"Tell me, what are you?"
"..."
"...A hero."
"You repeat that as if you are some kind of machine, what do you mean by hero?"
"Someone who saves others."
"I feel as if you are dumbing it down on purpose. You are purposely not adding to your interpretation of that word, bug. Well, no matter, why are you a hero? Why do you strive to become a hero? What is your goal?"
"..."
"To help people."
"..."
"..."
D O N O T S P E A K T O M E, F I L T H Y L I A R.
The halls of Chaldea echoed with grunts and groans, reverberating like some primal chorus. A few heads turned towards the fervent sounds, curiosity piqued.
Others exchanged bewildered glances, silently questioning the ruckus.
"Ugyah!" "Wah!"
Was there a martial arts bout unfolding? A clash of fists and fury?
Nay, 'twas merely Juro, attempting to deadlift a weight far beyond his mortal capabilities – a whopping 215 pounds.
An endeavor so insane, so foolhardy, that even the most seasoned of strongmen would balk.
Across the room, Fujimaru Ritsuka sat, brow furrowed in a perplexed expression. His eyes darted between disbelief and awe, unsure whether to label the man before him as severely stupid or extremely ambitious.
"Are you okay there?"
"Wait, wait, wait!" Juro grunted, his strain palpable.
"I g-g-g-got it!"
Fujimaru arched a skeptical brow. "You sure?"
A barely perceptible shaking of the head served as Juro's affirmation, prompting Fujimaru to take a cautious step back.
"Wait! Don't go away!"
"Didn't you just tell me you were fine?"
"I meant no! No!!"
The weight, as if sensing Juro's momentary lapse in concentration, bore down upon him with the relentless force of gravity itself.
A girly scream tore from his throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable impact.
"Kyaaah!!"
Death by weight.
What an honorable death.
…
The world seemed to stand still for a moment.
Then, Juro's eyes flickered open, greeted by the sight of an arm clad in a skintight blue suit adorned with white lines.
"Only one person could wear such a stupid outfit!!"
"Cu!" Fujimaru exclaimed, recognizing the legendary hound of Ulster, the man who had died tying himself to a stone with his own guts in a display of sheer tenacity.
Cu Chulainn.
This was Fujimaru's servant, a figure plucked from the annals of Irish legend and thrust into their contemporary chaos.
A warrior renowned for his battle frenzy, yet one who inexplicably donned a skintight suit akin to those of modern superheroes.
Did they even wear skin tight suits in that era?
Five months had bled into Chaldea's sterile halls.
Fujimaru and Juro had already weathered two Singularities since Orleans.
The second crack in history yawned open in the Roman Empire of 60 AD.
Famous Roman emperor, Nero Claudius, wielding imperial haughtiness that stretched far beyond her (yes, "her") height, had been under assault from a barrage of fallen adversaries.
The culprit, a familiar face – Lev Lainur.
Apparently, messing with timelines was his new hobby. This time, he'd attempted to plant a rogue Grail in Nero's era, only to find a distinct lack of suitable "contractors." So, what's a crazy magus to do? Summon a legion of deceased Roman Emperors, of course. Then play a role as their advisor, manipulating them at every turn.
Talk about a power struggle for the history books.
Needless to say, the good guys won. Nero, despite her pint-sized stature, along with many other companions fought valiantly, leading them to victory.
Next stop: Okeanos, 1573.
An endless ocean stretched before Chaldea, a testament to a warped timeline. It turned out, Francis Drake (Who was also a woman, because of course), went a tad overboard on a seven-day voyage.
Apparently, she stumbled upon Atlantis and its grumpy overlord, Poseidon. A fight ensued, Drake somehow winning and claiming the real Holy Grail hidden within the sunken city.
Lev, then, had snuck another Grail into the mix, causing a celestial tug-of-war that birthed this endless ocean.
King David was the first Servant summoned. Soon after, the Argonauts, Hector of Troy, and the infamous Blackbeard materialized. Medea, had gotten pummeled by Lev and coerced into spreading misinformation amongst the Argonauts. She claimed sacrificing a god to the mythical Ark would grant them ultimate power.
Thankfully, Atalanta the huntress from greek myth, wasn't buying it. She stormed off, eventually bumping into David and spilling the beans about Jason's twisted plan. Meanwhile, Hector, the same enemy of Achilles, double-crossed Blackbeard. He "gifted" the rogue Grail to the pirate captain, who promptly used it to summon a motley crew of Servants (Euryale, anyone?).
Needless to say, Chaldea emerged victorious once more. The endless ocean receded, and history (mostly) righted itself.
But one thing was certain – Lev Lainur was a persistent thorn in Chaldea's ass.
Juro stopped thinking for a moment as flashing images began scattering across his mindscape.
There was one thing, however…
Towering monstrosities, the Demon God pillars, loomed before him.
The memories of seeing them for the first time was clearer than even the most detailed of pictures.
Their grotesque forms were stitched together from countless decaying bodies, pulsating with an evil energy. Hundreds of glowing red eyes glared down at him, their hunger sending shivers down his spine. The very air seemed to groan under their oppressive presence.
The sheer scale of them…
The giant yellow eyes that stared at him…
The moaning of the corpses…
Panic threatened to overwhelm Juro, but then, with a familiar mental click, a wave of calmness washed over him.
It was a box, a mental container, a shield against overwhelming emotions.
It was also a double-edged sword; while it protected him from debilitating fear in the face of such monstrosities, it also blurred the details of past encounters, leaving only hazy memories.
Juro's memory of most of the events were hazy and fragmented. He grasped at key details, the remnants of a storm that had passed.
Yet, he hadn't allowed himself to dwell on it.
Was this numbness normal? Was he supposed to be a wreck of emotions? Was he supposed to remember each and every event?
Apparently not.
He just…went along with it. Like a piece of driftwood tossed by the waves, no control, just the relentless current. Occasionally, a thought would pierce the surface: what if things were different? What if…?
A sigh escaped Juro's lips as he sat up on the weight bench.
"Thanks, Cu," he muttered, "almost became paste there. Your uncanny sense of danger saved the day, I guess."
Not even responding, Cu, with a hearty smile plastered on his face, breezed by with a VR headset in hand.
"That's not even close to the reason he showed up!!"
Chaldea's advanced VR consoles served as a training ground for Servants – honing skills, battling each other, or simply existing in a simulated reality.
Speaking of Servants…
Mash's shield, along with some tweaking from Chaldea, could pull any Heroic Spirit. A gamble, each roll of the dice a mystery. Juro had summoned 13 Servants, while Fujimaru amassed 15.
Da Vinci had explained the process for it, But Juro mostly tuned out of it. The only thing he could remember was hitting the ground from his slumber.
Ordinarily, a single Master would contract with a single Servant, supplying them with magical energy. Chaldea, however, had devised a system capable of sustaining hundreds of these spectral warriors within its walls.
It provided mana to as many as hundreds of servants.
Just five months ago, these halls were empty. Now, they teemed with what amounted to glorified fighting ghosts. A bizarre situation indeed.
No, what was weird was the fact that Juro was okay with glorified human Bokemon walking around.
The wall opposite the room was lined with sleek white VR headsets, each emblazoned with Chaldea's insignia.
Juro grimaced.
The facility rarely saw the gym used, so they'd haphazardly scattered a few machines across the VR room.
Only Juro and Fujimaru bothered to work out – maintaining their physical fitness was crucial when traversing Singularities that often spanned entire countries.
Seriously, was putting the headsets in another room too hard?
"Well, off to fish! Catch you later!" The blue-haired man announced, waving his headset before disappearing out the door.
What he meant by 'fishing' was hopping on the simulator, and sitting there for hours, waiting for a pull.
"Seriously, that guy…" Fujimaru sighed, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Good session though, squash almost-death aside," Juro conceded, taking a swig of water.
Fujimaru nodded, grabbing his gym bag. He then sniffed his shirt, causing his face to grimace.
"...I'm gonna go take a shower. See you in a bit."
"...No congrats? I mean I just lifted 215 pounds!"
"Oh yeah, congrats!"
"Was that sarcasm, Fujimaru!?!"
Juro watched him leave, then walked to the large mirror in the center of the room.
"Try not to get too swooned by yourself!"
Fujimaru's voice echoed from the doorway.
Juro scoffed, a laugh escaping his lips.
But then, Fujimaru's head popped back in.
"Oh, and we're going for a Rayshift in the next few hours. So make your way to the control room by that time."
"Got it. See you there."
With a hiss, the automatic doors shut.
Alone in the vast room, the hum of the lights and the sterile white walls were his only companions. Once jarring, the constant white had become a dull comfort.
Juro flexed his arm in the mirror.
Damn, he was in good shape.
Defined muscles, not bulky, but with a lean, healthy build. This was a testament to his dedication.
This kind of physique wasn't achieved easily. A six-pack wasn't a reward for a week of boulder-pulling and shouting like how it was commonly portrayed in media.
It was a long, tedious process – calorie counting, portion control, and unwavering consistency. A balance of strength training and cardio, a commitment spanning months. It instilled discipline, and a healthy lifestyle.
Juro was a little shocked that he had gotten in shape this good, however.
He wasn't exactly an exercise enthusiast before Chaldea.
He played basketball in high school, but that was the extent of it. Middle school track ended with a fractured foot and a sour taste in his mouth after only 3 days.
He was more of a…sit-and-exist kind of guy. Average in everything – friends, strength, stamina, grades. He was extremely average.
Average..
He hated that word.
Just another face in the crowd, someone you'd pass on the street without a second glance.
Unlike a beautiful woman or a muscular man, he wouldn't even register.
The usual trope of the ordinary protagonist never quite fit Juro. Usually, said 'ordinary protagonist' had at least some unique qualities.
But he didn't.
He possessed no remarkable qualities. Magecraft had changed things, but even that had become normalized.
Takahashi Juro was so normal it was abnormal.
He was…ignored, oblivious to his own life.
But…
He shook his head. Time to shut down the negativity. Right now, all he could do was ride the current.
A stray thought flickered across his mind. His hair, long past his ears. He'd tried growing it out, but the constant sweat and the need to keep it out of his face were annoying.
"Guess it's haircut time," he muttered as he twirled a strand around.
Grabbing his bag, he sighed, a gust of air escaping his lips like a deflating balloon.
This was his life now. Honestly, the initial excitement of moving somewhere new had worn off. It followed the same script every time: a brief honeymoon phase, a bout of homesickness, then a gradual settling in. But after that, a strange thing happened.
The warmth of your old house, the one that cradled you in familiarity, would slowly recede, replaced grain by grain by the new environment. Your old home would become a cherished memory, a museum exhibit of a life once lived, while the new place, with all its quirks and imperfections, would become your reality.
Right now, Chaldea was slowly usurping that feeling of being his new home. Well, at least until he stopped humanity's incineration.
Wow, even the thought of it felt surreal.
Here he was, a regular guy thrust into the role of humanity's savior. Fujimaru had been skittish at first, but he'd settled in, content with survival as his primary goal.
At least it was something.
Juro, on the other hand... did he even have a goal?
Be a hero, right?
Right?
A nervous chuckle escaped his lips.
"Obviously!"
Juro practically laughed to himself, the sound echoing faintly in the sterile hallway, as he walked towards the automatic doors.
With a hiss, they slid open, revealing a bustling corridor that stretched out before him like an endless possibility.
As he turned a corner, he was met with a sight that had become both familiar and strange: Servants.
Ugh, that word still left a bad taste in his mouth.
Living in the 21st century, Juro couldn't quite wrap his head around the whole master-servant thing.
It felt like something out of a fantasy novel, not real life, let alone his own. He tended to treat them more like equals, friends, acquaintances.
Walking past, most of them greeted him with a wave or a smile. When he'd first summoned them, their attire had been...interesting, to say the least. Some sported outfits that belonged more in a cosplay convention than a clandestine organization dedicated to saving humanity.
Tight bodysuits with gleaming armor and flowing robes. Heroic spirits, he thought with a sigh, should have a better sense of fashion.
Now wasn't the time to get hung up on the fashion choices of literal dead people.
Before his thoughts could spiral any further, a hand landed on his shoulder with a force that could only belong to one person.
It was a large, meaty hand, the kind that spoke volumes about the muscles strapped to it.
"Hey, Master! I was wondering- Woah! You've been getting bigger!"
The voice boomed, a deep rumble that sent shivers down Juro's spine.
Fergus mac Róich (Juro had tried to say that 5 times fast before), foster father of Cu Chulainn, King of Ulster.
Juro spun around, meeting the gaze of a towering figure.
Fergus stood easily a foot taller than Juro, who himself wasn't exactly short at 1.83 meters. But Fergus was built like a battering ram – pure, unadulterated muscle that strained beneath his bare chest.
Purple hair, a shade that wouldn't have looked out of place in a neon nightclub, slicked back in a stylish undercut.
Juro couldn't help but wonder – did Celtic warriors even have undercuts? The question seemed absurd next to the warrior's imposing presence.
His eyes traveled upwards, searching for Fergus' gaze. The man's head seemed perpetually tilted slightly down, perhaps a consequence of his immense height.
This, coupled with his perpetually crinkled brow, often gave the impression his tiny, squinting eyes were permanently closed. Juro squinted himself, briefly wondering if they were shut even now.
The man whose epic tale reeked of heroism and treachery in equal measure. Upon meeting him, however, Juro had discovered a completely different side to the legendary warrior. Fergus was as generous as he was imposing, always willing to lend a helping hand.
Juro remembered the time he'd enlisted Fergus' help moving some furniture.
He'd handed him a couch to hold for a moment while he fetched some tools, only to get sidetracked for a good six hours. When he finally returned, expecting the worst, he found Fergus standing there, a giant grin plastered on his face, the couch held up high with effortless ease.
Enough gushing about his strength, Juro reminded himself.
The man was a notorious ladies' man, a walking stereotype that never failed to make Juro cringe.
Juro raised an eyebrow.
"Oh yeah, I've been hitting the gym. Haven't you noticed?"
"Gym, huh?" Fergus rumbled, noncommittal. "You look good, Master. Real good."
His gaze, however, seemed to linger a beat too long on a passing female Chaldean staffer.
"He ogles at women even when someone's talking to him!!"
The guy was a walking cliché – that friend a few years older who always had a girlfriend but still couldn't resist flirting with every girl in sight. Seriously, was this a heroic spirit or a walking anime trope?
"To be perfectly honest, Master," Fergus continued, oblivious to Juro's internal monologue, "I don't find the gym all that useful. Back in my time..."
"This is one of those times where those words are actually relevant, isn't it?"
Fergus chuckled, the sound booming through the sterile hallway.
"In those days, warriors honed their bodies through wrestling, constant combat, and the overall demands of a warrior's life." He flexed his impressive biceps with a smirk. "We also used to go on long runs for hours on end! A true test of a warrior's spirit and camaraderie!"
Juro's lips twitched.
"Alright, Fergus."
"Let's ditch Chaldea and head outside into the endless void for one of those legendary bonding runs of yours. See who lasts longer!"
Fergus' eyes widened momentarily.
"Really? Let's go then!"
"Hell No!!! I just want you to pick up the fact that I'm being sarcastic so you can go away!!"
_______________________________________________________________________
Juro sighed as he looked at the Bathroom mirror, the cool metal reflecting his tired face.
Scratching under his chin, his hand prickled against the stubble that bristled like an unwelcome guest.
To be honest, he loved beards, but found that taking care of another patch of hair was just another waiting issue, especially if he was running around singularities constantly.
Maybe he'd grow it out later.
Tapping the small button on the mirror opened it up, revealing a treasure trove of hair and skincare products.
A faint scent of lavender wafted from the shaving cream as he lathered it on, the cool cream momentarily soothing the scratchy irritation.
He took a deep breath and reached for the clippers.
Juro might have had an average look, but it wasn't like he was trying to cultivate that. Self-care was important, a facade maybe, but a necessary one in a world of first impressions.
Even a murderer needed to look presentable, even if it was just for show.
The first look someone would get at you would dictate their thoughts of you for the rest of your life. (At least until they got to know you.)
The famous quote, "Never judge a book by its cover." was a good one that taught people, but it wasn't like a vast majority of people followed that quote.
Humans inherently are judgy.
If one saw a man holding a machete in one hand with a gun in the other, the first thought would be: "This man is dangerous, I better not approach."
But if one saw a handsome man with swept, neatly combed hair, in a nice, ironed suit, he would immediately register as someone you could approach.
But the quote was always right.
The man with a gun could be a nice man who was simply an officer undercover looking for a criminal.
The handsome man could be a serial killer searching for his next victim.
Long story short, looks were important, but to an extent.
No matter how much you tell people, however, they will always follow looks first.
This is human nature.
With a practiced hand (though not a barber's), he began shaving the bottom half of his hair, the clippers buzzing rhythmically. Juro wasn't exactly the best at giving his own haircuts, but Luca had taught him a thing or two.
Luca.
Damn, he missed him.
He didn't even give him a proper goodbye. The last time he saw his friend, it had ended on a sour note. A knot of tension formed in his stomach.
He needed to fix that. After all this was over, his priority was to apologize.
Looking back at the mirror, Juro swept his hair back with a comb, a few strands stubbornly falling over his forehead.
"Looking...not bad."
He'd have to check the undercut in the back later, hoping his self-barbering skills hadn't betrayed him.
Juro glanced at his phone.
12 minutes.
12 minutes before the next training session.
Training session.
A necessity in this chaotic mess.
These weren't history books they were flipping through - these were very real nightmares, with skeletons, ghosts, and who knew what else lurking around every corner.
Servants, sure, they were the best form of defense, but there was always that one "what if?"
What if a stray skeleton snuck past the defense and lopped your head off?
Training was the shield against that "what if?"
Training was the difference between a clean dodge and a severed head.
Living with heroic spirits was a double-edged sword. Sure, they were legendary warriors and mages, but that meant their standards were legendary too.
Juro yearned to just sprawl on the couch all day, but his father's words echoed in his mind:
"Just get it over with."
If you didn't like something, just get it over with so you don't have to do it any longer.
Procrastinating was a losing battle.
Flip the switch, and step out the door. Training awaited.
And that was what he did.
_
"Clack! Crack!"
The sharp sounds of bamboo echoed through the small dojo, punctuated by the rhythmic creak of feet shuffling across the polished wood floor.
Juro gripped the shinai tightly, his opponent resolutely standing in front of him.
Her beauty was undeniable - bright green eyes framed by a blonde bun wrapped by a blue bow, a single rebellious strand escaping.
Yet, the intensity blazing in her gaze held his full attention.
Juro took a slow, deep breath, willing his racing heart to calm.
This was kendo.
A modern Japanese sport that preserved the ancient "way of the sword." sacred to the Japanese.
As for the purpose:
To mold the mind and body.
To cultivate a vigorous spirit
And through correct and structured training,
To strive for improvement in the art of Kendo.
To hold in esteem courtesy and honor.
To associate with others with sincerity.
And to forever pursue the cultivation of oneself.
Thus will one be able:
To love one's country and society;
To contribute to the development of culture;
And to promote peace and prosperity among all people
Chaldea coincidentally had a Dojo where servants could train.
However, it lacked the traditional Japanese attire as well as many other tools.
Juro stood in a black shirt and grey slacks, facing his opponent clad in a simple long-sleeved shirt and a blue skirt, along with a blue bow in the chest area.
The two circled around each other, both looking for the perfect moment to strike.
Juro held the shinai in one hand.
He favored speed over brute force, a strategy honed through countless hours of one-handed kendo practice. The initial burn on his forearms was long gone, replaced by a dull ache that throbbed with every swing.
One-handed strikes were faster, yes, but woefully lacking in power against a two-handed opponent.
That was soon evident as Juro attempted to sweep her legs with the shinai, but she immediately blocked it.
Frustration gnawed at him. He knew the theory - watch your opponent, maintain an unfavorable distance for the opponent, parry and riposte.
Yet, every attempt felt like swatting a fly with a feather duster against the whirlwind of attacks managed by the legendary swordsman, or at least, swordswoman in front of him.
Who was this whirlwind of skill and strategy facing him?
None other than King Arthur... a woman.
Yes, the legendary King Arthur, the symbol of peace and countless victories, stood before him, not in shining armor, but wielding a simple bamboo sword with the grace of a seasoned warrior.
Juro thought back to his initial shock when he'd first summoned her.
He knew that human history was often a mystery, but how many historical figures were actually girls?!
Seriously, historians were really doing a lousy job!
Honestly, the shock wasn't really a jaw-dropper anymore.
Her name was Artoria Pendragon, and right now, Juro felt like a toothpick facing a Excalibur-shaped fly swatter.
Despite the height difference, Artoria, in all senses of the word, whooped his ass.
Shuffling towards her again, Juro launched a desperate attack, a wide arc hoping to catch her off guard.
"Crack!"
Juro's shinai stopped halfway through, refusing to go any further.
With a firm push, his sword went the other way.
Despite her two handing her sword…
"Kh! Shit-!"
Hard bamboo struck against his face, sending him flying backward with a similar motion to a bamboo copter.
"Ugyah!"
"She's so fast!"
Juro slammed against the wall with a loud thud.
As he slumped down, he groaned, gingerly rubbing his jaw.
"Seriously, Artoria," he winced, "ease up a bit, will ya?"
Artoria slowly walked over to him and offered him a hand to rise.
"My apologies, Master. It appears I overestimated your current resilience. I will endeavor to be more...gentle in our next bout."
Juro grumbled, accepting her soft hand and dusting himself off.
"Sheesh, thanks. Makes me feel much better – But I can't help but feel like I just lowered the difficulty."
"There is no shame in learning, Master. Your progress is undeniable. When we first began these duels, you swung that kendo sword like... forgive my bluntness, but like a man who had never even held a spoon before, let alone a weapon."
"The emphasis on my novice skills is killing me, Artoria!!"
"However," Artoria continued.
"I see glimmers of improvement in your technique. I have witnessed many one-handed swordsmen, most relying on exploiting weaknesses in their opponent's defenses. You, however, employ a more...dynamic approach. You shuffle around the mat overwhelming your opponent with aggression."
She raised her own shinai.
"While aggression can be a powerful tool if wielded correctly, Master, it must be tempered with strategy and discipline. Uncontrolled aggression leads to wasted energy and leaves you vulnerable to counter-attacks. We will focus on defense next time, on deflecting blows and conserving your stamina for the opportune moment to strike."
Juro grinned, a lopsided one that favored the un-bruised side of his face.
"Thanks, Artoria. Now, let's see if I can avoid getting pasted in less than 40 seconds this time."
With newfound determination (or perhaps misplaced optimism), Juro assumed his stance.
Shinai held high, he mirrored Artoria's focus.
The next 20 seconds were a blur of deflected strikes and desperate lunges.
https://i.imgur.com/9bnnqHI.png
(Please open the image above to fully enhance the scene.)
Then, with a satisfying whack to his shoulder, Juro found himself sprawled on the dojo floor once more.
"Yeah, there's no denying it…" Juro began with a smile.
"I'M TOTALLY SHIT!!"
______________
Romani Archaman, Chaldea's Head Chair bathed in the soft glow of his monitor, munched on a donut with an uncharacteristic lack of decency.
His legs were propped on the control room console.
The 30-year-old man was giggling to himself as he clicked at the screen which was specifically catered to dealing with singularities and other things of that caliber.
There, plastered across the screen in all its glory, was a cutesy anime mascot, complete with magical girl attire and cat ears.
"Wow Archaman-chan! You've managed to get this far as the savior of humanity! You really are amazing!"
The voice was extremely high-pitched and reverberated across the control room.
Obviously, if anyone was still in there, Romani would have had a more stern face than a rock, but right now, it was empty, and he could do whatever he felt like.
Romani grinned.
"No it's all thanks to you Magi☆Mari, without you-"
The doors to the control room in the far back hissed open.
A strangled gurgle escaped Romani's throat as the donut lodged itself stubbornly in his windpipe.
A frantic scramble ensued – a desperate attempt to close the offending tab and assume a mask of professionalism.
The walk from the door to where he was was a little over 13 feet, so he had tim-
"What are you doing?" A female voice asked, prompting him to fall off the chair.
Romani looked up at the person and sighed.
Da Vinci.
"Why'd you feel the need to sneak up on me..?" Romani groaned.
"Well, you seemed rather...entertained by whatever you were looking at. Curiosity got the better of me."
Romani winced as he cast a forlorn glance at the donut, now a casualty of his near-exposure.
Da Vinci smiled, oblivious to the sugary sacrifice on the floor.
"Well," she said, her voice bouncing cheerfully in the sterile control room, "it's time we get ready to Rayshift to the next singularity, don't you think?"
"Ah yes, It's been a month since Okeanos, right?"
"Exactly."
Da Vinci sauntered towards the computer, her eyes catching the tail end of the chibi-anime girl on the screen.
Romani braced himself, a wave of heat washing over his face.
Da Vinci turned, a knowing glint in her eye. He offered her a sheepish grin, the weight of his secret settling back into his stomach.
With a click, the map of singularities materialized on the large control room screen. Only four red dots pulsed ominously, a stark reminder of their dwindling time.
"Romani, are all the Rayshift systems operational?"
"Diagnostics are complete," he confirmed as he stood up, dusting his shoulders.
"Everything's green for launch."
Da Vinci hummed, tapping her finger against the screen. A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"We have two Masters, Romani," she finally said, her voice low and measured. "Wouldn't it be faster, more efficient, to send them to separate singularities?"
"That would be faster than our current rate, but... no, that'd be too risky!"
"Come on, Romani, they both have a group of servants, they'd be able to handle it."
Romani hesitated for a moment.
Each of those two masters were extremely valuable. After all, strength in numbers worked, didn't it? But, fixing the foundation of humanity would be expedited if they split up.
The screen flashed to Fujimaru doing sit-ups in his room, and Juro sparring with Artoria.
"They've grown," Da Vinci began.
"They aren't the same ordinary people from when they first started just a few months ago. I can see the change in them. Takahashi is extremely physically gifted and can hold his own. Fujimaru is well-coordinated with his servants and is quite the commander. You need to let them show their strengths on their own, Romani."
Romani kept his eyes downcast for a moment.
"..."
"...The thing about Juro is that he's too brash, too abrasive. He's always throwing himself into situations that get him emotional. Fujimaru is there to balance him out."
"But that was back in Orleans, he hasn't done that since. If he hasn't done it for this long, I doubt he'll do it again."
"..."
"I've upgraded the Chaldea Observer, we can now track virtually everything about him, his location, his vitals."
Romani sighed.
The world's greatest inventor smiled at him.
"Alright, then, let's get to it."
Romani felt a little conflicted after all the things Juro had done in Orleans, and was a little cautious, but felt that at this point, the two of them might have grown a little.
He just hoped that Juro wouldn't jump at anything that made him angry.
____________________________________________________________________________
Juro groaned as he stretched his arm, feeling the satisfying burn from their training session. Artoria stood across from him, graceful as ever, placing her shinai on the racks against the wall.
"Well, good session, right?" Juro asked with a lopsided grin.
"..Despite the fact that I got absolutely dunked on."
"Yes, it has been a good one," Artoria replied softly, settling onto the mat in a Seiza position, her posture poised and graceful.
Juro rubbed the back of his neck, contemplating.
It was about lunchtime. Usually, after training, he would head straight to the cafeteria, eager to refuel his body. Depending on the offerings, he might either grab a plate or sneak into the prepping room to cook his own meal.
His usual fare consisted of simple yet hearty dishes like grilled meat and assorted vegetables. Thanks to his experience running a bakery shop, Juro had developed a knack for cooking.
However, he couldn't shake the peculiar observation he had made over the past few days. Despite the bustling activity in the cafeteria, Artoria always remained alone in the dojo, sitting quietly at her chosen spot.
Juro took a glance at her.
Her presence was striking, almost ethereal. Her face was luminous, with porcelain skin, piercing green eyes, and hair like spun gold, neatly tied in a bun.
Though he considered himself an average person, Juro couldn't help but marvel at her beauty.
Yet, he also noticed that other servants exuded a similar allure.
Weren't beauty standards different back then?
As Juro observed Artoria, he noticed her sitting with her eyes closed, as if in serene contemplation, completely unperturbed by the activity around her.
Other servants seemed to love the act of dining together, joining the Chaldea staff in the communal meals.
A nagging thought tugged at Juro's mind.
Could it be...
Was Artoria too modest, refraining from requesting food out of respect?
She needed food, didn't she?
With a sigh, Juro hung his shinai on the rack, deciding to act on his intuition.
Maybe he should bring her something to eat, just in case.
"Alright, I'll be going. See ya tomorrow, Artoria,"
Artoria let out a prim wave as he exited the room.
The hallway stretched before him, a pristine path flanked by rows of doors leading to various rooms and facilities. Chaldea staff members hurried past, their footsteps echoing off the polished floors.
Some were engaged in animated conversations, while others moved with purpose, focused solely on their tasks.
Amidst the bustling crowd, Juro spotted a few Chaldea staff engaged in lively discussions, their colorful attire standing out against the clinical backdrop.
With his hands tucked behind his head, Juro cruised down the corridor, a casual whistle escaping his lips. The rhythm of his steps merged with the symphony of movement around him.
As he walked, his gaze drifted to a lone figure walking beside him. She wore a black bomber jacket, along with black denim shorts.
'If you were going to wear a jacket, why bring shorts!?'
Her short silver hair framed her delicate, but sharp pale features, cascading elegantly over her shoulders.
A playful cowlick added a touch of charm to her appearance.
She also looked suspiciously similar to Artoria, well, her face at least.
Jeanne d'Arc Alter. The 'evil' one.
Well, a different iteration from the one he encountered before.
A shiver coursed down Juro's spine.
This feeling enveloped him every time he was in her presence.
This altered Jeanne d'Arc was not the one he had faced in battle in Orleans, the one whose presence had ignited a storm of rage within him.
No, this was a different Jeanne, untouched by the turmoil of their previous encounter.
But despite the fact that she was unfamiliar with him, Juro couldn't shake the memories that lingered in the back of his mind.
His breathing began to accelerate, slowly, gradually.
Before his emotions could spiral out of control, he lightly brushed his hands against the mental box in his head.
Regaining his composure, Juro approached her with a forced smile.
"Oi, Jeanne, how's it been?"
He faked his enthusiasm.
Jeanne met his gaze with sharp, yellow eyes, her expression tinged with annoyance.
"Seriously, you piss me off. Quit bothering me and scram."
With that, she quickened her pace, leaving Juro standing there.
Regret gnawed at him for killing the previous Jeanne in orleans. But this one, a fabrication of the Holy Grail, wasn't truly her.
Relief washed over him at that time – his crime was erased.
Yet, a hollowness lingered. It felt like stealing from a stranger, only to have a look-alike relative inherit your guilt. You apologize, but they're clueless.
Juro sighed. This 'bitchy' Jeanne, his actual servant, was a fiery handful. Patience was key, or she'd unleash a torrent of insults. Treating her like a mental asylum patient was literally the best thing he could do.
He navigated the corridor, entering the bustling cafeteria. Friendly faces greeted him – Chaldea staff and Servants alike.
"Takahashi! Good afternoon! New haircut I see?" boomed a cheerful staff member with a ponytail.
"Hey Master, over here!" A boisterous call came from Hector of Troy, the towering figure with a distinctive brown beard, who stood up from his seat.
Fergus chimed in, "Nah, join me for a drink instead!"
"Quiet men! Let him choose his own seat! Preferably next to me, of course!"
Juro shuddered.
Kiyohime…
He plastered on a smile and waved, maneuvering towards the food line while dodging friendly barrages.
Here, he was surprisingly popular – a far cry from his low-key school days. Being a Chaldea Master, humanity's last hope, had propelled him into the spotlight, alongside Fujimaru.
Their popularity stemmed from a dire situation. Juro possessed a rare aptitude for being a Master.
He and Fujimaru shouldered the burden of summoning Heroic Spirits, a task originally meant for forty-nine others.
Tragically, those potential Masters were critically injured or frozen in stasis, leaving the fate of humanity in the hands of these two.
Juro sighed and shuffled towards his fellow black-haired Master, Fujimaru, who rested his chin on his hand, eyeing the questionable spread of food in front of them with suspicion.
"Yo. Fujimaru." he said, tapping his shoulder, "what food we got today?"
Fujimaru grimaced.
"Honestly, I'm not sure it qualifies as food..."
Juro's face practically contorted as his eyes lay on the brown sludge with various pieces of who knew what sticking out of it.
"What... is this supposed to be edible?"
He peered over the table, searching for a familiar face who could at least tell him what this was.
There, he spotted a man in an apron – tall, around 187 centimeters, with slicked-back white hair.
This was EMIYA, his Heroic Spirit and, more importantly, a culinary master. Juro wasn't sure about EMIYA's past life, but his cooking and archery skills were undeniable.
"EMIYA!" Juro called out, waving him over.
EMIYA approached, wiping his hands on a nearby towel.
"What's the issue, Master?"
Juro squinted at the dubious dishes. "Listen, your cooking is fantastic as always, but... is this stuff gone bad?"
Emiya chuckled. "Nah, that's just Corned Beef Hash. Looks a little rough, I'll admit."
Fujimaru raised an eyebrow.
"Well, if EMIYA made it, it can't be that bad, right?"
Juro watched with a mix of apprehension and curiosity as Fujimaru hesitantly took a bite. His eyes widened in surprise.
"Whoa! This is actually good!"
Juro turned to EMIYA, a bewildered expression on his face. "What is it exactly?"
"Just what the name says," EMIYA explained. "Diced-up corned beef and corn with various other vegetables, fried together. It's known for being visually and nasally unappealing, but trust me, it's a delicious dish."
Juro nodded, cautiously taking a bite himself. His eyes widened in agreement.
Juro closed his eyes, savoring the explosion of textures and flavors on his tongue. The potato and beef yielded effortlessly, dissolving into a savory, meaty cloud.
Yet, amidst this melt-in-your-mouth tenderness, a chorus of tiny rebels emerged – the diced onions.
They provided a delightful pop, a necessary counterpoint to the rich softness, ensuring the entire experience wasn't mush. It was a culinary song, each element playing its part in perfect harmony.
The seasoning was a revelation. The salt, applied with the precision of a master artist, danced across his taste buds, coaxing out the natural sweetness of the corn and the umami depth of the beef. It wasn't an overpowering punch, but rather a subtle whisper, urging the other ingredients to shine.
And then there was the zest, a citrusy whisper that lingered on his tongue, adding a touch of brightness that cut through the richness and kept him coming back for more.
"..."
"...Wow, you weren't kidding. This is pretty good."
"Judging by the facial expressions you were making, I expected you to go on a wild tangent, but thank you, Master."
"You've gotta give me the recipe for this," Juro mumbled between bites.
"How do you manage to make such good meals every time?" Fujimaru asked as he too, devoured the dish.
"It's really just stir-fried vegetables with an extra step..." EMIYA admitted, scratching the back of his head.
"Well—" Juro started, then stopped abruptly.
A certain King of Knights suddenly came to mind, a pang of guilt replacing his enjoyment of the meal.
"Thanks for the food!" he shouted over his shoulder, already hurrying away towards the dojo, holding another plate in hand.
EMIYA watched him go, eyebrow raised.
"Where'd he rush off to?"
Fujimaru held up the empty plate with a satisfied grin.
"More, please!"
_____________________________________________________________
Juro, now at a leisurely pace, juggled two plates of hash.
The aroma, while objectively unpleasant to most, was strangely comforting to him after EMIYA's reassurance.
Suddenly, a figure slammed into his chest, nearly sending the precariously balanced plates flying.
"Guha!"
Juro grunted, wrestling the plates back into control.
He scowled down to see a figure that mirrored Artoria in every way except for a crucial detail – or rather, two very prominent details.
A red tech jacket screamed modern teenager, contrasting sharply with the booty shorts that left little to the imagination.
"Ah, Master! I was just looking for you!" Nero's voice, far from the regal pronouncements of the legendary empress, was a high-pitched chirp that made Juro wince.
This flamboyant imposter, Nero Claudius, shared Artoria's face with a few key differences– a blatant disregard for appropriate attire, and an ego that could rival a star.
Literally.
This was not the same Nero he had met in Septem, but he could get along with her just fine.
"Glad you found me, Nero," Juro began, "but I'm currently on a delivery mission."
Nero's emerald eyes narrowed, landing on the unappetizing hash.
"Uwah! What in the world is that monstrosity?"
"It's… uh… a delicacy best admired from afar."
He practically skipped past her.
"Wait, Master!" Nero's voice called after him. "Are you delivering that... thing... to that other servant who rivals my beauty?"
Juro froze.
This was getting ridiculous.
He just wanted to-
"I feel it's my duty to introduce myself," Nero declared, striking a dramatic pose. "To see the face that has captured your attention! Perhaps it is a face that radiates pure beauty!"
"Oh no, no-" Juro began.
Before he could explain, Nero cut him off.
"Oh, and have you gotten a haircut? I preferred it when it was longer."
"Does she ever run out of gas!? It's like living with a hyperactive squirrel hopped up on pixie sticks!!"
"But no matter! Let us venture forth together!"
"I humbly decline!!"
"Are you shy, Master? Perhaps you yearn for a private moment with the fair maiden? Ah, love's tender flame is so beautiful!"
"How you leaped to that conclusion is a complete mystery!!"
"Then perhaps your affections lie with yours truly~" She smiled slyly. "It's only natural, after all this time together! Come let us go!"
"I refuse."
Juro groaned as Nero theatrically clutched her chest.
"Alas! My heart crumbles under the weight of rejection!"
Nero wasn't inherently bad, but at this rate, his food would be a fossil by the time he ate it.
Frankly, the thought of Artoria eating lukewarm food was as unappetizing as the temperature itself.
"Look," he sighed. "I just wanted to bring some food to Artoria. Lately, I've noticed she eats alone inside the dojo."
"Ah, I understand then, Master. Carry on!" Nero chirped, skipping off with surprising ease.
"Ah, she left so easily."
A pang of guilt stabbed at Juro for dismissing her so readily.
Shrugging it off, he entered the dojo to find Artoria sitting motionless, her gaze fixed on the floor. She looked positively ethereal, almost doll-like.
A gentle knock on the doorframe drew her attention. "Ah, Master. What brings you here?"
_
Juro sat across from her, his own meal in hand. "So, I noticed you haven't been joining the others for meals lately. Don't you get hungry?"
"No," Artoria replied politely. "Servants like myself don't require sustenance in the same way humans do. The mana Chaldea supplies is sufficient."
Juro blinked.
"Wait, so... you eat for enjoyment?"
"Yes, Master."
Juro groaned, slapping his forehead.
"Ugh, now I feel like an idiot, sorry."
"There's no need to apologize, Master. I appreciate your concern." She gestured to the plate in front of her. "Thank you for bringing this."
Juro's eyes widened as he noticed half the food was already gone. It had barely been a minute.
"Is it good?" he asked, surprised by her sudden burst of enthusiasm.
He was also quite surprised by how she didn't even question the look or the smell of it.
Artoria, ever graceful, devoured the meal with surprising efficiency. Juro couldn't help but chuckle—she reminded him of a squirrel diligently storing nuts for winter.
"Well, you seem busy enough," he mumbled, leaning back against the wall.
Juro knew lying down right after eating was a health hazard, but a wave of comfortable contentment washed over him.
This was the life he'd grown accustomed to at Chaldea, well at least when he wasn't running around singularities.
He had a familiar routine, a place where he belonged. Here, he could finish a meal after training in the morning, unwind in his room, watch TV, hang out with the other Servants, or simply lose himself in a video game.
Something however, propelled him to ask a question.
"Hey, Artoria…"
Juro swore he saw the strand of hair on top of her hair stand straight.
"What makes someone... righteous? A hero? A good person?"
Takahashi felt that this was literally one of the best people to ask this question.
Someone who lived a noble life and had been a just and fair ruler. She was a heroic spirit for a reason, wasn't she?
She was the prime person to ask this question.
"..."
Artoria's gaze drifted upwards, lingering on the ceiling for a moment. "I believe," she finally spoke, her voice soft yet firm, "that a righteous hero, a true knight, is one who relinquishes their emotions for the greater good."
Takahashi Juro's eyes widened.
His mind stopped for a moment.
The urge to spring up and stare at her in disbelief was strong, but he remained glued to the spot.
"Humans," Artoria continued, "can be monstrous creatures, capable of unimaginable cruelty. They can and will commit acts that defy comprehension. Yet, the duty of a knight, what you might call a 'hero,' is to be a beacon of honor and purity on the battlefield, to inspire the masses with their unwavering virtue. To rekindle the embers of good within these 'monsters,' to remind them of their capacity for compassion." She paused, her expression resolute. "I believe everyone possesses the potential for good, even those who have strayed from the path. Of course, punishment for their misdeeds must come first."
Takahashi remained silent, his brow furrowed. This was the ideology of the legendary King. The purest ideal, no doubt.
Who was he to question it?
But...a nagging doubt persisted. He couldn't reconcile the notion of abandoning emotions entirely.
Takahashi was, by nature, a man guided by his emotions.
When his grandfather had instructed him to suppress his feelings, doubt had gnawed at him. His first Singularity, a testament to that failure.
No harm befell him when he chose to feel. Perhaps his grandfather's words were merely the ramblings of an old man.
The only emotions Juro craved were the negative ones, the very power his box within his mind promised to refine. With that control, he could achieve happiness.
But to be a hero...
Hero...the very word felt hollow on his tongue.
No.
This was his goal, his purpose. This was why he fought…
Takahashi pressed his lips together, his voice barely a whisper. "What about… if someone who's done something so evil, something that you saw with your own eyes? Would they be illegible for death by punishment?"
Artoria's gaze met his, unwavering. "No," she declared, her voice ringing with conviction. "No matter the darkness they have embraced, a chance at redemption remains. For even the most corrupt heart can be swayed by the light of compassion and kindness that it observes."
The tension in her posture betrayed a flicker of unease. Juro couldn't help but feel a pang of rebuke.
He averted his gaze, shame burning in his chest. "What about-"
Before he could speak any further, the Chaldea intercom went off.
A disembodied voice, flat and metallic, ripped through the sterile silence of the Chaldea halls. "Takahashi Juro, Fujimaru Ritsuka, Mash Kyrielight. Report to the Command Room. Rayshift commencing in twenty minutes."
Juro cursed under his breath. The next Singularity, already? The thrill of the unknown twisted with a pang of annoyance in his gut.
He scrambled to his feet, the ever-present thrum of anticipation a familiar rhythm in his veins.
Reaching the sliding door, he paused with a hand on the handle, tossing a careless farewell over his shoulder. "See ya, Artoria. Duty calls, and all that jazz."
Artoria offered a curt nod in response. Her green eyes fluttered shut, and she settled back into a pose of perfect stillness – seiza.
Juro watched for a moment, a prickle of unease rising along his spine. Servants weren't automatons, were they? The others, they lounged, trained, indulged in their hobbies – but Artoria… she just sat. Always sat.
Was she…?
The thought, once sparked, refused to be extinguished. Maybe it was just her thing, some introspective knightly ritual.
Juro forced a smile, the unease giving way to a familiar excitement as he left.
Walking down the hallway, he began to reminisce on what she had said.
That conversation, brief as it was, had been the longest he'd managed with her. The legendary King Arthur, a being of myth and legend, reduced to a quiet woman in a sterile room.
It was a bizarre dissonance, yet strangely compelling. Juro saw it as a potential for connection. After all, who wouldn't want to delve into the mind of the Once and Future King?
Hell, even the name of her sword was cool.
Excalibur.
Just saying it sent a shiver down his spine. Juro couldn't wait to learn more, to witness her in battle, to witness the legend come alive.
The most important thing however… was that he wanted to see what she believed a hero was.
__________________________________________________
Juro gnawed on his boredom, a restless beast gnawing at his insides. Outside the sterile confines of the Command Room, he perched on a metal bench, thumb scrolling across the flickering screen of his phone. A ghost of the internet, a tattered echo of the world that had burned outside Chaldea's walls.
It wasn't much, but it was a distraction, a way to momentarily numb the thrumming anticipation that coursed through him.
Protocol dictated they enter the Command Room as a trio. A pointless formality, a remnant of a bygone era, but Juro bided his time with a practiced patience.
A cheerful voice, a splash of pink against the sterile white, broke the silence. "Good afternoon, Senpai!"
Mash, her hair a beacon in the dim hallway, stood beside a bleary-eyed Fujimaru.
"Fou!" The small creature resting on Fujimaru's shoulder called out, seemingly greeting Juro.
"Took your sweet time, didn't you?" Juro drawled, his gaze flitting to Fujimaru.
"Well, Senpai was…" Mash began, her voice trailing off as Fujimaru mumbled incoherently.
Juro snorted. "Doesn't matter. Details for another time."
They entered the Command Room, a hive of activity. Technicians hunched over glowing holographic displays, their faces grim masks of concentration,
trying to get the Rayshift process to boot up once more. Romani stood before the central console, while Da Vinci leaned against the console, her eyes glinting with a mischievous light.
"So, Doc," Juro began, the question already forming on his tongue, "where to this time?"
"Ah, everyone." Romani said as he turned to the trio.
The massive screen behind him flickered to life, a holographic map of the world sprawling across the vast surface. Scattered across the globe, a handful of crimson dots pulsed with an ominous light – the remaining Singularities, festering wounds on the face of time.
The screen then zoomed into two specific dots, ignoring the rest.
Usually, the screen would focus on only one singularity…
Fujimaru's voice, laced with apprehension, cut through the tense silence.
"Doctor, are we… are we going to both of these locations back-to-back? Isn't it usually only one at a time?"
Da Vinci let out a cackle that echoed through the room.
"Not at all! You two are splitting up."
Juro tapped his foot, hands on his hips, considering the proposition. "Yeah, I'm up for it," he declared nonchalantly.
Romani turned towards Fujimaru, seeking his approval.
"It'll be weird going solo, but I'll adjust," Fujimaru said with a determined nod.
"Excellent," Romani declared, settling back in his chair. Juro noticed a flicker of hesitation in the doctor's eyes, but kept his thoughts to himself.
Sure, going solo presented challenges, but Juro brimmed with confidence in his abilities.
Two holographic displays flickered to life before them. "Now," Da Vinci began, "choose two Servants to accompany you."
Without hesitation, Fujimaru selected Cu Chulainn.
Juro felt a pang of envy. Fujimaru practically had a Servant duo, considering Mash. Though technically a Demi-Servant, she was still part of the team.
Juro sighed as his gaze scanned the holographic roster. His eyes landed on the familiar, silver-haired figure adorned with a rebellious cowlick.
A grin tugged at his lips. He'd pick Jeanne d'Arc Alter. It would be her first outing, and her Avenger class piqued his curiosity. He'd never summoned an
Avenger before.
Okay, maybe there was more to it than just strategic advantage. He secretly yearned to witness her fighting prowess firsthand.
She'd probably despise him for that, but Juro shrugged and confirmed Jeanne with a click.
Next, a strong support Servant was essential. Lancers, while tempting, often fell short against Juro's usual adversaries - a sea of Sabers and Berserkers.
Archers, then. EMIYA it was.
The holograms flickered shut. Juro felt the presence of his chosen Servants materialize beside him. A wave of disapproval, most likely from Jeanne Alter, washed over him.
Heroic Spirits could materialize or remain incorporeal, their voices echoing directly in their Masters' minds. This bond transcended even Rayshifting - the act of traveling through time.
_
Juro strode purposefully towards the Rayshift pod, a determined glint in his eye. Fujimaru and Mash flanked him on either side, their expressions offering a mix of encouragement and apprehension.
"Good luck," Fujimaru said, a genuine smile warming his face. "We'll see you back here."
"Good luck, Senpai," Mash echoed.
Juro extended a hand, meeting Fujimaru's in a firm clasp. "I'll aim to come back in one piece. See you soon, buddy."
A smirk tugged at both their lips before they turned, each towards their respective pod. Juro climbed inside, the glass door whirring shut as if sealing his fate.
A disembodied voice echoed within the chamber, "Beginning Spiritron Conversion sequence!"
Juro groaned inwardly. This wasn't his first rodeo, but the pre-travel jitters were as persistent as ever. Nervousness, that's what it was.
The familiar orange liquid began filling the chamber, yet somehow, impossibly, it remained breathable. A strange comfort in the midst of the bizarre.
"Spiritron Conversion complete! Commencing projection sequence!"
An unsettling feeling washed over him as his body contorted, a sensation akin to his stomach performing an erratic ballet. His eyelids fluttered shut,
and behind them, a swirling blue vortex materialized.
It sped up, a whirlwind of colors and disorientation. Faster, faster, faster, until the world dissolved into a dizzying blur.
A final robotic announcement resonated ominously: "PSEUDO-SPIRITRON TRANSFER ACTIVATED. COMMENCING RAYSHIFT."
___
Juro's eyes snapped open to a scene straight out of a nightmare. He was falling, the wind howling in his ears as the ground rushed up to meet him.
"Why every time?!" he roared, the familiar sensation of uncontrolled descent sending a jolt of adrenaline through him.
Just before impact, a powerful grip snatched him by the back of his shirt, yanking him upwards.
Juro heaved a sigh of relief as his feet found solid ground, his knees buckling slightly.
"Thanks, EMIYA," he mumbled, offering the Archer a grateful nod.
EMIYA simply nodded in response, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a materialized Jeanne d'Arc Alter.
Her yellow eyes glinted with a cold intensity that sent a shiver down Juro's spine. He knew better than to complain about the state of his backside right now.
Instead, his gaze swept across the ravaged landscape. The acrid tang of burning wood filled his nostrils, punctuated by the booming thunder of explosions.
The sky, once a vibrant blue, was now an ominous canvas of smoke and ash. Panicked screams of civilians mingled with the roar of battle cries, painting a picture of utter chaos.
Juro's heart hammered against his ribs. This wasn't just any landscape - it was a warzone, and they had been thrown right into the heart of it.
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