Warmth.That was the first thing I felt after I died.
Not the bone-shattering impact of a delivery truck skidding across an icy Tokyo street, nor the cold, suffocating pull of death.
Just warmth—soft, enveloping, like a divine embrace whispering, "It's okay. Rest now." A gentle hum wove through the sensation, a lullaby I didn't recognize, accompanied by the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. It was a feeling I hadn't known in years, not since I was a child in a world long gone: safety.I was alive.
Again.But I wasn't the same.In my previous life, I was nobody special. A twenty-eight-year-old office worker, trapped in a Tokyo cubicle, drowning in spreadsheets and deadlines. My name was Hiroshi, though it hardly mattered—nobody called me anything but "you" or "hey."
I was jaded, a little lonely, and perpetually tired, living a life that felt like it was always one step from fading away. I didn't chase dreams or fight battles. My biggest rebellion was staying up late reading manga or binge-watching anime, losing myself in worlds where heroes wielded impossible powers and fought for something greater. My life wasn't bad—it was just ordinary.
Forgettable.Until it wasn't.Death came without warning. A late-night delivery run, a patch of black ice, and the screech of tires. A truck, out of control. A thud. Then silence. No golden light, no divine voice offering three wishes, no system interface popping up like in the isekai stories I loved.
Just darkness.And then, warmth.When I opened my eyes, I was in a crib. Tiny hands, barely able to grasp, waved clumsily before my face. A mobile of carved wooden birds spun lazily above me, catching the soft glow of sunlight filtering through a window. The air smelled of fresh herbs and warm bread, and a woman's voice—gentle, melodic—hummed that same unfamiliar lullaby. I couldn't move much, my body heavy and uncooperative, but my mind was sharp. Too sharp.I was reborn.The realization settled slowly, piecing itself together through fragmented sensations.
The creak of floorboards under heavy boots. The rhythmic clanging of metal from somewhere nearby, purposeful and steady. The woman's voice calling a name, soft and full of love."Shirou…"At first, I thought it was a coincidence. A name, nothing more. But months later, when I was strong enough to toddle to a polished copper mirror hanging on the wall, I saw it. Red hair, tousled and vibrant, like embers caught in a breeze. Golden-amber eyes, sharp and piercing, like they could see through the world itself. A face that was unmistakably young, soft, and yet… familiar.I was Emiya Shirou.Or at least, I was in his body.
The weight of that truth settled into my bones like a blade being forged. I wasn't just reborn into some random fantasy world. I was reborn as the Emiya Shirou, the hero of Fate/stay night, the boy who would one day wield Unlimited Blade Works and chase an impossible ideal. But I was still me—Hiroshi's memories, cynicism, and doubts, all layered over something new. Something forged in fire, shaped by steel, thrumming in my blood like a dormant furnace.And this world? It wasn't Fuyuki City.
It wasn't even the Fate universe. The air was too thick with magic, the forests too vibrant, the skies too alive with colors that shimmered like auroras. I recognized it from the light novels and anime I'd consumed obsessively in my old life. This was the world of That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime—Tensura.
A world of magicules, Demon Lords, and nations built on the backs of monsters and men.But something was wrong.There was no Rimuru Tempest. No Jura Tempest Federation. No whispers of Demon Lords like Milim or Guy Crimson. The village I lived in, nestled between jagged mountains and a sprawling forest, was too quiet, too isolated. The names, the politics, the history—they didn't match the timeline I knew. I wasn't just reborn as Shirou. I was reborn too early.
Decades, maybe centuries, before the events of Tensura would unfold.I was alone in a world that wasn't ready for me.A New FamilyMy new parents were kind, their love as steady as the mountains surrounding our village, which they called Eldenwood.
Roland, my father, was a blacksmith with arms like tree trunks and a laugh that could shake the walls. His face was weathered, etched with lines from years of hard work, but his eyes were warm, always crinkling at the corners when he looked at me. He ran the village's only forge, crafting tools, horseshoes, and the occasional weapon for passing adventurers.
His hands were calloused, scarred from burns, but they were gentle when he lifted me onto his shoulders or ruffled my hair.Lyria, my mother, was his opposite in every way. Where Roland was broad and grounded, she was lithe and vibrant, with chestnut hair that caught the sunlight like polished wood.
A former adventurer, she'd traded her bow for a garden and a mortar and pestle, becoming Eldenwood's herbalist. Her knowledge of plants and potions was unmatched, and her smile could calm even the most restless soul. She sang to me every night, her voice weaving stories of heroes and gods into my dreams—tales of ancient spirits, forgotten kingdoms, and blades that could cleave the heavens.They called me Shirou, their miracle child, born after years of hoping. I was their everything, and slowly, I came to love them too. It was strange, at first, to feel that kind of warmth after a life of solitude. My old world had been one of fleeting connections—coworkers, acquaintances, no one close enough to call family.
But here, in this simple wooden house filled with the smell of iron and herbs, I found something I hadn't realized I'd been missing.Still, I was careful. My mind, carrying the weight of my previous life, was too sharp for a child's body. By age three, I could walk with confidence, speak in full sentences, and read the few books my mother kept on her shelf—tomes on herbalism and old folklore, written in a script that was oddly familiar, a blend of runic and Latin-like characters. I hid it, though. I babbled when I needed to, pretended to stumble, faked fear of the beetles that scurried across the garden path. I played the part of a normal child.But sometimes, I slipped.
It happened first in the forge. I was four, watching Roland hammer a glowing blade, the heat washing over me like a second skin. He'd left a wooden practice sword on the workbench, a crude thing meant for training. I picked it up, my tiny hands wrapping around the grip with an instinct I didn't understand. I swung it, not clumsily like a child, but with precision—stance low, shoulders squared, the blade cutting the air with a soft whoosh.Roland turned, his hammer pausing mid-swing.
"Well, now," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "You've got a warrior's grip already, Shirou."He was proud. I was terrified.Because I hadn't meant to do it. My body had moved on its own, guided by something deeper than memory. It was Shirou's instincts, his essence, woven into my soul. And with it came something else—a pressure, a heat, simmering just beneath my skin. Magicules.
A World of MagicThis world was alive with magic. I could feel it in the air, a constant hum like static electricity. The trees in Eldenwood's forest swayed with it, their leaves glowing faintly at dusk, as if kissed by starlight.
The rivers shimmered with currents of mana, invisible to most but vivid to me, like threads of silver weaving through the water. Even the village, small and unassuming with its fifty-odd families, pulsed with a quiet energy. It was nothing like the modern Earth I'd known, where magic was just a fantasy. Here, it was as real as the ground beneath my feet.I tested it in secret. At night, when my parents slept, I'd sit by the window and focus, feeling the flow of magicules around me. They were weight, heat, pressure—a tangible force I could shape if I tried.
I'd read enough about Tensura to know the basics: magicules were the building blocks of power in this world, the energy that fueled monsters, mages, and everything in between. The average human had a few dozen magicules, enough to cast basic spells or enhance their strength. A skilled mage might have a few thousand.
I had 125,000.I discovered that by accident, when I was five. There were no appraisal crystals in Eldenwood—no way to measure magicules formally—but I didn't need them. I could feel it, like a jet engine strapped to my soul, roaring to be unleashed.
It was overwhelming, dangerous, and far beyond what a child should possess. Even Shirou Emiya, in his prime, would've had maybe 25,000 magicules, his circuits honed for magecraft but limited by his human frame. I was something else entirely, a fusion of my magicules and his.
I was something else.
During the day, I helped my mother in the garden, crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle, memorizing their properties—feverfew for headaches, yarrow for wounds, chamomile for sleep.
I followed my father to the forge, learning to stoke the fire and shape metal, the clang of his hammer a steady rhythm that grounded me. I played the part of an eager, curious child, but every moment was a balancing act. Too much strength, too much focus, and I'd give myself away.
The villagers already whispered about me—how I learned too fast, how my eyes seemed to see too much. I couldn't afford to confirm their suspicions.But the magic in my blood wouldn't stay quiet.The Girl with the Red ScarfEldenwood was a small village, no more than fifty families living in sturdy wooden houses along a winding dirt road. The community was tight-knit, bound by shared labor and the rhythm of the seasons. Children were few, most older and apprenticed to their parents or sent to nearby towns like Blumund for trade. The only one my age was Elie.
I met her when I was four, sneaking out of the forge with one of my father's training blades tucked under my arm. It was a clumsy thing, blunt and heavy, but I wanted to test it, to feel the weight of a sword in my hands. I was halfway to the forest when a voice stopped me."You're not supposed to have that."I turned, heart racing. She stood there, arms crossed, silver hair catching the sunlight like a halo.
A red scarf, too big for her small frame, was wrapped around her neck, trailing in the dirt. Her green eyes were sharp, glinting with mischief and curiosity."You're not supposed to be out here either," I shot back, gripping the sword tighter.She tilted her head, studying me. Then she smirked. "Wanna duel?"I should've said no. I should've walked away.
But something in her grin—bold, reckless, unafraid—pulled me in. We squared off in a clearing, her stick against my training blade. She was fast, scrappy, but untrained. I disarmed her in three moves, the blade tapping her shoulder as she stumbled back, panting."You cheated," she huffed, brushing dirt off her scarf."You lost," I said, but I couldn't help smiling.
From that day on, Elie was a constant presence. She was the miller's daughter, always dusted with flour, her hands smelling of warm bread and grain.
She was loud, brash, and quick to anger, but there was a warmth to her, a kindness she hid behind sharp words and sharper glares. She'd show up at our house unannounced, banging on the door until I let her in. She'd sit by the forge, watching me sharpen tools, or throw pebbles at my window when I stayed up late reading my mother's books. She claimed she only came because she was bored, but I noticed the way her eyes lingered on me—too long, too soft.I wasn't dumb.
I knew what it meant, even if she didn't fully understand it yet. She was just a kid, after all, like me. But one day, she'd say something, and I… I didn't know what I'd say back. I didn't dislike her. She was fierce and loyal, a spark in a quiet village.
But I couldn't promise anything. Not with what I was becoming.The Spark of MagecraftBy age six, I had activated Projection."Trace, on."It started as an accident. I was in the woods, behind the ruins of an old watchtower where no one went, carving a replica of a longsword from a book I vaguely remembered from my old world—The Art of the Blade, a fictional manual I'd loved as Hiroshi.
I focused too hard, picturing the sword's structure, its weight, the feel of its grip. My hand moved on its own, guided by an instinct that wasn't mine. Light flickered, and a crude, translucent version of the blade appeared in my palm.It lasted three seconds.
Then it shattered, dissolving into motes of blue light.I laughed. A wild, manic sound that echoed through the trees. I had done it. Magic. Real magic.
Not just any magic—Unlimited Blade Works magic, the signature magecraft of Emiya Shirou. It was proof that I wasn't just Hiroshi reborn in a new body. I was Shirou, or at least part of him, his potential woven into my soul.I practiced in secret, always in that hidden clearing. I created knives, shields, spears—each attempt a failure at first, leaving me with nosebleeds and headaches from mana exhaustion.
But I got better. The blades held longer, felt sharper, more real. I hadn't unlocked the Reality Marble—Unlimited Blade Works itself, that hill of swords slumbering in my soul—but I could feel it, a distant forge waiting to be ignited. Each day, it grew closer.One day, Elie followed me.Her boots crunched on leaves, and I spun around, the blade in my hand vanishing.
Too late. She had seen it."That was magic," she said, wide-eyed.I hesitated, then nodded.Her eyes sparkled. "Teach me."I blinked. "What?""I want to learn. I won't tell anyone, promise. Cross my heart." She grinned, drawing an X over her chest.That was the start. We trained together—or rather, I trained, and she watched. She was decent at sensing mana, terrible at visualization, but she had guts. That mattered. She'd sit cross-legged on a stump, asking questions I barely knew how to answer: "How do you make it solid? What's it feel like? Can you make a bow?" I tried to explain, but Projection wasn't like the elemental magic the village elders whispered about.
It was structural, analytical, a blueprint in my mind brought to life. Elie didn't care about the details. She just wanted to see it again.The Village of EldenwoodEldenwood was a speck in a vast world, a cluster of homes surrounded by fields of rye and barley, bordered by the Verdantveil Forest and the Ironcrag Mountains.
The villagers were hardy, their lives tied to the land and the seasons. They traded with passing merchants, who brought tales of distant kingdoms—Blumund, Falmuth, Ingracia—but Eldenwood was a world unto itself, insulated from politics and wars. The only threats were rare monster attacks, usually goblins or direwolves, driven off by the village militia.My parents were pillars of the community.
Roland's forge produced plows and axes, but also swords for adventurers who passed through, their stories of dungeons and dragons sparking my imagination. Lyria's remedies healed fevers and wounds, her garden a maze of herbs and flowers. The villagers respected them, and by extension, me. But their whispers—"He's too quick," "He sees too much"—kept me cautious.I spent my days helping my parents, learning their crafts. In the garden, I crushed lavender and sage, memorizing their uses. In the forge, I pumped the bellows, watching molten iron take shape. I was Shirou, the blacksmith's son, but also Hiroshi, the man who knew this peace wouldn't last. The Tensura world was vibrant but dangerous, and my power—125,000 magicules—was a beacon. If the wrong people noticed, I'd be a target.The Weight of PowerMy magicule count wasn't just a number.
It was a burden. I'd read enough Tensura lore to know what it meant: I had more magical energy than most monsters, let alone humans. A single misstep could draw attention from mages, nobles, or worse—things like Veldora, the Storm Dragon, who could level mountains. I kept it hidden, but it was like holding back a flood.
Every time I used Projection, I risked exposure.I tested my limits in the woods. At first, my projections were brittle, fading in moments. But with practice, they grew solid—knives sharp enough to cut, shields sturdy enough to block a strike. The process was exhausting, my circuits burning like overworked wires.
I'd collapse, nose bleeding, vision blurring, but each failure taught me something. I was forging myself, just as Roland forged steel.Elie became my shadow, her presence both a comfort and a complication. She'd watch me train, her scarf fluttering in the breeze, asking questions that forced me to confront what I was.
"Why do you hide it? Why not tell your parents?" I couldn't explain the fear—that this power wasn't just Shirou's, that it was tied to a destiny I didn't want. In my old life, I'd admired Shirou's heroism but pitied his pain. Now, I was him, or close enough, and I wasn't ready to carry that burden.A Fragile PeaceThe days passed peacefully—too peacefully. I helped in the forge, the garden, the village festivals. Elie and I explored the forest, climbed the watchtower ruins, and sparred with sticks and training blades. She was relentless, pushing me to teach her more, to spar harder.
Her determination was infectious, but it scared me. She was tying herself to me, and I wasn't sure I could be what she needed.One evening, as the sun set over the mountains, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, Elie dragged me to the village square for a harvest festival. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread. Villagers danced to a lute and drum, their laughter echoing. Elie grabbed my hand, pulling me into the crowd, her scarf trailing like a banner.
"You're too serious," she teased, spinning me in a clumsy dance."You're too reckless," I shot back, but I laughed.For a moment, I was just Shirou, a boy in a village, not a reincarnated soul with a dangerous gift. But as the firelight flickered, I felt the magicules stir within me, a reminder of what I was—and what was coming.Foreshadowing the StormThat night, I lay awake, staring at the wooden beams of my ceiling.
The Reality Marble was there, in the back of my mind—a hill of swords, endless and waiting. I hadn't unlocked it, but I knew it was only a matter of time. The world of Tensura was vast, and I was early—too early. No Rimuru, no Tempest, no Demon Lords. But there were other dangers: rogue mages, ambitious lords, monsters lurking beyond the mountains. My power would draw them, sooner or later.And Elie—she was part of this life, but also a risk.
Her curiosity, her loyalty, could pull her into my fate. I didn't want that. Not yet.The peace of Eldenwood wouldn't last. I could feel it, like the hum of magicules in the air. Something was coming—something forged in fire.