SwordSwoSword Chapter 5

Chapter 5

He came back to himself in pieces.

First, the smell—wet earth and scorched air, like a summer storm had crawled across the park and fallen asleep in the grass.

Then, the sound—water dripping from the cracked fountain, leaves clapping softly against each other in the night breeze, somewhere far off the distant whoop-whoop of a patrol car that hadn’t yet decided where to go.

Finally, the weight—an ache through every limb, as if his bones had been wrung out and hung to dry.

Okarun’s eyes fluttered open.

“—karun. Okarun. Hey.”

Momo’s face swam into focus above him, damp hair clinging to her cheeks, eyes a worried, red-rimmed mess. He realized he was lying half on the brick path beside the old fountain, a jacket bunched under his head like a pillow. Her jacket.

“Am I… dead?” he croaked.

Momo snorted. “If you were, I wouldn’t waste a perfectly good jacket.”

He blinked past her. The park was a ruin of torn turf and splintered benches, the ground pockmarked by blasts and gouged by chitin.

The air still prickled with leftover pressure. At the far edge of the lawn, where a walking path ended in a shallow crater, Shirou Emiya stood with his hands at his sides, looking out over the city lights like they were a report he’d already read twice.

No blades. No bow. Just a tall silhouette and a breeze tugging his white hair.

“Is it… over?” Okarun asked.

“For now,” Momo said, softer. “He—” she jerked her chin toward Emiya “—finished it.”

Okarun pushed himself up on his elbows—and froze. In the air above the crater, faint motes of blue were still floating away, like lanterns unmoored and finally remembering the sky. He swallowed.

“They were… people,” he whispered.

Momo nodded once.

Before either of them could say more, a voice drifted in from the park’s cracked gate—half a sigh, half a scold.

“Took you long enough.”

They turned.

Seiko Ayase stepped through the bent irons like she owned the deed to the night.

 “You—Grandma?!” Momo sputtered. “Where did you—”

“I’ve been waiting at the border of Kamikoshi City all this time,” Seiko said, as if announcing she’d been in line for croquettes. She tipped her chin toward the eastern ridge beyond the trees.

“Initial plan was to lure Turbo Granny and that crab out of Shono and onto our turf. You get ’em over the line, I slam the barriers down. Easy peasy.”

She cast a glance at the shattered park, the smoking air, the faint stars of ascending spirits.

Her mouth twitched. “Instead Mister Lone Ranger here decided to host the fireworks this side of the border.”

Emiya didn’t turn. “We had to improvise.”

Seiko put her hands on her hips. “Improvise, he says. Translation: ‘I wanted to hog all the fun.’”

Momo stood, backing the words with a jab of her finger. “Yeah! You totally hogged—”

She stopped. Looked at the crater again. The way the wind had changed.

“—fine,” she muttered. “Maybe this time it was… the good kind of hogging.”

Okarun sat up fully, head spinning only a little now. “S-Seiko-san, the plan was to bring them to Kamikoshi… because your barriers are stronger there?”

Seiko tapped the bridge of her glasses.

“Mhm. I can borrow a shove or two when I need it.” She eyed him carefully. “But you also weren’t supposed to get yourself hollowed out like a melon, kid. We’re going to have words about letting strangers move into your spleen.”

“I—I didn’t exactly invite her,” Okarun protested, going pink.

Seiko’s gaze flicked to Momo. “And you.”

“Why did you change your clothes, you ungrateful grandkid?!”

Momo lifted her chin. “I forgot about that…”

“I’m sorryyyyyy~”

Seiko’s stare held for a beat longer than was comfortable… then softened a fraction. “I know you would.”

She stepped past them, loose gravel crunching underfoot, and joined Emiya at the edge of the crater. For a moment the two of them stood in parallel silence, watching the last of the lights rise and go.

“What kind of attack was that?” Seiko said at last, casual as an observation about the weather.

Emiya’s answer was a noncommittal hum.

“You could’ve leveled three blocks.”

“I didn’t.”

“Must be getting soft in your teenager age.”

He glanced at her. “Says the grandma—“

THWACK

A blow to his head was instantly committed, and he just accepted it. To be fait, he kinda deserved it.

“That will teach you some manners.”

Okarun hauled himself to his feet with Momo’s help, legs rubbery but mostly under him. He looked between them—this impossible pair who made the world feel both stranger and safer at the same time.

“So… what now?” he asked, voice small in the wide, broken dark.

Seiko slung her talisman bag off her shoulder and began pulling lengths of paper and thin cords, fingers moving with the unconscious ease of a smoker rolling a cigarette.

“Now we run so that we don’t pay property damages,” she said.

“Whisper our apologies to the neighbors we scared out of bed. Make sure nothing else got the bright idea to crawl out of the cemetery and hitch a ride.”

She shot Momo a sidelong look. “And then we talk about why you thought a haunted tunnel was a good first date.”

“That was not a date!” Momo yelped, scarlet.

Okarun, equally scarlet, waved both hands. “It absolutely was not—!”

“Mm-hmm.”

Seiko reached out and, without ceremony, flicked a speck of ash from Emiya’s sleeve. “No more hogging,” she said.

“No promises,” he said.

Momo threaded Okarun’s arm over her shoulder. He stumbled once, then found the rhythm of her steps.

“Hey,” he murmured as they started toward the path. “Ayase-san?”

“What.”

“Thanks for… you know. Not letting me get eaten. And, uh… the bath thing. You were kind of brilliant.”

Momo cleared her throat and looked very hard at the ground. “Yeah, well. Next time try not to fall asleep in the middle of a life-or-death sprint.”

“Deal.”

They took three steps.

“Hold it,” Seiko said suddenly.

Both teens stopped mid-stride. Emiya, too, glanced back.

Seiko turned, tightening the last talisman between her fingers. “You’re not done yet.”

“What do you mean?” Momo asked warily. “I thought you said we’re done.”

“We are,” Seiko said, slipping the sealed paper into a charm case with a practiced motion. “But there’s something I wanna show you.”

Momo and Okarun shared a look. Seiko nodded toward the far end of the park—toward the empty road where the asphalt dipped into the distance.

“Come with me,” she said. “We’re going back to where this all started.”

Okarun stiffened. “The tunnel?”

Seiko’s eyes sharpened.

Momo winced. “You want us to go back in there?”

“Just a quick epilogue for this chapter,” Seiko replied. “Besides… you’re both tangled up in this now. You might as well see it through.”

Emiya said nothing, just nodded once.

Okarun sighed. “Of course. No one ever warns you that exorcisms come with overtime.”

Momo rolled her shoulders, but there was steel in her voice when she said, “Fine. Let’s finish it.”

They followed Seiko through the city’s quiet veins, past shuttered shopfronts and sleeping lamp posts.

Emiya walked behind them, silent as the grave but ever present, the echo of his steps like a second heartbeat in the dark.

The further they went, the more the streets seemed to remember.

The buildings leaned in closer. The windows turned to stare. The light dimmed not because of bulbs, but because the night itself thickened.

And then, at the bottom of a hill surrounded by drooping trees and rust-stained guardrails, they saw it again.

The tunnel.

It had not changed—its yawning mouth still bricked with soot and shadows, the stale air leaking out like breath from a corpse.

But now, Momo could feel the difference.

No more pressure. No more stain clinging to the world like an afterimage, refusing to blink away.

“So,” Seiko said, halting before the tunnel’s lip.

“Let’s pay our respects here.”

Okarun frowned. “Pay our respects?”

Seiko pointed at him without turning around. “There’s always a reason on why spirits still linger in this world.”

They stood at the threshold a moment longer.

Seiko’s gaze lingered on the mouth of the tunnel, her back still turned to them, her voice quieter than before—but no less steady.

“This place,” she said, “used to be a dead zone before Turbo Granny ever showed up.”

Okarun stepped beside Momo, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Seiko didn’t look at him. She just raised one hand and gestured slowly toward the yawning dark of the tunnel.

“There were murders here. Over a span of two years, a man abducted girls. Teenagers. Young women. Some never made it past sixteen.”

Momo stiffened.

“He’d bring them here,” Seiko continued. “Assault them. Torture them. Kill them. Then cut them up and scatter what was left through the mountain and drainage routes. Sometimes, he left pieces here. Like a signature.”

A silence crept up, curling at their feet like mist. Even the cicadas had stopped.

Momo’s hand instinctively found Okarun’s. She squeezed. Hard.

“I thought… I thought this place was just haunted,” she said, her voice small, uncertain. “I didn’t know it was…”

“A graveyard,” Seiko finished. “A dozen of them, maybe more. When they finally found out what had happened, it was already too late for everyone he’d taken.”

Okarun’s face was pale under the streetlight, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“But the girls we saw…” he said slowly, “the ones that came out when we were fighting…”

“They weren’t evil,” Seiko said softly. “Not in the way you think. They didn’t want to become curses. None of them did. But pain like that? It leaves something behind. Anger, grief, confusion. It distorts a soul—sometimes just enough to anchor it.”

Momo blinked fast. Her lips trembled. “So they were… stuck here. All this time.”

Seiko nodded. “Trapped. Caught in loops of their last moments. They weren’t hurting others because they wanted to. They just didn’t know how to stop screaming.”

A long silence.

Even Emiya didn’t move.

Seiko finally turned, her eyes sharp behind her glasses.

“You know what’s funny?” she said, voice cutting through the stillness like a knife. “Spirit mediums have been tracking Turbo Granny for decades. Decades. And no one ever figured out what her deal was.”

Okarun blinked. “Wait, what do you mean?”

Seiko shrugged, walking closer to the tunnel. She didn’t step inside—but her presence hovered near the edge like a wall.

“Everywhere she showed up, chaos followed. But there was always one common thread. One shared pattern that popped up in the reports again and again—” she tapped her temple. “—when you actually started looking.”

She turned her eyes on them, and they were no longer sharp, but… tired. Old in a way that no number of birthdays could explain.

“She always appeared near the spirits of girls who died horrific deaths.”

The words dropped like a stone.

Momo’s breath hitched in her throat. Okarun just stared.

“She didn’t haunt random places. She wasn’t lashing out for no reason. Wherever girls had died in fear, or pain, or hate—Turbo Granny would show up. Not to torment them…”

Seiko trailed off, eyes drifting back to the tunnel.

“…but to keep them company.”

Momo’s knees went weak. She didn’t fall, but she stumbled half a step, and Okarun caught her without thinking. Her other hand came up and pressed hard over her mouth.

“No way…” she whispered. “She was… she was trying to help them?”

“She never said it in so many words,” Seiko murmured.

“But the clues were there. Even in the worst of her rampages, she never hurt those other spirits. She never absorbed them, never fed off them, like the really nasty ones do. She only lashed out when outsiders got too close.”

The silence that followed was raw.

Momo trembled beside Okarun. She didn’t speak, not right away. Her eyes were shining, but not from fear.

From grief.

From a grief that didn’t belong to her alone, but to every soul that tunnel had swallowed.

“She was… visiting places where they couldn’t pass on,” Momo said, her voice cracking. “So she could—so she could console them?”

Seiko didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

It was in the stillness. The reverence with which she stood at the threshold. The way the air didn’t resist anymore. The way the darkness no longer pressed in, but merely… waited.

“She wasn’t a monster,” Momo said, quietly now, like she was talking to herself more than to anyone else. “She was— but..”

Okarun gently squeezed her hand.

Emiya’s voice came low, behind them.

“Vengeance isn’t always rage.”

They turned to look at him.

He stood at ease, not looming, not cold. Just… present.

“Sometimes it’s mourning,” he said. “Mourning that no one else ever came.”

Seiko let out a long breath. “Well said, son.”

“Not the first time I’ve seen it,” he replied.

“But the dead must never attack the living, so force is necessary to send them to the other side.”

“Likewise, the living must not disrespect the dead,” Seiko started to explain her summary. “Treading on their territory disrespectfully… invites their malice.”

“Those are the rules for coexistence between us. The living and the dead.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Seiko stepped back, and slowly bowed her head to the tunnel. A small, simple movement—but full of weight.

“Rest easy now,” she whispered.

Momo wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

She turned to them, her voice firm again.

“Come on. Let’s go. There’s nothing more for the living here.”

Momo looked back one last time at the tunnel’s mouth. The shape of it no longer scared her. In some strange, painful way, it felt like looking at a wound that had finally started to close.

Then she turned and walked with the others, their footsteps rising softly over the night’s hush.

Behind them, the tunnel waited. Quiet.

And, at last, empty.

---------

The shift from the tunnel to Seiko’s living room was almost surreal.

Gone was the suffocating night air, the reek of soil and grief. Here it was tatami and old incense, paper charms tucked into every corner like bookmarks in a diary.

The sliding doors were cracked open just enough to let in the summer hum of cicadas, but the heart of the house belonged to the clatter of pans and the hiss of oil.

“Crab,” Seiko had said the moment they came in, pointing like a general declaring her orders.

“Crab,” Momo had agreed, with a little too much glee for someone who nearly got snapped in half by a crustacean spirit three hours earlier.

Okarun had paled on the spot.

Now, they sat around the low table in the living room while Emiya moved in the kitchen like a quiet storm. Every slice, every stir, every knock of the pan against the stove carried an efficiency that was almost frightening.

Momo sat cross-legged with her chin in her hands, eyes sparkling as the fragrance drifted through the air—savory, buttery, just a hint of spice that caught the nose and pulled you forward.

“It smells sooooo good,” she groaned. “Unc, is this even legal? If it’s not, I’m still gonna eat it.”

Seiko leaned back against her cushion, lighting up a cigarette only to let it smolder between her fingers. “When I said crab, I was expecting miso soup or something. He’s in there summoning an entire festival spread.”

Okarun sat rigid between them, clutching his tea like a lifeline. He could smell it too—the aroma was thick, making his stomach turn even as some primal part of him wanted to lean in.

“Do we… really have to?” he muttered, more to his cup than anyone.

“You don’t like crab?” Seiko asked, one brow arching.

Okarun’s mouth opened, then closed.

He wanted to say I was nearly possessed, exploded from the inside, and almost eaten by a crab the size of a train, but it sounded pathetic when he rehearsed it in his head.

So instead, he just grumbled, “…it’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” Momo repeated with a teasing grin. “What, are you crab-traumatized now?”

“I can’t believe you aren’t!” Okarun shot back, face red.

“Only a loser doesn’t eat crab,” Momo made a statement.

“Yeah, what would you prefer to eat, Picky McPickerson?” Seiko joined the fray.

Okarun truly had enough. “Well, normally I would!!!—“

Before the argument could spiral, Emiya appeared at the threshold. He set down a steaming platter at the center of the table, and all conversation died.

The crab was golden, its shell lacquered with sauce that glistened under the lamplight.

He’d cracked and arranged the meat into neat sections, each morsel coated in butter, garlic, and herbs. Steam curled upward like incense, carrying a smell so rich and warm it cut straight through memory and fear alike.

Even Okarun froze, torn between revulsion and awe.

“…it… smells divine,” he admitted before he could stop himself.

“Of course it does.” Emiya wiped his hands on a towel and sat down with the calm air of a man who hadn’t just slain a vengeful spirit with a sword-bow and was now feeding the survivors. “Food should be enjoyed, not feared.”

Momo was already reaching for chopsticks, eyes wide like a kid at Christmas. Seiko smirked around her cigarette, watching them both.

Okarun hesitated. The smell tugged at him. His stomach growled, humiliatingly loud.

Momo giggled. “Guess your stomach’s braver than you are.”

Flushing, Okarun finally picked up his chopsticks.

“…I guess one bite won’t hurt.”

Seiko blew out a laugh, smoke curling toward the ceiling. “Eat up, kid. Trust me—this one’s not coming back.”

And with that, the four of them dug in—one exorcist grandmother, one starry-eyed girl, one still-traumatized half-possessed boy, and one mysterious swordsman-chef who made even crab taste like forgiveness.

For the first time that night, the silence around them wasn’t heavy.

It was just… a casual dinner at the Ayase Household.

“Dammit, granny! You’re taking all the big pieces!!” Momo shot first, snatching at the platter. “Gimme this crab or I’ll break all your Bakatono DVDs!”

“Go ahead!” Seiko fired back instantly, eyes narrowing in mock fury. “I’ll set fire to all your Ken Takakura crap!!”

The low table shook as chopsticks clashed like dueling swords. The air filled not with tension, but with the familiar noise of two women who’d clearly fought over far less important things before.

“You skank! Taking Ken Takakura hostage is way crossing the line!” Momo cried, lunging for another claw.

“Well, you threatened Bakatono first!!” Seiko countered, cigarette wobbling dangerously between her lips.

Okarun sat frozen at first, blinking between them as they bickered and wrestled over crab legs. The sight should have been exasperating.

It should have been stressful. But instead… it was oddly comforting. The sharp words, the ridiculous threats—it all sounded like home, or at least the kind of home he’d always wanted.

He caught himself smiling faintly as he plucked a crab leg for himself, ignoring the battle at the other end of the table.

The one who had cooked the dish, meanwhile, just sat calmly, eating with slow, practiced movements.

Emiya’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in the way his shoulders eased—a tiny loosening, as if this noise, this clamor of life, meant more to him than he’d ever admit.

“Are they… always like this?” Okarun finally asked, leaning toward the only other sane man in the room.

“You’ll get used to it… after a long while,” Emiya replied in a slightly nonchalant manner. But the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, betraying more warmth than his tone allowed.

But then he paused, tilting his head as Seiko shrieked,

“I’LL BURN YOUR ENTIRE COLLECTION, GIRL!”

…and Momo responded with,

“TOUCH IT AND I’LL SHOVE YOUR CIGARETTES WHERE THE SUN DON’T SHINE!”

A faint smile no longer ghosted across his lips. “…After a very, very long while.”

The table rocked as Seiko and Momo screamed insults and wrestled like seasoned gladiators, and Okarun, still bewildered, quietly reached for another crab leg.

“I don’t think I will, Emiya-san…” Okarun calmly said.

After that, Seiko let go of the crab that she had been fighting over against her granddaughter and looked at Okarun.

“Boys shouldn’t whine. Speaking of…” Seiko pointed at Okarun with a crab-leg. “Do you even have your thing now?”

He immediately sat up straight after hearing the question. “Yes! Thank you for helping me getting it back.”

Seiko only narrowed her eyes further.

“Lower your pants and show me.”

Momo was still focusing on munching as many crab as she could, but Emiya almost choked after hearing it.

“Uh… are you kidding?” Okarun asked calmly.

Seiko answered with her silence. She wasn’t kidding at all.

Okarun blinked, sweat forming on his temple. “Wait… wait. You seriously—”

Seiko slapped the table hard enough to rattle the plates. “Drop ‘em, boy! How else am I supposed to confirm the Turbo Granny’s curse isn’t still gnawing at you?!”

“Wha—?! No way! I’m not—!”

“Don’t be a baby!” Seiko was already pushing her chair back, rolling her shoulders like a heavyweight about to enter the ring. “Now quit squirming and show me your damn rocket, or I’ll yank it out myself!”

Okarun yelped, scrambled to his feet, and bolted around the table just as Seiko lunged. “AYASE-SAN! HELP ME!!”

Momo didn’t even look up from her crab massacre, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “Mmfh? W’y d’you want me? Jus’ shw it to her.”

“ARE YOU INSANE?!” Okarun shrieked, narrowly dodging Seiko’s hand as she swiped at him like a predator trying to catch a rabbit.

Plates clattered, chopsticks went flying, and crab shells littered the battlefield as he circled the table for dear life.

“Don’t run, kid! I’ve seen it all before—men are men, no point in hiding what’s natural!” Seiko roared, but still with her serious face on.

“NOT TO SOMEONE ELSE’S GRANDMA, YOU HAVEN’T!!”

“Grandma’s got eyes sharper than any curse. You think your precious thing can escape my inspection?!”

“AYASE-SAN!” Okarun begged again, skidding around the corner of the table as Seiko vaulted a chair like an Olympic hurdler.

But Momo was humming happily, crab juice dripping down her fingers, utterly absorbed in the feast. “Mmm… divine…”

Desperate, Okarun turned toward the one person left. “EMIYA-SAN! HELP ME!”

The man didn’t even look up. He calmly cracked open another crab leg, methodical as a surgeon. “If she catches you,” he said in a perfectly even tone, “I’ll call the authorities.”

“THAT’S NOT HELP!!” Okarun wailed as Seiko lunged again, her cigarette somehow still dangling from her mouth despite the chaos.

The living room had turned into a circus—chairs scraping, dishes rattling, Momo crunching loudly like a background soundtrack—while Okarun’s voice echoed in despair:

“DON’T LOOK AT MY DICK!!!!”

---

The clatter of running water filled the kitchen, steady and calm, almost meditative.

Emiya stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, methodically rinsing crab shells and plates as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened an hour ago.

The muffled sounds of Momo and Okarun talking floated in from the porch, punctuated by Okarun’s high-pitched yelps. It almost sounded like he was still paranoid that Seiko would leap out from under the table.

A curl of cigarette smoke drifted in before the woman herself appeared, leaning casually against the kitchen doorway. Seiko’s grin was half-predator, half-proud grandmother.

“You’ve got steady hands, Mister Sword-Bow-Chef,” she drawled, flicking ash into a saucer she’d pilfered as an ashtray. “Almost like you’ve been doing this your whole life.”

Emiya didn’t look at her. He stacked another cleaned plate on the rack, water glinting off his wrists. “You get used to it,” he said simply.

For a moment, there was only the hush of running water and the faint clink of porcelain. Then Seiko exhaled smoke through her nose, eyes narrowing with the satisfaction of someone who’d already set her next plan in motion.

“…That boy won’t get away from me next time,” she said at last, voice low and amused.

Emiya finally glanced over, eyebrow raised. “…You’re relentless.”

“Damn right,” Seiko smirked, jabbing the air with her cigarette like a general outlining a battle strategy.

“If I don’t check, who will? You think a curse like that’s gone just because it looked gone? Hah. No way. Next time, I’ll have him cornered.”

A faint sigh slipped past Emiya’s lips as he turned back to the dishes. “You’re going to give the kid a heart attack.”

“Better that than a cursed—” She stopped herself, then snorted, sharp and amused. “Point is, Shirou, next time, he’s not escaping me.”

She winked, ground out her cigarette, and strolled off humming as if she hadn’t just threatened to ambush her granddaughter’s friend in broad daylight.

Emiya shook his head, finishing the last plate with practiced calm. “…This household really is insane,” he muttered.

Emiya had just placed a plate into the rack when Seiko’s voice broke the quiet again.

“So…” she drawled, no longer with that wolfish grin, but something slower, weightier. She tapped her cigarette against the sink edge, eyes narrowing slightly.

“What did you think? About that crab-monster. More importantly—about those two kids standing up against it.”

Emiya dried his hands with the same unhurried care he showed in combat, then leaned against the counter. His gaze wasn’t on Seiko, but on the faint ripples of water in the sink.

“They were reckless,” he said at last, calm but firm. “Charging in with nothing but willpower and nerves. They were lucky they were able to outsmart Turbo Granny, and luck won’t last forever.”

Seiko nodded once, as if she’d expected that answer, but her eyes never left him. “But?”

Emiya’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…But they didn’t back down. Even when the fear was crushing them, they still stood their ground. That counts for something.”

Smoke curled between them, hazy and sharp. Seiko blew it upward and gave a low chuckle. “Heh. You sound like you almost respect ‘em.”

“I don’t respect them yet,” Emiya countered softly, though there was a trace of warmth buried in his tone. “But… I see the potential. They’ll need guidance if they’re going to survive what’s coming.”

Seiko’s smile returned, faint and sly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “Guess that makes two of us.”

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Seiko smirked again, stubbing out her cigarette. “Hah. Potential, huh?”

Emiya shook his head, almost amused despite himself, and turned back to wipe down the counter.

Seiko didn’t leave right away. She leaned her hip against the counter, watching him work in silence, eyes half-lidded in that way that always suggested she was two steps ahead in the conversation.

Then she smirked. “Y’know… I could tell. You were dragging that fight out.”

Emiya paused mid-wipe, but only for a fraction of a second. He didn’t look at her.

“You weren’t just showboating with those pretty blades,” Seiko continued, flicking ash into the sink with surgical precision. “You wanted to see how the boy and the girl would handle themselves. Pushed ‘em right to the edge before stepping in.”

Finally, Emiya glanced her way. His face was unreadable, his eyes calm, like a still pond hiding the current beneath. Then, with a small shrug, he returned to his task.

“…Maybe.”

Seiko’s chuckle was low and throaty. “Hah. Thought so.”

Emiya rinsed the towel and hung it up neatly. Only then did he add, in that same even tone, “With a little luck, I wasn’t needed at all. They could’ve handled it.”

Seiko tilted her head, studying him through a lazy curl of smoke. “That’s some faith, mister mysterious swordsman. Or maybe you’re just reckless yourself.”

He gave the faintest twitch of a smile. “Both can be true.”

Seiko lingered in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, the faint glow of her cigarette painting her smirk in the half-dark. “But see, here’s the thing, son.”

He looked at her only briefly, as if inviting her to get to the point.

“You say you ‘weren’t needed.’ Fine. But that’s not what I saw. I saw a man watching those kids like a hawk, seeing where they’d stumble, where they’d shine. Like a teacher running his students through drills.”

She tapped ash into the tray with a click. “Don’t tell me that was just coincidence.”

Emiya leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “I wanted to see their limits.”

“That’s my point,” Seiko said. Her voice had a sudden edge beneath the casual drawl, cutting sharper than her grin. “If you’re gonna test them, you’re taking responsibility whether you admit it or not.”

The silence stretched. Emiya’s eyes softened for the briefest moment before the mask slid back into place.

“You’re trying to corner me into something.”

“Damn right I am.” Seiko blew out a long ribbon of smoke, gaze narrowing.

“That boy’s half-possessed and trying not to fall apart, that girl’s got spirit but no clue how far out of her depth she really is. If you’re dangling the leash on purpose, then you owe it to them to do more than just swing in for the killing blow.”

Emiya didn’t answer right away. He studied the kitchen sink, as though the quiet hum of running water could wash away her words.

Finally, he said, almost to himself, “…I wasn’t planning on continuing this.”

Seiko smirked again, but this time it carried a weight behind it. “You might not have a choice.”

Seiko jabbed her cigarette at her own sound. “They need someone who knows what they’re doing while also having boots on the ground with them. Can’t be just me.”

Her gaze locked with his, sharp as a knife. “So tell me,… you gonna keep playing the detached hero, or are you actually gonna step up?”

“There’s no need to drag this on,” Emiya said at last, his voice calm, almost too calm. He set the last plate into the rack, wiped his hands, and straightened.

“Takakura’s curse is gone. The smart thing for them now is to live normal lives, not chase after every rogue yōkai that shows up looking for trouble.”

Seiko tilted her head, cigarette dangling from her lips as she exhaled slowly. “Normal lives, huh? You really think that girl’s gonna get to stay ‘normal’ now?”

Emiya’s brow creased, just slightly.

“C’mon, Shirou. You saw it. That spark of hers? Momo’s awakened, and once that door’s open, it doesn’t close. Power draws power. She’ll be a target before long, whether she wants it or not.”

The words hung heavy in the small kitchen. Emiya’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing, only leaned against the counter again with that practiced indifference.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose. “…Even so, it’s better if they stay out of it. People like them—kids like them—shouldn’t have to carry that kind of weight.”

Seiko chuckled low, sharp, and dry. “That’s cute. Really. But I think the universe missed your memo.” She flicked ash into the tray, then gave him a look equal parts amusement and challenge.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then, with a simultaneous shrug, they both seemed to let it drop—an unspoken agreement that the storm would come regardless.

Seiko smirked, stabbing her cigarette out. “Guess that means the mother-and-son duo’s got their work cut out for ’em.”

Emiya gave her a sidelong look. “Mother-and-son duo?”

“That’s what we’ve always done, right?” Her grin widened, teasing but edged with something more. “I nag and watch Bakatono, you brood and also nag. It’s a perfect match.”

For the first time all evening, Emiya almost cracked a smile—but he buried it beneath a faint sigh. “...I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Seiko just smirked. “Too late, kid. You’ve always been family right from the very start.”

Emiya stretched his shoulders, the quiet weight of the day settling in at last. “That’s enough talk for one night. I’m going to bed. It’s been… a long day.”

He turned toward the hallway, steps steady, that usual air of practiced exhaustion around him.

“Oi,” Seiko called after him, smirk tugging at her lips. “Be honest with me, Shirou. Are you… actually older than me?”

Emiya paused mid-step, then gave her a flat look over his shoulder.

“Unlikely. Considering your age.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—FWiP!!

A porcelain plate flew across the kitchen like a missile. Without missing a step, Emiya’s hand shot up, catching it neatly between two fingers. Not a crack, not a chip.

He lowered it slowly, expression calm, almost bored. “You’ll break your tableware at this rate.”

Seiko was already lighting another cigarette, snorting through her nose like she’d scored the point anyway. “Hmph. Guess I’ll just aim for your head next time.”

Emiya set the plate down on the counter, utterly unfazed. “…Goodnight.”

He left the kitchen in silence, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward as he disappeared into the hallway.

Seiko exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, her grin widening. “Cocky little bastard.”

------

The darkness of sleep swallowed him whole.

And in the darkness… fire bloomed.

The dream was not a dream, but a memory etched so deeply into his soul it played on repeat whenever the walls of his mind weakened.

The world around him shimmered in hues of crimson and black. Heat pressed in on every side, suffocating and relentless.

He stood in the middle of a street that no longer resembled anything human-made. Flames licked the sky, consuming buildings and bones alike, their roar mingling with the hollow screams of people who were already gone.

The air reeked of ash, iron, and despair. He was small again—frail arms, scraped knees, and the terrified heartbeat of a boy who had wandered too far into hell.

Each step crunched over charred remains. The ground was uneven, littered with collapsed beams and the faint outlines of bodies.

He could remember the way the fire seemed alive, a beast gnawing and swallowing everything without discrimination.

The boy that was once Shirou had stumbled through that inferno, dizzy with smoke, clinging to some instinct that he couldn’t die here—that someone would save him.

He remembered calling out, voice raw and useless, yet still trying. Every breath scraped his throat, every blink stung with burning air. Still, he pushed forward, little hands reaching, fumbling, tripping.

Why am I alive?

The boy didn’t know. He only knew the fire chose to leave him behind.

And then—he saw it. A figure cutting through the smoke, larger than life, carrying the weight of impossible choices in his shoulders.

Kiritsugu Emiya.

The scene blurred. Shifted.

The memory shifted, skipping ahead like a broken reel. The fire bled into shadows, the choking heat fading into the quiet chill of a porch lit only by the brilliant glow of moonlight.

Shirou was older now—not the man he would become, but only slightly older than the fragile boy from the fire.

Kiritsugu looked smaller than when he first saw him, shoulders hunched, skin pale and thin, the lines of his face carved deep by regrets that no victory could erase.

They sat in silence for a long time, the kind of silence that carried too many words left unsaid. The distant hum of crickets was the only sound filling the space.

He had stared at him, wide-eyed, torn between fear and determination.

He hadn’t understood the full weight of what his father was leaving behind, only that this man—the one who had pulled him from hellfire and given him a second chance—was fading.

“When I was little,” Kiritsugu said, forcing the words out as though clinging to them was the only way to stay alive.

“I wanted to be a hero of justice… someone who saves everyone.”

The boy’s throat tightened, but he questioned. “You wanted… to be one?

Kiritsugu’s gaze softened while still staring at the moon above them, eyes distant but gentle.

“Yeah. It’s unfortunate… being a hero is a limited-time thing. When you grow up, it’s hard to call yourself one…”

And then, silence. The kind that wasn’t filled with crickets anymore, nor the faint wheeze of a man’s failing lungs. Just a final, crushing stillness.

The boy sat there for what felt like hours with his father, a promise that was about to be made echoing louder than any sound.

“Since you couldn’t do it, I’ll do it,” he promised into the emptiness.

“I’ll be one for you—A hero of justice. I’ll save them all. I’ll save everyone, no matter what it takes.”

The memory bled into darkness again, fire and death overlapping with moonlight and sorrow, until all that was left was the endless echo of that vow—burning, binding, eternal.

And in his sleep, he stirred faintly, brow furrowed, as though the boy inside him was still standing in the fire, still chasing the impossible dream of a dying man.

The light flickered.

And once again, Shirou Emiya was left alone.

He then woke up with a violent start.

His body jerked upright, sheets clinging to him, damp with sweat.

The room was quiet, save for the pounding of his heart hammering against his ribs. He dragged in a sharp breath, then another, each one ragged and uneven as though the smoke from that fire still filled his lungs.

His hand instinctively went to his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm there, as if reassuring himself that he was still alive, still here.

The shadows of the small room seemed to press closer, thick with silence. He could almost hear the crackle of burning wood, the distant cries that no longer belonged to the present.

 His eyes darted around, adjusting to the familiar walls, the faint moonlight that spilled across the tatami floor, the stillness that proved there was no fire, no death, no boy lost in an inferno.

But his hands were still trembling.

He pressed the heel of his palm against his face, dragging it down slowly, trying to wipe away the memory like ash clinging stubbornly to skin.

The dream clung harder than that. His jaw tightened, his breath steadying, though each inhale carried with it a bitter aftertaste of nostalgia and pain.

“…Why now?” His voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible in the emptiness of the room. He sat there on the futon, back hunched, eyes staring at the floorboards as if they might give him an answer.

“It’s been so long… far too long.”

He shut his eyes again, forcing his breathing into rhythm.

Yet the images remained burned across his mind—the fire’s glow, Kiritsugu’s fading voice, the weight of a promise he had once believed could outshine everything.

He had long since learned to bury those memories under iron discipline and endless battles. The years had stripped away the naivety of that vow, replaced it with steel, pragmatism, resignation.

He had thought himself free of such dreams. But here it was, clawing its way back to the surface, dragging the boy he once was into the man he had become.

His hands curled into fists in the sheets.

“…Why am I dreaming about you all of a sudden, old man?”