The forge glowed like a living thing, its flames casting long, flickering shadows across the walls.
The air was heavy with the scent of molten iron and charcoal, and the rhythmic clang of my father's hammer was a pulse that grounded me.
I sat on a stool, pumping the bellows, my arms aching but my mind adrift.
In the firelight, I saw not the forge but a vision—a hill of swords, endless and rusted, piercing a crimson sky.
Unlimited Blade Works, slumbering in my soul, stirred like a forge ready to blaze.
"Shirou, keep the fire steady," Roland called, his voice pulling me back. He was shaping a plow blade, his movements precise despite the sweat on his brow. "You're drifting again."
"Sorry, Father," I said, forcing a smile. I pushed the bellows harder, the flames roaring.
At six years old, I was stronger than I should be, my body honed by instincts that weren't entirely mine—Emiya Shirou's, layered over my own as Hiroshi, the man I'd been in another life.
But I hid it, playing the eager son, the normal child.
Normal. The word was a lie.
It had been a week since Elie caught me using Projection in the woods, since she demanded I teach her magic.
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Btw i normally write in chunks but I'm trying a new thing.
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I'd kept her at arm's length, unable to share the full truth.
My power—125,000 magicules, a force that could rival monsters in this Tensura world—was too dangerous, too tied to a destiny I wasn't ready to face.
Every Projection drained me, left my circuits burning, but I couldn't stop.
The hill of swords called, and I was drawn to it like iron to a magnet.
"Enough for tonight," Roland said, quenching the blade in a hiss of steam.
He wiped his hands on his apron, his grin warm but tired. "Go rest, lad. Your mother'll have my hide if you're yawning through breakfast."
I nodded, hopping off the stool. "Goodnight, Father."
Outside, the night air was sharp and clean, a stark contrast to the forge's heat.
Eldenwood was quiet, its wooden houses dark save for a few candlelit windows.
The Verdantveil Forest loomed beyond, its trees swaying under a sky alive with stars and faint auroras—mana currents, visible to those like me who could sense them.
I paused, feeling the hum of magicules, thicker tonight, like a storm brewing far off.
Something was wrong.
I couldn't name it, but my instincts—Shirou's instincts—were on edge.
My hand twitched, itching for a blade I hadn't summoned.
I shook it off, blaming paranoia.
Eldenwood was safe, a speck in a vast world, untouched by the wars and monsters I knew from Tensura lore.
But as I walked home, the feeling lingered, a spark in the dark.
My mother was in the kitchen when I got home, grinding herbs by lamplight.
The air smelled of lavender and sage, grounding me.
Lyria looked up, her chestnut hair tied back, her smile soft but knowing.
"You're late," she said, setting the mortar aside. "Roland keeping you too long?"
"He's working on a plow for Old Man Torren," I said, sitting at the table. "I was just helping."
She studied me, her green eyes sharp. "You've got that look, Shirou. Like you're carrying the world."
I froze, my heart skipping.
She couldn't know about my power, my past life as Hiroshi, the magicules roaring in my veins.
Could she?
I forced a laugh, scratching my head—a habit to seem more childlike. "Just tired, Mother. Promise."
She didn't push, but her gaze lingered, as if seeing through me.
Lyria was a former adventurer, a ranger who'd faced monsters and men. She wasn't fooled easily.
"Get to bed," she said finally, ruffling my hair. "And no sneaking out to the woods tonight."
I blushed, caught off guard. Did she know about my training?
I mumbled a goodnight and hurried to my room, closing the door.
My bed was a simple wooden frame with a straw mattress, a quilt my mother had sewn draped over it.
A window looked out on the forest, moonlight filtering through.
I sat on the edge, my mind racing.
I couldn't keep this up.
The secrets—my reincarnation, my magic, my destiny as Shirou—were piling up, a forge ready to crack.
Elie was too close, her curiosity a spark that could ignite everything.
My parents were sharp, especially Lyria.
And Eldenwood… it wasn't as isolated as it seemed.
Merchants brought rumors of unrest in Blumund, of monsters stirring in the mountains.
My power was a beacon, and if I wasn't careful, it would draw the wrong eyes.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling.
The hill of swords flickered in my mind, a vision I couldn't shake.
I hadn't unlocked Unlimited Blade Works, but I was close.
Each Projection brought me nearer, the Reality Marble's weight pressing on my soul.
I didn't want it—not yet.
As Hiroshi, I'd admired Shirou's heroism but pitied his pain.
Now, I was him, or close enough, and the path ahead was a blade's edge.
Sleep didn't come.
Morning came too soon, with Elie banging on my door before dawn.
"Shirou! Get out here, you lazy lump!"
I groaned, rubbing sleep from my eyes. "It's too early, Elie. Go away."
"Too bad! You promised to spar." Her voice was smug, and I could picture her grinning.
I hadn't promised anything, but arguing with Elie was pointless.
I dressed—tunic, trousers, boots—and grabbed the wooden training sword my father had carved.
Outside, Elie leaned against a fence, twirling a stick like a rapier, her silver hair glinting, her red scarf flapping.
"You're weak," she said, smirking.
"You're annoying," I shot back, smiling despite myself.
We headed to our clearing behind the watchtower ruins.
The forest was alive with birdsong, the air crisp and heavy with mana.
Elie skipped ahead, humming, her scarf trailing.
She was bright, reckless, a spark in Eldenwood's quiet.
But her glances—soft when she thought I wasn't looking—made my chest tight with guilt.
She was tying herself to me, and I wasn't sure I could keep her safe.
The clearing was packed earth surrounded by oaks, the watchtower's stones moss-covered.
I set my stance, gripping the sword. "First to three hits."
Elie grinned, brandishing her stick. "You're going down, forge boy."
She lunged, fast but sloppy.
I parried, stepping aside, my body moving with Shirou's fluidity.
I tapped her arm—first hit.
She scowled, resetting.
"You must have cheated," she muttered.
"You're predictable," I said, grinning.
The second round was closer.
Elie feinted left, swung low, aiming for my knee.
I blocked, but she pressed, her stick a blur.
Her mana flared faintly—a spark of potential.
I countered, tapping her shoulder—second hit.
"Stop holding back!" she snapped, panting. "I'm not fragile."
She wasn't wrong.
I was holding back—my power, my secrets.
Letting go was dangerous.
"Fine," I said, tightening my grip. "Your move."
Her third attack was fierce, her stick whistling.
I dodged, spun, and struck, aiming for her side.
She twisted, blocking, our eyes locking.
Hers blazed, green and defiant, daring me.
I pushed, and she stumbled, my sword tapping her chest—third hit.
She fell back, landing with a huff.
"You're impossible," she grumbled, but with respect.
I pulled her up. "You're getting better. That feint was good."
She brushed dirt off her scarf, cheeks pink. "Next time, I'll win."
She paused, searching my eyes. "You're still hiding something, Shirou."
My stomach twisted. She was too sharp.
"You're imagining things," I said, turning away. "Let's go."
Her words lingered as we walked back.
The village was bustling, a rare sight.
A merchant caravan—three wagons of silks, spices, tools—had parked in the square.
Villagers bartered for salt and cloth, their voices lively.
Elie dragged me toward the crowd, excited.
"Look!" she said, pointing to a wagon with trinkets: beads, amulets, a jeweled dagger. "Think your dad could make that?"
"Better," I said, but my eyes were on a man overseeing the caravan.
Tall, cloaked in dark green, his face half-hidden by a hood, he stood apart, scanning the crowd.
His posture was alert, practiced.
A sword hung at his hip, scabbard worn but maintained.
"Shirou?" Elie nudged me. "You're staring."
I shook my head, smiling. "Just curious. Let's go."
But the man felt dangerous.
Eldenwood saw merchants, but this one was different.
My instincts screamed he wasn't here for trade.
That afternoon, I helped my father repair a sickle.
Roland noticed my distraction. "Something on your mind?"
I hesitated. I couldn't explain without revealing too much. "The caravan. They're different."
He nodded. "Aye, they're from Falmuth, not Blumund. Lyria heard talk of bandits, monsters moving south."
Falmuth. In Tensura, it was a ruthless kingdom, though its role was centuries off.
If this was pre-Tempest, Falmuth might be rising, eyeing territories like ours.
That man—was he a scout? A mercenary?
"Keep your wits," Roland said, clapping my shoulder. "But don't borrow trouble."
I nodded, unconvinced.
That night, the unease grew.
I lay awake, the hum of magicules oppressive.
The forest wasn't quiet—a direwolf's howl cut through, answered by another.
I sat up, heart racing. Something was coming.
I slipped out, pulling on boots and grabbing my training sword.
Reckless, but I couldn't stay still.
I crept to the square, hearing voices—low, urgent.
Crouching behind a barrel, I saw the cloaked man with two others, armed with swords, daggers, a staff pulsing with mana.
Mages.
"…too small to matter," one said. "But the mana—it's thick. Something's drawing it."
"Could be a relic," the mage said. "Or a mage. We report it, we get paid."
The cloaked man shook his head. "We confirm first. If it's a mage, we take them. Falmuth pays for talent."
My blood ran cold.
They were hunting mages—me.
My magicules, leaking from Projections, were a beacon.
I gripped my sword, mind racing.
I had to warn—
A twig snapped.
A fourth man grabbed my arm, his grip iron. "Got a spy," he sneered, breath sour.
Instinct took over. "Trace, on!" A knife flickered, slashing his wrist.
He cursed, loosening his grip, and I sprinted for the forge, their shouts echoing.
"Get the boy!"
I burst into the forge. "Father! Mother!"
Roland was up, hammer in hand.
Lyria appeared, bow strung. "What's happening?"
"No time," I gasped. "Caravan men—after mages. They know I'm—"
Lyria's eyes widened, but she acted. "Roland, get the militia. Shirou, with me."
We reached the square, villagers gathering with pitchforks and axes.
The cloaked man and his group stood unafraid.
The mage raised his staff, flames licking.
"Hand over the boy," the cloaked man said. "Or we burn this place."
Roland stepped forward. "You're on our land. Leave."
The mage laughed, launching a fireball.
"Trace, on!" A shield materialized, blocking the flames.
Villagers gasped, and Elie, pushing through, stared.
"Shirou…"
The cloaked man's eyes narrowed. "A mage. Take him alive."
Chaos erupted.
The militia clashed with mercenaries.
Lyria's arrows flew, precise.
I fought with projected knives, circuits burning.
The mage's fire spells forced me to shield villagers, draining me.
Elie appeared, wielding a pitchfork.
"You idiot!" she snapped. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Not now!" I blocked a sword strike.
Her courage steadied me.
The cloaked man was monstrous, his sword lightning.
He reached me, blade flashing.
I projected a longsword, parrying.
His strength overwhelmed.
"You're wasted here," he said, pressing me. "Come, or die."
"Trace, on!" A second sword appeared, catching his arm.
He grunted, retreating.
The mage fell to Lyria's arrow, and the mercenaries, outnumbered, faltered.
The villagers pressed, capturing two.
The cloaked man fought on, but the tide turned.
I saw my chance.
My circuits screamed, my body pushed to its limit.
I couldn't stay—my power had drawn this.
More would come.
"Trace, on!" A smoke bomb, crude but effective, formed in my hand.
I threw it, the square filling with choking mist.
"Shirou!" Elie shouted, but I was already moving, slipping into the forest.
The cloaked man's curses faded, trapped by the villagers' resolve.
I ran, branches whipping my face, the forest swallowing me.
My heart pounded, guilt clawing at me.
I'd left Elie, my parents, Eldenwood—but staying would've endangered them more.
My magicules were a beacon, and Falmuth's hunters wouldn't stop.
I stopped by a stream, panting, moonlight reflecting on the water.
The hill of swords flickered in my mind, closer now.
I was Shirou, forged by fire, and I'd face what came next—alone.