The leader grunted, staggering backwards as Shirou's blade cut deep into his side. Blood splattered onto the cracked earth, hissing softly as it touched the scorched ground. The wound sizzled from the fire still lingering on the blade, and the man's hand immediately flew to his side.
"You little...!" he growled, fury rising in his voice.
Shirou didn't let up.
He surged forward, pressing the advantage with fluid aggression. His movements were not reckless but calculated—a relentless rhythm of strikes aimed to dismantle his opponent's guard. Each swing of his blade was deliberate, forcing the leader to keep protecting his wounded side.
The man's defences weakened, dulling his reactions. His parries grew desperate, his breathing more ragged.
Then Shirou feinted.
A false overhead slash.
The leader took the bait, raising his blade too high.
Shirou slid in close, crouching low. With a forceful thrust, he drove the hilt of his sword into the bleeding wound.
The man screamed, falling to one knee.
Shirou didn't hesitate. He spun behind his opponent and slashed across his back—another clean, brutal cut.
The man crumpled forward, planting one hand on the dirt to keep from collapsing completely. His sword slipped from his fingers, clattering dully onto the ground.
Panting, Shirou stood tall, his sword still burning faintly with residual flame.
"I gave you a chance," he said, voice cold and steady.
The leader looked up, face pale, sweat and blood mixing on his brow. "Looks like... I was wrong about you, kid..."
And then, with a sudden cry, he forced himself upright as he picked up his sword.
"This ends now!"
He surged forward, pushing through the pain. Shirou gritted his teeth and met the charge. Their blades collided again in a storm of sparks, metal screeching against metal.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Blow after blow rang through the air, each one heavier than the last. The leader used all his remaining strength, his movements wild but deadly. Shirou countered as best he could, but he felt his arms trembling under the strain.
Then it happened.
With a final overhead strike, the leader brought his sword crashing down.
Shirou raised his weapon to block, and the blade snapped.
The broken edge flew past him as the leader's sword continued downward. Shirou twisted his body, dodging the fatal blow by inches.
But he wasn't defenceless.
His hand shot out, grabbing the broken piece of his sword mid-air. With a sharp cry, he rammed it into the man's chest.
The leader gasped.
And before he could react, Shirou drove the hilt of the remaining blade clean into the man's neck.
Time seemed to freeze.
Their eyes locked.
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice the cracks forming on my blade?" Shirou whispered.
Blood trickled from the leader's mouth. "You... planned this... I will get you the next time."
Shirou's voice was cold, "There is no next time."
The man fell.
Silence blanketed the ruins.
The remaining four men stood frozen, eyes wide as their leader's lifeless body hit the ground.
Shirou turned his gaze to them, his voice ice.
"Take his body and leave. Now."
Without a word, they moved. Two of them lifted the fallen man, the others trailing behind. One of them knelt to pick up the sword he had wielded so fiercely.
"Leave it," Shirou said firmly.
The man hesitated, then backed away.
Once they were gone, Shirou let out a slow breath.
His legs trembled. The adrenaline wore off, and fatigue began to settle deep in his bones.
Shirou glanced at the broken remnants of his sword, still faintly warm from the battle. That blade… it was never meant to last. He sighed. I picked it up from some low-ranked minions anyway. Of course, it wouldn't hold up against a real fight.
Cracks had begun forming on the edge halfway through the clash—he had seen them, felt the weakness with every strike. If I hadn't caught him off guard, if I hadn't timed it right… I might've been the one lying in the dirt. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
His eyes shifted toward the fallen leader's weapon, still gleaming faintly under the moonlight. That man wasn't some common thug. His mana was too refined, his movements too precise. A warrior like that doesn't come from the streets.
And the sword…
Shirou narrowed his gaze. That sword wasn't just a decoration. It was crafted for battle—disciplined, focused… deadly. I need something like that. No more relying on scraps.
He approached the sword that had belonged to the leader—a beautifully forged weapon with an ornate hilt, gleaming despite the dust.
He bent down and picked it up.
Immediately, he felt the difference. It was heavier than his previous blade, but perfectly balanced. The craftsmanship was leagues above the crude weapons he had taken from lesser enemies.
He focused his fire mana and tried to channel it into the sword.
Nothing.
It's as if the blade rejected it.
Shirou blinked, surprised.
He tried again. Still no response. It was as if the weapon was sealed or blocking his mana.
"Is there a condition to wield it? A bloodline? A pact?"
He sighed and tucked the sword into his inventory.
"I'll figure you out later."
Turning back to where his own sword had broken, Shirou summoned the shattered blade from his inventory.
Still broken.
"Worth a try," he muttered, dismissing it again.
His attention shifted.
Nana.
He hurried to where she sat, her back turned just as he had told her. He crouched low, carefully positioning himself between her and the battlefield.
He gently placed his hand on her shoulder.
She flinched.
"It's okay. It's me," Shirou said softly.
She turned, rubbing her eyes. "Is it over?"
"Yeah."
He scooped her up in his arms.
"You can open your eyes now."
Nana blinked at the surroundings, then leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Shirou adjusted his cloak to cover her, then stood.
The ruins behind them were stained with blood. The air still buzzed faintly with residual mana. But it was quiet now. Peaceful.
In the distance, tall buildings rose against the horizon.
A city.
Refuge.
Nana glanced up at him, curious. "Are we going there now?"
Shirou didn't answer immediately. His gaze remained locked on the city.
So much had changed in just a few hours. He had killed again. Fought against someone who was clearly no common thug. His body ached, his emotions were frayed—but he couldn't stop.
Not now.
"Yeah," he finally replied. "We are."
He shifted Nana gently in his arms and started walking.
Each step away from the ruins felt heavier, not because of the weight he carried, but because of the resolve he had to maintain.
That man's mana... it had been refined.
That sword.
There was something special about it.
Shirou's mind churned as the road stretched out before him.
He needed answers.
And he needed to make sure Nana found safety.
As they walked, the moonlight bathed them in silver, and the stars above bore silent witness to the boy who fought like a warrior, thought like a tactician, and carried the burden of a child who trusted him without fear.
No matter what came next, Shirou would face it.
For her.
And for the promise he had made to himself.