Shirou Emiya finally activates his magecraft—no, the only magecraft Shirou Emiya permits himself to use in this world: Unlimited Blade Works.
Twenty-seven low-grade Magic Circuits flare to life. His blood surges, his body heats up—every cell in his being prepares for this one goal: to defeat the king before him, Gilgamesh.
"Let's go, King of Heroes."
Shirou Emiya stares down Gilgamesh, both eyes burning with unwavering confidence.
This world—his world—was made for one reason alone: to counter the very existence known as Gilgamesh. Even if it's a mere imitation, even if it's fake.
Because at the end of the day, there is no rule that says a fake can't defeat the original.
"Are you done restocking your precious treasury?"
The king smirks.
To his eyes, the mongrel standing before him is just barking louder than usual.
"You truly embody the word 'overconfidence,' mongrel."
//
And then they clashed—
Not with fists. Not with blades clutched in hand.
But with a storm of swords.
In the sky of Unlimited Blade Works, countless weapons filled the air—each one a forged memory, a replica of every legendary weapon ever recorded in history.
The King had quality. No one denied that.
But in this world, quantity and speed would eventually overcome even the greatest of treasures.
Emiya moved first.
His feet tore across the scorched earth of his world.
He reached out—
and in one swift motion, he drew a sword from the ground,
its blade half-buried in the iron sands.
A weapon once wielded by a nameless hero, now reforged by memory.
Across from him,
the King of Heroes readied his own treasure,
drawing it forth with a smirk, as if this battle were beneath him.
"CLACK!"
Steel met steel.
They surged toward each other—
not as monsters, not as beasts,
but as men who chose violence with elegance.
Warriors.
Each step forward was a death sentence,
each swing of the blade a challenge thrown into the storm.
Their swords collided—again and again—
not ancient weapons of legend,
but unknown blades, fragments of forgotten glory.
For every sword Shirou raised,
another shattered.
Steel cracked. Hilts split.
But he did not falter.
He did not stop.
Because for Shirou Emiya,
each sword broken
is simply another sword remade.
There were no words between them.
There was no need.
The blades spoke in their place.
Steel clashed against steel, again and again.
The rhythm of battle became language—
a brutal dialect of sparks, force, and will.
But this was his world.
And in his world, the Faker began to overwhelm the King.
The King of Heroes, the oldest tyrant,
felt the weight of inevitability.
He knew—if this continued,
if he did not end it now—
he would fall.
And the boy knew too.
He knew the King's strength.
He knew the one weapon that could unravel even this world.
So they made their final choice.
The last trump cards—drawn.
In the King's hand, a golden key—
ancient, divine—appeared.
And in Shirou's,
a brilliant blue shimmer of projection sparked to life.
The end had come.
"O Ea, Sword of Rupture—"
the King's voice thundered across the wasteland,
"Answer thy King's call.
Return to the throne beside which you were forged.
Rejoice—
for this banquet ends with royalty."
And across from him—
Shirou whispered,
low but resolute:
"The memory…
of the King.
That unreachable utopia…
shall never reach me.
But I will forge its image—
and carve it into this world.
"Enuma Elish!"
A spiral tore open in the sky.
The Sword of Rupture, Ea, howled like a god in agony.
Reality twisted—skies split, the very fabric of the world screamed as it was undone.
"Excalibur Image!"
Not the original.
But in this world, memory is power.
A golden wave of light surged forward—pure, unwavering, unrelenting.
The crystallized ideal of a king's final hope, born from steel and will.
---
...
....
There was nothing.
No light. No sound. No clash. Just… darkness.
The irony?
The clash never even happened.
In the moment before impact—just a fraction of a second—
the Holy Grail swallowed them both.
No fanfare.
No explosion.
Not even a scream.
Gone.
Like someone just… turned the page too early.
Unaware of it all, untouched by the stakes,
a man sat comfortably in a chair—
one leg crossed over the other, reading a book.
He looked like he might've been royalty.
Or maybe just someone trying too hard to look like it.
With a lazy wave of his hand, he mumbled:
"Yeah, just toss them there… and there. Perfect."
He shut the book with a soft snap.
"Nice. I saved the multiverse."
--
End of the prologue