At the entrance to Twilight Manor, a farewell ceremony was underway—so dramatic it looked like someone was being sent off to die.
"Waaah…! Shirou-kun! You're really going? You'll get eaten! You'll absolutely get eaten clean by that lovesick goddess!"
Hestia clung to Shirou's leg like a life-sized anchor, bawling like a three-hundred-pound toddler (despite weighing basically nothing).
"I forbid it! You're the future captain of the Hestia Familia! (Even though you haven't joined yet!)"
"Let go, Lady Hestia," Emiya Shirou said helplessly, dragging the leg-attachment forward inch by inch. "It's just dinner. It's not like I'm walking into a dragon's den."
"It's ten thousand times worse than a dragon's den!" Lili immediately piled on, holding a bottle of what she proudly called "anti-pervert spray (special chili water)."
"Emiya-sama, if that goddess tries to touch you, spray her! Don't hesitate!"
"She's a goddess. Wouldn't spraying her get me divine punishment?" Shirou deadpanned.
"Ais."
Ais Wallenstein stepped forward in full battle gear—so fully armed she even had a spare sword. Her eyes were sharp enough to cut a Floor Boss in half.
"I'm going with you. If that pig-headed man—Ottar—lays a hand on you, I'll cut him."
"No, no, no—diplomatic incident!" Finn hurriedly blocked his resident walking catastrophe, smiling with the strained patience of a man herding a nuclear warhead.
"Shirou, I'd love to assign protection, but this is Freya's private invitation. If we show up in force, it'll just give people something to talk about."
Finn patted Shirou's shoulder, expression serious.
"Remember: you are Loki Familia's 'Senji Muramasa.' Whatever happens, do not bow your head. We're behind you."
"Yeah. I know."
Shirou adjusted his collar. Today he wasn't wearing his usual red-and-white casual clothes—he'd projected a black formal suit instead. The vibe was very "Kiritsugu-style," minus the handgun.
"If I'm going to meet the 'queen,' I should at least show respect," he muttered.
He waved once. "I'm off."
He turned and headed toward the tower that pierced the sky—Babel.
Behind him, Hestia was still gnawing on a handkerchief like it owed her money.
"Curse you, Freya… If you turn Shirou-kun into something weird—like a puppet that only says 'All hail Lady Freya'—I'm going to fight you!"
The elevator doors opened.
Instantly, a suffocating density of mana—and an overwhelming wall of murderous intent—hit Shirou like a physical blow.
This was not a luxurious banquet hall.
No red carpet. No crystal chandeliers. No cute maids.
What lay before him was a massive indoor arena paved in blue-gray stone.
And around it—
Dozens upon dozens of armed adventurers.
Every one of them wore armor marked with the emblem of Freya Familia. They stared at Shirou like wolves that hadn't eaten in three days.
"This is… the welcome party?" Shirou's mouth twitched. "Did I walk into the wrong genre? I came for dinner, not a 'World Martial Arts Tournament.'"
"Want to see the Goddess?"
A small but vicious-looking cat-person stepped out from the crowd—not Allen, but one of the mid-level fighters. He twirled a curved blade and sneered.
"Then prove you're worthy, Emiya Shirou."
"We've heard you're strong—Level 2 killing Level 5."
"We don't believe it."
"In this place, only fists are currency!"
"Boys—teach him a lesson!"
"OOOOOOOHHHH!"
They surged forward like a tide.
Most were Level 3 to Level 4—elite adventurers anywhere else, but here they were just doormen.
"Of course it wouldn't be that simple."
Shirou sighed, unbuttoned his jacket, and tossed it aside.
"If it's a buffet format… I guess I'll have to serve myself."
Green circuits flared along his arm.
Kanshou and Bakuya manifested—black and white twin blades flashing into existence.
Though he was clearly in a hurry, his eyes sharpened.
"Since you're all this enthusiastic…"
"Let's play."
The first axeman rushed in—Shirou's kick sent him flying like a cannonball, slamming into a whole cluster behind him.
Combat detonated.
It was a brutal, one-sided endurance war.
They used classic swarm tactics—spears thrusting, magic bombardments, shield charges—attacks crashing down like a storm.
"Too many."
Shirou slipped through the gaps, Mind's Eye (True) running at full output, his brain calculating trajectories at insane speed.
"Three from the left, two from the right… jump!"
He sprang up, avoiding a spike spell that erupted from the ground.
His twin blades danced like black-and-white butterflies.
"Crane Wing—double!"
He didn't go for kills.
He struck wrists, knees, and pressure points with the flat of the blade. Every swing dropped another fighter.
"What is this kid?!""We can't hit him!""Does he have eyes on his back?!""Projection magic—watch the thrown blades!"
Freya Familia's fighters grew more and more unsettled.
That red-haired boy moved like an eel—slipping through their encirclement, endlessly replacing broken weapons as if he had an armory inside his sleeves.
"Don't let him breathe!" the commander roared. "Wear him down!"
And that was the problem.
Shirou's biggest weakness was stamina.
Even with Level 3 stats and recovery skills, his mana wasn't infinite. Without deploying something like Unlimited Blade Works—wasteful and too dangerous in close quarters—high-intensity projection and reinforcement ate him alive.
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
The floor was littered with groaning adventurers—yet more still poured in.
That was the true terror of Freya Familia:
Fanatic devotion.
A willingness to burn everything for their goddess.
Shirou's breathing turned rough. Sweat soaked his shirt. Shallow cuts bloomed across his skin.
"…A bunch of lunatics."
He caught two spears on his blades—and felt his arms go numb.
"Fine. Then I'll clean up the stage."
He retreated in a burst, creating distance.
The twin blades dissolved.
In their place appeared a black longbow.
A low chant rolled off his tongue.
"I am the bone of my sword…"
Behind him, the air rippled—dozens of golden rings flickering into existence like a cheaper, bootleg treasury.
"Eat this—Sword Rain!"
A storm of projected swords fired like missiles.
He didn't aim for bodies—he drove them into the ground at their feet, triggering chained detonations.
BOOOOM—BOOOOM—BOOOOM!
Dust and smoke swallowed the arena.
The tight formation shattered.
Coughing, the remaining fighters staggered back, staring at Shirou standing alone in the center.
He looked a little worse for wear—shirt ruined, sweat-streaked, breathing heavy—
Yet he stood straight.
The bow vanished.
Kanshou and Bakuya returned to his hands.
Shirou swept his gaze across them, voice calm.
"Anyone else?"
No one stepped forward.
A Level 3 rookie had beaten half a unit into submission by himself.
Then—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Slow, steady applause echoed from the far end of the arena.
The entire crowd fell silent and parted automatically, making a corridor with the reverence of subjects greeting a king.
A towering figure emerged from the shadows.
No armor. No weapon.
Just a simple martial outfit—
And the overwhelming presence of something that didn't need a weapon.
Orario's only Level 7.
The Mighty One — Ottar.
"Well done."
Ottar looked over the fallen men with no emotion, only recognition.
"Excellent technique. And your endurance is not bad."
"As an appetizer, you're acceptable."
"An appetizer, huh…"
Shirou laughed weakly, wiping sweat from his face.
He could feel it.
This man wasn't in the same world as those "guards."
Ottar was a wall built out of despair.
"The Goddess is waiting," Ottar said evenly.
"But before that…"
He raised his hands into a simple striking stance.
The air itself tightened.
"I also want to test your 'infinity.'"
"One move only."
He lifted a single finger.
"If you can take one punch of mine—and remain standing—I will lead you to her."
"And if I can't?" Shirou asked.
"Then you'll go in lying down."
It was blunt. Absolute.
Shirou drew a deep breath.
He'd just endured a gauntlet. His mana was nearly gone. His body was drained.
Facing a Level 7's punch like this wasn't a trial—
It was an execution.
And yet…
Looking into Ottar's serious eyes, Shirou knew there was no retreat.
Even worse—
His blood was boiling.
"One punch…"
Shirou let the twin blades dissolve.
He raised his hands and adopted the same stance, his circuits roaring with their last reserves.
"Fine."
"Come."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth—half defiance, half exhilaration.
"Trace on."
....
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