones through years of surviving impossible odds started shrieking the same message: you're about to die.

Even with death breathing down his neck, he forced his body to obey.

He arched backward at the last possible second, his spine bending like a bow drawn too tight.

The blade still found him. It opened him up from left shoulder to abdomen, sending blood spraying across the night air in an arc that caught the moonlight like scattered rubies. The wound gaped wide, revealing glimpses of what lay beneath skin—muscle, sinew, the vulnerable architecture of a body that had just learned how easily it could be dismantled.

Any slower, and he would have been carved in half like meat on a butcher's block.

‘That magic resistance… and swordsmanship...’ Archer pulled back, his skintight outfit hanging in tatters around the fresh wound. Powerful muscle showed through the ruined fabric, but all that strength meant nothing when crimson kept flowing, painting him in his own mortality.

He glared at the figure touching down on the cracked earth—one golden sword gleaming in his grip, and another blade, red as dried blood, strapped across his back.

‘A dual-wielder? Has to be Saber. That second strike came from the red one.’ But Archer hadn't seen so much as a blur of movement. The realization sat in his gut like ice water.

"I've been walking these streets all night, looking for someone worth fighting," Diarmuid said, his voice carrying a hunger that made the words sound almost intimate. "Don't disappoint me by running away now." He didn't bother raising his guard, wearing the same expression he might use to greet a drinking buddy. "To dodge that strike—you're strong, Archer. Come. Let's have a proper duel."

Shirou clicked his tongue. ‘Perfect. A battle-obsessed psychopath.’

All he'd wanted was to watch some guy flip takoyaki on a street corner. Fighting hadn't even crossed his mind tonight.

He gave a lazy wave, like he was shooing away a persistent salesman. "A duel? trading honest blows? Yeah, no thanks. I'll pass."

Diarmuid's fingers tightened around his red sword's grip. "You're Archer, aren't you? True, a head-on fight gives me the advantage." His smile turned sharp, predatory. "But fairness has no place on the battlefield."

The air around him shifted, heavy with killing intent that made Emiya's skin crawl.

"I swore to bring my Master victory." Diarmuid's stance dropped lower, muscles coiling. "Forgive me—but this is where you die."

Rustle—

Wind whipped through the trees, branches snapping and creaking under sudden pressure.

Then something massive plummeted from the sky, a shadow blotting out the stars.

Both Diarmuid and Shirou jerked their heads up.

A figure on horseback dove toward them like a falling star, but there was nothing graceful about it. The rider was trying to skewer them, and the horse's hooves would trample whatever was left. What should have been one mounted warrior somehow carried the bone-crushing force of an entire cavalry charge.

"What the hell—"

"Rider?"

No time to process.

They both dove aside, concrete chunks and dirt exploding where they'd been standing.

The bastard was targeting both of them.

BOOM!

The impact hit like a bomb going off. The ground didn't just crack—it shattered, sending jagged pieces of asphalt and earth flying in every direction. Trees didn't fall gracefully—they snapped like bones, roots ripping free of the soil in wet, tearing sounds.

The shockwave knocked both fighters back, dust and debris raining down like hail.

When the smoke cleared, a figure stood in the center of what used to be a small clearing. Now it looked like someone had dropped a missile on it. Crater-scarred earth, twisted metal from a destroyed bench, and the sharp smell of pulverized concrete hanging in the air.

"To fight at my doorstep, how discourteous." The words came cold and sharp as a blade through the settling dust.