A strong sway was felt. Magic power was expelled from severed nerves. The soul melted, dissolved, and disintegrated. Though the consciousness was clear, it was impossible to think. Weak instincts were sorrowfully expressing something, but to "him," that was nothing more than the faint cries of a beast.
Unable to perceive, unable to think. Completely incapable of constructing logic. Unable to assert themself, even uncertain of whether he was alive.
Even so, since he existed on the earth (there), there were things he could acquire. For example, information and time. As long as he had time to receive and organize information, knowledge could be generated there. Knowledge transformed the previously elusive, cloud-like sensations into words.
—I'm alive.
A simple fact. A fact is so obvious that even a crying infant could understand it instinctively. Until now, he had never understood what it meant to be alive.
Time passed.
Information was gathered.
Knowledge was obtained.
Since gaining self-awareness, that cycle had been spinning at an unusual speed. He was originally a creature created based on a magic circuit. His capacity for understanding knowledge was quite astonishing.
Humans coming and going, companions passing by, and monsters crossing paths. He looked at them indifferently. Companions gazed at them with faint emotions in their eyes. The reactions of the monsters varied widely; some were uninterested, some gazed sorrowfully, and some were keenly interested in investigating.
Even so, nothing changed. The cycle of information and knowledge continued relentlessly.
The chaotic knowledge, like a mess of rags, was now being organized, classified, and neatly stacked like the contents of a library. But the more external information he stored, the more he felt a heart-wrenching sensation in his chest.
He instinctively chose to ignore it and continued gathering more information. But the more he collected and understood, the harder it became to ignore that feeling.
If he converted his inner self into numerical values, "that" would occupy sixty percent. Even if it was something he could no longer ignore, he still chose to retain it.
This couldn't be condemned as a lack of courage. After all, a lack of courage is defined based on an understanding of what it means to be courageous. He hadn't yet understood that it was cowardice. He just unintentionally chose to ignore it.
—Fate is spinning. Changing, twisting, and then going mad.
Before his eyes stood a human and a monster. Both were figures who had passed by him countless times.
One was named Roche, or Master.
The other was called Caster, or Teacher.
"Let's try integrating a magic circuit."
Listening to Caster's words, Roche nodded in response:
"Then, let's use this homunculus."
He carefully scrutinized the content of their conversation. Magic circuits—those indispensable pseudo-nerves necessary for using magecraft. It was these circuits that formed the basis of their bodies. So, what did it mean to integrate them?
A chill ran down his spine as if insects were crawling back and forth. This was an unmistakable, certain fate of death.
"Use this homunculus"—use, in other words, consume. If something is used, something else will disappear in the process.
Since his creation, he has maintained a steady heartbeat regardless of the situation. Yet, due to that brief conversation lasting less than a minute, his heart was now pounding with intense unease.
He recalled previous conversations. Caster and Roche had often discussed the golems. Rather than artificial life, they were mechanical puppets constructed through rituals and earth and stone. The reason for integrating magic circuits into them was to create golems capable of weaving magecraft.
Creation comes with consumption. If the creation is "a golem that can use magecraft," then what is consumed must be "a homunculus with magic circuits."
He finally understood the truth behind the chill.
Consumption means extinction, and extinction means "death." Even knowing this, he couldn't fully grasp its meaning.
"Let's start by using about three. Hmm, this one, this one, and this one."
He was pointed out. The vivid presence of death gripped his heart as if to suffocate it. The 60% he had ignored harshly proclaimed:
You will "die." Since his birth, he had been immediately sealed in this magic supply tank, and now, everything would be rendered meaningless, merely due to the trivial reason of being "randomly selected."
The two gradually left. He realized there was still a little time left before his impending death.
Despair overwhelmed him. This was what he had always chosen to ignore. There was no purpose in his creation, not even a reason for his existence had been initiated.
Even so, he couldn't cry out, couldn't regret it. He could only stare blankly with empty eyes.
No, is it really like that?
He thought, desperately trying to think. Could he do nothing? Wasn't it just that he had convinced himself he could do nothing? In reality, he was doing something other homunculi couldn't.
At the very least, he had gathered information, thought, reached conclusions, and felt fear. He had already done so much.
Then, just a little more, just a little further.
The germination of self-awareness in "him," sealed in the tank providing magic to the Servants, was purely coincidental, and being chosen was merely an accident.
However, when these two coincidences overlapped, they carried the weight of destiny.
—Move.
For the first time in his life, he moved a finger. He struggled to move his hand, clenched his fist, and raised his arm.
—Move.
He reassessed his situation. He understood that he was sealed in a green preservation liquid to efficiently supply magic. Putting aside the yet-to-be-realized purpose of his existence, he focused on his immediate goal. He needed to escape, right now.
—Move!
He swung his arms, frantically pounding the reinforced glass. But he quickly realized that this was a futile effort and gave up. The physical impact he could generate was not enough to break the glass.
He pondered for a moment and scanned his magic circuits. Drawing in mana from the atmosphere (Great Origin), he prepared to activate the circuits that provided him with mana for this world.
"—（Strasse）/(Gain）."
He cut off the supply. Using the language he knew, he initiated his mystery. The expected result was destruction; he let his hands touch the reinforced glass. The mana that had already flowed into his body captured the destination and immediately surged toward his palms.
He grasped the nature of the glass he touched. The mana transformed, capable of breaking it with the smallest and most appropriate force. His hands glowed, and with a force as weak as thin wood, he shattered the reinforced glass.
Immediately, his body tilted outward. He tried to reconnect with the world that was supposed to be isolated. Ignoring the glass tearing his back, he fell into the passageway—the present world.
He felt awful; something was wrong. His chest was tight, and he wanted to open his mouth but found he couldn't.
His mouth was covered by something like a respirator. He tore it off and took a deep breath.
"Ugh, ah!!"
He choked violently. A burning pain radiated through his throat. The gas he inhaled was acrid, causing his lungs to spasm in pain.
He had to escape. Fast, as fast as possible!
The goal was decided. He tried to stand up—only to realize that the action of "standing up" hadn't fully permeated his body. Weakly attempting to stand, he fell embarrassingly. He couldn't walk at all. Crawling on the ground with his hands, he moved his body.
He advanced a small distance. Calm down, he told himself, propping himself up on his elbows to lift his upper body. His feet touched the ground. His fragile ankles screamed in protest—but he ignored them and slowly straightened his knees.
Then, he took that step.
Every time he stepped on the ground, gravity assaulted him. There was always a painful pressure, and the sticky liquid was extremely unpleasant.
His breathing finally began to calm, but he didn't know which way to go. The only clear thing was that he would die here.
He moaned. Tears flowed from the corners of his eyes. After suffering so much, all he had achieved were a few steps.
Walking, escaping from this place—the sense of futility overwhelmed him as if he had dedicated his entire life to this trivial act. He berated his despondent self and fully committed to the task of "walking."
A faint gasp came from behind him, and he suppressed the urge to turn around with all his might. He knew what that gasp meant. Ignoring it was all he could do. Compared to that, moving forward was everything now.
He supported himself against the wall, silently reciting steps in his mind as he walked. Unknowingly, he had moved from the room he had always been into a corridor paved with stones. Blood continuously flowed from his feet. Like the soft feet of a baby, they finally touched the ground for the first time just now. Even a small stone could easily tear his skin.
Blood was flowing. Pain assaulted him. The overwhelming amount of information, so different from when he was soaked in the solution, clashed violently in his brain. The dense atmosphere caused his lungs to be in constant pain.
A body that wasn't designed to walk—how far could it go? The corridor seemed endless, extending without change. He realized he could go no further and weakly crouched down.
His breathing was faint, his heart raced, and his body, utterly unsuitable for survival, refused even to stand, let alone walk. Lacking overwhelming heat, his extremities grew cold. His blurred vision and distant sounds made logical thinking impossible, leaving him only with despair at the approaching death.
——What a meaningless life. What a meaningless existence.
Born without meaning, dying without meaning. All he could do was tremble at the harsh reality.
Frustrated, though not sure what he was frustrated with, he felt incredibly irritable. He was terrified of closing his eyes, convinced that if he did, he would never wake up again. He feared sleep, feared being imprisoned by darkness, feared the world. The only thing he didn't fear was himself. Because he had nothing. He had never owned anything, never engraved anything. Colorless and transparent, he was just that——.
"...?"
Unintentionally, his heart trembled.
He realized that there was another presence besides himself. When exactly had this presence come to his side? His mind was in utter chaos, and he was so terrified that he didn't even want to know who was beside him.
His gaze caught sight of him. He instinctively knew that he had been seen. Although he thought he must escape, he couldn't move no matter what. His body curled up in fear. The silence, as if it would crush him, made his heart pound so hard it was unbearable. At that moment—
"What's wrong? You'll catch a cold like this, you know?"
The words that reached him were not ones of contempt that tore at his body. They were warm words, concerned for his well-being.
He reflexively looked up, and their eyes met.
He took a small breath. That face, he had seen it once before. It was one of the monsters who had shown a pained expression and glanced at him. If he remembered correctly, his name was Rider.
"You'll catch a cold, you know?"
Rider repeated with a smile. But the boy didn't know what to say to him. However, he knew that Rider was waiting for his response; that much was clear even to him.
Unconsciously, he muttered something in a hoarse voice. Seemingly unable to hear, Rider leaned closer, tilting his ear.
He knew nothing. What should he believe in? What should he do? He didn't know, he didn't know, he didn't know anything—
His consciousness cut out. It seemed he had fainted, and realizing this, he became scared. Just walking was so painful. Even so, he wished from the bottom of his heart to continue living...
◇◇◇
Astolfo found a crouching boy in the corridor of the fortress.
What should he do? He pondered.
"First, I need to save him," this thought was already firmly in his heart. What he was considering was actually how he could save this boy.
"For now, let's move him."
Once he decided what to do, his actions were swift.
Astolfo took off his cloak, wrapped the boy in it, and hoisted him onto his shoulder. Though Astolfo was a slender Heroic Spirit, carrying a human was no problem at all.
However, he immediately worried about where to take the boy.
His own assigned room was out of the question, as his Master, Celenike, would call him out every few hours. Even if he was the Servant she summoned, Astolfo thought it was a bit excessive to be so persistent.
"Rider-sama."
Hearing himself being called, Astolfo turned around. Two homunculi were staring at him and the boy he was carrying with emotionless eyes.
"Caster-sama is looking for a runaway homunculus. Do you have any clues?"
"No."
He answered in a fraction of a second, without even a hint of contemplation.
The homunculi glanced at the boy he was carrying but turned away, saying, "I see," before leaving.
"Good luck, you two~"
Astolfo waved goodbye to the departing homunculi with gratitude.
He didn't know what was going on, but if Caster was chasing this homunculus, it would be even harder to save him. He wanted to discuss it with someone, but Saber never talked to him, so he didn't know his personality; Berserker didn't care about homunculi—meaning he likely wouldn't chase him or offer help; Assassin had a good relationship with him and was a nice person, but was currently out.
In this way, there was only one servant left to rely on.
Astolfo arrived at Chiron's room and knocked on the door to announce his visit.
"Archer, it's Rider. Is there anyone in the room?"
"Rider? No, there's no one here."
"That's good," Astolfo said as he opened the door. Seeing the boy slung over Astolfo's shoulder, Chiron immediately sensed something and led the two to the bedside.
"This is the homunculus that Caster is chasing, right?"
"I think so."
Astolfo placed the homunculus on the bed and temporarily removed his cloak. After wiping the dirty body with a towel handed over by the considerate Chiron, he draped a borrowed robe over the boy. The boy's expression was filled with pain, and his breathing was somewhat rapid.
"Archer, you are knowledgeable in medical arts, right? Diagnose him."
"Understood."
Chiron took the unconscious boy's hand, checked his pulse, and then placed his hand on the boy's heart. Using his well-trained eyes as an archer, he thoroughly examined the homunculus's body.
"It seems that his magical circuits almost went out of control. I think when he broke that glass using magecraft, the residual mana caused turmoil in his veins. Additionally, there's another simple reason: overexertion."
"Overexertion?"
"I'm afraid he has never walked even once since birth. Today was likely the first time he stood under his power."
"I see, so he's like a newborn baby?"
Normally, homunculi are beings capable of activity from the moment they are created. If a homunculus is perfectly made, it wouldn't die due to a limited lifespan. However, perhaps due to distortions in its very creation, homunculi often possess many physical defects.
Perhaps this homunculus was born physically weak. He was likely created for supply purposes rather than for combat. Even though he possesses first-class magical circuits, he lacks the body to utilize them.
If he uses magecraft, even if the magic circuits can endure, his body cannot.
"As long as he doesn't use magecraft, he'll be fine, right?"
"That should be the case. But even so, living seriously will be very difficult. He probably only has about three years to live."
The room was enveloped in silence. Three years. Faced with this exceedingly cruel prognosis, even Astolfo's shoulders drooped.
After a while, Astolfo broke the tense silence.
"I've dirtied your bed. I'm very sorry."
"It's fine. But, may I ask a question? Why do you want to save him?"
Upon hearing Chiron's question, Astolfo responded without hesitation.
"Because I want to save him."
There was no force in his words. He simply wanted to save, and so he tried to save. It was simple and natural. Precisely because of this, it was an action that was difficult for anyone other than Astolfo to take.
"Caster seems to be chasing him, huh?"
"Ahaha, who cares about that?" Astolfo laughed, raising his hands in the air.
Though Chiron sighed, he also believed that Astolfo's judgment was surely correct.
Indeed, winning on the battlefield is important, but the current situation wasn't so dire that they had forgotten their duties as heroes. Saving him, letting him go—such things should be allowed and done.
"I'm going to leave the room for a while. No one should come, but even if someone knocks, don't respond."
"Thank you. Well then, let me stay here for a while."
Just before leaving the room, Chiron suddenly asked Astolfo:
"Do you intend to take responsibility until the end?"
Astolfo, upon being asked this, glanced at the homunculus lying on the bed. He recalled the weight of the body from earlier, so light it was despairing. The arms trembling as they protected his head were as thin as dry branches, with an innate frailty that made even walking uncertain.
Even if they successfully escaped from this fortress, it was hard to say whether he could continue living. Taking responsibility meant bearing the burden of his life. But regrettably, he couldn't accompany him for three years. Even if he wished to, the Holy Grail War wouldn't last that long. So, to what extent should he save him—to fulfill his desire to help?
Astolfo didn't know. When unsure, he had already decided to follow his heart. Protect him, help him fulfill his will.
"I'll help him until I deem it sufficient. I won't abandon him."
As soon as Chiron left the room, Astolfo placed his hand on the homunculus's forehead and whispered:
"Wake up. You've been awake for a while, haven't you?"
Upon hearing this, the homunculus opened his eyes, shakily raised his upper body, and gazed at Astolfo with eyes filled with unease. He looked just like a small animal with nowhere to escape, Astolfo thought.
"Hi."
Astolfo first tried to greet him but was met with silence.
"Um, uh."
"..."
"Well, what should I say, hm..."
"..."
Astolfo tilted his head. In times like this, what should he say to make him understand that they were allies? After hesitating for a moment, Astolfo wrapped his arms around the homunculus's head, pulling it towards his chest. Maintaining this position, Astolfo said:
"Do you understand now? There's no one here who will hurt you. I'm here to help fulfill your wishes."
"...?"
The homunculus didn't understand. What was Astolfo saying? He couldn't comprehend. It wasn't that he couldn't understand the words, but he couldn't grasp Astolfo's intent.
"Tell me your wish," Astolfo whispered in his ear.
The homunculus began to think. Wish, wish, wish—after all, did he even have the right to put his wish into words?
He had no power, no possessions, no accumulated history. He was merely a device for supplying mana, yet he had even abandoned that task.
However, he still had a desire that did not match his identity. It was a wish hidden within his body, a dream. He had never thought it could come true. But just saying it should be fine, he judged.
He opened his mouth, using the vocal organs he had hardly used until now. Despite the pain that accompanied the effort, he managed to say his "wish."
"Please, save me."
Astolfo, upon hearing this wish, responded in a cheerful tone:
"Got it. I will save you."
The speed was so immediate, it made one doubt if he had even thought it through. Unbelievable, the homunculus thought as he looked at Astolfo's face. Astolfo gave a carefree smile.
"You said 'Please save me,' right? I heard you. Don't look at me like that, I'm a Heroic Spirit too, you know. I will save you no matter what."
Will he save me? Will he fulfill my wish? Can I trust him?
No, that's not it. I want to trust him, the homunculus prayed.
To this homunculus, meeting the Black Rider—an impeccable warrior, Astolfo—right from the start, how fortunate was that?
Astolfo puffed out his chest and said:
"Alright, alright, let's first think together about how to save you. Ah, don't think it's best to leave everything to me alone. After all, when it comes to lack of judgment, no one can beat me, Astolfo!"
The homunculus widened his eyes and accepted Astolfo's words. His innocence, which made questioning his reliability seem foolish, moved the homunculus deeply.
On this day, fate began to take its steps forward.
P.S.: On this day, a boy met a girl... er, boy?