Shirou Emiya stood in the middle of the backyard, his legs shaking as he raised his arms in an awkward stance. The wooden sword Kiritsugu had given him felt impossibly heavy, its weight pressing down on his small hands. Sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes as he shifted his footing, his breath coming in uneven bursts.
"Focus...Shirou" Kiritsugu's voice called from the
The boy gritted his teeth, gripping the wooden blade tighter. His opponent is a hastily constructed dummy of tied bamboo swinging slightly in the evening breeze. To an outsider, it might have looked absurd, a child staring down an inanimate object with the intensity of a duel. But for Shirou, this was life or death.
He lunged forward, swinging the sword with all the strength his eight-year-old frame could muster. The blow connected with a hollow
Kiritsugu stood and walked over, his expression unreadable. He crouched next to Shirou, gently taking the boy's hands and examining them. Blisters had already begun to form, their red edges raw against the pale skin.
"You're gripping too hard" Kiritsugu said, his tone softer now. He adjusted Shirou's hands on the hilt of the wooden sword, guiding his fingers into a looser grip. "The strength doesn't come from here." He tapped Shirou's hands. "It comes from here." He placed his palm lightly over Shirou's chest.
Shirou looked up at him, his amber eyes wide with curiosity. "From my heart?"
Kiritsugu nodded, though there was a hint of sadness in his smile. "Something like that. Your heart has to guide your strength. Otherwise, you'll wear yourself out before you even start."
Shirou frowned, staring down at the wooden sword in his hands. "But I want to be strong enough to protect everyone. I can't do that if I'm weak."
Kiritsugu's expression darkened for a moment, his gaze distant, as if Shirou's words had stirred something buried deep within him. Then he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, grounding both of them.
"Strength isn't just about swinging a sword" Kiritsugu said. "It's about knowing when to use it and when not to. You'll understand one day."
The training session ended shortly after, with Kiritsugu instructing Shirou to rest his hands and tend to the blisters. But Shirou didn't go inside. Instead, he sat on the porch steps, staring at the faint pink horizon as the sun set.
His hands ached, and his body felt heavier than it had in weeks, but his mind refused to rest. The words Kiritsugu had spoken echoed in his head.
Your heart has to guide your strength.
Shirou didn't fully understand what that meant. All he knew was that he had to become stronger, stronger than anyone else. If he didn't, he wouldn't be able to keep his promise.
It had been months since the fire. Months since Kiritsugu had carried him out of the flames and told him that the sky would remember their promise. The memory of that night was still vivid, and it haunted him in ways he couldn't explain.
He couldn't remember the faces of his parents anymore, but he remembered the fire. He remembered the feeling of being small and powerless as the world burned around him.
"I'll never let that happen again" Shirou whispered to himself, his fists clenched tightly.
The next morning, Shirou woke early, determined to continue his training despite the blisters on his hands. Kiritsugu was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn't unusual. He often disappeared for days at a time, leaving Shirou to manage the house on his own.
Shirou didn't mind. If anything, it gave him more time to practice.
He retrieved the wooden sword from the backyard and resumed his stance, this time keeping Kiritsugu's advice in mind. His grip was looser, and he tried to focus on the rhythm of his movements rather than the raw force behind them.
But no matter how hard he tried, the strikes felt weak, the dummy barely swaying under his blows. Frustration bubbled up inside him, and he let out a sharp cry, swinging the sword with all his might. The dummy tipped over, its bamboo frame snapping under the force.
Shirou stumbled back, breathing hard. His arms hung limply at his sides, the sword slipping from his fingers and landing in the grass with a dull thud.
"No matter how hard I try" he muttered, his voice trembling, "I'm still not strong enough."
He dropped to his knees, staring at his hands. They were small, too small to wield the kind of strength he needed. He remembered the way Kiritsugu had looked at him during training, the faint sadness in his eyes. It was as if Kiritsugu already knew what Shirou was just beginning to realize that ideals were heavy, and the weight of them could crush you if you weren't strong enough to carry them.
That evening, Shirou sat at the dining table, poking at the remnants of a simple meal. The house was silent except for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant hum of cicadas outside.
The ceremonial sword fragment sat on a nearby shelf, catching the light of the setting sun. It was a curious thing, its surface etched with faint, complex patterns that seemed almost alive
Shirou didn't know what to make of it. He had asked Kiritsugu about it once, but the man had simply smiled and said, "You'll understand one day."
Those words didn't feel like enough. Shirou wanted answers—wanted to know how a fragment of metal could hold so much meaning.
He stood up and approached the shelf, his fingers brushing against the cool surface of the fragment. The patterns seemed to shift under his touch, almost as if they were reacting to him.
"Why did you give this to me?" Shirou whispered, as if the fragment could hear him. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
The fragment didn't answer, of course, but Shirou thought he saw a faint shimmer in its surface—a trick of the light, he told himself.
Still, a strange feeling settled over him as he held the fragment in his hands. It was the same feeling he got when he stared at the stars a sense of something vast and mysterious, just out of reach.
Shirou placed the fragment back on the shelf, his thoughts swirling. He didn't have the answers he wanted, but he made a silent vow to himself he would become strong enough to find them.
Far above, the stars began to emerge one by one, their light faint but constant.