The streets of Fuyuki at night were quiet. Too quiet.
The city always carried an undercurrent of tension when the Holy Grail War stirred awake, though only those tangled in magecraft could sense it.
But tonight was different. Tonight, the city burned.
A raging inferno consumed Fuyuki, devouring streets and swallowing homes. If anyone had looked up, they would have seen the impossible—a hole torn open in the sky, the world itself wounded. People ran, but few survived. Some were swallowed by fire, others crushed beneath falling stone, others buried alive. It was not a night for survivors.
And yet, a legend would be born here. One who walked through the fire and swore to become a Hero of Justice.
But this is not his story.
This is a different boy's story.
A boy whose small body lay buried under rubble, his screams muffled by stone. Black hair matted with ash. Beautiful sea-blue eyes brimming with tears. His voice cracked as he clawed his way free, surrounded by the chorus of death—the screams of people he could not save.
The boy crawled forward, whispering to himself, a mantra born from instinct.
"One more step… one more move… I want to live."
His arm trembled, but at last gave out. His strength, his will—whatever had been keeping him moving—faltered. His eyes closed as despair consumed him.
And then—
The weight shifted. The rubble above him lifted.
A man's shadow fell across him. Black hair. Hollow eyes. A suit stained with blood and ash. His hands, though trembling, were steady as they reached down to pull the boy free.
Kiritsugu Emiya.
[Insert Image of Kiritsugu]
The man looked down at him, tired beyond words yet smiling—smiling as though the boy's faint pulse was the greatest miracle he had ever witnessed.
The boy's gaze blurred with tears as he thought:
Why is he happy? Is he happy… just because he found someone alive?
The fire raged on. The screams quieted, swallowed by the inferno. The boy's heart clenched with the weight of it all.
I lived… and they didn't.
That night, amidst the flames of hell, a truth was born.
I, Fujimaru Ritsuka, survived.
[Insert Image Of Ritsuka]
The next day, Ritsuka awoke in the hospital.
The smell of medicine filled his nose. White walls, flickering fluorescent lights. Around him, other survivors of the fire—children his age, some silent, some sobbing, some staring at nothing.
He sat up slowly, his body aching as though it had been broken and hastily glued back together. The world felt heavy.
The door opened. The man from the fire walked in.
He didn't look like a savior. His black suit was wrinkled, his eyes hollow with exhaustion. Yet he carried himself with the calm weight of someone who had already lived through a thousand nights like this.
Kiritsugu Emiya.
He sat beside Ritsuka's bed, silent for a moment, before speaking in a voice that was rough, almost unsure.
"My name is Kiritsugu. And… this might sound like an odd question, especially since we only met last night in that hellfire, but…" He hesitated, the words catching. "…Would you like to be adopted by me?"
Ritsuka blinked.
"If not," Kiritsugu added quickly, "you can be put in an orphanage. I won't force you. It's your choice."
The boy didn't speak. Instead, his small hand trembled as he lifted it—pointing directly at Kiritsugu.
The man's tired eyes widened, then softened. He lowered his head, a small, broken smile tugging at his lips.
"…I see."
Ritsuka's arm dropped back onto the bed, and he closed his eyes, too drained to say more. But in that gesture, his choice was clear.
Kiritsugu reached into his coat and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. His voice lowered, almost like a secret.
"One more thing, Ritsuka. I should tell you now. I'm… a magus."
The boy's eyes cracked open, confusion flashing across his face.
"…What's that?"
Kiritsugu let out a short, tired breath—half laugh, half sigh.
"I'll explain later. For now, just rest."
Ritsuka's eyes closed again, the word magus echoing faintly in his mind as sleep pulled him down.
And thus, the oath of a survivor bound itself to the Magus Killer.
Years passed after that night.
Ritsuka Fujimaru Emiya—once only Fujimaru—slowly adjusted to his new life. The fire's shadow never left him, but in its place came new bonds.
The first was a woman, a few years older than him. Spunky, loud, with a cat-like bounce in her step and brown hair that caught the sunlight.
Fujimura Taiga.
[Insert image of Taiga]
She wasn't family by blood, but she became his older sister all the same. She'd swing by the Emiya household almost every day, eating their food, teasing Ritsuka, sometimes even acting like she was the head of the house. Her energy filled the quiet halls that Kiritsugu's heavy presence left behind.
But one thing became clear over the years: Kiritsugu's health.
The man who had once carried Ritsuka out of the fire now looked thinner with each passing month. Doctors ran test after test, yet every report came back the same. Perfectly fine. Nothing wrong.
And yet, Ritsuka could see it. His father's body was there, but his soul—his very being—was fraying. Almost like he was cursed by something invisible.
Still, life went on.
There was another lesson Ritsuka learned in the Emiya household: cooking.
Kiritsugu couldn't cook to save his life, and Taiga… Taiga could burn water if left unsupervised.
So Ritsuka picked it up. At first, just to survive. But strangely, it came to him with ease. His hands moved as though they had always known how to cut, stir, season. It felt foreign—like an old memory that didn't belong to him.
He didn't question it too much. Survival was survival.
And every time he sat down to eat with his father and Taiga, he reminded himself of his vow.
To live. To keep living. For those who could not.
---
One night, the house was quiet. Ritsuka walked through the wooden halls, now carrying the name Ritsuka Fujimaru Emiya. A bridge between the family he lost and the one he had gained.
He stepped into the yard.
There, beneath the pale light of the moon, stood Kiritsugu. His gaze was turned skyward, cigarette smoke curling from his lips.
"You know," Ritsuka called, "you shouldn't stay up like this so much, Dad."
Kiritsugu turned slightly, his tired eyes softening at the sight of his son.
"…I could say the same about you, kid."
Kiritsugu sat in the yard, his cigarette ember glowing faintly against the night. The stars hung still above, cold and distant.
"You know…" he murmured, his voice low, as if confessing to the night itself. "I had a dream once."
Ritsuka tilted his head. "A dream? What was it?"
Kiritsugu's eyes narrowed slightly as he closed them. "…To be a Hero of Justice. That was my dream."
The boy blinked. A simple dream, yet the words carried a crushing weight.
"Then… why did you give it up?"
Kiritsugu chuckled. The sound was brittle, hollow—like a man laughing at his own grave. "Because I got old."
Ritsuka lowered his gaze, fists tightening at his sides.
In another life, another world, maybe the boy would have answered differently. Maybe he would have said, "Then I'll do it. I'll become a Hero of Justice in your place."
But not here.
Not this boy.
"…Sorry, Dad," Ritsuka said quietly. "I can't live that dream for you. I don't want to. I want to live—for everyone who died in that fire. To keep moving, even if it's just one more step, one more breath."
The silence stretched. The only sound was the faint crackle of the cigarette.
Then, Kiritsugu smiled faintly. A tired smile, but genuine.
"…Very well."
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, the weight on his shoulders seemed just a little lighter.
The years passed, as they always do.
One morning, Ritsuka found the old man had gone quietly in his sleep.
Kiritsugu Emiya left no grand words behind, no tearful farewell. But he hadn't left the boy with nothing, either. Training, lessons, scars, and… a pair of strange gloves. The inheritance of a man who believed survival was enough.
And so, Ritsuka lived on.
—
"Tch."
A sharp click of the tongue broke his concentration.
Ritsuka dusted off his knees, straightening his uniform, when a figure with smug eyes and seaweed-colored hair leaned against the gym wall.
Shinji Matou, ever the picture of arrogance.
"You just had to get yourself kicked out before the tournament, didn't you?" Shinji said, blue eyes gleaming with that superior smirk.
Ritsuka snorted, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Guess I went overboard."
"You think?" Shinji rolled his eyes. "Some things never change."
"Yeah, maybe." Ritsuka waved lazily as he walked out. "See you tomorrow."
He didn't. Not really. The world had already begun to shift.
That evening, rain hammered Fuyuki's streets, the sky mourning for reasons it couldn't name.
When Ritsuka returned home, he found a girl waiting at the gate.
Her uniform clung to her frame, soaked through. Pale hair—almost lilac when the streetlights hit it—draped wetly over one eye. The other shone faintly pink, though it looked dulled, hollow, as though her gaze had been drained of something vital.
[Insert image of Mash]
"…I'm Mash Matou," she said softly, voice nearly drowned by the rain. "Shinji's little sister. He… said you could use some help."
For a moment, Ritsuka just stared. Then he stepped aside and gestured toward the door.
"Nice to meet you. Come in."
And so she did.
Days became weeks. Weeks became a year. And somehow, between quiet dinners, shared umbrellas, and hushed conversations in the library, Mash Matou found her place within the Emiya household.
By the time Ritsuka entered his second year of high school, she was already there with him—no longer just Shinji's little sister, but his closest friend.
So close, in fact, that he gave her a spare key.
Neither of them realized then how much that small gesture would matter.
During class, the quiet scratching of pencils was broken by a sudden flick to Ritsuka's forehead.
"—Ow." He rubbed the spot, glancing up from his book.
Standing beside his desk was a girl in the school's female uniform, brown hair tied back, brown eyes sparkling with amusement. Her grin was the kind that could melt most guys in an instant.
Mitsuzuri Ayako.
[Insert image of Ayako]
She leaned on his desk with all the casual authority of someone who owned the room.
"You know," she said with a sly smile, "my brother is still pissed about that Judo flip you pulled on him last year."
Ritsuka blinked, then smirked. "To be fair, he did ask for a spar."
Ayako chuckled, shaking her head. "You sent him flying. The guy hasn't been able to live it down. He still mutters your name during practice like you're his final boss or something."
Ritsuka shrugged, feigning innocence. "Hey, better me than an actual opponent. Consider it… tough love."
"Mm-hm." She gave him a mock glare, then straightened up. "Just don't expect me to bail you out if he tries to get revenge."
He grinned. "Not worried. I've already got a whole list of counters if he tries again."
Ayako groaned, rolling her eyes. "Figures. You're impossible."
But there was a hint of fondness behind her voice, one Ritsuka couldn't help but notice.
Ritsuka's eyes lingered on Ayako's face a moment too long. Close enough that she instinctively leaned back, almost like an anti-embrace, her playful confidence faltering for just a second.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her.
"…Have you been getting enough sleep?" he asked quietly.
Ayako blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean? I have."
Her tone was light, but her eyes betrayed something—just a flicker of unease. Like even she wasn't convinced.
Ritsuka didn't press. He just leaned back in his seat, gaze returning to his book.
"…Alright."
But Ayako still felt the weight of his words, echoing louder than they had any right to.
The classroom door slid open with a clean shhhk.
Every head turned — because of course they did.
Striding in with practiced grace was a girl everyone knew: long black hair tied into immaculate twin-tails, emerald eyes glimmering like polished jewels, the very picture of refinement.
Tōsaka Rin.
The most popular girl in the school. The kind of person born into a proud family, carrying herself like she was already destined for something greater than the rest of them.
She took her seat as if the world itself had been waiting for her.
From his desk, Ritsuka glanced at her, then promptly rolled his eyes.
"Well, looks like the princess decided to show up," he muttered under his breath.
Rin's chair scraped lightly as she turned, emerald eyes narrowing in his direction.
"What did you say, Emiya?"
The room went still for a beat. A few students already had that look — oh no, he's done it now.
Ritsuka didn't even flinch. He lifted his eyes from his book, met hers with the faintest flicker of annoyance, and repeated himself without hesitation.
"I said the princess finally decided to show up."
A murmur rippled through the class. Some stifled laughs, others tried not to get caught staring.
Rin's lips twitched — somewhere between a smile and a scowl — but her voice was cool, carrying the practiced authority of someone who refused to be underestimated.
"Careful, Emiya. A commoner like you shouldn't throw around words so lightly."
From beside him, Ayako leaned her cheek against her palm, grinning like she was watching a stage play.
"Here we go again…" she muttered, clearly entertained.
Ritsuka just leaned back in his chair, shrugging as if Rin's barbs slid right off him.
"Relax. I'm not throwing words around. Just stating facts."
Rin rolled her eyes, flicking her twin tails back with a scoff.
"Whatever."
She turned away, her presence cooling as she slid into her seat. The low chatter in the classroom simmered down just in time for the door to creak open.
In walked Kuzuki.
The sound of his shoes against the floorboards was enough to freeze half the class in place. He didn't raise his voice, didn't glare — he didn't need to. His very presence had that effect, a calm so sharp it felt like standing on a knife's edge.
Several students straightened instantly, others avoided eye contact like their lives depended on it. A few even looked like they'd jump out the window if given the chance.
But Ritsuka didn't move. Neither did Rin. They just sat there, utterly unbothered.
Kuzuki set his materials down with quiet precision, then spoke in a voice that was steady, yet left no room for disobedience.
"Open your books. Page two hundred and sixteen. The Hundred Years' War."
Pages rustled hurriedly. The atmosphere was so tense you could almost hear hearts beating faster.
Ritsuka flipped his book open at a casual pace, resting his chin on his hand as if Kuzuki's oppressive aura rolled right past him. Rin, likewise, adjusted her pen with practiced elegance, eyes sharp but unafraid.
To the rest of the class, Kuzuki was a figure to avoid at all costs. To them, he was just another teacher.
Ritsuka leaned back in his chair, flipping lazily to the right page. Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered just loud enough for Rin to hear.
"Bet you half the class doesn't survive this lecture."
Rin didn't even look at him, only twirling her pen between her fingers with practiced grace.
"You're insufferable," she whispered back. Then, after a pause, the corner of her lips twitched ever so slightly. "But you're not wrong."
Kuzuki's voice cut through the air, smooth and precise as a blade.
"The Hundred Years' War… was not merely a conflict of nations. It was the test of endurance, faith, and survival."
The room went silent. Even the air felt heavy.
Ritsuka and Rin, however, remained unshaken — two calm eyes in a storm of unease.
And just like that, the lecture began, and with it, the next chapter of Ritsuka Emiya's life.
To be continued
Hope people like this ch and give me power stones and enjoy, Original this Fic was ment to come out later, bur with Stranger Fake Out, why not, enjoy