Shirou's eyes fluttered open.
The first thing he saw was an unfamiliar wooden ceiling. For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming. But the faint smell of herbs, the soft weight of sheets on his body, and the quiet murmurs in the distance told him otherwise.
Slowly, he tried to sit up—only for pain to shoot through his entire body. He gasped and collapsed back onto the mattress, his breath ragged. His arms, his chest, even his legs were wrapped tightly in bandages.
'Where… am I?'
His eyes moved across the room. Rows of simple wooden beds stretched out to his left and right, each one separated by plain white curtains. On the other side, he could see more beds, all lined neatly in a hall-like chamber. People in light uniforms moved between patients, carrying trays or tending to wounds.
It was unmistakable—this was some kind of clinic.
Shirou turned his head to the window. Outside, the scenery struck him as even stranger. Children laughed as they played in the grassy fields, while farmers tilled their crops under the sunlight. Villagers walked along dirt roads, men and women alike dressed in clothes that looked nothing like the traditional styles of Japan.
The strangest thing of all was their faces—none of them looked Japanese. Their features, their mannerisms, even the way they carried themselves—it was foreign in every sense.
'This… this isn't Japan. The Grail really did throw me somewhere completely different.'
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus—not on the pain, but on himself. On his soul. On his circuits.
Every magus had their own mental trigger to open their magic circuits. For Shirou, it was the familiar image of a gun's hammer pulling back and firing. He pictured it clearly, and the moment he did, a familiar heat stirred in his body.
"Trace… On."
His vision sharpened as his circuits lit up—lines of burning light weaving through him like veins of fire as 39 circuits lit up.
'Wait… thirty-nine circuits?'
His heart skipped. He double-checked. Then triple-checked. The result was the same. Somehow, his initial 27 circuits had an additional twelve more circuits than before. That was nearly the same number as Rin's main circuits putting aside her sub circuits.
His mind raced. 'This doesn't make sense… I couldn't have…'
But the truth lay bare within him. He had done it—reshaped seven spinal segments, four major nerve trunks, and even a cranial nerve line into makeshift circuits. A desperate, reckless act that should have crippled him, if not outright killed him.
Yet here he was, alive. And more than that, the circuits worked. Not crude or unstable, but steady. Real.
Shirou clenched his teeth, his breath steadying.
'No use panicking. I need to test this.'
He raised a trembling hand, prana already flowing along the circuits that still hummed with light.
"Trace… On."
The familiar chant left his lips as od (life force) converted to prana (mana), surging into form. The weight of steel began to take shape in his palm—rough at first, then refining into clarity.
When the blade finally appeared, his eyes widened. Not because of what he had created, but because of what hadn't happened.
Normally, Magecraft was a battle against the world itself. Gaia, the will of the planet, rejected unnatural phenomenon. Alaya, the collective will of humanity, worked alongside it. For Shirou, this meant every sword he created was resisted—forced into existence through sheer prana, and decayed the moment it left his hand.
But now?
Nothing pushed back. No invisible pressure pressed down on him. The blade had formed cleanly, effortlessly, as though the world had simply accepted it. Its surface gleamed steadily, not fading, not corroding.
He tightened his grip, almost afraid it would shatter.
'No decay… no resistance. My projections… they can last. Days, maybe even weeks. This is beyond magecraft. This is close to—true magic.'
The realization made his heart pound. But that wasn't the only shock.
He glanced down at the weapon. A plain sword, unremarkable, the kind a nameless soldier would wield. But when he traced its history, the truth struck him like a hammer.
The sword was from ancient Mesopotamia. Wielded by a nameless foot soldier from Uruk—the kingdom once ruled by none other than the King of Heroes, Gilgamesh.
Shirou's breath hitched. 'That's… impossible.'
He had clashed with Gilgamesh, survived against his endless barrage of treasures, and every blade that came at him was added to his own Reality Marble. But this weapon—this soldier's blade—was never among them.
So why could he project it?
Shirou furrowed his brow, tracing deeper into the mystery.
If this sword wasn't from his hill of blades, then where…?
The moment his mind reached further into the blueprint's origin, something stirred within his Reality Marble.
The familiar hill of countless swords wavered, shifting like ripples across water. And then—standing tall in the center of it all—appeared a massive golden door. Its surface shone brilliantly, carved with intricate patterns of kingship and authority. The sheer majesty of it was overwhelming, as though even the swords embedded in the ground bent in reverence before it.
It was unlike anything Shirou had ever seen. Massive and regal, it seemed less like a doorway and more like a proclamation carved into existence itself. The frame was forged of pure gold, polished so bright it reflected even the faintest flicker of light. Ancient symbols traced its edges—letters of a language older than steel, older than kings—glowing faintly as if whispering the authority of the one who owned it.
The doors themselves were impossibly tall, towering as if meant not for men but for gods. Their surface was embossed with intricate patterns of lions, bulls, and winged figures, each depicted with such precision they seemed alive. Jewels of every color studded the gate, pulsing faintly like stars trapped in metal, each one a reminder of the unimaginable riches that lay beyond.
A name surfaced unbidden in Shirou's thoughts.
"Gate of Babylon: Treasury of the King."
The words left his lips in a whisper, disbelief tightening his throat. His Reality Marble, the world of his swords, now housed a door that was never his.
When Shirou reached out, the gate opened without a sound, yet the very air trembled as though reality itself bowed before its unveiling.
In its place stretched a throne room that defied logic. Gravity had no hold here—treasures floated freely, glimmering as though they were stars in a boundless night sky. Weapons, armor, ornaments, artifacts—endless, each radiating a brilliance that spoke of wealth, power, and pride. It was overwhelming, not just in number but in presence; every piece carried with it the weight of legend.
Shirou's breath caught.
It was unmistakable.
He was standing inside Gilgamesh's Treasury.
Yet, something was different. When he reached for one of the treasures, it remained where it was, immovable. He couldn't draw them out, couldn't summon the Gate itself into the world as Gilgamesh once had.
But as his hand lingered over the weapon's form, information rushed into him. Its weight, its forging, its history—engraved into his mind like one of his own swords.
He couldn't wield the originals. But he could copy them. He could trace every treasure within this vault.
Shirou staggered back, his circuits still faintly glowing, realization heavy in his chest.
For a long moment, he stood there in silence, surrounded by treasures that weren't his, staring into a vault that represented kingship and tyranny.
And yet, somehow, it was now part of him.
Shirou let out a slow breath, retracting his circuits one by one. The glow along his body dimmed until only the dull ache of fatigue remained. His chest rose and fell heavily, and he pressed a palm against it as though to ground himself.
This discovery… it was too much.
The Gate of Babylon—a treasury that once symbolized Gilgamesh's overwhelming arrogance—was now sitting inside his Reality Marble. Accessible, yet out of reach. A vault of kings that he could never truly own, yet could endlessly replicate.
Was this power a gift?
Or was it a curse, binding him to the very tyrant he had fought so hard against?
'If I abuse this… I'll become no different from him.'
The thought weighed heavy, but there was no denying the truth: the key was now his.
He exhaled, shutting his eyes for a moment before withdrawing completely from that inner world. His senses returned to the real room—the wooden ceiling, the bandages, the smell of herbs faint in the air.
—Clank!
The sudden metallic crash jolted him back fully. His head snapped toward the sound. A tray of medical tools lay scattered on the floor. Standing frozen nearby was a young girl in uniform, hand over her mouth, green eyes wide as saucers.
Her auburn hair, loosely braided, slipped over her shoulder as she trembled in surprise. For a moment, the two just stared at each other—the boy who had woken from death, and the nurse who had caught him weaving blades out of thin air.
Shirou blinked, at a loss for words, then managed a weak, awkward smile.
"Um… hello? I'm sorry. Did I… do something strange? Can I help you?"
The girl's face flushed red. Without answering, she spun on her heel and bolted out of the room. Her voice echoed down the hall:
"Eithne-senpai! The boy is awake!"
Left alone again, Shirou sat up as much as his aching body would allow, watching the curtain sway where she had just fled.
'So… I've been unconscious for a while.'
How long exactly, he would soon find out.
The sound of hurried footsteps approached, then the curtain was swept aside. A tall woman entered the room, followed closely by the young girl from earlier.
Silver-streaked black hair was neatly pinned into a knot at the back of her head. She wore simple gray robes, plain yet immaculate, the kind that gave off both authority and humility. Her sharp eyes softened just slightly as they landed on him.
"Good morning, sir. How are you feeling?"
Her tone carried both sternness and care. Shirou, caught off guard by her presence, straightened a little despite the pain lancing through his body.
"I… feel fine, miss. Thank you for taking me in and caring for me while I was unconscious."
The woman nodded. "It was no trouble. We're only doing our duty. Still—" her gaze sharpened just slightly, "do you know where you are?"
Shirou hesitated, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know how I got here, or even where 'here' is. If it isn't too much trouble… could you fill in the details?"
There was a pause. Then, faintly, the woman smiled. "Not at all. But perhaps it's better if my junior here explains. After all, she's the one who has been watching over you this whole time."
"Senpai?!" the girl squeaked, flustered, clearly not prepared to be put on the spot.
But the woman—Eithne—gave her an encouraging nod. Then she turned back to Shirou. "Would it be alright with you? My junior, Niamh Keegan, has been your attending caretaker since you were first brought in."
Shirou blinked, then glanced toward the girl. So she was the one who had tended to him. The thought stirred a quiet sense of gratitude.
"Keegan-san, was it? Then… I owe you my thanks." He tried to sit up further, but pain stabbed across his chest. His body, though healed, still resisted his movements as though it remembered how close to death it had been.
"Please don't move, sir!" Niamh blurted, panicked. "You're still recovering! When you were brought in, you were so injured that… that it was a miracle you survived at all. Especially without a falna."
Shirou froze.
"Falna?"
But Niamh, caught up in her worry, didn't hear him. Eithne stepped forward instead, resting a steadying hand against the bedside.
"It's true. By all rights, you should not have lived. Your wounds were the kind we usually only see when someone has crossed paths with a monster."
Shirou's brows furrowed.
"Monster…?"
"Yes," Eithne said simply, as though the word carried weight he should already know. "Though there aren't many that wander this far into the region, sometimes strays or even deep-floor beasts can appear where they don't belong. Because of your condition, the village elders have already contacted the Adventurers' Guild for an investigation. If confirmed, a subjugation request will follow."
The explanation washed over Shirou like a cold current. He can tell those two were not the type to casually lie and make up words on the spot. Words like falna, Adventurers' Guild, deep-floor monsters—they carried an entirely different weight than anything from his own world.
Slowly, it sank in.
This wasn't Japan.
This wasn't even the same timeline.
---
End of Chapter